The Dragondain (4 page)

“This, Your Majesty, is a dirazakein.” Its silver blades caught the light, reflecting razor-sharp menace. “They must weigh forty pounds. How many scaramann do you think a pack of Rinn could cut through, running at a full gallop, with the riders unleashing round after round of these?”

Greydor was silent, but his eyes widened perceptibly.

“And the Dainriders are not without skills. They would be able to guide you away from tricks and taunts. These are
not
small advantages. These are powerful tactics. How lucky it is for Rengtiscura that the Rinn and the Dain have become separated. You’re not natural enemies. You’re long-lost friends.”

“These . . . dirazakein,” said Greydor. “They would be most formidable against a dragonfly.” Greydor made a motion to handle the dirazakein, but Jasper quickly stowed it and jumped down, acting as though he hadn’t noticed Greydor reaching. Obediently, he returned to his place before the dais.

Distracted, his paw still half stretched out, Greydor glanced at the smoldering valley. Fangdelve was clearly visible from the dais, the terrible black smoke billowing from its upper reaches.

Greydor turned his attention to Jasper. “We could not survive a second all-out attack,” said Greydor in a low conspiratorial voice. “And while your idea has merit, my Rinn will not allow themselves to be ridden. It is asking too much, too soon. There may be a few Rinn that could see past such things, but the common Rinn will not abide thoughts such as these.”

“What if you started small?” Jasper offered.

Greydor turned to Nimlinn; her tail twitched.

“If you had a small group,” Jasper urged, sensing his moment had arrived, “one that was looked up to, one that you trusted, and outfitted them with war saddles and riders . . . the other Rinn would see them in battle. They would see what was possible. They would be able to talk to the warrior Rinn, hear firsthand that the Dainriders were not an evil but an asset. They would see the potential.”

“Roan,” said Greydor, under his breath. “He could do such a thing. And his Rinn are more loyal to him than any I have ever known.”

“Roan,” hissed Nimlinn. “Surely there are others.”

“Snerliff,” said Greydor, and the wyfling dashed to Greydor’s side.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” he yelped.

“You will need to be quiet. No Rinn must know what you are up to. We’ll need a dozen saddles to start. And after you finish those, you can start working on as many as you have the leather for. But you will need to keep them out of sight. Make them . . . make them in your private halls. Yes, that will work nicely. And send word to Roan that I will need to see him as soon as possible. That leaves just one problem: riders. We have no official lines of communication with Dain. Our only real connection there is a lunamancer named Ember, and she has ever counseled us not to contact the Royal House of Dain.”

“You have another, larger problem. You have no more dirazakein—”

“No,” said Greydor softly. “Those we have in abundance.”

Jasper’s mouth fell open. “But—”

“Within a private chamber of the Royal Armory, there is a mosaic that bears the design. As a cub, I first sensed the spell that seals the hidden room beyond. When I asked my fathers what was in it, they would not tell me. I tried to open it many times, but it was not until I ascended the throne that it would yield to me.”

“So you have seen them. You must know.”

“Know? What would I know? It’s true that I have seen them, but I have never known their name. And the place they occupy in our history is but myth, hearsay.”

“Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, surely you have noticed the design of the dirazakein, the craftwork, is clearly not of Barreth.”

Greydor’s ears swept back.

“It is unmistakably the work of Dain,” said Jasper.

“Yes, it is not of Barreth,” Greydor affirmed with deadly calm.

Jasper nodded. “About those Dainriders . . . I know that my sister has recently ventured to Dain. Perhaps she has learned something.” He grasped the pendant. “I can go there myself, learn what she’s accomplished.”

Greydor shook his big head. “No, Dain is far too dangerous a place—”

“I haven’t had the chance to speak with her, but she came home safely and sent me here to meet you.”

Greydor was silent for a time.

“What if she didn’t leave so much as flee? I cannot ask that of you,” he said, finally.

“You don’t need to. Lily
wanted
me to come here, to explore. She wanted me to see it with my own eyes.” Jasper flipped the fob on the moon coin. The little moons on its face shimmered a silvery white.

“Wait!” said Nimlinn. “Close that! If you are determined to follow in Lily’s footsteps, you should be equally prepared. Let me show you the place I took Lily. You may find something there to aid you in your journey.”

Having made the decision to risk traveling to Dain, Jasper was as excited as he had ever been about anything. Meeting a dragon, talking to it, flying on its back—this trip would be the realization of a personal dream he’d harbored since first learning about Dain. Jasper could imagine nothing that could compare. It was a difficult decision, but, in the end, he nicked the fob shut.

“All right,” he conceded, “but we must hurry.”

Chapter Two

Return to the Room of the Fallen

J
asper’s
descent to the Tomb of the Fallen was a low-ceilinged roller-coaster ride. Snerliff and Twizbang chattered nervously the whole way down, but Jasper couldn’t hear them well enough over the racket of Nimlinn’s claws to make sense of their conversation.

Just inside the tomb, Nimlinn lowered herself. Snerliff opened a saddlebag, pulled out two empty sacks, and handed one to Twizbang. Together they dove off the saddle into a mountain of orange fur and immediately busied themselves stowing the stuff in the sacks. Jasper slid off the saddle and landed next to them.

Nimlinn took up an enormous portion of the floor, further illustrating that whoever built this room was most certainly not Rinn. The ceiling’s vaulted arches were shallow, and the pillars holding them thick, making the space a tight fit even for Jasper. It was a warm place, possibly kept that way by the beautiful iron lamps hanging from the ceiling, making obstacles of themselves but keeping the place well lit. As Jasper passed one, a bit of scrollwork caught his eye. It was a motif he’d seen before. He couldn’t remember exactly where, but he had a pretty good idea it had been somewhere in Uncle Ebb’s mansion—maybe on a piece of molding, or in a scene from one of his many paintings. Stone slabs, evenly spaced, rose from the floor and filled the room. Each slab was topped with a stone likeness of a reclining man or woman dressed in armor or robes. Wide sills stretched from the tops of the slabs, and arrayed upon them were every manner of weapon and artifact a person would need for battle or magic: great shields; wicked swords; powerful bows; helms and clothing; and quite a few artifacts Jasper didn’t recognize.

“You brought Lily here,” said Jasper to Nimlinn as he paced along a wall, his fingertips skimming over a mural depicting the destruction of an enormous tree. “What did she take?”

“She took a riding cloak and helmet, some of those plates to protect the lower parts of her front and back legs, a pair of boots”—here Jasper laughed—“a small wooden ball, and a single slim ring.”

“Little light on the weaponry there, sis,” he said dryly.

“I had to
make
her take the cloak and boots.”

“Boots? Lily? She must not have seen them. There’s so much stuff in here.”

Jasper skidded to a halt in front a mural depicting an immense pitched battle taking place at the foot of the tower Fangdelve.

“Whoa, what’s this?”

In the painting, the valley floor all around the tower was covered by a pall of dust. Fighting in this dust were the shapes of Rinn and giant beetles the size of small cars. Squinting, Jasper could just make out the human riders on many of the Rinn’s backs. A sizable army of men present, holding pikes, swords, and shields—Dragondain shields. The sky above was thick with fire-breathing dragonflies and winged dragons.

Jasper ran his finger over the black smoke billowing from the top of Fangdelve. “So how many times has”—Jasper paused to get the pronunciation just right—“Rengtiscura taken Fangdelve?”

“To my knowledge, twice.”

“Was it common for Dragondain to fight beside Rinn?”

“As I’ve told you, other than myths and your uncle’s tales, we have no real proof of Dragondain ever fighting alongside Rinn.

Jasper spread his arms wide and gestured at the stone slabs. “But Your Majesty, these are fallen Dragondain . . . and lunamancers. Obviously, they fought and died here on Barreth. And in a battle of great distinction, earning them this tomb. This mural is the only one showing Dragondain. This
must
be their tale.”

Nimlinn nodded. “A reasonable assumption, young cub. But how do you know for certain that these are your fabled Dragondain?”

Jasper picked up a shield and held it up for Nimlinn to see. “A winged dragon being ridden by a man or woman,
this
is the emblem of the Dragondain. But there’s more.” Jasper dashed back to the painting and pointed to a small banner flying above the battle. “They’re fighting . . . beside Rinnjinn.”

Nimlinn’s eyes narrowed. Snerliff dropped the bag of fur he was stuffing and padded over to the painting until his nose and whiskers were nearly touching the paint, then wheeled around to face Nimlinn.

“It’s Rinnjinn’s standard!”

“Jasper,” began Nimlinn, “Rinnjinn was
not
a real Rinn.”

“That’s right. He was more than Rinn. He was . . .”

“The one who made us,” finished Nimlinn.

And with that, Jasper finally confirmed the answer to a question Ebb had always managed to avoid answering. Jasper had guessed right, and he smiled victoriously.

Nimlinn sensed she’d given something away. But it wasn’t like she’d told him anything he couldn’t have discovered during a day’s study at the scrolls in the Royal Library. Or even, for that matter, from a well-versed Rinn bard at any tavern in Sea Denn. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d need to keep on her pads around this young cub, lest something truly important slip.

“Enough talk of paintings and Dragondain and Rinnjinn—what will you take from this room?”

Jasper quickly finished his tour of the tomb, taking in everything, cataloging his choices. He was surprised at how many of the armaments he knew by name. Jasper was tall for his age and strongly built. Even so, all of the armor here was too large or made for a woman.

After a time, Nimlinn snorted. “Don’t tell me you can’t find anything either.”

“Quite the contrary,” murmured Jasper. In the theater of his mind played movie scene after movie scene of the good guys suiting up to take on the bad guys. But what to take? Travel light? Travel heavy? Just how much of this stuff could he get away with?

Something familiar drew Jasper’s eye to a bit of detailed metalwork on the hilt of a sword. Two moons—one full, the other crescent—graced the tips of the cross-guard. He grasped the scabbard in one hand, the grip in the other, and gave a good yank. The moons on the hilt seemed to grow brighter, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Runes ran down the length of the blade.

“Are you a master swordsman, young cub?” asked Nimlinn.

Jasper held up the sword. It felt wonderfully, impossibly light. He gave it a quick flourish and smacked the blade into the corner of a lamp, shearing off a small chunk of the metalwork.

“Not last I checked,” said Jasper.

“Then that sword will remain here.”

Jasper looked up, surprised. “Why?” He wondered, nervously, what else Nimlinn might rule out. His dream of outfitting himself like the ultimate warrior knight suddenly began to fade.

“While I don’t know the history of much that lies within this room, I do know that that is a moon sword—one of the nine. They are highly sought-after objects. And so, unless you believe you could keep that from someone who has lived his whole life pursuing one, I believe you would do well to leave it here. Should you some day prove yourself, I will happily allow you to take it. I believe it would be in your best interests for now to keep a lower profile. These fallen were not placed here because they were ordinary. I suspect that many of the items they possessed are every bit as special as they were. You may take whatever you wish, so long as it isn’t too . . . flashy.”

Jasper hadn’t given much thought to actually wielding these weapons against someone who had spent his whole life training with a blade. Instantly, he saw the wisdom of Nimlinn’s suggestion.

He sheathed the moon sword and carefully returned it, then bent down to pick up the piece of metalwork he’d sheared off. Holding it close to the lamp it had belonged to, he turned it end over end in the pale light. It had a curling ocean wave motif, whereas the cut of the sword was smooth as glass.

“I understand,” he said, quietly pocketing the bit of metal. And suddenly Jasper knew exactly what he wanted. Dashing over to one of the swordswomen, he selected a pair of bronze-colored vambraces, quickly strapping them to his forearms. Next, he grabbed a matching pair of greaves and strapped them over his jeans, just below the knees. Light would be the order of the day.

Jasper ran over to the place where Lily had found her cloak and boots. Her purple high-tops stood out like . . . well, a pair of purple high-tops in a medieval tomb full of period clothes and armament. Jasper grinned as he lifted them just enough to retrieve the studded leather vest they rested on. The vest was a little tight but had buckles on the sides. Moving to yet another slab, he wasted no time belting a short sword to his waist before finally racing back to the figure of the second swordswoman for a hooded riding cloak.

“Perhaps you should take one of those round things,” said Nimlinn. “Nearly all of them have one.”

Jasper placed his tennis shoes on the slab where, a moment before, there had been a knee-high pair of riding boots. He eyed a few of the shields; some were quite small, others very large and heavy looking.

“I think not,” said Jasper, weaving back through the slabs toward the narrow nooks carved beside the doors. In each nook rested a pair of iron-tipped wooden staffs. The tips were engraved with an odd script, which flowed down them one character at a time, nine in all.

“You’re not thinking of taking one of those, are you?” said Nimlinn incredulously.

“Yes, and why not?” answered Jasper.

“Jasper,” began Nimlinn delicately, “I think those are meant for propping the doors open.”

Jasper fought back a smile. “These, Your Majesty, are quarterstaffs,” he said admiringly.

“Call them what you will, I still think—”

No sooner had Jasper’s hand touched one of the staffs than a horrible wave of dread flowed through him. He broke into a cold sweat, and a series of painful jolts lanced through his forearm. Every time he tried to let go, his grip tightened painfully, as though he were being electrocuted. A scream rose in his throat, bursting out in strangled gasps. He closed his eyes and a dark ill suffused his body. He felt his head go light. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to see both hands firmly gripping the shaft. The pain crept past his elbows, and dim voices echoed in the corners of his mind, but the growing pain drowned them out. With every passing second, the staff became heavier—either that, or he was growing weaker.

The next thing Jasper knew, he was sitting on the ground, the pain clearing from his head and arms. The quarterstaff was no longer in his grip, and Nimlinn’s face was close, her thick paw raised as though she had just struck something out of his hands. He remembered a clattering sound, an iron tip rolling across stone, Nimlinn roaring.

“Leave it!” said Nimlinn to Twizbang, who had raced over to the staff and was about to pick it up.

Jasper’s vision cleared. Nimlinn lowered her paw and gave him a tentative sniff.

“Are you well?” she asked.

Still feeling a little dazed, Jasper looked down at his crooked fingers. They were stiff, and he had to press them against themselves and his chest to make them flex. The feeling of dread had passed, but in its place remained an unpleasant sickness, as though he had just thrown up. He looked into Nimlinn’s enormous eyes.

“I d- d- don’t think I’ll be needing one of those after all,” he said in a quaking voice.

“Good,” she answered briskly. “Then if you require nothing else, I believe we are finished here.”

Snerliff and Twizbang helped Jasper to his feet. He was a little wobbly at first, and his knotted forearms could have used a good massage.

“I’m all right,” he said. “You can let go.” Jasper looked up to Nimlinn. “If it’s all right with you, Your Majesty, I’ll be departing from here.”

“It is not all right!” snapped Nimlinn.

Jasper looked confused. “What?”

“If you were to be separated from that coin, and someone else were to use it, someone dangerous, to return to—”

“They would appear in this room!” blurted Jasper, recognition dawning on his face.

“That is correct.”

“Of course, how stupid of me. From where, then?”

“Someplace safe to both of us. I will take you.”

Nimlinn sped Jasper up the long stairwell, through the Palace Keep, and onto the lower ramparts, stopping just outside the Ridgegate.

“There is always a watch here. I will instruct the guards to be on the lookout for you or Lily and to conduct you safely to the Palace on your return.”

“And if someone else should come into possession of the coin?”

“Then they will be ready for that, too. Delivering a single soul, even a powerful one, to our very doorstep is a risk I’m willing to take to guard your safety.”

Jasper unbuttoned his new vest and drew out the pendant, palmed it, and flipped the fob that restrained the pincers. The little ring of gold moons shimmered a silvery white.

“Do you have a plan, Jasper?” asked Nimlinn.

“I need to follow in Lily’s footsteps, to see what she’s seen. Finding our uncle is priority one. He alone has all the answers.”

“You could be heading into danger. Dain is a dangerous moon.”

“Lily would have warned me if she thought I might be in danger.”

“Things change.”

“It hasn’t been very long. Besides, I can’t let worry make my decisions for me. I’ll be on my guard.”

Nimlinn smiled. “May your shadows be few, and your pads be silent.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, for all your help.”

Nimlinn tipped her head ever so slightly. “You may call me Nimlinn, little Dain cub.”

Jasper spun the moons, aiming the pointer at Dain, and snapped the fob shut. His last thoughts on Barreth were about his parents, and how he could never explain being so late. But he had to know what Lily knew, because the more he learned about the Moon Realm, the less he liked the idea of handing the moon coin over to his father.