A Fire of Roses

by Melinda R. Cordell

  Her dragon was singing.

  Blazing away from the fire, and singing with great power.

  Then they were out. Dyrfinna was still alive, though in pain.

  The phalanx of dragons rushed at them, blasting fire.

  The sky was full of dragons and fire.

  But they had gotten through, and she was still alive.

  “Find a way past them,” she cried to the emberdragon. “Dive down to the roof of his keep and I’ll roll off, and you can lead the others away.”

  They’ll see you jump off.

  “Go through the trees down below, then.”

  They’ll burn all the trees, the dragon said, diving to avoid a burst of flames.

  “They’re getting too close,” Dyrfinna said. Far on the other side of the keep, she saw Aesa’s dragon landing beyond a large tower. “You need to get out of here. Here’s what to do: Pretend they got you. Fall nearly to the ground. I’ll jump off. Then you make your escape.”

  Soldiers were all over the ground and all over the rooftops. This was not going to end well. But Dyrfinna needed to get the dragon out. She had to get back to her island and protect her eggs.

  A burst of flame surrounded them. The dragon screamed and closed her wings and dropped, head lolling.

  Dyrfinna cried, “Dragon! Dragon!” all the while hoping that her scorched shield on her back hid from the other dragons how she was untying her straps and preparing to jump.

  The other dragons and their riders roared and gave chase as they plummeted. The emberdragon’s wings stirred, the dragon groggily raised her head. Ready yourself, she said as she struggled to open her wings.

  Her wings sprang open.

  Then she swung hard to the right with a hard turn, all the dragons shooting past her overhead, going too fast to stop.

  Dyrfinna tumbled down the dragon’s wing as if it were a rough slide, pulling her shield off her back, and leapt at the fir trees swishing past below.

  She fell fast through the air a short distance, swinging her burned shield in front of her just as she plunged into a fir tree with an explosion of fir needles and sticks.

  Limbs and branches splintered and snapped, but her face and part of her body protected by the shield as she fell. Then her shield crashed into the big branches, all her weight coming down on her shield arm before she bounced off and fell some more. She grabbing at anything she could grab, trying to slow her fall, her body slamming against branch after branch.

  Finally Dyrfinna crashed, stomach-first, over a large limb, knocking out her wind. At least she wasn’t falling any more. She fought to breathe quietly, as she could see shadows of warriors moving through the firs below her, trying to find where she’d fallen.

  She looked up through the big hole she’d torn through the fir tree’s branches, which gave her a clear view of the sky. The emberdragon was a brilliant orange, but she flew straight up, higher and higher, and the dragons that pursued her couldn’t stay with her. Soon she was far above them, looking like a large orange star sailing through the highest reaches of heaven in the direction of home.

  She’d escaped, and was headed back to her babies.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered to the emberdragon.

  Dyrfinna took a moment and caught her breath. Pain sent pulses all through her body, and she felt bruised all over. She was pretty sure that a limb had speared her in the leg. As far as she could tell, she was still in one piece and sticky with pine tar.

  Aesa was on the other side of the keep. Not that far away.

  Dyrfinna slipped down through the branches slowly, waiting for the shadows to clear around the ground. Then she slid down and began running, keeping her head low. Soldiers rushed through the forest, looking for her not far away.

  It’s hard to do a stealth mission when your brightly-lit emberdragon fights in an epic battle against six other dragons, Dyrfinna thought ruefully.

  Now as she slipped through the great fir and spruce trees, she wished she wasn’t going in blind. She had no idea of the layout of this place, no idea where guards were placed, where she could run if she was attacked so she could best defend herself, none of that.

  Through the trees she had glimpses of torches or lanterns, and she kept guiding to those through the thick firs. She seemed to be close to where Aesa’s dragon landed.

  She didn’t know how she’d get Aesa out of there. She just would. She’d carry Aesa home on her back if she had to.

  “Halt,” came a voice from the darkness behind her.

  She turned slowly, dagger immediately in hand.

  She found five spears pointed at her.

  “Here!” the leader called, and six more warriors came running in, blades drawn.

  She was surrounded.

  10

  A Powerful Kick

  Gefjun

  Voices outside her door jolted Gefjun awake.

  She groaned, rolling over, and squinted at the window to see what time it was. It was still black except for a little light from the east—still the middle of the night.

  But then she woke up fully—thought of her patients among the shiploads of prisoners down in Varinn’s keep. Mainly, Ragnarok.

  “What happened? Is somebody dying?” she asked, sitting up in bed.

  But the voices went on down the hall, speaking in quick, urgent tones. Now she could hear shouting from outside.

  Just then, a small orange bloom of fire appeared in the sky outside her window.

  Gefjun’s heart stopped. Even with her bad eyesight she could see it.

  Then another bloom of fire, and another.

  Dragons. On their way to attack the keep.

  Her heart slammed in her chest as she jumped out of bed and pulled on her soft boots, a dress, and her black cloak. Her hands shook so much that she could hardly fasten her brooch at the front of her cloak. Then she grabbed her medical bags, which she considered the most valuable things she owned, and she was out the door.

  The torchlit halls were busy with people, most of whom were gathering at the big windows to gawk at the brilliant blasts of fire. Nobody seemed to be in any particular hurry, and everybody seemed to be in a good mood, despite the danger they were in.

  “One of our dragons is coming in, but they’re being chased,” somebody at the window told Gefjun. “Our guardian dragons will stop the intruder.”

  “Stop them dead,” somebody laughed.

  “Come on over, missy,” said one of the women. “Dragonfire makes a lovely show.”

  False alarm, then. Gefjun turned away, headed back to her room, feeling a bit silly that she’d leapt out of bed like a startled chicken. So the keep was not under attack—it was just people enjoying a firefight.

  They must be awfully sure of their defenses to be enjoying this, Gefjun thought. She thought of the times that she’d seen Skala invaded, and how every man and woman was on the ground and rushing to the walls of the city or to the ships to defend the city in any way possible. How every bloom of dragon fire in the skies near the city would send everybody running for their shields and spears.

  Just then, a girl in a page’s uniform ran up to her.

  “Are you Gefjun?” she asked.

  Surprised, she said, “Yes.”

  “King Varinn has requested you to come to the roof of the keep right away.”

  “Um, okay,” Gefjun stammered.

  What now?

  The page led the way through the long hallways, past knots of whispering people gathered around the open windows as they looked out at the blooms of fire in the night. A scent of roses drifted in through the windows here and there, and now Gefjun saw that many of the windows were overhung with blooming roses, even this high up on the mountain. Amazing. How did he grow them this high up where it was so cold? It couldn’t have been just breeding alone, could it?

  The page led her up a series of windowless stone stairs where torches burned. The walls here seemed to be hewn from solid rock and were blackened above the torches. The sta
irs were worn smooth in the middle from decades, maybe even centuries, of feet—worn so smooth that the edges of the stairs were no longer straight, and the middle of the stairs were lower than the sides.

  At the top sat an oaken door, worn smooth as silk, with a bronze keyhole burnished to a shine from years of use. The page drew a hook from her pocket and inserted it into a keyhole and pulled. With a soft snap of the latch, the door swung open.

  Gefjun was greeted with the sight of a gigantic dragon stable – a series of caves going into the the rocks of the mountain, the edges of the entranceways worn smooth by time just as the stone stairs had been. Before the caves was a gigantic stone landing ground paved with black obsidian, wide open to the sky above. The caves faced away from the sea, for the wind always blasted in from that direction. The landing ground, too, faced inland, with a sea entrance on the corner where the wind was blowing.

  The valley below the steep face of the mountain was bowl-shaped, scooped out by a glacier ages ago. The black dragons were flying out in that direction, toward… Gefjun squinted, unable to make out what was going on due to her bad vision.

  “His majesty, King Varinn,” the page chirped, pulling Gefjun’s attention back.

  The king walked quickly across the wide, obsidian-paved landing ground to meet her, his face worn. “That will be all. Thank you,” he told the page, pressing a coin into her hand. “Here’s a little extra for your help at this ungodly hour.” The girl bowed and scampered away.

  Gefjun sang a little song to sharpen her vision—and what she saw astounded her.

  Far off, coming overland from Skala, was a glowing orange sunseed.

  The rest of the sky was practically boiling with black dragons. She heard the leathery rush of dragon wings, the sound of grating chain mail.

  The sunseed, fast approaching, now had become big enough to let her see that it had wings and a dragon’s tail twisting behind it. There was a black dragon ahead of it, leading her. Or maybe she was chasing it; Gefjun couldn’t tell.

  Footsteps from the walls and crenellations below turned out to be guards rushing into position, eyes to the skies, and spears up. One black dragon landed nearby on the roof, its tail scraping like metal on the rock walls of the castle, throwing up sparks. The dragon’s rider looked up at the dragons gathering in the sky before he nudged his dragon and they leapt up into the air with a great burst of wings that blew Gefjun’s hair back.

  Gefjun let her song go. “Sir, what is happening here?”

  King Varinn massaged one great fist in his hand as he stared into the dragon-black sky, his jaw tight under his beard. “This is all Papa Ostryg’s doing. I should have known.”

  Gefjun half-laughed to herself, but not a happy laugh. “What is that idiot doing?”

  “That orange dragon, I am told, is carrying your friend,” he said.

  Gefjun gritted her teeth at the word. “Dyrfinna is not my friend.”

  “That’s Papa Ostryg on the dragon ahead of her, leading her in.”

  “Leading her?” she snapped. “No, Finna’s chasing him. I’m sure of it. She hates his stupid guts.”

  “Whatever is happening out there, he’s bringing a full-fledged emberdragon to our keep—the worst of all security breaches. If you say she’s chasing him, how do you think she’s going to come in here? Do you think he said to her, ‘Do come over to my friend’s keep, there will be sweet pastries and coffee’? Or is she going to come roaring in to my kingdom, blazing fire over all my people at the very heart of my operation?”

  “Finna wouldn’t attack civilians,” Gefjun said scornfully.

  “Do I have your word on that?” Varinn asked.

  Gefjun gaped like a fish for a moment, realizing she was defending Dyrfinna, who could piss up a rope for all she cared. But she said, “Yes. You have my word. But I still reserve the right to punch her in the face when she comes in.”

  “I don’t know if I can allow that,” he said.

  “Of course you can. You’re the freaking king!” Gefjun snapped.

  Then she realized she was speaking to the freaking king in a very disrespectful way. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she stammered, bowing, contrite in an instant.

  He watched her for a long moment, so long that she started to wonder if she should apologize again. Then a corner of his mouth twitched up. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to address royalty?”

  She lowered her head, but said, “Don’t place this on my mother. My sharp tongue is my fault, not hers.”

  “Well spoken,” he said. “Take care to remember this in the future.”

  “Forgive me, sir. I’ll go.” Gefjun turned to leave.

  “No, no,” Varinn said. “Do stay.”

  And Varinn reached over and gathered her hand in his.

  Her cheeks flushed as if she’d received an unexpected gift, and she looked questioningly into his raven face.

  “Is this okay?” he asked, his serious eyes studying hers. “This was just an impulsive move.”

  She clasped Varinn’s hand warmly. Her heart tore a little bit to see the pain in his eyes. “This is… this is fine,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want this to happen too fast. But you’ve been something of a joy to me for the last week. And joy is … well, it’s been something of a rare commodity here.”

  Gefjun bent her eyes down. She knew what he’d meant. And she thought of how angry Ostryg used to get when she’d bat her eyes at another man. The thought grieved her. Her poor darling. She had no right to do this, so soon after he’d died.

  Yet, it was so comfortable being with Varinn. Even though her heart was still in the dust, she loved being in his presence. He was so calm and quiet. It pleased her to help him. And now, as he held her hand in his, her heart was so high and beating so fast that she didn’t want to think of anything else.

  His brow was furrowed. She raised a hand and laid it on his forehead, trying to smooth away the lines.

  “I’m sure,” she said quietly, looking into his eyes.

  Her heart jumped again when he raised her hand in his and pressed it against his chest.

  “I am afraid,” Varinn confessed. “I want to care for you for yourself, not for the woman who I remember when I look at your face. I want to be sure that I’m … that I’m caring about the woman who you are. Not a memory. But for you. Gefjun, you make it too easy to care for you. Too easy. “

  His eyes were thrilling, and he gently squeezed her hand as he gazed into her eyes.

  “I want to do good things for you. I want to make you proud. But I also want to make you happy. If it turns out you don’t love me … I am fine with that. You can’t tell your heart what to do. You are always free to go if you’re uncomfortable or scared. But I want you to stay. That is, if you are so inclined.”

  His eyes were so intent. His face so close to hers.

  She kissed him. Her hands went up to his face, sliding back into his hair. His arms went around her, bringing her close, thrilling her down to her toes.

  They shared a long, deep kiss.

  Firelight from the dragons broke over them and they separated. He bowed his head, abashed, then looked up at the fires, much closer now, blooming in the sky as the first dragon blasted fire at Dyrfinna’s incoming dragon.

  “We had probably better watch this,” he said, releasing her hand. “I still have a kingdom to run, you know.”

  Gefjun saw the commander he called Hedgehog busily directing the battle a little distance away. She stood near a great fire, which made her visible to the dragons and their riders in the air, and used two white flags to signal them. Wig-wag signals, she thought, recognizing the same process that her side used to communicate to dragonriders aloft. Everybody else was busy, and nobody was paying attention to her with the king, much to her relief.

  So Gefjun went up on her tip-toes and stole a kiss on his cheek.

  A surprised chuckle came from Varinn. “Hold on, hold on, I don’t want to move too f
ast,” he told her. “I think I’ve already been moving fast enough.”

  “Maybe so,” she said. “Maybe.”

  Standing this close, she could feel the heat coming off him. She could see the delight in his face, but also that sweet awkwardness, how he didn’t know what to do with his eyes, with his hands – so he cried, “Look at that!” as the dragons swept into line for battle, so many against one.

  She longed to lean in on Varinn, but even now she was afraid to—as if Ostryg’s ghost would come in and push her away from him.

  And guilt slammed down on her heart like a boulder.

  Gefjun crossed her arms tight on her chest and gazed into the sky. All the sounds of battle came to her clearly—shouts of anger and the roar of dragons, but every thing moved like darkness behind a scrim, except for the blooms of fire, brilliant, hurting the eye so used to darkness.

  King Varinn, on the other hand, was intent. “My goodness,” he rumbled when Finna’s sunseed emberdragon plummeted onto the back of a dragon, which screamed and fell out of the sky, trailing fire. “Oh, well played.”

  Gefjun halfheartedly sang a little bit and brought the battle into sharp focus. Everything was still several miles away, but Finna and her emberdragon were valiantly taking on several dragons at once, while trying to get to a low-flying black dragon.

  Something about the black dragon that Papa Ostryg was flying suddenly struck Gefjun as very, very wrong. Why was Dyrfinna so intent on catching it?

  She sang her eyesight sharper.

  Now she could see anguish, fury in Dyrfinna’s face as her emberdragon dove after that black dragon. Her sword was out, and her eyes never left that dragon below them.

  Gefjun looked at that dragon. She was pretty sure that was Papa Ostryg due to his wide girth and his sneer as he turned front and urged his black dragon faster.

  The dragon dropped away from her, and it lowered its neck. Now Gefjun could see a small bundle in front of him on the dragon’s back.

  A bundle that worked a small leg loose from its wrappings to kick at Papa Ostryg.

  The ground dropped away from Gefjun in her shock.