Dragon Wing

3

A gigantic shape, blacker than the Lords of Night, appeared above the keep’s towers. No one could see clearly in the gloom, but the flapping of huge wings was audible. The gate guards clashed sword against shield, sounding the alarm, causing everyone in the courtyard to turn his attention from the impending execution to the threat above. Knights drew their swords and shouted for their mounts. Raids by Tribus corsairs were commonplace, and one had been expected daily in retaliation for the abduction and subsequent death of the elflord who had allegedly hired Hugh the Hand.

“What is it?” bellowed Gareth, endeavoring vainly to see what was going on, torn between leaving his post at the side of the prisoner and rushing to the gates that were his responsibility.

“Ignore it! Get on with the execution!” snarled Magicka. But Three-Chop Nick demanded an attentive audience, and he had lost this one. Half of the crowd was staring at the gate; the other half was running toward it. Lowering his blade with an air of wounded pride, Nick waited in hurt and dignified silence to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s a real dragon, fools! One of ours, not an elf ship. It’s one of ours!” Gareth shouted. “You two, keep an eye on the prisoner.” The captain raced to the gates to quell the spreading panic.

The battle dragon swooped low over the castle. A score of rope cables, glistening in the torchlight, snaked through the air. Men leapt from the dragon’s back, slid down the cables, and landed in the courtyard. Everyone could see the silver insignia of the King’s Own glittering on their panoply, and the crowd muttered ominously.

Swiftly the soldiers deployed, clearing a large area in the center of the courtyard and placing themselves in position around it. Shields in their left hands, spears in their right, they stood at relaxed attention, facing outward, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes or answer anyone’s questions. A lone dragonrider appeared. Flying over the gate, the small, swift-flying dragon hovered over the circle cleared for it, wings holding it poised in the air while it scanned the area in which it would land. By now its rider’s elegant livery, flashing red and golden in the flaring torchlight, could be easily recognized. The people caught their breath and glanced at each other with questioning eyes.

The riding dragon settled to the ground, wings trembling, its flanks heaving. Flecks of saliva dripped from its fanged mouth. Jumping from the saddle, the rider cast a swift glance around the courtyard. He was clad in the short gold-trimmed cape and red flared coat of a king’s courier, and the people waited in breathless anticipation to hear the news he had to impart. Almost everyone expected it to be a declaration of war against the elves of Tribus; some of the knights were already looking about for their squires so that they might be ready to muster at a moment’s notice. It was, therefore, with considerable shock that those standing in the courtyard saw the courier raise a hand gloved in the finest soft and supple leather and point at the block.

“Is that Hugh the Hand you are about to execute?” he shouted in a voice as soft and supple as his gloves.

The wizard strode across the courtyard and was admitted into the circle through the ranks of the King’s Own.

“What if it is?” answered Magicka warily.

“If it is Hugh the Hand, I command you, in the name of the king, to deliver him to me—alive,” said the courier.

The wizard glowered at the man darkly. Ke’lith’s knights looked questioningly in Magicka’s direction, awaiting his orders.

Until recently, the Volkarans had never known a king. In the world’s very early days, Volkaran had been a penal colony established by the inhabitants of the main continent Uylandia. The famous prison at Yreni held murderers and thieves; exiles, whores, and various other social embarrassments were shipped off to the surrounding isles of Providence, Pitrin’s Exile, and the three Djerns. Life was hard on these outer isles, and over the centuries, the isles produced a hard people. Each isle was ruled by various clans; each clan’s lord spent his time either beating assaults off his own lands or attacking those of his neighbors on Uylandia.

Thus divided, the humans were easy prey for the stronger, wealthier elven nation of Tribus. The elves gobbled the humans up piecemeal, and for almost forty cycles, the elves ruled both Uylandia and the Volkaran Isles. Their iron grip on the humans had come to an end twenty cycles earlier, when a chieftain of the strongest clan on Volkaran married the matriarch of the strongest clan on Uylandia. Rallying their people, Stephen of Pitrin’s Exile and Anne of Winsher formed an army that overthrew the elves and hurled them—some of them literally—off the isle.

When Uylandia and Volkaran were free of occupation, Stephen and Anne proclaimed themselves king and queen, murdered their most dangerous rivals, and, though it was rumored that they were now intriguing against each other, the two continued to be the most powerful and feared force in the realm. In the old days, Magicka would have simply ignored the command, carried out the execution, and done away with the courier if the man proved obstinate. Now, standing in the shadow cast by the pitch-black wings of the battle dragon, the wizard was reduced to quibbling.

“Hugh the Hand is the murderer of our lord, Rogar of Ke’lith, and it is the king’s own law that we take his life in punishment.”

“His Majesty fully approves and applauds your excellent and swift execution of justice within his kingdom,” said the courier with a graceful bow, “and he regrets that he must interfere, but there is a royal warrant out for the arrest of the man known as Hugh the Hand. He is wanted for questioning in regard to a conspiracy against the state—a matter which takes precedence over all local affairs. Everyone knows,” added the courier, looking directly into Magicka’s eyes, “that this assassin has had dealings with the elflords of Tribus.”

The wizard knew, of course, that Hugh hadn’t had dealings with an elflord on Tribus. The wizard also knew, at that instant, that the courier knew this as well. And if the courier knew this, then he might know a number of other things—such as how Rogar of Ke’lith had truly met his death. Caught in his own net, Magicka flopped and floundered.

“Let me see the warrant,” he demanded.

Nothing, it seemed, would give the king’s courier greater pleasure than producing the king’s warrant for Magicka’s viewing. Thrusting his hand into a leather pouch that hung from the dragon’s saddle, the courier withdrew a scrollcase. He removed the scroll inside and handed it to the wizard, who pretended to study it. The warrant would be in order. Stephen wasn’t one to make a mistake like that. There was the name, Hugh the Hand, and it was sealed with the Winged Eye that was Stephen’s device. Gnawing his lip until it was raw and bleeding, Magicka could do nothing but cast his people a much-suffering glance that said he had tried but greater powers were at work here. Placing his hand over his heart, he bowed coldly in silent, ungracious acquiescence.

“His Majesty thanks you,” said the courier, smiling. “You, Captain!” He gestured. Gareth—his face carefully expressionless, though he, too, had followed the unspoken as well as the spoken—came up to stand behind the wizard. “Bring me the prisoner. Oh, and I’ll need a fresh dragon for my return trip. King’s business,” he added.

Those two words—king’s business—could commandeer anything from a castle to a flagon of wine, a roast boar to a regiment. Those who disobeyed did so at their extreme peril. Gareth looked at Magicka. The wizard literally shook with rage, but said nothing—merely gave a swift, short nod—and the knight left to obey the command.

The courier deftly retrieved the parchment, rerolled it, and slid it back into its scrollcase. As he glanced about idly, awaiting Gareth’s return with the prisoner, his gaze alighted on the bier. Instantly his face assumed an expression of deep sorrow.

“Their Majesties extend their sympathy to Lady Rogar. If they can be of service, her ladyship can be assured that she has only to call upon them.”

“Her ladyship will be most grateful,” said Magicka sourly. The courier, smiling once again, began to slap his gloves impatiently against his thigh. Gareth was leading the prisoner past the King’s Own, but there was as yet no sign of a fresh mount. “About that dragon—”

“Here, my lord, take this one,” cried the old stablemaster eagerly, offering the reins of the lord’s dragon to the messenger.

“Are you certain?” queried the courier, glancing from the bier to the wizard. He was, of course, familiar with the custom of sacrificing the dragon—no matter how valuable—in honor of the fallen.

Magicka, with a furious snort, waved his hand. “Why not? Carry my lord’s murderer away on my lord’s most prized dragon! King’s business, after all!”

“Yes, it is,” said the courier. “King’s business.” The King’s Own suddenly shifted their stance, turning their spears point outward and locking shields to form a circle of steel around the courier and those who stood near him.

“Perhaps there are some aspects of the king’s business you would be interested in discussing with His Majesty. Our gracious monarch will be happy to arrange for the governing of this province in your absence, Magicka.” The shadow of the wings of the circling battle dragon slid over the courtyard.

“No, no,” protested the wizard hastily. “King Stephen has no more loyal subject than myself! You may assure him of that!”

The courier bowed and answered Magicka with a charming smile. The soldiers surrounding him remained attentive and on alert.

Gareth, sweating beneath his leather helm, entered the circle of steel. The captain knew how close he’d come to being ordered to fight the King’s Own and his stomach was still clenching.

“Here’s your man,” Gareth said gruffly, shoving Hugh forward. The courier took in the prisoner with one swift glance that noted the lash marks on the back, the bruises and cuts on the face, the swollen lip. Hugh, his dark sunken eyes seeming to have vanished completely in the shadows beneath his brows, regarded the courier with a detached curiosity that held no hope, only a sardonic expectation of further torment.

“Cut loose his arms and unlock those manacles.”

“But, my lord, he is dangerous—”

“He cannot ride like that and I have no time to waste. Do not worry”—the courier waved a negligent hand—“unless he can sprout wings, I do not think he will try to escape by leaping from the back of a flying dragon.” Gareth drew his dagger and cut the bonds around Hugh’s arms. The stablemaster, summoning his helpers with a cry, gingerly entered the ring of steel, removed the saddle from the courier’s spent mount, and put it on the back of Lord Rogar’s dragon. Patting the dragon’s neck, the stablemaster cheerfully passed the reins to the courier. The old man would not see the dragon again; whatever came into King Stephen’s hands never left. But it was far better to lose it than be forced to thrust a knife into the throat of a creature who loved and trusted him, then watch its life spill out, wasted on a man dead and gone. The courier mounted. Reaching down his hand, he held it out to Hugh. The assassin appeared for the first time to comprehend the fact that he was freed, his head was not on the block, that terrible sword was not about to sever his life. Moving stiffly and painfully, he stretched out his hand, caught hold of the courier’s, and let the man pull him up on the dragon’s back.

“Bring him a cloak. He’ll freeze,” ordered the courier. Many capes were offered, and he selected one of thick fur and tossed it to Hugh. The prisoner wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, reached back and gripped firmly the rim of the dragon’s saddle. The courier spoke a word of command and the dragon, with a trumpeting call, spread his wings and soared upward. The leader of the King’s Own gave an ear-piercing whistle. The battle dragon flew down until the ropes dangling from its back were within the soldiers’ reach. Swiftly they climbed back up and took their places on the dragon’s large flat back. The dragon lifted its wings, and within moments the shadow was lifted, the sky was empty, night’s gray gloom returned. In the courtyard below, men glanced at each other in silence, their faces grim. Women, eyeing their husbands and sensing the tense atmosphere, hurriedly rounded up children, sharply reprimanding or slapping those who whined. Magicka, his face livid, stalked into the keep.

Gareth waited until the wizard had departed, then ordered his men to set fire to the bier. The flames crackled as the men and women gathered around and began to sing their lord’s soul to his ancestors. The captain of the knights sang a song for the lord he had loved and loyally served for thirty years. When he finished, he watched the leaping, roaring flames consume the body.

“So you never killed a wizard? Hugh, my friend, you might yet get your chance. If I ever see you again . . . King’s business!” Gareth grunted. “If you don’t show up, well, I’m an old man with nothing left to live for.” His eyes went to the wizard’s quarters, where a robed silhouette could be seen looking out the window. Having his duties to attend to, the captain walked to the gate to make certain all was secure for the night.

Forgotten, an artist bereft of his art, Three-Chop Nick sat disconsolately upon the block.