Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  Wilhelm began shouting commands. Men rode off with their orders and horns blared and drums rolled. Knights who had been asleep in their tents shouted for their squires and their servants. Groomsmen flung saddles and barding onto the horses, as squires sought to lace up armor with hands that shook, while the knights cursed them for being clumsy and slow and did more harm than good by trying to help. The camp was thrown into confusion, as the soldiers ran to try to see for themselves what was going on. No one paid heed to orders, and there was chaos as the officers charged in among the soldiers, using blows and curses to restore discipline.

  Edward did not move. He kept his gaze focused on the Prince’s Own, and he was cheered by the sight of the initial charge crashing up against the front ranks of the dragon warriors. He could not see clearly, but he could guess at the carnage caused by the war horses plowing into their ranks. One knight won through to where he’d seen Marcus’s horse go down.

  “Who is that?” Edward demanded. His eyes had lost some of their sharpness over the years and he could not make out the knight’s device.

  “Sir Troeven Hammersmith,” said one of his knights.

  “Ah, a good man,” said Edward.

  Sir Troeven dismounted and was lost to sight amid the tall grass. The Prince’s Own closed ranks around the fallen, all except for two, who had been riding behind and found themselves cut off, surrounded by an enemy that had recovered from the shock of that initial charge with astonishing swiftness.

  Edward could not see what was happening with Marcus, but he could picture the knight ascertaining if the prince was dead or alive and, if alive, making a hurried determination on how best to remove him from the field.

  Edward expected swift action—either his own knights attacking the enemy or the enemy attacking them—and he was surprised and uneasy over what looked to be a stalemate. The knights sat their horses. The enemy held their position. Neither made a move. Wilhelm took out his spyglass—a gift from his father, and his pride and joy. The prince trained it on the enemy.

  “What do you see?” Edward demanded impatiently. “What the devil’s going on?”

  “It is as Marcus told us, Father,” said Wilhelm, and his voice held a note of wonder. “These strange warriors are not armed, and there are women fighting among their ranks.”

  At that moment, one of the two knights who had been cut off from the main body began his ill-fated charge into the enemy. They watched him fall from his horse.

  Unfortunately, at about this time, order was restored in the camp. The foot soldiers were taking up their positions, with the officers’ shouting for silence in the ranks. When the knight began to roast alive, his screams could be heard quite clearly. And so could the cry of “demons.”

  “God save us!” Wilhelm breathed, shaken, and he handed the glass to his father.

  Edward put it to his eye. His vision was not as clear as his son’s, and he had some trouble focusing. The eerie red glow emanating from the hands of one of the warriors was easy to spot, however. And then the next knight fell.

  “But how are they killing them?” Wilhelm cried angrily. “They are not armed! Father, you don’t believe they are demons—”

  “No,” said Edward grimly, handing back the glass. “They are men like us. Or rather, not like us. They are like your brother. The blood of dragons runs in their veins.”

  “You believe in that and I believe in it,” Wilhelm said, though he didn’t sound quite as confident as he pretended. “But no one else will.”

  Edward looked at the ranks of foot soldiers lined up, waiting the call to battle, and sighed deeply.

  “Those are brave men down there, Father,” Wilhelm added, “stout and true. But how will they cope with a foe who fights with fire and brimstone?”

  Abruptly Edward handed back the glass. “I can’t see a damn thing with that contraption. I’m going down there—”

  “Father, wait!” Wilhelm clasped hold of Edward’s arm, as the king started to spur his horse. “Look! The knights have Marcus. They’re bringing him out!”

  “That will be my lord Troeven’s doing,” remarked one of the barons. “He’s afraid of nothing this side of heaven or hell.”

  “God speed them and protect them,” Edward prayed softly. “And protect my son.”

  The young knight, Sir Reynard, had a firm hold on the prince, holding him with a grip strong as death. Grasping the reins tightly, he rode with his body hunched over the prince’s body, thus further protecting His Highness and making himself less a target.

  The young knight rode hard. They all rode hard. The horses’ flanks were bloody from the spurs raking their flesh. The knights had to keep their mounts under control, however, for—bunched close as they were—a horse stumbling or bolting would mean disaster.

  Aware of the honor given him and the trust put in him, Reynard put aside the fear of death and, worse, his fear of demons dragging his soul down to hell, and concentrated on his duty. Reynard was quite certain that these were demons pursuing them, demons surrounding them, demons hurling the fire of hell at them. He gave his soul into God’s keeping and, though he did not quite give himself to Death, as Sir Troeven had ordered—for it is hard, at eighteen, to think that tomorrow’s bright and beautiful dawn might not come—he kept fear at bay by concentrating on his goal: the line of his own forces that he could see waiting for them.

  Reynard prayed a simple prayer. “God, don’t let me fall off the horse!”

  The demon warriors had no intention of letting them escape. Whereas before they had held their fire, “hoping to see us piss our pants,” one of Reynard’s companions had muttered, the demons launched an assault. They flowed alongside the galloping horses like a stream of sparkling water, their scaled armor glittering in the sunlight. Small and deadly darts whizzed among the knights like hideous hornets.

  Some of the darts went astray or clattered harmlessly off the steel plate, for the knights were a moving target now. Others found their mark. A knight riding in the vanguard alongside Sir Troeven suddenly slumped forward over his horse’s neck, and then slipped off his saddle. No one stopped to see if he was dead or alive. The horses charging after him rode right over him. His own horse kept going, a wild and panicked look in its eyes. Immediately, another knight galloped up to take his place, plug the gap in the lines.

  A cloud of fire erupted on Reynard’s right flank, frightening the horse of the knight riding closest to the demons and sending his horse plunging into the horse of the knight riding beside him. Both horses foundered and went down, taking their knights with them. Reynard, glancing back, saw the demons standing over the knights. He heard agonized screams, and a horrid taste fill the young knight’s mouth. He wrenched his head around and faced forward, back to his destination.

  It seemed a long, long way off.

  Another knight fell in the vanguard, and another moved up to take his place. A concussive blast behind Reynard nearly knocked him from his mount. A wave of heat rolled across him, and the death screams of horses and of men sounded almost in his ear. He couldn’t think about that, for he was engaged in a panicked struggle to keep hold of the prince and maintain his seat in his saddle and urge his horse forward. By some miracle, he managed all three, and then the body of the knight riding directly in front of him exploded.

  A rainstorm of blood and gore hit Reynard in the face. He was pelted with fragments of armor and bone and flesh. Sir Reynard wiped the blood from his eyes and kept riding.

  Darts flew in among the knights, thinning their ranks. The giant Lord Summerson had been hit four times. He held his position in line, riding stalwartly, though the blood flowed from his wounds in rivulets down his armor. Reynard glanced away for an instant, and when he looked back, Lord Summerson was gone. The next moment his gigantic horse fell, pierced by almost as many darts as its rider.

  Fewer and fewer knights were left to guard Reynard and the prince. One of the darts, its momentum spent, glanced off his helm. Pain burst in his left shoulder
and he looked down to see wicked black feathers protruding from his breastplate. He gritted his teeth and hunkered down over his prince and rode on.

  Reynard no longer paid attention to men falling around him. He looked neither to the right nor the left. He kept sight of the king’s standard and never took his eyes from it as it crawled closer and closer.

  A voice was shouting at him, thundering at him. It had been shouting at him for some time, and only now did it start to seep into his brain that the voice was yelling at him. Reynard turned his head, blinking through the mask of blood that gummed his eyes and through the pain that was so much a part of him he could not tell which part.

  Riding alongside him was Sir Troeven.

  Only Sir Troeven. Reynard glanced around. The others were gone.

  Of thirty men of the Prince’s Own who had started, only two were left.

  “Ride, man!” Troeven had his visor up and was bellowing. “Put your spurs to your horse and ride!”

  A dart struck the commander in the eye. His face was no longer a face. It was a bloody mass of bone and teeth and jelly. Troeven sagged on his horse and then, dragging on the reins, he turned the beast around and rode straight back into the ranks of demon warriors.

  Reynard did not look to see what was happening. Another dart thudded into him. He gasped and coughed and spit out the blood that dribbled from his mouth and rode.

  The king’s knights galloped out to meet the Prince’s Own. Some had no time to put on their armor, but had flung on helms and grabbed up sword or spear to go riding to the rescue.

  The soldiers in the ranks had been cheering the Prince’s Own as though they were at a horse race or tourney. When, one by one, the knights fell, the cheers became more sporadic, then dwindled out altogether, and by the time the knights swept up the lone survivor of the Prince’s Own and carried him out of harm’s way, a dread silence had fallen over the ranks of the king’s army.

  The dragon warriors ceased their pursuit and drew back among the tall grass. They left behind the dead. The bodies of twenty-nine knights formed an almost straight line leading from the field of grass to the last body, riddled with darts.

  Sir Troeven lay with his shattered face turned up to the heavens. No demon would have his soul or the souls of any others of the Prince’s Own. They had kept their oath and God would gather them home.

  They carried Prince Marcus off the field on a litter, bearing him up the ridge to where his father waited. They brought with them, as well, the young knight Sir Reynard. Marcus had groaned when they had lifted him off the horse, which they took for a hopeful sign. As for Reynard, he was dying, and there was nothing they could do for him except see to it that he was granted the honor he deserved. Acting on Edward’s command, six knights bore the mortally wounded young knight to his final audience with his sovereign. They lowered the litter bearing Reynard to a place of honor—beside that of the prince for whom he’d given his life.

  The full extent of Marcus’s injuries would not be known until they could remove his armor, but Edward felt his son’s pulse and found it strong. His armor had not been pierced by any of the heinous darts. The only damage the armor had suffered was to the left shoulder, which was dented and bashed, probably from the fall off his horse. Those who were expert in such injuries theorized broken bones, maybe a dislocated shoulder, and a bump on the head. Nothing worse. Marcus kept repeating a dark litany, crying over and over, “Death above, death behind . . .”

  Once Edward had assured himself that his son was not critically wounded, the king turned his attention to the young man who had given his life for that of his prince.

  They had removed Reynard’s visor, and Edward was touched to the heart to see how youthful was the pallid face that looked calmly into his. Reynard tried to speak, but a great gout of blood came out of his mouth and he could not manage the words.

  Edward knew what he wanted so desperately to ask.

  “His Highness is alive,” the king said, taking hold of the dying knight’s hand. “Thanks be to God and to you and the others, he has taken no grievous wound.”

  A smile flickered on the ashen, blood-stained lips and then Reynard grimaced, his body shuddered. He gave a little gasp. The hand Edward was holding, already cold, went limp.

  The king placed the young man’s hand over his bloody breast and closed the staring eyes.

  “Father,” said Wilhelm quietly. “There is trouble.”

  “The enemy is attacking?” Edward asked wearily. He felt suddenly tired and old.

  “No,” said Wilhelm grimly. “I wish they were. The enemy has vanished.”

  Edward stared out across the grassy field and saw nothing. No sign of the warriors who, only moments before, had been flinging deadly darts and spewing fire from their fingertips. He saw the wind ripple the grass and the sun shimmering off the armor of the dead knights. And he could hear, like a buzzing of locusts, terror spread among his troops.

  “How clever,” he said softly. “How damnably clever!”

  He could imagine what his men were saying to each other.

  “The demons could be anywhere. They could be sneaking through the grass right this very moment!”

  “Or slipping up behind us to slit our throats . . .”

  “Or light us on fire, same as they did the knights.”

  “How can you fight an army you can’t see?”

  “How can you fight an army sent by the devil?”

  Fear was contagious. His own knights were nervous and uneasy. Some drew their swords. Others peered over their shoulders. It took all Edward’s resolve not to do the same. He, too, could feel the prickles at the back of his neck, and he couldn’t help but picture one of those fell warriors sneaking up behind him.

  “We’re going to start losing men,” said Wilhelm. “There!” He pointed to a group of soldiers who had thrown down their weapons and were running for their lives into the forest. Officers threatened and cursed, but they didn’t sound very confident themselves.

  A presence at his elbow made Edward start.

  “Sire,” said a young lad, “your son asks to speak to you.”

  Edward hastened over to where men were lifting Marcus onto a wagon, preparatory to transporting him back to his brother’s castle. Marcus lay on the litter, half in and half out of his mangled armor. His eyes were open and clear, though shadowed by pain.

  “He insisted on talking to you, Your Majesty. Wouldn’t budge otherwise.”

  “My son,” said Edward, with a smile, “I am glad—”

  Marcus interrupted him. “You have to pull back, Father!” he said, white-faced. “Retreat! You can’t fight what’s coming!”

  Edward bent over his son and clasped his hand. Edward had made the mistake of not trusting Marcus once. He would not do so again.

  “What is coming, Son?” he asked.

  It was at that moment someone spotted the dragon.

  “Death from above,” answered Marcus.

  Maristara soared above the treetops, coming from the north, from Dragonkeep. She flew swiftly and with deadly purpose, her neck outstretched, her eyes glaring down, her huge body and vast wingspan obliterating the sun. Leaving the clouds, she dove down on them. Her breath spewed fire as she came, setting the marshlands ablaze and showing the humans, who cowered at the sight of her, the sort of death they would die.

  The king’s crumbling army disintegrated. The commanders had no hope of maintaining control. Some, keeping their heads, tried to prevent a rout, while others were first to head for the rear. The cry was every man for himself, and every man made a dash for it, pushing and shoving and sometimes knifing his fellows in order to clear a path that would save him from the terror swooping down on him. The sight of “demon” warriors had unnerved them. The sight of the dragon unmanned them.

  The only company to hold its ground was the archers. Led by a man of stubborn disposition who believed in neither God nor the devil (and who was worshiped and feared by his men more than either of the o
ther two), the archers stood fast even as the dragon bore down on them. They had their arrows nocked and ready and, at the command, the archers fired.

  The sky was black with arrows flying, hissing, at their target.

  Six of the female dragon warriors appeared, parting the veil of magic, their scaled armor bright in the sunlight. Each woman made a graceful gesture with her hands, as though she were sending forth a flight of birds. The shafts of the arrows burst into flame and were instantly consumed, tailing downward in thin spirals of smoke. The arrowheads melted and plopped in leaden drops onto the grass. The women bowed low, as the dragon passed overhead. And then they disappeared back into the illusion.

  The archers flung down their bows. They trampled each other in their mad panic. But they had lost precious time standing up to the dragon, and she was swift to exact punishment. Flying over them, Maristara sprayed them with fire, setting their clothes and hair ablaze. The hapless victims flailed and thrashed about on the ground or spread the flames as they ran screaming, trying mindlessly to escape the blaze that was consuming them. Most of these dropped dead in their tracks. Others were knocked to the ground by their comrades in a desperate attempt to save them, though to no avail. The flames were insidious, burning through leather armor and clothes and flesh, burning up bone and sinew and muscle, reducing men to piles of greasy ashes.

  Marcus lay in the wagon, helpless, unable to move without shards of pain splintering his body. He had dislocated his left shoulder in his fall, and he was fairly certain, by the sharp pain and horrible grinding sounds, that he had several broken bones. There was no way to tell how severe were the wounds he’d suffered until they could get him out of his armor, and it was so dented and mangled that it would probably take a blacksmith and his tools to pry it off him.

  A whirlwind of confusion fed by terror swirled around him. Knights and officers were either jumping onto their horses to make good their own escape or they were standing practically on top of the king, shouting into his face, so that Edward must have been hard-pressed to hear himself think. Marcus could not take his eyes from the dragon, from the terrible, deadly beauty of Maristara.