Master of Dragons (46 page)

“Admire Anna as
much as you like,” Ven said. “She and I are friends, that is all. I have a
family of my own to look after now. Twenty brothers and sisters. I’ll explain
later,” he added, his smile warming as he saw Marcus’s astonishment. “Now, we
had best prepare to deal with the dragons.”

“There is no need
to be diplomatic, Your Majesty,” Anna was saying, responding to the king’s
delicate questions. “We know the truth about the dragon, as we know about the
deceit that was practiced on our people. We know that the Mistress of Dragons,
the woman we revered, was actually a dragon herself.”

Her gaze went to
Ven. “We know about the babies that were stolen away in the night and taken to
Dragonkeep. We know about the dragon’s children. We have taken them in and
offered them sanctuary. And we have come to your kingdom to stop the dragons
from enslaving you as they did us.”

“Your help is most
welcome, High Priestess,” said Edward. He was glad to see that many of his
commanders were standing within earshot and that they were listening intently. “Let
me know what you need.”

Voices cried out
from the watchtowers and the walls. The attack was commencing. Globules of
fire, like balls of molten lava, flew over the walls. The flames spread rapidly,
feeding off whatever they touched, be it cold iron or human flesh.

“Put out those
fires!” Gunderson roared.

“Do not use water!”
The commander of the warrior women shouted. “Water spreads the flames! Smother
them with wet straw or blankets!”

“My sisters and I
need someplace quiet to form our sacred circle,” Anna replied, raising her
voice to be heard, as the commotion boiled around her. “We do not fight with
swords, Your Majesty. We fight with our magic.”

“Marcus, take the
High Priestess and her women into the palace,” said Edward and, for once, his
son didn’t argue with him.

Marcus bounded
forward with alacrity.

“High Priestess,”
he said, bowing. “I am yours to command.”

He held out his
arm to escort her. Anna rested her hand on his and Marcus felt a different kind
of magic, an ordinary kind of magic, one that had nothing to do with dragons.

Marcus led the
women of Seth to the king’s private chapel, which was quiet, isolated, and well
protected. He wondered if God would be offended at this invasion of pagan
practices. Recalling what Draconas had said about the miracle, Marcus could
only hope and trust that the Lord was open-minded.

“We will do our
best to fight the dragon,” Anna was saying to Marcus. “But I must confess to
you, Your Highness, that some of us, myself included, have never battled a
dragon before. And none of us have ever fought more than one dragon. I’m not
sure we can do it.”

“I am certain you
will succeed,” said Marcus, hardly knowing what he was saying.

Anna remained
somber. Halting outside the chapel doors, she turned to face him. “The magic
makes us very weak and ill. The blood bane, we call it. Some of us might die. I
want you to be prepared for that,” she added gently.

“Then you must not
attempt it,” Marcus said firmly. “We’ll find some way to deal with Maristara—”

“You misunderstand
me, Your Highness.” Anna lifted her head proudly. “I say this not to try to
evade our duty, but to inform you that we know our fate and accept it. This is
our fight as much as yours. Maybe more so. Our nation has been held captive for
hundreds of years.” The sisters filed past her into the chapel. She began to
push him away. “And, now, you must go. The ceremony is sacred, and it is
secret.”

Marcus opened his
mouth to protest.

“Please, go, Your
Highness. All will be as it will be. There is nothing more you can do, and your
presence would only distract us.”

Marcus saw that
further argument would be useless and would, perhaps, only anger her. She was a
ruler of her people, and she had a right to expect her wishes to be obeyed.

Marcus brought her
hand to his lips and bowed. The High Priestess was the last to enter the
chapel. As she shut the door, she said to him, “No matter what happens, Your
Highness, we are not to be disturbed.”

Marcus nodded. She
shut the door, and because he did not trust any other to guard them, he took it
upon himself to remain outside the chapel door. He sat down on a stone bench
and that was a mistake. The moment he stopped moving, pain and fatigue
overwhelmed him. His shoulder throbbed, his head buzzed. The floor tilted
beneath his feet, the walls slid sideways. Marcus leaned back against the wall
to wait for the dizziness to pass.

He’d been going on
adrenaline alone, and that was suddenly all used up.

The chapel was
located inside the palace proper, sheltered from the hustle and bustle of
everyday life. Even though tumult raged beyond, the thick walls dampened most
of the sound. He could hear faintly the ongoing struggle and the chanting of
the sisters as they gathered in their circle.

And he also heard
voices shouting in terror, “Dragons!” and he heard a blast and boom of fiery
breath.

The pain and
weakness were so great, he did not think he had the strength to move off the
bench. His gaze lifted to a stained-glass window above him, to the myriad
colors shifting in his wavering vision. “I faced the dragon before. I can do it
again.”

He left the little
room and entered the mind of the dragon.

Maristara was
furious. Her fury burned inside her like the brimstone rumbling in her belly.
She was furious and she was afraid, and she was using her fury to try to
squelch her fear. The dragon had always been a bully, and like most bullies,
she was a coward. Her longtime companion in this adventure, Grald, was dead,
and though she had despised him and distrusted him, she had relied on his
brutal strength and low cunning more than she had cared to admit.

And now Anora was
dead, too. Maristara had outwardly disdained the powerful dragon. Inwardly she
stood in awe of her. Anora was dead, slain by the wretched humans—a fate she
had predicted would come upon them all.

Maristara was left
to fight this battle on her own. She had to finish what they had begun. She had
to. She had no choice.

Maristara’s hold
on Dragonkeep was tenuous, at best. Grald’s despotic rule had caused many of
the citizens to question his authority. The people hated and distrusted the mad
monks. Few had dared do anything about it, but then came the lethal blast that
had destroyed so much and killed so many. Shortly after that, the Abbey collapsed
mysteriously, Grald vanished, and an army of strange warriors that no one had
known existed marched through their streets.

Maristara had
flown to join the army, leaving the palace guarded by the mad monks, never
dreaming that the humans, armed and led by some wretched blacksmith, would
invade it. There they had discovered the bodies of the hapless young women who
had been impregnated by Grald. The truth about his breeding program was
revealed and now most of the city of Dragonkeep was in open rebellion.

As for Seth,
Maristara had already lost that kingdom. The people there knew the truth, as
well. Ven had shown them the body of the Mistress in the tomb. Once she had
seen that, the High Priestess had looked into the Eye and let her gaze roam
far. She had used the Eye’s magic to see the past and the present. There had
been nothing Maristara could do to stop it. Apparently, all these years, the
Watchful Eye had been watching her.

Maristara pondered
Anora’s dying words. Her colors had already started to fade when the dragon
spoke them.

“We are our own
doom, Maristara,” Anora had whispered.

And there had been
a tinge of horror in those colors, the revelation coming too late.

The Parliament was
dissolved. War was inevitable. Maristara’s new allies were hot-headed young
dragons who, if not for this, would have been out stampeding cattle for the fun
of it. She couldn’t stop them. They wouldn’t listen to her.

And here, rising
up through the mists of her rage and gloom, was a human. The Prince who had
helped Ven kill Grald. The Prince who had killed Anora. He was inside her mind,
trying to kill her.

Maristara was in
no mood for it. Her fury boiled like the fire in her gut, and she was about to
expend it all on him, searing him with the blast that would leave his brains
mush, when, suddenly, the Prince was gone. He dropped out of her mind as though
he’d fallen through a trapdoor. Maristara didn’t have time to wonder, for
there, in his place, was the Walker.

He wore his human
shape, his human boots.

She saw Draconas
in her mind, even as her eyes glared down on the castle below and the shadow of
her wings glided over it. The women of Seth were working their magic. She could
feel their power directed against her, as she had once directed that same power
against others of her kind.

“So you have taken
sides,” she said to Draconas. “You’ve turned against your own kind.”

One of her young
cohorts dove down on the castle, spraying it with fire. She tried to warn
Litard, but he did not listen. The flames hit the magical barrier created by
the sisters and flared back at him, forcing him to make a sudden, violent,
twisting turn to escape being toasted with his own breath.

“I don’t want to
fight you or the others,” Draconas replied. “You can still stop this,
Maristara. Your army is exhausted and demoralized. The magic they use comes
with a price—the warriors grow too weak to fight. That’s the true reason that
the warriors waited so long between attacks, isn’t it? It was not a cunning
ploy to let the humans stew in their fear. It was simply that your army didn’t
have strength enough to do battle.

“And while it is
true that your humans are powerful in the magic and well-trained as a fighting
force, they were never taught how to survive in the world outside their
sheltered cave. Grald never expected they would have to. He expected a swift
victory, followed by capitulation. He did not foresee a prolonged war, which is
what you have now. Your warriors are footsore and weary and half-starved. Many
have fallen ill. They have no supplies and no supply lines. They cannot
undertake a siege of the castle, and now that the priestesses of Seth are here,
Edward can hold out against your army for a long, long time. Call them off,
Maristara. Retreat. Go back to Dragonkeep.”

“And then what, Walker?”
the elderly dragon asked. “What happens then? Will your humans leave us alone
now that they know where to find us? Or will they come with their armies to
conquer us?”

“We can talk,
negotiate . . .”

Maristara snorted.
Shadowed silence fell between them.

“Anora was right,”
Maristara said at last. “We are our own doom.”

Marcus came back
to consciousness to find himself lying on the floor beneath a stone bench. He
sat up, rubbing a sore jaw. His father and Ven both bent over him.

“What happened?
Are you all right?” Edward asked in concern.

“Draconas hit me!”
said Marcus.

Edward smiled. “He’s
done the same to me on occasion. Usually for my own good. Here, can you stand?”

Marcus staggered
to his feet, supported by his father. He could hear strange sounds coming from
outside—roars and bellows and eerie, bestial screams of wordless rage and
defiance.

“Father, what is
it? What is happening?” Marcus glanced back at the chapel. “Anna, the sisters—”

“The High
Priestess and the sisters are all safe and well. They are resting from their
labors. Your mother has taken charge of them.” Edward was grim. “Come and see
for yourself, son.”

As Marcus walked
outside, a drop of liquid hit him in the face. He thought at first it was
raining, but the sun was shining, the day was clear. He touched the liquid on
his cheek and drew back his hand.

His fingers were
red with blood. Blood that had fallen from the sky. He lifted his eyes, tilted
back his head, and gasped. He had to hang on to his father’s arm for support,
or he might have fallen.

In the sky above
Idylswylde, dragons fought dragons.

Long, long, long
ago, when humans themselves were living in caves, some far-distant ancestor of
Marcus’s might well have looked into the sky and been awed and terrified by the
same sight. No human had witnessed such a battle since, and now both armies
halted in their killing to watch the fight, which was horrible and deadly
beautiful.

Scales flared
green and blue, red and black and purple, as the sunlight glinted on bodies
that wheeled, dove, and soared. Lightning flared and thunder split the skies
and shook the ground. Flames crackled as the dragons breathed their scorching
breath, trying to burn wings or blind eyes. Jaws snapped. The dragons tore at
each other with clawed feet. Blood fell in a gruesome shower, spattering on the
cobblestones and sliding down the castle walls.

Marcus shaded his
eyes, seeking Draconas, but the sun was directly overhead, and it was hard to
tell one dragon from the other. He tried to venture inside his little room, but
the fury and hatred smote him and seared him, so that he had to leave or risk
being consumed.

“There he is,”
said Ven. His dragon eyes could see clearly. He had learned to look into the
sun. He pointed.

“And the big one?
Who is that?”

“Maristara,” Ven
answered.

“And what about
the smaller one? I think I have seen her before.”

“Her name is
Lysira. She guided us to Seth.”

“She’s in trouble,”
said Marcus.

Lysira, intent on
fighting one of the younger males, did not realize that Mantas had cunningly
drawn her into a trap. As he battled her, Maristara was diving down on her from
above.

“Yes,” Ven
remarked impassively, calmly watching the battle as one might watch a
bull-baiting, with no care who wins.