Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Oh,” Arlian said.

  “And that’s why so few of us are married, Obsidian, because the dragons have made us cold-hearted, self-obsessed, and sterile.”

  “But are you all? You still speak with passion,” he protested. “Wither seems devoted to his Marasa, and Nail seems eager to befriend others.”

  “They’re struggling against the inevitable,” Rime said. “As I am. The longer we live, the colder we become—like Enziet, who is, I believe, oldest of us all. Wither and Nail are old, too, but it may be that they’ve lasted as long as they have because of their passions—and Nail, at least, seems to me to be acting more from wistful memory than genuine warmth.”

  “But why? Is it just from weariness, from seeing so much suffering and death over the years?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe it’s long life alone that’s responsible,” she said. “Remember, though, how we became as we are. We have all tasted blood and drunk venom, and whether it pleases us to admit it or not—and most often, it does not—each of us has a bit of dragon in her heart. The human part of us cannot live forever; while our bodies survive, our hearts, with time, grow more like dragons, cold and hard and ruthless, taking as much pleasure from others’ pain as from any more natural delights.”

  Arlian frowned. “Do you think, then, that the venom has such an effect?”

  Rime laughed at that. “My dear foolish boy, look at us! We cannot bear children—or sire them, in your case. We age at only the tiniest fraction of the normal rate. Our very blood is poisonous—surely Wither told you that? Now, does that sound more like men and women, or like dragons?”

  “Like…” Arlian began, but before he could speak a second word he was interrupted by a bellow.

  “You!” a deep voice shouted, a horribly familiar voice. “Arlian! Get up!”

  Startled, Arlian turned to see three men standing by the door, all still wearing hats and cloaks—and all with their cloaks flung back and their hands on the hilts of their swords. On the left was a short, stocky man he didn’t recognize, clad in brown, with a curious brass sheath on one arm; on the right was Lord Toribor, clad in green and silver—even his eye patch was green; and in the center was Lord Dragon, resplendent in black and gold. His feather-trimmed hat appeared to be the same one Arlian had seen him wear atop the Smoking Mountain, so long ago, and his thin, scarred face was likewise unchanged.

  Arlian pushed away from the table and rose. He felt himself starting to tremble at finding himself thus facing his elusive adversary, and fought it down. He looked at that grim face and remembered the smoking ruins of Obsidian, the bright blood spilling from Madam Ril’s throat, Rose’s dead eyes as she lay across her bed amid the flames.

  “Lord Enziet,” he said, his voice steady. “We meet again.”

  “Indeed,” Enziet replied. “And I am not pleased about it. Why are you here?”

  “I am a member in good standing of this society,” Arlian replied.

  “Why are you in Manfort?” Enziet demanded.

  “Why would I not be? My business is here; my friends are here; and my sworn enemies are here.”

  “I advised you to leave,” Lord Dragon said. “I am not accustomed to having my advice ignored.”

  “I am not the Duke, nor any other of the fools you bully,” Arlian retorted. “I do as I see fit.”

  “You are an annoyance,” Enziet replied, “and I do not intend to tolerate your presence here.”

  “You are sworn to do me no mortal harm, I believe,” Arlian said. “How, then, do you intend to remove me?”

  “You spoke of your friends and your business,” Enziet said. “I am not sworn to leave them alive. I believe I have lives in my own possession you would prefer not to see snuffed out.”

  Arlian had managed to keep himself under control up to this point, but now his veneer of control cracked. “You would make these base threats against innocents?”

  “There are no innocents,” Enziet said. “We are all creatures of filth and disgrace, foul and stinking, festering in our cramped little lives and pretending we have some value. I am not deceived, though you may be; we are no more than beasts, and those who have not drunk the blood and venom are even less. Removing a few short-lived nuisances a decade or two before their inevitable demise would occur in any case does not trouble my conscience in the least, and if it will rid me of you, then yes, I will do it.”

  Sincerely shocked, Arlian asked, “Have you no honor?”

  “I abide by my vows,” Enziet replied. “I recognize no other obligations.”

  “And if I heed these threats, what are you asking of me?”

  “That you leave this city forthwith. You may take your time in removing your household, but I want you outside the walls by sunset.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “One of your precious ‘innocents’ will die for each night you linger.”

  “You would not balk at such murders? You fear no retribution?”

  “You forget who I am, Arlian.”

  “No,” Arlian replied, “I will never forget that. You are a monster in human form, an aberration that must be removed from the face of the earth.”

  “I am chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort, and the eldest of the Dragon Society. I do as I please, and none dares defy me.”

  “I dare,” Arlian retorted. “And if you harm those I care for, I will return the favor—starting with the Duke himself.”

  He heard audible gasps at that, and even Lord Dragon seemed taken aback.

  He had answered without really thinking, simply making the first counter-threat he that occurred to him. Having said it he could hardly back down, but he had to struggle to hide his own doubts. The Duke was a harmless old fool; killing him would be wrong. His greatest evil probably lay simply in listening to Enziet, and that was mere weakness, hardly inexcusable in a mortal confronted with the dragon’s heart.

  And the Duke would certainly have guards on all sides—but there were ways.

  If his threat was to do any good at all, Enziet had to believe it.

  “I have magic at my command,” Arlian continued. “Not your fine northern sorcery, but wild southern magic from Arithei and the Dreaming Mountains. I have other weapons as well. Be assured, I can destroy the Duke if I choose. And while you might well ingratiate yourself with his heir, do you really want the inconvenience of doing so? And how would you explain that you cannot order my execution for the crime?”

  “You would kill both the Duke and myself in your pursuit of this chimerical justice of yours?” Enziet asked.

  “I would,” Arlian replied instantly.

  “You would throw all the Lands of Man into confusion simply to satisfy your own lust for vengeance?”

  “I would,” Arlian repeated.

  Lord Dragon smiled bitterly. “So you care no more for order and authority than I do for innocence and honor.”

  “Precisely.”

  “There’s a legend that if the Duke’s line dies out, the dragons will return,” Enziet remarked.

  “There are many legends,” Arlian said. “I hope that one is untrue, but true or not, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You would risk overthrowing humanity’s freedom, then?”

  “I have no intention of killing the Duke unless you carry out your own vile threats,” Arlian retorted. “If this legend is genuine, then whatever comes of it will be as much your responsibility as my own.”

  “Charming,” Enziet said through clenched teeth. “So you propose to continue our stalemate, then?”

  “By no means,” Arlian said. “I would be pleased to meet you outside the walls in a duel, fought fairly and to the death. I would need your word that there will be no treachery, that none of your hirelings will strike me down from hiding…”

  “I’ll fight you,” the man in brown interrupted. “An even match, as you say. Better that than listening to you rave!”

  “Iron, remember,” Toribor said. “He killed Kuruvan.”


  “Kuruvan was a mortal,” the man in brown answered, his eyes locked on Arlian. “He’s a dragonheart—but just a boy, for all that.”

  Toribor glanced at Enziet, who stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “That might well solve the entire problem,” Enziet said. “If you want to, Iron, I am not inclined to object.”

  “Lord Iron, are you?” Arlian asked. “Also known as Horim?”

  “I am,” Horim replied. “Do you dare face me, child?”

  Arlian smiled.

  “I would be delighted,” he said.

  42

  Swords Beyond the Gate

  The city gates stood open, and Arlian marched steadily down the cobbles toward them. Horim walked in parallel several yards to Arlian’s left. The normal street traffic parted before them, and their assorted companions trailed behind.

  Black broke from the little crowd, trotted up behind Arlian, and whispered, “You know this is a trap, don’t you?”

  Arlian glanced over his shoulder at Lord Enziet and the rest of the party, coming along to observe.

  “No, not them,” Black said. “It’s Lord Iron. How do you think he got that name? He’s killed at least a score of men, and probably a few women as well. He’s one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Lands of Man. I suspect Lord Enziet set this whole thing up to get rid of you.”

  Arlian glanced at Enziet again, then at Horim. He saw no sign of fear or even nervousness on either face.

  “You’re probably right,” he said. His mouth tightened into a frown, and his stomach knotted at the realization that he was striding boldly to near-certain death. “Then it seems I’m to die with my revenge incomplete,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I trust you to tend to my business and household, and see the women and the Aritheians to safety.”

  “You could still turn back,” Black suggested.

  Arlian smiled sadly. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

  “Idiot,” Black said.

  “Maybe I am,” Arlian said. “I’m trusting in Fate, I suppose. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned back now.”

  “Ah!” Black threw up his hands in disgust. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned aside, and Arlian marched alone through the city gates.

  He was scarcely past the outer edge of the wall when the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard warned him; he spun to find that Horim, also now just past the gates, had already drawn his blades and was charging across the cobbles toward him.

  Women screamed and the travelers and tradesmen in the gateyard scattered.

  The sword was in Horim’s left hand, swordbreaker in his right—Arlian had less experience against left-handed foes. He noted that detail even as he dodged sideways and unsheathed his own sword, barely in time to parry the attack. He recovered quickly; by Lord Iron’s second lunge Arlian had his own swordbreaker out as well.

  Oddly, he was not surprised or unsettled by the attack; in fact, he was relieved. He was committed now. Perhaps Black’s warning was responsible for his calm acceptance. He felt none of the sick uncertainty he had felt in the duel with Kuruvan; Horim had challenged him and was seriously trying to kill him, whereas Kuruvan had been bullied and goaded into fighting.

  Horim’s left-handedness was an inconvenience; using the swordbreaker for anything other than parrying Horim’s became problematic. Arlian had practiced this sort of asymmetric swordplay, but not as much as he now wished he had—he had known Lord Dragon was right-handed, and had not anticipated finding himself in his present position.

  Horim knew that, of course, and was trying to take advantage of it, making circular attacks that would have been stupid against a fellow left-hander, but which got handily around Arlian’s guard. Arlian dodged, but felt the sword blade tug at his velvet jacket.

  One of the watchers gasped. Arlian was only vaguely aware of the wide ring of people that surrounded the two of them; his attention was entirely on his foe.

  He remembered one ruse Black had shown him—parry and lock blades, but unevenly, so that his opponent would have an opportunity to use his swordbreaker in the way that gave it its name. Except while he was doing that, Arlian would be able to plunge his own swordbreaker into Horim’s side or belly, more or less as he had struck Kuruvan.

  It was a risky maneuver, but he was at a disadvantage here—he had the greater size and reach, but Horim was strong and quick, with far more experience at cross-handed combat. He made the attempt, deliberately parrying too far along his blade …

  Horim laughed aloud; he dropped his swordbreaker to guard even before Arlian moved to strike, and used the deliberately faulty position of Arlian’s sword to force the blade aside and launch an attack of his own. Arlian had to turn and bring his swordbreaker up across his chest to deflect Horim’s sword.

  That left him in an awkward, half-twisted position, his swordbreaker locked with Horim’s sword, his own sword turned uselessly off to the right, and Horim’s right hand and swordbreaker free. Lord Iron tried to take advantage of this, plunging the swordbreaker toward Arlian’s side, but Arlian rammed his left elbow down and knocked the blade away, ducking under Horim’s sword. That left his shoulder open to a slash, but that would not kill him, where the point of either the sword or swordbreaker might.

  And it gave him a chance to bring his own sword back into position.

  That put the two men back on even terms, and too close together to fight effectively; both stepped back, almost simultaneously.

  Arlian saw that Horim was grinning; he was obviously enjoying himself.

  Arlian was not.

  Horim feinted, and Arlian parried. Horim slashed, and Arlian dodged.

  He needed a plan, Arlian thought. He needed to do something more than react to Horim’s attacks. His own stunt hadn’t worked at all; Horim seemed to have expected it. He was obviously familiar with the usual tricks used to counter a left-hander’s advantage.

  Arlian tried to think through the situation without distracting himself from the fight. He was younger, maybe faster, taller, with a longer reach; Horim was stronger and more skilled.

  Horim also wore that peculiar brass tube around his right arm. That puzzled Arlian; if it were meant as armor, shouldn’t it be on his left arm? And why did a man called “Iron” wear brass?

  Attack, parry, riposte, counter, feint, parry, in a lightning exchange.

  Horim was vastly older than Arlian, and it might be possible to tire him out, wear him down—but he was a dragonheart, so it might not be.

  Feint, lunge, parry.

  What was that thing on his arm? Arlian could see that it was made in two pieces, hinged together on one side and overlapping in a sort of latch on the other.

  The two men circled each other, there on the pavement, in an open area roughly fifteen yards across encircled by the men and women watching the duel.

  That damnable brass gadget fascinated Arlian; it gleamed in the sunlight and he almost missed a parry. Angrily, he reversed his grip on his swordbreaker.

  Horim’s wolfish smile faded at that, and he looked puzzled. A swordbreaker held point-down was of no use in any normal fight.

  Then he shrugged and went into a high attack. Arlian parried it readily enough, but instead of a riposte or disengagement he charged in closer, locking the swords together so that they crossed at face-level.

  Horim’s right hand came up to block an attack with the swordbreaker, but Arlian’s short blade was pointing down, not at Horim’s throat or chest, so the block missed, and Arlian was able to ram the point down toward Horim’s arm and into that latch.

  He pried, and the brass tube snapped open and fell away with a tearing sound.

  Horim’s right hand spasmed, and his swordbreaker dropped from twitching fingers; he screamed, then retreated, tearing away as quickly as he could, giving Arlian a chance to slash the tip of his sword lightly across Horim’s chest as they separated.

  Arlian did not pursue immediately; instead he took a good long look at his foe.


  Horim had gone pale; he was obviously in pain, unable to control the fingers of his right hand. His right forearm was a thin, sickly-white thing, nothing like the strong, tanned left; it was misshapen, gnarled and twisted.

  And Arlian saw why. Half of it was missing, and what was left was largely scar tissue, bearing the badly healed marks of gigantic teeth. Like so many members of the Dragon Society, Horim still bore the signs the dragons had left upon him. He had braced his ruined arm with metal—but that had probably weakened it further in some ways, as the flesh received no air or sunlight and the muscles could not move freely, could not exercise properly, did not support their own weight. With the brace in place he could use it—his grip was probably as strong as ever when his wrist wasn’t spasming—but without the supporting metal he was crippled.

  No sensible opponent would ever have bothered to attack the one place Horim was armored, as Arlian had; it had been a mad curiosity, rather than any conscious reason, that had prompted Arlian’s action. Still, it had worked very much to his advantage.

  Arlian kicked Horim’s dropped swordbreaker away and advanced.

  Horim still fought, but now he was on the defensive, and he was obviously unaccustomed to fighting without a swordbreaker. His right arm twitched and his empty hand flopped up whenever Arlian attacked on that side.

  His sword hand was still strong, though, and his skill had not deserted him; he parried attack after attack, retreating across the pavement. The audience retreated as well, pulling away as Horim approached.

  Arlian was careful to keep Horim moving away from the gates; he was not about to lose this opportunity for vengeance to his Society oath.

  The duel dragged on for what seemed like hours, and both men began to weary. Swords flashed back and forth, darting at throat and chest but always turned aside. Arlian pressed forward on his left, Horim’s right, more than would have been wise ordinarily—but this was no longer an ordinary match, and Horim responded by twitching away.