King's Dragon
There! Breaking around the knoll from the east came six riders in mail and heavy iron helmets trimmed with brass, their bright gold tabards marked with a menacing black dragon, black cloaks thrown back over their shoulders. The two Eika harassing Manfred scuttled back and retreated toward their comrades. From the knoll came a shrill, loud whistle. Liath winced and almost dropped her bow. One of the dogs broke away toward the hill. The other hesitated, then rushed the horsemen, who cut it down almost casually.
The Dragons cantered up and pulled in beside Wolfhere, who had ridden ahead to meet them. Liath came up behind him, Hathui and Hanna behind her, Manfred still away in the field, watchful.
“Eagles!” cried the lead rider. He did not remove his helmet; Liath could just make out blue eyes, blond beard, and a grim expression behind the nasal and cheek guards of the helmet. “That whistle will be a signal for reinforcements. We’ll escort you into the city.”
“There’s a deacon,” said Wolfhere, gesturing west. “She carries a holy relic and only left her church after all her people were safely gone. She and the relic must be protected.”
The Dragon nodded stiffly. “We will escort her west as far as we are able.” “What of Gent?” asked Wolfhere.
“Fifty-two of the Eika ships we have counted already, and more have come since we arrived here. They want Gent’s bridges thrown down so they may raid inland at their whim, along the Veser. This, the mayor of Gent refuses.”
“Will there be a siege?”
“There already is. Their earthworks line half the eastern shore.”
Wolfhere turned. “Hathui, take Hanna and ride with these Dragons. You will follow the good deacon as far as Steleshame and leave her there. Then you will ride south, to deliver this grievous news to King Henry.”
Blood wept from the wound on Hathui’s leg. Her lips were set thin against the pain, and her reply was curt. “Yes.”
That fast, she turned away, and Hanna, with a desperate glance toward Liath, turned after her. Across the field, in the shadow of the knoll, the Eika waited, standing like stone statues and staring toward their foes.
The Dragon lifted up his helmet and set a wood whistle, caught on a silver chain around his neck, to his lips. He blew, hard. Liath heard nothing. The Eika dogs barked wildly and were kicked into silence. The Dragon blew once more, though no sound issued, then tucked the whistle back under his mail and pulled his helmet down to cover his face.
“Ride for Gent,” he said to Wolfhere. “Ride hard. There will be more Eika, many more, and soon. And never forget: Their dogs are worse than they are.” He reined his horse past Wolfhere and Liath, and with his five comrades behind him headed west, following after Hathui and Hanna. More than half of the waiting Eika broke left, setting off at a comfortable lope, as if they meant to trail the two Eagles and their Dragon escort all the way to the Abyss. Hanna shifted one last time in her saddle, lifting a hand, dropping it when she saw the Eika who pursued them.
Wolfhere spoke gruffly. “Ride! Come, Manfred!”
Liath followed. She could not even risk looking back.
Her stomach had clenched into a knot and it felt as heavy as her heart. Not even a chance to say farewell! She blinked back tears.
“No sign,” said Manfred, who searched the fields and copses and straggle of burned and ruined outbuildings that separated them from the first distant bridge, the river’s edge with its low line of trees, and beyond it the walls of Gent.
They urged their horses into a canter. A hundred questions raced through Liath’s mind: Did the Eika have no weapons except spears? No armor? Was their skin their armor? If they were not human, and not of elvish kind, then what were they? And of what breed were their dogs, who looked more like four-legged devils than like dogs? Why did the Eika not pursue them? Ai, Lady, would they catch up with Hanna and the others? Would Hanna win free?
The rain started again. Her horse began to have trouble in the wet ground, and they had to slow down. They cut back toward the road, hoping to find better footing. Her back stayed dry, under the cloak, but already she felt trickles of cold rain dribbling down her neck and chest. Was Hanna also hampered by the rain? Would the Eika catch up to them? Or were the savages as reluctant to engage with the Dragons as they had appeared to be, back by the knoll?
Wolfhere cursed under his breath.
She looked, followed his gaze, and gasped aloud. Striding down from the north, the heavy gray clouds lowering behind them, came at least one hundred Eika, hair gleaming that strange, sickly white. They were armed with spears and axes and with round shields painted with fearsome red serpents coiled together over yellow or black or striped backgrounds. Their dogs massed, a restless, low hedge, before them.
Her horse needed no urging. It found the road, a firmer surface than the fields, and began to gallop toward the bridge. She looked back to see Manfred and Wolfhere just coming up onto the packed earth and rock of the road. Manfred lifted his spear upright and twisted it to unfurl the banner of the Eagles: an eagle with wings outspread carrying an arrow in its beak and a scroll in one talon. But the Eika were closer to the river. Already they ran at a steady lope that ate up the ground between them and their intended victims. Even Liath could see that the Eika would reach the bridge before the three Eagles could get there. She reined in her horse, wheeling around, but behind, back by the now distant knoll, another group of Eika had gathered, more than there had been before. Manfred passed her and kept riding, seeming oblivious to their inevitable fate.
Wolfhere came up beside her and slapped her horse on the rump. She started forward again, following him. To what purpose? At least, she thought bitterly, if Hanna survives she will be invested fully into the Eagles, a right earned by my death.
Wolfhere had sheathed his sword; he drew his left arm, hand clenched, across his chest, and then made a sharp sweeping gesture outward, toward the advancing Eika.
There came a flash, a glittering of light like a lire’s light seen from inside a dark room. Liath blinked; the horses staggered, whinnying in terror, and she clung helplessly as her gelding bucked once before calming. Manfred, a hand flung over his eyes, was almost thrown.
The Eika faltered, but only from a lope to a trot. A moment later, far away, a rumbling sounded that ended in a sharp clap as loud as a peal of thunder.
“Lady’s Blood,” swore Wolfhere, “there’s sorcery at work among the Eika. Liath, you must get in to the city, whatever happens to us. Do not hesitate or falter. When you win free, if I am dead, take yourself to the convent of St. Valeria and there throw yourself on the mercy of the Convent Mother. She will give you safekeeping.”
The outrunners of the Eika force had reached the bridge, and they gathered, forming a wall with their shields. She was still too far away to see the walls clearly, to see if anyone moved there, if anyone had noticed their plight.
Manfred settled his horse. He and Wolfhere exchanged a glance, and then the young man pressed his horse forward, galloping hard for the line.
“Straight after him!” cried Wolfhere. “And mind you not what you see.”
But she saw nothing, though she felt a tingling on her back and a slap of cold air against her cheeks. Manfred’s head and shoulders were abruptly invested with the tiny winkings of a thousand firebugs, but the sight faded against the red serpent shields, the Eika setting their trap and awaiting their prey, raising their spears.
She saw behind the Eika soldiers the stone and timber bridge, the gulf of air beneath, where the steep banks fell away to the river’s edge, and beyond, so close now that she could see figures standing along the parapet, the walls of Gent.
Without warning, the gates of Gent mawed open with a horrible screeching din.
And out from the city rode Dragons.
Thy charged at full tilt, lances lowered, teardrop shields as metal-gray as the lowering clouds, all blended together with the steady rain. The only colors were the red serpents and yellow shields of the Eika, the gold tabards of the Dragons as br
ight as if the sun had emerged, and the brass fittings on their helms like the masks of war.
The Dragons hit with an impact Liath felt as a shuddering in the air. A few broke all the way through and, rather than turning to aid their fellows now struggling with sword and ax against the Eika who had not gone down, they kept coming, heading for the three Eagles. Behind them, the second wave of Dragons hit the disintegrating Eika line. They did not bear lances but rather struck with swords and heavy axes. More Eika swarmed up from the river’s banks, and the melee swirled off the bridge and spread out into the fields on either side, a terrible ringing clash. Dogs leaped and ripped at Dragons and horses alike.
Six Dragons pounded up and wheeled round, forming into a loose wedge.
“Behind us,” shouted the man who was surely their leader. The broach which clasped his cloak at his right shoulder sparkled with jewels. A golden torque encircled his neck: the mark of a prince of the royal line. His gaze touched on Liath.
She stared, though she could see nothing of his face except his eyes, as green as jade. His helmet was not fitted with brass decoration, like those worn by his soldiers. It was inlaid with gold to form the aspect of a dragon, terrible to look on and yet, together with the other Dragons, all iron and gold and black, beautiful to look on.
Then they were moving back toward the fight. The two soldiers in front of her lowered their lances as Eika sprinted out into the roadway to block them. The weight of their horses drove them through. An Eika sprang up from the roadway and flung itself forward, ax raised high, toward the unarmored Wolfhere. The prince leaned right and cut across Wolfhere’s path, swung so strong a blow he cleaved the creature’s head from its neck. But more Eika came, and more yet, swarming toward the prince like bees drawn to honey or wild dogs to the hope of a fresh kill. The fighting pressed close all around them, and Liath hunched down, mumbling silent prayers. Manfred stuck one with his spear and then, as another climbed closer and the horses got bogged down in bodies and in the melee, lost it as the Eika fell away off the raised roadway.
They were almost at the bridge, but more and yet more Eika scrambled up, even up and over the stone braces, and formed a thick, living wall.
Dogs poured through their ranks, breaking through the line to spring at the Dragons and the Eagles in their midst. They were horrid beasts, slavering, mad with rage and utterly fearless.
One lunged, barreling against Manfred’s horse, then heading straight for her In that instant, she saw its eyes. They were the color of burning yellow. Too close to shoot. It sprang.
The prince turned halfway round in his saddle and struck it down, across the back, with a single stroke. It crumpled, and her horse jumped to clear its body. That fast. Too fast.
Eika swarmed everywhere, closing, tightening the noose.
With loud cries a new sally of Dragons hit the line of Eika from behind, riding down on them from out of the gates. Eika fell and were trampled or were carried off by the weight of the charge. The Dragons, still in formation, broke ranks, splitting to either side as the Eagles and their escort pounded through. Stone drummed beneath the horses’ hooves; then a shift, a slight jarring drop, and they clattered over the metal-trimmed drawbridge. They rode into the shelter of the walls.
The rain stopped, started again as they came out from under the guardhouse into the open space that fronted the gates. The remains of market stalls—some half burned, others in disarray, but all empty—stood in haphazard lines in the great square.
Behind a great keening and wailing arose. Together with the sudden pounding of hooves and a great chorus of shouts, it deafened Liath. She heard no commands, only saw the prince peel away from the escort and ride back out through the gates. Dragons raced through, four abreast, coming back within the walls, and with a winding of gears the gates began to close.
She battled her way through to a vantage point: On the bridge the last dozen Dragons fought a rearguard action to retreat as the Eika hounded them. One soldier had been thrown over a horse. Another lay limp over his mount’s neck. But beyond, on the stone and timber span, in the trampled field, she saw no gold tabard, no soldier left lying in the field. The dogs had begun to rip into the Eika dead.
Many of the Dragons were already racing up the stairs to the parapet; the city militiamen rained arrows down onto the bridge from above. The gates swung closed behind the last rider: the prince. He kicked his mount forward just as spears, aimed at his back, darkened the air. The gates slammed shut to a chorus of howls and the peppering smacks of spears hitting harmlessly against the metal-plated gates. A new grinding sounded: the men of Gent were drawing up the drawbridge.
The prince’s horse stumbled, dropped, and threw him, stumbled again, and went down, kicking hard, trying to get up. He jumped to his feet, pulled off his helm and tossed it to the ground with an astonishing lack of regard for its rich decoration. He grabbed the horse’s bridle and yanked its head down onto the ground. Then, while he cursed loud and long, four of his men ran forward to examine the horse. A spear protruded from its belly, sunk deep. Blood spilled onto the packed earth, mixing with rain. The horse thrashed feebly, then stilled, its side rising and falling in shallow breaths. From outside, Liath heard the last howls and frustrated wails of the Eika as they finally retreated. The men stationed along the parapet jeered after them.
The prince’s hand fell to his belt. He drew a knife and cut the horse’s throat. Its blood poured onto his feet, staining his boots red, but still he knelt there, silent now. His black hair was plastered down on his skull from the rain. He had strange smooth skin, bronze-colored, and a striking face that betrayed by its lineaments that his mother was truly not of human kin.
Strangest of all, he had no beard nor any trace of beard.
He looked up, sought, and found with his gaze a man dressed in a rich tunic, head shielded from the rain by a capacious scarlet cloak held like a canopy over him by four servants.
“Butcher it and salt it,” the prince said, standing up and turning his back on the dead animal. He had a hoarse tenor; it carried with the authority of a man who expects obedience. “Or so I suggest, my lord mayor.”
“Eat horse meat?” The man could not seem to find a place to rest his eyes: on the prince, on the dead horse, on the Dragons calmly drawing the spear from the body, on the last gush of blood and entrails.
“It will seem like a delicacy come winter, if the Eika lay in a true siege.” The prince saw Wolfhere, gestured to him, and stalked away. A Dragon grabbed the prince’s helm from the mud and hurried after him.
Wolfhere quickly handed his horse’s reins to Manfred and, without comment, followed.
3
LIATH dismounted and huddled close to Manfred, shaking from the aftermath of battle as the rush of energy left her.
“I’ve never seen a man without a beard before,” she whispered. “I mean, except a churchman, of course.”
Manfred ran a finger along his own close-cropped beard. “Eika don’t have beards.”
She laughed nervously. Her hands trembled and she thought her heart would never stop racing. “I didn’t notice. Did Hanna and Hathui escape, do you think?”
He shrugged.
“What do we do now?”
They took the horses to the barracks where the Dragons had stabled their own horses, rubbed them down, and gave them oats; the activity calmed her. She slung her bedroll and saddlebags over her shoulder and followed Manfred up steep stairs that led to the long attic room above the stables where the Dragons had settled in. Fresh straw covered the plank floor, and bedrolls lay neatly lined up along the walls. The smell of horse and stall was pervasive but not overpowering. Men lounged at their ease, dicing, carving wood, oiling or polishing their gear, making small talk. They glanced at the two Eagles, curious, but made no attempt to speak to them.
Was one of these men her kinsman? She tried to examine their faces surreptitiously, looking for some resemblance to Da.
Manfred led her to the far end of the
long, low room. There, shutters opened to admit the gloomy light of afternoon. The rain was coming down harder now, but it was already stuffy inside the loft, sticky like summer heat. The prince and Wolfhere sat on bales of hay, facing each other across a table. The prince had a chess set carved of ivory laid out in front of him, eight squares wide, eight across. He toyed with the pieces as he and Wolfhere spoke, picking them up, setting them down in new places: the eight Lions, the Castles, Eagles, and Dragons and—protected by the others—the Biscop and Regnant.
Behind the prince, the only woman besides Liath in the loft sat with the prince’s helmet on her lap. She polished the helmet with a rag. She wore the tabard of the Dragons, and her arms were muscular, her jaw scarred by many small white lines, and her nose looked as if it had been broken and healed wrong.
Manfred hunkered down onto his haunches, prepared for a long wait. Liath knelt beside him. Now and again a cooling mist of water touched her face from the rain outside. Straw tickled her hands. Her nose itched.
“I judge the city can withstand a siege. But my Dragons alone cannot lift the siege, not with the numbers of Eika who have invested Gent. We have no news from Count Hildegard, whether she or her brother Lord Dietrich mean to lead an army to aid us. And you say now the king will not bring an army.”
“I don’t know what King Henry intends, Prince Sanglant. But he may not be able to bring an army here, even if he wishes to.”
The prince picked up a Dragon and placed it between two Castles, as if trapping it there. This close, Liath could study the line of his jaw. He had either just shaved or else he did not grow a beard. But then how could he truly be called a man?
“I have heard these rumors, that Lady Sabella means to gather adherents and ride against King Henry. But she swore before the Biscop of Mainni eight years ago never to trouble the king with her false claims again.”
“So she did,” agreed Wolfhere, “but the Biscop of Mainni is rumored to be among her counselors now. And all three dukes of Varre as well as five counts from Varre have refused to appear before King Henry on his progress.”