The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  The deeper into the woods he went, the more uneasy he became. And now the short hairs of the back of his neck rose, the feeling was so strong. He could understand why no one wanted to come here. The feeling of repulsion was well-nigh overwhelming.

  Yet weaving through it came a seductive call, something that beckoned him on. He followed it.

  The woods ended abruptly. Linden stopped short between two trees, a hand on each, to study what he’d found. He had no doubt this was what he’d been hunting. Magic had been worked here—old magic, and dark magic. Where he’d felt the magical resonance of the stone circle as a pleasant hum, this made his bones ache. He set his teeth against it.

  And only magic would account for the way the woods ended as if at a wall. Not even the underbrush penetrated the clearing before him; the edge was as cleanly drawn as though with a knife.

  A slope rose before Linden; there seemed to be something on the top of the low hill. To either side the forest curved around the base of the hill. Everything was so patently unnatural it set his teeth on edge, from the ending of the forest to the precise cone shape of the hill. It shouted of magery. That so much effort had been taken spoke of the place’s importance to someone.

  But to whom? And why? Linden asked himself as he left the shelter of the trees.

  At once the ache in his bones became worse. Clenching his fists, Linden set out to investigate his discovery.

  First he circled the base of the gentle hill. The circle was large; almost large enough, he noted absently, for him to Change. Not that he would want to do so. The magic here was inimical to his own; the pain he felt now would be nothing compared to what he’d feel if he made himself vulnerable by Changing. He shuddered at the thought of it.

  The grass carpeting the slope was short; it made him think of the lawns in the palace gardens. It seemed someone didn’t fancy trudging through long, dew-laden grass to get to the top of the hill.

  Definitely not some hedge-wizard, then—not that one would be likely to have the kind of power that’s been used here. This is the work of a trained—and damned strong—mage. Yet a mage of that caliber usually attaches him—or her—self to a royal patron, and I’ve heard no talk of any mages in Casna.

  That such a mage might be about—and hidden—did not bode well. Bloody, bloody damn. Please don’t tell me Lleld was right after all. Ah, well. Best look over the crown of this cursed hill; there seems to be something up there.

  Linden strode up the slope. The ache dug dark fingers into the very marrow of his bones now. The pain increased as he came closer to the summit; he had to stop and deliberately shut his mind to it. Yet there was still that seductive thread he’d felt before running through the pain. Linden ground his teeth and continued to the top.

  The summit of the hill was flat, as though a giant sword had neatly sliced off the crown, and no grass grew upon it. It was empty save for a large rectangular stone that rested on a base of smaller, square-cut stones, rather like a tabletop. Linden eyed it as he circled the packed earth of the summit, careful to walk sunwise. He estimated the stone to be some seven feet long and a good yard wide; the top edge was nearly waist-high to him. The stone was smooth; too smooth to be natural, yet he could make out no marks from tools upon it.

  It’s an altar, said a voice at the back of his mind. And old—very, very old.

  Linden had no doubts what this altar had been used for in the past. Sickened, he forced himself to go closer until he stood next to it.

  The power within the altar beat at him. As he’d suspected, this was the focus of the dark magery that tainted this clearing. But even as it repelled him, the darkness called to him, honey-sweet, magic seeking magic. His will lulled, Linden stretched his hands to the altar.

  From deep inside him, Rathan bellowed No!

  He pulled back, disoriented by the sudden surge of his dragonsoul. But Rathan was right; he hadn’t the magic to fight this if ensnared. He was no trained mage. He backed away until his feet found the slope, then turned and skidded and slid down the hill.

  The altar called to him to return, trying to wind the threads of its magic through his, to bind him to it. Linden closed his mind to the stone’s beckoning.

  He was almost at the beginning of the woods when the stench of rotting meat assailed his nostrils. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and back. Linden stopped short and spun around, looking everywhere at once. He knew that smell. All at once he was sixteen again and terrified.

  Then Linden caught hold of himself and shook his head. Fool! It’s not Satha—it can’t be! With your own eyes you saw him crumble to dust more than six hundred years ago. Either you’re imagining that smell or it’s some dead animal nearby.

  Still, he wished for his sword. If it was Satha, the undead Harper might recognize the blade, if not the wielder. After all, Tsan Rhilin had rested in the same tomb with him for the gods only knew how long before Rani had awakened him.

  He waited, but the stench was gone. Not a dead animal, then, or he’d still smell it. Had he imagined it? He must have—he had to have imagined it. His mind refused to contemplate otherwise.

  He was only a Dragonlord, after all—not a god. And even Dragonlords could still fear demons from their pasts. Linden turned his back on the clearing and ran.

  By the time he reached the gelding, who was munching on a bush it could just reach, Linden had convinced himself that, if not a figment of his imagination, the stench was nothing more than some dead animal, perhaps even a kill of the bear who had gouged the tree. The gelding’s feckless unconcern reassured him. Surely if anything were wrong this stupid beast would have ripped free and run for home.

  Linden pulled as many leaves and twigs out of the gelding’s mouth as he could, ruefully noting that he owed the groom in charge of the tack an apology.

  “Nothing worse than a filthy bit, gooserump,” he grumbled after he was back in the saddle. The very ordinariness of this problem soothed him. “And you’ve done a fine job of fouling yours.”

  He found a path that ran in the direction he wanted and turned the gelding onto it, recalling in his mind the lay of the forest and the lands between it and Casna.

  It was imperative that he return to the city as quickly as possible.

  Dusk was falling by the time he reached the city once more. As soon as he reached his house, Linden retired to his sleeping chamber with orders he was not to be disturbed. Still shaken by what he’d seen and felt in the woods, he threw himself into a chair and reached out with his mind.

  It was barely a half-instant before the others answered; it felt like an age.

  Linden? What’s wrong? Where are you? Kief demanded.

  Why aren’t you here yet? Tarlna chimed in.

  Confused, Linden said “Here”? Where’s “here”?

  Lord Sevrynel’s estate, they both answered. Tarlna said, It’s another of his impromptu gatherings and this one was especially for you. It was to show off some new brood mares from Kelneth. Didn’t the messenger find you?

  He remembered the rider in the blue-and-orange livery earlier. No, I was out riding. And hang Sevrynel and his gatherings! This is important. I’ve got to talk to you; can you two find somewhere private?

  He felt them withdraw slightly while they discussed the problem. Then: Give us a few moments.

  He waited in an agony of impatience until he felt their minds again. You’re not going to like this, he said.

  Then he told them all he’d found.

  When he finished, there was a moment of stunned silence. Then, so faintly he could barely hear it, Tarlna said, Oh, dear gods—no.

  Are you certain? Kief said. The bleakness in his mindvoice told Linden the older Dragonlord was grasping at straws rather than truly doubting him.

  As certain as I can be. But I’m not a trained mage; none of us are. All I got were impressions, really.

  We’ll have to investigate it further, Tarlna said. The force of her revulsion made Linden’s flesh creep in sympathy.

&
nbsp; I think I know how to, Linden said. An idea was forming at the back of his mind; he hid it from the others. He didn’t like it but he could see no other way.

  But Kief must have picked up something in his tone. You’re not planning anything rash, are you, Linden?

  No, Linden said, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. I just want to fly over it in dragon-form; I suspect I’ll be able to “see” more.

  You may well be right. When do you intend to do it?

  After full dark. I don’t want to take the chance of being seen. No sense in alerting whoever’s responsible that Dragonlords are interested, is there?

  Kief asked, Do you want one or both of us to go with you?

  Ah—no, Linden said. It would look suspicious if you leave suddenly. People will wonder why. It’s best I go alone.

  So be it, Kief said at last. We’ll stay as a distraction.

  But Tarlna tried to argue him out of it. She desisted when he finally yelled at her, Do you have any better ideas?

  No, she had to admit.

  Neither do I, Linden retorted. Now let me go; I want to rest and eat before I do this.

  The others withdrew reluctantly.

  Linden wiped a hand across his forehead. Thank the gods he’d finally been able to break the mindspeech link; he didn’t know how much longer he’d have been able to hide the full extent of his plans.

  He just hoped he wasn’t about to commit suicide.

  “Where the blazes is he?” Peridaen whispered to Anstella as they watched the revelers milling about the Earl of Rockfall’s great hall.

  “I don’t know,” Anstella snapped back. “He should have been here by now. Look—there’s Sevrynel talking to the other Dragonlords. Perhaps our answer is there.”

  “He doesn’t look happy,” Peridaen said, and drank. “And neither am I. I want this over with.”

  “Hush. Here he comes.”

  When their host drew near, Anstella beckoned to him. “My lord,” she said when he joined them, “isn’t Linden Rathan coming?”

  If possible, Sevrynel’s stooped shoulders drooped a little more. “No, my dear Baroness. The other Dragonlords just had mindspeech with him. It seems that he had other business to attend to and never got my invitation. Oh, dear. And I did so want his opinion of my beautiful ladies … .” He half turned away, shaking his head in a distracted manner as he meandered off.

  “Oh, for—” Peridaen began.

  “Go tell Ormery,” Anstella hissed in his ear, “and leave this to me.”

  With that, she broke away from Peridaen’s side, knowing he would send the servant to warn off Sherrine and Althume. She would deal with Sevrynel.

  She caught up to him and slid her arm through his. He blinked at her in surprise; before he could say anything, she smiled warmly at him, knowing well the effect it would have.

  It did. The man looked as if he’d been pole-axed.

  “Poor Sevrynel,” she said, her voice low and husky and rich with sympathy. “I’m so sorry. But perhaps—just perhaps, you could do this again? I know Linden Rathan will be so sorry he missed this; Sherrine told me he thought very highly indeed of your horses.” She squeezed his arm.

  An idiotically happy smile lit Sevrynel’s face. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Hm. Let me think.” He twisted one end of his sweeping mustache around and around a finger. “Tomorrow?” he murmured.

  Anstella bit back a fierce grin of triumph.

  “No, not tomorrow.” He shook his head. “Tomorrow is Lady Telia’s dinner and I’m attending. No, not tomorrow night.”

  He trailed off, muttering to himself. Anstella refrained from boxing his ears. But if they hadn’t needed this fool …

  Sevrynel said happily, “But the night after is free! I can do it then.”

  “My lord,” Anstella said. “You’ve no idea how happy I am to hear that. How very happy.”

  She withdrew her arm from his. “The day after tomorrow it shall be. Until then—farewell, my lord.”

  Forty-one

  Linden slipped out of the house late that night, saddled the gelding himself, and rode alone out of Casna.

  It was more than a candlemark later before he found what he wanted: a large meadow with a stream so that the gelding could drink and eat, and another field beyond with enough room for him to Change—and far enough away that he wouldn’t panic this idiot horse.

  Long practice made quick work of settling the gelding. It immediately began to tear at the lush grass. Linden left it and jogged off. He refused to think about what he planned to do.

  As he trotted through the long grass, memories of long ago returned. He’d done much the same thing on a hot summer’s night centuries back while a member of Bram and Rani’s company. Nor had the feeling of mixed excitement and apprehension dimmed with the passage of the years. He lengthened his stride and ran for the sheer joy of it, deliberately pushing away the thought of what was to come.

  At last he stopped and looked back to see if he’d gone far enough. Linden nearly laughed to see how much ground he had covered. Throwing his head back and lifting his hands to the stars, he let himself melt into Change before he had second thoughts.

  He reveled for a moment in the power of his dragon body, then leaped into the sky. Wing stroke after powerful wing stroke swept out and down as he spiraled up into the starry night. When he judged himself high enough, Linden stretched his wings out and hung in the air like a gigantic hawk. He took his bearings and angled east.

  The air flowed over him like warm silk, soft and smooth against the skin stretching between the vanes of his wings. Sister moon hung in the sky, watching him as he flew over the fields and meadows outside of Casna.

  His sharp dragonsight pierced the night, searching for anything unusual. His long neck curved as he swung his head from side to side.

  Nothing that interested him as a man—but something that caught his draconic half’s interest: sheep. They were penned together by a hut at the edge of a field well away from the forest. This shepherd took no chances with wolves; he had obviously never considered dragons.

  Linden dropped lower. His mouth watered at the sudden blast of rich, muttony scent from below—though the thought of gulping down raw sheep still in its fleece made him queasy. Rathan thought it a wonderful idea. Absolutely not, Linden said firmly. To his relief Rathan subsided. He just hoped he’d be able to subdue Rathan again later on.

  The sheep bleated in terror as he passed overhead. No doubt the shepherd would be looking to see what had disturbed his flock and Linden had no desire to be seen in this form by anyone. He stretched his wings and flew faster.

  In far less time than it would have taken him to ride there, Linden hovered high above the uncanny clearing in the woods. To his dragon eyes the place glowed with a faint but disquieting sickly green light. He nodded to himself.

  So; he’d been right that he might see more in this form. Yet he was certain there was even more than this to see. He hoped he wasn’t about to make the worst mistake of his life, gods help him.

  He could just imagine what Kief would say. “Idiot” and “fool” would be the least—and politest—of it. Tarlna … Best not to think about what Tarlna would say. Even Lleld, known for leaping first and looking long afterward, would be appalled.

  Linden deliberately relinquished control to Rathan.

  The draconic half of his soul startled into full wakefulness. Linden greeted it from his new position as “bystander.”

  Wary, Rathan asked, *Is it time, then, humansoul Linden? Does thee wish to pass on?*

  No, Rathan; I’ve not yet tired of this life. But there is something here that I do not fully understand and I think you would know more than I about such things.

  If he’d been in control of their body, Linden would have held his breath. As it was, he waited in an agony of suspense. With rare exceptions, the dragon half of a Dragonlord’s soul was content to wait until his human counterpart tired of life. But if Rath
an decided that his time was now come, there was nothing Linden could do; Rathan was by far the stronger. He was used to light touches of Rathan’s personality—such as the argument about fresh mutton—but this was well-nigh overwhelming. He prayed he’d not committed the gravest folly of his life.

  *Then thee is either very foolish or very brave waking me like this.*

  But there was a wry amusement behind the words that reassured Linden. It confirmed his long-held—and very private—belief that the dragons let their human counterparts rule for so long because the dragons found them entertaining.

  Rathan continued, *Be reassured, humansoul Linden. I promise thee I will wait until my proper time. Now—what is this thing thee wishes to show me?*

  Down there. Do you see it?

  He felt Rathan contemplate the magical clearing.

  *Faugh! It is a vile thing, * Rathan said in disgust. *It stinks of dark magery. *

  Linden asked eagerly, Of what sort?

  Though he grumbled, Rathan dropped lower and stretched out his senses to touch the magical resonance below. At first there was only darkness, then—

  Mind-wrenching fear burned into Linden’s consciousness, the mortal terror of a soul spiraling down into darkness as it was torn from life, screaming helplessly in agony.

  His was that soul. He was the one lying bound upon the cold stone, waiting for the knife to plunge down. And now it was falling, seeking his heart—

  Linden wrenched his mind free from the vision as Rathan flung them back and away, screaming in draconic rage, burying Linden beneath his fury. Linden found himself shut away within Rathan’s mind, all his senses blinded, as though he’d been wrapped in a blanket and thrust into a chest. He knew nothing of the world outside; his world had narrowed to this body and he was suffocating.

  Rathan! Rathan—please! Linden begged as he fought to stay alive in the fire of Rathan’s anger. You’ll kill me!

  He felt the dragon draw in a deep breath, knew that Rathan intended to wipe this foulness from the face of the earth. A tiny voice at the back of his mind said, No—the woods are too dry; it’ll spread everywhere, even to the farmers’ fields. The realization frightened Linden into redoubling his efforts to break into Rathan’s consciousness once more. But it was like beating against an iron door while bound hand and foot.