Mistress of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  “Murdering fiends,” muttered the midwife, glowering round at the two bodies on the floor. “Maybe now they’ll leave us in peace.”

  Bellona knew better. She continued thrusting arrows into the hard-packed, dirt floor.

  The midwife wrapped the wailing baby in a blanket and rested him in his mother’s arms. Melisande gazed down at him in exhausted wonder.

  “He’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I think his eyes will be hazel.”

  Her task completed, Bellona went to Melisande, put her arm around her and laid her face against the thin, flushed cheek.

  “You are beautiful,” said Bellona. She started to stroke back the sweat-soaked golden wet hair, then saw that her hands were smeared with blood. Hastily, she snatched them away.

  Melisande did not notice. She held her baby, her eyes luminous with the memory of pain and the realization of joy. “They’re back,” warned Draconas.

  Bellona started to spring from the bed. Melisande grasped her arm convulsively, held onto her.

  “My baby!” she gasped. “Don’t let them take the baby.”

  “They’re not taking anyone,” said Bellona grimly. “Rest now, my love.”

  Melisande started to say something, then her face contorted. She gave a shuddering cry and fell back onto the bed.

  “What’s the matter?” Bellona demanded of the midwife. “What’s wrong with her?”

  An axe blade struck the wooden window shutters, chopped clean through one of them, sending splinters flying.

  With remarkable presence of mind, the midwife snatched up the baby and stashed the whimpering child under the bed, out of harm’s way. Melisande gave another cry. Her hands grasped and twisted the bed linens.

  “Lord bless us!” the midwife said, kneading Melisande’s belly. “There’s another baby inside! Push, child, push!”

  A second blow struck the shutters, opened up a gaping hole. Bellona started in that direction, intending to drive away the attackers. Draconas called her off.

  “I’ve dealt with that,” he said shortly. “Watch the door!”

  Bellona cast a doubtful glance at the window and saw, to her astonishment, that the damage to the shutters was not nearly as bad as she had first thought. She stared at it.

  “What did you do?” she demanded.

  “Magic,” he said, again taking up his position. “Illusion.”

  The shutters were whole, with only a few chop marks here and there. With the next blink of the eye, the illusion disappeared. The shutters were gone. Though the axe blade sometimes bit through nothing, the warriors outside continued to stubbornly hack away at what they perceived to be solid wood.

  Before Bellona could ask Draconas if there was anything else she was seeing that she wasn’t really seeing, the front door burst open. Two women barreled through, followed by a press of others, shoving and heaving. The first woman to enter saw the bodies on the floor at her feet, saw the sharp arrow points gleaming in the fire. She tried to halt her forward rush, but the others pushed her from behind. She tripped over the bodies and fell with a terrible scream, impaling herself on the arrows. She did not die immediately, but continued to scream as the blood poured from her wounds.

  Draconas struck the second woman in the face with the butt end of his staff, shattering her nose. Her face blossomed with gore and bits of bone. He followed up with a jab to the knee, broke her kneecap. Her leg collapsed under her, and she tumbled to the floor, rolling around in helpless agony.

  The third woman leaped over the bodies and came at Bellona, sword swinging. Melisande’s cries mingled with the screams of the dying woman, who finally, mercifully, went limp, her body sagging on the arrow points.

  Bellona knew her soldiers, knew their weaknesses. Feinting one way, she lured her opponent into leaving herself open, then drove her blade through the woman’s body.

  Bellona jerked her sword free. The warrior slid off it to her knees.

  “You always did fall for that, Mari,” Bellona told her. The woman pitched forward, dead.

  The axe continued to chop at the window shutters that were no longer there. Draconas put his back to the door, braced himself with his legs, and heaved with all his might. He managed to shut it, but the warriors shoved back. “I can’t hold it much longer!” he grunted. Bellona nodded, wiped her bloody hand on her breeches so she could get a better grip on her sword. Behind her, she could hear the midwife fussing and encouraging. From beneath the bed came the baby’s muffled squeals.

  Draconas leapt suddenly out of the way. The warriors hit the door with such force that it burst its hinges. Using the door as a shield, Nzangia struck Draconas, knocked him backward and flung the door on top of him. Warriors shoved in after her. Two attacked Draconas, but Bellona could no longer pay attention to him. She faced Nzangia.

  “This is not your fight, Bellona,” said her former second-in-command. “The whore betrayed you. That squalling brat is proof of her—”

  Bellona struck. Nzangia swiftly parried. Steel clashed on steel, hilt met hilt. The two heaved and shoved against each other, each trying to break the other’s hold.

  Sunlight blazed into the room. The warriors had at last seen the truth, that the shutters had been smashed to kindling. Faces appeared in the window. Bellona saw, out of the corner of her eye, a warrior standing with a crossbow in her hand, aiming at Bellona.

  Nzangia saw her, as well.

  “Hold your fire!” she bellowed and flung Bellona off her.

  Bellona stumbled into a stool, lost her balance, and went down.

  Nzangia saw her chance, leapt at her.

  “Here’s the second baby—” the midwife began.

  Her words ended in a gargle. She stared at the baby in her hands, then let out a piercing shriek.

  The scream, sounding right on her, jarred Nzangia. Thinking someone was sneaking up on her, she whipped around swiftly to meet this new attacker.

  Bellona regained her feet and lunged with her sword all in the same movement. Her blade entered Nzangia’s back.

  Nzangia cried out. Bellona jabbed harder, to make sure, then she yanked the sword free. Blood gushed after it. Nzangia gave a gurgling scream and dropped to the floor.

  The warrior at the window cursed in anger and dismay. Bellona heard the metallic “snick” of the crossbow being fired and the vicious whir of the bolt, but she paid little attention to it.

  She could think only of Melisande. The midwife’s wail meant that something dreadful had happened, and she turned to go to her lover, fear twisting inside her. Melisande lay gazing up at the ceiling, a strange expression on her face. The midwife, her mouth stretched open, held the baby and screamed.

  Draconas appeared out of nowhere. Lunging between the two of them, he knocked Bellona out of his way, grabbed the baby from the midwife, seconds before she dropped it.

  Wringing her hands, the midwife turned and fled toward the door. Her iron gray hair flying wildly, her face twisted in terror, she was such a frightful apparition that the warrior women fell back in alarm before her, let her go running away unmolested. She dashed off down the hill and even when she was far away, Bellona could still hear her panicked shrieks.

  Draconas picked up some bloody rags, began to wrap them around the second baby.

  “See to the door!” he ordered Bellona, turning away. “I’ll deal with the child and with Melisande. He’ll be safe under the bed. Hurry!”

  Bellona hastened to the gaping aperture where the door had been. Outside, the warriors huddled together, conferring. Drusilla stood in the center, arguing with them. More than one cast dark glances at the cottage, at the bodies of their comrades.

  “Nzangia is dead,” Bellona called out to them. “Your mission has ended in failure. Listen to me,” she continued, as Drusilla raised her crossbow and pointed it at her. “The Mistress is truly a dragon! She has duped you and duped all our people—”

  Drusilla let fire. Bellona ducked. The bolt sailed past her, lodged itself in the wall opposite her.<
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  Drusilla said something to the others, pointed emphatically at the cottage.

  “Come on, then!” Bellona shouted, waving her bloody sword. “I’ll take you on!”

  Drusilla seemed ready, but the others shook their heads. They’d lost their leader. They’d had enough. One by one, the warriors turned and headed off. Drusilla was the last to go. Bellona could see the tears streak down her cheeks and she remembered that Nzangia and Drusilla had been lovers. At length, Drusilla turned away. Her parting look at Bellona promised that this was not the end.

  Breathing a sigh, Bellona stood watching them leave, wondering if any of them would at least think over what she’d said. She doubted it.

  A hand touched her shoulder.

  “You better go to Melisande,” said Draconas quietly.

  Bellona looked at him, saw his face grave.

  “What’s wrong?” she gasped.

  He shook his head. Shoving past him, Bellona ran to the bed.

  Melisande lay among the sweat-soaked sheets, her breath coming in odd, sobbing gasps, her body stiff, her hands clenched to fists. Her face, which had been flushed with the exertion of childbirth, was a ghastly, grayish white.

  Bellona knelt down beside her and it was then she saw the blood that drenched the sheet and the straw mattress. Bellona gently lifted Melisande’s arm. The crossbow bolt had plowed into her chest from the side. Dark blood welled out of the wound.

  Bellona gave a cry of grief and rage, and her cry roused Melisande. She turned her head in the direction of the beloved voice.

  “Bellona,” said Melisande softly.

  “I’m here, Melis,” Bellona said with a forced smile of reassurance. “Don’t try to talk. Just rest.”

  “I can’t. . . catch my breath.” Melisande struggled to speak. A froth of blood bubbled on her lips. “My baby . . .”

  “Babies. Twins,” said Bellona.

  Melisande fought to see through the shadows. She gripped Bellona’s hand.

  “That scream,” she said desperately. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Bellona, choking on her grief. “Nothing is wrong. The midwife was frightened by the fighting. Don’t talk anymore. Rest now, Melisande. Lay your head here on my arm. Go to sleep.”

  Melisande smiled. The smile stiffened on her lips. With a great effort, she whispered, “Take care of my sons.”

  “I will, Melisande,” said Bellona, tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks. “I promise.”

  Melisande closed her eyes. She drew in a labored breath, breathed it out in a sigh. Her head lolled on Bellona’s arm. Her eyes opened, stared at Bellona, but they did not see her. Their gaze was fixed and empty.

  Bellona gave an anguished cry and collapsed on top of her lover.

  Beneath the bed, the two babies lay in a pool of their mother’s blood and wailed as if they knew.

  32

  “GOD SAVE AND KEEP US!”

  Draconas turned around to see Gunderson standing in the door, staring in amazement at the carnage: one body impaled on the arrows, another twitching in her final death throes, several others heaped on top of each other, as so much refuse. The floor was dark with blood that had pooled on the hard-packed earth. The stench of death and the stench of birth fouled the air in the small room.

  Gunderson, the veteran soldier, turned suddenly away, and Draconas heard the sounds of retching.

  Gunderson came back, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I got your message,” he said unnecessarily. At Draconas’s direction, he’d been staying in Bramfell, to be close at hand. “What the devil happened here?”

  “We were attacked,” Draconas replied, also unnecessarily. He climbed over bodies, made his way to the bed, moving swiftly. “Seth warriors found her.”

  “Wanted their Mistress back, huh?”

  “No, they wanted her dead,” said Draconas. “And they succeeded. Did you see any warriors out there?”

  Gunderson nodded, mystified. “I saw some skulking away. Looked like the fight’d been knocked out of them.” He glanced at the body, clasped in Bellona’s arms. “Why did they want her dead?”

  “Because she knew the truth,” Draconas replied. “The truth about the dragon. I know Edward told you. Or didn’t you believe him?”

  “I believe he believes it,” Gunderson returned coolly. “Poor woman,” he added, his tone softening. “What about the babe?”

  He took a step forward.

  Draconas raised a warning hand.

  “Mind the arrows!” he warned sharply. “We’ve enough corpses in here without adding yours to the lot. The baby’s safe. Stay where you are. I’ll bring him to you.”

  Gunderson didn’t put up any argument, but stayed in the doorway.

  Bellona sat on the bed, holding Melisande in her arms. She had not looked up at the sound of voices. She could see nothing but emptiness, hear nothing but that last soft whisper. Draconas rested his hand on her shoulder, felt her muscles turn hard, rigid, as though death’s chill had seized her, too.

  Bending down, he said softly, for her ears alone, “We’re not safely out of this yet. You have to be strong, for her sake.”

  Bellona shuddered at his touch and lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed and burning. She cast an oblique glance over her shoulder at Gunderson.

  “He’s here for the baby,” said Draconas, aloud.

  Bellona stared, not comprehending.

  Draconas squeezed her shoulder, bruising her flesh.

  “The baby,” he repeated.

  Bellona looked up at him dumbly, her eyes those of a wounded animal that has no voice to speak its pain. Draconas trusted she understood him. He hoped she understood him. Otherwise . . . He didn’t want to think of otherwise.

  Draconas dropped down on his hands and knees, peered under the bed. One baby lay wrapped in bloody rags, the other in the blanket his dead mother had woven to receive him. Draconas took hold of the baby in the blanket, slid him out from under the bed. Cradling the child in his arms, he rose to his feet and walked over to Gunderson. He could feel Bellona’s eyes on him, but she said no word. She remained sitting on the bed, holding fast to her dead.

  “She bore a son,” said Draconas, placing the baby in Gunderson’s arms. “He favors the king.”

  Gunderson looked down at the child. All babies looked alike to him and this one was no different. A round head, smashed-in nose, rosebud mouth, crinkled eyes squinched tightly shut, trying to blot out this horrifying new world into which he’d been born. The baby stirred fretfully and whimpered, wanting something and missing it and not knowing what it was.

  “God forgive me for what I am about to say,” Gunderson said somberly, “for it is a mortal sin. But it would have been better if the babe had died with the mother.”

  “You don’t know that,” Draconas replied. “None of us can see the future.”

  “Some of us can,” said Gunderson. He shifted his gaze from the baby, stared fixedly at Draconas, eyes dark with enmity. “You’ve brought trouble enough on my king. Keep away from him. If I see you near him or this child, I’ll kill you, so help me, God.”

  Draconas would have liked nothing better than to swear that he would nevermore set eyes on either Edward or his newborn son. He couldn’t make that promise, however, for there was no way to keep it.

  “I’d get rid of the blanket,” he advised. “That’s her blood on it.”

  The blood was still fresh. Gunderson felt the dampness and grimaced. “I have a woman waiting in Bramfell. A wet nurse. She’ll clean and feed the babe and dress him up neat and proper.”

  “As befits a king’s son,” said Draconas.

  Gunderson gave a bitter, tight-lipped smile. “If you say so.”

  “The boy is Edward’s son,” Draconas stated emphatically. “If he believes nothing else about what happened, he can believe that.”

  “He’ll believe,” said Gunderson. “More’s the pity.”

  He drew the bloodstained blanket more closely around the
child, thrust the baby beneath his fur cloak to keep warm. As he turned to leave, Gunderson glanced back over his shoulder at Melisande.

  “God rest her soul,” he said quietly.

  He was walking out the door, trudging away, and Draconas was breathing a sigh of relief when the second baby, hidden under the bed, gave a cry—a strange cry, a low, feral wail.

  Startled, Gunderson halted, looked back. “What was that?”

  Draconas muttered a curse beneath his breath, shot a glance at Bellona.

  “What was what?” he asked loudly.

  “I heard a cry,” said Gunderson, walking back.

  “The cry was mine,” Bellona called out. Her voice was ragged. She bent over the body, shrouding it with her long, black hair.

  “It sounded like a baby’s,” Gunderson said, returning.

  Bellona raised her grief-ravaged face. “You have what you came for! Your king has his son. Get out, and leave me to bury my dead.”

  “You should be going,” Draconas said, blocking the door. “The child is hungry and you have a long ride ahead.”

  Gunderson looked from one to the other, from Bellona to Draconas. He might have persisted, but the baby in his arms began crying—the nerve-grating, insistent, demanding shriek of the newborn. Turning on his heel, Gunderson left them, clutching awkwardly the mewling baby in his arms.

  Draconas watched from the doorway, watched until the king’s steward had mounted his horse and ridden off into the haze of smoke from the burning mill. The fire must be out, for he could see no flames and the smoke was starting to diminish. The villagers would be standing around staring at the ruin, as cold despair settled in after the hot excitement of putting out the blaze. The midwife would soon be among them, if she wasn’t already, babbling her tale, and the people would gawk and stare in disbelief. Some would dismiss her as mad, but others would believe. She would swear by all that was holy and eventually more would start to believe her. They would come see for themselves.

  Bellona had not moved in all this time. Sitting on the bed, her arm beneath Melisande’s head, she gazed down at the still, pale face, so calm in death, and smoothed the fair hair with her bloodstained hand.