Master of Dragons (34 page)

And then he heard,
behind him, pounding hooves. Marcus glanced over his shoulder. Mounted
knights—the Prince’s Own— were chasing after him. The knights were not riding
to his call, inspired by his show of courage to join him in desperate battle.
They were riding to catch him, drag him from his horse, fling him to the
ground, and truss him up in a straitjacket.

Marcus faced
forward, smiling grimly In truth, they
were
riding to his call. He
was
leading them into battle.

They just didn’t
know it.

Marcus left the
camp and the army behind. He entered the tall stands of grass, and he pulled
back on the reins to slow his horse’s mad rush. He heard the Prince’s Own
coming up fast behind him. There were about thirty knights, riding hard. His
horse was suddenly skittish and danced sideways, eyes rolling and ears
pricking.

Marcus patted the
neck.
“
You
know there’s something out there, don’t you, boy. You
know it and I know it and, now, my father will know it.”

He brought to mind
the sight of Grald casting the magic that banished the illusion and caused the
city of Dragonkeep to materialize before Marcus’s amazed eyes. Marcus had tried
to do the same when fleeing Dragonkeep. He’d tried to lift the illusion in
order to find the hidden gate that led out of the city. He had not been able to
do it, but then he had been exhausted and panic-stricken, afraid for his life.

He wasn’t
exhausted now. He wasn’t afraid, though he felt certain that he had only
moments more to live. He was excited and eager, exalted. His first and last battle
would be a memorable one. He could see the magic hanging before him—a
shimmering landscape painted on a backdrop of serene blue sky and tranquil
white cloud, sparkling water and golden brown grass rippling gently in the
morning breeze.

Marcus rose from
his little chair in his little room, and he walked to the door and flung it
wide open.

The dragon,
Maristara, was there, holding the curtain of enchantment over her army, ready
to whip it aside at the last moment, to the shock and horror of her unsuspecting
audience.

Behind the curtain
were dragon warriors, a thousand strong, hunkered down among the brown grass,
the sunlight shining off their scaly armor. He saw on their faces smiles of
derision and disdain. He saw Maristara smug and triumphant.

Marcus drew his
sword and spurred his horse and rode at the curtain of brown and blue and
sparkling river. He hit the fragile fabric of magic a slashing blow with the
blade of his own magic, rending it and tearing it to shreds, so that the
enchantment hung in tatters that fluttered in the wind.

Behind him, the
Prince’s Own had been shouting for their prince to stop. He heard their shouts
choked off by gasps of astonishment or garbled curses. The curtain had gone up
and the knights were face-to-face with their enemy—an enemy that had not been
there one minute and was there the next; a strange and outlandish enemy that
looked like no other enemy they had ever encountered.

The knights were
thrown into confusion by this astonishing sight. Reining in their horses, the Prince’s
Own milled about in consternation, uncertain what to do.

Their commander,
Sir Troeven—the same who had termed Marcus “barking mad”—was a soldier by
profession. He had won his title after saving the life of the former king,
Edward’s father, in a fight with an outlaw band who had taken it into their
heads that they owned the highway between Idylswylde and
Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston. During the past few years, Sir Troeven had been
abroad, fighting battles for other kings, since there were none to fight at
home. A veteran of many wars, he swept aside all that was strange or confusing
about the army in front of him to concentrate on one thing—his duty. His sworn
duty was to his prince, and his prince was alone on the field of battle,
surrounded by the enemy.

Drawing his sword,
Sir Troeven cried, “To me!” and rode like thunder through the grass and the
ranks of the enemy. One after another, depending on the quickness of their wits
or the strength of their courage, the knights of the Prince’s Own galloped after
their commander.

The dragon
warriors had been assured by Grald that they and their magic would rule the
field of battle.

None will be
able to see you. You will sneak up upon them like the night and smite them like
the lightning. You will fight at the time and place of your choosing,
Grald
had told them time and again.

Unmasked by Marcus’s
attack, the veil that covered them unexpectedly lifted, the dragon warriors
were caught completely off guard. Thirty armored and mounted knights were
riding down on them, and neither magical illusion nor dragon-scale armor could
protect them from the pounding hooves of the massive war horses that each
weighed upwards of a thousand pounds. The dragon warriors had no time to ready
their defensive magicks before the Prince’s Own smashed into their front ranks.
Some had only seconds to fling themselves out of harm’s way. Others did not
even have that. The gigantic horses knocked them down, trampled their bodies,
and kept going, their hooves and forelegs and bellies splashed with blood and
gore and dragon scales.

The dragon
warriors recovered quickly, however, and began to shift into battle formation.
They fought in pairs—one man, one woman—and they sprouted from the tall grass
like some sort of deadly weed.

Marcus looked back
over his shoulder and saw his knights charging after him, their swords flashing
in the sunlight. He saw the blood on the horses and the dead on the ground and,
most important, from the ridgeline, he heard the blaring of trumpets and the
beating of drums. His brother and father could see for themselves now that the
enemy was, indeed, upon them. Marcus enjoyed a brief moment of triumph and
satisfaction that swiftly evaporated like the morning mist. He could tell by
the motions made by the female dragon warriors and the eerie glow starting to
shimmer around the fingers of the males that they were arming themselves.

“Fall back!”
Marcus yelled, waving his arm. “Fall back!”

Wheeling his
horse, he found his way blocked.

A dragon warrior
raised glowing hands. The bluish fire of the magic roiled off his fingers.
Spinning and twisting, the magic snaked toward Marcus, who had time only to
suck in a breath. The blast struck him and his mount like a gust of wind
blowing from the mouth of hell.

The horse
screamed. Marcus had a sickening sensation of falling and then blackness and
pain crashed down on top of him and buried him deep.

Sir Troeven saw
the prince go down, and the knight galloped toward Marcus, using a powerful
yell and a wave of his hand to direct the other knights, who were closing with
him rapidly.

The dragon
warriors did not try to stop them, but melted away at their coming. Troeven was
feeling good about this until he happened to glance over his shoulder to see
the strange warriors flowing in behind them and around them. The warriors had
managed to cut off two knights, who had been lagging behind, laughing at the
sight of the enemy standing to face them without weapons of any kind. Sir
Troeven remembered what Edward had told them about this army and, though he had
laughed then (when the king wasn’t paying heed), the knight wasn’t laughing
now. These strange warriors might not be holding swords in their hands, but
they were armed. He knew that by the confident way they moved and by their
calm, implacable expressions and the fact that one of them had felled his
prince. He had his sworn duty and he rode on.

Marcus’s horse was
dead—that much was obvious—and it had fallen on top of him. Sir Troeven could
see the prince’s head and shoulders, arms and torso pinned beneath the large
animal. Marcus, encased in armor, lay still and unmoving. Two of the dragon
warriors were approaching him.

Sir Troeven
received another shock when he saw that one of the two warriors was a woman,
young and attractive. He got over his shock quickly enough when he saw the
woman reach out her hand toward the prince’s helm, as her male partner looked
on.

Giving a shout to
draw their attention, Sir Troeven dismounted and charged straight at them,
yelling for all he was worth and swinging his sword. They both looked at him,
their faces registering no particular concern at the formidable sight. The
woman began to make odd circular motions with her hands, as though she were
washing windows. Troeven aimed a slashing blow at the man.

His sword struck against
what felt like a shield, though there was nothing between him and the warrior
but dust. The sword bounced back, the blow jarring through Troeven’s arm. By
this time, the other knights were riding up around him, and the two dragon
warriors, seeing themselves outnumbered, withdrew, vanishing into the grass so
rapidly that one moment they were there and the next he could see no sign of
them.

“Why did you let
them go?” one of the knights demanded. “Why didn’t you slay them?”

Troeven lifted his
visor and scratched his grizzled chin. The sweat trickled down his face and
neck, yet he felt chilled to the heart. He had only one thought now, and that
was to keep his oath.

Kneeling awkwardly
in his armor beside the prince, he managed to remove the prince’s helm. Marcus’s
eyes were closed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his upper lip. At the man’s
rough touch, Marcus moaned and turned his head.

Troeven smiled
grimly. The prince might be grievously wounded—probably was, with a half-ton of
horse on top of him. But he was alive, and it was Troeven’s sworn duty to try
to keep him that way.

“You knew they
were there, Your Highness,” he said to rally Marcus’s spirits on the off chance
he could hear him. “The good God knows how, but you saw them. And you charged
right into them, to make us see, too. I’ve never beheld a braver deed, and so I’ll
tell your father to his beard. And I’ll apologize to you, Your Highness, and
beg your forgiveness on my bent knees, and I’ve never done that with any man.
First, though, we have to get you out of here alive. And that may be no small
matter.”

He looked up to
see the other knights had formed a cordon of horse and steel around the fallen
prince. They were watching the enemy warriors with mounting amazement. In the
heat of the action, they had not yet had a chance to take a good look at them.

The enemy, though
not armed, was clad in armor that was strange in appearance. It was not plate
armor, nor yet chain mail, such as the knights wore. The armor of these
warriors was made of what looked to be shining scales that flowed like a second
skin over their bodies and their limbs. And like a second skin, the armor
appeared thin and fragile.

“And look at that,”
a knight exclaimed in disgust. “They have women in their ranks.”

“Why don’t they
attack us? They have us outnumbered a hundred to one.”

“Perhaps because
they’re not armed. Say ‘boo’ at them, and they’ll all run away.”

“Next time I will
leave my blade at home and bring a wooden stick. That’s all it would take to
puncture that sorry excuse for armor.”

“I’m not so sure,”
said Troeven sternly. “I hit something a good solid blow with my sword and didn’t
even make a dent.”

Silence fell. The
horses, skittish, blew and bared their teeth and flattened their ears. They
moved restlessly beneath their riders, so that it was all some of the knights
could do to keep them under control. The two knights who had been cut off from
the main force were completely engulfed by the warriors. Yet, the warriors made
no move to strike.

“The horses don’t
like them, that’s for damn certain.”

“Horses are
smarter than men, sometimes.”

The knight who had
talked about the sharp stick snorted in derision and glanced back over his
shoulder. “How’s His Highness?”

“Alive,” Troeven
answered shortly.

He took stock of
the situation. The Prince’s Own surrounded him and His Highness. The enemy
encircled them, and, beyond, the king’s forces were falling all over each
other. He could hear the shouts and curses of officers and the beating of drums
and the clash and clatter of an army preparing to go suddenly to war. Close at
hand, the battlefield was eerily quiet. No sounds of swords thwacking against
each other or banging on armor or bashing in shields. No crunch and thud of
battle. No panting, grunting, swearing, screaming. Only the buzz of
grasshoppers and the rustle of the dry grass as the warriors gathered silently
around them, watching, waiting.

“My Lord
Summerson, help me get His Highness out from under his horse,” said Troeven.

His voice boomed
unnaturally loud in the stillness, causing several of the knights to flinch at
the sound. Lord Summerson, a bear of a man, heaved and grunted himself off his
horse and lumbered over to assist.

Panting and
straining, Summerson managed to lift up the portion of the horse under which the
prince was pinned. Troeven gripped the prince by the shoulders and pulled him
free. Marcus moaned when the knight shifted him, and Troeven judged by this
that the prince had broken bones, but this was no time to try to physic him.
They’d have to take off his armor to see what was wrong with him, and he deemed
that Marcus was far safer in his armor than out of it—a judgment call that the
next few moments would prove horribly wrong.

One of the two
knights who had been cut off from their comrades suddenly raised his voice in
an oath.

“By my liver and
lungs, I won’t put up with this!”

The knight spurred
his horse at one of the male warriors, intending to ride him down. The horse
would have none of this, however. The animal reared up, throwing the knight
heavily to the ground. Terrified, the horse galloped off.