Mistress of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  “They will not interfere,” said Nzangia. “They will be otherwise engaged. Drusilla, you take—”

  Bellona waited to hear no more. If she returned to Melisande now, she would have time to take her to a place of safety, then she would return and bring help. Running swiftly, she raced back to the village.

  If she had stayed one more moment, she would have heard Nzangia add, “Remember, we want the baby. Our spy sent us word that the birthing has started. Our signal is the baby’s cry ...

  30

  THE PAINS WERE NOT BAD NOW, BUT MELISANDE KNEW they would grow worse. She’d heard the screams of a young neighbor woman who had recently given birth and she understood what she faced. She was not afraid now, however. She felt strangely exhilarated. The end was near, in sight.

  Crouching on the floor, she gripped the arms of a heavy chair and managed to pull herself to her feet. She would have time before the pain came again to summon the midwife. She started toward the door, thinking she might call out to some of the children, who were always playing about the yard, when another pain hit. This was so much sharper, a red-hot wave, running up her back, that she staggered and gasped, crying out.

  A shadow fell over her. The Hermit stood in the doorway.

  She opened her mouth to tell him, but the Hermit came to her and took hold of her, led her back to the chair, and seated her.

  “I will go for the midwife,” he said and departed.

  She stared after him, troubled and amazed. Those were the first words she had ever heard him speak and there seemed something familiar about his voice. She tried to think, but the pain was too severe and she was worried that it should be this bad this soon. She sank back in the chair and panted for breath.

  Bellona reached the cottage to find the Hermit leaning against the wall, his head down, his hands jammed into the pockets of his breeches. He raised his head as she approached, and regarded her with a dark and penetrating stare.

  At the sight of her face, he took his hands out of his pockets, straightened.

  “What is it?” he asked urgently. “What’s wrong?”

  Bellona ignored him, started to brush past him. He put out his arm, as though to try to halt her. She glared at him and he let his arm fall.

  Inside, Melisande screamed in pain.

  Bellona stood frozen, paralyzed by the sound. Her heart in her mouth, she thrust open the closed door.

  The cottage consisted of a single room with few furnishings—a table and two stools, a large chair for Melisande, her loom, and a bed in the warmest corner, near the fireplace.

  The midwife bent over the bed on which Melisande lay writhing in agony and moaning.

  “Melisande!” Bellona cried, kicking over one of the stools in her haste to reach her.

  The midwife raised her head, a scandalized expression on her face.

  “What do you mean, Master, barging in like this? Men are not allowed in the birthing chamber. Get out! Get out!”

  Flapping her apron as though she were shooing geese, the midwife clucked and snorted and shook her head.

  Bellona stood staring at Melisande, who had ceased to scream. She lay on the sweat-soaked sheets, her face deathly pale, her eyes huge and glistening.

  Bellona knew the answer to the question, but she had to ask, “Can she be moved?”

  “Are you daft?” the midwife screeched. Seizing hold of Bellona, the midwife shoved her bodily out the door.

  Bellona heard Nzangia’s voice. You have spied out the house. She stood staring in the direction of the forest, gnawing her lip and wondering desperately what to do.

  “Seth warriors,” said the Hermit. “How many?”

  Bellona at first ignored him, then the import of his words came to her and she turned to stare at him. His eyes were dark and shadowed. His face beneath the heavy beard had set in hard lines that deepened as his jaw tightened.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she began, thinking that she’d seen him somewhere.

  “Yes, you do.” He cast a glance to the north, to the mountains of Seth, whose snowcapped peaks were whitewashed on a blue backdrop. “And you’re going to need help. How many of them are there? Ten? Twenty?”

  “I counted twelve,” she said, wondering, still trying to place him. “There may be more.”

  “Probably are. Where did you see them?”

  “In the forest.” Bellona stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Draconas!” she exclaimed suddenly. “The king’s servant! You’ve been spying on us—”

  “A good thing, too,” Draconas interposed coolly. “The warriors will have to come through the fields to get at us and the shepherds will think they are raiders after the sheep. Go alert the villagers. Tell them you’ve seen raiders in the woods and they’ve got to mobilize the militia—”

  His words were drowned out by a wild pealing of bells and the off-key blasting of a horn.

  “Fire!” someone shouted. “Fire!”

  Bellona and the Hermit turned in the direction of the frantic bellow to see a curl of smoke rise up into the morning sky.

  “The mill’s on fire!”

  The call was caught up, handed from voice to voice, growing louder and more strident and more panicked. The smoke thickened to an ugly roiling gray shot through with orange flame.

  “They’ve torched the mill,” said Draconas.

  “Nzangia said that the villagers wouldn’t interfere with them,” Bellona remembered.

  “She was right,” he replied grimly.

  Fire, the nightmare terror of every community from tiny village to teeming city. If the fire spread from the mill it could burn down the factory, destroy every dwelling place, every shop, wipe out the entire village. In an instant the dreams, the hopes, and the very lives of the inhabitants could be reduced to ashes and charred rubble.

  The villagers came running in answer to that terrified call, carrying buckets or axes or pitchforks, ready to douse the blaze and try to knock it down. All was a confusion of shouted orders, the whinnyings of frightened horses, and a crash, as of timber falling. The acrid smell of smoke wafted up the hill.

  Inside the cottage, Melisande’s screams grew more and more agonized. Bellona dug her nails into the palms of her hand.

  “They’re here after Melisande,” she said hoarsely. “The Mistress sent them to kill her.”

  Draconas glanced at her, started to say something, then shut his mouth. Smoke from the burning mill was starting to layer over the hills, filling the valley and creeping up the slopes, where the sheep bleated in panic and the dogs barked frantically.

  “She can’t be moved. We’ll have to hold them off here.”

  “We had best go inside,” said Draconas. “Hide ourselves. Let them think they’re taking us by surprise.”

  The cottages were constructed of stone with thatched roofs, each one identical to another. Each was built on a small strip of land, where the owner could grow a garden to eke out communal winter stores with vegetables of his own.

  Most of the houses clustered near the factory and the mill, down by the river. As the community expanded, dwellings were added in a more .random fashion, so that now they straggled along the dirt road known as Shepherd’s Way. Their cottage had one small window, facing east to let in the sunlight, and a single door. The window had no glass panes, for glass was dear, but it did have wooden shutters that could be closed against the wind and weather. The shutters were usually open, for Melisande loved the fresh air. This day they were closed. The midwife wanted the cottage warm. She had built up the fire and it was now so hot that it was stifling.

  A strip of garden separated their house from that of the Hermit’s. Nothing grew in their garden, for Melisande was too ill to tend to it and Bellona knew little about plants. As she was wont to say, she had been taught only how to kill, not how to grow and nurture.

  As Bellona started to enter the door, she paused, glanced uncertainly inside. “Melisande . . . what will I tell her?”

  Draconas follow
ed her anxious gaze. Melisande’s terrible screams were coming more frequently, punctuated at intervals by almost equally terrible silences.

  “I doubt she’ll even be aware of what’s happening,” he answered. “You go on ahead. I’ll join you.”

  He departed, hastening back to his own cottage. Bellona watched him leave and wondered if she trusted him or not. She decided that she didn’t have much choice.

  Back in his cottage, Draconas reached for his staff, then halted, irresolute, uncertain what to do. He knew the real reason the Mistress had sent her warriors here. They wanted Melisande dead. They wanted the baby alive.

  He stared out the window, trying to catch sight of them, but the smoke obscured his view. More than ever he missed Braun, missed the dragon’s eyes that would have apprised him of their approach, warned him ahead of time, so that he could have dealt with them. Now, it was almost too late.

  As he saw it, he had one option.

  “I could kill them. I could kill every one of them.”

  He’d broken the laws of his kind already, broken several, some on orders, others of his own volition. The one law, the one sacrosanct law of the Dragon Parliament, the supreme law, Draconas had not yet broken. He had never in six hundred years intentionally taken a human life. Accidently crushing that insane monk didn’t count.

  If he killed, Anora would have no choice but to take away his humanity. He might try to hide the deed from her, but she would see it in his mind, for he could never rid himself of the blood.

  His hand smoothed the wood grain of the staff. Melisande’s screams, imprisoned behind stone walls, were muffled.

  He couldn’t risk turning over this task to some other walker, someone who had no care for it. Draconas might lose Melisande, but he would not lose her child. He owed her that much.

  Gripping the staff tightly, he left his house, headed for the cottage.

  Trying to enter the door, Bellona discovered that it had been locked. She banged and beat on the door until it opened a crack and the midwife glared out.

  Shoving her foot in the door, Bellona elbowed her way inside, pushing the protesting, sputtering old woman out of the way. She slammed shot the door and put her back to it.

  “Raiders,” she said, her taut voice slicing through the midwife’s angry scoldings. “They’ve set the mill on fire. They’re likely planning an attack on the village. They may come here and I can’t defend the cottage from outside.”

  The midwife knew about raiders. Her face twisted in a grimace. “Murdering devils.” She eyed Bellona disapprovingly. “I suppose you know what you’re doing. Keep your eyes to yourself, though, and don’t interfere with me.”

  “It’s only right that I tell you that you may be in danger,” Bellona said stiffly.

  The midwife sniffed, turned away.

  Melisande cried out, her body writhed.

  “There, there, lambkin, nothing to worry about,” the midwife said, wiping Melisande’s forehead with a wet cloth. “Another push, my pet. Another push.”

  Melisande groaned and shook her head. Her face was wet with sweat, her hair soaked. The midwife had attached strips of rags to the bedposts, so that she had something to hold onto when the pains came. Her eyes were lusterless and sunken. She gazed at Bellona as at a stranger, unknowing, uncaring, wound round with the pain that was all she could see or hear or taste or feel. She arched her back and gripped the handholds and screamed.

  Shuddering, Bellona closed her eyes. The screams ceased, mercifully. Melisande lay sucking in huge gulps of air. The midwife fussed around her. At least the old woman was taking this calmly, Bellona thought. But then, a midwife dealt with life and death on a day-to-day basis. Perhaps it got humdrum.

  In the gasping silence, Bellona heard a tapping on the door.

  “It’s me,” called Draconas.

  Bellona hesitated a moment, then unbarred the door. He slid inside, carrying with him an oaken staff. He shut the door behind him, shot the bolt. The midwife glanced at him askance, but she was too busy to scold. Melisande’s knees were drawn up, her skirts folded back over her bare legs. She stared unseeing at the ceiling, waiting in numb despair for the next agonizing moment.

  Draconas looked at her and his lips tightened. He looked back to Bellona.

  “You trained these soldiers. You were their commander. What’s their plan?” he asked.

  Bellona put herself in Nzangia’s place. Nzangia was a good warrior and very imaginative. The torching of the mill as a diversion, to draw off any who might have helped them, had been inspired.

  “They don’t know that I saw them,” Bellona said. “They’ll charge the house. As you said, they’ll want to take us by surprise.”

  She grabbed hold of him by the arm, gripped him hard, hurting. “How did they find us?”

  “They went looking,” he said.

  She stared into his eyes, trying to see inside him and failing. Her gaze could not pierce the shadows.

  “There’s nothing I can say that will make you trust me, is there?” Draconas added.

  “No,” she returned caustically.

  “So why waste time asking?”

  She had no answer for that.

  “Look at it this way. I’m in here with you, not out there with them. That must count for something.”

  Slowly, Bellona released her grip.

  “Now that’s settled,” he said, turning away, “we better decide what we’re going to do. The door opens inward. They’ll rush it in a body. We’ll take the bolt off.”

  “Why make it easy for them?”

  “Because they won’t expect it. I’ll stand here.” He took his place beside the door. “You stand there. When the door opens, they see you, not me. I’ll do this.” He gestured. “You do this.” He gestured again.

  She didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, didn’t believe him. She was certain he had something to do with the soldiers tracking them down, though how or why was a puzzle. She didn’t want their lives dependent on him, but she’d never fought in close quarters before and she’d certainly never had to defend a woman giving birth, the woman she loved better than life itself. Bellona couldn’t trust her judgement, with those terrible screams tearing her apart inside. He’d devised a good plan. She could see where he was going with it.

  “Is that all the weapon you’ve got?” she asked, disdainfully eyeing his staff.

  “It’s all the weapon I need,” he returned, taking his position.

  “But you should at least have a dagger.” She reached into her belt. “Here. You can’t kill with that—”

  “I’m not planning on killing. Only stopping. It’s a vow I took,” he added.

  “Some sort of religious vow?”

  “Some sort,” he replied.

  She gestured outside. “They didn’t take any such vow. They’ll be trying to kill you.”

  “Most likely.” He cocked his head, listening. “They’re out there. I can hear them. Be ready. Keep them focused on you. Hold their attention.”

  Bellona gnawed her lip, gripped her sword, and waited.

  The cottage was stifling. The midwife had built up a great roaring blaze in the fireplace. Bellona wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. The air stank of sweat and blood and smoke. She began to feel stifled, closed in. The enemy was out there, creeping closer and closer. She hated waiting, hated the tension. She longed to fling open the door, confront them face-to-face, and it cost her an effort to control the impulse.

  Melisande gave a shuddering scream. This time, the scream did not stop, but trailed into an agonized wail. Bellona risked a glance backward.

  “Can’t you do something for her?” she cried angrily.

  “Push, lamb,” ordered the midwife sternly, paying no attention to any of them. “I can see the crown. Push!”

  Bellona shivered, the sweat chill on her body.

  “One more push!” ordered the midwife. Her own hands were wet with blood, the blood of birth, not death.

 
Melisande gave a last push, a final cry, and the baby rushed headlong into life. With a gasping sigh of relief, Melisande sank back among the sweat-soaked pillows.

  “A boy, madam,” crowed the midwife in satisfaction. “Perfect as the livelong day. Not a mark on him.”

  She held him up, smacked him a sharp spank on his bottom.

  The baby opened his mouth, gave a lusty wail.

  “Here they come!” Draconas warned.

  A shattering blow struck the wooden door.

  31

  TWO WARRIOR WOMEN SMOTE THE DOOR, KNOCKED it open, bounded inside the cottage. They halted in the doorway, startled at the sight of Bellona, standing in front of them, her sword raised. Concealed behind the door, Draconas shoved it with all his strength, slammed it on them, catching the two women in a vise between the door and the door jamb.

  Bellona lunged twice with her sword, stabbed one in the stomach, the other in the breast. Neither was wearing armor. They had not been expecting to meet any resistance. Their bodies tumbled to the floor, the dirt soaking up the blood. Draconas dragged them inside, then put his back against the door, slammed it shut.

  “They know now that taking us won’t be easy,” he said.

  Bellona grunted. She grabbed hold of the bodies of the two women, rolled them over. She knew them, knew both of them, had known them since they were children together.

  Kicking at the corpses, she shoved them into position, trying not to look into the empty eyes.

  Sheathing her sword, she emptied out her quiver of arrows, began stripping off the feathers. She jabbed the arrows into the dirt floor, points up. She glanced behind her at the baby—wet and bloody, whimpering and squirming, eyes squinched shut against the terrible light of life—then went back to her task.

  “Let me see him,” Melisande whispered, no voice left in her.

  The midwife cut the cord that was the baby’s final tie to his warm, snug, dark world, then wiped him down with a warm, wet cloth—a proceeding that caused him to give another offended cry. Over the sound of life, Bellona heard Nzangia shouting orders.