Madfall

  She stalked closer, an odd thing to do for one of her kind. “I’m Einin of Downwood.”

  Most maidens fainted right off at the sight of the dragon. The ones with sturdier constitutions shrieked a little first before folding. The truly extraordinary even got in a yard or two of running.

  Instead, Einin stood tall as the poplar saplings by the river. She stared Draknart down—or tried. Gave it a good effort, in any case.

  He shifted to gain a better look, stretching his aching limbs once again. The tip of his great wings dragged on the ground, the scraping sound loud in the cave. She did jump back at that, but only just.

  Limber.

  Then again, she ought to be on those long legs.

  Draknart especially admired her long, lean thighs. “Has the flood washed away your clothes?”

  Her cheeks pinked, but she wouldn’t be distracted enough to put down the sword. “I wear my brother’s clothes. A long skirt with petticoats would get snagged in a fight.”

  Practical.

  She seemed to have more common sense than all the previous virgins put together, and more courage than most of the hired knights.

  Draknart’s stomach rumbled, the sound filling the cave. He measured up the wee maiden.

  Wee indeed.

  Yet she’d be something to hold him over until he flew out and found a deer herd large enough to suit his appetite. Aye, she’d take the edge off his hunger just fine. In but a moment. He enjoyed her fire-spark eyes too much to rush.

  A long time had passed since he’d been able to converse with anyone. The virgins fainted in short order. The knights charged and died.

  “How might you be doing it, then?” he inquired.

  Her sword came up, the metal glinting in the cave’s dim light. “Straight through the heart.”

  He couldn’t find fault with the plan. He waited.

  She did not step forward. Instead, her gaze moved over him in a full inspection.

  Smart lass. “You know where the heart is on a dragon?”

  She blinked at him.

  Draknart pointed at the middle of his chest, halfway between the joints where his great wings began.

  “Thank you.” Einin of Downwood sidled toward him. She was nothing if not polite.

  “You had training with the sword?”

  “I had nine brothers. All killed in the war.” A soft vulnerability crept into her voice. She shook that off quickly enough as she stole another step forward. She now stood close enough to strike.

  Draknart shifted into a half-hearted defensive position. He’d done this time and time again with the knights. She would charge, and then he would capture and disarm her.

  Instead, the wee lass darted to his side, vaulted onto his knee, then onto his back, ran along his spine as sure-footed as a mountain goat, and went for his eye.

  Draknart shook her off with a surprised roar. Yet when she slammed against the rock wall with a most unpleasant thud, he regretted his haste. By the gods, he hadn’t meant to break her so fast. Also, as long as he was breaking bones, he preferred to do it between his teeth. They gave that jolly crack.

  To his relief and to her credit, Einin bounced back, holding the sword in front of her, if lower than before, and with a tremble in her arms. Her gaze was only half-focused. The blow had stunned her. But she shook off the tumble, steadied her arms, and, after a moment, she stalked forward again.

  Tumble or no, she didn’t lose her courage. Her fine eyes did hold a shadow of discouragement, however. Draknart instantly missed their earlier spark.

  “’Twas a good effort. Didn’t see it coming,” he consoled her. “You’ll do better on the next try.”

  He flicked his tail in anticipation. He was willing to stifle his hunger for the sake of a little sport. True entertainment rarely came into his life, and he found the maiden refreshingly unpredictable so far.

  On her second attempt, the lass charged for his heart and managed to prick him hard enough to draw blood before he grabbed her, pulled the sword away, then held the wriggling maiden up for closer inspection.

  Her round breasts bounced as she struggled, caring naught that he might drop her on the stones.

  Bold and brave and wild.

  His dragon blood stirred.

  He nudged her with his snout. The previous virgins had been scented with lavender water, which always made him sneeze.

  “You smell like axle grease.” A fine pleasant smell, reminding him of a wagonful of fattened geese he’d taken in the fall.

  The noisy batch of fowl had been on their way to market. Draknart had eaten them for an appetizer, the two horses for the main meal, and the man on the seat for dessert. The peasant had that faint smell of axle grease about him. Didn’t affect the flavor none.

  Draknart licked his chops and sniffed Einin again.

  “Let me go, you great lecherous beast.” The wisp of a woman used her bare fists to smack him between the eyes, right on the ridge of his nose, which happened to be a sensitive spot on a dragon.

  No call for a punch like that, none at all.

  He set her in the nearest corner and breathed a small cloud of smoke as warning.

  She stumbled back, over pieces of old, rusty armor, and grabbed a breastplate his talons had fairly ruined. She held it up as a shield, and for a moment, her gaze snapped to the piece of shredded metal. She stilled then, a lump going down her slender throat. Her amber eyes widened. “Is this what happened to all the knights?”

  “I ate them. Aye.” Not his favorite meal for certain. He always forgot some piece of armor, or a hidden dagger strapped to the thigh, and then he’d have indigestion for a sennight.

  Einin flashed a fierce scowl. “You conscienceless bastard.”

  “They did come to kill me.” Not that Draknart had to explain himself to breakfast.

  “And the virgins?” she challenged, chin up, before scanning once again the pile of garbage that littered the corner of the cave, mixed with dirt and decomposing leaves. And when she swiftly found an old broadsword, she didn’t bother to hide the flash of triumph in her eyes.

  “I swived them, then ate them,” he told her. The memories were sweet.

  Einin paled, but her chin stayed up, her newfound blade in the air, even if her slender arms struggled with the weight. “They could have done you no harm.”

  “I couldn’t send them back to the village after I swived them. They were ruined for mortal men. I did them a mercy.” He was good that way. Never did cause unnecessary suffering, unless to a well-deserving enemy. Otherwise, his kills were clean and instant. He didn’t pull off limbs one at a time and consider the flailing of his victims entertainment, as some of his kind did.

  Yet instead of approval, a flash of red came onto Einin’s soft cheeks, and she did scream then, for the first time, just before she charged. Not a scream of fear, like Draknart was used to from maidens, but a battle cry.

  He feinted to the left, then rolled his great dragon body to the right. Blood rushed through his veins at a speed it hadn’t in a long time. Only when Einin nicked the tip of his snout did he knock the sword from her hand with a talon. Not that being disarmed held her back. She bit the tip of his wing. Which happened to be another sensitive spot.

  Shite.

  He rolled onto his back, planning to use the momentum to roll over her, but she was fast and on his belly the next moment, climbing up and up.

  Aah. Och now. That felt nice.

  He stilled. He very nearly sighed.

  She skidded to the spot where he’d pointed out his heart earlier and dropped to one knee as if readying to slay him. She didn’t seem to realize that she was unarmed.

  Except, of course, she wasn’t. From out of nowhere, the wee lass produced a kitchen knife and plunged the little weapon hard between the dragon’s scales. Only luck saved him, for the blade was too short, the vixen unable to do him real harm.

  Draknart wrapped her in his leathery black wings and brought her close to his snout once again,
baring his curved fangs.

  The sparks were back in her fine amber eyes, defiance blazing from their depths. Her shapely breasts heaved. Her fiery hair had escaped her braid during the fight and now floated around her slim face in a cloud of red silk.

  Draknart righted himself without letting her go and regarded her as he gave matters some thought. “You do realize, Einin, that even if you could kill me, floods would still happen, war would still come?”

  She held his gaze without flinching. “The village is cursed because of the great devil that lives in the hills.”

  Draknart had heard that sentiment, or versions of it, enough times. “Says the village priest?”

  Yet no village priest had ever been brave enough to come and confront the great devil himself. Draknart had his opinion of the lot. “Rain brings floods. Greed brings wars.”

  The look of certainty on her face faltered. Her expressive eyes betrayed that she had considered the matter on her own before. Of course she had. She was a smart wee lass.

  Draknart set her down. “You don’t believe the curse.”

  She shrugged narrow shoulders. “What I believe matters not when the whole village listens to the traveling priest.”

  The dragon raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the old village priest?”

  “Died of cholera.”

  He grinned. “Full of shit, died of the shits. Seems fitting.”

  Einin glared. Then she gave a soft sigh. “The village has lost too much, and the people’s will is broken. Darkness is strangling their hearts. They need hope. The traveling priest is right about that.”

  “So because men are weak willed, I should die?”

  She looked away. Her slim shoulders sagged.

  He disliked seeing her bright spirit flagging. He watched her for a moment, then another and another, puzzled that one of her kind could captivate him so much. His wily dragon mind twisted and turned.

  He nudged her with his snout. “What if I was wounded?”

  Her gaze snapped to his, hope blooming in her amber eyes. She was just as arresting with her face softened as she’d been with her look of fierce concentration when she charged into battle.

  Draknart handed her knife back, his blood on the blade, then rummaged through the dry leaves that covered the ground, tossed aside a couple of old bones until he found the talon he’d torn out when he’d enlarged the cave a century ago.

  “You tell them you fought the dragon and injured him. Let them celebrate.”

  Happy people worked harder. They took risks and tried new ways, which more often than not led to success. In no time, the village would thrive again, and they would leave him alone for another couple of decades. Although, if the old gods saw fit to favor him, Draknart’s firm preference was for the next plague to take the whole village.

  As Einin of Downwood reached for the talon he held out for her, her slim fingers brushed against the tip of Draknart’s extended wing, sending warmth skittering over his leathery skin.

  Einin’s voice wavered with disbelief as she asked, “You would allow me to leave?”

  As a raven called outside, Draknart stilled.

  He was dreaded. He was the ancient dragon, the great devil in the hills. He consumed his enemies. He did not return a sacrifice.

  For certain, he did not wish to let her go. He shouldn’t. Sooner or later, she would tell someone the truth, then they would think he’d grown old and feeble. Or worse, soft and fond of people.

  Next he knew, they’d be asking him to help with bringing in the harvest and raising barns. They’d be up at the cave with one request or another, not leaving him a moment of peace. The thought of all the caterwauling was enough to make him shudder.

  And yet…

  He looked her hard in the eyes. “In exchange for the talon, you must swear to return to me, of your own will, in a fortnight. Are you, Einin of Downwood, willing to pay the dragon’s price?”

  Chapter Two

  Half a dozen women surrounded the stone lip of the village well, chattering as they took turns drawing water. A raven circled high above them.

  “You seen the weddin’ cakes?” Esbeth, the miller’s daughter asked the other two new wives next to her, heads bent together. “A full dozen. ’Nough to feed the whole village.”

  “You seen the dowry?” Dorin replied. “Two goose-down pillows, a wool blanket, a cast iron pot, and a skillet, six tin plates. Six!” She rolled her eyes. “And who are they expectin’ to dinner? The queen?”

  Einin stood next to them, but they didn’t include her in the conversation. If they looked at her at all, it was to shoot her wary glances. Having returned from the dragon a fortnight before—with a talon!—set her apart.

  Virgins went to the dragon to die as sacrifice. They did not return, not one, not ever before. Einin stuck out of order, like a protruding nail from a sitting bench. People’s gazes and thoughts snagged on her every time she passed by. ’Twas as if the dragon had tainted her somehow.

  As the matron in front of her finished with the well, picked up her buckets, and hurried away, Einin stepped up to the stone lip. She did not intend to go back to the great beast. In time, people would forget about her unusual adventure, and everything would go back to normal.

  The dragon had likely already forgotten her. Einin was but a no-account village maiden, small prey. The beast would have fed by now and gone back to sleep.

  His kind could sleep a decade at a time, the old folks said. Who knew, by the time he awakened again and remembered her, if he remembered, Einin could be married and long gone to another village. He’d never find her.

  Or would he? Would he come in wrath and destroy Downwood and everyone in it? That was the thought that kept Einin up at night. Her heart clenched. She had given her word.

  She bit her lip as she drew water, feeling as wretched as when she’d first volunteered to be the sacrifice. She’d gone to the cave that once, had worked up the nerve. She didn’t think she could do it again. She’d changed her mind at least twice a day in the past two weeks.

  She drew another bucket of water, then stepped back.

  Agna, who had been a friend to Einin’s mother moved up to the well’s lip next. She was swollen with her twelfth child, a woman considered lucky in the village as all but five of her children were living. As Agna reached for the well’s bucket, the sleeve of her worn brown dress rode up, revealing the imprint of her husband’s fingers. As she leaned forward a little more, she flinched, as if she had other, hidden injuries.

  Einin leaped to help. “Let me.”

  With a grateful smile and a tired nod, Agna shuffled aside, just as her youngest daughter ran up to her with a bruised knee, crying.

  Agna soothed her daughter, but she was pushing the child away at the same time. “Best you go back to your chores before you make your father angry. Go on. Run!”

  The child ran off, hiccupping. Agna caught Einin’s gaze on her and smiled. “You’ll have your own wee ones soon, you’ll see. A strong husband to guide you, a man for you to serve, in the natural order. My Wilm will make a good husband, he will. You just accept him and see.”

  Einin looked at the woman’s blue wrists where her sleeves rode up again.

  Agna covered them up with a shrug. “I deserved it, I did. Too slow with milking the cow, and late with dinner. I’m lucky to have a husband to give me God’s correction. You will soon see how it is.”

  Einin filled Agna’s buckets, then, with a quick farewell to the women, she hurried home. The bread dough had probably risen by now on the sideboard.

  The scent of baking meat pies wafted from a nearby hut, the clanging of metal sounding from the smithy. A small flock of children chased after a honking goose that was trying to escape its fate as the main course at the cooper’s daughter’s wedding on the morn.

  The crooked streets between the small village’s huts and cottages were busy, people going about their business, rushing their work. Spring had come, but darkness still fell early. Ever
yone was intent on the chores they needed to finish before nightfall, Einin as much as the others. She had already cleaned her hut, laid in wood for the fire, had laundered what few clothes she had, but she still had bread baking left.

  She was halfway home, her shoulders straining under the weight of her two full wooden buckets, when the priest stepped into her path.

  A raven high above called “Caw!” as if in warning, but too late.

  “Beg yer pardon.” Einin ducked her head, dropping her gaze to the priest’s dusty brown habit rather than looking at the harsh planes of his face. She didn’t dare to meet his eyes that filled with disapproval every time he looked at Einin. And he looked a lot. Every time Einin turned around, she found his gaze on her.

  He was bald and gap-toothed, with small, mean eyes. She tried to step around him, giving him a wide berth, sloshing some of the well water on her leg. She jumped a little. Ack, ’twas cold. Yet not half as cold as the priest’s tone.

  “Einin.” The way he said her name cut like a whip.

  She froze. Then, when he said no more and it became apparent that he was in no hurry, she set her heavy buckets by her feet. She was in for it now.

  “I hear you chopped wood this morn.” Each word dripped with disapproval. “Wearing man’s clothes. Doing man’s work.”

  The three women coming out of the cobbler’s cottage behind him stopped on the steps and ceased their chatter, probably as much out of respect for the priest as the better to hear.

  Einin winced. Fool! She should have put on one of her mother’s old dresses to go to the well, even if they were all too loose on her. She’d adjusted them time and time again and never got them right. She was no good with the needle. Her youngest brother’s clothes fit her well and were more comfortable for work. The temptation to slip into them had been too great.

  The priest’s eyes flashed with judgment. “Did I see you the day before last, on the roof, repairing the thatching?”

  “No man left in the family, Father.” That last word tasted bitter on Einin’s tongue. She had loved her own father and grieved him still, could never understand why she must call the traveling priest by the same title.