The Crown and the Dragon

by John D. Payne

“Impotent child,” taunted Volusus, “unable to think of anything but its own trifling hurts.”

  Ethelward grimaced. The pain in his leg was anything but trifling. A burning pain was crawling up into his gut, like a fiery serpent. Was he poisoned?

  The Vitalion officer lunged forward, his curved sword hooking around Ethelward's and nearly tugging it out of his grasp. Ethelward stumbled backward, trying to master the crippling pain in his lower body. He cursed aloud. Why was he fighting so poorly?

  Smiling, his enemy pressed his advantage as Ethelward parried awkwardly. “You waste your strength,” he said, his words piercing. “This battle is lost.”

  Ethelward’s vision dimmed. Black despair seized his heart. He felt a crushing weight on his shoulders and chest. He sank to his knees, his hands trembling, losing their grip on Elfraed’s great sword. “Forgive me!” he gasped.

  “Can the cobra forgive the rat?” Volusus asked, laughing. “No. But I will give you a most merciful respite.”

  And in that moment, Ethelward knew that he had been struck not by a poisoned blade, but by a poisoned tongue. It was another spell. Calling out for divine protection, Ethelward rose to his feet, ignoring the wound in his thigh.

  “Call on your feeble gods,” said Volusus. “They cannot save you.”

  Ethelward resisted this attempt to draw him into conversation. Instead of replying, he sang a grim battle hymn to drown out the invader’s venomous words. Holding the sword in front of him like a spear, he pressed forward with a series of mighty thrusts, never ceasing his song.

  The Vitalion officer retreated, putting the bonfire between them. Ethelward lifted one rain-soaked sleeve to protect his mouth and nose from the vile smoke. Then he dashed around it, marveling that even with a wounded leg he could outmaneuver a man who had moved with such fluid grace just moments before.

  Singing even louder, Ethelward hammered down, like a smith pounding hot steel. His enemy gave ground as Ethelward’s punishing sword blows pushed him down the slope, toward the sea. Ethelward could not see either his men, or the Scales. Their fight must have taken them in another direction.

  “You may strike me down,” said Volusus through clenched teeth. His parries had become weaker and weaker, and his footing was as halting and unsteady as an old man’s. “But your brother will still be dead and gone.”

  With a wordless scream, Ethelward swung with all his might. Elfraed’s great sword plummeted down like a hawk diving for the kill. It broke the Vitalion officer’s sickle-shaped falcata and split his monstrous helm in two, knocking him to the wet sand.

  Through the blood that streamed down the man’s scalp, Ethelward saw white hair, and a face that was lined and worn. The waves lapped up around the invader as he sprawled in the surf.

  “I am slain,” muttered Volusus, his breath labored, “by an uncouth and unworthy imbecile.”

  “No,” said Ethelward, “you are slain by the brother of Elfraed, king of Deira, which land you will soon defile no more.”

  “But no matter,” said Volusus, as if he had not heard. “New life comes from all this death.” His eyes regarded Ethelward at last. “You will be witness to its birth.”

  “Enough,” said Ethelward, breaking the gaze and raising the great sword.

  “You have seen the truth, barbarian!” Volusus cried. Then he shrugged. “And so you have nothing to fear from me.” He smiled. “I’m just the midwife here.” He laughed, but it turned into an ugly cough.

  “You speak in riddles,” Ethelward mumbled. His tongue felt thick. His wet hair had fallen into his eyes.

  “How the ignorant hate knowledge!” Volusus spat. “Can’t you feel it, barbarian? Can’t you feel the change?”

  “Shut your mouth,” said Ethelward, roughly. But he felt uneasy. Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to look around, and lifted his sword once again for the death blow.

  “Have you not observed that the rain has ceased to fall?” said Volusus.

  Ethelward realized that it had. The wind still swirled and the sky was still darkened, but the rain had stopped.

  “Look!” said Volusus. “I will show you a great mystery.” He lifted up one metal-scaled arm to the sky, unfolding his fingers slowly, as if releasing a butterfly from his grasp. Dark clouds were gathered, the odd green hue still noticeable. Lightning struck the knoll behind them, and Volusus cried, as if in pain.

  “I should have been up there,” he moaned. “Oh, inglorious end…”

  “If it is death you crave,” said Ethelward, “I will grant your wish.” He plunged his sword deep into the Vitalion officer’s side, sliding it between the metal scales where his breastplate did not protect him.

  Volusus gasped in pain, but his smile grew even wider, and his face shone with ecstasy. “Beautiful!” he said, softly. He reached out to the clouds, his fingers grasping. “The light! It consumes me! I am… reborn!” Then he went slack.

  Ethelward freed his sword, pushed his long, wet hair from his face, and rolled the Vitalion’s body into the sea. Then he walked back up the knoll until he reached the bonfire. Braving its acrid smoke, he kicked it apart, revealing charred hunks of meat in it. Ethelward remembered the terrible chest wound on his brother’s body and was sickened. Turning away, he searched the bodies on the knoll until he once again found Elfraed. Closing his brother’s staring eyes, Ethelward said a quick prayer and surveyed the beach.

  Everywhere, the Scales fled, pursued by the thirsty blades of ferocious Deiran clansmen. Some were driven into the sea, where they would drown in their heavy armor. The battle was finished.

  Ethelward raised his sword high and cried, “Victory!” as loudly as he could. A few battle-weary Deirans scattered across the beach echoed him, raising their weapons high in like manner. Victory.

  And still so much still to do.

  Ethelward wanted to ride north to his bride, but the surviving Vitalion soldiers had to be harried, or they would regroup. And someone would have to find the escaped Vitalion galleys, or send messengers to warn the Lairds of Rhona and all the Renonian coast.

  With Elfraed gone, there was no one else to rally the clansmen and rouse the lairds. No one but Ethelward. Though he could not take up the crown until he could assemble the Council of Knights, Ethelward was king now. His people needed him.

  As he started down the knoll, something caught Ethelward’s eye. “What is that?” he muttered to himself. In the midst of the green-black clouds, surrounded by crackling lightning, a fire burned. Had the clouds parted? No. What he saw in that gap was not the blue arch of the heavens, but flames—orange, yellow, red, blue, and even green.

  So, there was a hole in the sky, and on the other side was an inferno, pouring out its evil vapors to add to the thickening storm clouds. Volusus and his shaman had been burning the hearts and livers of Deira’s finest and bravest as a sacrifice, to what evil powers Ethelward knew not. But as he remembered the Vitalion officer’s talk of birth and midwifing, he feared he would soon know. The victory was not yet won.

  Running down the slope, his red cape streaming like a banner, Ethelward waved his sword and shouted. “To me! For King, for clan, for country! Sons of Deira to me!”

  His tone must have communicated urgency, for all over the battlefield, Deiran warriors turned away from their individual labors—harrying the Scales, looting the dead, caring for the wounded—to rally to his side.

  Lairds on horseback and their lieutenants and banner men emulated him, shouting to their own clansmen to make ready, as riders shepherded the men into place. They faced the sea—perhaps assuming the Vitalion galleys were attempting another landing. But as no enemy presented itself, they milled around in confusion, hundreds of men, all speaking at once, many of them pointing at the sky.

  Ethelward flagged down a passing horseman and commandeered his mount. Standing in the stirrups atop his borrowed steed, Ethelward faced the men, holding his brother’s great sword high. The lairds and banner men shouted for quiet.

  “Sons of De
ira,” Ethelward called in his loudest command voice, “by the grace of our Gods and the strength of our arms, we have defeated the Vitalion here today. But there remains a greater labor to perform, and I—”

  Ethelward stopped talking. The faces of the assembled Deiran clansmen no longer regarded him, but were turned up to the sky above them. In the dim light, Ethelward could see a stir of movement in the storm clouds, as when a great fish swims through murky waters, disturbing them with its passage. Then, from the nightmarish rent in the dark clouds above, a shadowy, serpentine form emerged.

  As the rent closed, a terrible cry pierced the air. Ethelward had never heard anything like it, not even the scream of an eagle over Lough Aislinn. The winds lashed his hair and cloak with increasing force, and he was pelted with rain and sleet. The cry came again, louder this time. There was a great clamor as the men panicked, some of pushing their way to the edges of the crowd, trying to get away.

  “Stand fast,” called Ethelward. “Stand fast!”

  But even as he called the order, Ethelward saw a blur of motion as the shadowy form again descended out of the dark clouds. It spiraled down in great circles, shrieking its unearthly cry as it came. A dragon.

  Chaos reigned on Drumney beach, as clansmen fled in every direction, trampling each other underfoot in the rush to escape. Horses screamed in terror, throwing their riders and galloping away, heedless of what lay in their path. Ethelward was thrown from his own borrowed mount, landing heavily in the sand.

  The dragon bore down and scattered the last remnants of Elfraed’s Deiran host. Regaining his feet, Ethelward shouted commands, but it was to no avail. All about him, men fled for their lives. Ethelward wanted to do the same, to run and run and never stop until he was in dear Maiwenn’s waiting arms. But kings cannot flee.

  So instead, Ethelward walked through the rain, up the slippery slope of the knoll one last time, as all across the beach men screamed and ran and burned and died. He found his brother’s body where he had left it. He kissed its forehead and carefully shrouded Elfraed in his red cape. Then Ethelward lifted his great sword with both hands and prayed.

  “Gods of my fathers,” said Ethelward aloud, “let me be an instrument of deliverance and of vengeance, if you see fit to spare this land from the ravages of this infernal monster.”

  Above the beach, the dragon rode on the winds of the storm, its great wings spread wide. It was a dark orange-red in color, and glittered like fire’s last embers. Its sinuous body was perhaps twenty feet long, and it moved like a dancer’s ribbon, or like an eel in the water. Ethelward saw legs tipped by glistening talons, and when it opened its fearsome mouth to utter its horrible cry, it revealed enormous silvery-white teeth.

  “But if not,” Ethelward continued, “protect my darling Maiwenn. Let her know that I loved her, and that I would have come home if I could.”

  The dragon raced up and down the beach, dousing everything in sight in flame—men, horses, and even the Vitalion galleys. The nightmarish black skies poured their rain down, but they washed nothing clean. The beach still burned. The dragon turned and flew toward the knoll, burning and slaying as it came.

  “Let me rejoin my brother,” Ethelward said, “in the halls of my ancestors. And let not my people remember my failure, but that I stood here to the last and did not surrender. So let it be.”

  He stood, like a statue atop the knoll, his brother’s great sword held ready. The wave of flame drew nearer. Apparently spying Ethelward at last, the dragon darted through the air toward him. As it approached, Ethelward took advantage of his high position and leapt off the knoll, bellowing a wordless war cry, his sword slashing down to cut the creature off at the head.

  Impossibly fast, the dragon slipped out of the way, dodging his blow. Ethelward tumbled down the wet slope, and the monstrous creature opened its mouth, engulfing him in liquid flame. In agony, Ethelward Barethon passed from life and was born into unknowable worlds beyond.

  ***

  Chapter One

  Elenn of Adair sat in a high-backed wooden chair in a cavernous room filled with books. Sister Remembrance said the Order had the largest collection in Deira, which they protected behind the immense stone walls of the Fortress of the Leode. Even the dragon hadn’t attacked it, although it ravaged the countryside from Tantillion to Lough Aislinn.

  “It was spoken by our Elders,” said Sister Remembrance, pacing in the center of the room, “that a darkness would come.” She wore the plain, dark robes of her Institute—a sharp contrast to Elenn’s own coral-pink silk nightgown.

  Elenn was here because of Sister Remembrance, who had pulled her out of bed for a discourse on dreams, prophecies, and history. Elenn had not yet discerned the purpose of this lecture, but she knew better than to ask. Or to yawn.

  “A shadow that would turn brother against brother,” continued Sister Remembrance, her hands clasped behind her back. “A scourge of fire and steel.”

  The Leodrine Sister was an imposing figure, tall and strong, just entering her middle years. The hair escaping from underneath her tight cap was still strawberry-blond, very nearly the same color as Elenn’s own mane. She might be considered beautiful if she wasn’t always so stern.

  Sister Remembrance was also the reason that Elenn was in the Leode itself. The Sister had been visiting Elenn’s family for as long as she could remember, spending a few weeks each winter to tutor Elenn. Elenn’s mother had told her on her deathbed to travel to the Fortress and place herself under Remembrance’s guardianship until she reached the age of inheritance.

  She had also given Elenn a ring, the cool weight of which Elenn could feel hanging from a fine chain around her neck. It had been her sister’s—a gift from her betrothed before he died in battle. Maiwenn had died of grief not long after, and their mother had worn this ring to remember her. “Our sorrows are part of who we are,” mother had said. “We are stronger when we embrace them, not weaker.” Touching that ring, Elenn couldn’t help but think that sorrows were all of who they were in this family. Chiding herself immediately for the maudlin self-pity, she pushed down her welling tears and sat on her hands.

  Thankfully, Remembrance was searching the shelves and had noticed nothing. Turning the yellowing pages of a worn leather book, she stopped with a nod and handed it to Elenn. An elaborate illumination at the top of the page showed flaming red eyes and nostrils in a swirl of smoke.

  “A plague of fear,” Remembrance said, “in the form of a dragon.”

  On the next page was a large picture of a clawed serpent burning a castle full of little men dressed in antique armor. Some were painted fleeing, some fighting, some aflame and writhing in pain. The dragon dwarfed them all.

  “The real dragon has wings,” Elenn observed.

  Sister Remembrance frowned slightly, her eyebrows coming together. It made Elenn feel like a child about to be switched.

  “Sorry, Sister,” said Elenn hurriedly.

  “There is no need to apologize,” Remembrance said. “You are correct. It has wings–which my own observations indicate grow nearly six inches each year.”

  Elenn’s parents had told her that Sister Remembrance was very learned, and that to have her as a tutor was a great privilege. Elenn didn’t know if the Sister had really been everywhere or seen everything that she claimed, but she certainly seemed to know something about everything.

  “So,” said Elenn, “why is the dragon not painted with wings?”

  “Because,” Remembrance said, “this book is a hundred and forty years old, and the dragon has been with us less than twenty.”

  “But the Elders see what is to come,” said Elenn. “How could they get the picture wrong?”

  “The world of spirit, the Glyderinge, is difficult to enter from the world of flesh,” said the Sister. “Our patron Gods permit only the wisest Elders to journey there, and only in dreams. When they awake, the vision slips away from them and they remember little.”

  Elenn knew the feeling. She sometimes had dreams
so vivid she could almost believe she had entered another world. Yet a few moments after waking they were gone, with nothing more than vague memories of light and heat and a sensation like flying.

  Remembrance frowned. “Have you been recording your dreams, as I instructed you?”

  “Yes,” said Elenn quickly.

  The Sister raised one eyebrow.

  “Whenever I remember,” Elenn amended.

  “Sisters in this very fortress sit, even now, with our Elders,” Remembrance said, staring down at Elenn, “with pen and ink, waiting for them to speak. Every word they utter while in the Glyderinge is recorded.”

  Elenn wanted to roll her eyes. But her mother had said to heed Sister Remembrance.

  “When I get back to my chambers,” said Elenn, “I will set out writing materials.”

  Remembrance nodded, satisfied. “When I was an acolyte, I once sat vigil with Enid herself. Many of her prophecies are recorded… here.” Her fingers danced gracefully along the bookshelves before selecting another book and handing it to Elenn. “Study it.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” said Elenn, politely. Despite, or perhaps because of, her own nocturnal visions, she doubted Enid’s mutterings had any supernatural provenance. But she was curious. “What sorts of things do the Elders say?” asked Elenn.

  “Truth,” said Remembrance, emphatically. “Every word their bodies speak while their spirits wander the Glyderinge is true.”

  Elenn nodded, silently wondering why the Elders had not revealed how the dragon might be vanquished. Or the Vitalion.

  “Their words are not always easy to understand, though,” said the Sister, perceiving her unspoken doubts. “Like pieces of a puzzle, we must fit them together properly.”

  “How?” asked Elenn.

  Sister Remembrance gave a weary sigh. “Sometimes,” she said, “we can only put them together after living through what the Elders have seen.” She opened another book. “Consider these utterances, spoken at different times by different Elders.” Her finger pointed to a single verse on the brightly illustrated page.