The Dragon Queen

by Alice Borchardt

  “Cymry,” I said, “how did you find out when and how to attack the stronghold where Kyra dwelled with her husband and children?”

  Cymry sighed and moaned, “More wine. Please. Please, more wine.”

  “No!” I said. “Answer! I command you!”

  Cymry’s eyes closed. I sensed he was trying to slip away. I had let him do so before when I was satisfied. But not this time, I thought vengefully.

  I caught him by his long, dark hair and shoved the head into the fire. I was still armored, and I knew the armor would protect my arm for at least a short time.

  Cymry screamed as he always did when threatened with fire. The meshes of the net bag were burned away by the flames.

  “Nononononononono, noaaa!” he screeched.

  “I want the truth, and I want it now. Don’t try to play with me, you vile heap of shit! Give me an answer, or I will put you on the coals and let them slowly, ever so slowly, consume you!”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, God have mercy, yes!” Then he sobbed and begged for more wine.

  I was still holding him in my left hand, my fingers fixed in his hair. I lifted the cup to his lips with my right. I gave him only a sip, enough to wet his throat. My mind laughed at the thought, and I knew I was close to madness. I wondered if it would trickle from the stump of his neck.

  But it didn’t. His sudden, sinful death had trapped his spirit in the parchment flesh-covered skull. It could absorb any amount of wine.

  I raised the head and held it high, showing its dreadful life to every person in the hall. “Now! Answer!” I said.

  Cymry let out a sobbing ululation of almost mad grief. “Mondig told me! Mondig sold me his brother, his brother’s wife, and the women of the household. They were rich. The storage souterrains beneath the chief’s hall were filled with oil, sealskins, walrus ivory, wool, dried cod enough to keep a whole city fed! It was the richest prize I had ever taken.”

  “And you got greedy on the way home,” Kyra whispered. She lifted another cup from the table. “Wine! I’ll give you wine!”

  She dashed the wine in Cymry’s face and lit it with a wax light from the table. I put the screaming, sobbing thing on the floor. The briefly flaming wine wouldn’t kill him, or I should say, drive the spirit from the head. She had done it before, for the same reason—to torment him. In minutes whatever virtue in wine that burns would flare away, and he would sink into the shadowy chambers of his living death.

  Then she summoned the women. They took Mondig, coming down from where they sat with their men and children. They didn’t kill Merlin’s soldiers; they balled them. Maeniel told me bees do this to a queen they do not want; they crowd in around her until she dies of suffocation.

  Most carried weapons, and they had shields. They surrounded Mondig’s guard, pushing in closer and closer. In a short time, Merlin’s men couldn’t move, not even to draw their weapons. Then they began to peel them off one by one, passing them on to their menfolk, who disarmed and bound them. A man, even a strong man, is pretty helpless when seven or eight women have hold of him. It was a losing and, for the most part, silent struggle. At the end, Mondig stood alone.

  The women took care not to hurt him, pushing him along with shields, sword hilts, spear butts, and mace handles.

  Until he reached the center of the hall facing the Death Pig.

  Talorcan’s small red eyes were fixed on him. I pointed toward Cymry. The thing was on the floor, babbling to itself. “Did you come for him?”

  “No!” Talorcan’s stone-on-stone voice answered.

  I pointed to Mondig.

  “Yes!”

  “I thought you only came for heroes,” I said.

  “He might have been a hero, had he so chosen.”

  The women had taken care not to hurt Mondig at all. But there was a lot of loose rock in the room. I said they’d chopped the hall out of the hillside. It was the men who stoned him.

  The next day, Kyra got me up before dawn. She braided my hair in four plaits. She and I used the sweathouse to clean ourselves.

  “I’m ashamed of last night,” I told her.

  She looked surprised.

  “After we returned to the tent,” I said.

  She laughed a little—a harsh, soft laugh.

  “I broke down,” I said.

  And I had. Broken down completely, once I no longer had to control myself. I threw myself on Kyra’s neck and cried hysterically to go home.

  Issa dragged Gray away. “Let her people settle it among themselves,” she told him.

  Dugald was in a fury. “What is this nonsense?” he roared.

  “And just as well I did, too!” I screamed back at him. “That scheming traitor would have found a way to kill all of us!” I gasped out. “But the way … the way they killed him … I can’t, I … don’t want to be among these people.”

  “Nonsense,” Dugald roared back. “A salutary lesson to those who would take his place.”

  Mondig didn’t die with dignity. He tried to run—and did—around the fire pit. That was the problem; in an arena there is nowhere to go. As I said, the men threw the stones. They had strong arms and a good aim. Most of the stones hit him, but he kept running until he was a battered rag of flesh and couldn’t run any longer. Then he staggered, and at the last, crawled, leaving a trail of blood and slime. Around and around, until I persuaded Talorcan to use his tusks and end it.

  By then Kyra had found me a shift somewhere. My armor was fading.

  The boar, with tusks and teeth, dispatched Mondig and led his spirit, an empty-eyed, wailing thing, into the fire. And then they were gone.

  One of his women servants scooped up his remains and carried him to a high, lonely spot for the sea eagles. The Painted People will in no wise be buried. They look on it with horror—Christian or not—and want to be left exposed until the scavengers clean their bones.

  I think then I sat with Dunnel and the rest, and we ate and drank. I think mostly I drank. I have no taste for it, not even now. But that night I did, and I took as much as I could of the most potent mead. And those highlanders do make a strong brew.

  I think that’s why I fell to pieces at the end. Kyra and Dugald tried to reason with me, but it seemed that I grew more hysterical and insistent that we leave. And leave now.

  “In the first place, we cannot go home, as you put it,” Dugald snorted. “All we would do is bring endless trouble down on Dunnel’s head and the heads of everyone we know in the village. Now, stop behaving like a child … or I’ll slap you silly.”

  He raised his hand, and Kyra flared back at him. “You touch her, you old fool, and I’ll break your arm!”

  “Stop it! Both of you!” Maeniel said. “Guinevere, stop screeching. If you want to leave, I’ll take you. And now, tonight.”

  “No!” Dugald shouted.

  “How? Where will you go?” Kyra said.

  I quieted. “You will?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Both Kyra and Dugald started to speak, I think. But he gave both of them his most wolfish stare, and they fell silent. He handed me a towel to dry my face. My eyes were swollen and burning, my nose running. We were standing in the tent. Maeniel glanced out the door.

  All through the forest, lights were scattered among the trees, marking the spots where other families attending the assembly were encamped.

  “Soon most will bed down for the night,” Maeniel said. “Then we can leave. We have traveled in the wilderness before. By dawn, we can be miles away. It will take some time to find a place where there are few, even no, people, but it can be done. We can go there, and I’m convinced Black Leg will find us when his warrior training is over. Guinevere, if that is what you wish, truly wish for yourself, then we will do it. I have no regrets. I grow tired of these murderous men and women.

  “But remember, we came here because you chose to come. My son didn’t suit you. No. You must have your fair young king. He will not be yours without cost. Kings have even less choice tha
n most men about whom they wed.”

  I was silent, staring at his shadowed face in the lamplight.

  “Remember,” he said, raising one finger. “After tonight, there is no going back, however much you wish it. After tonight, too many lives will in all innocence be committed to your purposes for you to ever run again. This is your best chance to shake yourself free of the mantle of ambition and the possession of power. So now make your choice. Not out of disgust or fear, but in clarity of mind and strength of will. Choose … the direction your life will take.”

  Then, taking Dugald by the arm, he led him away.

  Kyra got a clean cloth and some cold water and washed my face. I sat down on the side of the cot and stared up at her, aware that I was emotionally and physically exhausted, completely done in.

  “Never,” she said quietly, “have I seen anyone do what you did tonight. How did you know about Mondig? He had all of us fooled, and a lot of his people.”

  “I know you,” I said. “You wouldn’t make that kind of mistake. You wouldn’t choose the wrong man. Tell me, was his brother, the one you chose, handsome?”

  “No,” she said. “He was about as ugly as Mondig. Maybe even worse looking. But there was more kindness in his face.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I didn’t remember lying down or falling asleep. She cared for my wounds while I slept.

  “You can still go,” she told me the next morning in the sweat bath after I apologized for my behavior the night before.

  “No!” I said. “I won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Seems,” she answered, “that I didn’t choose wrong the second time either.” Then she patted my knee and left to bring me a dress and the oddments to wear under it.

  When we came out of the sweat bath, I was rigged out like a prize horse. I had a sort of crown; seems the queens—all of them—wore one. This was just a gold circlet with a stone at the center. It fitted around my forehead.

  The rest of the outfit was more elaborate. A flat, gold band from which dangled fine gold chains was set at my shoulders. Another, at my waist, was also ornamented with the same fine gold chains. The dress was silk, white raw silk, and it probably cost more than the gold chains.

  Kyra told me I would wear only the gold chains when I danced tonight.

  “But they don’t cover …” I looked down at my breasts. “And they don’t conceal everything down below.”

  “No, they don’t,” Kyra said. And that’s all she said, except, “Prepare yourself.”

  Then she led me to a seat in one of the most ancient oaks in the forest. The sky was gray, as was the sea. The wind blew constantly. Dugald, as my druid, stood beside my chair. Maeniel—wolf—sat at my knee.

  The seat was formed out of the tree itself, and a stern face with one eye was carved into the trunk above my head. Kyra, as my sponsor, stood behind me.

  “The chiefs will be coming, and all the distinguished men and women of the Painted People,” Dugald warned me. “And they will bring gifts. It behooves you to remember who brings what and what they have to say to you.”

  He was right; come they did, in a steady procession all day long. And he was right; they did bring gifts.

  The Painted People are great artists. I cannot think they will be appreciated as the Greeks and Romans are, for they work in ephemeral materials, cloth and wood, not stone. Their silver and gold work is magnificent, and some of that may survive. They all seem to be warriors, even the women, and they wear the arts of the loom on their backs and carry a stunning array of weapons.

  Never before or since have I seen such beautiful clothing. The cut, it is true, was not imaginative: a simple tunic for both men and women, leggings of wool to keep off the cold, and a mantle, sometimes with a hole cut for the head, at other times simply wrapped around the shoulders. But the endless variety of color and design was simply unbelievable.

  As I said, they were marked with the sky signs. The bull, boar, snake, wolf, salmon, dragon, and the patterns of each dance, the colors of the wind and sea, were all met in their clothing. The designs picked out on their skins in blue, green, red, gray, and gold. When each approached me, the patterns my father set on my skin leaped out as though to greet a friend.

  The queens came first and brought me silver torcs. They are a grim reminder of what the position of queen means if disaster should befall the people. She is, as the naked warrior, placed in the forefront of battle, the premier sacrificial offering most pleasing to the gods. In times of gravest evil—plague, famine, enemy attack—they cast lots and the chosen one dies. That’s what the torc is, a strangler’s cord. A mark of favor—that the chosen one may go bloodlessly and consenting to her death.

  Consent is important. But I knew that and took the first, a heavy silver object with dragon heads as the finials, as I said, beautifully worked in silver, amber, and blood-colored carnelian. I placed it without hesitation around my neck.

  She was the senior lady, the girls with her all young, none having chosen a man to try for the kingship. She looked at me for a long time, and I wondered if she had chosen Mondig. So I asked her.

  She said, no, she had not chosen him. Nor was he king but merely the most influential of the chiefs gathered at the assembly. Since he was Merlin’s cat’s-paw, he had managed, with the archdruid’s help, to overawe or intimidate the other chiefs. Now, that was ended. But all the omens, oracles, and prophecies were in agreement: something momentous was going to occur soon.

  And something already had: my arrival with all the marks of divine favor. Then she cautioned me to listen well to what the chiefs had to say. Then turned and left, followed by the quiet young girls.

  It was just dawn, and from my seat I could look out over the sea. The sun was red behind thick bands of sooty clouds. I spoke with every one of my visitors, many at length, that day. I learned a great many things.

  The dragons had a large party. Many people did not share the disapproval the more salmon-dependent villages felt toward them. Others protected their rookeries near their homes, especially the merchants and the deep-sea fishermen, who esteemed their services highly.

  A lot of the coastal villages were unhappy with the present situation. They were harried by pirates, Saxon and otherwise, who sailed from the continent to raid along the coast and among the islands. Many were the ports now closed to the Veneti by aggressive barbarian lords who dominated them. Further, any captain finding himself in difficulty might be taken and he and his crew robbed and slaughtered, just as the more unfortunate villages were treated.

  All in all the minor chiefs were disgusted with the failure of central power. They needed a king, for that is what a king primarily did: put down the groups who raided along the coast.

  The women who sat in the chairs in the great assembly hall had shown no inclination to offer their favors to anyone. Mondig had more or less controlled them, and none of the chiefs was individually powerful enough to oppose him. For various reasons, no group had chosen to combine against him until I came.

  At midday, I broke and ate with Dugald, Kyra, Gray, and the Gray Watcher. We talked about what we had heard. Issa cooked and made bread and curd cheese.

  “The queen must marry,” I said.

  No one disagreed.

  “It’s imperative,” Kyra said. “And to a strong man. But your strong man is trapped in another world, and no one knows how to get him back.”

  “I think we should cross that bridge when we come to it.” Everyone looked at me as though I had lost my mind, even the Gray Watcher.

  “You have gone from wanting to marry a king to planning to marry a king who is not here,” Maeniel said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure I can solve that problem. But the world doesn’t need to know how.”

  True to form, Magetsky was prowling around, picking up scraps.

  “Yes,” the Gray Watcher said softly. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “She’s right,” Kyra said. “W
hat she has to do right now is impress them enough tonight. A lot of power here is prestige, and these girls—the ‘queens’—are hardly more than the puppets of one faction or another. If you sit on the Dragon Throne, they will fall in behind you, provided their vital interests aren’t affected.”

  “What is so special about that damned dragon chair?” Gray asked.

  “The woman who sits in it is usually the first among equals,” Kyra answered. “Why the hell do you think Mondig wanted it empty? Why the hell do you think this crowd of quarrelsome chiefs has conspired to keep it empty?”

  “They are afraid of its inhabitant. But I can tell from the talk that there is pressure to fill it now,” I said. “And I plan to do so. There are too many raids along the coast for the women to ignore their responsibilities any longer. Someone must provide a king.”

  Then I asked Gray where the raids were coming from.

  He looked surprised. “The Saxon shore,” he answered. “That’s why they put down roots in the first place.” Then he named two or three towns.

  “Show me,” I said.

  He drew a map in the dust, marking the towns with dead leaves. “The ships move from Frisia in the raiding season—the spring. They dock along the coast and pick up a crew. Then they sail north.”

  We all knew what they were after—women, ivory, walrus, sealskins, wool. Pictish wool is the best in the world. But above all, slaves. The eastern countries had an insatiable appetite for them, and a beautiful girl would bring a dozen pounds of gold on the block in Constantinople, especially if she were blond. As the woman in Igrane’s hall had suggested, the slave trade was booming.

  “Do you think the war bands would follow me?” I asked.

  “Ships, weapons cost money,” he said.

  I pawed open the bag Dugald had placed the presents in. “What does that look like?” I asked.

  Gray’s eyes lit up. “I knew I was right about you.”

  Maeniel looked at me sadly. “There is much to consider,” he said.

  Dugald said, “Wait! You can’t—”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Kyra said.

  “They will follow you,” Gray said. “I’ll see to it.”