Karl dismounted from Stick's back. "Go," he shouted to Valeran. "Find them. I want them dead."
There was nothing to do as the huge dragon lay there, dying. Dragonbane was a poison to Ellegon, and every second it was working its way deeper into the dragon's body.
No. I won't give up. Ellegon had been able to survive his only other contact with the stuff, more than three centuries before. There was a chance that he could survive this. The poison would have to be gotten out—but how? Karl couldn't even break through the wall of pain around the dragon's mind.
I have to. Ellegon, he thought, can you hear me?
*Yes.* But the word was accompanied by nauseating waves of pain. Clutching at his chest, Karl crumpled to the ground.
No, don't, he thought, as the mindlink faded. Don't answer. Just hear me. I have to get those bolts out of you. Try not to move.
He worked his way in between the writhing forelegs, only to be batted aside by a fluttering wingtip that knocked him off his feet.
"No, Ellegon. Don't move." The three bolts were spread out across the dragon's chest, all but one above Karl's reach.
He quickly pulled that one out and tossed it away, then tried to climb up the dragon's side to get at another.
But his toes couldn't find purchase among Ellegon's hard scales. There was just no way to reach them.
"Karl!" A hand slammed down on his shoulder. "Lift me!" Andy screamed at him, a long-bladed knife in her hands.
Karl stooped, clamped his hands around her ankles, and lifted her up, holding her tightly as high as he could.
The dragon screamed again—
Don't move, Ellegon. Please don't move. If you knock us away, you'll die.
*Karl . . . * The mental voice was distant. *My friend . . . I'm afraid that this is goodbye—*
"No, dammit, don't you dare die on me, you scaly bastard. Not you, Ellegon. Andy—"
"Shut up," she hissed. "I've almost gotten the second one."
The dragon's mental presence was fading quickly, and his struggles were slowing, not from control, but from weakness.
"Got it," she exclaimed. "Take five big steps to your right so I can get at the last one."
While it felt like hours, Karl knew that it was only a few seconds later that she cried out, "Got it. Let me down."
He lowered her, shaking the tears from his eyes. "No, that's not enough. We've got to do something about the poison in the wounds."
Think, dammit, think. He looked up the dragon's side to the red holes in Ellegon's gray hide, and at the slow ooze of thick blood dripping down Ellegon's scales. The trouble was that dragonbane was poison, a chemical poison that dragons, virtually immune to most forms of physical attack, were subject to.
Andy-Andy buried her head against his chest, the bloody bolts falling from her hands. "He's not going to make it, Karl." The dragon's breathing was almost imperceptible.
"Shut up. Let me think." There had to be something to do, some way to clear the poison out of—
Got it!
He opened his pouch and pulled out his powder horn. "We'll burn it away," he shouted. "With gunpowder." Drawing his beltknife, he snatched at the hem of her robes and cut a swatch off, then used the rag to dry the most accessible of Ellegon's wounds as best he could.
He handed her the knife. "Give me another swatch," he said. He packed the wound with the fresh cloth, then opened his powder horn and tipped a third of the powder into the cloth. "Valeran!" he shouted, "get me a torch, some fire—now!"
Her face brightened. "Lift me."
He braced his back against the dragon's chest, caught her by the waist, and lifted her. As she planted her feet on his shoulders, he passed up the horn. "Do the same thing I did. Then get as much powder as you can into the swatches."
In moments the remaining wounds were packed with gunpowder. Lowering Andy-Andy to the ground, Karl accepted the torch from Valeran and touched it to the nearest of the wounds.
It puffed into flame and acrid smoke. He touched the torch to the other two rents in Ellegon's hide, and again they burned.
Andy gripped his arm. "Do you think—?"
The dragon was still breathing, but that was all. Ellegon? Can you hear me? Dammit, say something.
He shook his head. "I don't know. And I don't know what the hell else to do. We'll just have to wait." He bent over and kissed Andy-Andy gently on the forehead. "Make that 'I'll just have to wait.' This area isn't secure, yet." He turned to Valeran. "Put a guard around him—borrow men from Aveneer. I want a full circle, twice as wide as a bowshot, well lit with watchfires. There may be other assassins around. They're not to get within crossbow range—nobody is to get within crossbow range—understood?"
"Understood." Valeran nodded. "But—"
Karl turned. "Erek! Gather all team leaders and seconds for a full staff meeting, main dining hall; ask the baron's permission. Invite him and Thomen to join us—particularly Thomen. Go."
The boy nodded and ran off.
Valeran looked as though he was about to ask why, then shrugged. "Yes, Karl. But I was trying to tell you that we captured one." He led Karl around to the other side of the dragon and pointed to a greasy little man who lay on the ground, tightly bound, next to Norfan's horse. "Do you want me to hand him over to Tennetty?"
"Yeah." He nodded.
"Instructions?"
"She's to make him talk, and then she's to make him die."
* * *
Karl stood at the head of the long table, gathering his thoughts, trying to forget about Ellegon for the moment. There was nothing that could be done about the dragon now, but this meeting was critical.
Gathered around the table, the others sat quietly, waiting for the storm to break.
Sitting together at the far end of the table, Valeran, Frandred, and Aveneer talked calmly, in soft tones, as though nothing at all bothered them.
Karl had never truly understood that mentality. He understood the necessity of generating the image, of course, but the calm resolution that one was going to die in battle, and that this coming battle might easily be the battle, well, that was something Karl could simulate, but never quite understand. That was something he had given up when he had deliberately subsumed his Barak persona.
Sitting next to him, Andy-Andy reached over and squeezed his hand momentarily, then dropped it. Relay, please—he caught himself. Damn. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, smiling back at her.
"Hate sleeping alone that much, do you?" She smiled back.
"Right."
Next to her, Tennetty and Ahira sat quietly, their faces more impassive than calm. But the dwarf's brow was furrowed. His stubby fingers steepled in front of his aquiline nose, he occasionally glanced over at Karl, then resumed his own thoughts.
Karl let a chuckle escape his lips. Ahira was trying to anticipate him. There had been a time when the dwarf was a better military tactician than Karl, but practice and study had honed Karl's skills. Still, Ahira's ability to think well under pressure was something to reckon with . . . or to rely on, depending.
On the dwarfs right, Peill sat back on his high-backed chair, feigning calm, while opposite Ahira, Walter Slovotsky waited patiently, his all-is-well-with-any-universe-clever-enough-to-contain-Walter-Slovotsky smile intact, as always.
Next to Slovotsky, Zherr Furnael sat stiffly, looking like a compromise between the way he had been six years before and the way Karl had found him. Well, a compromise it would have to be. Furnael was the key to everything, and if the baron could just hold himself together for a few more years, maybe . . .
Thomen sat quietly next to his father, his eyes watching everyone, missing nothing. Thomen was different from his brother: Rahff had been much more of a talker, less of a watcher.
"It's going to be tough, people," Karl said. "The first item of business is getting Ellegon in through the gates. Andy, can you levitate him?"
"I've been expecting that. And I . . . think so." She nodded, biting her lip uncertainly. "I ma
y be able to lift him, but that doesn't mean I can float him in here—and with his mass . . ."
"That's easily solved. We tie some ropes to his legs and everyone helps pull him in through the main gate." He looked over at Furnael. "If he does survive, he's going to need to eat a lot of food. You can start with your scrawniest animals—he won't care."
"It will be done." The baron nodded. "We have some smoked beef in the cellars that has turned. If that wouldn't do Ellegon harm—"
"Turned?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Why haven't you disposed of it?"
Furnael answered slowly. "Because, Walter Slovotsky, when you are under siege you would rather your people have moldy beef to eat than see them starve in front of your eyes. That is . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "My apologies. I was asking—would the meat be bad for the dragon?"
"Not at all," Karl said. "He doesn't poison easily."
Aveneer raised his head. "I don't understand all this hurry. It can't be because of five hundred cavalrymen a day's ride away to the east, so I—"
"Wait," Ahira interrupted. "How do you know it's not?"
Aveneer threw his head back and laughed. "You may have observed that Karl Cullinane does not panic easily. Five hundred cavalrymen would not panic him, not when we've that many effectives here, most armed with guns."
"No, it's not the horsemen." Karl shook his head. "They're only there to cut off our remaining avenue of escape. The reason that I'm worried is that I'm all but certain there are at least two thousand heavily armed soldiers only a few days to the west. I've been sold out, people, and Ahrmin is about to arrive and try to collect."
* * *
"Surely," Valeran said, studying the fingernails he was cleaning with the point of a dagger that he hadn't been holding moments before, "you aren't accusing anyone here? I realize that I am new to your service, but I've never been fond of being the target of a false accusation."
Tennetty pushed back her chair and rose slowly, her hand on the hilt of her sword. "If it is you—"
"No, Tennetty," Karl snapped. "It's not Valeran. Think it through.
"Holtish cavalry moving in from the east on the Prince's Road is an obvious suggestion that there's more trouble brewing in from the west. They can't be here to reinforce the siege—they wouldn't chance swinging in through Bieme if that were the case. Doesn't look like a normal military procedure, does it?
"The attack on Ellegon cinched it." He looked at Tennetty. "You interrogated the surviving assassin. Who were they after?"
"Ellegon. At least, that's what he said."
"Right. Think about it. Assassins armed with dragonbane, sent to kill Ellegon. That has to mean that whoever is behind this is after me—and who has known that I'm here long enough to prepare and send out assassins?"
The words hung in the air for a moment.
"Not the Holts," Furnael said, tenting his fingers in front of his chin. "If they had known about you and your people, they would have been prepared for your lifting of the siege, and reinforced their positions, not sacrificed the horsemen who chased after you, then retreated. You're saying that your betrayer is Biemish, some traitor in Biemestren?"
Karl nodded. "In a sense. Assume that I'm right, assume that a large part of the Holtish army is headed this way—who would benefit?"
Furnael shrugged. "The Holts, of course, if they can take the keep."
"Nonsense. The Holts already had the keep under control; they could have cracked it like an egg anytime they wanted to divert the manpower from the north. But they didn't do that, did they?"
Furnael wrinkled his brow. "No, but . . ."
"But who else stood to benefit? Who had already written off barony Furnael as a lost cause? Who would love to divert a few thousand Holts and their slaver allies south—"
"Wait—"
"—and who would gain by weakening the Holtish advance in the north, possibly taking advantage of the situation to order a counterattack? Tell me, Baron, who?"
"Son of a bitch!" Slovotsky nodded. "Pirondael." He threw up his hands. "Look at it from his point of view. It'd be a gorgeous bit of betrayal. It was common knowledge in Enkiar that Ahrmin's as irrational on the subject of you as you are on the subject of him—why wouldn't Pirondael know? He's counting on the little bastard's taking off after you with every gun and soldier he can muster."
He pushed his chair back from the table and began pacing up and down. "Shit, Karl, that changes everything. We don't have any line of retreat at all. Even if we could somehow punch through the Holtish cavalry at our back door, we can't sneak hundreds of warriors through Bieme."
Furnael sat up straight. "Bieme is not your enemy, not even if—"
"Nonsense, Baron," Andy-Andy snapped. "If your prince has betrayed Karl, he'll know it, and he'll be deathly afraid of my husband. As he has a right to be." She looked up at Karl. "Assuming that I don't get to him first."
Furnael shook his head. "I find this difficult to believe. My prince would not dishonor his crown this way."
"You're confusing the myth with the reality, Zherr. Wearing a crown doesn't make a man honorable." Karl turned to Slovotsky. "Walter, how many men do you think you could sneak past the Holts?"
"Depends. You thinking about sending me to Biemestren?"
Karl nodded.
"Damn." Slovotsky shrugged. "Then you'd better tell me what you want me to do."
"I want you to find out if I'm right or not about Pirondael's betraying us. If I'm wrong, you've got it easy: Talk him into sending some reinforcements."
"If you think that's easy, would you please tell me what you consider difficult?"
"If I'm right, then I think it's time we put a new prince under that crown of Pirondael's, and make sure that the new prince sends out reinforce—"
"Who?" Furnael snarled. "Both of my prince's sons have died in this cursed war; Evalyn is long past child-bearing. The succession is in doubt. The best claim is probably Baron Tyrnael—"
"Not if we seat the crown firmly on your head, Zherr." Karl looked the baron straight in the eye. "Not if we . . . persuade Pirondael to abdicate in your favor."
Furnael looked him straight in the eye. "You are asking me to commit treason, Karl Cullinane."
"But what if I'm right? What if he's betrayed you, your barony, and your son?" Karl pointed toward Thomen. "He'll die here, as surely as the rest of us."
Furnael sat back in his chair. "It does come to that, doesn't it?" For a long moment he sat motionless, his eyes fixed on Karl's.
Then he shook his head. "No. There's no way it can be done. I can't be in two places at once. How can I defend my barony and decide whether or not Pirondael is guilty?"
"You can't, Baron. You're going to have to go along with Slovotsky, and decide for yourself." Slowly, Karl drew his sword and balanced the flat of the blade on the palms of his hands. "We'll button up here; I can't go anywhere until Ellegon's well enough to travel, anyway. I'll do my best to safeguard Furnael Keep for you. You have the word of Karl Cullinane on that."
Furnael hesitated. Karl wanted to take that for assent, but he sensed that if he pushed the baron at this moment, it would only push him away from what had to be done.
Finally, Furnael nodded. "We shall do it."
"Fine." Karl slipped the sword back into its sheath. "Walter, I want you out of here before sunup. How many do you want to take with you? Twenty, thirty?"
Slovotsky spat. "Don't be silly. That'd be suicide. It's got to be a tiny group, to have any chance of getting through, and into the castle." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sitting silently for so long that Karl was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong.
Slovotsky's eyes snapped open; he shrugged. "Okay. The group is me, the baron, either Henrad or Andrea—"
"Not Andy. I need her here."
"Make it Henrad, then—I'm going to need some magic. And I'll need someone to handle the horses—Restius should do for that—and one other. Ahira?"
/>
The dwarf nodded. "I was hoping you'd ask." He pushed his chair away from the table. "We'd better decide on equipment and get packed." Ahira looked up at Karl. "Are you sure you can hold out here until we can relieve you?"
Karl shrugged. "No. But I'd better. You see another way?"
"No. I'm worrying about the dragon. Do you think he's going to be okay?"
"I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see."
*Not . . . terribly long.* The voice was distant, and it was weak.
But it was there.
Karl didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He settled for slapping his hands together. "Okay, people, let's get to work."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Biemestren Revisited
It is a bad plan that admits of no modification.
—Publilius Syrus
Walter Slovotsky moved quietly through the dark night, slipping in and out of the shadows of Biemestren Castle like a wraith.
Two hundred yards to the west, a dozen peasant shacks huddled up against the outer wall like moss against a tree. Four hundred yards to the east was the outer wall's main gate. But this stretch of wall was empty, the grasses growing almost chest-high.
"Just a short way, Baron," he whispered to Furnael. The baron's breathing was heavy; he considered offering Furnael a hand, but decided that the old man's pride would be wounded.
This wasn't a job for an old man. On the other hand, complaining about Furnael didn't make sense; the baron, after all, was a manifestly necessary component of any plan to put the baron on the throne.
So? Who says I have to be logical all the time? I'm Walter Slovotsky, dammit, not Leonard Nimoy.
To his left, Henrad stumbled. Ahira's hand whipped out, caught and lifted him, setting Henrad back on his feet before the boy could fall.
Slovotsky shook his head. Henrad might be coming along well in his magical studies, but he'd be about as useful on a quiet recon as a belled cow. He kept looking behind him, as though he could see where Restius waited with the horses, or possibly what was going on a week's ride away at Furnael Keep.
Walter shook his head. That was going to be a bitch if the Holts and slavers were attacking with any kind of seriousness.
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