Against a Rising Tide

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “This way,” the forester said at last. He led the two sojourners through more trees, around a boulder, and to an old mine entrance. The wooden supports looked as frail as István felt, and he gulped. The True-dragon made a nervous sound, not quite a whimper or whine.

  “They look worse than they are,” their guide said. “Another way to discourage the unwelcome.”

  István sent a silent prayer to St. Barbara, patroness of miners and those at risk of sudden death. He let the True-dragon go first, following close behind. The forester stopped a few paces into the mine opening, found a lamp, and lit the candle. The trio walked quickly, and the moment they turned into a side tunnel, István felt a shield spring up around them.

  “Thanks be to God,” he murmured without thinking.

  «Amen» answered his prayer.

  “The brown bastards have already poked through here, found nothing worth their time, and left again. Getting dirty with honest work does not appeal to them,” the forester snapped.

  «There was nothing in the House Chronicles that described a foe like the Nazis, and ours go back to the Magyar invasion.» Confusion warred with anger in the True-dragon’s voice.

  “Because even the Mongols only killed bodies. They did not seek to twist and destroy souls. Or so the Guardian of my House averred, and I saw no reason to doubt him,” István said. István Eszterházy is dead. But to think of myself in the past tense . . . what a strange world we live in.

  The forester’s voice came back to them, echoing the faintest bit on the stones of the tunnel.

  “So says the Drachenburg archivist as well. Just a little farther, and it is down-slope from here.”

  Indeed, István sensed the floor tipping under his feet, a shallow incline. Did they descend into the mountain or parallel the slope? He wanted to hum “In The Hall of the Mountain King,” but suppressed the urge. The floor became clearer, and the walls also, and he saw more light ahead than just the lantern. He also smelled food—a meal would be good. The wonderful breakfast he’d eaten had gotten him this far, but he needed fuel. And rest would also be welcome.

  Something moved just outside the shield, and outside István’s own shields. The forester stopped, head tipped to the side as if listening to someone. He turned.

  “Herr Doktor Nagy, you will stay here two days. A storm has blown up behind the mountains, snow storm, and travel is not wise.”

  István nodded.

  “Thank you. I have encountered a few winter mountain storms, but in the Carpathian foothills, not the Alps. I’d prefer not to see an avalanche in person if I can avoid it.”

  “I’m not fond of them either, Herr Doktor. Though they do make gathering firewood easier, six months later.” The forester snorted. “We used them during the last war, in the south, which may explain the lack of Italians on our doorstep this time.”

  That and House Brixen and Archduke Rudolph.

  “I have heard it said that Italians can learn. I have also heard it said that cows can jump over the moon.”

  “Only English cows,” a woman said. István stopped, bowing to a distinguished, straight-backed old woman in black mourning. “Welcome to the Drachenburg. I am Martina, aunt of the Guardian Lady Magda. She bids you welcome and offers you the hospitality of the valley. Because of her other,” one silver eyebrow rose, “visitors, she cannot be here in person.”

  “Thank you, Frau Martina.”

  István hesitated, wondering if he should offer condolences.

  «Thank you, and may God bless the House and all its people for your mercy and hospitality,» the True-dragon sighed, sinking to his belly.

  István stepped sideways, clearing the path for a Healer and two children, one carrying a large tankard of water and the other an enormous plate of food. He saw a bench-like bit of stone and sat, resting the two cases on the floor and taking his satchel off. Just sitting felt wonderful, and he closed his eyes for a moment, but someone tapped against his shields, and István opened his eyes once more. Frau Martina stood in front of him, one eye slightly narrowed, the corners of her mouth turned down in the beginnings of a frown.

  “Your pardon, gracious lady, but I was mind-burned some years ago, and I cannot speak mind-to-mind unless I am in physical contact.” Her eyes started to open wide and she shifted her weight back as if preparing to flee. “I was assisting my House Head as he tried to contain a rogue talent,” he added. “A man who mind-stripped the innocent for information and power. Something backlashed.”

  “Ah. Forgive my reaction, Herr Doktor Nagy.” She ducked her head, revealing an old-fashioned widow’s cap pinned to her brown and grey hair. “I have read of such things, but only in accounts from the previous century. All with talents here are part of the House, or are descended from the House and so are known. No rogue has ventured within House lands for centuries.”

  The rest of the day passed quickly. István ate, and afterward a young True-dragon showed him a warm spring where he could wash. The hot water soaked away some of his woes, and he napped on a bench near the spring, letting the heat and humidity ease more of his cares. When he woke, someone had patched the shoulders on his coat, and a different pair of shoes waited for him.

  «Herr Brauer is mending yours, sir.» The small purple-and-tan reptile explained. «We have leather and plenty, since an avalanche swept one of the alps last summer.»

  István slept well that night, soaking in heat from the very stones of the mountain. He woke and found hot tea, bread, and butter waiting. His shoes had also been re-soled, and someone had gone through his bag and removed, washed, and mended his spare socks. Perhaps the mountains had mine spirits, like the ones in the tales his nurse had told him and Matyás and Judit in the nursery. More likely, someone had seen his clothes and decided that the dignity of the House demanded that he look presentable when he left. House Sárkány had done the like more than once, back in the day, or so his mother had averred.

  He ventured to one of the cave mouths, glanced at the hand-sized flakes of snow that blocked his view of the valley below, and retreated to the caverns again. Once he would have gone exploring, asking questions and chafing at the lack of activity. Now he sat, content to sit and watch the True-dragons work and have lessons with other children. Lady Martina came, gesturing for him to remain seated, and sat beside him.

  “With the others in the valley, we dare not let those of ‘impure blood’ venture out into the open. One would think that the weather would discourage them, but I fear they are too dedicated and blind to be wise.”

  “From what I have seen, I am persuaded to agree with you, gracious lady. The men of the army remain men, but those of the party, like the Black Arrow men, they have sold their souls, most of them.”

  She stared ahead, one sturdy hand starting to clench into a fist.

  “My sorrow for your loss, gracious lady. A . . . friend . . . told me of Graf Johann’s passing, and that of his son.”

  István hoped that he had spoken the right words.

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor. We have not been permitted to mourn, and it wears on the spirit.”

  She stood and went about her business.

  A danger warning slammed against István’s shields later that morning, and he felt a Presence moving in the mountain. The True-dragons fled, running faster than the little Hungarian lizards skittered over stones, disappearing down the tunnels. The other children ran in a different direction, and the adults began dousing lights, and carrying books, blankets, and supplies down the passageways. István hurried back to where he’d left the two cases. He found the Wittelsbach True-dragon sitting beside them, shaking his head.

  «Someone—»

  Darkness filled the cavern as all the candles and lamps winked out in the same instant. István ducked, pulling the cases against the wall and trying not to make sound as he crouched beside them. I wish I had my revolver. And a shotgun, and my hunters, and my troopers, and one of those enormous herding dogs from the Alföld. He heard boots on stone, and swearing
, and an angry man’s voice—echoing a little—from off to his right, on the opposite side of the chamber.

  “There are caves here. The bitch lied, just like her father. There’s treasure, I know it. Spread out and search.”

  Flickering red light, and smaller pools of white light, appeared in the blackness—torches and flashlights held by men in black and silver.

  «SS!» Bitter, raw hatred colored the sending. «The worst of the worst. They pollute everything they look at, let alone touch.» A mental glimpse of a battered man, obviously tortured, then lying dead with a bullet in his skull—the Head of Wittelsbach. «You must flee.»

  «Not without the case.» István didn’t know if his companion had heard, but he felt around, patting the stone until he found the cube-like box and eased it off the ground. He tried to shift his weight without making noise, but he scraped on the stone.

  “What’s that?” The light beams swept toward him, and István moved again, lifting the box. He started to straighten up and creep away. “Who’s there?”

  The True-dragon shifted in the darkness, and István tripped. He fell, rolling, trying to protect the case, but the tumble tripped the latch and without thinking, he grabbed the crown.

  Power exploded in his mind, images filling him: a thousand coronations and ceremonies, a chain linking the crown to Pannonia. Memories and emotions swept over István like an avalanche. The very stones of the crown radiated power and emotion as he saw each coronation, each Guardian linking with Pannonia, and felt the shock as humans and Half-Dragons first felt the inhuman age and presence in their minds. István fought for control, fought to separate himself from the cascade, to get away, to run and save the crown from evil. He heard screams, shots, a terrible roar, and a Presence driving him pushing him, steering him. He ran without thinking, crown held against his chest, case in the other hand, chased by the very hounds of hell. Thousands of fragments of Hungarian history flowed through István’s mind, and it was all he could do to keep moving, to feel his own body here and now. At last, sides aching and chest burning, he managed to stop long enough to put the crown into the case, using touch alone, and close it.

  István collapsed, gasping, cold stones under his hands and head. He closed his eyes, but the world grew no darker. The Presence left him. He pulled the case against his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Then awareness faded away.

  A blanket. István felt something soft and warm over him. His arms and legs had cramped, and he hissed under his breath as he tried to move. Every muscle burned or stung, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his head—even downing a bottle of Cousin Imre’s favorite plum brandy wouldn’t leave such a terrible headache. Warm fingers stroked his forehead.

  “My lord, I would think a Healer would know better.”

  “I was impulsive long before I came to the title, or became a Healer,” he said without thinking. We’re speaking Hungarian. He blinked and opened his eyes. Candle lanterns and an oil lamp cast pools of yellow and white light, softer than the flashlights of the enemy. “Your pardon.”

  A young woman chuckled, or tried to.

  “It is the owner of the crown who owes pardon, and considering what that individual did to the unwelcome guests, I am inclined to give it full forgiveness, so long as it never does that again. I fear the local Power will not forgive the crown’s owner any time soon.”

  Pannonia acted through the crown this far from its own lands? The smart part of István’s mind curled up in a dark corner of his skull and whimpered as it tried to hide. Something felt wrong, a piece missing? Memories no longer where they should be? I’ll worry later. The rest of him sat up, with care for his aching body and throbbing head.

  “The local Power has the right of it. What happened? I heard the Nazi men, heard shots and a fight?”

  He tried to recall, but he saw nothing but chaotic glimpses of priests, candles, monarchs, battles, and the land of the great plain stretching from the Alps to the curving massif of the Carpathians.

  “They thought to use the storm to hide themselves as they raided treasure caves,” the young woman said. Venom dripped from her words, and István glanced up. A tall, slender, red-headed girl stood, one hand resting on the wall of the tunnel. “I felt power explode, and death in the caverns, and a whirlwind that ran into the mountain.”

  “My lord, my lady,” a man’s quiet voice said. “The Wittelsbach refugee attacked the Nazis, took them by surprise. And something exploded, although we do not know what or how. None of the men in brown survived.”

  “Terrible thing,” a second man drawled. “Going out before we could check the cornices and avalanche chutes. Truly a tragedy, such dedicated men lost to the Reich.”

  “Peter, you are terrible,” the lady said, without rancor or anger. “And I trust they will be found only after it is safe to go looking.”

  “Yes, my lady. At least a day, if not longer.” A rough-faced man leaned into the lantern’s light and peered at István. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were caught in the storm as well, my lord.”

  István felt hollow. He closed his eyes and ran a check. His Healing gift felt intact, but the instant he tried mind-speech, pain blinded him. Hot tears burned down his face, and he whimpered in agony. The lights burned, and he closed his eyes as the world swirled around and around. He dimly heard voices, and strong, hot hands on his forehead, and then something slid between him and the pain and he threw himself into blessed soft darkness.

  “You can hear True-dragons, but no others,” the Healer warned. “Your Healing gift is actually stronger, but be very, very careful until you know your exact limits and strengths.”

  “And my House connections?” István had to know. Please Lord, please may I not have lost that last link to my children, please.

  The old man rubbed under his nose, then smoothed thin white mustaches.

  “It remains, as best I can tell. I’ve never seen anything quite like your mind, my lord. Instead of clear channels, like streambeds, all but your Healing gift are tangled and scorched. Whatever or whoever it was that sent that backlash through them truly destroyed everything associated with speaking mind-to-mind. I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “Thank you, and please, I’m not my lord. I’m just a Healer.”

  István thought for a moment, then blinked. If the crown’s energies did that to me, as damaged as my mind was before I touched it, what would have happened if the channels hadn’t been three-quarters blocked? How far would the power have backlash have gone? Is that why Rudolph—why it takes so terribly long for him to recover, why he is always drained to a shell? István shuddered. No wonder the Head and Guardian had to have a buffer!

  The men heard a woman’s steps coming toward them, and István struggled to his feet as Lady Magda came into the small side-chamber. He and the Healer bowed.

  “Forgive me, Lord István, but you must leave. The passes have opened to the east, and we have three days of traveling weather before the next storm.”

  “My lady, I am no longer Lord István,” he protested. “And thank you. I have drawn too deep of your hospitality as it is.”

  I do not want any more people killed on my behalf.

  She wagged a slender finger at him. “Only István Eszterházy could carry the crown of St. Stephen to safety,” the local Power said through her. He bowed again. “But you are correct, that Dr. Nagy needs to go. Thank you for certifying the deaths of the unfortunate men.”

  “I could do no less than my duty, my lady.”

  He’d never been happy to sign a death certificate before that afternoon, but he’d signed quite a few with an almost clean heart in this case. He’d also sworn to pray for the soul of the True-dragon, Richard von Wittelsbach.

  “A guide will get you as far as the pass into Vorarlburg.” Lady Magda shook her head. “The Swiss are not closing their borders yet, but go carefully, Herr Doktor. There are Americans prowling around that area, looking for something.”

  They are going to
find it, if I can find them.

  “My lady, this time of year I am more afraid of avalanches and foolishness than I am of Americans. Storms do not seem to worry about nationality or allegiance.”

  The Austrians chuckled.

  “No, they do not. Powers and powers come and go, but weather will be with us forever.” Lady Magda nodded again. “Go with God, Herr Doktor.”

  “Thank you. May He bless your House and all who look to it for refuge.”

  “Halt!”

  István froze. The man spoke German with a terrible accent. István kept his hands in plain sight as the soldiers crowded into the small house—little more than a shed with a stove and bed. The sick woman coughed, and one of the young men backed up a little.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Doctor Martin Nagy. I am treating a pneumonia patient. She is not contagious but remains very weak, and needs to be kept warm.”

  He spoke slowly, giving the soldier time to translate.

  “He’s a doc, says the lady has something and needs to stay warm.”

  The soldiers took their fingers away from their rifle triggers, but István didn’t move.

  “My documents are in the breast pocket of the coat on the chair.”

  “Check his pockets.”

  The soldiers searched István, but did not take his holy medallion or rosary.

  “Come with us, Doc,” the German speaker commanded. “And don’t be stupid.”

  I don’t have the energy to be stupid any longer, István thought with a sigh.

  He moved slowly, always keeping one hand in view of the young men. He carried the crown’s case and his medical case. The soldiers had his other bag. They blindfolded him for some reason, but didn’t hurt him, and one held his elbow to keep him from tripping on the rough ground.