Dragon's Winter (41 page)

Karadur said flatly, “They killed my people. Their lives are forfeit.” He gazed at the sweating bandits. Their faces shone in the moonlight. “Which of you is Edan?”

No one answered. But two of the outlaws turned their heads. Karadur pointed to a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. “You. Step forward.” The man so addressed lifted his head slowly, and slouched one step toward the center of the clearing. “I think you are he. Finle. Kill him.”

Finle’s bow hummed. Edan jerked, and reeled backwards, hands plucking helplessly at the feathered shaft protruding from his chest. He fell.

The old man’s seamed face twisted with malice. He scowled, and spat in the dirt. “So much for the gratitude of the dragon-kind.” He raised his cracked voice. “Iva! Iva, we are leaving. Our gracious liege is dispossessing us from our home. Maia! Treion!”

The house door opened. A tall woman in a blue gown descended the damaged steps into the moonlight. Two lean, yellow-eyed wolfhounds, one coal black, the other silver-grey, paced at her side. “Treion is gone, Grandfather,” she said.

“Gone...” The old man looked at her fretfully. “Gone. I don’t understand. Where is Iva?”

She sighed wearily. “Iva is not here, Grandfather.” She turned to face the dragon-lord. “My lord,” she said, “as you can see, my grandfather drinks more than he should. It makes him say foolish things.” Her gown, though patched and worn, was clean. She wore her long brown hair up and back on her head, Nakase fashion.

Karadur said, “Who are you?”

She gazed at him gravely. The wolfhounds stood like statues under her hand. “I beg your pardon. I am Maia diSorvino. My mother was Iva Unamira.”

Reo Unamira leered. “You were supposed to marry her, boy! Your father and I had that all planned. But then he went mad. Mad Dragon.” He tugged at his disheveled hair.

Karadur said slowly, “I remember. Your grandfather sent a letter... That must have been five years ago. But I thought you were younger.”

She smiled slightly. “I was younger. Five years ago I was thirteen.”

“You are from Nakase?”

“I was born in Nakase, in Sorvino. My father is Marion diSorvino. I lived in his house as a child. My mother and I returned here six years ago.”

The old man said airily, “You like the look of her, m’lord? I’ll sell her to you. Twenty nobles. I’ll even throw in the dogs.” He snapped his fingers in the direction of the impassive archers. “You there. Get me some wine.”

“Your mother—”

“Is dead, my lord. She died in January last year. She had been sick for many months.”

“I am sorry.”

“Why should you be? You never knew her.”

The old man whined, “I want a drink. Treion took my merignac. Little bastard. She would never say who he was, no matter how I beat her.” He cackled. “I knew, though. I saw them meeting in the woods.” His words trailed into mumblings.

Maia diSorvino said quietly, “My lord, I beg you, ignore him. He has been like this since before my mother’s death. Thorin Amdur’s death was not his doing. My brother Treion planned and led that raid. Ask any of his cohorts, if any are sober enough to talk. They will tell you.” She flicked a contemptuous look at the outlaws.

A cheerful voice said, “My loving sister is quite right. I do not deny it.” A man with hair the color of honey sauntered into the clearing. He was stylishly, elegantly dressed, in a manner wholly different from the outlaws’ haphazard garments. “However, I must correct her assertion that I ran away. I did not run away. I merely moved faster than these cretins.” His glance at the men he led was a duplicate of his sister’s. “I am Treion Unamira. They call me the bastard.” The sword in his right hand looked serviceable and quite sharp.

Karadur said coldly, “I have no interest in your parentage. Was it indeed you who led tonight’s raid?”

“It was. Though I did not kill the old man. Edan did that.” He nodded toward the dead man. “I see he has paid for it.”

“You are a thief and a murderer,” Karadur said. “Herugin, take him.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Herugin, drawing his sword, walked confidently toward the fair-haired man. Treion Unamira stepped forward, a lazy, seemingly artless step, but there was nothing torpid about his sword-arm. His blade licked the air like a slash of fire. Herugin’s sword tumbled from his hand. Treion’s sword point flew to the cavalry officer’s throat.

“I am not to be taken so easily, my lord,” the fair-haired man said. “Tell your men to lay their arrows in the dirt. Otherwise he dies.”

No one moved. Herugin looked at Karadur. The dragon-lord said stonily, “Do it.” The archers let their arrows roll onto the ground.

“You drunken, stupid pigs,” Treion Unamira said scathingly to the outlaws. “Find your weapons and meet me where we left the horses. Go.” The freed men scrambled to obey. “My lord, as you have ordained, we will leave. You will not see us again, though you may hear of us. I intend that you shall hear of us. I will take your officer with me, however; he shall be my safe-conduct till I leave your land. Edric, get a long rope. Tie his wrists together in front.” An outlaw came forward, fumbling with a length of cord. He wrapped the cord around Herugin’s wrist. The end of the rope trailed in the dirt. “Good. Now get me a horse. One of theirs. Excellent. The rest of you, take their horses. Hurry.” The outlaws obeyed. “Edric, tie the other end of the rope to the saddle.” The tip of Treion’s sword did not move an inch.

He waited until the rope had been secured, and then mounted. “I understand you brand brigands in this country.” The sword point slashed at wicked speed across Herugin’s face, and returned immediately to his throat. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on his left cheek.

“My brand,” Treion said.

He prodded Herugin lightly in the center of the chest. The sky lightened. From the high branches, the summer birds were calling down the dawn. A fiery pattern played beneath Karadur’s skin. He said tightly, “If he dies, make no mistake: I will find you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to do that,” Treion Unamira agreed helpfully. “So I suppose I shall keep him alive. Farewell, Grandfather.” He gazed coldly at the old man. “You are a vicious old drunk. I hope your death finds you soon. Farewell, sister dear. Walk, you.” He urged the horse into the trees. Herugin, unable to resist, trotted at his side.

The old man collapsed onto the steps of the decaying house.

“That bastard. Iva’s little bastard,” he whined morosely. “It was my idea to name him Treion. It means treasure. I meant it as a joke. The joke’s on me: He took my treasure. Stole my soldiers. Drank my merignac.” He grinned crazily, showing yellow crooked teeth. “Bad dragon. Mad dragon. Mad as your father.”

“Old man, be quiet,” Finle said.

“Mad dragon. They say you killed your brother for his treasure. Chests of gold and jewels.” He waggled his fingers in the air. “Poof! I had chests of gold and jewels once. Dragon’s gold. Your father gave it to me. I told him he should marry her, but no, he wouldn’t do it, not my daughter, the lovely slut.

“He fucked her, though. I saw them, I saw them meeting. I knew the Diamori girl would never satisfy him.”

All color fled from Karadur’s face. His cobalt eyes glittered: alien, unbearable, remote.

The farmhouse exploded. A terrible crackling heat engulfed the building, the ground, the trees. A hot wind roared across the valley. Reo Unamira’s mouth opened in an O of helpless astonishment. Then he was burning. The morning blazed with lightning. A shadow fell over them. The Golden Dragon sprang into the air, spread wings beating the sky. He soared above the burning farmhouse, cobalt eyes glittering with rage. Blue-white fire streamed from his open mouth.

Fire licked at them with a thousand hungry tongues. “Run!” Finle cried. Hawk’s vision filled with flame. Maia diSorvino raced ahead of her, hair loose in the wind. The black wolfhound loped at her side. The dragon’s inhuman, furious bellow split the sky. A searing silver rain fell from the brilliant air. The fir trees blazed like candles. A pungent smoke blew across the hillside. There was no place to go. Hawk stumbled. The smoke was thickening. She gasped for breath.

A hand grasped her arm. It was Orm. “The stream—this way.” Her single eye stinging with tears, choking, nearly blind, she followed him. Someone shrieked, a hopeless, wordless cry of pain. The air itself was burning.

They fell into the water, and held each other, while the air dripped fire.

“Pray,” Orm whispered.

Hawk prayed that the firestorm would not find them, that the dragon would remember that he was human, and that below him were other humans, some his friends who loved him, and whom he also loved....

The fire stopped on the ridge top. The bare rock would not burn.

The men from Dragon Keep, and Hawk, gathered on the north side of the hill. She and Orm, Finle, Rogys, and half a dozen others had found shelter in the stream. The rest—ten men, including Macallan and Elief, and Huw—were dead.

Orm had lost his hair. Finle and Rogys were burned. Their horses were gone: the outlaws had taken most of them, and those not taken by the outlaws had fled before the dragon’s roar. Like their riders, they lay black and foul on the hillside, trapped and killed by the relentless flames. Two horses—Finle’s bay mare, and Smoke—had survived. Finle, despite the bad burns on his arms and hands, had chased and caught the bay. Smoke, though seemingly unhurt, hovered at a distance, refusing to come to Rogys’s steady calling.

On the south side of the hill, Coil’s Ridge was ash. The Unamira house was gone as if it had never been. The Golden Dragon was gone: vanished into the sky.

Maia diSorvino had survived the firestorm. They found her, grey with smoke as they all were, and with one whole side of her gown charred, sitting on a rock, looking down at the place where the house had been. There was no sign of the grey wolfhound, but the black dog lay panting at her feet.

Orm, after an awkward pause, walked toward her. The black wolfhound lifted its head and growled. She spoke softly to it, and it stilled.

“Are you all right?” Orm asked. “Do you have a place you can go? Neighbors? Friends you can stay with?”

The brown-haired woman smiled wryly. “The granddaughter of Reo Unamira? What do you think?”

“You need shelter,” he said. “Come with us.”

“To Dragon Keep? Karadur Atani might not like that. I will be all right. I have lived on this ridge for six years: I know it well. Morga can hunt for me.” The black wolfhound’s tail thumped; she bent, and stroked its neck. “You need not trouble about me.” It was evident she would not change her mind.

They discussed, briefly, what to do. Orm said, “I say we go back.”

Rogys said, “What about Herugin?”

Orm said, “He might be dead. We don’t know. There’s nothing we can do for him as we are.” There was no argument. Leading the weary horse, they turned north along the ridge top. Hawk trudged in Orm’s footsteps. Her clothes stank of river mud. Her skin felt hot all over, and her lungs ached with each breath.

Her mind ached, too, and her heart. Huw was dead, his bones melted in the earth.

Birds, shocked mute by the dragon’s roar, had started to sing again. A curious chipmunk popped its head out of its hole.

Hunter...

Hawk stopped. Rogys, behind her, lost his balance, slipped, and swore. The sound seemed shockingly loud.

“What is it?” asked Orm.

“Dragon,” she said. She gazed upward, and pointed. “There.”

The golden beast fell slowly toward them, floating like a leaf in the wind. He landed, and changed. They waited, uncertain, as he walked to them across the blackened ground.

His shirt was shredded, his golden hair tangled. He looked unutterably weary.

He did not speak, nor did they. But his eyes, his eyes were human.

EPILOGUE

There was a beehive in the hollow log.

He had not seen it at first, but then the bees had come zooming over to buzz about the primroses he was lying in. Being curious, he had watched them, and seen them drink from the delicate purple flowers, and then vanish, pif-poof.

He sat by the log while bees trickled in and out, and told them his name, and that he had no interest in their honey or their babies. Lauren, the Keep’s beekeeper, had told him to do that whenever he met strange bees, and indeed, it worked: the bees seemed barely to notice him.

Lauren had told him that bees were lucky, and that if you were kind to them, and did not trouble them, they would lend you some of their luck.
What’s luck?
he asked. The beekeeper had laughed.
You’ll find out when you lose it,
she said.

He sat with the bees for a while. Then he went back to the secret place he had found. It was a flawless hiding place. The great boulder jutted out from the slope of the hill so as to make a wonderful shadow, and the tall, flame-colored flowers—fireweed, Hawk called them—that grew down-slope from the boulder made a brilliant spiky fence, behind which a small, patient boy could lie and remain entirely unseen.

The sky was unbelievably blue. Far to the west lay a line of feather clouds, harbingers of rain to come, but rain too held its wonders, such as the reappearance of frogs and newts and dusky purple lizards that hid in the rocks, and ventured out at twilight. It had not rained for days. Finches bobbed in the tall dry grass, hunting seeds and insects, calling to one another. The shadowed ground was dry, a little cool, but he had brought his cloak to lie on. There was bread and a hunk of cheese in his pocket, and, wrapped in cloth, a piece of hard dry smoked beef for Morga.