Dragon's Winter (30 page)

A small boy, clothed in rags, crouched beside the chair. He had a collar around his neck; it appeared to be attached to a chain. He had Wolf’s narrow face, and Thea’s hazel eyes.

“Hello, Shem,” she said, forcing the words through her body’s weakness. “Do you remember me?”

Gorthas hit her. The child did not look at her: he watched Gorthas. The worm swayed toward her. “Ssso,” the inhuman throat hissed, “my missst has netted a bird. You thought it burned, didn’t you? Fools. My mist is not destroyed so easily. What shall we do with her, warg? Shall we kill her now? Not yet, eh? Too quick. She must sssuffer. They mussst all sssuffer.” Dark, mad eyes probed gleefully into hers. This was the mind whose malice she had touched in flight, the mind which had tortured Azil the singer, which still tormented him.

“Warg! You have the talisman?” Gorthas opened his hand. The worm bent its grotesque head, opened its human mouth in a way no human jaw could move, and swallowed the clip. “Mine, now. Your power is mine, little hawk. What shall we take first, warg? Her handss? Her eyess? Yesss, but not yet. Break her arm, warg. Just one.”

Hawk struggled, but they threw her easily to the ground and spread her right arm across the ice. Gorthas lifted a club, and slammed it down across her upper arm, and a second time below her elbow. She felt the bones shatter. Two men hauled her up, and walked her through a labyrinth, to a sunless chamber filled with empty cages. Gorthas pointed to a tall, narrow cage. The soldiers opened the door and flung her in.

Her numb right arm dangled uselessly; she could feel it swelling. Nausea rocked her: she retched. Dazed with pain, she lost her balance, fell against the icy bars. Gorthas laughed. “Don’t struggle, little bird. A pretty cage for a broken bird. Does your wing hurt? Don’t worry. You will cease to feel it, soon.”

Azil Aumson was dreaming.

He knew that he was dreaming, but the knowledge did not help: he was trapped. In his dream he watched a man stumble through knee-high snow. It was night, and cold. Somewhere a child was crying, a high, wretched, sobbing sound. Shadows snapped at the running man’s heels: red- eyed shadows, wargs, three, no, four of them, grinning as they herded their hapless, gasping prey in ever smaller circles. The face of the running man was his own. He fell. His leg snapped on a rock. Painfully, without hope, he began to crawl.

Run, little traitor,
hissed a soft, malevolent, familiar voice.
You cannot escape, you can never escape. Your mind is mine..
. He came from sleep screaming. Someone’s greater weight was restraining him, hands on his shoulders. He blinked upward, into shadow, and a glint of gold.

Karadur said, “You were making a noise.”

He lifted his hands, and moved lightly to the other side of the tent. Azil sat up. His head ached. “Sorry. Bad dreams.” The tent was cold; the wood in the brazier long since burned to ash. A fat fist of a candle threw light across the small enclosure.

Derry slept at the foot of his lord’s pallet, snoring lustily, his whole head tucked beneath his quilt. “Derry.” Karadur nudged the sleeping page with the toe of one boot. “Breakfast. Get up.”

“My lord?” Derry rose sleepily from his blankets. “Oh. I’m sorry, my lord.” Yawning, he knuckled his eyes. Azil swung his legs to the floor. He felt drained, as if he had not slept.

A second candle near the washbasin ignited with a sputter. Shadows bloomed across the tent walls. Azil fumbled for his boots. Slowly, clumsily, he worked the stiff lacings through the metal eyelets. Within their leather sheathing, his hands hurt: a steady, angry burning, like hot iron in flesh. “When did you last take those gloves off?” Karadur asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“Do it now.”

“They’re fine, my lord.”

“
Do it
.” Breathing hard, Azil forced the thick gloves from his fingers. “Are they festered? Show me.”

Azil extended his hands. The red scars were crusty with dried blood.

Karadur swore. Striding to pitcher and basin, he filled the basin and brought it to the pallet. “Put your hands in the water.” Cold as snow, the water numbed the pain. “Where’s the jar of ointment Macallan gave you? Derry, find me that jar.” Derry rooted in his pack.

“I have it, my lord.”

“Give it to me. Azil, let me see your right hand.” Azil obeyed. With gentle ruthlessness, Karadur worked the cooling ointment into the wounds of each twisted hand.

The burning eased. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Derry, go get us some breakfast,” the dragon-lord said, over his shoulder.

Derry ducked from the tent. Azil’s heart hammered. Karadur put both hands delicately on either side of his face a moment. His palms were warm as summer.

“My lord,” Derry called from outside the tent, “Captain Murgain would speak with you.”

The dragon-lord lifted his hands, and moved back, until there was a clear space between them. “Murgain, come in.”

The archery master entered. He had lost weight on this journey: his tunic hung loosely on his belly. “My lord, I have what I think is bad news.” There was a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Hawk of Ujo is not with us. I know you let her leave the camp last night, to seek her friend. She has not returned. The men are troubled. So am I.”

“Tell them not to be concerned. It is probable that she met her friend the Bear, and is traveling with him. I gave her permission to do so.”

Murgain’s face lightened. “Ah. I did not know that, my lord.” He left the tent.

After a moment, Azil said, “Do you think he believed you?” It had taken him that moment to bring his breath under control.

“It doesn’t matter, as long as he can persuade his archers that it’s true.” Karadur picked up his sword from its place beside his pallet. “It may even be true.” He balanced the long sword on his palms.

He said, “The morning Tenjiro took my talisman, he said to me that he did not think he could kill me. Whatever he sends against me—whatever illusion or monster of wizardry he conjures up—I believe I can defeat it.”

“So does the army,” Azil said. “So do I.”

“But it may be that we are all wrong. If we are—if Tenjiro’s champion kills me—whatever ensues, you will not fall again into his hands. I have given orders—” Karadur halted, and looked up.

Azil said peacefully, “I have my knife.”

“You might not have the chance to use it. So I thought.”

“Finle?” Azil said.

Karadur nodded. “I will withdraw the order, if you wish.”

Azil reached for his gloves. “No,” he said. “Let it stand.”



The mist of the day before had vanished; the day was bright and almost warm. They rode in their usual loose formation, scouts fanning out ahead and to the sides, swordsmen in the middle, archers at the sides and rearguard. Ahead of them the castle’s dimensions had entirely diminished to a normal size. They would reach it by nightfall. The horses, even the usually stolid geldings, caught the fey mood. They pranced like colts under the pale blue sky.

Raudri said, “My lord, look.” He pointed south.

“What is it?” Lorimir muttered, squinting into the sun.

“A bird,” said Herugin. “A big one.”

Karadur said, “A hawk?”

“I think not.” Herugin lifted both hands to shade his eyes. “I think—it’s an eagle, a white eagle. What is it doing so far from the mountains?” As he spoke, the great bird came steadily nearer. It soared above them, graceful wings spread wide, its talons curled deceptively beneath its body. Its feathers were so white as to seem iridescent.

Karadur said, “You cannot tell from here, but there is another mountain range, far north of us, taller than our own. This land lies in a great valley between them. I have seen it in maps.” He gazed with a curious hunger at the great eagle.

A few miles from the castle, the ground changed: it was riddled with rents and pits, flanked by piles of slag. The riders picked their way carefully through the patternless rubble. A scout—it was Finle—shouted, and waved. The men halted. Karadur and Lorimir rode forward to investigate.

Wordlessly, Finle pointed downward. At the bottom of a ditch sprawled the half-eaten body of a man. All about it, in the scarred earth, and in the white powdery snow that lay over the scars like netting on a woman’s hair, were huge splayed tracks.

“Those are bear tracks,” Lorimir said. His horse, scenting bear, or else the corpse, tossed its head and tried to retreat. He held it with a heavy hand. “Easy, now. What a horror.”

Finle said, “The mined ground ends where Irok is standing.” He pointed forward, to where the small archer sat on his horse. “After that all is level again.”

“Any sign from the castle?” Lorimir asked.

“Sir, they don’t even seem to know we’re here.”

The captain gazed at the castle. “My lord, I don’t like this,” he said to Karadur. “We are too close to the walls, and this ground is treacherous. They may be plotting an ambush. We should camp in a field of our choosing, not his.”

“Do what you wish.”

Lorimir lifted his voice. “Company, attention! We fall back. Four-hour watches. If you see a white bear, kill it. Herugin! As many sentries as you think necessary to guard the horse lines and the supplies.”

“Captain,” said Finle. He jerked a thumb toward the sky. “Look at that.”

A massive cloud was bubbling out of the northeastern sky. It was grey-green at the edges, and black at the center. Lorimir shouted, “Light fires, big fires. It will be dark soon.”

He lowered his voice. “Gods. That’s one hell of a storm. How the hell did it blow up so quickly?” Like a monstrous claw, the cloud groped for the sun.

“Maybe it’s not a storm,” Karadur said quietly. “Maybe it is simply—darkness.”

The ominous cloud blew inescapably toward them. Within an hour, the leading edge of the cloud was overhead. Lightning blazed randomly through its roiling core; it smelled wet and brassy, like a rain cloud, but no rain fell from it, not a single drop. There was no thunder.

Karadur sat motionless beside the fire, gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

Lorimir said, “It looks like a tempest over the Kameni plains.”

Macallan said hopefully, “Perhaps it’s an illusion.”

“No,” said Herugin and Lorimir together. The younger man had come in briefly from the horse lines to eat and get warm. “No,” Lorimir said. “I don’t believe it.”

Slowly the immense cloud covered them, thick as night, swallowing the sun. Derry yawned and yawned, jaws cracking. “Boy,” Lorimir said, “get yourself a blanket, and go find a place to sleep. You’ll have us falling on our faces in a minute. And you,” he said to Herugin, who was pacing round the fire, “you’re making me dizzy. Go back to the lines.”

Herugin grinned bleakly, and obeyed. Murgain limped out of the dark, glanced at the dragon-lord’s set, withdrawn face, and made his report to Lorimir. At last Karadur shifted, and loosened his shoulders. His face was drawn with weariness.

Azil handed him a cup of hot wine. “What were you doing?”

“Listening.”

At that moment, silent as the distant lightning, the white eagle dropped from the sky.

Karadur leaped to his feet. The fire roared upwards: a pillar of fire blazed into the night. The eagle vanished. In its place stood a silver-haired woman holding a black staff. Lorimir drew his sword and leveled it at her breast. She smiled. A bright green vine twined along Lorimir’s sword blade. A violet-blue trumpet-flower bloomed impossibly at its tip. A sweet fragrance wafted from the blossom.

“Let your sword drop, Lorimir Ness,” she said. “I am not your enemy.”

Lorimir opened his unnerved hand: The sword fell to the earth. The woman picked it up, brushed the pliant vine from the steel, and handed it to him. She wore a man’s leather breeches, and a scarlet cloak lined with fur over a silvery tunic. Her feet were bare. She nodded to Karadur. “Good evening, my lord Dragon.”

“Who are you?” Karadur said.

The woman said, “I am a mage.” Her eyes blazed like green lamps in her weathered bronze face. “Some call me the Last Mage.”

“What is your name?”

“You know my name, my lord,” the woman said tranquilly. “It is inscribed on your heart. I assure you, my lord, I am not from the black castle. I find the place as loathsome as you do; perhaps more so, since I know more of its past, and of the being that inhabits it. I have traveled over great distances to help you, from Ippa all the way to Nalantira Island, and back to this place. Do you know your enemy’s true name, and nature? I do. It is not what you think. Will it please you to sit, and hear me? I mean you only good.”

“My lord—” Lorimir began, and stopped. Karadur had lifted a hand. The blazing, burning column sank to its bed. Far above their heads, the vast dark cloud spat lightning.

“I will hear,” Karadur said.

19

“Once, in a far gone time, there lived a man. His given and family names are lost, but we know that he came from that part of Ryoka that we call Kameni, and that he was blessed with a strong spirit and a keen and flexible intelligence.”