There Be Dragons

by Graham, Heather

  “A wolf … wounded,” she said. She turned and pointed far across the plateau, in a far distant direction. “Perhaps … I saw something. Low to the ground, running.”

  Carlo narrowed his eyes, then stared sharply at Radifini. “You—hermit! What did you see?”

  “As my lady says, there was something, yes, low to the ground, running.”

  Carlo nodded, stared at Marina, then spoke to his companion. “Flush out the ruins. If Marina says one way, the beast has gone the other.”

  Both men turned their horses. On instinct, Marina ran after them. “Wait, no … !”

  In a moment, she would hear their cries of pleasure as they went in for the kill … if what she had seen had been a wounded wolf, and the sun had teased her eyes and shown her a human form instead. She might hear the mournful cry of a creature, cornered … baying out its last gasp of breath … then meeting the steel death doled out by such a man as Carlo.

  She caught up with Carlo, grabbed him by the leg, and stopped him as he sat on the saddle. “Don’t be daft. I’d tell you if there was a maddened wolf nearby!”

  As he looked down at her, there was a sudden disturbance from the bush. Something large moved through the foliage.

  “A wild pony!” Marina murmured. “Nothing more, I’m certain.” She looked at Carlo. “A harmless creature! If there is a wounded wolf, it has not come this way. Trust me on this, I beg of you—I’d not let others be harmed by a predator!”

  “Go, ride after the dangerous beast, my lord!” Radifini said.

  “Marina, you must come,” Carlo said. “Ride with me. There is danger here.”

  “I will defend her,” Radifini said.

  “You, old man!” Carlo mocked. “You could not defend her from a fly.”

  “I’m quite capable of defending myself, thank you,” Marina said. “And Carlo, I do believe you underestimate our friend Radifini.”

  “I tell you, young lord, there is no wolf here!” Radifini insisted.

  “Marina, you should come.”

  “I am still in meditation.”

  “With the old man?”

  “I remember her parents with deeper love than any,” Radifini said solemnly.

  “Be back by supper,” Carlo said impatiently. “Or I shall fear for you, indeed, Marina, and come to insist that I keep my eye upon you, at all times.”

  He rode off, his huntsman following quickly after.

  “Reptile!” Marina said with a sigh.

  “Snake, perhaps,” Radifini agreed. He wrinkled his nose. “Frog.”

  “Too noble. He’s a toad!” she argued, managing to smile. But memory served her, and her smile faded. She kissed the old man’s cheek. “I must go. I don’t know what I saw, but brave Carlo was hunting down some poor wounded beast. I must see if I can find the creature. It might be injured. God knows—that was Carlo. He might truly have shot at a wild pony or horse, seeing a big, bad wolf in his mind’s eye! I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude to you, or leave you. I do enjoy our time together so much!”

  “Good heavens, my girl! Go find the creature, and hurry now,” he told her.

  The sun had become warm. Marina dropped her cloak upon the rocks to move more quickly over the rough terrain, through the long grasses, trees, and foliage. Scampering along carefully, she followed the strange tracks she could barely discern upon the ground, thanking God all the while that Carlo had not been hunting with hounds.

  She crawled through boulders and brush, swore softly as she stepped on stones. At last she broke out near the edge of a cliff, and there, upon the smooth surface of a weatherworn rock, belly down, struggling for comfort, was the creature.

  Not a pony, or a wolf, or any animal that ran upon all fours. It was a falcon. A magnificent falcon!

  “Poor creature!” she said softly. Blood poured from the animal’s wing. A broken arrow shaft protruded from it and she cried out softly, hoping the arrow itself had not imbedded into any bone, breaking the wing.

  “Easy!” she murmured, aware she could be severely injured by the beak of the bird should she frighten it. As gently as she could, she touched the creature, carefully feeling the point of the arrow tip. “Poor, poor thing!” she murmured. It seemed only the tip of the arrow had made it into the wing, and that the wound was not too deep. Placing her hand hard at the point of impact to staunch any flow of blood, she gripped the arrow tip. “It will hurt, I’m afraid,” she said softly. “I hope you can realize that I’m trying to help you! Be easy, now … it definitely is going to hurt a bit.”

  Carefully, she grasped the bird, set pressure to the wound, and pulled out the arrow.

  “A bit!” came a shout. “A bit! That hurt like blue blazes!”

  Marina was so startled by the voice she nearly fell off the rocky plateau where she had found the creature. She had been seated; she leapt to her feet, looking around, searching out the surrounding foliage.

  There was no one. No one near …

  She looked back at the falcon.

  “Yes, you silly girl, it’s me speaking!” came the voice again. “Me, here, the falcon.”

  Incredulous, Marina walked back toward the injured animal.

  “Me, here, yes!”

  The beak was moving. The falcon definitely appeared to be … speaking.

  “I’m losing my mind,” Marina murmured. “Stress … has to be stress. Surely—and certainly, not surprising—the very idea of marrying the Count Baristo could cause madness.”

  “Stress … overload … there’s every excuse in the world!” the falcon sighed.

  “Falcons don’t talk!” Marina said.

  “Have you ever actually addressed one and expected an answer from it?”

  “Well, no …”

  “Then how on earth would you know that we don’t talk? I would say that, apparently, sometimes we do!” the falcon said irritably. “Now, please, have you forgotten all about me? My injury? Have you something to use as a bandage? Come, come, girl! Catch your jaw before it hits the dirt. Get over here and help!”

  Chapter 2

  With a great, heavy blow that extended every ounce of his strength, Michelo, heir apparent to the great Duke Fiorelli, brought his battle sword down upon the shoulders of his opponent. He had done so already, time and time again, and each time, the mail- and armor-clad being had risen again, like some monster, able to turn on him once more with renewed strength.

  He heard the great clash of steel against steel; he felt the reverberation sweep through his arm, and then the length of him.

  And then … thank God! The man … the thing stayed down. Michelo drew in a deep breath, anxious to approach his fallen enemy and pull the visor and helmet from the face. The warriors of old insisted they had fought wartrolls, mercenary creatures brought in by their enemies, beings that had scales rather than flesh. He’d never seen one, and he’d wondered at times if the wartroll hadn’t been invented by strong men, unwilling to admit they could not face an enemy with an even greater strength. And yet, in the time of his father’s days of battle, they had beat back such an army, won a decisive victory. And over the many years since, there had been comparative peace … with just a few raids now and then.

  But their enemies grew bolder, encroaching upon lands where the people lived in freedom from barbarous rules and overbearing tyrants. There is strength in alliance, his father had taught him, and so it had been true. But now …

  The legendary Nico d’Oro was gone. Carlo Baristo swore he would raise his army, and come to aid at the border when a real threat existed. Only Michelo’s own father believed the raids were coming far more often now, and with far greater intensity. And so, Michelo had now spent most of the past few years on the border, leading his men against the raiders, and wondering when the time would come when the enemy rose en masse, assaulting them in greater numbers. They would override his father’s lands first, and if the duchy fell, the counties of Lendo and Baristo would not be far behind.

  Michelo shook his head wi
th aggravation. The alliance of the duchy and the two counties had now been formed for years and years, but one would think, sometimes, that Baristo was not much of an ally to have—sometimes it seemed as if he worked against the very peace they fought so hard along the borders to maintain.

  He moved toward his enemy. Just then, though, he heard the hoofbeats that signaled the coming of his own men, who, in riding against the enemy, had come to assist. They had been in hand-to-hand battles themselves, and only now were rallying again to regroup behind him.

  He turned to see them riding quickly, eager to come to his aid and defense should he have been caught off-guard by more opponents.

  He waved, then turned back, so anxious to lift that helmet and see if he had battled a man—or the rumored beast-enemy of his father’s day.

  The grass was empty. There was nothing there. No man, and certainly, no beast.

  He knelt down as his men rode hard behind him. Antonio Tosse from the north jumped from his horse, landing at his side.

  “He escaped?” he said.

  “He was down … and now he’s gone … so he must have. But surely you saw him rise and run,” Michelo said.

  “We saw nothing,” Antonio said.

  Michelo touched a dark spot on the earth, and studied the tip of the finger of his gauntlet. Blood. There had been someone, something … wounded. And now it was gone. “Search for a trail,” he said. And so they searched, and there were scatters of blood, and yet no trail.

  “What manner of man … ?” Michelo murmured.

  “Wartroll,” Antonio said.

  “Wartroll … a race we know little about, yet it seems indeed our enemies fight with some magic. They come in hordes … they are gone as if they were never there,” offered Andreas Este, a man who had been a farmer, and honed his skills through many years to become a warrior.

  The sound of hoofbeats came to them.

  Antonio stood. “There’s a rider coming. Carrying your father’s banner.”

  As they waited, the lone rider, heralding the banner of the Duke of Fiorelli, came hard among them. He dismounted quickly, bowing to them all, and handed Michelo a letter, sealed in wax with his father’s great signet ring.

  They all waited as Michelo opened the letter, read the words, and stared at them again.

  “I am summoned home,” he said.

  “But …” Antonio said. He fell silent. They all knew what his words would be. But they remained in danger. Riders came, warriors attacked. Their forces on the front were few, and in the time he had spent here, the men had come to follow him.

  “I will not be gone long,” he said quietly. “It seems my father has decided I must marry. A great ceremony, at Christmas. There are more than our forces at risk, so it seems. He believes that I have gone quite far enough alone, and in leading you all against the risk of invasion, I risk leaving the duchy with no heir.”

  “Ah,” Antonio said.

  “Um,” Andreas murmured.

  “Your father has found you this bride?” Antonio said.

  “There’s nothing at all unusual in that,” Andrea reminded him.

  “But parents find brides for their sons in order to cement alliances, to form treaties, to gain land,” Antonio said sadly.

  “She could be five hundred pounds,” Andreas mused.

  “Or an old hag,” Antonio suggested.

  “Or have a mustache, a unibrow!” Andreas added with horror.

  “A true witch!” the messenger said, unable to refrain. They all looked at him. “Sorry, Lord Michelo. It’s been known to happen.”

  “I know of my intended bride,” Michelo said. “Daphne, the daughter of the new Lord of Lendo, Count d’Artois.” Count d’Artois had ruled Lendo for many years by that time, but he was still known as the “new” Lord of Lendo.

  “Then she’s not hideous,” Antonio said.

  “Or huge, six feet by six feet,” Andreas agreed.

  “Or even a terrible witch,” the messenger added.

  “No, she is none of those,” Michelo said, folding the letter. “In my absence, you will all follow the command of Antonio, and I swear I will not leave you long. You, my friend,” he told the messenger, “ride back quickly now, and tell my father I am coming, as soon as I make a few preparations—as in bathing,” he added ruefully.

  The messenger mounted his horse, and turned back the way he had come.

  “You don’t look like a joyous bridegroom,” Antonio remarked.

  “Or even terribly relieved that you’re not to marry a six-by-six old crone of a witch!” Andreas added.

  “With a mustache,” Antonio added.

  “Or a unibrow,” Andreas added.

  “I am relieved,” Michelo said, smiling ruefully.

  “You’re just not happy,” Antonio said.

  “How observant!” Andreas quipped. Antonio furled his brow, and stared at Andreas.

  Michelo laughed. “No, I’m not happy.”

  “But … Daphne is quite lovely,” Antonio said.

  “I saw her years ago, yes. And those who speak of her do so glowingly. I just hadn’t thought … well, I don’t love her at all. And she can hardly care for me. She hasn’t seen me. I mean … it’s not what I thought, in my heart, I suppose, when I did think of marriage, and the future.”

  “I’m afraid that I would take the six-by-six, wrinkled, pruned, mustached, old hag—to improve my holdings,” Antonio told him cheerfully. “Good heavens, man! You’re getting married. What has that to do with love?”

  “Nothing, so it seems,” Michelo said, dusting his gauntlets against his thigh, then heading toward the horses. His own great warhorse, Alexander, named for the powerful Greek conqueror, awaited him. They would be truly allying the lands of the duchy, and those of Lendo. And there was no argument with his father’s logic. The great duke had it all figured out; Michelo would marry Daphne, and apparently Carlo, Count of Barristo, would marry the other daughter of the house.

  He couldn’t help but think of Carlo with a certain weary displeasure.

  But then …

  At least the man wasn’t being married to Adriana, his own younger sister!

  So. It was all carefully planned. It was logical. It spun ties between everyone in the duchy, right and proper.

  It was just …

  Just what?

  There had to be more.

  Aye, it seemed …

  There just had to be more!

  Marina staunched the flow of blood from the falcon’s wing. “Let’s see if the bleeding begins again,” she murmured, resting the creature back on the rock.

  “You’re not leaving me without this bandaged properly, are you?” the creature demanded.

  Marina smiled. “No … I just want to make sure you’re not going to bleed to death in the imminent future! We may need more pressure for a few minutes. It’s a miracle a bone wasn’t broken. That your body wasn’t … well, that it wasn’t more serious.”

  The flow of blood staunched, Marina sat back, assuring herself that the bleeding would not begin again. Weary then, Marina rested her head against the rock as well for a moment, wishing that she could stay, and sleep, and then wake, and find her world had changed.

  This was it, apparently. Life had become too much for her. She had assumed she could manage whatever came, that she was strong and determined, and would never leave Lendo completely in the hands of such a man as Carlo Baristo.

  But now she knew. She wasn’t that strong. She was losing her mind. Hearing words come from a falcon. Perhaps it was a good thing she should lose her mind. Carlo wouldn’t want to marry a lunatic. Ah, but then again! He might marry her, and have her locked up. Carlo coveted Lendo, and marrying her would eventually bring him the land. Her stepfather coveted his social standing more than property, and thus Daphne would marry Fiorelli’s son.

  She needed to fight this, because insanity wasn’t going to save her.

  “You know, I’m not really a falcon,” the bird said.


  Smiling, Marina lifted her head. “You look like a falcon.” She was somewhat amused, still not certain she was in her own right mind.

  “How many times have you seen animals talk?”

  “Never, we’ve established that. But animals do, in their way, talk all the time. We usually just have to listen differently.”

  The falcon sighed with feigned patience. “How many talk, as I am talking now?”

  “None, but I don’t believe you’re really talking.”

  “What?”

  “This is a figment of my imagination. I’m choosing a dream world over the travesty of my reality.”

  For a moment the falcon was silent, dark eyes hard upon her. “What?”

  “I’m dreaming this whole thing up.”

  “Snap out of it, young woman!” the falcon said impatiently. “My dear child, if your life is that distressing, I may be able to help you. If I can actually get your full attention,” the bird said with another sigh, this one very openly impatient. “My name is Thomasina. And I’m really a rather talented fairy.”

  “Oh?” Marina smiled. “Of course.” She peered closely at the animal’s wing again. “I just want to see that wound. I think the bleeding has stopped completely.” With fabric torn from her nightgown, Marina began to bandage the falcon’s wing. “So—if you’re really a fairy, why do you appear to be a falcon with an arrow wound on your wing?”

  “Well, you see, I was actually doing a bit of eavesdropping earlier today,” Thomasina, the falcon, said. “Ouch!”

  “I’m securing the bandaging as carefully as I can. It would be much easier, of course, if you really were a fairy, if you’d pop back to a human-like form. An arm would be far easier to tend to than a wing, you know.”

  “Fairies, you know, can shift shapes quite easily,” Thomasina said.

  “Then it would be so convenient and helpful if you were to shift now.”

  “You’re not letting me finish the story. I had to get away quickly—there are those who should never be given a chance to catch a fairy—and so I turned myself into a wolf. Bad choice, I’m afraid, made too quickly. Then the monster who put the arrow into me was on my tail, and that time, just a bit belatedly, I thought falcon. But now, you see … I’m quite weakened by all this, so I must remain in this form.”