Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  Nothing. He relaxed an inch, but he was still sure he walked headfirst into a trap.

  The Summer Country always looked too damned innocent. In spite of all its dangers, this land felt like home. Whenever he came here, something fused with his blood and told him the land was his, that he could mold it to his will.

  The feeling was seductive, as if even the air of the place conspired to draw him away from the humans he protected and over to the Old Ones. Everything here reminded him of the blood he shared with Fiona and Sean. Joining them would be so much easier than fighting them. He ignored that offer, knowing that it lied.

  The land might welcome him, but the people didn't. Dougal had a spike beside his castle gate, waiting for another skull, and Fiona . . . Fiona had Sean lurking behind her shoulder for whatever might be left of Brother Brian when she was through with him.

  And David wouldn't enjoy what any of the Old Ones would do to him.

  The pasture oak stood as a reliable landmark for travel between the worlds. It was the image he'd aimed for in Fiona's land, a marker on the edge nearest Dougal where things tended to stay the same from moon to moon. In that respect, edges were safer, sort of neutral territory between the minefields.

  Fiona found passive defense to fit her moods: her poison plants and the misdirection of a landscape that changed while your back was turned or even right before your eyes. Dougal liked his guards more active, active enough to threaten even their own master. Dougal lived for the adrenaline rush of danger.

  Brian didn't. Apparently David didn't, either.

  The young bard held an arrow nocked and ready, but his fingers were trembling, his face pale and beaded with the sweat of the green recruit. His mind was on Brian, not the battlefield.

  Time for some fatherly advice from the veteran. "It's normal to be scared," he said. "The day I lose my fear of dying will probably be the day I die from acting reckless. I've been too many places where life or death was a shade of angle or a gram of force. Just don't let it paralyze you."

  Fortune was chance and chance was fortune. Luck, not skill, often determined who survived a battle. So much for glory.

  David forced a weak smile.

  The bloody fool trusted Brian. That's what was new, the different fear. Brian remembered too many mistakes. He'd misjudged Fiona's devious plots, and the lengths Dougal would go to, looking for a mate.

  Sean had taken Maureen. That meant an alliance between Fiona and Dougal. It had seemed about as likely as Joe Stalin pairing up with Hitler's Reich. Brian shook his head. Those who fail to learn the lessons of history . . . He'd left the idea out of all his strategy for this living chess game.

  That boy shouldn't be in harm's way, untrained and untested. Maureen shouldn't be here, Jo shouldn't be here. If Brian had deserved their trust, they'd all be home in bed. Which was where he still belonged, no matter what face he put on for David.

  Brian still felt like a wrung-out dishrag. He was trying to fight on the enemy's ground, weak and unprepared. He was reacting, not acting. It was one of the quickest ways to die.

  He shook off the thoughts, limped across to the nearest wall, and peered over it. Nobody home. Normally he would have vaulted over it with knife in hand, but his leg and arm and shoulder weren't up to those heroics. He was getting too old and lame for this.

  He climbed stiffly over the wall and waved for David to follow. "Sean took Maureen. That much we know for sure. Dougal wanted her. Odds are, we'll find Maureen at Dougal's keep. I'm just hoping we'll find Jo by looking for Maureen."

  Brian studied the forest ahead. He saw a killing zone, perfect for ambushes. Snipers in the trees or in spider-holes under bushes, trip-wires, pit traps, you name it. It was as bad as the Malayan jungle, except for the leeches and the bugs.

  Dougal didn't work that way.

  David wiped his hands nervously on his pants, scanned the horizon, and turned back to Brian. "What should I be watching for?"

  The real question was, what could Brian tell him without breaking the boy's nerve? "Dougal will have beasts on guard throughout his forest, vicious things he's caught and trained or broken to his will. He'll have some human guards as well, closer in where they'll be safe, because some of the animals he keeps will kill anything that walks."

  In other words, Jo could die quickly if she was wandering alone. Brian didn't want to remind David of that.

  "Watch the forest," he said, "not me. Man or beast, anything out there besides Jo or Maureen is fair game. Kill it before it kills you."

  Brian moved as if he patrolled alone: eyes ahead, eyes behind, checking out each tree, each rock, each step along the beaten leaf-mold of the trail. He couldn't expect David to spot danger, couldn't rely on the boy to guard his back. The training wasn't there.

  The damned leg and shoulder still hurt. His ribs still stabbed him in the side with an ice-pick when he tried to breathe too deeply, and he had all the stamina of a week-old kitten. That was always the last thing you got back after wounds, the body's revenge for deadly insults.

  Sean couldn't have waited another day, another week, to snatch Maureen. He had to do it last night.

  Bastard.

  Scraps of purple rip-stop nylon lay in the trail, mixed with white fluff. Brian squatted down with a quiet grunt of pain, and studied the pattern, automatically looking for trip-wires or the evil little prongs of a contact mine. To hell with the fact that explosives wouldn't work here: old habits die hard.

  His fingers traced prints in the exposed dirt. Something big had walked here, something with scaly feet and claws. A whiff of vinegar mingled with the earthy rotting of the forest floor. He wrinkled his nose.

  Dragon. That would explain the overgrown lizard tracks.

  David grunted something inarticulate, and Brian scanned the forest for mythical beasts. Nothing moved. His gaze flicked across the young human and then back to him again.

  The boy's face looked like pale ash, a mask. He was staring at the cloth and blinking.

  "Jo. Jo's ski-jacket. She wore that when she left."

  Brian picked up a scrap and ran his thumbnail over one of the dark blotches on it. Part of the stain flaked off, reddish brown: dried blood. He looked around for more splashes and puddles on the dead leaves, the torn earth.

  Not enough for death.

  He teased at the stain again, sniffed it, tasted it: the heady musk of a fertile female of the Ancient Blood. It was definitely Jo's jacket, almost the same fragrance as Maureen. Maybe a day old, maybe more. Less than a week.

  Time ran differently in the Summer Country than in David's world. Time even ran differently in one part than in another. Last night in the "real" world might be last month or tomorrow here.

  His fingers traced the tracks again, and then he looked up at David. Brian decided to give it to him straight and see if he panicked. Better now than later.

  "It looks like a dragon caught her and didn't kill her. The beast may have a brood she's teaching to hunt, like a mother cat. Or sometimes Dougal wants to take prisoners. That's not a thing you should be hoping for."

  The fear had faded from David's face, replaced by white rage. He forced words past his clenched teeth. "Dougal. One of your Old Ones. What are his powers? Will these arrows work on him?"

  Controlled anger was good. Much better than either blind rage or panic. Brian could use anger--could aim it and pull the trigger, could set a timer on it and leave it ticking on someone's doorstep.

  "Arrows will work. He controls people and animals, not things, and he needs to be close to them for hours or days. He's a beast-master. The other side of the coin is, the control lasts. It's not like a glamour, where if you move away five feet, ten feet you lose your power. His beasts will obey him even if he doesn't see them for weeks."

  "I think I'd rather strangle him. If he hurts Jo . . ."

  "Just kill him the fastest way you can. You won't get a second chance."

  David swallowed and nodded. At least the kid wasn't sputtering about dragons.
Shake him loose from his mind-set once and he was willing to take all comers. Good. Very good.

  How would he act under fire? That was the acid test.

  "If you see a dragon, aim for the eyes or down the throat. The only place your arrows'll pierce the hide is right under the legs, and you'll never get a shot at that. Most other stuff you see, go for the chest or belly. Slow down, stay calm, choose a target, remember the smooth release. Panic won't help Jo."

  "Jo," David muttered. "Dragon. Eyes. Throat. Kill."

  And he was off down the trail, stalking like a wind-up toy all stiff in the legs and with the bow held like a forgotten walking stick.

  "Bloody raw recruit!" Brian swore and hobbled after him, struggling to catch the kid before he triggered one of Dougal's traps.

  Dark scales glittered between the trees and swirled toward David, a wall of armor more than man-high. He jerked the bow up and loosed an arrow that flew wild, the string twanging like a plucked lute. The shadow hissed like a snake imitating a Russian basso and then struck at David with a head the size of a small car.

  Dragon. The kid was lunch.

  Somehow, David rolled sideways from the teeth and bounced back to his feet, shedding bow and pack and quiver. The dragon whipped her tail around, sweeping her prey from his feet and into a tangle of brush.

  {The Master said nothing about eating you.}

  Brian jerked his kukri from its sheath and limped forward, working a stunning spell as he walked. Real dragons didn't have magical defenses--they rarely needed them.

  "Hey, snake!" Brian shouted. "Stop to eat him, and I'll eat you!"

  The lizard head swiveled back, teeth gleaming a mottled yellow in the sunlight. She needed a good dental hygienist. That and tartar-control toothpaste.

  {Two. Most excellent. Hunting has been poor lately.}

  She glanced at David, tangled and moaning in a hawthorn, and concentrated on Brian. Smart snake: she paid attention to the one who still had teeth. She tossed her head and shot a look behind her, as if something back there disturbed her.

  Brian had to get close enough for the spell to work. Close enough, but not inside her belly.

  He threw the knife at her right eye, the one towards David. She ducked to the opposite side, and the heavy blade clanged against the scales on her eye-ridge, striking sparks and spinning uselessly away.

  He still needed to get closer. She turned away from David and glared at Brian, warily. "Anything that dares attack a dragon deserves caution," her look said.

  He circled left, drawing her away from the boy, clearing David's way back to the bow. She slithered after Brian, circling him with her body, her head weaving like a hunting cobra. He caught a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye and jumped. The whip of her tail caught his toes, and he flipped, but the force missed him. He rolled to his feet again, ignoring dagger-sharp pains in his injured shoulder and ribs.

  His old wounds might be bad, but they were nothing compared to what those teeth and claws would do. His leg wobbled, on fire, but it held. The dragon slithered closer.

  David was moving, clambering to his feet, running.

  "Get your bow, dammit! Go for her eyes!"

  All Brian saw of him was ass and elbows flickering down the forest trail. Goddamn bug-out.

  The dragon feinted, jabbing with her head and then snapping her tail. She acted like she was testing for traps, for poison in her prey. Brian limped closer to her head and she flicked her tongue, smelling for illusions. She didn't believe it could be so easy.

  Close enough. Brian triggered the spell. He felt the power flowing through his wrists, his palms, the blackness of the stun-spell leaping from his fingers. It splashed across the dragon's nose.

  Nothing happened.

  The transparent membrane flicked lazily across her eye, protecting it from any dirt or scratches when she struck. Brian swore she was smiling at him, the malicious smile of little Sean. So that was why she'd looked behind her.

  {So kind of you to walk into my mouth. The other one will not get far.}

  Brian dove for his kukri and fell, headlong, lucky, as claws brushed past his leg. He scrambled to his knees, and the snout thumped his shoulder with a missed strike and bowled him further across the trail. He shook stars out of his eyes and focused on a single golden eye.

  The eye of death.

  She blinked again, lazily, a cat with a mouse pinned between her paws. Her sour sharp breath flowed over Brian like a fog.

  Mulvaney whispered in his ear, again. You're going to die, Brian Arthur Albion Pendragon. Goddamned guitar player bugged out. Left you to save his ass. Never count on civilians.

  Brian's head still rang, and he played dead to gather his wits. The dragon tapped him with one paw, as if he was a warm chocolate candy she was patting back into shape before taking a dainty nibble. The tongue flicked out again, tasting, testing, slithering over him as coarse and rough as wet sandpaper. She still couldn't believe he was real, edible, no trick.

  He stared at teeth as long as his hand, pitted and caked and slimy. They carried jagged edges, like the serrated blades of steak knives or the dental arsenal of a shark.

  He pulled in his last reserves and tottered to his feet, the kukri back in his hand somehow. "You goddamned worm, go ahead and bite! I'll dive down your throat and carve your heart out from inside your gullet!"

  The teeth jerked away, and something like warm jelly splashed across Brian's face. An orange-fletched shaft poked out of a deflating yellow beach-ball overhead. The dragon spun away from him with a screech that shook the ground.

  A second arrow skipped off her head. Brian staggered forward, focused on stabbing that other eye. Blind her and they just might have a chance . . . .

  The dragon screamed again, and something huge slammed Brian sideways into the air, tumbling, flailing, barely tucking into a roll that carried him to thump against a tree. Another shaft hissed by his head and buried itself in the ground up to its feathers.

  He identified it, automatically. Soft orange vinyl fletching. Olive green aluminum shaft.

  Real-world archery, not Summer Country.

  His own arrows.

  The dragon roared and howled, head lifted high, pounding the ground with its tail, shattering trees and throwing dirt. A man darted out of the bushes right underneath her snout, drew bow, and loosed in a single perfect flow of movement. Point-blank range, ten feet or less, he couldn't miss. The shaft drove straight up, through the soft skin under her jaw, and vanished.

  Brian thought his head would split with the shriek of the injured dragon. She thrashed and rolled in a fog of blood and dust and splinters, claws gouging furrows in the ground as though she was plowing for some deadly crop. He saw the shadow-man flipping through the air like a discarded doll.

  Brian's focus narrowed to a single thought--Away! Just get away. The bloody snake wouldn't die before sunset. One arm and the opposite leg obeyed him and they dragged the rest along behind. Something heavy slammed to the ground close by, and he refused to look. Whatever it was, if it wanted to kill him, he couldn't stop it.

  He bumped up against a pile of rocks, slithered into a crevice between two of them, and waited for the factory-whistles of hell to stop their braying. So much for sneaking up on Dougal. If the bastard hadn't been waiting already, they'd just well and truly rung the doorbell.

  Dirt showered across him, and he jerked his mind back to survival. The dragon lay sprawled across the trail, twitching and twisted, silent, steaming blood dripping from her jaw. Her undamaged eye hung half-closed and blank. As he watched, one forefoot relaxed, and a clod of dirt dropped back to the ground in bits and dribbles from the clench of her claws.

  It was a damn good thing they didn't breathe fire. Teeth and claws and muscles were bad enough.

  He gritted his teeth and hauled himself upright against the sheltering rocks, swaying, trying to sort out the scene. It was a bloody mess, in all senses of the word: dragon blood and human blood and British swearing splashed all
over the shattered forest trail.

  Brian stared at a gash through his pants and into the meat beneath, twice as long as his finger and slowly flowing red. A dragon claw had just touched him lightly. He swung his right arm and winced when it refused to rise above his shoulder, either way. He spat, saw blood mixed with the dirt he cleared from his mouth, and hoped it came from a cut lip instead of from his lungs. At this point, he couldn't tell.

  First priority: look for weapons. His kukri glittered in the sun, half-buried by leaves and dirt. He hobbled over to it and knelt down, one leg stiff to the side, rather than trying to bend over. The knife didn't seem damaged. Only thing that wasn't.

  The dragon spasmed again, tail thrashing and rolling a boulder as big as a Volkswagen across the trail. He wondered if it had a supplemental brain to work the hindquarters, like some dinosaurs were thought to have. He'd better stay well clear of the carcass, anyway.

  Next thing was, find David. The freeze-frame picture of an archer right underneath the dragon's jaw stuck in his mind.

  Brian ran the videotape back in his brain, coordinating the trees that still stood among the ruins. The man had stood there, was knocked flying in that direction. Whatever was left of him should be under those fallen branches.

  The kukri made a decent machete, lopping off the thinner limbs even with Brian's awkward, half-strength swings. He moved carefully, clearing and stacking in jerky spurts like a damaged robot and then resting whenever his head threatened to spin off and fall into the mess. The fraction of Brian's brain that still worked, kept nagging him against shifting the balance of the wreckage, against cutting flesh instead of wood.

  Boot. Blue jeans. A broken bow, fiberglass, recurved, still clenched in a pale hand. Bloody shirt, both bright red human blood and the darker hematite of a dragon's. David.

  David Dragon-Slayer.

  He still lived. Brian ran practiced fingers over his head, prodding bruises and finding solid undamaged bone. The pulse felt strong, breathing regular. He pried back eyelids, found pupils dilated but matching.