Dragon's Winter (36 page)

Red Bear, its great jaws marked with blood, released it. White Bear slumped. A film of silver-blue rain shimmered in the blue air.

A haggard, naked woman sprawled in the dirt at their feet.

Blond-white hair streamed along her long body nearly to her knees. Her prominent ribs were scored with claw marks. Blood pumped from a great rent in her throat.

Bear Inisson, breathing in great gasps, sank to his knees beside her. His chest dripped blood. The woman’s hands clenched in the dirt, and then opened. The bright red river slowed, and stopped. “I tried to reach her,” Bear said hoarsely. “She could not hear me. Is the boy safe?”

“I have him,” said Finle.

Hawk of Ujo came up beside him. “Gorthas,” she said hoarsely. “Where is he?”

“Gone. Escaped unhurt: we never touched him, damn his monster soul.” Finle pointed. “If we had horses, we could try to catch him— “ Far to the north, an iron-colored shape loped easily along a snowy ridge.

Bear struggled to rise. “I can’t,” he said hopelessly.

Hawk’s dark eye burned with rage. She flung her head back, glaring into the brilliant sunshine, and screamed. It was not a human sound. High on the ridge, the warg halted. It changed. The hairless man grinned from the safety of his distance, and waved.

Like a star falling to earth, the golden dragon plunged out of the azure sky. He roared; that terrible crackling sound. Gorthas screamed as the terrible, scimitar-shaped claws closed. With powerful strokes of his sun-bright wings, the dragon soared aloft. Then his claws opened. A motionless, torn thing plummeted into the snow. Slowly, very slowly, the dragon glided to earth. He landed on the plain from which he had first risen, and settled like a resting cat on the steppe-land. Heat steamed from his nostrils. He yawned, showing teeth like spear heads, and a curling black tongue. Then, glittering wings folded down upon his back, he gazed at his human companions with alien eyes.

Azil Aumson moved. With steady strides he walked toward the great golden beast until he stood in front of it. He knelt. The huge narrow head arced down. The dragon nosed him lightly. A crystalline dazzle ricocheted across the sky. Karadur Atani stood before his friend. He reached a hand to touch Azil’s face. They seemed to speak for a moment. Then the dragon-lord put one hand on Azil’s shoulder, and brought him to his feet.

They strolled together toward the motionless war band.

A faint dust of gold, like pollen, gleamed on Karadur Atani’s skin. Not a few of his men stepped involuntarily back. Lorimir Ness walked to meet him.

“My lord,” he said, with only the slightest tremor in his steady tone, “welcome back.”

The dragon-lord smiled at the older man. “I have no words to thank you,” he said quietly. He looked at the body of the white-haired woman. “Tell me about this.”

Lorimir said, “This is—was—the white bear, my lord. She was hiding somewhere in the diggings. So was Gorthas. She pursued him, and to escape her he flung the child in her path. The Bear”—he gestured at the kneeling, russet-haired man—”stopped her.”

Bear said, “She was blind, and he wrapped the child in his cloak. It was clever. I didn’t want to kill her. But she was mad. Her mind was filled with Gorthas; she wanted only to kill him.” He smoothed the matted, dirty hair back from the mutilated face. “This was her country, once. I would like to bury her here. But the ground is hard.”

“There are stones,” Lorimir said. “We will build a cairn.”

Karadur said, “Where is Shem?”

Finle said breathlessly, “I have him, my lord.”

Karadur took the boy between his hands, and knelt.

Shem’s hair was stiff with dirt, and his soft child’s skin was filthy; he looked worn with terror, tired beyond thought. The stiff leather collar ringing his small neck had raised an ugly welt. Karadur snapped it. It crisped to ash between his fingers.

“Shem,” he said gently, “thou art going home now. The man who hurt thee is gone, gone forever. Thou will ride a horse, and will have enough to eat, and clean clothes, and no one will touch thee.” Shem looked blankly at him. Patiently Karadur repeated it.

Comprehension stirred in the boy’s long-lashed hazel eyes. He whispered, “Shem go home?”

“Yes,” Karadur said. He ruffled the little boy’s hair. “Finle, have you a younger brother?”

Puzzled, Finle said, “No, my lord.”

“Find me someone who does.”

Finle looked blank.

Someone said, “My lord, Huw the archer has brothers.” Half a dozen hands pushed Huw forward.

“How old is your brother?” the dragon-lord asked.

Huw said, “My lord, I have three brothers. Legh is sixteen, Gowan twelve, and Rauri nine.”

“Were they placed often in your charge, when you were still at home?” Huw nodded. “Good. Huw, this is Shem Wolfson. He is—perhaps two?”

Hawk said softly, “He is not even two. Changeling children grow quickly.”

“Shem, this is Huw. I place thee into his charge. He will find thee a bath, and clothes, and food, and then he will bring thee back to me. He will not hurt thee. Treat him carefully,” he said to Huw.

Huw lifted the boy expertly onto his hip. “Hey, little fellow,” he said, “you want to help me find my horse?” He started to turn. Shem grabbed frantically at Karadur’s fingers.

“Wait,” the dragon-lord said. Blue flames danced along his palms and up his arms. “Dost remember this play? All is well, cub. Be easy, now. Thou art safe.” Finally Shem’s taut grip eased. Huw took him away. “Lorimir, there is a small herd of elk south of here. Some of them have heft on their bones. Send out a hunting party. We’ll need fresh meat for the journey home.” The men looked at one another. “Unless you think the men are too weary to hunt...”

Lorimir said carefully, “My lord, as to that, we have a small problem.”

It took nearly six hours for the horses to return to camp.

They wandered in, footsore and skittish. “Four are lame,” Herugin reported, “and one of the mules has a gashed leg. She must have fallen. As for the others—give them a night’s rest, and they’ll be fine.”

During those six hours, the men had not been idle. The dead of the castle had been dragged into a pile and left for the crows. Bear Inisson, with Finle and some of the other scouts, had raised a cairn over the body of the dead changeling.

Huw bathed Shem in a camp kettle, and dressed him by pouring him into the folds of a borrowed tunic and cinching it with a twist of rope. “It’s all I could find,” he said, as he handed the boy to Karadur. “At least it’s clean.”

“It will serve,” said the dragon-lord lightly. “All right, cub?” The pinched, terrorized look had left the child’s face, but it was thin, and very wary. He regarded the dragon-lord steadily, unspeaking. The ring of Telchor Felse’s hammer sounded like a bell in the bright air. There was mending to be done before the homeward journey: shoes for the horses, a patch on a kettle, an edge on a sword. There was always mending to be done.

“Herugin: my brother’s body goes with us. I place it in your charge.”

“My lord” Herugin said crisply, bowing.

Hawk of Ujo, with Azil Aumson beside her, sat outside a tent to watch the men of the war band work. Her face was taut with pain. She showed no inclination to sleep, which Macallan said was a good sign. With them sat Senmet of Mako. Karadur, still carrying Shem in his arms, came to the tent. He had taken off his mail, and Macallan had bandaged his torn forearm. “Hunter,” he said, “Macallan tells me your head is not so injured as he had first feared. But he says your ribs and your arm need rest. I hope you will stay in Dragon Keep until you are fit to travel.”

Hawk said tightly, “Thank you, my lord.”

“Shem,” said the dragon-lord, “dost know this person? She is called Hawk. She comes from Ujo, a big, beautiful city, which thou wilt someday visit. She is thy friend.”

Shem frowned slightly. “Hawk?” he said questioningly. “Hawk fly?”

“Not now,” Karadur said, very gently. He pointed to the singer. “Dost know this person? This is Azil. He is
my
friend.” He lowered the boy to the ground. “Wilt stay with these folk a moment? I shall be close by, I promise.”

The boy looked at the one-eyed woman for a long moment. She beckoned. “Come, Shem,” she said softly. “I know I look strange, but I will not hurt thee “ Silently the child took two steps toward her.

Karadur said, “May we speak, mage?” The barefoot mage rose, staff in hand. They walked a little ways from the tent. “Wizard, is there any gift I may make you, any thanks for what you have done?”

Senmet shook her head. “I have no use for gold, my lord. And indeed, you have already given me something: a little black box. I will take it to Mako, and study it.”

“What do you hope it will tell you?”

“What it is. What it does.” A scarlet rose bloomed at the end of her staff. It turned into a miniature scarlet dragon, which spread its wings and flew away. “My lord, I think I shall leave you soon. My work here is complete.”

“Shall I see you again?”

Her lips curved. “Does that mean you no longer wish to kill me?” She sobered. “We will meet again, my lord. We are bound, mage and dragon. I cannot see the pattern’s shape, not yet, but I feel its presence.”

He nodded. “Do you return to Mako?”

“I do.”

“Tell Erin diMako our war is over, and our enemies slain.”

“He will be glad to know it.”

“And if ever you have need of me, call me,” he said. “I will come.”

That night, a gold and crimson sunset spread like a benediction across a cobalt sky. The men built bonfires; the rich scent of roasting meat steamed into the air. Lorimir, with a stern warning as to what would happen to anyone who drank too much, sent the wineskins round twice, and then a third time. The moon rose. They toasted it. They toasted Lorimir, and Herugin, and Murgain. Dice came out from knapsacks: Rogys and Orm wrestled, and Rogys, who had had too much to drink, got his face rubbed in the snow. At the archers’ fire, Murgain sang “The Lay of Helos and Nell,” a mournful love song. Olav sang a song in his own language which no one understood, but everyone liked; it had a conspicuous rhythm, and a rollicking, polysyllabic, incomprehensible chorus, which they thundered back to him.

Karadur sat apart from the celebration. Shem, wrapped in the dragon-lord’s cloak, sat curled in his lap. The little boy watched silently as blue sparks floated from the dragon-lord’s fingers along his bare arms until they wreathed his head.

Finally the dark, still figure sitting beside the one-eyed archer rose. Firelight glinted off his scarred hands. The company fell silent.

Slowly, he began to sing. They knew the song well: it told of intrigue, and bloody ambush, and of seven men, chosen by an ancient king, to ride through dangerous country to bring his loyal army back to him. But the errand was betrayed, the messengers pursued and slain, all but Dorian, shining Dorian, who survived and led the army to his king’s rescue. It was the celebration of a hero’s journey. But Azil did not sing it so. He sang it as a lament, and the beloved refrain—
“
Riders at the gate! There are riders at the gate!
”—became a song of mourning.
“
We fall that you may ride
,” he sang.
“
Remember...
”

Around the guttering fires, the soldiers bent their heads, remembering their dead left in the snow, or buried in fields or under stone. Lorimir sat gazing into the distance, and the look on his face was one that none of them had ever seen before. Finle wept openly.

It ended. No one clapped. Rogys poured wine with an overly steady hand, and held the cup out to the singer. Azil did not take it. Instead, he walked to the dark-cloaked figure who had sat apart from the revelry. Lifting the little boy from Karadur’s lap, he brought the child to Huw the archer. Lorimir spoke softly. Men drifted yawning to their blankets.

Azil waited.

Finally Karadur rose. He caught Azil’s wrist in one hand, and pulled him to his feet. The tent was warm, and empty. A glimmer of moonlight, delicate as the rain on a sea bird’s wings, shone through the tent flap. Ductile shadows flowed over the canvas walls.

Sitting on the edge of his pallet, Azil took off his boots. His breathing, he noted with an odd detachment, had entirely escaped his control. He took off his shirt. He heard the rustle of cloth. A finger touched his lips in silent command.

The sure searching caress seemed to strip the skin from his body. He cried out once, as fire permeated his senses, and he thought his bones would melt.

23

The next morning, as the Atani warriors came from their bedrolls to greet the rising sun, they found a different land.

Stepping from their tents into the buttery sunlight, the men gazed in disbelief. The sharp stark whiteness of snow had vanished. A matrix of orange poppies and fiery-blue lobelia dappled the ground. A pale green haze lay over the steppe. Picketed horses snatched eagerly at new grass. “What happened to the ice?” Edruyn asked.

“Who cares!” said Huw happily. He lifted Shem to his shoulders. “Look at this, cub. The ice has gone away. See the colors? What d’you think of that? Beautiful, eh?”