The Dinosaur Princess

by Victor Milán

  Great mottled-grey-and-brown feet shuffled up great, prodigious clouds of dust as the three-horns trudged in circles, their huge frilled and horned heads lowered, murmuring cavernously at one another. Wood and wicker fighting castles were strapped to their high backs, though no one rode the ten-meter-long dinosaurs but their drivers. These were small dark men and women, Turco nomads from beyond the Scudo. Mercenaries of a sort, though combatant only when things went well and truly to worms, they sat astride the three-horns’ necks on saddles with special wooden chocks to prevent the monsters from lifting their heads far enough past dead level to crush them with their bony neck-shields.

  Best of all, there was Karyl standing bare-chested to one side with his hair caught up in a horsetail topknot and his blackwood staff in hand, nodding and talking to his head as he presided over the exercise.

  Rob inhaled deeply and felt his face split in a grin. “Ah, dust and dinosaur farts!” he exclaimed. “It smells like old times.”

  His Einiosaurus wasn’t fleet, though Jaume courteously kept his courser walking at her more … deliberate pace. But it had taken less than three hours’ ride from that vile toad Melchor’s former digs to what had been and was again Karyl’s headquarters. Providence wasn’t large. Their flight from the Horde outbreak, desperate though it had been, had taken much longer because they were still an army—Karyl kept them so, and so alive—and as such moved no faster than its slowest wagon.

  Jaume smiled down at him. “You love it.”

  “I do. Ennoble me His Imperial Nibs might see fit to do, but three things I am first and foremost: an Ayrishmuhn, a minstrel, and a dinosaur master. And a rogue.”

  “Isn’t that four things?”

  “Did I claim to be a mathematician? That’s one thing I’m not, Count of the Flowers. And some might consider the last item no more than a restatement of the first, so.”

  I love her less, though, he thought, looking again at the aide, now wrapped neck to booted toe in tight-fitting black, who nodded her short-haired head to whatever Karyl was telling her. It’s not that I grudge him a willing bedmate; he’s been in dire need of such since long before I found him in that sulfurous little Francés village, and that’s the fact. But I wish she didn’t stand between us.

  Mora Selena glanced over her shoulder, and her dark eyes widened in surprise. Rob’s apparition was no shock, though he granted his appearance might have been, to a lass of sensitive nature. But she knew the tall, orange-haired man who rode beside Karyl’s spymaster.

  Karyl turned deliberately. He had noticed newcomers riding up, and that openly, of course. But Rob saw his own left brow arch in an expression that served him as might another’s shout of surprise.

  “Rob,” he said, nodding. “Captain-General dels Flors. To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

  Well, his manner’s not effusively genial, Rob thought, but that’s just Him. He still felt uneasy. He’d spent months hearing Karyl speak the name of Jaume dels Flors, and never as if it tasted like honey on his tongue.

  To Rob’s complete astonishment, Jaume nudged his mare a few paces out ahead of Nell’s great hook-horned snout, halted her, dismounted, and dropped to his knee to show the orange queue at his nape to the Duke of the Borderlands.

  “Your Grace,” Jaume said, “I have come first to admit the great wrong I did you, your people, and your magnificent war-dinosaurs at the Battle of Gunters Moll, offer my heartfelt apologies, and beg your forgiveness. Or at least forbearance, because I have a much greater thing to ask of you.

  “I led the attack on your rear that dealt the first, unjust defeat to your undefeated three-horn phalanx because His Majesty had received poor intelligence as to your own motives and actions. A fact I discovered, to my horror, as I spent the next half year restoring peace to Alemania before returning to La Merced. He gave orders based on that intelligence, and I followed them, as was and is my duty. But that excuses nothing, nor do I make excuse. I acted wrongly, and submit to your judgment. And vengeance, if you feel called upon to take it. But I ask one thing: that you at least hear my request, in hopes you will carry it out even if you take my life.”

  Rob had seldom seen his friend at any kind of a loss. It amused him to see Karyl stare down at the kneeling man in plain confusion.

  But it didn’t last. Karyl’s face squeezed shut like a fist in what Rob recognized as a look of intense pain. Then he shook it once and raised it to gaze at Jaume with a calm, clear eye.

  “I accept your apology,” he said, only grinding out the words a touch. “You cost me a lot, that day. But then, it wasn’t you who defeated me; it was the Baron, here, and his wild mace-tail herd. You merely delivered the killing stroke to my White River Legion. And I seem to have forgiven this rogue of an Irlandés, so in time I suppose I shall forgive you, too.

  “In any event, to all intents the man to whom you did these things is dead. Twice over, though I am cursed to carry his memories, sorrows, and regrets. You are welcome, Count Jaume. Please, stand up. Will your Companions be joining us?”

  “No, Your Grace,” said Jaume, rising. “After I went into … voluntary exile, let’s call it … from the Imperial Court, I decided to send them to the Mother House here in Francia. There they can rest, heal their bodies, minds, and souls, and most of all remain as remote, and hopefully safe, from intrigue as possible, under the auspices of Mor Jerome, our Master of Estates.”

  Karyl nodded. “Very well. I take it you have come for something else, as well.”

  “I have. I’m here to beg for help you and only you can provide, in hopes of saving the Empire from a catastrophe of hard-to-imagine proportions. Though you of all men will have the clearest vision of its potential scope.”

  “You’ve intrigued me, at least. Please come into my home, then, and give me the details.”

  He turned and walked toward the big house.

  Jaume was a great, bold, dashing devil. And who knew that better than Rob Korrigan, who so assiduously followed his and his Companions’ every exploit? But still the Count held back, and his long turquoise eyes showed uncertainty as they flicked aside to Rob.

  Who laughed. “D’you think Himself’s the sort to make mere polite noises, my lord? If he still wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding out into the dust at this instant, not asked into his parlor. You can do as you will, but I’m going inside where it’s cool and there’s fine dark ale to wash the trail dust from my throat.”

  Chapter 35

  Jinete, light rider.…—Skirmishers and scouts, often women, who ride horses and striders. They wear no armor, or at most a light nosehorn-leather jerkin, with sometimes a leather or metal cap. They use javelins or feathered twist-darts, and a sword. Some also carry a light lance and a buckler. A few shoot shortbows or light crossbows, but mounted archery is very difficult, and not much practiced in Nuevaropa.

  —A PRIMER TO PARADISE FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF YOUNG MINDS

  What does it mean? Melodía thought.

  “You’re learning, Princess,” Auriana called down from her perch on the cutbank as Melodía rode her youthful sackbut, Tormento, in a placid circle on the flats by the little stream. It was late afternoon, and the heat had blessedly come off the day. The dirt and sand still smelled of it, though.

  What does it mean for Montserrat? What does it mean for me?

  Melodía knew she was improving. She had a fair degree of natural athleticism, and had been trained as a horsewoman most of her life, and taught combat on foot from an age not much greater than her poor lost sister, Montse, was now. Weeks of despair combined with the comforts and ease of life as a Princess of the Empire hadn’t utterly robbed her of the physical edge acquired in prior weeks on campaign. Learning to ride the truculent Parasaurolophus had turned out in large part to mean adapting existing skills to unfamiliar uses.

  It was another achievement. Another thing she’d done herself, not been granted by birth. And she couldn’t even feel triumph in it. Instead, she felt sick and scared and angry.


  What chance do we have, now that Rosamaría’s told me my father’s fucking the Duchess of Hornberg?

  Melodía had slept fitfully after La Madrota gave her the news, late last night. She’d been sleeping better in the weeks since Auriana began training her—the brutally accelerated schedule Rosamaría had subjected Melodía to had the lucky effect of causing her to fall exhausted into bed each night, so tired that aching muscles couldn’t even keep her awake. She hadn’t even been experiencing that recently.

  But the news had broken that cycle.

  I’d be happy about it, if it was literally anybody else, she thought. Except a Grey Angel. She’d long outgrown hating and resenting the possibility that her father might take another woman into his life after her mother’s death. Eventually, though, she’d come to understand that he’d adore his lost Marisol until his dying breath. For years Melodía had actively hoped Felipe would find someone to love. He had the occasional visit by a courtesan, well paid for her erotic skills as well as her discretion, to take care of his physical needs. That was only proper—and wiser than engaging in dalliances with women of his Court, like the older but still quite handsome Teresa de Rincón. Unusually wise, for a man she’d long since realized had an intellect that all but inevitably outpaced his judgment.

  But to her disordered mind the real situation made the old saw about clasping a viper to one’s bosom seem inadequate, if not outright preferable: a viper’s bite could grant her father a quick death. Rosamaría seemed to foresee that the Duchess von Hornberg portended a lingering demise, not just for the Emperor but the whole of Torre Delgao.

  And even she, the ageless master manipulator, seems at a loss as to what to do about it. That was the worst part of all to Melodía.

  “You’re not acting so damn self-conscious,” Auriana called. “That may not be the best thing to remind you of. But it’ll help you learn for the future: you already have the needed skills, from all your horseback riding. Stop worrying and let them take over.”

  She realized her maestra was right. Her mind was too preoccupied by a scarcely controlled seethe of thoughts and emotions to frantically overanalyze every twitch of her mount’s smooth red-and-black-scaled hide. Instead, she let the muscle memory and subconscious alertness that allowed her to ride a horse without constant attention keep her aboard and in control.

  It wasn’t much consolation.

  By now Melodía knew that La Madrota was using her spies and operatives among the Imperial Heart staff to keep the arena sealed off from intrusion during her lessons, even by other servants. The matriarch intended to keep Melodía’s intensive dinosaur-combat training secret until it was time for her to be knighted by her father in a public ceremony. Even Auriana, who wasn’t exactly paid to be effusive about her student’s knightly achievements, freely admitted Melodía’s solo fight against Bogardus, leather-armored on a mare versus a knight in full harness riding a sackbut, merited knighthood all by itself, as acts of prowess and daring go.

  And coming to terms with the great unruly beast, of course. By now the two had worked out a sort of wary truce between them, like an Imperial March and a Turanian Pashalik eyeing each other across a border stretch where the Shield Mountains offered little obstacle to crossing. Now she was persuading the monster to trot in the largest circle the yard offered a creature of his length, without his constantly dropping a shoulder or rearing up to dump her off. She already knew most of his maneuvers from horseback riding, though Meravellosa would never pull them on her. His were vastly more powerful, given that he weighed in at a slim 2,200 kilos, while her mare massed little more than a quarter-ton. His maneuvers were also slower, and the muscular preludes easier to read, by way of compensation.

  She was just glad the high, humped structure of his back made it impossible for him to roll all the way over.

  But it was hard to focus on any of that. Not even to take pleasure in her instructor’s qualified praise. Which was another achievement she had earned, still a rare and precious commodity in her life.

  No. What she thought was, So my father is screwing the Duchess of Hornberg. The man who makes decisions based on the most persuasive voice he hears. How can it not be hers?

  How I miss war.

  She nearly hated herself for the thought. But once it came, it was as if an incoming tide had met a dike of soft sand.

  Even back when we were desperate fugitives, trapped between armies intent on destroying us, she thought, I had clarity. I had action to take. We never knew who’d come back anytime we set out—never knew how long until time ran out on us all. But at least I could do something!

  So why not give in? Why not fight for my baby sister? Why not give war a chance?

  Her mind tried to tell her that was crazy. But the black despair in her belly and the roaring in her ears as her heart raced out of control with fear for Montse drowned out reason.

  We could do it! We could find a way! Maybe we could go overland through Ovda—the Padishah doesn’t have much love for Trebizon.

  And even if we failed, if we died—that would put an end to this feeling of helplessness. To the fact that I’m helpless—against the monster and his mother, against the hada who stole my sister away.

  Sensing his rider had moved on to full distraction, Tormento stopped and tipped his body forward, lowering his beak to the bare, hard-packed sand as if to graze. The surprise motion sent Melodía flying feet-skyward over the saddle pommel and the sackbut’s shoulder.

  Because of the tipping, she didn’t have far to fall. But he’d flipped her so that she landed flat on her back. Hard.

  And even as her chest heaved to reinflate itself with lost air, she thought, Would war really be worse than what I have now?

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming, my friend,” Karyl told Rob as he stood gazing down at the fire in the grate with his back to Rob. The wind blew chill from the Shields tonight. “And thank you for staying, as I asked.”

  As if I’d refuse your request, Rob thought. Especially to spend more time acting like friends.

  “My pleasure,” he said in a light tone. “Were you wanting to discuss the Count’s proposal?”

  “Jaume’s? No. I’ll do it. I saw the need for it as soon as he asked. Possibly more clearly than he does himself.”

  But you wouldn’t tell him as much right away? Rob thought with a sly smile. Is it that you wanted to let him stew in his juices, then?

  Or is it some deeper game you play? Knowing his friend as he did, he had to suspect the latter. Pettiness formed little part of Karyl’s makeup that he’d seen, although he could get in peevish moods. Like anyone. Rob didn’t want to ask him, didn’t want to risk spoiling the moment. He was savoring the fact that Karyl would ask for his advice again on anything, even if no more than what wine to import for his cellar.

  “So what is it you need?”

  “The Grey Angels aren’t done with us.”

  And don’t I know that, thought Rob, as I saw one playing the Emperor and all the Empire for prize fools in the tent that night?

  He was on the cusp of saying that when Karyl continued.

  “They are going to try to use war with Trebizon over the little girl’s abduction as a tool to get us to destroy ourselves. At which it would work well, at least for a start.”

  Rob swallowed hard. Karyl’s words settled like lead pellets in his stomach. It had been terrifying enough listening to Jaume’s oddly calm and factual account of their failed rescue of Melodía’s sister and its reason: Fae magic, beyond doubt. That the Fae suddenly seemed more active in the world than ever before was unsettling enough to a man of Rob’s background and experiences. Given what he’d seen in this very chamber a few weeks before, it was terrifying.

  He didn’t have to have Karyl’s strategic genius to see that the man was surely right.

  “Do you think they’ll try another Crusade?”

  “Not initially. As far as I know, no Grey Angel Crusade has ever failed before. At least not
since the end of Demon War.”

  He paused, and a ripple of something like pain passed over his pale, gaunt, dark-bearded face. Ah, Maris, his old headaches from the dent Falk’s axe made in his skull aren’t coming back now, are they?

  “This has the potential to light the fire of war across a third of Aphrodite Terra. If they can embroil the three empires that occupy this end of the continent, all battling one another, that will provide abundant opportunity to spread it. If their cunning matches their malice—which I suspect isn’t always so, but we can’t afford to wager on it—they can potentially carry it on to Vareta and the Central Kingdom and perhaps beyond.”

  Rob rubbed his chin. His beard, which he liked to keep neatly done and trimmed to a point, was getting bushy. He’d have to admonish his man Bergdahl for failing to point that out for him. Or maybe I need to instruct him to do that? I’m used to playing servant, not being served.

  “At which point, with all nations—perhaps all men and women—already battling one another, the time would be ripe to start influencing the already battle-maddened people into a full Grey Horde, would it not? Perhaps turn two against each other, and have them fight each other with that crazy self-forgotten abandon that made them so terrible to fight despite their lack of skill, or often weapons other than hands and teeth? They would rage and slaughter until the last pair on Paradise died with their own guts wrapped around them both like shrouds.”

  “That seems likely,” Karyl said, nodding. “You disclaim any grasp of strategy, but you show a sound grasp of the potential outcome.”

  Rob felt his cheeks heat up. “Sure, and I’d never pretend to know a thing about it, before such a master of the art as yourself.”

  Karyl actually showed a flash of white teeth. “What skill I have I’ve learned across a lifetime of single-minded study. It’s unkind to yourself to compare your own level to mine—just as it was to compare my musical skill to yours.”

  Rob laughed. “Aye, but your playing was that bad—still, I take your point. So, what do you need me to do? You haven’t exactly filled me with confidence that Ma Korrigan’s only son she didn’t strangle before he got away can do much against such a world-spanning catastrophe. Which for a fact sounds as feasible as bailing out the Océano Guinevere with my hat.”