The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Kive lifted a trembling finger to the southwest, expression grave. “South. There. Going.”

  “What’s going south, Kive?” Gwyn shivered as a premonition crawled up his spine.

  “The Crow’s hand.”

  Neither man corrected Kive’s bird anatomy. They listened and waited.

  “South, south.” He paused. “West from the tower, south toward the sea. There they’ll destroy it and then destroy me.” Kive smiled to himself. “Heigh ho, Shiny. Kive made a rhyme.”

  “Yes,” said Gwyn, frowning as he stared into the darkness of the far shore. “Kive did.”

  “Do you understand what he means?” asked Lawen.

  “I think so,” whispered Gwyn. “I’m afraid so. He means Londolin. West from the tower, south toward the sea. From Crowwell, that’s exactly right. Only a few hundred leagues.”

  Lawen shook his head. “Why destroy a ruin?” He sucked in a breath. “They think we would take it?”

  “There’s a chance. I’d already considered it once, but we’re too slow moving. It would have drawn the Crow King’s attention. Apparently, that doesn’t matter now.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We? Little.” Gwyn rubbed a hand across his arm. “I could race there upon Aluem, but holding the city by myself? With Aluem, perhaps. But then I would abandon my forces to save an empty fortress. Though it stands as a symbol, it isn’t worth that cost.”

  “Then we let Londolin fall?”

  “I’m afraid we must.” Gwyn sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. “I’m so tired, Lawen. How can we accomplish this?”

  His brother wrapped his arm around Gwyn’s shoulders. “By the will of Afallon, or we die trying. There is no other recourse now.”

  “True.” Gwyn stared into the black river. “We must win our freedom.”

  “Aye.” Lawen squeezed Gwyn’s shoulder and released him. “Our choice is made, Gwynny.”

  “It is a choice made anew each morrow that comes,” whispered Gwyn. He bent down and picked up a stone from the frozen ground. Rubbing his thumb against the smooth, icy surface, he contemplated the path ahead. “I choose not only my own life, but I also march mere lads and wizened men alike to an untimely end. May Afallon forgive me.” He turned from the river. “When Londolin falls, there will be some who become disheartened. We must have a victory in Trayton. The dragon’s appearance at Bayton is not enough.”

  “I agree, though it’s a mad venture, Gwyn. Even with every boat, it will take hours to cross the Delesar.”

  “I’m aware.” Gwyn turned to Kive. “You said the Crow will come for you after Londolin falls?”

  Kive canted his head. “Shiny?”

  “In the south, Kive. Will the Crow come for you when the south falls?”

  “Oh. The Crow is waiting. Breathing. Sleeping.”

  “Will he come, Kive?”

  “Oh, yes, Shiny. Master will come for Kive, always.”

  “We must be ready. I don’t know why the Crow King has waited so long to destroy Kive. Perhaps a wisp of familial affection remains, or perhaps there is some other factor, but Kovien will try to end Kive’s life before this war is done.”

  Kive faintly hissed, though whether at Gwyn’s words or something downstream, it was impossible to say.

  The Feast of Afallon would fall in three days. He must remain patient. No news had come from Charquae, and the entire camp waited each day for word, nerves taut. The Crow Army remained at the bridge, content to let Gwyn’s forces starve on the riverbank.

  Sighing, he turned from the wrathful river and moved toward camp. Lawen trailed after him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To visit my men.” He held his hand out and silently beckoned to Aluem. The unicorn trotted from the darkness and allowed Gwyn to mount him.

  “Shall I come with you?” asked Lawen.

  “No, I’ll be fine. Rest, Lawen.” Unicorn and rider cantered onward, Kive keeping pace on foot. Visiting the patched-up tents was Gwyn’s painful routine, made worse at night. As they navigated the wide paths between rows of sagging shelters, Aluem’s hooves sloshing through mud and reeking waste, Gwyn listened to the ragged coughs of over half his army. He’d marched 5,000 men from Bayton, and already 400 had vanished: either dead or run away.

  A thousand lay gravely ill. Three quarters of the whole suffered with fever, some plagued by dysentery. All huddled in their shelters, starving and cold. What wounds the troops carried had come from marching, or gangrene, or in-fighting.

  The Winter Army must be the most ragtag, pathetic force Gwyn had ever beheld. Witnessing the state of his men pierced his heart. His eyes burned with tears and weariness. What could he do? The destitution was so great, would anyone have the strength to fight the Heshi at Trayton, let alone beat them?

  Yet there is no alternative. To surrender would ensure torture and death for all of us.

  “Your Majesty?”

  Aluem halted, allowing Gwyn to glance back toward a sagging tent among so many just like it. Standing before the weather-beaten canvas, a man in his forties leaned against a crutch, his leg bandaged, bare feet exposed and blackened from frostbite. Stubble and scratches adorned his firm jaw and his eyes glowed with hunger above his sunken cheeks.

  Aluem wheeled about to face the man.

  “What is your name, soldier?” asked Gwyn.

  “Brisht, sire. You are him, aren’t you? King Wintervale?”

  Gwyn hesitated. “General Wintervale, Brisht, if you please. I’m your commanding officer in war, not yet crowned.”

  Kive circled around Aluem to eye the man. “Is he a rat, Shiny?”

  “No, Kive. Hush.”

  Brisht shrank from the Ilidreth.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Gwyn, lifting his hand. “He won’t harm you. His preference is for crows’ feathers.”

  A grin lit on Brisht’s face. “Oh, aye, sire. There’s been rumors of such. So, it’s true he’s a tame Ilidreth.”

  “Not tame,” Gwyn said. “Friendly. I’ve allied myself with the Ilidreth in the past, and I’ll tell you straight: They’re not wild and savage as the Crow King claimed. Rather, they are solitary as they grieve the loss of their great kingdom. Some are fallen, and therefore mad like Kive, but many are sane and fair. I would sooner tame a, well, a dragon, than to dare tame an Ilidreth. They’re people, Brisht, same as you and I, and I’d thank you to pass that word along to your fellows and see they don’t slander the name of the woodland people any longer.”

  Brisht’s eyes grew wider as Gwyn spoke, and he bobbed his head. “Aye, sire. General. Sir. Only, does this mean we’ve Ilidreth allies on the way?”

  Gwyn frowned. “I hardly know. A friend among the Ilidreth told me over one year ago that he would try to gather his people to arms, though he made no promise. But time flows differently for the Ilidreth, and perhaps to them the length of one year is how we perceive a fortnight. Mayhap they’ll still come.” He glanced toward the northwest, fancying he could make out the far-off ancient wood against the dark night.

  “Sire? Eh, General, I mean.”

  Gwyn tore his eyes from the shadows. “Yes?”

  “I want you to know, I support you.” It was dark, yet Gwyn felt certain Brisht’s face burned red. “Your cause,” the soldier went on. “I was but a humble farmer before, a serf serving his lord in the far west province of Misoril, and I thought nothing could change. But news spread of your revolt. Of your lineage and claim. For the first time, my lord, I looked up and considered the Crow King. Considered that something might be wrong in his way of ruling. I threw down my pitchfork straight away and ran from my duties that very night. Marched across rivers and woods to reach you. Brought several runaway slaves with me. Now here we be, for what that may be worth.” He gestured toward his makeshift tent. “That there is Rafer and his son, young Dura.”

  Warmth spread through Gwyn’s body like a summer’s breeze as he spotted Rafer’s dark face peeking out from the tent. The runawa
y slave’s feet stretched before him, wrapped in bloodied rags. Tears pricked Gwyn’s eyes as he swung from Aluem’s back and clasped a hand to each of Brisht’s shoulders.

  “It means more than kingdoms, my friend. I thank you, all of you, from my soul.”

  Brisht’s face beamed even in the gloom. “You humble me, sire.”

  “No,” Gwyn said, quietly, firmly. “You, sir, humble me.” He met Rafer’s eyes. “Each of you.”

  Chapter 11

  The red dragon shimmered against the cloudbanks above, a dread specter, lithe and long. Nox sat beside Parsha in the wide-open fields before Charquae, hidden in plain sight. Dragons were remarkable creatures, as Parsha himself declared. His favorite talent was what he called camouflage; a word he’d borrowed from the Fraeli, no doubt. Apparently, it meant blending in with his environment.

  Nox wasn’t certain lying in an open field in the midafternoon was quite the same as blending in, no matter how well concealed Parsha somehow made himself. It was nothing short of magic. Wonderful, dazzling magic. If only Nathael could see this.

  “Parsha?” asked Nox, settling back against his dragon’s gleaming hide. “What exactly are we waiting for? Should we not strike down the enemy dragon before he destroys Charquae?”

  Parsha remained still as a statue as he answered. “That dragon is a she, my little fat friend, not a he. There is a very great difference between the two in terms of temperament and fighting style. She circles wide, not to intimidate a city she already perceives as destroyed, but to lure us. The Crow King, it would appear, has won himself a very patient dragon, though how he won her, I could only guess. Female dragons are difficult to bribe or threaten unless you steal their eggs. I suspect that is not the case here.”

  “How do you know?” Nox asked, straining to see the distant red form better and failing.

  “Had he done so, Charquae and half of Simaerin would already be in flames. She is too patient, too strategic. Almost…” He stopped, then rumbled a faint growl. “She is obedient to someone else’s will.”

  “Did the Crow King cast a spell to enslave her?”

  “Doubtful,” said Parsha. “It is extremely difficult to enslave a dragon’s will. I said she is obedient, and certainly not to the king himself.”

  “To whom then?”

  “Who can say? A woman. That is all I know.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That does not surprise me, round one. You are not a dragon, and though I am very fond of you, I do not feel inclined to explain a dragon’s nature at the present time. Suffice it to say, this dragon is compelled to serve the Crow King, through rather foul tactics, I would judge.”

  Nox shook his head. “Very well, I don’t understand, and that’s all right. The question is, how do we proceed?”

  “We cannot defend Charquae for long.” Parsha sighed. “In open combat, I might not win against her, and that would mean the ending of many souls. Too many. That leaves two options. Either we evacuate the city, which isn’t wise, I grant you, or we attempt to reason with the she-dragon.”

  The blood flowed from Nox’s face. “Reason with her?”

  “Aye, little friend. Should she be willing or able to tell us her trouble, we could both solve the mystery of her alliance with your enemy and perhaps dissuade her from continuing in her present course: which, I might remind you, is our demise.”

  “But…how can we initiate conversation with her? If we so much as twitch, she’ll torch us.”

  “That is simple. Well, it will be once you have supplied for us a diamond.”

  Nox’s jaw dropped. “A what?”

  Parsha’s eyes narrowed. “Surely, you’ve at least heard of diamonds, Nox. Have humans become so ignorant of the earth’s riches?” His tone was a blend of horror and pity.

  “O-of course I’ve heard of diamonds. I’ve even seen one set into a noblewoman’s necklace. B-but, how do you expect me to find one, now, here?”

  “Oh, is that all that troubles you?” Parsha chuckled. “Nothing to worry about. I am confident that once you enter Charquae quite stealthily and find the leaders of your rebellion’s council, they’ll be very happy to accommodate your request when you explain that it will save their beloved city.”

  The blood might well have drained from Nox’s body. He sat, numb of mind, cold of limb, staring at the frostbitten grass before him. “Just like that? You genuinely believe yourself, don’t you?” He turned his head up to offer his own pitying look. “Perhaps I am ignorant in the ways of dragons, but you are equally so in the ways of humankind. King Gwynter’s council has never even met me before. They would have my word, and nothing to recommend me otherwise. It would be like a young dragon, a very young dragon, coming up to you and demanding a portion of your hoard to keep a knight from skewering you.”

  Parsha blinked his eyes. “In such an event, I would gladly lend what was required.”

  “Truly?”

  “Well…” Parsha considered. “How young a dragon?”

  “Very, very.”

  Parsha nodded. “I see. You’re yet untested.”

  “A complete unknown to these great men, in fact,” said Nox. “They would sooner trust a crow.”

  “Hm. Well then.” Parsha blinked slowly. “Very well. We have but one course, though I despise it.” Before Nox could ask what the dragon intended, there was a peculiar popping and clicking noise, and Nox felt himself sinking. No, not sinking. Falling back because the dragon was shrinking in size. Nox jumped to his feet as the dragon came to stand at a horse’s height, and then his frame shifted; legs lengthening, heightening; tail dwindling; muzzle diminishing into a human face.

  Nox stared, horrified. Bewildered. Fascinated. Within mere moments, the dragon had changed into a tall, comely, regal-looking man in his prime. Parsha the Human had the same white-blue eyes, though now long golden hair trailed down his back. He stood garbed in exquisite robes of blue and green glistening with tiny gems. Bare toes stuck out from under his apparel.

  “I dislike taking on this form,” said Parsha, flexing his fingers. “It feels so confining, so minuscule.”

  Nox kept staring. “You’re human.”

  Parsha grimaced. “Nonsense. I merely took on the shape of a human. We dragons can do so, when required. How else do you think we have survived the endless quests your knights embark upon to claim our hides?”

  It made sense, Nox supposed, but the idea of such mighty beasts wandering around the cities and hamlets of Simaerin was not precisely comforting.

  “Do not fret,” said Parsha. “We prefer not to take this form, most of the time. Too inhibiting, as I said. Now, shall we?”

  “Y-you’re coming with me to Charquae?”

  Parsha had begun to walk but paused now to glance at him with such a look of patient pity, Nox’s cheeks caught fire.

  “I mean, is that really a good idea?”

  “Of course. You said your council won’t listen to you. Well, they will listen to me.” His tone rolled like quiet thunder, firm and confident, and Nox had a hard time believing the council wouldn’t listen to him. Nox certainly intended to heed the dragon’s every word, as he much preferred being the dragon’s friend to being his breakfast.

  Together, dragon and boy marched toward Charquae, while red death wheeled above them in the sleet-colored sky.

  Nox had imagined crowds parting before the impressive specimen that was Parsha the Human—but he needn’t have worried. The streets of Charquae were like that of a ravaged field of corn. Littered with random articles of clothes, bits of spoiled food, a doll, a shoe. Devoid of people. Doors sagging open. The only sound beyond Nox’s feet was the whisper of a breeze.

  Charquae no longer resembled the city of his youth.

  “Where have all your people gone?” asked Parsha.

  “They ran from the dragon,” Nox murmured.

  “I could guess as much, my friend, but where did they run to?”

  Nox considered that. Where would the people r
un in such a time of crisis? His eyes shot upward, and he pointed to a steeple towering above the other buildings of the once-industrious city. “There, the churches.”

  The man-dragon eyed the nearest steeple for a heartbeat or two. “Ah. Faith.” He started down the thoroughfare, Nox at his side.

  “Are you skeptical?” asked Nox, wondering for the first time what dragons believed in.

  “No,” Parsha said, smiling. “The faith of humans is commendable and exceedingly powerful when harnessed appropriately. Churches are infused with that faith. I was merely pondering the fickle nature of humans.”

  “Fickle?”

  “Indeed. Were all Charquae’s citizens so devout yesterday? I think not. The problem lies in your nature to doubt, which is weakened only in times of crises. This is not a criticism, Nox, but an observation of a very young, impulsive, stubborn race. You do learn, either to douse yourself in faith or doubt before the end.”

  “What do you believe in?” asked Nox. “Afallon, or some other god? Do dragons have a religion of their own?”

  Parsha’s smile deepened. “I believe in the Weave, which is life. You believe in Afallon, who is life. Perhaps they are the same, known by different names.”

  Nox folded his hands behind his back and considered. “You don’t sound certain, yet you call my nature young and fickle.”

  The man-dragon laughed. “True. True. Perhaps we are not so different, man and dragon. We journey along life’s many pathways, questing, ever questing, for knowledge divine.”

  “That’s pretty,” said Nox, running the words through his mind. “Is it one of your poems?”

  “Nay,” said Parsha, laughing. “That was mere thought. Poetry is more than words or visuals, but an expression of the soul. A movement, like water flowing, or music singing.”

  Nox nodded as they reached Charquae’s largest church, its spire stretching toward the heavens. Nox took the steps up the stone edifice and pulled on the door, but it flung aside to admit him. He snatched his hand back before it got crushed.

  A cloaked and cowled figure stood in the entrance, a sword pointed at Nox’s prominent belly. “State your business, ruffian. This church isn’t a sanctuary for the common masses but belongs to the council of King Wintervale. If you seek shelter, find another holy house.”