The Last Dragonlord (34 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Fire blazed through Linden as
his muscles spasmed and heaved. He thrashed in the mud. It felt as if acid ran through his veins; had he been able to, he would have screamed. But even that release was denied him. He could only grunt like an animal.
Instinctively he tried to mindcall Kief and Tarlna. Pain lanced through his skull; he nearly blacked out. It took everything he had to fight his way back from the edge of unconsciousness.
Convulsion after convulsion wracked him. What was happening to him? He’d never heard of any illness like this.
A new fear stabbed him. Gods help him, what if he rolled to land face down in the mud? He hadn’t the strength to lift himself; he’d drown.
As if that burst of panic were a signal, his thoughts became chaos. Images tumbled over each other in his mind as his consciousness ebbed away. A final memory flashed before his mind’s eye as if lit by lightning: Sherrine drinking, then offering him the goblet of wine.
Poison?
The word echoed in his mind as he sank into darkness.
But how—how—how?
…
 
“Rynna—where are you going?”
Maurynna clenched her fists in frustration and stopped. She should have known Maylin wouldn’t believe her. “For a walk.”
Perhaps—just perhaps—her cousin would take the hint and leave her alone.
Maylin caught up to her and snorted in derision, flour-covered fists planted on hips. “At this hour? In the rain? You
must think me dim to believe that. What are you really up to?”
Maurynna bit her lip, wondering what story she could tell the younger girl. If she told her cousin what she planned, Maylin would likely drag her back to the house, yelling for her mother all the while. The words tumbled out anyway. “To find Linden. Something’s wrong; I know it.”
She nearly kicked herself for a fool. And the long, hard look Maylin gave her shredded her already frayed nerves a little more. Just as she couldn’t stand it any longer, the other girl said, “Maurynna—you’re being an ass. What if you find out he’s with someone else? But fool or not, you’re not walking about alone in Casna after midnight. If you insist on this idiocy, I’m coming with you. Are you armed?”
Maurynna sighed and pulled her oilskin cloak enough to reveal the long, heavy sailor’s dirk—almost a short sword—hanging from her belt.
“Good. Give me a moment. I want to change to breeches in case we have to run.” Maylin dashed up the walk and eased open the door, slipping inside without a sound.
Maurynna waited, sick with worry, listening to the drip-splash of rain falling from eaves to cobblestones. Far off in the distance she heard the ominous rumble of thunder; another storm was moving in. She bit her knuckles. Something was wrong. She knew it. She
knew
it.
If only she knew what.
The door opened again; a shadow slipped out. Maylin trotted up to her, buckling something around her waist. To Maurynna’s surprise it was a sword belt with a short sword in a worn sheath.
She must have made some exclamation, for Maylin said, “It’s Father’s old one. And yes, I do know how to use it. Maybe I don’t fight off pirates the way you do, but I sometimes ride with our pack trains, and bandits have been known to attack even well-guarded merchant trains. Now—which way do we go?”
For a moment Maurynna thought Maylin mocked her. But
her cousin was serious; it seemed her feelings were as good a guide as any for this fool’s mission.
“I—I don’t know exactly. But I feel …
pulled
that way.” She gestured to the north. Thunder rumbled again, closer this time.
Maylin scratched her snub nose. “Not much to go on, but better than nothing. Lead on, Captain.”
He woke up enough to
realize that he was being dragged up the bank and onto the grass, though he couldn’t open his eyes. Nor, try as he might, could Linden move a muscle to fight his captors. They were not gentle with him, but he had a small sort of revenge. Judging by the grunts and groans, as a dead weight he cost them a great deal of effort.
They hauled him across the wet grass well away from the road. The motion made his head spin again. Once more he tried to mindcall his fellow Dragonlords; once more his only reward was agony. There would be no help from that quarter.
“Far enough!” one man protested. “It’s not likely anyone’s going to come past in this storm.”
“I’d like to get him under the trees,” the other gasped. “But you’re right. Gods, he’s heavy; it would have to be the damned Yerrin.”
They dropped him face-up to the rain. He was nauseated almost beyond enduring now. He sensed one of the men drop to his knees beside him and fought to gather what was left of his wits.
“Well met, Dragonlord,” said a voice, coldly amused. “In a few moments—when you’re able to answer them—I’m going to ask you some questions and you will answer truthfully. You have no choice, you see. And when this is over, you will remember nothing of this. Just that you were suddenly taken ill after you left the ferry.”
Linden fought to move, but the paralysis was complete. Not even an eyelid flickered. He was trapped in darkness, helpless before these men. And terrified as he’d never been in his life.
After a long silence, the voice spoke again. “Very well,
Dragonlord—I think we’re ready to begin.” Then, triumphantly, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this.”
 
They stood in the rain-soaked darkness, their cloaks pulled tight around them.
“Where to now, Maurynna?” asked Maylin, sounding tired and resigned.
Maurynna rubbed the tears from her eyes. “I’m not sure—oh, hang it all, I just don’t know. I know something’s wrong, but I don’t know which way anymore.” Her voice rose, an edge of hysteria in it.
“Stop it!” Maylin snapped. “That won’t help us! Think, Rynna, think!”
Maurynna caught back a sobbing breath. Maylin was right; breaking down wouldn’t help them or Linden. Besides, she’d always despised girls who did just that at any excuse.
She concentrated on the smell of wet earth, the different sounds the rain made as it lashed against their cloaks, solid where the cloaks stretched tight across their backs, a hollow
thup! thup!
against empty fabric. She focused her mind on them until she had herself under control once more.
But she still had no idea which way to go.
“Very well, then,” Maylin said, her voice falsely bright. “The way we started is as good as any, I’d say.”
Numb with despair, Maurynna asked, “What is in this direction?”
Maylin stepped out at a brisk pace. Maurynna fell in beside her.
“All sorts of things. The goldsmiths’ section, the spice merchants, things like that. If we keep going long enough, we’ll fall into the Uildodd.”
The Uildodd … Maurynna stumbled. Of course, of all the stupid—“Maylin—there’s a ferry, isn’t there? Where is it?”
“A bit north and west of here. Why—oh!”
“Exactly. Most of the nobles have estates on the other side, don’t they? What if that’s where that dinner was? He’d have to use the ferry to return.”
They broke into a trot at the same time, Maylin in front to
lead the way. Maurynna fretted at slowing her pace to her cousin’s shorter legs but had no other choice, despite the voice deep inside urging her to hurry, hurry.
 
He’s breaking free of the spell!
Althume couldn’t believe his eyes. The big Dragonlord should not have been able to move so much as an eyelid, yet Linden Rathan was raising a hand. Just barely, true, but it should have been impossible. “Damn it!” the mage said. There were still many more questions to ask. He thought quickly. “Pol—while I strengthen the spell, get the sword off him. I think we’ll have a use for it.”
While Pol worked the buckle of the greatsword’s baldric free, Althume began the enchantment that would bring Linden Rathan under his control again. He ignored the rain, the thunder booming like war drums overhead, as he wove words and gesture in a magical pattern.
Lightning split the sky overhead. Pol jumped beside him and exclaimed, “My lord! ’Ware!”
Althume looked over at the road. Two cloaked figures were climbing the high bank. One held a blade. The mage swore in frustration; aside from the greatsword, which neither he nor Pol were skilled with, they were unarmed. He made an instant’s decision. “Take the sword and run. We daren’t face them.” He jumped to his feet.
“But the antidote—”
“Linden Rathan will just have to take his chances.” Althume reached down and yanked Pol to his feet. “Run!”
Maurynna could barely breathe now;
the sense of fear, of wrongness, constricted her chest so that to draw a breath was torture. Linden was nearby; she knew it. And something was terribly, terribly wrong.
She broke into a run without thinking. Keeping to the grassy verge on the right side of the road, she avoided the worst of the clinging mud. Maylin yelled something but she ignored it.
From ahead of her and to the left came a muffled exclamation. She jumped down from the bank, running across the road, the mud sucking at her feet, turning every step into a battle. There was a dim light in the field by the road; by its uncertain gleam she could make out two men bending over something in the long grass.
No, not something. Someone.
Linden.
She drew her dirk. One of the men looked up just as a stroke of lightning lit the world. His hood fell back. He had a square, blocky face, with lips drawn back in a snarl of hatred.
Maurynna ran up the far bank of the road to firmer ground, Maylin not far behind. The other man stood up and hauled the square-faced one to his feet as she screamed a cry as harsh as a sea eagle’s. She charged them, teeth bared, yelling a wordless challenge. Battle fury raged in her blood. At first Maurynna thought they would stand firm; half-berserk, she welcomed the fight. But they broke and ran for the trees instead. Moments later she heard the retreating thunder of horses’ hooves.
Her momentum almost carried her past the still form lying
in the wet grass. Then she was on her knees beside Linden, gently raising his head, her dirk cast aside. A ball of coldfire—the light she had seen—glowed weakly a foot or so above the Dragonlord’s still form. His face looked waxen in its sickly light.
She gathered him into her arms. He lay a heavy, limp burden against her. Maurynna went half mad with fear, certain that he was dead. But then, with a gasping effort that nearly pulled him from her embrace, he breathed. She tightened her arms around him; holding him close, she begged, “Linden! Linden, what happened? What did they do to you?”
She thought he tried to speak, but no sound came. Maylin, slipping and sliding in the wet grass, dropped to her knees on the other side of Linden.
“What’s wrong with him? Was he stabbed?” asked Maylin.
“I don’t know. Help me look.”
With Maylin supporting him, Maurynna slid her hand beneath Linden’s tunic. But there were no wounds, nothing to explain his condition. His skin was clammy, but that was no more than to be expected in this weather. Or was it? Maurynna paused with her hand over Linden’s heart. It hammered under her palm, its rhythm ragged and uneven. Was he ill, then? She could smell wine, but surely he wasn’t drunk. Then, ever so faintly, she caught the scent of woods lily.
While she tried to think, she unpinned her cloak and wrapped it around the too-still Dragonlord. She took him back from Maylin to rest against her.
“Rynna, what—?”
Her frustration and fear overwhelmed her. “Maylin, hush! Let me think what to do!” Maurynna sobbed. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Think! Think! Think!
Her mind spun in circles like a child’s top. Then came the memory of Healer Tasha’s sympathetic face. Maurynna’s panic fled before the thought of the ginger-haired Healer.
But what if this were some illness only Dragonlords get? Tasha could do nothing then. But a dragon’s healing fire …
“Mayiin—you’ve got to get the other Dragonlords. They’ll know what to do. I’ll stay here with Linden.”
For a moment she thought her cousin would protest leaving her. But Maylin, bless her, stood and said, “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Here—in case those men come back. It would just trip me.”
The short sword fell next to Maurynna’s leg. The next moment Maylin swirled the cloak from her shoulders and draped it over Linden’s legs.
Before she could insist Maylin keep it, the younger girl disappeared into the darkness. Maurynna prayed the ferry was still running; with all the rain the river must be rising fast.
She pulled Linden closer, trying to warm him with her body, ignoring the rain soaking through her clothes. Cradling Linden’s head on her shoulder and stroking his rain-drenched hair, she murmured encouragement as he struggled for each rasping breath.
“Hold on, Linden—please. Maylin will be back soon and she’ll bring help. Please. Please,” she begged in an agony of fear.
The ball of the coldfire sank closer to the ground. She guessed it would not leave unless Linden dismissed it—or died. Maurynna watched its feeble pulsing with dread, dying a thousand deaths every time the light flickered and threatened to go out. Each time it returned. But how much longer could it last?
 
Maylin ran along the bank of the road, her lips pressed against the pain of the stitch in her side. She could hear the river now, the murmur of voices, the thud of feet on wood. A sudden blaze of lightning showed her the ferrymen making ready to cast off.
Thunder rolled down the river valley, drowning out her cries. She shut her mouth so as not to waste her breath any more and ran harder. The moment the peal ended she screamed, “Wait! Wait!”
But the men didn’t hear. The first stepped into the barge and took his place at one long oar. Maylin bit her lip and
from somewhere found strength for a final burst of speed.
The second man cast the rope into the ferry and pushed off from the landing, jumping into the boat as he did. He looked around at the sound of feet on wood. The first ferryman half rose from his oar.
“What the bloody—?” he yelled as Maylin flung herself from the landing and fell sprawling in the bottom of the boat. The next moment the river caught the ferry and the men had to look to the oars or be swamped.
Maylin pressed her face against the boards and ignored the cursing above—and at—her, concentrating only on getting her breath back.
A kick roused her. She sat up, pushing her sodden brown curls back from her face, her lower lip jutting out in anger.
“Fool cow! Coulda fallen in the river an’ been drownded!” the older of the two men snarled at her as he pulled on his oar. “Ought to charge you double for—”
“I don’t have any money,” she said.
The other man swore. “Gaw, Yattil, bloody little baggage thinks she be getting across for nothin’, then? Ought to throw you in, you thievin’ bitch, tryin’ to cheat honest men!”
Maylin rolled out of the way of a second kick and came up on her knees. Then the temper that was so well hidden by the gentle eyes and round face blazed up. Whenever small, soft-spoken Maylin lost that temper, it startled whoever was its target. These men were no exception. They jumped, almost forgetting to row, when Maylin blasted them.
“How dare you!” she raged. “How
dare
you! Keep your hands off of me, you fools, and listen. Delay me and likely your thick heads will part company with the rest of you, do you hear? This is life or death for Linden Rathan.”
The ferrymen gaped at each other. “What do you mean?” Yattil asked sharply. “The young Dragonlord went over a while back now—”
“That’s right,” said Maylin. “Someone ambushed him. My cousin is with him now. I’m going to get the other Dragonlords to help him.”
Yattil stared at her as he rowed, obviously not believing
and not daring to disbelieve. Then, deciding to err on the side of caution, he asked, “What happened?”
Maylin took a moment to weigh how much she should tell, decided to leave Maurynna’s premonitions out of the tale. She related her story between the peals of thunder. “We—my cousin and I—are friends of the Yerrin bard Otter Heronson, who is Linden Rathan’s friend. Otter’s staying with my family, the Vanadins. We’re merchants.”
The men nodded and looked relieved; they’d obviously heard of either Otter or her family. She was glad they didn’t ask why Otter was staying with them rather than the Dragonlord. She hadn’t figured out why either.
Before they could have time to think of objections, Maylin continued, “Linden Rathan was supposed to meet … When he didn’t come, we went looking for him. Rynna and I found him not far from the ferry. Two men were bending over him. Rynna scared them off.” Maylin paused, shuddering, remembering the rage in Maurynna’s voice as her cousin had charged.
She scared me as well! I thought only dragons could be that fierce.
“Now I need to get the other Dragonlords. Linden Rathan is badly hurt or ill. They can help him.”
The men looked at each other. Then Yattil nodded and they bent harder to the oars. Maylin doubted the old ferry had ever moved so quickly.
She crawled past the men to the prow and hunched there, cold, miserable, and scared, willing the far bank to come into sight. The rain stung her through the thin fabric of her tunic.
Gods help us, she thought. Let him still be alive.
Then, from deep inside,
How in blazes did Rynna know something was wrong?
She curled up tighter against the boat, weighing all the evidence and possibilities in her “orderly merchant’s mind” as her mother had often teased her. For this would require a great deal of thinking—mostly to get around the fantastic idea lurking at the back of her thoughts.
 
 
As the storm moved closer, Maurynna prayed as she never had before in her life, not even as she had prayed by her mother’s deathbed. She had been only a child then, too young to understand what death truly meant. Now she did. And the thought of losing Linden terrified her.
She pressed her cheek against his forehead. His breathing seemed a little easier now and he felt warmer. She dared to let herself hope.
He stirred in her arms. She tilted his head so that she could see his face. His eyes opened like a reluctant waker’s: slitting open, shutting again, then the eyelids struggling to open fully. He stared at her with terror-filled eyes.
“Linden?” she whispered. “It’s Maurynna.”
Her heart nearly broke at the look in his eyes. Then recognition dawned in them. He whispered something she didn’t catch.
“What? What did you say?” Maurynna said. “Linden, who did this to you?”
He spoke again. She bent her head to catch his words, but all she heard was “Questions. Ask … questions.” Then he snuggled into her shoulder. The trust in the gesture made her forget how cold and miserable she was.
The next moment a spasm nearly wrenched him from her embrace and his breathing turned harsh and uneven once more. To Maurynna’s relief, the fit subsided as abruptly as it began.
She rearranged the cloaks that he had dislodged, worried at how quickly he’d grown cold again. Once more she braced him against her shoulder and wondered if Maylin was across the river yet.
And still the walk to where the Dragonlords are staying. I hope she doesn’t get lost.
The thought of delay frightened Maurynna so much she scolded herself for borrowing trouble. Maylin wouldn’t fail her; all she had to do was be patient. The rumbling thunder mocked her as the lightning danced gaily across the sky.
By the third convulsive fit Maurynna had learned the signs preceding them: a short gasp for breath followed by a quivering
rigidity in the muscles. Then the bone-wrenching shaking and desperate gasping for air.
Her arms turned heavy and leaden with the strain of supporting Linden’s weight. And the fits were coming closer and closer together. Once more Maurynna slid a hand under Linden’s tunic. She was no Healer, but the arrhythmic beating of his heart frightened her, now hammering like someone with a high fever, now skipping beats.
And Maylin still had to find the Dragonlords’ estate.
Gods—please help us!
 
The boat pitched and rolled in the water. The silence of the ferrymen had a grim edge to it now. Maylin looked back as they struggled to keep the boat from shipping too much water. It strained against the thick rope it ran along as if fighting to be free, to seek the ocean not far away.
Stupid thing,
Maylin thought to the boat as once more she strained her eyes searching the darkness ahead.
You’d not last the length of a sea chantey before turning turtle. Be happy with your river.
It seemed they were barely moving at all now. Maylin cursed steadily under her breath and gripped the rail as if that would hurry the boat on.
A huge bolt of lightning tore the night apart. Maylin squeaked in surprise. But the sudden flare had shown her the landing not far ahead—and a rider waiting upon the landing.
She pressed her lips together. Whoever the servant was—he had to be a servant; no lord would forsake the comfort of his hearth this night—he could forget his original plans. She had more important things for him to do. She just hoped he wouldn’t waste too much time arguing.
The landing was only a few feet away now. She rose to a crouch. The moment the prow thudded against the sloped landing she leaped from the boat.

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