Dragons of War (47 page)

A glance at Silva showed her that Silva Geisga was similarly affected.

Dragon Leader Turrent watched with an odd cacophony of emotions running through him. Overarching was his relief at having a route of escape open to them. Still, he felt a definite chagrin at having Relkin as the hero in all this. And working away within that was a growing admiration for the kid. There was just something about this boy's affinity for the magical that went well beyond the normal.

The dragons climbed the stair on all fours, but there was plenty of room, the ancient masons of King Kuskuld had built on a generous scale.

Turrent led, with Eilsa Ranardaughter beside him. She would not accept anything else, saying that this stair was a "clan secret and she was daughter of the clan chief."

Then came dragons and dragonboys. At the rear, Silva walked up with Swane, behind the swaying bulk of Vlok, his great sword "Katzbalger" visible on his shoulder.

As they went, Silva asked questions. She was alive with curiosity about the dragonboys and their immense charges. Swane was pleased to tell her anything he could.

When she asked him about Relkin, he hesitated, then honestly got the better of him.

"He's sort of a legend in his own time. The elves have marked him out. He's been with the witches and seen things. We've all seen things, actually."

Silva's eyes lit up most satisfactorily when he said this. "Yeah, it was just last summer, we were in Ourdh on this expedition. Our unit, the 109th was attached to the Second Legion from Marneri…"

The stair spiraled past endless bas-reliefs, depicting great moments in the reign of King Kuskuld II. The work was intricate, carved by skilled craftsmen. The light came solely from the star patterns set in the ceiling.

At last, under a domed ceiling, they reached the top. Eilsa spoke the antique Verio word for "peace" to a blank wall, and it lit up with golden lines, twinkling in the rock. Again she spoke the command phrase and the door swung inward, smooth and silent on unseen hinges.

The light of the day flooded in. They stepped out onto a broad flat space, bare rock that gave way to heather and grass and a view beyond of the rest of the Bek, a series of rolling downs, with strips of forest in the valley bottoms and grass and heather on the rest.

The door they had emerged from stood open in a wall of natural rock standing edge on to the main cliff. When the last dragon was through, the doors slid shut again. The golden lines faded away, and no one would ever have known what was concealed there.

Digal Turrent lay down on the ground and kissed it.

Relkin strolled over to investigate a few jagged ruins, the remains of a wall, and a set of steps. Farther away some broken slabs stood up amid the heather, all that was left of the great palace that had stood here in the days of ancient Veronath.

Relkin shivered in the warm breeze, feeling a haunting sense of presence. The view was magnificent wherever you looked. Beyond the hidden dome of the stair lay the wide lake, spread out below the Bek, and in the distance the dim green of Feutoborg Forest. Relkin felt echoes of the older world here in these quiet ruins. In that older world, ruled by the old gods like Caymo and Asgah, he sometimes felt, he might have been happier. It was an absurd thought. He would have had no dragon! With a shrug, he dismissed it all. He had stopped worrying about "destiny" sometime during the past week, too tired and too frightened to be wasting any energy on worrying about the future. Whatever would be, would be. His destiny had been to be born in this era, when Veronath was naught but rains and the dusty names of long-dead Kings.

He found Eilsa and Silva standing beside him. He hadn't noticed their approach. Eilsa pointed to the east.

"If you pass down the royal road there, you'll come on the Clove Road. Just follow that, and you will emerge on the northeastern edge of the Bek. Perhaps you will find your captain there."

The side of the Bek fragmented here, and a deep clove valley cut down between two projections of the massif. It was at least five miles distant, he estimated.

"And where will you be going, Miss Eilsa Ranardaughter?"

Her eyes flashed in the old imperious way, but she softened after a moment. "We will march to rejoin my father and the host of Clan Wattel."

A shadow fell over them.

"This was a magnificent thing that you did," said Bazil. "I thank you, Eilsa Dragonfriend."

Eilsa glowed. "I am proud to be so called, Sir Bazil."

The dragon showed a line of wicked-looking fangs. Digal Turrent had recovered himself and taken stock of the situation. Turrent looked off to the east down the clove valley, sinking between the outlying arms of the Bek. Turrent was on the point of giving the order to send them marching east when there was a halloa from their right. Two tall young men stepped out of the heather beyond the ruins and loped toward them.

With a cry of welcome, Eilsa waved to them, and when they drew close, both she and Silva clasped hands briefly with both.

Relkin was struck by how much alike all the young Wattels were, with strong features, full lips, blue eyes, and sun-bleached hair. Both young men stared at Bazil and the other dragons with awe and wonder in their faces.

The four spoke among themselves briefly in their antique, accented Verio and then Eilsa introduced them to Relkin.

"These are two warriors of the Fird of Wattel, this is Flembard," the taller, "and this is Seegric," the broader, more heavily built one.

"Greetings," said Flembard. "We welcome ye to the land of Clan Wattel and are come to escort ye to the camp of Clan Chief Ranard."

"The chief awaits your presence," added Seegric. "He has flown his battle flag since this dawn. The farthings have been summoned to the muster. The entire fird will be in place soon."

Turrent stepped forward. "I thank you for your greeting. I am Dragon Leader Turrent. This is a detachment from the 109th Marneri Dragons. We're trying to get back to the rest of our unit. Down the lakeshore, yonder," he pointed eastward. "This is the way to go, I understand."

Flembard digested this and looked carefully over the assembled dragons, three of them in the two to two-and-a-half-ton range, ten-foot tall, with massive limbs and heavy tails, and one in the four-and-a-half-ton range, who in addition had great wings folded behind him.

"It is a wonder to see such great beasts," he said.

"Hrrrmph," rumbled the broketail dragon. "We are dragons, man, not beasts."

At the sound of language from the dragon, the two young warriors went into dragon-freeze and had to be pinched back to life by Eilsa and Silva.

"The dragons speak, Flembard, they are like people."

"I…" Flembard and Seegric were lost for words.

"Where is your chief camped?" said Turrent.

Flembard let out a deep breath.

"I beg thy pardon, Sir Dragon, I have never met one of your illustrious kind before. Dragon Leader, our camp lies close by, beside the lake of Shamrocks."

"Then, let us go there at once. We have little time and must rejoin Captain Eads."

They set out at once and reached the shores of the lovely little lake of the Shamrocks within a few minutes.

They found a cluster of tents around a flagpole flying a banner of scarlet and gold. Hundreds of men, all clad in the tunics and leggings of the uplands, were gathered there. They were the Fird, the feudal army of the clan. As the dragons approached, the men rose up and began to applaud. The commotion grew as more and more clansmen emerged from the tents. They wore the horned helmet and chain mail of ancient Verio, and carried round shields and long, straight-sided swords.

Clan Chief Ranard was not one to wait about passively in such a situation. He moved to see what was happening. His big blond head towering above most of the others as he strode along.

And thus he came upon the extraordinary sight of four great battledragons treading forward through the ranks of his men. Over their shoulders were hung great swords and shields. On their heads they wore steel helmets. Dragonboys bounced along at their side, and a young man in the armor of a legionary strode at their head.

Clan Chief Ranard took all this in and then observed his daughter Eilsa, marching with the dragonboys. He connected all these things in a moment's thought. He realized what must have happened. Then he indicated to them with a brusque sweep of his mailed fist and ordered them brought to him.

When his daughter stood in front of him, he fixed her with his fiercest eye.

"What hath thee done, Eilsa, daughter of mine?"

Eilsa confessed that she had brought the dragons up the stair of Veronath. Ranard gritted his teeth and fought down his first reaction, which was one of horror. He mastered himself in a moment. Eilsa could feel his confusion.

"By the breath, it is hard sometimes, but I understand. I would have done the same thing in your place. They could not be left to die. I wish to welcome the great dragons to our lands. If there is anything we can do for them, let us hear it."

Digal Turrent spoke up at once.

"The dragons are starving."

"I am afraid I lack supplies of meat."

"They usually eat grain."

"Good, for grain we have. We carry oats and flour." Ranard turned to his daughter. "Daughter Eilsa, find the cooks and order them to work up some stirabout for these dragons."

Eilsa departed at once on her mission, with Silva Geisga accompanying her.

Turrent then introduced the chief to each dragon and dragonboy, at the chief's request. For their part the dragons did their best to avoid giving the clansmen dragon-freeze.

Clan Chief Ranard found that even he had to fight down the fear as he met each of these monsters face-to-face. Something in the flatness of the reptilian stare brought up primordial fears. Ranard found his own heart beating considerably harder when it was over. His hands were balled tight at his sides.

The dragons stood, murmuring quietly to one another. Dragonboys went to work on equipment and dragon hide and were soon surrounded by an eager throng of questioners. They did their best to come up with answers despite the difficulty of understanding the clansmen.

Dragon Leader Turrent and the clan chief were still in conversation when Eilsa and Silva returned to announce that the cooks had prepared hot oat mush. Unfortunately they had no akh to flavor it with.

The dragons were downcast.

"The least you might expect," groused the Purple Green.

"They cannot grow those kind of things here in these hills, my wild friend," said Alsebra.

"Doesn't look like they can grow anything but heather," commented Manuel.

"Why do not dragonboys carry akh?"

"Because with the way you eat, it's too heavy."

"Bah, lazy dragonboys, always it is the same."

A lively discussion grew up at once on this topic with sharply opposing opinions from dragon and dragonboy. An audience of clansmen tried to follow what was going on with expressions of awe. It was still sputtering when they reached the cook fire, and under the gaze of the entire host, the dragons and dragonboys ate all the oatmeal the poor cooks could stir up in their potchoon cauldrons.

"Do dragons eat that much all the time?" said Silva to Relkin, gazing in awe at the Purple Green finishing a third potchoon of mush.

"They get hungry fast. They burn hot, do dragons."

Manuel had drifted over. "In fact, they are hotter than even men, so they taught me in the academy."

"You must have to carry a lot of food with you," said Silva.

"We march with a supply wagon or two, I'll grant you that," said Relkin.

He felt Eilsa's gaze upon him and looked up.

"I heard that you are wed to a princess in the great city of Ourdh," she said suddenly.

Relkin flushed with mingled embarrassment and anger. This was Swane's fault.

"I would discount such rumors. I am not wed. I cannot, until I have served ten years."

"Oh?" Eilsa gave him a saucy grin. "And how long have you served already?"

"This is our third year of service."

"Our?"

"My dragon and me," he nodded to the leatherback sitting down with a fourth potchoon.

"By the breath of the Mother, I think they will eat all our supplies before they are sated."

"It's certainly possible."

Vlok trod by on his way to another potchoon.

Eilsa looked back to Relkin with an odd look of calculation on her face. Silva giggled, Eilsa flashed her a look of admonition, then broke into a giggle herself.

A scout rode in on an exhausted hill pony, riding straight up to the clan chief before dismounting and bending the knee to report.

Clan Chief Ranard listened and grimaced. It was bad news, the very worst. The enemy had closed to within a couple of miles of the refugees. The defenders were on the point of collapse.

Ranard of Wattel did not mull it over for long. He had long since thought of this and what he would have to do. He ordered the trumpets blown and called for his horse.

"Dragon Leader," he said, "I expect that Captain Eads will need our assistance. Clan Wattel now goes to war."

With full stomachs the dragons felt both refreshed and somewhat sleepy. They shrugged off their fatigue. The march was downhill on a level path, and they fell silent and loped along at an easy pace.

Relkin marched with his head full of thoughts of Eilsa Ranardaughter. On the one hand dismay that she should have heard wild tales of the expedition to Ourdh from Swane, and on the other a passionate interest in her opinion of a certain dragoneer first class from Quosh. There had been that gleam in her eye when they'd last spoken. His heart had not stopped thumping yet.

Everything about her fascinated him, from her eyes to her accent. All these Wattels sounded as if they had stepped out of history, but it was Eilsa's voice in particular that gripped his attention. And there were her looks. She was an uncomplicated beauty, slim but wide-shouldered, with a jut of the chin and a nose a little too big for the classical taste. Her eyes were dark blue, a furious blue that burned easily like blue stars in the night. Certainly she was all a young man like Relkin of Quosh could have desired.