He’d survived the burning building, helping a policeman to rescue what turned out to be a housecat instead of a baby.
Despite the deck behind him being on fire, Garrison survived the first fiery blast from the ice dragons.
Lii’Ku whipped off his cloak, attacking the flames.
The nearest ice dragon—not the one Garrison had fired at—was under twenty-five yards away, swooping over the water, wings fully outstretched. It would loose its fiery breath in seconds, Garrison knew.
Garrison pushed his shield away, crouched and took aim with his pistol. The underside of the wing—, what would have been the wing stem had the dragon been an aircraft—didn’t look to be armored with scales. Garrison fired two shots, then two more. He threw himself left, the ice dragon’s wing spewing blood or bile under such pressure that Garrison knew he must have struck the equivalent of a main artery.
Peering out from behind his shield again, Garrison watched as the ice dragon tried desperately to beat the air with the one undamaged wing, skipping over the white caps like a stone flicked across the water by some gigantic child.
There was a shriek, horrible beyond anything Garrison had ever heard, clearly the sound of a mortally wounded creature, yet almost supernatural, like he imagined the screeching wail of a banshee.
But the creature was not dead.
Only as it writhed in the icy water could Garrison at last see the mouth of an ice dragon up close. Three rows of spike shaped teeth filled its upper and lower jaws. Fully open those jaws spanned more than six feet from the long, forked tongue to the roof of the mouth.
Garrison emptied his pistol into the ice dragon’s mouth, firing down its throat. The ice dragon vomited a mixture of fire and blood across the water.
A cheer went up from the flagship, more cheers from the other vessels of the armada. Garrison changed to his last full magazine, looking skyward, knowing full well that the battle was just beginning.
The volleys of arrows and crossbow bolts began again, their targets the undersides of the ice dragons’ outstretched wings, where wing and torso met. Garrison happened to be looking the right way as one of the harpoon-sized bolts fired from the deck of the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel struck its mark, the ice dragon struck with such force that its untouched wing folded and the creature rolled over onto its spiny back. Spewing fire toward the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel, almost as a final act of hatred, the creature augered downward into the sea. It struck with the force of a missile. A concussion wave started from impact zero, rolling the sea outward in a full circle around it. The flagship and the other four small ships rolled as it struck them broadside, only the more massive Gle’Ur’Gya vessel seemingly unaffected.
Fire belched from above and Garrison ran for his shield as flames crackled along the deck behind him. There was no time to look up and back; he knew an ice dragon was chasing him. Flames outdistanced him to his right, Lii’Ku consumed by them and he changed directions. As Garrison was about to run out of deck—he was nearing the bow—at the far edge of his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of Gar’Ath and Mitan. They fired longbows in almost perfect unison, then dove over the rail.
Garrison hit the bow pulpit, ran the three steps, jumped the rail and plunged into the frigid water, clutching his pistol tight in his fist. The water above him vaporized into steam.
There’d been no time for a huge gulp of air. Garrison was forced to the surface. As his head broke the water, he saw the ice dragon, one wing crippled, but if there was any great bleeding, it was not immediately apparent.
Treading water, Garrison tucked his pistol into the double shoulder holsters, secured the thumb break safety strap, hoping it would hold, soaked as it was.
His eyes focused hard on the ice dragon. It flapped both wings, propelling itself through the water, belching a stream of fire which streaked a good twenty yards over the water. Not far beyond the flames were Gar’Ath and Mitan. They would never outswim the beast.
“Aww, shit!” Garrison snarled, cursing his own stupidity. But, Gar’Ath or Mitan would have done the same for him. They had, in fact, when they’d loosed arrows at the beast. Garrison started swimming toward the dragon. He would empty his pistols into the beast at close range, and if they didn’t stop the creature, his only viable recourse would be the axe which hung from his belt. Both the sword and the Golden Shield of IBF were back on board the flagship. The shield would have been only a burden under the circumstances, but the sword could have proven itself useful. He hoped that he wouldn’t need the axe.
Ten yards from the dragon, Garrison drew the pistol he’d just reholstered. He swam closer, wanting to be as close to point blank as possible before opening fire. In theory, his ammunition would still function, if Swan’s duplicates of his original ammunition were as perfect as they seemed to be. Seven rounds loaded, the distance six yards or so, he didn’t bother thumb-cocking the pistol. Both he and the ice dragon bobbed too much in the water—and, the water’s temperature was progressively numbing Garrison. Pinpoint accuracy, even at such a short distance, would be impossible.
He waited, waited, for the ice dragon to get past him, leaving the underside of its damaged left wing exposed.
The ice dragon exhaled fire again, A tongue of flame licked lustfully across the water, stopping less than a yard from Gar’Ath. The young swordsman had interposed his own body between that of the woman he loved and the dragon. The ice dragon swam relentlessly forward. When it next loosed its fire, the flames would engulf Gar’Ath and Mitan, no matter how rapidly they swam.
Garrison saw the arrows, still stuck in the underside of the dragon’s left wing, so close to the torso that one or the other should have pierced the artery. Neither had. Using the arrows as his aiming point, Garrison fired once, then again and again and again. All four bullets impacted, but he saw no effect. Garrison emptied the last three rounds into the creature.
There was still no noticeable effect. It didn’t even turn its head toward him.
Garrison inhaled and ducked under the waves, twisted his body so that he was on his back. Still under water he reholstered the pistol, then drew its match from the second holster.
Garrison surfaced. With a full magazine and one in the chamber, the pistol had eight rounds. Garrison fired twice, then twice more. He was closer to the artery, had to be, Garrison told himself.
Only four more rounds remained and he’d be down to the little .32 in his pocket and his two knives.
Deliberately, Garrison disregarded the arrows. If they had not struck the artery where they had hit, it had to be for a reason. There were some few human beings born with their hearts in right sides of their chests. Could an ice dragon have been born with this main artery between the wing and the torso either further forward or further rearward?
Garrison had four shots left with which he could find out.
Treading water, steadying himself as best he could, Garrison opened fire, two shots further forward along the underside of the wing, two shots further back. The first two shots achieved nothing. Nor did the third shot. The last shot struck the artery, and the ice dragon shrieked in anguish and rage. The pressure from the ice dragon’s great heart pumped blood toward Garrison with the force of a fire hose. Garrison was knocked back and downward, under water, no air in his lungs, his hand barely able to still grasp his empty pistol.
Garrison was going down, blackness and cold enveloping him. He thrust his empty hand upward, felt the chill of wind on his fingertips. With his last iota of strength, Garrison heaved his body upward, gulping air the instant his mouth broke the surface. He choked, his lungs cold and on fire at once.
The monster shrieked one last ear-splitting cry and its head bowed over, great red-rimmed eyes open as sea water washed across them.
Alan Garrison’s body was getting seriously numb. Somehow, he fumbled the empty pistol from his hand and into its holster beneath his sodden bomber jacket. Between the jacket and his cowboy boots, his body felt as if it weighed a ton. Forcing himself, Gar
rison started to swim. The vessels nearest to him and to Gar’Ath and Mitan were the flagship and the Gle’Ur’Gya Storm Raider. Gar’Ath and Mitan were already being thrown lines from the Storm Raider.
As Garrison fought to swim on he saw nine ice dragons were still in the sky, including the big horned male. Then he heard two splashes nearby. Looking around—his neck hurt when he did—Garrison noted that there were two men swimming toward him from the flagship, one of them Bin’Ah.
Garrison tried to swim toward them, his arms leaden, his legs not responding.
Erg’Ran peered over the side, the Champion floundering in the waves, but two men of the flagship nearly to him.
“Will he—”
“You will need your magic, Enchantress, lest he lose a limb. Waters as frigid as these can do much damage, and not only to the limbs, but can kill a heart, even one so great as that of the Champion.”
“Yes, Erg’Ran. I will see to—”
“See to him quickly, I suggest, Enchantress. Our best warriors are unable to continue the fight, and nine of the ice dragons still continue at the attack. That three have perished without the aid of magic is beyond anything that we could have hoped for, Enchantress. If they change their tactics and come in a group against one ship at a time, we will surely perish.”
“You are right,” Swan agreed, her eyes not meeting his. Erg’Ran knew that she was looking toward the water, and he knew why.
His niece would likely have to expend a considerable amount of her magical energy, not in summoning the storm, which was only a natural phenomenon, but in controlling the lightning.
If her magical energy became so depleted that it would take some time to restore itself, he would find himself on the horns of a terrible dilemma. If he shared with the Enchantress and her Champion his strongly held theory concerning the origin of her mother’s vast magical energy, Swan might be tempted to try tapping into that source herself. And, indeed, she might then have magical power as great as or exceeding that of her mother. If she did so, however, the prophecy could not be fulfilled.
But what if the prophecy was wrong?
Her magical energy seemed to return to her more quickly than it had. And her magical abilities were strengthening, expanding, deepening.
Erg’Ran did not know what to do, and only hoped that he would not have to make the choice.
Alan Garrison looked up into Swan’s eyes. “How am I doin’?”
Swan only smiled. Her hands passed slowly over his body, and he felt warmth returning to his legs and arms as her fingertips touched them. But warmth also radiated from the very core of his being, coursing through his veins. She was healing him, staving off the almost inevitable results of the hypothermia which had gripped him in the icy waters.
“Gar’Ath and Mitan?”
“They will be well. Such healing as this is simple, the simplest kind of natural magic. Mitan is well-versed in it. She will have been able to heal herself, without even consciously trying, and will be attending Gar’Ath as I attend you. Bin’Ah and the other of our company who went into the water after you were not so seriously affected. I will see to their needs very soon.”
“What about the little guy with the muscles? Lii’Ku?”
“My magical energy is sufficient that I could cause him to move about, even talk, laugh. But, it is not for my magic nor any magic to restore life to a body once life has slipped from it. He is dead, Al’An.” Swan touched her lips to Garrison’s forehead, as tenderly, he thought, as a mother might kiss a small child. Swan whispered, “That is why I took the essence of you from your body and placed it in the bird at Arba’Il’Tac. Had the life slipped from your body when you crashed to the rocky ground, I could not bring it back, with magic or any other way.”
“I understand,” Garrison answered.
“The ice dragons still attack.” As if to emphasize her words, there was the whooshing sound of a volley of arrows being launched against the beasts. “I must quickly see to many things. When you feel strong enough, bring your sword and the Golden Shield of IBF and attend me at the bow pulpit, Al’An.”
“I will,” Garrison promised. “Soon.”
She rose from her knees, Garrison watching her from where he lay near the mast. Swan stopped, her skirts lifted delicately in the fingertips of her left hand, her right hand first touching to Bin’Ah’s chest. After what would be called in Creath only a few “eyeblinks,” Swan touched the other of Garrison’s rescuers.
Garrison totally trusted to Swan’s magic and her goodness. Without being told, he knew that both men were healed.
Very quickly then, Swan walked forward, sidestepping still smoldering decking, making her way to the bow pulpit. Erg’Ran dropped to a crouch beside Garrison the next instant. “The Enchantress will summon forth a great storm. We must all be prepared. She will use her magic then to draw out the lightning, make it yield to her will. She will use the lightning to repel the ice dragons. It is our only hope if we are to survive.”
Garrison trusted to Swan’s magic, yes, but promised himself that as soon as the tingling was gone from his fingertips, he would load fresh cartridges into his fired out magazines, then reload his empty pistols. Just in case.
Swan ascended the three steps to the bow pulpit.
Her hands emerged from beneath her great cape, raised upward, arms fully extended.
There wouldn’t be time to reload his pistols. “Help me get to my feet, Erg’Ran.”
“Slowly, Champion.”
“Right. Help me.”
Erg’Ran stood, leaned down, offered Garrison his hand. Garrison clasped it nearly collapsing against the older man. “You’ll recall, Champion, I cautioned that you stand slowly.”
“I recall, already,” Garrison nodded, catching his breath from the exertion. “I need my sword and my shield.”
“I will bring your shield. Bin’Ah?” Erg’Ran called out along the deck.
“Yes, Erg’Ran?”
“The Champion’s sword and golden shield.”
“Yes, Erg’Ran.”
Garrison steadied himself, tried walking a step, nearly made it. Erg’Ran held on to him.
Volley after volley of arrows had sailed overhead, but none flew as Garrison stood on the flagship’s deck. The ice dragons had temporarily withdrawn to what Garrison mentally labeled as the west, swarming like hungry insects, circling the almost gently gliding horned male who appeared to be their pack leader. It was as if they were somehow conferring, via body language. And, perhaps they were, Garrison granted.
His sword was brought to him, on a baldric of wide dark brown leather. Erg’Ran helped him to slip it over his head and left arm.
The acrid smell of still smoldering deck planking merely added to Garrison’s lightheadedness. But he felt steadier than he had and ready to walk, albeit slowly and quite carefully. Erg’Ran carried Garrison’s shield and walked beside him, close enough to catch him, Garrison noted with some reassurance.
Ahead, at the very prow, Swan’s hands moved rhythmically through the air, swirling, gliding. In the distance, Garrison spotted a small, dark cloud. Garrison’s eyes followed Swan’s hands, moving with such grace that the motion was erotic. When he felt less than himself, he’d discovered over the years that he seemed to find humor in the oddest things. Such was the case as he continued forward along the deck, Erg’Ran still beside him. “Figured out why K’Ur’Mir men don’t get into magic very heavily. It’s not the thing that women just have more of it.”
“Oh! Really, Champion? Prithee, why, then?”
“Simple. All the hand movements and gentle touching and stuff like that?”
“So?”
“If a guy did that, he’d look like a sissy.” Erg’Ran obviously pondered the meaning of the word for an eyeblink or so, then slowly responded, “That is an interesting observation, Champion. I’d prefer to consider the full implications of your remarks before commenting, if I may.”
“Hey. Not a problem, Erg’Ran. We can talk about
it later.”
They were nearly at the bow. No volleys of arrows were being fired. Men stood on the deck, some with spears ready, some with hands on the hilts of their still sheathed swords, some with the prods of their crossbows cocked, all waiting for the dragons to strike. Garrison looked toward the Storm Raider. He thought that he made out Gar’Ath and Mitan on the afterdeck, but was certain that he saw some of the Gle’Ur’Gya setting their massive deck-mounted crossbows, preparing for the ice dragons’ imminent assault.
The little dark cloud Garrison had spied to the north was larger now, growing noticeably even as he watched it, expanding in height and width along the horizon. The wind was picking up. The icebergs seemed to be moving, too. From within the darkening cloud, Garrison saw a flash of light.
Swan was building her weapon, one which would destroy the ice dragons, and just possibly might destroy them. Her hands moved still more rapidly, as they had when she summoned the winds which saved them from the cyclonic wave, but somehow differently, as if each manifestation of her magic had subtle differences, like the intonations in speech or song.
Her hands moved with a flourish which Garrison had never witnessed before, palms outward, willowy fingers splayed. Yellow-white chain lightning crackled from the ever enlarging cloud bank in rhythm with the movements of her fingers, firing right and left, striking into the sea. The booms of thunder eyeblinks later were louder than any thunder Garrison had ever heard.
A gust of wind, colder than cold, swept across the ship, and Garrison’s bones all but rattled with its icy touch.
“Prepare you!” Erg’Ran shouted out across the deck. “Send forth signals to the other ships, Bin’Ah. Make it known to all the Company of Mir and to our Gle’Ur’Gya allies that a storm, in its relentless intensity unlike any that they have ever endured, is visited upon us! Its lightning will smite the ice dragons, ripping them from the sky, plunging them to their destruction in the icy deep!”
The Golden Shield of IBF Page 28
