Dragons Lost (24 page)

Along with the men,
beasts dwelled here too. Hundreds of griffins stood beyond the tents, clad in
armor. Salvanae, true dragons from the mythical realms of Salvandos, hovered
several feet above the surface, their serpentine bodies coiling and streaming.
Their scales glimmered, and their beards hung to the ground.

As the two dragons
approached the coast, dozens of those griffins and salvanae took flight and
came flying toward them. Riders rode upon them, armed with bows. Shouts rose
from among the tents, and archers rushed forth and nocked arrows.

"I hope you know what
you're doing, Amity!" Korvin shouted.

The red dragon grinned
at him. "Follow my lead."

As the Horde flew
toward them, and as archers fired arrows from the shore, Amity released her
magic.

She fell from the sky,
a human again.

Korvin cursed, released
his magic too, and fell down with her.

The arrows sailed harmlessly
above them. The griffins and salvanae paused in midflight, hovered, and cried
out in surprise.

Amity and Korvin kept
falling, rushing down toward the water. An instant before they could hit the
ocean, they shifted back into dragons and soared.

"Horde!" Amity cried
out. "Hear me, Horde! I am Amity, one of your number. Do not mistake us for
firedrakes! We are dragons of Requiem!"

The archers on the
coast lowered their bows. The griffins screeched, and the salvanae bugled out
unearthly cries, the sound of silver trumpets.

Dragons of Requiem .
. .

In the Commonwealth,
speaking the word "Requiem" was a capital offense; Amity would be drawn and
quartered for speaking such a word in the light of the Cured Temple. Hearing
the name of his fallen kingdom spoken in the open brought tears to Korvin's
eyes. He prayed that someday even in the north, in his homeland, the name of
Requiem would be spoken freely too.

A hundred griffins
accompanied them to the shore. The two dragons landed on the sand and stood
between the water and the tent city. The griffins landed all around them, and
the salvanae coiled above, hovering in place, their long bodies swaying.
Soaring above all rose the Twin Stallions of limestone, great guardians of
Terra.

A company of men rode
forward on horses. They wore iron breastplates engraved with five serpents, and
their hair was long and braided. At their lead rode a tall man with long,
platinum hair, golden skin, and an eye patch, and he carried a drawn saber. The
other riders raised spears, and their banners billowed in the wind.

Amity returned to her
human form and raised her chin. "Guardians of the Horde! We come from the
outposts of Leonis. The Cured Temple attacks!" She bared her teeth at the
riders. "Lower your weapons and take us to your lord."

Korvin returned to
human form and stood, chin raised, jaw clenched. The riders stared down at him,
and many more soldiers of the Horde covered the beach, hands resting on their
weapons. Every breath rattled in Korvin's throat, and his old wounds blazed.
Again he was a young man, only a youth, storming these beaches with thousands
of his comrades, warriors of the Spirit, fodder of the Cured Temple. Again he
saw the flaming arrows slam into his friends, steal their lives, and the blood
flowing, and—

"I am Mehdan of House
She'al, Guardian of the Coast," said the one-eyed rider, blessedly interrupting
Korvin's memory. "Follow."

The riders spun
their horses around and began heading into the camp. With a shaky breath and
grunt, Korvin followed, and Amity walked at his side.

They entered the tent
city of Hakan Teer.

For three hundred
years, the people of the Horde had refused to build permanent dwellings. They
claimed that their true home was across the sea, in the Commonwealth; they
would build no true houses until they reclaimed that land. Still they lived
only in tents, a sign of their exile, wandering the great lands of Terra as
they grew and gathered their strength. Hakan Teer was no different. Rows of
tents spread out here, countless, a great city. Korvin and Amity passed by many
tents of warriors; the men sat outside, sharpening swords, cooking game on
campfires, drinking grog, and playing games of dice. But inside many other
tents, Korvin saw dwellings for women and children. The wives of warriors
gossiped, washed laundry in buckets, or wove garments of beads and wool.
Children scuttled everywhere, laughing and playing with wooden swords. Goats,
dogs, and cats wandered between the tents, hens pecked in pens, and roosters
cawed. Hakan Teer, Korvin thought, was a blend between a military garrison, a
refugee city, and an unorganized mass of squatters and roaming beasts.

As he looked around
him, he picked out different nationalities. Some here had the golden skin, blue
eyes, and platinum hair of Tirans; their desert home, Tiranor, had been
destroyed long ago in a war against Requiem. Others looked more like people
from the Commonwealth; they were survivors of Old Osanna, a land annexed into the
Temple's empire. Some people were shorter, their skin olive-toned, their eyes
green, their hair black—survivors of the most ancient of civilizations that had
once risen on this coast. All had lost their homes. All dreamed of reforming
their nations—on the ashes of the northern Commonwealth.

And they just might
win this war,
Korvin thought, staring at a courtyard where a thousand men
and women were drilling with spears and shields. Sweat glistened on their skin,
and they bared their teeth as they spun, leaped, and dueled one another. Korvin
watched a wild, dark-haired woman shout as she swung her practice sword,
knocking down a hairy warrior twice her size. She spat and cried out in triumph
as around her a thousand others swung dulled blades against bruising flesh.

They walked on. The
land sloped upward from the sea, dry and strewn with rocks. They passed between
lumbering warriors, seven feet tall, who bore barrels upon their backs; around a
makeshift fortress of branches and rope, caches of weapons visible within their
walls; and under gliding griffins and salvanae whose cries filled the air. The
camp smelled of sweat and blood, oil and iron, ale and cooking fires and
looming war.

After walking for a
mile or more, they reached a sprawling stone wall—the only brick structure
Korvin had seen so far in this camp. Several guards stood at a gatehouse, armed
with spears and holding round shields. The riders who had met Korvin and Amity
at the beach dismounted their horses and spoke to the guards. For a moment, the
men exchanged quick, harsh words. They spoke in Low Speech, a patois developed
within the Horde a few generations ago, mingling the different tongues of its
founding nations. Korvin spoke the language well; he had studied it during his two
years of combat in this place.

Finally Mehdan—the one-eyed,
pale-haired man who had led them here from the coast—turned back toward Korvin
and Amity. He spoke in a low voice.

"You will now see the
Abina Kahan, King of the Horde. His excellence has seen your approach from the
sea; indeed he foresaw it many days ago, and he desires to speak with you."

Abina,
Korvin
thought.
Low Speech for 'king.' And this king might just restore the kingdom
of Requiem.

With that, the guards
swung the doors open. Mehdan entered, not turning to look back. Korvin glanced
at Amity. The young, golden-haired woman gave him a wink and grin, and the two
passed through the gateway together.

They found themselves
in a lush garden. The land outside was dry and rocky and barren; within these
walls, a cobbled path led between cedars and pines, and thousands of cyclamens
and cacti grew among rocks. Limestone statues of griffins and men rose from
carpets of fallen pine needles. Ahead rose a stone mansion, ivy climbing its
walls. Two griffins stood before its portico, guarding the stairway that led to
the doors.

Amity whistled
appreciatively. "Nice place they got here." She poked Korvin in the ribs. "What
say you marry me and buy me a mansion like this?"

He grumbled. "What say
you watch your tongue when we're walking to meet a king?"

She stuck her tongue
out at him. "Like thith?"

He groaned. "Put that
thing away before it snags in a branch."

When they entered the
villa, they found themselves in a large, round foyer lined with columns. A
mosaic sprawled across the floor, depicting eagles, foxes, hinds, and other
animals of Terra. Ferns grew from stone pots, and murals of suns and stars
covered the ceiling. A bronze statue of a nude woman holding a pitcher stood in
the corner. A great mural covered one wall, larger than life, depicting a
handsome king with a long, thick beard battling sea serpents to save a goddess
bound to a rock.

Amity examined the
mural and whistled again. "If this is a portrait of the abina, he's a handsome
one. Might be I'll marry him instead of you, Korvin."

A door opened, and
young serving women in white livery approached, their dark hair hanging across
their left shoulders in braids. "The abina will see you now," said one and
turned to lead them into a second chamber.

They entered a grand chamber,
its pale columns supporting a vaulted ceiling, and saw the abina ahead upon a
cushioned throne.

Korvin glanced at
Amity.
Still want to marry him?
he asked with raised eyebrow.

While the king in the
painting was muscular and tall, a proud warrior with the body of a god, the
abina before them was paunchy and balding, long past his warrior years. Golden
ringlets were strewn through his graying beard, and many jewels adorned his
fingers, neck, and wrists. He wore golden robes and held a chalice. Several guards
stood at his sides, iron helmets hiding their faces.

Korvin and Amity both
knelt.

The abina cleared his
throat and stared down at them. His eyes narrowed shrewdly. "I have seen you
fly across the sea, shapeshifters." His voice was deep and rumbling. "My men
report troubling news. They speak of my outposts in Leonis attacked." The abina
leaned forward in his seat, resting his arms on his thighs, and his face
hardened. "What of my son? What of Prince Belas who commanded the northern
isles?"

Korvin grimaced. Belas—the
man who had greeted him at the islands—was the son of the Horde's king?

Amity straightened and
raised her chin. "Your son fought bravely, my lord! I am Amity, a warrior of
the Horde. I fought with Belas. He slew many of the enemy, and—"

"Where is my son!" the
abina roared, rising to his feet. His voice echoed, and his throne nearly
toppled backward.

Amity paled, for an
instant lost for words. Korvin stepped forward, placing himself between the
abina and Amity.

"Your son fell, my lord,"
Korvin said, voice grim, staring at the king. "I am sorry. I grieve for your
loss. I did not know Belas well, but he—"

"Silence!" thundered
Abina Kahan. His fists trembled. His lips peeled back. "Who are you,
shapeshifter, to bring me news of my fallen son? Of a prince nobler than any
man in the Horde or Commonwealth?" The abina tossed back his head, tore his
tunic, and roared to the ceiling. "Alas! He is fallen!"

Korvin and Amity
lowered their heads. For a long moment, the King of the Horde roared in
anguish, and his hands tore at his beard.

Korvin moved closer to
Amity. "Why didn't you tell me Belas was his son?" he whispered.

She was pale, staring
forward at the bellowing king. Ignoring Korvin, she took a step closer to Kahan.

"My abina," she said,
voice trembling at first but soon gaining confidence. "The cowards of the
Commonwealth, paladins and their warriors, murdered your son. Let us seek
vengeance! My sword is yours, and I vow to serve you, to fight for you. Let us
sail north to the lands of the enemy, and—"

The king pointed a
shaky finger toward her. Amity was a tall woman, nearly as tall as Korvin, but
Abina Kahan loomed over her like an enraged father over an errant daughter.

"You slew him!" Spittle
flew from Kahan's mouth. "You and your fellow shapeshifter. You are
weredragons! You led the Cured Temple to the islands. You murdered my son!"

Korvin grunted and
stepped forward, placing himself between the king and Amity. He had to struggle
to keep his voice steady; it shook with anger. "My king, you grieve now.
Perhaps next moon, we can discuss this again. Perhaps then—"

"Murderers!" the abina
roared. "Guards, capture them! Chain them up! Toss them into my dungeon!"

Korvin had heard
enough. He sucked in his magic and began to shift into a dragon.

Before he could
complete his transformation, the guards charged forth, swinging maces. The
flanged heads slammed into Korvin, knocking him down. He hit the floor with a
grunt, and more maces swung down onto him. The pain knocked his magic away. He
writhed, kicking, as punches rained down.

"Let us go, you flea-infested,
piss-drinking goat!" Amity was shouting. Guards were slamming wooden staffs
against her and closing chains around her ankles and wrists. She too tried to
shift; as soon as scales flowed across her, a blow from a staff slammed into
her head. She fell, unconscious and bleeding.

"Amity!" Korvin
shouted. He whipped his head back toward the abina. "Kahan, listen to me. We're
here to help you, to—"

A guard's fist slammed
into Korvin's head, knocking it sideways. He saw stars. Before he could take
another breath, manacles closed around his wrists and ankles. Korvin blinked
and tried to shift but could not; the chains held him in human form. A kick
from a guard knocked him to the floor. He lay beside Amity. Her breath was
weak, and a trickle of blood flowed down her temple.

I doomed her too,
Korvin thought, the guilt nearly crushing him.
She too will die because of
me.