Mistress of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  “Yes, that’s what I was thinking.” Edward frowned thoughtfully. “Up ahead, there’s a place where a large oak was struck by lightning. Half of it fell across the highway, completely blocking the road. The people of Bramfell spent days clearing it. They hauled the trunk of the tree to the side of the road. If we were to put our backs to that tree trunk, anyone trying to come up behind would have to climb over it to reach us.”

  “A good plan.” Draconas nodded.

  “Why are you so certain they’re out to kill me?” Edward asked.

  “If they wanted to stop for a chat,” Draconas answered dryly, “I think they would have done so by now.”

  Behind them, the horses’ hooves broke into a gallop.

  “How far is that tree?” Draconas cried.

  “Up ahead,” said Edward, and kicked his horse in the flanks.

  The hooves pounded closer. There was no doubt that they meant trouble.

  Reaching the lightning-blasted tree, Edward remained mounted, his sword in his right hand, a dagger in his left. He wore his traveling clothes—a belted, embroidered tunic, tall leather boots, short pantaloons, and woolen chaussures. He had not thought to wear armor.

  Draconas jumped from his horse. A staff was no weapon for a horseman and he was accustomed to fighting on foot. Neither he nor the king were in any real danger, for Draconas had his dragon magic and while he could not kill these humans, he could confuse them with illusions or frighten them with fire. He preferred not to use his magic unless as a last resort, however. Edward knew Draconas had magical powers, but no human on earth possessed such powers as did Draconas and he was loathe to reveal himself.

  He was confident that the two of them could handle these cutthroats without the need for magic. Gunderson had trained his protege well. Edward sat his horse with confidence, handled his weapons and himself with skill.

  Five horsemen appeared in the distance. Seeing their quarry waiting for them, they spurred their horses forward. The road did not narrow, as it passed through the forest on its way to Bramfell, for large wool carts traveled this route. The five could have ridden abreast, but they did not do so. One rode ahead. Four followed at a short distance, as if they’d been ordered to keep back.

  This struck Draconas as an odd strategy for a band of hired thugs. He concentrated his attention on the lead rider and he was startled and confounded by what he saw. So was Edward, apparently, for he lowered his sword.

  “By Our Lady,” he said in astonishment, “it’s a holy father.”

  The lead rider was tall and lank, with the thin, wasted body of one who spends much of his time fasting. He wore long black robes, belted around his waist with a rope. His over-large eyes shone with a wild light in his gaunt face.

  He was not used to riding, apparently, for he jounced up and down on the galloping horse, seeming likely to tumble out of the saddle at any moment. Clinging to his horse with his knees and the grace of God, the monk raised one hand to heaven and pointed with his other hand at Draconas.

  “God smite the demon!” the monk cried.

  A blow as from a gigantic mailed fist struck Draconas, flung him back against the tree trunk with such force that it knocked the breath from his body and very nearly dashed the wits from his head.

  He lay on the ground on his back, stunned as much by the impossibility of the blow as by the blow itself. The monk had used dragon magic, magic no human was supposed to know. The sounds of shouting and cursing and the clash of steel impelled him to his feet.

  The other four men bore down on Edward, ignoring Draconas.

  The king had been taken aback to see a monk attacking them, but he’d recovered and was meeting his opponents’ attack with enthusiasm, his sword cutting and slicing and parrying, all the time keeping his back and that of his horse to the log. For the moment, Edward was in no danger. Draconas looked about for the more deadly foe.

  Unable to control his horse, the monk had gone careening off down the road. Horse and rider were now about half a furlong away, the monk struggling frantically to bring his horse under control so that he could return to the fray. Draconas had time to assist the king and reduce the number of their enemies before he had to deal with the monk.

  Running up behind the thugs, Draconas swung his thick, oaken staff like a club, giving one man a clip on the helm that set it chiming like a church bell. The man fell from his horse. Edward thrust his sword through the throat of another, who slid from the saddle, choking on his own blood.

  The monk regained a modicum of control and managed to turn the horse around. He came galloping back for another pass and Draconas had to leave the remaining assassins to Edward.

  Taking up a position in the middle of the road, Draconas watched in bemusement to see the monk come charging straight at him, attacking mindlessly, arms akimbo, feet flying out of the stirrups. His eyes, wide and lit with madness, stared at Draconas. Howling again about demons, the monk pointed his finger.

  Draconas was prepared for the magic. He spun his staff in an arc. A shield of silvery blue energy formed in front of him, shielding him. He crouched behind the shield, ready to spring.

  The monk’s magic struck the shield. Light sizzled. There was a crack like thunder.

  The monk’s horse panicked, reared back on its hind legs, front hooves pawing at the air. The monk went flying, head over heels, and landed with a thud on the hard-baked dirt.

  The horse galloped off. The monk tried to struggle to his feet. One arm dangled useless. He couldn’t put his weight on his leg. He half-dragged himself to a huddled crouch, then thrust his good hand into the folds of his ragged robes.

  Expecting a knife, he halted, watching and wary. Madmen are frightening opponents because there is no telling what they’re going to do. This one obviously felt no pain, for he continued to glare with ferocious hatred at Draconas, gibbering and cursing him as “demon spawn.”

  Keeping his staff raised, Draconas edged forward.

  “I don’t want to have to kill you,” he told the monk. “I just want to talk to you.”

  “The devil take your foul kind!” the monk snarled.

  His hand darted out from his breast. In it he held a small glass vial.

  Draconas dropped his staff and lunged, but he was too late. The monk yanked the stopper from the vial and dumped the contents down his throat.

  The monk gagged. His tongue burst out of his mouth, swollen and purple. His eyes bulged and he grabbed for his throat. Choking, the monk pitched forward, dead.

  “Damnation,” swore Draconas.

  Hearing booted footsteps running up behind, he whipped about, raising his staff.

  “It’s me,” said Edward, scratched and bloody, dirty and sweaty, but otherwise unhurt.

  Draconas relaxed and turned back to the dead monk.

  “What did you do to him?” Edward demanded, coming up to stand beside Draconas.

  “Nothing,” said Draconas. Bending down, he lifted the man’s hand, exhibited the vial still clasped in the clutching fingers. “He drank poison.”

  “But”—Edward gasped—”that’s a mortal sin. And he was a holy father—”

  “Bah!” Draconas snorted. “He’s no more a holy father than I am. He’s just dressed up to look like one.” He lifted the head, indicated the bald pate encircled by the tonsure. “Sunburned. A true monk’s skin on top of his head would be tanned from the sun. That tonsure was newly cut.”

  “You’re right,” said Edward, puzzled. “But why should an assassin disguise himself as a monk? I could understand if he’d been trying to sneak up on me, but he came riding straight at—” He halted, and eyed Draconas thoughtfully.

  “Maybe he’s carrying something beneath his robes.” Draconas tore the black fabric from the man’s back, then halted, appalled at what he saw.

  Red, roped, ugly wheals crisscrossed over the monk’s spine and shoulders, the type of scars made by a whip or lash. Some were old. Some were fresh.

  Not much in this world fazed Drac
onas. He’d seen every sort of cruelty man could inflict upon man, some of them highly creative, and he had not blenched. This sickened him. He replaced the robes with a gentle hand, and rose to his feet.

  “Good God,” said Edward, shocked. “I wonder who did that to him?” He glanced back at the other men, lying in the dust.

  Draconas shrugged. “No way of knowing.”

  “I wonder something else,” said Edward coolly. “He attacked you, not me.”

  Observant bastard. Draconas had been hoping the king hadn’t noticed that fact.

  “He was a madman. Who knows why he did anything?” Edward stood staring down at the body, shaking his head. “I don’t believe it. Those other four were mercenaries, hardened soldiers, well-trained and, from the looks of this”—he held up a bloody money pouch—”well-paid. I found this on one of them. Silver coins, twenty of them. These men were professionals and such veteran sellswords don’t work with lunatics. Yet, he was obviously one of them.”

  “Truly a mystery,” said Draconas. He bent down to pick up his staff, and gazed speculatively down the road. “I know you planned to stay the night in Bramfell, but I don’t think that would be wise. I say we leave the road, detour around the city, and strike off directly through those fields to the northwest.”

  “The way will be much more difficult to travel,” stated Edward. “And slow our journey considerably.”

  “Better we arrive behind time, than not all,” Draconas said. “Whoever hired these men is probably sitting in a tavern somewhere in Bramfell, waiting to hear how they fared. When the assassins don’t show up, he’ll come looking for them.” Draconas glanced around at the dead and the wounded. “And he’ll find them. Nothing we can do about that. But at least he won’t be able to find us.”

  “You think whoever did this will try again?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Do you know what I think, Draconas?” said Edward, his hazel eyes golden as the sun in the leaves. “I think kings aren’t the only ones with enemies.”

  He walked back to his horse, wiping the blood off his sword as he went.

  “That’s true enough,” Draconas said to himself. He stood staring down at the body of the lunatic, who had been a madman, if he hadn’t been a monk. What had driven him mad? The dragon magic burning in his blood, the ill-usage, the terrible sights he’d seen. His last words echoed in Draconas’s mind.

  The devil take your foul kind.

  The monk had known the truth about Draconas. He had known where to find him. He’d been taught how to use the dragon magic against Draconas, though not taught very well.

  Only twelve dragons had known the plan to find the Mistress of Dragons, the twelve who sat on Parliament. One of those was either in league with Maristara or was passing on information to the one who was.

  “Which means that I owe you an apology for doubting you, Braun,” said Draconas grimly. “We all do.”

  Now, at any rate, he had his answer to the nagging question that had been bothering him ever since the king had mentioned it: With no travelers on the road to interfere or see them, why did the assassins wait to attack them until they reached the shelter of the trees?

  The answer was simple.

  The assassins weren’t hiding their deed from the eyes of man.

  They were hiding it from the eyes of the dragon.

  7

  BEFORE THEY COULD CONTINUE ON THEIR JOURNEY, Draconas had to chase after his horse. When he had caught the beast, he had to dissuade Edward from giving the bodies a decent burial. As Draconas pointed out, they were paid killers and, if they had been caught by the law, they would have been hanged, their bodies left to rot on the scaffold to serve as a warning to others. Leaving them here was no different.

  “Plus,” said Edward, struck by a new thought, “leaving them will give the sheriff of Bramfell the chance to investigate the matter. When next we stop, I’ll send a message to the duke, telling him what happened and urging him to find out who paid these men to kill us.”

  “An excellent idea, Your Majesty,” said Draconas, who had no intention of allowing anyone to investigate anything.

  He searched the body of the monk, but did not find anything useful; not that he had expected to do so.

  “What happened to the bastard I hit on the head?” he thought to ask.

  Edward glanced about. “I didn’t see. Probably came to his wits and ran off.”

  “All the more reason to be leaving, before he reports back to whoever hired him that he failed. The sun sets late, we have another couple of hours at least.”

  They left the road, moving slowly at first, for they were forced to guide their horses through the tangle of bramble and bracken that lined the roadside. Once free of that, they struck open meadows and they were able to ride more swiftly. Draconas had the very great satisfaction of seeing the road and the forest surrounding it dwindle in the distance.

  Topping a rise, they halted to let the horses rest. The king glanced back over his shoulder and stiffened in the saddle. “Smoke,” he said, pointing. “Back there.” The sun was near to setting. Shadows filled the valley. Red-orange light gilded the high hills and the treetops. Black smoke curled in a straight line into the still air. “A campfire,” said Draconas.

  “That is no campfire,” said Edward grimly. “The dragon has set fire to the forests around the road.” He squinted to see into the sun. “Must be close to where we were when we were attacked.”

  “All the more reason to make haste, Your Majesty,” said Draconas.

  The king watched the smoke another moment, his lips compressed in a straight, tight line.

  “I’m glad you’re on my side, Draconas,” he said abruptly. “You are on my side, aren’t you?”

  “I’m never on anyone’s side,” Draconas responded. “But I like to be paid.”

  Edward eyed him a moment, then he burst out laughing, a hearty laugh, that rang among the hills. “I like you, Draconas.

  Damned if know why, but I do.” He galloped off, his gaze fixed on the twilight-touched mountains.

  Draconas cast a final glance back at the smoke. Braun, doing his job. Destroying the bodies.

  They rode hard for five days. Draconas insisted that they rise early and sleep late, pushing themselves and the horses to their limit in order to cover as much ground as possible. Braun and Draconas kept watch for anyone following them—Draconas from his vantage point on the ground and the dragon from the air—but no more mad monks appeared.

  Draconas guessed the reason why. They had tried to kill once and failed. They could try again—chasing him all over the countryside—or they could harbor their resources, wait for him to come to them.

  Maristara knew where he was bound and why. She would have her trap set for him at the point where she figured he would have to cross—the pass that led through the Ardvale mountains.

  Maristara had sealed off the pass three hundred years ago, using her magic to create a rock slide that effectively blocked the old road. The ordinary traveler would not think of trying to cross, but a persevering adventurer might be able to climb over and clamor around the boulders that filled the cut. Since her magic prevented him from entering, Draconas had planned on trying to send Edward, cloaked in magic, through the pass at that point. He had to rethink this plan, however. Maristara would be on the lookout. She’d have guards posted, probably more deranged magicians.

  As for Edward, if he was worried about assassins or breaking through enchanted barriers, he didn’t show it. The king might have been on a holiday outing. He was in a good humor, talking and laughing and looking eagerly about him. They crossed the border of his kingdom, entered a strange land—a land strange to Edward. Draconas had traveled here once before only a short time ago. He’d made the attempt to cross the border, braved the enchantment. He still had the fresh scars to show for it.

  “My life was once quite pedestrian,” said Edward on the evening of the fifth day, as they sat around the fire. “I plodded along
the road, one foot in front of the other. Then came the dragon, and suddenly I am doing cartwheels and handsprings.” Draconas was doing cartwheels and handsprings—mental gymnastics. The king talked. Draconas only half-listened, said “yes” or “no” or “Is that so?” every so often. He was thinking about Maristara, what to do now that she knew they were coming. Abandoning his goal was not an option. Before the attack by the monk, Draconas had been skeptical, as were the other dragons, of Braun’s claims and accusations that Maristara had a partner and that these dragons were using humans for some nefarious scheme. The monk possessed of the dragon magic (or by the dragon magic, as the case may be) had changed Draconas’s mind.

  Braun is wrong about one thing, Draconas reflected. It is not human flesh the dragons are after. It is human talent. We suspected that Maristara gave women the dragon magic. Now it seems as if she is doing the same for men, only not quite as well. Perhaps human males do not adapt to the dragon magic . . .

  No, that’s it! Draconas realized, struck by sudden insight. She’s teaching the males to use the magic to kill. Human females are taught defensive magic, to protect the monastery and the dragon. Human males are being taught to use the magic to destroy. No wonder it’s driving them insane.

  “How do you feel about it, Draconas?” Edward asked, jolting him out of his reverie.

  “I’m sorry, Sire. I was woolgathering. What were you saying?”

  “That I used to long for adventure,” Edward repeated. “I used to hope for a war to break out. Not a big war, mind you. Just a small one. Anything to dispel the monotony. Then, when the dragon came, I felt guilty. I said to myself, ‘God is punishing me for those evil thoughts.’ Do you think God would do that?”

  “I think we should get some sleep,” Draconas said. “Dawn comes early. Will you take first watch or will I?”

  “I will,” said Edward. “It’s good just to be able to sit quietly and think, without being constantly interrupted.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Draconas pointedly, but he had the feeling Edward hadn’t heard him.