Master of Dragons (36 page)

“That will be my
lord Troeven’s doing,” remarked one of the barons. “He’s afraid of nothing this
side of heaven
or
hell.”

“God speed them
and protect them,” Edward prayed softly. “And protect my son.”

The young knight,
Sir Reynard, had a firm hold on the prince, holding him with a grip strong as
death. Grasping the reins tightly, he rode with his body hunched over the
prince’s body, thus further protecting His Highness and making himself less a
target.

The young knight
rode hard. They all rode hard. The horses’ flanks were bloody from the spurs
raking their flesh. The knights had to keep their mounts under control,
however, for—bunched close as they were—a horse stumbling or bolting would mean
disaster.

Aware of the honor
given him and the trust put in him, Reynard put aside the fear of death and,
worse, his fear of demons dragging his soul down to hell, and concentrated on
his duty. Reynard was quite certain that these were demons pursuing them,
demons surrounding them, demons hurling the fire of hell at them. He gave his
soul into God’s keeping and, though he did not quite give himself to Death, as
Sir Troeven had ordered—for it is hard, at eighteen, to think that tomorrow’s
bright and beautiful dawn might not come—he kept fear at bay by concentrating
on his goal: the line of his own forces that he could see waiting for them.

Reynard prayed a
simple prayer. “God, don’t let me fall off the horse!”

The demon warriors
had no intention of letting them escape. Whereas before they had held their
fire, “hoping to see us piss our pants,” one of Reynard’s companions had
muttered, the demons launched an assault. They flowed alongside the galloping
horses like a stream of sparkling water, their scaled armor glittering in the
sunlight. Small and deadly darts whizzed among the knights like hideous
hornets.

Some of the darts
went astray or clattered harmlessly off the steel plate, for the knights were a
moving target now. Others found their mark. A knight riding in the vanguard
alongside Sir Troeven suddenly slumped forward over his horse’s neck, and then
slipped off his saddle. No one stopped to see if he was dead or alive. The
horses charging after him rode right over him. His own horse kept going, a wild
and panicked look in its eyes. Immediately, another knight galloped up to take
his place, plug the gap in the lines.

A cloud of fire
erupted on Reynard’s right flank, frightening the horse of the knight riding
closest to the demons and sending his horse plunging into the horse of the
knight riding beside him. Both horses foundered and went down, taking their
knights with them. Reynard, glancing back, saw the demons standing over the
knights. He heard agonized screams, and a horrid taste fill the young knight’s
mouth. He wrenched his head around and faced forward, back to his destination.

It seemed a long,
long way off.

Another knight
fell in the vanguard, and another moved up to take his place. A concussive
blast behind Reynard nearly knocked him from his mount. A wave of heat rolled
across him, and the death screams of horses and of men sounded almost in his
ear. He couldn’t think about that, for he was engaged in a panicked struggle to
keep hold of the prince and maintain his seat in his saddle and urge his horse
forward. By some miracle, he managed all three, and then the body of the knight
riding directly in front of him exploded.

A rainstorm of
blood and gore hit Reynard in the face. He was pelted with fragments of armor
and bone and flesh. Sir Reynard wiped the blood from his eyes and kept riding.

Darts flew in
among the knights, thinning their ranks. The giant Lord Summerson had been hit
four times. He held his position in line, riding stalwartly, though the blood
flowed from his wounds in rivulets down his armor. Reynard glanced away for an
instant, and when he looked back, Lord Summerson was gone. The next moment his
gigantic horse fell, pierced by almost as many darts as its rider.

Fewer and fewer
knights were left to guard Reynard and the prince. One of the darts, its momentum
spent, glanced off his helm. Pain burst in his left shoulder and he looked down
to see wicked black feathers protruding from his breastplate. He gritted his
teeth and hunkered down over his prince and rode on.

Reynard no longer
paid attention to men falling around him. He looked neither to the right nor
the left. He kept sight of the king’s standard and never took his eyes from it
as it crawled closer and closer.

A voice was
shouting at him, thundering at him. It had been shouting at him for some time,
and only now did it start to seep into his brain that the voice was yelling at
him. Reynard turned his head, blinking through the mask of blood that gummed
his eyes and through the pain that was so much a part of him he could not tell
which part.

Riding alongside
him was Sir Troeven.

Only Sir Troeven.
Reynard glanced around. The others were gone.

Of thirty men of
the Prince’s Own who had started, only two were left.

“Ride, man!”
Troeven had his visor up and was bellowing. “Put your spurs to your horse and
ride!”

A dart struck the
commander in the eye. His face was no longer a face. It was a bloody mass of
bone and teeth and jelly. Troeven sagged on his horse and then, dragging on the
reins, he turned the beast around and rode straight back into the ranks of
demon warriors.

Reynard did not
look to see what was happening. Another dart thudded into him. He gasped and
coughed and spit out the blood that dribbled from his mouth and rode.

The king’s knights
galloped out to meet the Prince’s Own. Some had no time to put on their armor,
but had flung on helms and grabbed up sword or spear to go riding to the
rescue.

The soldiers in
the ranks had been cheering the Prince’s Own as though they were at a horse
race or tourney. When, one by one, the knights fell, the cheers became more
sporadic, then dwindled out altogether, and by the time the knights swept up
the lone survivor of the Prince’s Own and carried him out of harm’s way, a
dread silence had fallen over the ranks of the king’s army.

The dragon
warriors ceased their pursuit and drew back among the tall grass. They left
behind the dead. The bodies of twenty-nine knights formed an almost straight
line leading from the field of grass to the last body, riddled with darts.

Sir Troeven lay
with his shattered face turned up to the heavens. No demon would have his soul
or the souls of any others of the Prince’s Own. They had kept their oath and
God would gather them home.

They carried
Prince Marcus off the field on a litter, bearing him up the ridge to where his
father waited. They brought with them, as well, the young knight Sir Reynard.
Marcus had groaned when they had lifted him off the horse, which they took for
a hopeful sign. As for Reynard, he was dying, and there was nothing they could
do for him except see to it that he was granted the honor he deserved. Acting
on Edward’s command, six knights bore the mortally wounded young knight to his
final audience with his sovereign. They lowered the litter bearing Reynard to a
place of honor—beside that of the prince for whom he’d given his life.

The full extent of
Marcus’s injuries would not be known until they could remove his armor, but
Edward felt his son’s pulse and found it strong. His armor had not been pierced
by any of the heinous darts. The only damage the armor had suffered was to the
left shoulder, which was dented and bashed, probably from the fall off his
horse. Those who were expert in such injuries theorized broken bones, maybe a
dislocated shoulder, and a bump on the head. Nothing worse. Marcus kept
repeating a dark litany, crying over and over, “Death above, death behind . . .”

Once Edward had
assured himself that his son was not critically wounded, the king turned his
attention to the young man who had given his life for that of his prince.

They had removed
Reynard’s visor, and Edward was touched to the heart to see how youthful was
the pallid face that looked calmly into his. Reynard tried to speak, but a
great gout of blood came out of his mouth and he could not manage the words.

Edward knew what
he wanted so desperately to ask.

“His Highness is
alive,” the king said, taking hold of the dying knight’s hand. “Thanks be to
God and to you and the others, he has taken no grievous wound.”

A smile flickered
on the ashen, blood-stained lips and then Reynard grimaced, his body shuddered.
He gave a little gasp. The hand Edward was holding, already cold, went limp.

The king placed
the young man’s hand over his bloody breast and closed the staring eyes.

“Father,” said
Wilhelm quietly. “There is trouble.”

“The enemy is
attacking?” Edward asked wearily. He felt suddenly tired and old.

“No,” said Wilhelm
grimly. “I wish they were. The enemy has vanished.”

Edward stared out
across the grassy field and saw nothing. No sign of the warriors who, only
moments before, had been flinging deadly darts and spewing fire from their
fingertips. He saw the wind ripple the grass and the sun shimmering off the
armor of the dead knights. And he could hear, like a buzzing of locusts, terror
spread among his troops.

“How clever,” he
said softly. “How damnably clever!”

He could imagine
what his men were saying to each other.

“The demons could
be anywhere. They could be sneaking through the grass right this very moment!”

“Or slipping up
behind us to slit our throats . . .”

“Or light us on
fire, same as they did the knights.”

“How can you fight
an army you can’t see?”

“How can you fight
an army sent by the devil?”

Fear was
contagious. His own knights were nervous and uneasy. Some drew their swords.
Others peered over their shoulders. It took all Edward’s resolve not to do the
same. He, too, could feel the prickles at the back of his neck, and he couldn’t
help but picture one of those fell warriors sneaking up behind him.

“We’re going to
start losing men,” said Wilhelm. “There!” He pointed to a group of soldiers who
had thrown down their weapons and were running for their lives into the forest.
Officers threatened and cursed, but they didn’t sound very confident
themselves.

A presence at his
elbow made Edward start.

“Sire,” said a
young lad, “your son asks to speak to you.”

Edward hastened
over to where men were lifting Marcus onto a wagon, preparatory to transporting
him back to his brother’s castle. Marcus lay on the litter, half in and half
out of his mangled armor. His eyes were open and clear, though shadowed by
pain.

“He insisted on
talking to you, Your Majesty. Wouldn’t budge otherwise.”

“My son,” said
Edward, with a smile, “I am glad—”

Marcus interrupted
him. “You have to pull back, Father!” he said, white-faced. “Retreat! You can’t
fight what’s coming!”

Edward bent over
his son and clasped his hand. Edward had made the mistake of not trusting
Marcus once. He would not do so again.

“What
is
coming, Son?” he asked.

It was at that
moment someone spotted the dragon.

“Death from above,”
answered Marcus.

Maristara soared
above the treetops, coming from the north, from Dragonkeep. She flew swiftly
and with deadly purpose, her neck outstretched, her eyes glaring down, her huge
body and vast wingspan obliterating the sun. Leaving the clouds, she dove down
on them. Her breath spewed fire as she came, setting the marshlands ablaze and
showing the humans, who cowered at the sight of her, the sort of death they
would die.

The king’s
crumbling army disintegrated. The commanders had no hope of maintaining
control. Some, keeping their heads, tried to prevent a rout, while others were
first to head for the rear. The cry was every man for himself, and every man
made a dash for it, pushing and shoving and sometimes knifing his fellows in
order to clear a path that would save him from the terror swooping down on him.
The sight of “demon” warriors had unnerved them. The sight of the dragon
unmanned them.

The only company
to hold its ground was the archers. Led by a man of stubborn disposition who believed
in neither God nor the devil (and who was worshiped and feared by his men more
than either of the other two), the archers stood fast even as the dragon bore
down on them. They had their arrows nocked and ready and, at the command, the
archers fired.

The sky was black
with arrows flying, hissing, at their target.

Six of the female
dragon warriors appeared, parting the veil of magic, their scaled armor bright
in the sunlight. Each woman made a graceful gesture with her hands, as though
she were sending forth a flight of birds. The shafts of the arrows burst into
flame and were instantly consumed, tailing downward in thin spirals of smoke.
The arrowheads melted and plopped in leaden drops onto the grass. The women
bowed low, as the dragon passed overhead. And then they disappeared back into
the illusion.

The archers flung
down their bows. They trampled each other in their mad panic. But they had lost
precious time standing up to the dragon, and she was swift to exact punishment.
Flying over them, Maristara sprayed them with fire, setting their clothes and
hair ablaze. The hapless victims flailed and thrashed about on the ground or
spread the flames as they ran screaming, trying mindlessly to escape the blaze
that was consuming them. Most of these dropped dead in their tracks. Others
were knocked to the ground by their comrades in a desperate attempt to save
them, though to no avail. The flames were insidious, burning through leather
armor and clothes and flesh, burning up bone and sinew and muscle, reducing men
to piles of greasy ashes.