Wings of Fire

by Jonathan Strahan

  He wondered what to say. He put down the cup and walked away to the window, looking out on the night’s sky. There were a hundred things to ask: his parents’ lives; Owain’s; the safety of his land—and in each one there seemed some flaw.

  Finally he chose the simplest. “Love me,” he said.

  For a long time Glasog said nothing. Then he heard her cross the room.

  He turned. Her eyes flashed at him, sudden as a serpent’s. She said, “Dare you? First drink from my cup.”

  “Is this your first wish?”

  “It is.”

  He hesitated, looking up at her, then walked away to the table and reached for the shadowy cup, but another appeared beside it, gleaming, crusted with jewels.

  “Which will you have?” she asked.

  He hoped then that he understood her question. And he picked up the cup of plain pewter and drank it all.

  She said, from behind him, “You have your wish, Gwydion.”

  And wings brushed his face, the wind stirred his hair, the raven shape swooped out the window.

  “Owain,” a voice said—the raven’s voice, and Owain leapt up from his prison bed, such as he could, though his head was spinning and he had to brace himself against the wall. It was not the raven’s first visit. He asked it, “Where’s my master? What’s happened to him?”

  And the raven, suddenly no raven, but a dark-haired woman: “Wedlock,” she said. “Death, if the dragon gets his due—as soon it may.”

  “Glasog,” Owain said, chilled to the marrow. Since Madog’s men had hauled him away from Gwydion’s door he had had this dizziness, and it came on him now. He felt his knees going and he caught himself.

  “You might save him,” Glasog said.

  “And why should I trust you?” he asked.

  The chains fell away from him with a ringing of iron, and the bolts fell from the door.

  “Because I’m his wife,” she said. Eri stood there. He rubbed his eyes and it was Glasog again. “And you’re his friend. Isn’t that what it means, friendship? Or marriage?”

  A second time he rubbed his eyes. The door swung open.

  “My father says,” said Glasog, “the dragon’s death will free prince Gwydion. You may have your horse, your dog, your armor and your weapons—or whatever you will, Owain ap Llodri. But for that gift—you must give me one wish when I claim it.”

  In time—Gwydion was gazing out the window, he had no idea why, he heard the slow echo of hoofbeats off the wall.

  He saw Owain ride out the gate; he saw the raven flying over him.

  “Owain,” he cried. “Owain!”

  But Owain paid no heed. Only Mili stopped, and looked up at the tower where he stood.

  He thought—Go with him, Mili, if it’s home he’s bound for. Warn my father. There’s no hope here.

  Owain never looked back. Gwydion saw him turn south at the gate, entirely away from home, and guessed where Owain was going.

  “Come back,” he cried. “Owain! No!”

  It was the dragon they were going to. It was surely the dragon Owain was going to, and if Gwydion had despaired in his life, it was seeing Owain and Mili go off in company with his wife.

  He tried again to force himself through the window slit. He tried the door, working with his sword to lift the bar he was sure was in place outside.

  He found and lifted it. But it stopped with the rattle of chain.

  They found the brook again, beyond the hill, and the raven fluttered down clumsily to drink, spreading a wing to steady itself.

  Owain reined Swallow in. He had no reason to trust the raven in any shape, less reason to believe it than anything else that he had seen in this place. But Mili came cautiously up to it, and suddenly it was Glasog kneeling there, wrapped only in her hair, with her back to him, and Mili whining at her in some distress.

  Owain got down. He saw two fingers missing from Glasog’s right hand, the wounds scarcely healed. She drank from her other hand, and bathed the wounded one in water. She looked at Owain and said, “You wished to save Gwydion. You said nothing of yourself.”

  Owain shrugged and settled with his arm about Mili’s neck.

  “Now you owe me my wish,” Glasog said.

  “That I do,” he said, and feared what it might be.

  She said, “There’s a god near this place. The dragon overcame him. But he will still answer the right question. Most gods will, with proper sacrifice.”

  Owain said, “What shall I ask him?”

  She said, “I’ve already asked.”

  Owain asked then, “And the answers, lady?”

  “First that the dragon’s life and soul lies in his right eye. And second that no man can kill him.”

  Owain understood the answer then. He scratched Mili’s neck beneath the collar. He said, “Mili’s a loyal wench. And if flying tires you, lady, I’ve a shoulder you can ride on.”

  Glasog said, “Better you go straightway back to your king. Only lend me your bow, your dog, and your horse. That is my wish, ap Llodri.”

  Owain shook his head, and got up, patting Mili on the head. “All that you’ll have by your wish,” Owain said, “but I go with them.”

  “Be warned,” she said.

  “I am that,” said Owain, and held out his hand. “My lady?”

  The raven fluttered up and settled on his arm, bating as he rose into the saddle. Owain set Swallow on her way, among the charred, cinder-black hills, to a cave the raven showed him.

  Swallow had no liking for this place. Owain patted her neck, coaxed her forward. Mili bristled up and growled as they climbed. Owain took up his bow and drew out an arrow, yelled, “Mili! Look out!” as fire billowed out and Swallow shied.

  A second gust followed. Mili yelped and ran from the roiling smoke, racing ahead of a great serpent shape that surged out of the cave; but Mili began to cross the hill then, leading it.

  The raven launched itself from Owain’s shoulder, straighter than Owain’s arrow sped.

  A clamor rose in the keep, somewhere deep in the halls. It was dawn above the hills, and a glow still lit the south, as Gwydion watched from the window.

  He was watching when a strange rider came down the road, shining gold in the sun, in scaled armor.

  “The dragon!” he heard shouted from the wall. Gwydion’s heart sank. It sank further when the scale-armored rider reached the gate and Madog’s men opened to it. It was Swallow the dragon-knight rode, Swallow with her mane all singed; and it was Mili who limped after, with her coat all soot-blackened and with great sores showing on her hide. Mili’s head hung and her tail drooped and the dragon led her by a rope, while a raven sat perched on his shoulder.

  Of Owain there was no sign.

  There came a clattering in the hall. Chain rattled, the bar lifted and thumped and armed men were in the doorway.

  “King Madog wants you,” one said. And Gwydion—

  “Madog will have to send twice,” Gwydion said, with his sword in hand.

  The Dragon rode to the steps that led up to the wall and the raven fluttered to the ground below as waiting women rushed to it, to bring princess Glasog her cloak—black as her hair and stitched with spells. The waiting women and the servants had seen this sight before—the same as the men at arms at the gate, who had had their orders, should it have been Owain returning.

  “Daughter,” Madog said, descending those same steps as Glasog rose up, wrapped in black and silver. Mili growled and bristled, suddenly strained at her leash—

  The Dragon loosed it and Mili sprang for Madog’s throat. Madog fell under the hound and tumbled to the courtyard below. Madog’s blood was on the courtyard stones—but his neck was already broken.

  Servants ran screaming. Men at arms stood confused, as if they had quite forgotten what they were doing or where they were or what had brought them there, the men of the fallen kingdoms all looking at one another and wondering what terrible thing had held them here.

  And on all of this Glasog turned her
back, walking up the steps.

  “My lady!” Owain cried—for it was Owain wore the armor; but it was not Owain’s voice Glasog longed to hear.

  Glasog let fall the cloak and leapt from the wall. The raven glided away, with one harsh cry against the wind.

  In time after—often in that bitter winter, when snows lay deep and wind skirled drifts about the doors—Owain told how Glasog had pierced the dragon’s eye; and how they had found the armor, and how Glasog had told him the last secret, that with the dragon dead, Madog’s sorcery would leave him.

  That winter, too, Gwydion found a raven in the courtyard, a crippled bird, missing feathers on one wing. It seemed greatly confused, so far gone with hunger and with cold that no one thought it would live. But Gwydion tended it until spring and set it free again.

  It turned up thereafter on the wall of Gwydion’s keep—king Gwydion, he was now—lord of all Dyfed. “You’ve one wish left,” he said to it. “One wish left of me.”

  “I give it to you,” the raven said. “Whatever you wish, king Gwydion.”

  “Be what you wish to be,” said Gwydion.

  And thereafter men told of the wisdom of king Gwydion as often as of the beauty of his wife.

  The George Business

  Roger Zelazny

  Roger Zelazny’s first short story, “Passion Play”, was published in Amazing Stories in 1962. It was followed by fifty novels, more than 150 short stories, and three collections of poetry. One of the most outstanding writers of the New Wave, he won the Nebula Award three times and the Hugo Award six times. While novels like Lord of Light, Isle of the Dead, and Doorways in the Sand won or were nominated for awards and have been hailed as classics, he remains best known for the enormously popular ten-volume Amber series of science fantasy novels beginning with Nine Princes in Amber. Zelazny died in 1995, but several works have been published posthumously including mystery novel The Dead Man’s Brother and a six-volume set of his collected short fiction.

  Deep in his lair, Dart twisted his green and golden length about his small hoard, his sleep troubled by dreams of a series of identical armored assailants. Since dragons’ dreams are always prophetic, he woke with a shudder, cleared his throat to the point of sufficient illumination to check on the state of his treasure, stretched, yawned and set forth up the tunnel to consider the strength of the opposition. If it was too great, he would simply flee, he decided. The hell with the hoard; it wouldn’t be the first time.

  As he peered from the cave mouth, he beheld a single knight in mismatched armor atop a tired-looking gray horse, just rounding the bend. His lance was not even couched, but still pointing skyward.

  Assuring himself that the man was unaccompanied, he roared and slithered forth.

  “Halt,” he bellowed, “you who are about to fry!”

  The knight obliged.

  “You’re the one I came to see,” the man said. “I have—”

  “Why,” Dart asked, “do you wish to start this business up again? Do you realize how long it has been since a knight and dragon have done battle?”

  “Yes, I do. Quite a while. But I—”

  “It is almost invariably fatal to one of the parties concerned. Usually your side.”

  “Don’t I know it. Look, you’ve got me wrong—”

  “I dreamt a dragon dream of a young man named George with whom I must do battle. You bear him an extremely close resemblance.”

  “I can explain. It’s not as bad as it looks. You see—”

  “Is your name George?”

  “Well, yes. But don’t let that bother you—”

  “It does bother me. You want my pitiful hoard? It wouldn’t keep you in beer money for the season. Hardly worth the risk.”

  “I’m not after your hoard—”

  “I haven’t grabbed off a virgin in centuries. They’re usually old and tough, anyhow, not to mention hard to find.”

  “No one’s accusing—”

  “As for cattle, I always go a great distance. I’ve gone out of my way, you might say, to avoid getting a bad name in my own territory.”

  “I know you’re no real threat here. I’ve researched it quite carefully—”

  “And do you think that armor will really protect you when I exhale my deepest, hottest flames?”

  “Hell, no! So don’t do it, huh? If you’d please—”

  “And that lance… You’re not even holding it properly.”

  George lowered the lance.

  “On that you are correct,” he said, “but it happens to be tipped with one of the deadliest poisons known to Herman the Apothecary.”

  “I say! That’s hardly sporting!”

  “I know. But even if you incinerate me, I’ll bet I can scratch you before I go.”

  “Now that would be rather silly—both of us dying like that— wouldn’t it?” Dart observed edging away. “It would serve no useful purpose that I can see.”

  “I feel precisely the same way about it.”

  “Then why are we getting ready to fight?”

  “I have no desire whatsoever to fight with you!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You said your name is George, and I had this dream—”

  “I can explain it.”

  “But the poisoned lance—”

  “Self-protection, to hold you off long enough to put a proposition to you.”

  Dart’s eyelids lowered slightly.

  “What sort of proposition?”

  “I want to hire you.”

  “Hire me? Whatever for? And what are you paying?”

  “Mind if I rest this lance a minute? No tricks?”

  “Go ahead. If you’re talking gold your life is safe.”

  George rested his lance and undid a pouch at his belt. He dipped his hand into it and withdrew a fistful of shining coins. He tossed them gently, so that they clinked and shone in the morning light.

  “You have my full attention. That’s a good piece of change there.”

  “My life’s savings. All yours—in return for a bit of business.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  George replaced the coins in his pouch and gestured.

  “See that castle in the distance—two hills away?”

  “I’ve flown over it many times.”

  “In the tower to the west are the chambers of Rosalind, daughter of the Baron Maurice. She is very dear to his heart, and I wish to wed her.”

  “There’s a problem?”

  “Yes. She’s attracted to big, brawny barbarian types, into which category I, alas, do not fall. In short, she doesn’t like me.”

  “That is a problem.”

  “So, if I could pay you to crash in there and abduct her, to bear her off to some convenient and isolated place and wait for me, I’ll come along, we’ll fake a battle, I’ll vanquish you, you’ll fly away and I’ll take her home. I am certain I will then appear sufficiently heroic in her eyes to rise from sixth to first position on her list of suitors. How does that sound to you?”

  Dart sighed a long column of smoke.

  “Human, I bear your kind no special fondness—particularly the armored variety with lances—so I don’t know why I’m telling you this…. Well, I do know, actually…. But never mind. I could manage it, all right. But, if you win the hand of that maid, do you know what’s going to happen? The novelty of your deed will wear off after a time—and you know that there will be no encore. Give her a year, I’d say, and you’ll catch her fooling around with one of those brawny barbarians she finds so attractive. Then you must either fight him and be slaughtered or wear horns, as they say.”

  George laughed.

  “It’s nothing to me how she spends her spare time. I’ve a girlfriend in town myself.”

  Dart’s eyes widened.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand….”

  “She’s the old baron’s only offspring, and he’s on his last legs. Why else do you think an uncomely wench like that would have six suitors? Why els
e would I gamble my life’s savings to win her?”

  “I see,” said Dart. “Yes, I can understand greed.”

  “I call it a desire for security.”

  “Quite. In that case, forget my simple-minded advice. All right, give me the gold and I’ll do it.” Dart gestured with one gleaming vane. “The first valley in those western mountains seems far enough from my home for our confrontation.”

  “I’ll pay you half now and half on delivery.”

  “Agreed. Be sure to have the balance with you, though, and drop it during the scuffle. I’ll return for it after you two have departed. Cheat me and I’ll repeat the performance, with a different ending.”

  “The thought had already occurred to me.—Now, we’d better practice a bit, to make it look realistic. I’ll rush at you with the lance, and whatever side she’s standing on I’ll aim for it to pass you on the other. You raise that wing, grab the lance and scream like hell. Blow a few flames around, too.”

  “I’m going to see you scour the tip of that lance before we rehearse this.”

  “Right.—I’ll release the lance while you’re holding it next to you and rolling around. Then I’ll dismount and rush toward you with my blade. I’ll whack you with the flat of it—again, on the far side—a few times. Then you bellow again and fly away.”

  “Just how sharp is that thing, anyway?”

  “Damned dull. It was my grandfather’s. Hasn’t been honed since he was a boy.”

  “And you drop the money during the fight?”

  “Certainly.—How does that sound?”

  “Not bad. I can have a few clustets of red berries under my wing, too. I’ll squash them once the action gets going.”

  “Nice touch. Yes, do that. Let’s give it a quick rehearsal now and then get on with the real thing.”

  “And don’t whack too hard….”

  That afternoon, Rosalind of Maurice Manor was abducted by a green-and-gold dragon who crashed through the wall of her chamber and bore her off in the direction of the western mountains.