by Bill Fawcett
On the wall Talwe tried to guess if they had enough mrem left to defend the walls again. He doubted it.
•
Collapsed in Talwe’s room, Mithmid sensed the dragon.
He opened his eyes. A dark shape swept through the sky outside his window. Sruss moaned on a bed nearby, sensing the evil in her own way.
Then the wizard sprang from the bed and ran into the street.
Behind him came Sruss, the wound on her forehead separating. Blood streamed through her white fur, nearly blinding one eye, her arm dangling pitifully. But she ran with Mithmid now, out of Talwe’s quarters and toward the western wall. Once she stumbled, brushing her broken ribs against a wall and crying out in pain. Mithmid stopped and then pulled her after him. He knew that her power would be needed.
The wizard stumbled up the stairs, his balance slowly returning. His thoughts were calm, almost plodding. He did not speak to the guardsmrem who pulled aside as he passed, for he had no words to say. He stopped on the top of the wall and waited, and then he took the Dancer’s hand and together they looked out over the field.
The dragon circled, dropped, and struck. Three Ar-mrem crumpled, two more were torn by the claws as they flashed by them. The massive monster was amazingly fast. The great beast flapped her wings and the force of the resulting wind threw yet more warriors to the ground. Some rose again, others did not. Then the dragon climbed high, and her spite-filled screech rang in the moonlight.
Mithmid wrapped his arms around Sruss. He took her right hand in his left, and with their other arms around each other’s waists they pointed their joined hands toward the serpent. Then both stood still, and Mithmid sent forth his mind.
“Now!” he said. “Now we must join!”
For a moment a familiar will battled his own. Cwinyd, the sandfur, the magician of the Eastern Lords, strove to restore the barrier that blocked all help from Ar. For a moment, Mithmid thought his enemy would succeed; Cwinyd’s power was strong, and he and Sruss, even combined, were far from his level. Thus far, the two together had only forced the eastern mage to release his control of the dragon, and that had taken all their strength. But even that now seemed as if for nothing, as other minds from far to the east now regained that control and sent the massive beast plunging once more into the ranks of the fleeing Ar-mrem.
Mithmid’s hope failed. His head reeling, he came close to releasing his grip on the Dancer, close to letting them both fall unconscious to the stone beneath them. But suddenly he felt a new power within him, and with that power came an instant, needed strength. The power was raw, and it was mostly untrained, but still it nearly overwhelmed him. He felt Cwinyd’s mind recoil, blinded by the force with which Mithmid now assaulted the barrier. It stretched, and then it split, and finally it broke, and Mithmid’s mind raced through the breach, carrying an urgent summons to Ar.
And the Council of the Three in the city of Ar linked their hands as they sat and let their minds join his. When he felt them, Mithmid turned, and led them over the grasslands, east to the mountains, and down to the wall where he stood with the White Dancer. Berrilund was with him, and Lanalia and Gaelor and Borlin and Sthon and the beautiful Sorilia and Jremm his friend, and now another stood with them, one that glowed in a bright, silver light. Then he took this mind as well, and joined it to the others, and the power of the Three met the dragon in midflight.
There were shapes in that mind, black shapes and vile. They came, then they faded, then they pulsed and throbbed as the dragon struggled to escape. It threw at them all the terror she had lived through, and they wept as they saw the things she had seen. The destruction of land that had been green in the center of a now-dead desert; the slaughter of mrem, mrem by the thousands, at the hands of the liskash and the dragons themselves; the torture of her kindred, and the fire that had seared through her world: all these they saw, and still they saw more. What came to them now was the figure of a liskash, and a great, green shape loomed behind them.
It was the shape of a dragon, ancient and terrible, the racial sub-memory at the core of the beast’s being. Almost gently, Mithmid sent a slim bolt of golden fire into the pulsing image. The image dodged, and darkness formed around it. Unordered, a silver flame leaped from the magician’s fingers out to the image and when it struck he was assaulted by a primal scream of terror. The image’s scales fell away and its head hung limply. Flame leaped from its wings, consuming them, and blood flowed from its eyes. Mithmid watched it gasp, and choke, and finally die.
The dragon was dying now. Mithmid could feel the life seeping from her even as she flapped her wings in a meaningless attempt to flee him. Then she rallied and fought harder to escape the Council’s mental bonds, but Mithmid held the minds in place and, with them, held her still. Then the minds they had driven away earlier returned, dodging past the Council to plant thoughts of hatred in the monster’s dying and tortured mind. These minds tortured her with the thought of her own death, and then they showed her an image of the killer. The killer was a mrem, and his fur was dark, and from the wall far below he looked out onto the battlefield through eyes that gleamed with gold.
By simply closing her wings she dived toward the battlefield. All the power of the Council of Ar joined now to stop her. They took from her mind the power of flight, and they took from her body the ability to breathe. Soon her body was dying as well, and her throat started to spasm and gasp.
Then, in a flash, Mithmid understood. It was Sruss who told him, Sruss’s mind who spoke to the others. For she saw, as none of the rest did, that the dragon they had entered had no choice in what she did.
The Eastern Lords had tortured her. Magically, they had shown her her father, dying at the hands of a darkfur. Like Talwe. Exactly like Talwe, but older.
This dragon was a child, they all realized. She was only a child and one of the last of her kind.
Do not kill her, the Dancer’s mind cried.
Then the wizards sought the magic that held the dragon in thrall, and they saw it as a blackness that flowed through her mind. They went into the blackness, and tore it away, and they grappled with its might as it searched for a way back in.
To hold it back, they needed all their strength. In fact, they needed more, but there was no more to have. In that battle they weakened, and all saw their own deaths. The fingers of the blackness began to search through their minds.
Then Sthon gave a cry, screaming as he fell. They felt his mind leaving, flying away from the joining. But suddenly he sang, and his words were clear. And for the first time in ages a light found the mind of the dragon.
And the Council of Ar joined with that light, and spread it across the blackness that sought the dragon’s mind. Slowly it moved, slowly but steadily, until at last her mind was free of its deadly, horrific grip. The racial evil was rebuilt in the image of a towering, noble protector of the land. One whose pride was in the life it gave others, not the ruin it had brought. Then with all of his strength Mithmid pushed the will of the Council forward, and with one last flash of brightness they drove off the dark minds that still tortured the young dragon.
Then Mithmid knew he had gone beyond the end of his strength, and his own darkness came.
•
Talwe found himself on the castle’s western wall, clutching Sruss, with Mithmid collapsed once more at his feet. He felt weak, and might have fallen as well, had not a tall figure in a green cloak steadied him. Too confused to understand what had occurred, he put the memory aside and looked out over the valley. As he watched, the dragon climbed high in the air and was gone.
Talwe bent over them, his own condition forgotten in his concern. He felt for a heartbeat. Satisfied that they were still alive, he poured water on their faces, put a few drops into their mouths and turned them over to a healer.
Then Talwe went down from the wall, and gathered his warriors, and led them out of the fortress through the western gate. The highl
anders at first hesitated and then followed. And he rushed to join the relief army in its battle with Crethok. But before they reached the battlefield at the foot of the mountain, the Eastern Lords’ highlanders began to either flee or throw their weapons to the ground. In only a few minutes the fighting was over.
A small figure emerged from the ranks of the clansmrem, dragging a bloodied body. Talwe recognized Ondra, his friend. Blood matted nearly all of his fur, blood that still dripped from Crethok’s body. Talwe rushed to meet him, and Ondra dropped the ClanSon’s body at the darkfur’s feet.
“I could not save Morian,” Ondra apologized. “But I could revenge her for us both. She’d already stabbed him, but he was able to slay her before I arrived.” He paused. “Crethok was trying to get to that eastern wizard, but he was too weak to even crawl. He ordered me to take him, but Cwynid wasn’t there. I sent him to meet the wizard in hell.”
Silently the two mrem embraced, their own blood mixing with that of those they had slain.
Then those highlanders who had just surrendered dropped to one knee as the green-robed warrior strode up from behind Talwe. He approached the relief force and called out, “I am Arklier, ClanSon of Peorlias and he who chose to join you against the liskash. This battle and all those who caused it have ended. We will return to our lands and trouble Ar no more.”
From out of the ranks of Ar came two mrem. “I am Gerianan,” said the first, “Prince of Ar, brother of Andelemarian the king. With me is Reswen, commander of the relief army. You ask for mercy, but mercy is not ours to give. These lands are Ar’s, but they are ruled by Cragsclaw.”
Talwe spoke from where he stood. “Cragsclaw has no ruler. Lord Sleisher is dead, and so is his son. But the ClanSon’s clansmrem fought with us against the liskash and their horde.”
“So you are the darkfur,” Arklier observed in a friendly tone. His head was cocked to one side. “Against the Sleishers alone, we might have won.”
Gerianan left Reswen’s side and approached Talwe. “Where is Sruss?” he asked. “She told us much about you.”
Talwe shook his head. “The Dancer of the Wilds lies on the West Wall,” he said. “When I left her, she was alive. If you have someone who can heal, send him to her. Most of Cragsclaw’s healers are dead.”
“Dancer?” Gerianan asked, looking bemused. “Sruss?”
“I will explain later,” Reswen promised, hurrying over.
Arklier looked from Talwe to the two Ar-mrem. “I ask once more for your decision,” he insisted. “We need to treat our wounded as well. You can imprison me to ensure all will honor my word.”
“Why did you attack the liskash?” the mercenary challenged the highland lord.
“For honor,” the green-cloaked ClanSon began. Then he smiled. “And if we cannot have the valley, even you are better than the liskash. Once it stood in the balance, when your army arrived, we acted.”
Reswen wrinkled his whiskers at the highlander.
“Now what is the cost of my decision?” the ClanSon asked impatiently.
Gerianan answered. “It is just, Talwe, that Cragsclaw is now yours. I am told Lord Sleisher himself gave you its command. Unless something different is decided, you are the Lord of Cragsclaw. You may do with the ClanSon here and his brother’s followers as you please.”
Talwe thought. He had nothing against this mrem, certainly nothing against those who had fought the liskash. For months he had wanted to kill Crethok, but even that hatred felt hollow in its fulfillment.
“Let the killing be over and let there be peace between the high and low lands,” Talwe tried to shout the words, but found himself too hoarse and weak. But enough of the warriors on both sides heard him and roared their approval. Then the others joined in as they understood the fighting had truly ended.
“One last condition,” Talwe demanded of Arklier when the cheering was over. Talwe knew that there was one more death needed before this battle was truly over. “I want you to bring me the sorceror, Cwinyd.”
Gesturing at his brother’s former commanders, he called them to his side. There was a brief exchange of words.
“He is gone,” came Arklier’s answer. “He left when the dragon flew off.”
“Left?” asked Talwe. “Where?”
“We do not know,” Arklier said. “He was with these mrem, and then he was not.”
FRESH-FALLEN SNOW has covered the blood on the field outside Cragsclaw. The early sun lights the uxen and the wagons they pull in shades of gold. Already the carpenters have risen and the sound of their hammers fills the walls. By next week every building will once more have a sturdy roof.
The castle’s new lord stands watching as the last of the relief army falls in at the end of the caravan. The emotions this brings the dark-furred mrem are new, or at least had been forgotten.
When the last of them are lost among the snow-covered hills, he stares at where they have been.
•
I am the Lord of Cragsclaw, Inla. Gerianan and Sruss have made this permanent.
Cragsclaw will be rebuilt. They have promised laborers will be sent in the spring. Once that has finished, I think I may leave, and be its lord no longer.
Morian is gone. Yet I feel Rhesa awaits me somewhere in those mountains.
Mithmid will stay, at least for a time. He says he must leave in the spring. Sthon died and so he must return to Ar to complete the pattern. I do not understand, but I know that I once flew with him in the mind of a dragon. I welcome his help. He knows the way of ruling others and I must learn this from him.
I have watched from the wall as the Dancer goes. Her leaving was sad, for we left so much undone. She has promised that I will see her again.
I do not think so, Inla. I do not think I wish to. For she was the White Dancer of the Wilds, but she will be the queen of Ar. I am a warrior, and I am a magician. But I am not a king.
Reswen comes near. He too will stay. He will teach me, Inla, all that he knows. I am already a warrior, but he will make me a leader. Yet now he seeks my advice on the rebuilding, and I must go from this wall and tell him what will be done.
Cragsclaw is mine, and I am its Lord.
And for a time at least, I am not alone.
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