Flight of the Dragon Kyn

by Susan Fletcher

  “Rog has taken Myrra and the boy Rath,” Gudjen said harshly. “He has sworn to slay them unless you go to him and call the dragons. He would kill them—I think—his pride is so far crushed. And I cannot find the strength in me to let him.”

  The guards were reluctant to release me, but Gudjen bullied and threatened, declaring, “I wear the keys to this steading,” and at last swept me out of their ward. She bustled me through the courtyard to the high hall, explaining all that had passed. Rog had not, I learned, gone to Signy after all. That had been a ruse to send Orrik and his men on the wrong course. Rog had departed with his troops to a secret place where now they awaited me. It was I he had wanted—to call down the dragons. To make a hero out of him.

  “Rog has sent some few of his men to fetch you,” Gudjen said, “and if we refuse outright to release you, he may yet carry out his threat to kill the children. So put him off—by whatever means you can. I’ll send for Orrik; he’ll come for you.”

  “But how? We’ll be well away before ever he returns. He’ll never find us!”

  “I’ll have you followed. Leave all to me.”

  Now we approached the high hall where a cluster of men stood arguing, Kazan and Corwyn among them. Gudjen accosted the chief sentry—there were five or six sentries, I saw—and straightaway fell into another stormy exchange. “The king gave clear orders to keep her,” the sentry said, “and I will not release her to Rog, who has become the king’s enemy.”

  “The circumstance has changed,” Gudjen retorted, “and I know best what Orrik would do were he here. Would you read his mind? Would you pay the price of reading it wrongly?”

  “I do only what he commanded,” the sentry said stubbornly. “He will not hold that against me.”

  “And I say he will—and I know him the better. And in either case you will have my wrath to contend with for a surety.” Gudjen fixed him with a baleful eye. He held her gaze until it seemed that he could bear it no longer, for he sullenly stood aside.

  Kazan and Corwyn were still arguing with the men who had come for me. Both the trader and the falconer pleaded to be taken hostage as well. But, “I know of your plans for the dragons,” one man said to Kazan, and at once I knew him as the guard who had held the high hall door while I told Orrik of my plan.

  “If you have blood and not ice in your veins, take me in exchange for my daughter,” Corwyn pleaded. “She is innocent of all, she …” He choked, seemingly unable to go on. It tore at me to see him so. Kazan laid a hand on Corwyn’s shoulder, said something low in his ear.

  Then one of the men was spinning me around, binding my hands behind my back. He shoved me along the trodden-snow path to the fjord. I turned to look for Kazan and Corwyn, but they were nowhere to be seen. Nor Gudjen, either.

  They had left me.

  Chapter 22

  As well try to herd dragons.

  —COMMON KRAGISH REMARK ON A FUTILE ACT

  We made our way down to the wharf. I trod gingerly on the slippery path, my balance hampered because my hands, lashed behind my back, could not aid me. From time to time my captor dealt me a shove to speed me; I had to scramble to recover my footing.

  The downward slope before us, deep in snow, dissolved into shadow all around. A ghostly pall of smoke-frost clung to the surface of the fjord.

  We had come nearly to the wharf when I heard a thud and then splintering sounds. I strained my eyes to see.

  I could barely make out the ships, gray shadows on the lighter gray of smoke-frost. But there was something … odd about them. They rode low in the water—too low. All of them—longships, knarrs, fishing boats.

  Something moved inside one of the boats. A man. He held something, something that gleamed faintly. An axe? I drew in breath. Was he chopping holes … in the bottoms of the ships? But the guard …

  “Did you take care of the trader’s ship as well?” The sentry’s voice came from behind me.

  “No need,” the man said. “They’re replanking the hull. It would sink like a stone if they tried to sail it now.”

  He was sinking the boats! They must have killed the ships’ guard—or he had joined them. I let out my breath, felt all within me sag. No one could follow on foot. The terrain was too rough.

  “Let’s go, then.” I was shoved in the direction of a small sailless bark I had not marked before.

  This bark alone rode high in the water. The man pushed me again. I turned around and looked daggers at him, but he only laughed. “Glare at me all you want, dragon girl. With your hands bound and no falcon to hide behind, your wings are well and truly clipped.”

  All the men rowed; I wedged myself uncomfortably in the prow. My wrists and arms began to ache. None would tell me whither we were bound; they hardly spoke at all. Only the plash of oars and the creaking of wood and the deep, far-off rumble of the sea broke silence. Behind us, through the mist, I could see a faint glimmering of torches. The steading. Each stroke of the oars dragged me farther from it, farther from warmth and friends and help.

  The sea’s roar, growing louder as we neared, put fear in me that we would attempt to sail it in this frail bark. But we did not. We lay in at last on a rocky beach at the north shore of the fjord, just before it met with the sea. The men portaged the bark around a snowy headland and up the coast to the shores of a small bay.

  And there before us burned the fires of an armed camp. Rog’s camp.

  Someone called out, “I have her!” The camp erupted in a flurry of movement. The fires were doused. Men—a score of them—swarmed toward us out of the mist, and I marked for the first time the longship drawn up upon the beach. They must have stolen it earlier under cover of night and fog.

  “Get in,” my sentry said, pushing me toward the ship.

  I waded through the shallows; someone lifted me over the gunwale as I could not climb in myself without use of my hands. Then a shriek: “Kara!”

  I turned and was accosted by Myrra with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet. Her hands, I saw, were bound before her. She leaned against me, sobbing, burying her face in my cloak. I ached to hold her, to stroke her hair, to wipe away her tears. I looked beyond, to Rath. His hands, too, were bound before him. He smiled up at me with wide, hopeful eyes as if I were a savior who had come to deliver him from all harm.

  “I can’t …” I said softly to him, over Myrra, and then swallowed. “I can’t make them come down low enough to please Rog. You must know this. I can’t … make them come at all.” Rath stood silent for a long moment. The hope in his eyes dimmed. He nodded gravely, and that tore at me nearly as much as Myrra’s sobs, for it seemed he had aged ten years.

  Rog spoke no word to me but went straight to man the steering oar and began shouting orders. The mast was raised. Myrra, Rath, and I huddled together for comfort and warmth between the rows of crewmen.

  The smoke-frost gradually dissipated; the sky grew lighter in the south, abating from black to purple to deep, rich shades of blue. Still, the wind blew bitter cold and the sea spray bit like ice. Through our plumes of frosted breath the land loomed white, save for a smooth, dark fringe of sand.

  It was daylight by the time we put ashore—on a rock-strewn bay bounded by cliffs and faced by an offshore island.

  One of the soldiers was herding Myrra and Rath and me across the sand toward the cliffs when Rog approached and halted us. “Call the dragons!” he commanded me.

  “My lord, you must understand,” I said carefully, “that I can call them—I will so if you wish it. But I cannot compel them to come down low enough to be slain.”

  “You can! I have seen it. Do you think me blind? Do you think me witless?” He drew so near that I could smell the rankness of his breath, could see the bloodshot lines in his pale eyes. There was an overwrought look to them, a too-bright intensity.

  “No, my lord,” I hastened to assure him. “Only … they have learned from that time before not to come near.”

  “Learned? They don’t learn. They do as their lust
wills—or as black arts command. You have the bidding of them. Tell them,” he said, and now a crafty look stole across his face, “tell them you’re sending them to this … land of fire beneath the earth.” He paused, measuring me. The guard, I thought. The one by the door when I told Orrik my plan. He was Rog’s man now.

  “Oh, yes,” Rog went on, chuckling, “I do know of this. I know all your plans. They will come to you. Now, call!”

  “If you know my plans, you know also they will come to me when Kazan and Skava are with me—but no others. They will not come when an army is near.”

  “So we hide beneath the cliffs. Call!”

  “It is daylight! They come out only at deepest night!”

  “Call, plague you! Or your friends—” Rog spun round, surprisingly quickly, and, before I could move to stop him, clouted Rath hard in the stomach. With a gasp of escaping breath, Rath doubled over and fell backward onto the sand. He lay curled—eyes squeezed shut, hands clutched against his stomach—but he uttered never a cry.

  “Don’t!” I screamed, lunging at Rog. Someone grabbed my bound hands and held me. I stood glowering at Rog, choking back the bitter bile that rose in my throat.

  “It will go worse with him if you refuse,” Rog said. “And with the girl as well. I will hold them under water until all the bubbles stop.”

  “You would not,” I said softly. “You are yet human.”

  “And you would wager their lives on that?”

  I minded me of what Gudjen had said: He would kill them—his pride is so far crushed. “I will call,” I replied at last, “but this I swear: If ever you lay hands on them, I will tell the dragons to go back and never come to me more. No—I will tell them to burn you until your skin turns black and your fat crackles. And I don’t give gull’s droppings what befalls me after that.”

  Rog laughed. I wrenched myself out of the warrior’s grasp and came away so easily that I knew Rog must have signaled him to let me go. I stumbled across the hard, wet sand toward the water, then turned back again. “And don’t look for them before deepest night,” I shouted, “for they will not come before, and nothing I can do will compel them!”

  Now there was a clamoring in my mind and I did not know what to do. I stood facing out to sea, gulping in the chill salt air, trying to collect my thoughts. I could feign calling the dragons and no one would know—not until deepest night. Perhaps I might keep Rog hanging beyond even that, but not by much, I guessed. And then … Would he carry out his threat?

  No. He could not be that for lost.

  Or could he?

  If I could at least give him sight of a dragon. That would show that I had tried to do his will, even if I could not do all. At the very least, it would buy me time.

  But time for what?

  Orrik had no ships and no way to know where we were.

  The dragons wouldn’t come down too near—that I knew. They didn’t trust me that far. As well they shouldn’t. For it would be a betrayal, calling them now. And I … balked at betraying them. Did not want to betray them. I wanted to rise above their contempt.

  I heard footfalls in the sand behind me. Myrra. She looked beseechingly at me, tears streaking down her face. I knelt down to her; she leaned her head against my shoulder and gave a little sob. Her hood fell back; her hair was damp and smelled of salt. Likely Rog had bade her come to me, a cynical ploy, and yet … it had in effect.

  Better small hope than none.

  I looked away, to north and east, above the cliffs.

  “Byrn!” I called. “Come. Byrn.”

  There was a tingling in my mind, like to that I had felt when I called Flagra.

  It was done.

  The birds came then, birds nowhere in the sky before—ravens, ptarmigan, redpoll, gulls. We settled into the lee of the cliffs beside a pitiful fire of damp twigs and branches, which gave little warmth.

  Waiting.

  Rog’s mood changed as we waited, swinging wildly from elation to sullenness to anger. He spoke of the many slights dealt him by his father and mother, his brother and sister. Never again, he said. Now they would know his worth. He spilled his plot in bits; he would not respond to questions but sometimes harangued at his men and sometimes muttered to himself and sometimes railed at me until gradually I pieced together what he intended.

  Rog spoke not of loving Signy but only of the power she could bring him. He thought to avenge her brother’s death and more: to kill all the dragons that had long raided his countrymen’s sheep and cows. Orrik’s own warriors would desert him and flock to Rog as the true hero, the powerful one.

  Rog had not, so far as I could tell, devised a way to rid himself of his brother. But I had no doubt that Orrik would not grace this world for long, if Rog had his way.

  The longer he raved, the more frightened I became. He had wagered alt on this misbegotten venture. If he lost, would he scruple to take down with him two children and a dragon girl?

  The sun set, but twilight lingered in the sky. The birds flew desultorily above. And still Rog raved. My hands grew numb with cold, the more so since they were bound behind my back. I turned around and wiggled my fingers before the fire to ward off frostbite. I had begged some furs for Myrra and Rath; now they sat and watched me with great eyes. From time to time I walked out from beneath the cliffs to search the sky.

  I could not see them.

  I could not feel them.

  One by one, the stars appeared.

  A gust of wind. It whuffed against my ears and faintly brushed my face. The birds began to swoop and cry. I looked up and saw, beyond the offshore island, an eddy of birds.

  No. Not birds. Though they seemed small as birds, there was something odd about them … their shape … the way they flew. There was a rumbling deep inside my bones.

  A shiver crawled up my neck and prickled at my scalp.

  “One man. No others. That was the promise you made.”

  Byrn’s voice drove like a shaft through my skull. I cried out; my head flinched downward and my shoulders hunched convulsively to protect it.

  “What is it?” Rog yelled, bursting out from beneath the cliffs. “Are they come?”

  “Go back!” I said. “They won’t come if they see you.”

  “One other, you told Orrik. Don’t try to trick me, Kara; I know what you’re about. Say I am Kazan.” He came nearer, stared into the sky. “Birds. Those are but birds.” He turned to me. “Birds came with them the last time, too. They—”

  I shook my head. “Not birds. Dragons. I said I’d call them, and I did.”

  “Dragons? Don’t cozen me! They’re much too small for dragons!”

  “They’re far away! You see the shape of them, how they fly?”

  Rog squinted uncertainly into the twilight sky, turned back to me, then seemed to make up his mind. He ran back to the cliffs, shouting, “Dragons! They’re here! Nock your arrows!”

  “Is he the one you spoke of?” Byrn asked contemptuously.

  I hesitated. I could not lie.

  “No,” I said. “He is not. He took two young ones of my—my kyn … and threatens their lives. He would have killed them if I refused to call you. And I knew you would not trust me so far as to come down within bowshot, and so your kyn would be in no danger.”

  I felt a wordless response that felt like nothing so much as a snort of pure contempt. “Humans!” The cluster of dragons shrank back.

  “Wait!” I called. “Only show yourselves to him. Not within bowshot, but near enough that he can see …”

  “You have betrayed us—used us. Why should we help you? You are his creature now. He tethers you, even as you tethered the falcon. ”

  “No I’m not, I—”

  “Call them in close. Now!” Rog yelled.

  “I’m trying! Only wait!”

  I closed my eyes and sought Byrn with my mind, to beg her to come within clear sight. But I felt only an odd, unyielding force, something hard and shut against me. When I opened my eyes, the dragons had mel
ted back into the thickening twilight; their rumblings had dwindled to a muted thrum.

  I heard voices behind me; I turned around. The archers had lowered their bows. “Birds,” one man said. “They were only birds.”

  And a murmur of “Birds” rippled through the company of warriors. Someone snickered—and then all went suddenly silent. I turned to look at Rog, afraid.

  “You’ll pay for this,” he said softly, and then louder, “Fetch me the boy! No, wait!” Rog held up his hand. “The girl,” he said, turning to study my face. “She will be first.”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t. They were … They are dragons. You saw them, saw the shape of them, saw them hovering there so long. Birds do not—”

  “Don’t think you can fool me again! They were birds!”

  Now one of the warriors came carrying Myrra under his arm. She kicked and screamed, but to no avail. “You won’t do this,” I said, more to comfort myself than to persuade him of it. “I know you. You are a warrior—yes—but not a murderer.”

  Rog gave me a hard, dead look. The man handed Myrra to him as easily as if she were a sack of grain. Rog waded into the surf.

  “No!” I screamed, lunging forward. Pain arced up my arm. The warrior had seized it; he was holding me back.

  And Rog was thigh-deep in the surf, was dropping Myrra, was grabbing her hair. I caught one quick glimpse of her face—white and drawn and pleading. “Wait!” I said. “I’ll do anything, I’ll call them, I’ll make them come, I—”

  “You should have done that before, instead of trying to dupe me. Now it’s too late for her,” Rog said, “so do it for the boy.”

  He shoved her head under the waves.

  My scream tore at my throat.

  He could not do this; he must be bluffing; he would let her up….

  But how if he did not?

  “Byrn!” I called. I could barely see them now; they were but specks in the darkening sky. “Come, please come. Just near enough that he can see you! Not for me—for her—for Myrra. She has done nothing—nothing! She is innocent of all!”

  They were there—I knew it. I could hear the faint thrumming beneath the shrill cries of birds, beneath the hissing roar of the waves.