The Blind Dragon

by Peter Fane

  Anna stopped with Mother and Wendi in front of Father's armor as Penelope finished lighting the room. When Penny was done, she joined them and placed her lantern below Father's destroyed breastplate. The lantern's glow hit the armor's intricate chasing, the steel spirals and arcs flickering their delicate patterns across the armory's walls and ceiling. The black hole punched through the armor's left breast seemed to yawn larger than ever.

  If I reached down into it, Anna thought, I would reach into nothing, and its steel teeth would close on my shoulder and bite . . . .

  Mother stepped up, placed her hand on the breastplate, right above the hole. She bowed her head, closed her eyes, and whispered the ancient words.

  "Great Sisters, exemplars of history and time, let us look to our past's best as we forge our future. Let us learn from our mistakes, let us honor our families and our lands, and let us do what is right—always. Great Sister Erressa, patron of quests, grant us the will to begin this war with determination and resolve. Great Sister Alea, patron of swords, grant us the strength to make this war with ferocity and zeal. Great Sister Aaryn, patron of wisdom, grant us the knowledge to wage this war with foresight and reason. Great Sister Kora, patron of justice, grant us the courage to win this war with principle and honor. Great Sister Margo, patron of plenty, grant us the grace to end this war with speed—and to foster a lasting peace."

  Mother stepped away from the armor. She looked into the empty helmet.

  "A soldier never betrays her word," she whispered.

  "A soldier never forgets her promises," Anna, Penelope, and Wendi answered together.

  Mother turned and looked at Anna. "I'll make a space beside him." She gestured to Father's armor. "But I don't want to fill it, you understand me?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Anna answered.

  "Execute your orders and come straight back here. Not to the Keep, not to Khondus, not to Zar. Nowhere else. Home. Straight home. Clear?"

  Anna nodded.

  46

  MOTHER PICKED A light lance from the wall rack and handed it to Anna. She tested its weight and balance. It was about three paces long, noticeably shorter than the medium or heavy lances on the wall, but much easier to use. The steel vamplate, which would cover and protect her hand, was shaped as a dragon mouth, the lance proper extending between its open fangs.

  "How's that feel?" Mother asked.

  "Good." Anna nodded. She tucked the lance under her right arm, her hand and side firmly fitted behind the lance's swelling, and crouched as if on dragon back. "Maybe a little heavy at the back."

  "When we fit the point, that'll even out. We can always add a counterweight. Can you use it?"

  Anna nodded.

  "Good," Mother said. "Your saddle isn't set for combat, but that doesn't matter. We don't have a war saddle that'd fit Dagger anyway. When he's bigger, you can come back and use some of Voidbane's early rigs as he grows. He'll fill them out. He has his father's form. But for now, you're stuck with a scout rig. I don't think that'll make much of a difference with the kind of maneuver that we're planning. This is no tournament, and you won't have to aim for long, just enough for you to execute your orders. No need for a specialty harness, either." She paused. "The moment you dismount Fel, drop everything and fly like the wind."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Let's find a proper lance point."

  They walked together to the right-hand wall. Penelope and Wendi had gone quiet. Mother unlocked and opened a long, sliding drawer. Two dozen steel lance points, each carefully polished and laid out on a pad of sky blue velvet, rested inside. Most were standard war points—sharp, long, and variously decorated with geometric, plant, or animal motifs. Several were tournament tips, shaped like fists, maces, or flattened rams' heads.

  "Only a couple here made for a light lance, I'm afraid. Here on this side. Which strikes you?"

  Anna looked at the half dozen smaller points to which Mother gestured. The head of each was about three palms long, their sockets about the same length, wickedly sharpened.

  "I can't see," Wendi said, standing on her toes in front of the drawer, nose between her finger tips. Penelope picked her up and slung her on her hip. Wendi looked into the drawer.

  "What's the difference?" Wendi asked.

  "No real difference," Mother said. "Just tradition. A rider always chooses her gear. She's especially careful about this piece. If all goes well, it's the only thing she'll leave behind."

  Anna took a point from the felt, hefted its balance. It was three and a half palms long, razor keen, with a point sharper than a dragon's fang. Simple, clean steel with no ornament.

  "This one." She nodded.

  "That was his." Mother cleared her throat. "When he was a squire."

  47

  THEY WALKED OUT into the courtyard's sun together. Anna held the lance at her side along with a leather satchel of food and supplies. Everyone was quiet. When they approached Moondagger, he yawned and stretched like a cat, flaring his white wings, his huge eyes wide. He looked a little tender but otherwise seemed fine.

  Mother handed Anna a short map tube that contained the detailed chart of Jorgun Gorge.

  "Pick your spot well. And when you strike, strike without fear."

  Anna nodded and turned to Moondagger, but Mother stopped her and turned her around, holding her shoulders.

  "When you launch, Anna, you must be fearless. Crazy fearless. Your commitment must be absolute. No doubts, no worry, no fear. His gear is the best in the Realm. But it will make no difference. He rides a giant monster. But it will make no difference. He's protected by a hundred riders. But it will make no difference. All that matters is this." She put her palm on Anna's armor, over her heart. "There are things that are more important than life. There is honor, there is love, and there is family. When you strike, strike hard—and strike for us."

  Penelope and Wendi were on either side of her, their hands on her armor. Mother cleared her throat, clapped her brusquely on the shoulder pads, and stepped back.

  "Truth and honor, Anna Dyer." Mother crossed her chest with her fist.

  "Truth and honor," Penelope and Wendi said together. Wendi's tiny fist was so small. She blinked in the sun, looking up into Anna's face. Anna placed her fist on her chest. Then she turned away, sheathed her lance, mounted, and settled into her saddle. Dagger growled, strong beneath her. Tired but eager to fly. She patted his neck, clipped on, and took a deep breath.

  She turned and saw them from dragon back, their fists still across their hearts. She looked at each of their faces for a moment. Then she saluted one last time and launched with a grunt and a gust of wind.

  She was already over the courtyard's wall when she heard a tiny, high cry.

  It was Wendi.

  "Win, Anna!" Her little voice rang out, clear and real and true. "Win!"

  48

  THEY FLEW FOR the rest of the afternoon, well into the evening, staying away from the roads, the riverways, and the villages, paying particular care to avoid common roosts and look-outs. Anna was sore, and Dagger was tired, but she knew they had to put some time between themselves and the Drádonhold. If House Tevéss controlled it now—and she had to assume that they did—then Lord Gideon would begin regular patrols almost immediately.

  Ahead, the Green Mountains loomed, a line of craggy peaks covered by rich forests, the mountaintops finally free of winter's snow. Below her, the farms and freeholds of the Drádonhold passed in silence, becoming even more scattered as she left the immediate vicinity of the High Keep, the cultivated lands finally giving way to lush, unbroken forests. Jorgun Gorge lay just under a day's ride distant. She could make its mouth by midnight and Hakon's Hook by morning, if she so wished and they flew through the night. But they'd arrive exhausted. And she didn't know what they'd encounter. Or when they'd attack.

  "Let's get some rest," she said.

  A shred of cloud raced beneath them and the smoke from the chimney of a tidy, isolated farm beckoned. When she landed, her gear and manner
commanded immediate obedience from the farmer, his wife, and their children. She paid for lodging, food, water, and a fat merino for Dagger. Sated, they crawled into the farmer's well-made barn. There, she removed her saddle, rubbed Dagger down thoroughly, and curled up with him in the straw. She slept, snuggled against his warm chest. You couldn't tell where dragon ended and girl began. They did not dream.

  49

  THE NEXT DAY started well enough. She breakfasted with the farmer and his family, fed Moondagger, and saddled him, noting that he'd probably outgrow his current gear in a matter of days.

  "Getting big." She patted his muscly side.

  Dagger grunted.

  She mounted up, clipped on, and launched for the mountains.

  50

  IT TOOK THEM six bells to reach the mouth of Jorgun Gorge. They didn't rush. There was a small village at its front, right where the mountains opened and descended into the gentle foothills, but Anna avoided it, opting instead to fly over and around the far mountainside, to the north. She'd take a long break there for their lunch and then push over the mountains' peaks, into the ridges and plateaus to the north of the Gorge by late afternoon. By this approach, they'd reach Hakon's Hook in the early evening with good elevation and from an unsuspected direction. If she saw the enemy, she could flee and find another site from which to attack. If she didn't, then she'd cross back across the Gorge, pick her launch point, and hide. The route would take a bit more time, but it would be safer, and it would be worth it.

  51

  SUNSET. THEY'D CLIMBED over the mountains without incident and now glided above the forested ridges due north of the Gorge, above Hakon's Hook. The sky was mostly clear, deepening to lavender in the west. The fat sun was low on the horizon, its bloody light painting the trees and mountain rock deeper shades of red.

  Then—to her left, on the southern side of the Gorge, about a hundred paces distant—something caught her eye. She landed Dagger and pulled out her telescope, training it across the chasm.

  It looked like . . . an easel.

  Yes. It was an easel. Like for painting and drawing. It was set up on top of the ridge on the southern side of the Gorge. A large piece of white drawing paper waved from its clips. It was the white of the paper that had caught her eye.

  But where is the artist?

  Anna scanned the surround and the Gorge itself. Then she double checked with her telescope. Nobody. At least as far as she could see. She pulled Dagger back into the tree line and waited, on the alert. Half a bell's time passed. The artist did not return.

  "Let's go take a look."

  They launched, crossed the Gorge, and landed next to the easel. It was finely made of light-colored wood. The paper fixed to it was blank. A leather scroll case, dyed dark green and stamped with the two-headed golden dragon of House Fel, lay open on the ground beside it. There was some parchment rolled up inside.

  Anna walked Dagger a few paces up the ridge to check its southern side, just to be safe. As she ascended, she saw that the ridge was really just a low crest of rock that dropped immediately away to the south onto a narrow, wooded plateau—and there were bodies there. Bodies everywhere. A giant pile of bodies. And dragons, too. The bodies wore the sky blue livery of House Dradón.

  Dagger snorted and growled.

  Directly below her, leaning against the ridge, Anna saw Captain Sara Terreden. She was dead. Two small bullet holes marred her back. Her dragon, a silver middleweight named Lightdancer, lay beside her. There was a single bullet hole in the back of his skull. Bone and blood everywhere. Flies everywhere. The buzzing stench was horrific. She put her hand over her mouth and gagged at the stink. Sara's eyes were shut peacefully, her beautiful face painted red by the setting sun. Too many bodies. One heaped mass of bodies. Dragons, mostly lightweights, pale and bloodless, their eyes blank in death. Blood everywhere. Too much to see. Anna shook her head. She put her hand on Dagger's neck and shut her eyes. She didn't want to see anymore. But she must. She opened her eyes and tried to pay attention, saw the remains of some campfires scattered along the plateau. The smell was so bad. They must've camped here for the night. Before they started the "exercises" that Captain Corónd had described. There were a few Tevéss riders, too, she realized. But not many. It looked like someone had tried to burn the heap of bodies, but for some reason they hadn't been able to get the fire to take. A large crow sat on the pile's top. It wasn't eating. Rather, it stared at Anna, head cocked, black eyes glittering like crafty, black marbles.

  And just like that, her old rage was back, as if it'd never left, drooling and hungry from the dark. But it was different this time. Dagger growled and jerked his head. Murdered. Murdered as they slept. It was cold. An icy knot in Anna's chest, as if her heart had clad itself in frozen iron. No hot anger, this. Instead, it was a ruthless, calculating rage. The rage of cold vengeance.

  The crow cawed.

  She backed Dagger off the ridge, unhooked, slid off, and walked to the easel. She stooped at it, pulling the sheaf of paper from the green leather tube. The first sketch was a drawing of Sara Terreden. It was well done. The fly that the artist had drawn on her cheek seemed to crawl on real, living flesh. Great attention had been paid to the graceful contour of her chin.

  The crow cawed, louder.

  The other drawings were the same. Carefully rendered drawings of the dead dragons and the dead riders of House Dradón. There were over a dozen of them, drawn from many positions and angles. Anna didn't examine them all but rather paged through them, letting the pages fall to the ground as she went.

  The last one was different, however. It was a drawing of a living person: a sad young man. He was no older than twenty. Handsome. Clean shaven. His dark hair worn in a short, soldier's crop. His eyes were particularly striking. Dark, fixed, and extremely intelligent—the eyes of an aristocrat—but unhappy, as if the purpose of the drawing was to capture his regret. The angle of the portrait made it look like it had been drawn from a mirror. Directly beneath the image, there were two letters:

  Anna looked at the green scroll case and the golden, double-headed dragon that adorned it. She knew that Lord Fel's second born son was named Malachi. She looked around, suddenly self-conscious of her position, pulled out her telescope, and scanned the mountains, the Gorge, and the horizon. Below her, on the pile of bodies, the crow cawed. Its head bobbed gallingly. It cawed again, mocking her. It began to peck wetly at the cheek of a dead Dradón rider, the ticking sound moist and repulsive.

  Anna double checked her surroundings, stepped up the rocky crest, drew her revolver, and carefully aimed at the crow. As if sensing her intent, it leapt into the air. She fired once, clipped its right wing, but it was already at the far edge of the plateau and dropped away to safety.

  Even a couple of steps closer to the bodies made the stench much worse, she realized; the light breeze blowing from the Gorge didn't help. She shook her head, put her hand over her mouth, and almost retched. The stench was overpowering.

  But this could be the spot.

  She slid down the ridge, hand over her mouth, and walked through the carnage. About twenty paces to the west, the ridge dropped away and the plateau opened sheer, directly onto the Gorge. Dagger followed her, stopping to sniff at Sara Terreden's face. He nudged her pale cheek with his snout.

  Anna glanced over the plateau's edge. She was looking down into a sharp, forested bend of Hakon's Hook. And she was looking from the south.

  The angle and position for attack couldn't be better. The mysterious artist had chosen his position well.

  If Fel came through the Gorge at this spot, if he came four bells before or after noon, then the sun would be directly in his face. And if his column was of any length, then its front wouldn't be able to see its back. The position was several hundred paces above the Gorge's floor, screened by light woods and a low ridgeline. Better yet, she had the perfect camouflage within which she could hide from Lord Fel's scouts: a reeking pile of betrayal and death.

  Anna nodded.
It would work.

  She walked back, climbed the low ridge, and hid the easel, the leather tube, and the drawings in the brush. Then she climbed back down, dragged a dozen riders' bodies closer to the plateau's edge so that she could lie with them and still see into the Gorge. Finally, she smeared herself with cold gore from a deep puddle of blood that had not yet dried. She retched at the smell, but she was getting used to it.

  "Come here," she commanded. Dagger obeyed.

  She wiped some blood on Dagger's face and neck, careful to avoid the stitched wound on his right side.

  "Lie down." She pointed at the cliff edge. "Stay perfectly still."

  From there they'd watch. From there they'd strike.

  52

  THEY WERE VISITED three times that evening by scouts from House Fel, but none of them stayed long. The corpse stench was too strong. Night came cool and cloudless, the stars soaring overhead in the black, the moon rising massive and silver to make its soundless way across the sky. Dagger sighed beside her, his silvery eyes wide in the moonlight, his white scales comforting and warm. But they did not sleep.