Authors: Joanne Bertin

The Last Dragonlord (49 page)

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord

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Linden heard a scream as
he guided Shan through the woods. He urged the tired stallion onward. “This way!”

They plunged headlong through the woods, balls of coldfire lighting their way through the thick underbrush. As he rode Linden drew together his last reserves of strength and prayed he’d be in time.

They burst into the clearing. Shan took the hill at a heavy gallop. But even the Llysanyin would not approach the altar. Shan came to a bucking stop as his front hooves touched the barren soil at the crown of the hill. Linden jumped down. Shan whirled and retreated.

The Dragonlord stopped in horror at the scene before him. Peridaen lay dead upon the altar; Sherrine crouched in pain on the ground nearby, bathed in the cold light from something that a chanting Althume held in his upraised hand. There was no sign of Rann.
Let that,
Linden thought,
be a good omen.

Then Linden understood what Althume held and what had happened to Tarlna, and why the whores of Casna had died. But for what end?

“You’re too late, Dragonlord,” Althume said, laughing. “She’s mine.” The jewel pulsed; Sherrine cried out. “You can do nothing to save your soultwin.”

For a moment Linden gaped in astonishment. In that instant a heavy weight fell on him from behind.

Danger!

Maurynna snapped out of her dream of singing stones with a scream. She scrambled upright, clinging to the pillar for support, and looked wildly around.

Nothing. There was no danger here. Just the night, the stars,
the standing stones glowing in the light of the full moon.

Glowing? She rubbed her eyes. Even in this bright moonlight, the stones shouldn’t be glowing. Yet glow they did, soft silver and gold, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then she realized that she saw past the granite exterior to
inside
the stones, to the magic that was their heart. The feeling of peace was gone; the song the stone circle sang to her now throbbed in her bones, a war chant to raise an army from the depths of the earth itself. The golden voice in her head trumpeted a paean of wild victory.

I don’t care what Otter said—I am going mad!

Maurynna ran. She didn’t know where she ran to, nor did she care. She had to get away—from the stone circle that suddenly closed in on her, from its mysteries, from herself.

It was only after her panic-given strength had faded that Maurynna realized that she was being called. She stopped, panting, feet planted wide to keep from collapsing, and looked back over her shoulder. She could still see the standing stones; their glow was fainter now but still visible. In the distance before her she could make out a darker line on the horizon: trees. It was the forest—or something within it—that called her. The summons was honey-sweet, seductive—and set her skin crawling. It wanted nothing less than her soul. She fought it.

And realized that she was losing when, unbidden, her feet stumbled of their own accord toward the dark woods. “No! Help me!” she begged the standing stones.

Their light flared brighter, but with it came another surge of power from the forest. The two powers fought over her, tugging her to and fro like a bit of sea wrack upon the waves. The forest was winning; Maurynna felt its dark fingers clawing into her soul. In desperation she turned to the voice within her, the voice that terrified her more than anything else.
Come,
she said to it.
Come to me.

And instantly regretted it. She might have been able to fight whatever was in the woods. But now she was dissolving in pain, unable to scream, to fight back, to do
anything,
while the voice inside her roared in triumph.

Rann fled through the woods, running as fast as he could. Behind him the
dragauth
crashed through the underbrush. Rann found he had an advantage; he could slip between or under bushes and branches that the
dragauth
had to fight a way past. Frightened as he was, Rann remembered his mother telling him,
Never give up.

He found a thicket of brambles and dropped to his stomach, squirming along the ground. He had no idea where he was going; he’d think about that later when he’d gotten away.

If he got away.

A little later he was out the other side. He risked stopping to listen. From the sound it appeared the
dragauth
was having trouble wading through the thorny tangle. Good; every moment helped. He dove into another patch of bushes.

He was clambering down a bank when something grabbed his belt. Rann yelped and bit the hand that instantly clamped over his mouth.

“Stop that!” a voice ordered as he was drawn into a hollow in the bank.

He struggled, then recognition filtered through his terror-fogged brain. “Maylin?” He clutched her. “There’s a
dragauth
hunting me,” he whispered. “We have to run!” He struggled to rise.

Maylin stopped him. “The woods end not far from here. We’d have no chance in the open.” She drew the sword at her waist.

They held hands as the slow trampling of bushes drew closer. Rann prayed as he’d never prayed before.

A shrill whistle pierced the night. Silence; then to Rann’s almost hysterical relief the crashing footsteps receded. When they had faded away, he tugged Maylin’s sleeve. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, “and tell Linden what’s happening. He’ll make it better.”

“He already knows. But let’s get you back to Casna, Your Highness. My horse is tied at the edge of the woods.”

When they found it a few minutes later, Rann protested at
being lifted into the saddle. “But what about you? You can’t walk all that way.”

“I’ll do what I must, my lord.” She patted the horse’s neck.

They had barely left the shelter of the trees when something winged past overhead, blotting out the moon and the stars for an instant.

Rann stared after it. “That was a dragon, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Maylin said. “But which one?”

Linden rolled, striking out, but his illness had taken a heavy toll; he was too slow. His attacker jumped out of the way. Then a boot crashed into his head and Linden went sprawling.

Althume blew upon a whistle.

But Linden was ready the second time. When his attacker tried the same trick, he caught the man’s foot and heaved, sending the man flying. Linden staggered to his feet, blood running down his face. He drew Tsan Rhilin.

The man was up and charging.
Harn? No, but kin.
Linden brought the greatsword up, then hesitated. His attacker was unarmed. Cursing, Linden waited until the man was almost upon him, then sprang aside, reversing the greatsword. He brought the pommel down on the back of the man’s head. The man dropped like a downed ox.

Then Linden was free to deal with Althume. He approached the mage cautiously, Tsan Rhilin held out before him.

“Put your cold iron away, Dragonlord,” said the mage. “You know that its presence can send a working awry—and that would be a very dangerous thing. Do you truly want to destroy all of us?”

Linden clenched his jaw. Damn the mage; he was right. Linden stabbed Tsan Rhilin into the earth and stepped away from it.

“A pity you had to be here for this, Dragonlord. For I’ll have to kill you so that I can keep control of your soultwin once I’ve forced her into First Change.”

So that was the game. Linden said, “You’re wrong. Sherrine’s not my soultwin.”

The mage’s thin nostrils flared. “I don’t believe you.” He resumed his attack upon Sherrine.

Gods help him; he didn’t dare attack the mage outright. There was only one thing Linden could do to save Sherrine—and it might mean his death. He reached out with the magic within himself and drew away the magical energy that Althume poured into Sherrine from the soultrap jewel.

It burned through him. What he’d gone through before was nothing compared to this. Still he kept on. It was Sherrine’s only hope.

But the dark magic within the jewel frayed the joining of his souls. “Althume—stop! Sherrine is not the fledgling!”

“It won’t work, you know. You’ll just save me the trouble of killing you later.”

Linden believed him. The pain was incredible; it forced him to his knees. But he continued deflecting the searing energy away from Sherrine, taking it into himself.

“The sailor,” Sherrine rasped. “It’s the sailor, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Linden whispered. “Sherrine—run; I won’t last much longer.”

She got slowly to her feet. Her eyes met his. “Good-bye, Linden,” she said—and flung herself upon Althume.

Her clawing fingers closed upon the soultrap jewel. It flared; the mage threw himself away from it. For a moment Sherrine held the jewel before her. Then it exploded and Sherrine burned in a magical fire, screaming as it consumed her, melting flesh from bone. Moments later there was only a soft scattering of ash that fell gently to the earth.

“Oh gods, no,” Linden said, unable to believe what he had seen. Tears slid down his face. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t support him.

The mage had no such difficulty. “Damn you,” he said as he stood up, his eyes and voice filled with hate. He beckoned to something behind Linden. “Now you die.”

Linden smelled the stench of rotting meat. At once the centuries fell away as the old terror swallowed him. “Satha?” He slewed around as best he could on his knees.

It was not the undead Harper. He wished it was. Instead,
nightmare incarnate stalked him. And he was too far away from Tsan Rhilin to reach it before the thing was upon him—even if he had had the strength to wield the greatsword.

He hoped Maurynna would survive his death.

Sixty-eight

The
dragauth
snarled It stretched
itself to its full height, towering high over him. Somehow Linden got to his feet and backed away. Step by step the
dragauth
closed the distance between them.

“Kill him,” the mage said.

The
dragauth
roared and charged. Linden turned and tried to run; his legs gave out. He fell just short of the beginning of the slope.

A shriek of rage tore the sky above him. Linden rolled onto his side and looked up.

A dragon, almost as large as the one he himself Changed into, hovered over the clearing, its wings beating furiously to hold it in place. It screamed again, its fury-filled gaze locked on the
dragauth.
The mouth opened; long fangs gleamed in the moonlight. Linden heard the telltale rumbling and threw himself to tumble down the slope away from the one form of fire that could harm him.

Scarlet flames poured forth, spread across the earth. The
dragauth
burned with a sickening stench of cooked meat. The dragon landed on the scorched crown of the hill. One foot touched the altar; the dragon screamed again, this time in pain. It whirled and struck the altar a tremendous blow, sending the top stone flying. The stone shattered when it slammed into the earth dozens of feet away.

But the touch of the altar sent the unknown dragon into a frenzy. Linden crawled up the slope once more as the dragon spun again. He saw Althume, badly burned, attempt to flee. The dragon’s front foot slashed through the air and pinned the mage to the ground.

Scales glittered blue and green in the moonlight, iridescent
as a dragonfly, something Linden had never heard of before. It was no dragon he’d ever seen.

Blue and
—“Dear gods—it can’t be! Maurynna!” he cried. “No—don’t!”

The dragon’s head whipped around.
^*I am Kyrissaean,
* she proclaimed.
*This one is evil; he has killed many times. I feel it in him.*

“You are also Maurynna and my soultwin,” Linden said.

The dragon—
I must think of her as Maurynna,
Linden told himself—hesitated at his words. Her head tilted in a way that made him think of Maurynna. He thought she would let the mage go. But then Althume sealed his own fate.

Linden saw the mage’s hand go up; something glittered in his clenched fist. Before he could shout a warning, the hand came down and the sacrificial blade bit deep into the tender skin between Maurynna’s toes.

Maurynna disappeared beneath Kyrissaean’s wrath. The forefoot clenched; claws pierced the mage’s chest like a handful of swords. Kyrissaean flung the torn and bloodied corpse away and leaped into the sky, bellowing her rage and pain.

“Maurynna, come back—you don’t understand the danger!” Linden yelled after her but in vain. The dragon was winging out of sight. He tried to reach her mind, but she had shut it against him. He had only one hope if he couldn’t reach Maurynna in time.
Kief!

The frantic mindcall rocked Kief back onto his haunches. The fear in it sent his head snapping up in an instinctive search for danger. He looked down at his soultwin.

She nodded.
You know what to do.

Tsan Rhilin in hand, Linden slipped and slid down the slope. He had to get to a larger open space. “Shan! Shan!”

The big stallion slunk out of the trees, looking everywhere at once. Linden shoved the greatsword into its sheath and somehow forced his exhausted body into the saddle. “She’s gone, you coward. Did you think that she was going to eat you?” he said as they headed into the woods.

Shan nodded and broke into a run, dodging around the trees. Linden cast his pride to the winds and grabbed the high pommel of the saddle, content with staying on Shan’s back any way he could.

After far too long for Linden’s peace of mind they reached the grassland. In the distance he could see two people and a horse. One person led the horse; the other perched on the saddle. He didn’t care who they were as long as they didn’t interfere.

He brought Shan to a sliding halt and tumbled from the saddle. “Get back,” he ordered. When the stallion had moved to a safe distance, Linden initiated Change—and prayed.

Thank the gods, it was beginning. Linden felt his body begin to flow, then—nothing. He was as solid as ever.
This can’t be happening; I must reach Maurynna before it’s too late.
As if the gods teased him, Maurynna winged back into sight, circling as though she was drawn to his vicinity. But she didn’t land.

To Change when he was so exhausted was dangerous; this was his magic’s way of telling him to stop. He’d just have to take his chances. He tried again.

This time when it ended he found himself flat on his back, shaking. A face appeared in his circle of vision.

“It is you,” Maylin said.

Rann also appeared. “Linden—what’s wrong?”

Linden blinked, unable to believe his eyes at first. How on earth did—? It didn’t matter. He had to get up, get to Maurynna. She wasn’t strong enough to fly for so long. She had to land soon—or die. He struggled to sit up.

As if in response to his agitation, Kyrissaean trumpeted in alarm. To Linden’s astonishment it was answered from even higher in the sky. Another, smaller, dragon arrowed out of the sky, diving for Kyrissaean. She screamed in anger and lashed out at the intruder. But the second dragon would not be turned away; from Linden’s viewpoint it looked as if the smaller dragon landed on her back and was forcing her to spiral lower and lower.

Kief’s mindvoice thundered in his head.
You will retreat, Kyrissaean, and await your proper time.

Kyrissaean snarled, but there was an edge of exhaustion in it now. She was too tired to fight back.

“Dear gods,” Linden whispered. “Let her land before it’s too late.” He could see where Kief was herding her. Maylin and Rann helped him to stand. Shan came forward; he hung on the stallion’s saddle and as quickly as Linden could move, the four of them hurried to the site.

He nearly panicked when he lost sight of Kyrissaean and Kief, then realized they were in a hollow. When at last he stood upon the lip of the shallow depression, he forgot how tired he was.

Maurynna—Maurynna, not Kyrissaean—knelt in the bottom of the bowl-shaped hollow. Kief, still in dragon-form, lay curled in a half-circle around her. Linden ran down the gentle slope.

Maurynna looked up at him, one hand pushing the long black hair back from her face in a gesture he knew well. He caught her to him, holding her tightly, afraid to let her go. “Welcome, little one. It is so good to have you here at last.”

Maurynna said, “Is it true, Linden?”

He touched her face, smiling. “It is indeed, little one. It is indeed.”

She buried her face against his shoulder, laughing and crying at the same time.

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord

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