Flight of the Dragon Kyn

by Susan Fletcher

  He still held her down. Could she hold out so long without breath?

  Then … a tingling. “We will not be your targets—but I will tell you this. I see many men on ski, drawing near above the cliffs. And the bird, Skava, is nearer still.”

  Chapter 23

  Where have they gone

  the old night-flyers,

  fire-foes,

  haunters of the heights?

  Where have they gone

  the ancient kyn of dragons?

  —KRAGISH SKALD

  Many men above the cliffs? And Skava … near?

  I wrenched round to look back.

  Nothing. Nothing but cliffs and snow and stars. If there were men, they were too far from us to help. But Skava … I could call …

  “Skava, come! Come!” I scanned the gloom behind me.

  Nothing. There was nothing. But wait. …

  A ghostly form, gliding down from the cliffs.

  Skava.

  Now to turn her, to bend her flight. I fixed my eyes upon Rog, studied his face, He was shouting; he still held Myrra down.

  “Go,” I willed Skava. “Go.”

  The thin current of her awareness trickled through my mind; I directed her toward Rog. I longed to turn to see her but dared not avert my gaze. Then there she was, skimming low across the edge of my vision, across the sand—straight for Rog’s face. Even in the dim light I saw it change, saw the fear seize hold. He swore, threw up his hands, staggered away, and then he and the bird were one: man-screams and bird-screams; wings and hands and claws all flailing together. Blood: There was blood. And something in the water … dark, with a round, pale face.

  Myrra.

  She lived.

  She tottered through the surf, stumbled, fell, disappeared under water, and then she was up again.

  “Myrra!”

  I tried to twist away from my captor, but he held me fast. I looked up at the circling birds and called, “Come!” They wheeled, swooped down toward me, a rabble of squawking birds. I heard the man’s yelp, felt his grip detach from my arm. I released the birds with my mind and ran for Myrra.

  Shouts. Rapid footfalls across the sand: Rog’s men. “Get it! Get the bird!” Rog was screaming.

  ”Come, Skava!” I called, and just as I reached Myrra, I heard the breath of the falcon’s wingbeat, felt the impact of her weight on my shoulder.

  Myrra was staggering, choking up water. She fell to her knees in the receding foam. “Get up, lamblet,” I said. “Come on.” Another wave—so cold, it burned. If only my hands weren’t tied. I would scoop her up; I would run.

  They would be here now. any moment—Rog’s men.

  A shout. A whistling noise. I ducked, but then, “The king!” someone yelled.

  I spun round to look.

  Arrows. Arrows raining down from the cliffs. The tiny dark forms of men stood silhouetted against the purple sky.

  I did not stop to marvel how Orrik had found us but went on coaxing Myrra out of the water. She could scarcely walk. She gripped my arm in her two bound hands; it was slow—impossibly slow. One good thing: No one pursued us now. For the moment, at least, all was confusion. Rog’s men were running, shouting, loosing arrows at Orrik’s men, who in turn swarmed down through crannies in the cliffs, keeping up a steady stream of arrows.

  A small fleeing figure caught my eye, cutting in and out among the men, among the arrows.

  Rath!

  He reached us as we came out of the wet, sucking sand onto harder ground, and in his bound hands he held a miracle: a dagger. I would have hugged him if I could. It was bliss when the rope around my wrists fell away and I could move my sore arms before me; but I had not leisure to revel in it, for arrows were falling dangerously near. I sawed through Rath’s bonds and had nearly severed the last stubborn threads of Myrra’s when I heard Rath scream and then Skava pushed off; she was flying. Rath clutched at his shoulder; something jutted out between his fingers.

  An arrow.

  He was hit.

  I froze.

  “Hurry!” Rath said through gritted teeth and began to run southward down the shore. My hand commenced sawing, but my mind stayed stuck. The last thread came loose; I picked up Myrra and ran stumblingly across the sand. My breath came ragged as I followed Rath, wondering that he could move so fast with an arrow in him. Then a shout, two shouts. Two men were pelting down the beach toward us from the south.

  I knew Corwyn first, knew the stout shape of him, knew by the way he held the falcon—it was Skava—on his fist.

  And before him … Kazan!

  A sob of relief shuddered through me. I ran, eyes fixed on the two men until Kazan was lifting Myrra from me, giving her to Corwyn; until Kazan took me in his arms. His voice was a breath in my ear: “Kara.” And I would have stayed there longer, but for Rath….

  “Rath is hurt,” I said, “an arrow … his shoulder …”

  And we came apart. Kazan bent to look at the arrow, then picked up Rath. Corwyn thrust out his fist for me to take Skava—I did so, praising her softly—and then we all ran south along the beach to where a small bark lay fetched up on the sand.

  Corwyn laid Myrra gently within, and Kazan set Rath beside her. The two men dragged the boat into the shallows. Kazan bade me get in while he and Corwyn pushed it out into deeper water. Then they climbed in, too; Kazan rowed through the worst of the surf. The bark reared like an unbroken steed; waves crashed against us, breaking into spray. I tucked Skava inside my cloak and bailed.

  When we reached the calmer waters beyond the surf, the men raised the mast and hoisted the sail. Then Kazan manned the steering oar, and Corwyn tended to Rath. There was a heap of furs in the prow where I sat with Myrra; I plucked out three dry ones and set about stripping off her sodden clothes and swaddling her in fur. She smiled, leaned back against me, gripped one of my fingers hard.

  “This bark,” I shouted to Kazan over the whipping wind. “I thought they destroyed all the boats.”

  “It is my ship’s bark,” he replied, grinning. “It was stowed in a corner of the shiphouse, and they never thought to look.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “I know a place where you can hide. Orrik is still wroth with you for thwarting him; and if Rog prevails, you will not be safe anywhere in the Kragish lands. I will take you away—”

  “No,” I said. The word came without my thinking, without my willing it.

  Kazan flinched, said nothing for a moment. Then, “You may not wish to go with me, Lady, but for now I am your only hope.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to go with you,” I said. “Only … I have promised … to the dragons—”

  “To send them to the northern land? Well and good! But choose another time, Lady—when we are not caught fast between two armies!”

  “But we’re not between them now. Take me …” I looked out across the heaving waters to where the island loomed gray against the sky. “Take me to that island. I’ll call from there.”

  “And when one side or the other prevails, how safe do you think we will be? There’s a longship under those cliffs, and it can outstrip this puny bark in the beat of a falcon’s wing. We need to be well away—and soon!”

  There was reason in what he said. And yet … I felt a trembling deep in the marrow of my bones, too low for hearing. I stroked Myrra’s hair as I scanned the sky, trying to see through the darkness.

  Nothing. I saw nothing. And yet I knew that they were there.

  “They won’t come another time,” I said to Kazan. “I betrayed them, can’t you see? I made use of them. But they’re out there now. I have to do this now.”

  “Out where? I don’t see them.”

  “If you’re afraid, only tell me what this land is like and I’ll call them by myself.”

  Kazan, struggling with the sail, glared at me. “Well, call them from here,” he said.

  “I promised there would be no others by but you and Skava. I broke that promise before and will not
again. I need to call now.”

  “Kazan,” Corwyn said, looking up from where he tended Rath, “the shaft has snapped; I need to cut the arrow out and I can’t do it in this pitching craft. Myrra … she needs a fire to warm her. We must get to land soon, and the island is safest.”

  Kazan swore softly, reset the oar, and turned the bark.

  It was a rough passage to the island. The wind beat at our ears and flung stinging salt spray in our faces; the bark tossed on the waves like a hoarnut shell.

  Kazan told me in snatches what had passed at the steading: how Corwyn had overheard one of Rog’s men speak of “north, up the coast”; how Gudjen had sent a messenger to intercept the king; how Corwyn and he had found the bark and followed through the smoke-frost. “We lost you in the open sea but found you again by the birds,” Kazan said, “as the king must have done as well.”

  When at last we reached the island, Kazan did not put in at the leeward shore but instead rounded the southernmost end and lay in at a small cliff-bound cove. We dragged the bark up onto the sand and carried Rath and Myrra to a sheltered nook in the rock. We nested them in furs and started a fire. Then Kazan and I—with Skava tethered on my fist—searched along the beach until we found a steep animal track that offered a way up.

  The wind tore at us as we climbed. In the deepening twilight, it was hard to pick out footholds. Scree rattled out from beneath our feet; we slipped on glazed-over patches of ice. Kazan offered to hold Skava for me, but I could not give her up—not yet.

  We came out on a high, flat bluff. I was resettling Skava on my fist when Kazan suddenly seized my arm. He pointed behind me, toward the mainland.

  A white gash of foam in the sea. And above it—a dark sail.

  The king?

  Or his brother?

  In either case, we had not much time.

  I drew in breath and called.

  They must have been near, for the wind picked up sharply. It roared in my ears, whipped my hair about my face, stirred up a fine, whirling flurry of snow. A tumult of birds converged in the darkness overhead. And then I saw them in the distance: first specks and then blotches and then dragons—clearly dragons—surging above the sea like breakers rolling for shore.

  They circled round the island, glittering, winged eels that filled the sky. Deep in my bones, their thrumming rumbled. Blue breath-flames burst and faded, leaving pale, smoky ghosts like spider-spin in the air. They had all come—the kyn entire. I knew this without troubling to count.

  I could feel the cool, thin thread of Skava’s excitement. She gazed intently at the dragons, leaning forward. I scratched her feet and reproached her: “So eager to leave me now, are you?” She burbled in her throat, nibbled at my fingers. There was a bright, sharp pang in my chest.

  I nodded to Kazan.

  He began to speak of this northern land, and it took form in my mind, as though emerging from a fog or a dream: a throng of mountain hulks, girt round by valleys near the sea. Wisps of steam arose from this land, as if the earth itself were breathing. Kazan told me of one mountain he had seen: squat and blocky, topped by a cloudy plume. Something familiar … Had I seen it before?

  Yes. In the steamhouse. With Gudjen. It came clear for me now.

  And Skava was bating …

  “Hush,” I said, settling her back on my fist. Kazan handed me his dagger; carefully I slit through her bewits to remove her silver bells. She would not need them now. Then I mocked myself inwardly, reflecting: She never did need them. I needed for her to have them.

  The first jess fell away. I looked up at the dragons, still circling overhead. There was Byrn, and the green one Skava had befriended—the one with the notched back ridge. And there was my friend, the young one with the arrow scar.

  Skava had a wild, longing look about her. I slipped the knife between her leg and the jess, cut through the leather, and, still holding the vision of that mountain peak in my mind, willed, “Go.”

  She pushed off my wrist, streaked out across the sea. The kyn of dragons wheeled and gathered in a single, liquid movement. Then one was peeling away from the rest—the young red one, my friend. It came swooping down, straight for my head. Kazan yelled, yanked on my hand, dived to the ground; every instinct urged me to do the same. But I forced myself to stand erect as the dragon skimmed not a fingerlength above me, breathed a smoky sigh that stirred my hair.

  Farewell.

  He soared round to rejoin his kyn. Slowly they unfurled, stretched out in a dark, gleaming ribbon behind Skava.

  Skava.

  I watched her until she vanished in the deep purple sky: a tiny white speck, pursued by dragons. A great aching engulfed my heart. My companion she had been—my stout companion.

  Then Kazan was tugging my hand. “Kara, let’s go, now! They come!”

  As I looked, a warrior appeared out of the darkness near the far edge of the bluff. He shouted; others sprang up beside him. They swarmed across the bluff; I ran.

  Then a voice: “Kara, wait!”

  It was Orrik.

  I slipped my hand from Kazan’s, turned around to face him.

  “Kara, are you crazy? Run!” Kazan said, grabbing again for my hand.

  “No.”

  “Kara, don’t be rash. Orrik will be raging; no telling what he will do. If we go now we can reach the bark and be well under way before he can get back to his longship.”

  “I can’t … run anymore,” I said. “You can go if you wish.”

  Kazan looked skyward as if to beseech the heavens against my folly. “Kara, be sensible—just this one time,” he pleaded. “Don’t throw away your life!”

  “I am being sensible,” I said. “I must stay and make my peace.”

  Chapter 24

  Take these gifts and use them well.

  —LINES FROM RITUAL MARRIAGE GIFT-GIVING, KRAGLAND

  Orrik barked out a command to his men; they halted. I could see him now, a lank, shadowed figure walking alone across the headland.

  “Would you wait for me?” I asked Kazan and added, as he moved to come with me, “Here?” He checked his step, blew out a hard, frosty breath, nodded grimly.

  I strained to see the king’s countenance in the dusk as we drew near—trying to take measure of his mood. He stopped, folded his arms across his chest. “You defied me, Kara,” he said. “I charged you not to send them away.”

  “I know.”

  He did seem angry, but there was no fire to it. Tired. More than all else, he seemed tired.

  “I couldn’t do them harm, your grace. And I feared you would force me to it. You … or Rog.”

  “Rog.” Orrik looked out beyond me, the way the dragons had gone. All color had drained out of the sky; the stars gleamed distant and cold. Abruptly, Orrik turned back. “You needn’t fret about Rog,” he said harshly. “He’s dead.”

  “D—dead?” I shouldn’t have been so shocked, but it jolted me; the word stumbled on my tongue.

  “Not by my own hand, though if another had not done it, it would like to have come to that. I did love him,” Orrik said, looking at me accusingly, as if I would deny it. “But he craved to be king, and that office is open to one only. Always pushing, always challenging, always striving to prove himself my equal. Ever taking offense where none was intended.” Orrik sighed.

  “Well,” he said and was silent a moment. “So you have me haltered and tied. I’ve sworn to avenge Signy’s brother, but you have sent the dragons away—before all my men—making a fool of me.”

  “Did you tell others that you had forbidden me to send them away?”

  “I had other matters on my mind! My own brother betrayed me and—”

  “Hear what I mean, your grace. If you were to claim that I did your bidding in sending them away … many, I think, would count you as wise. Now all raids on livestock will cease. The ancient kyn of dragons … is gone.”

  Orrik rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Was that all of them?”

  “I … believe so. To dragons, kyn
is both kind and kin. So dragon kyn to them means all beings of the dragon kind. And all are akin. To them we are human kyn—the human kind of beings—and they seem perplexed that we don’t all treat with one another as kin.”

  “We don’t treat: with our kin as kin,” Orrik muttered. He shook his head doubtfully. “But will Signy count her brother avenged? And surely some will denounce me for letting the dragons go unscathed. They will say we are not done with dragons—that they will return.” He stopped, pricked by another question. “Will they?” he asked. “Will they return?”

  “No!” I said quickly—too quickly—for Orrik quirked an ironic brow. “Or … I don’t think so. Why should they? It’s too perilous for them here.” But in truth I was not certain even whether they would reach the land with fire beneath the earth, much less if they would stay there. And another thing occurred to me.

  Eggs. There were eggs laid up all over this land in the dragons’ ancient lairs. This I had surmised from the dragons’ rumbling colloquies. The eggs took many years to hatch—how many I did not know. And milk. Baby dragons drank milk. So the mothers at least must return.

  “Mmm,” Orrik: said again, eyeing me closely. “I could … erect a fortress here, on this island, to guard against the dragons’ return. And I could name it … Rog. Or rather, I would name the island Rog, and the fortress, the castle of Rog.” The king nodded as if to himself. “He would like that, to have a fortress named for him. And,” he added shrewdly, “it would sap the venom from those who would make of him a saint and rebel against me in his name.

  “Yes.” Orrik began to pace. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I can bring Signy around—the dragons are gone, and who else is there for her? And you will return to your home steading a living legend. And I will be the wise king who ordered it all—”

  “Your grace,” I interrupted. “I no longer wish to go home. I want to stay at your steading, helping Corwyn in the mews.”

  “At my steading? In the mews? I am making a legend of you, Kara, and legends don’t drudge in a steading mews!”