Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  This time there was a roar of approval from the dragons, though Meghan was conscious the great queen was regarding her closely. She forced herself to meet her eye again, that great golden eye slitted like a cat’s and bigger than Meghan’s entire body. This close to the dragon she could see how rough was the texture, and how deep the blackness of the slitted pupil, and fear was tight in her throat.

  And why, Meghan of the Beasts, wouldst thou take on the dragons’ debt of honour?

  Because it is mine also, Meghan answered honestly. For sixteen years I have scrabbled around like a mouse in the dark, trying to fight Maya the Ensorcellor from my valley. Slowly I have made contact with the witches who survived and they have been my eyes and ears; slowly I have helped build a resistance movement that shall be my sword; at last things are stirring! I hear reports that Maya’s hold on the Rìgh is weakening, and I know he must hear the song o’ the Lodestar in his ears, for I too hear it. Every day I hear it more strongly, and it sings o’ battle and blood! And I too, Great One, see the omens written in the sky and in the waters, though unlike ye I canna tell all that they mean. All I ken is that the Spinners are weaving the cloth o’ our lives and a new thread has been strung.

  I see. So thou dost not ride against the Banrìgh of your land because of the great evil she has done my sons and daughters, but because she does evil to yours?

  Aye, Great One, Meghan admitted, though she feared the dragon’s anger at her truthfulness.

  Strangely, however, the mother-dragon seemed pleased, and Meghan realised her oath of truth-telling had just been tested. So, in all these schemes of thine, thou must have some plan for the dragons?

  Meghan was conscious of the dragons behind her stiffening, and again chose her words carefully. No’ at all, Great One. Who am I to make plans for the dragons who are the lords o’ the sky and the smoking mountain, and the greatest o’ all magical beasts? I merely beg your clemency towards the people o’ Eileanan, at least until I have tried and failed in my endeavour against the Banrìgh. That way the dragons have still honoured the Pact o’ Aedan, and it is only that foul murdering witch who has broken it! Meghan’s voice broke as she spoke, years of grief and anger roughening her voice, and she could tell she had moved the queen-dragon.

  And what of our anger and rightful thirst for revenge? Suddenly another dragon spoke, and Meghan recognised the mind-voice of the big bronze she had met on the mountainside.

  Meghan took a breath and said casually, There is still a legion o’ Red Guards camping on your doorstep and dreaming o’ the glory o’ butchering dragons. What are they but the sword o’ the so-called Banrìgh?

  There was a rustle of wings and a collective hiss as the dragons grouped in the hall moved about eagerly. The mother-dragon fixed her great eye on the wood witch and stared her down till Meghan thought her knees would buckle beneath her. Enough, the mother-dragon said. I have sent my seventh son to speak with the soldiers who have dared to cross under the Arches of Dragons without permission. We will deal with the soldiers as we see fit. Leave us now. I am tired of thy meddling.

  Meghan bowed, though her heart sank in her. There were still questions she wanted to ask, but she dared not risk the dragons’ anger. Suddenly a thought came to her, so crystal clear and perfect that she had to take the risk. Certainly, oh wisest and greatest o’ all creatures. May I visit with my friend Ishbel afore I leave ye?

  There was a long, deadly silence, and Meghan’s head sank lower and lower until it was again resting on the floor before the dragon, her back curved. Suddenly, though, the old mother-dragon began to laugh, and the sound of the deep, rich chuckle resonated around the hall. For a long time the echoes lasted, then the great green-bronze dragon lowered her head to the floor and closed her eyes.

  I have indeed underestimated thee, old witch, her mind-voice said. Visit with the scrawny little witch if thou so desirest. It is another four or five days’ journey for a witch with little legs and no wings, maybe more. Suddenly the mother-dragon laughed again, a terrifying sound, and said, I will call someone to fetch thee. I think thou shall have several surprises, Meghan of the Beasts, who dares to make demands of dragons.

  Meghan bowed as far as her stiff old body would allow her, and then began the long walk back down the hall with trembling legs. Gitâ’s sleek brown head popped out of her pocket and she could feel him shivering against her side. Boldly played, my witch. I don’t know how you dared. Meghan hardly knew herself.

  She was almost at the ramp when there was a great roaring as the dragons lifted their voices in anger and pain. Meghan’s heart filled with dread. What had happened? She saw the mother-dragon rise on her legs so that her head brushed the roof of the cavern, a hundred feet above. My son! she called, and the sound of her bugle knocked Meghan over as if she was a straw doll tossed by a storm wind. She rolled over and over, and slammed into the wall of the cavern, the breath knocked out of her.

  Most of the dragons had taken flight and had flown down the shadowy hall and up the spiralling ramp like fiery arrows. Only the queens were left, pacing up and down on the dais, treasure scattering under their claws. The mother of them all was still bugling in distress, and Meghan covered her ears with her hands to try and block out the noise that was louder than a hundred cymbals.

  After a long while, the male dragons flew back through the great carved entrance, bearing between them the body of the youngest and smallest of the dragons—the one Meghan had met at the start of the Great Stairway. He was thrashing from side to side, his long crested tail beating against the pillars and dislodging rocks that thundered down onto the floor.

  They laid him on the ground, and he cried aloud in pain, a pitiful sound that made Meghan’s heart swell. A short spear protruded from his side, but it seemed strange that such a small weapon could be causing such a large beast so much pain. One of the dragons seized the spear shaft between his teeth and made as if to pull it out.

  Stop! Meghan called. The spearhead will be barbed. That’s no way to get it out. Besides, I think it must be poisoned … Gitâ! Get my herbs, and hurry!

  The old witch worked on the dragon all night, trying to stop the slow spread of dragonbane through his system. As she worked she questioned the moaning dragon until she found out what had happened. The Red Guards had climbed the Great Stairway just as Meghan had done and, despite the dragons asking them to turn back, they had continued on, just as Meghan had. At the final arch they had again asked permission to speak with the Great Circle, and despite many gifts and glib words, the mother-queen had refused. The youngest of her sons, sent with the message, had been first cajoled, then threatened, and finally, wounded as he spoke with them.

  At first feeling nothing more than a sting, he had delivered another warning to the leader and flown home, but the higher he flew the dizzier he became and the more pain the wound caused him. By the time he struggled back into the valley, the young dragon was in agony.

  As the poison spread, the dragon became fevered and almost killed Meghan by thrashing from side to side. She called upon the other dragons to help her, and they spoke to him with their minds and held him upright with their great bulk. The mother-dragon, too large now to move far from her dais, lumbered down the stairs so she could check her son’s progress herself. At last the fever began to abate, and the ugly discolouring and swelling around the wound began to die down. Exhausted, Meghan slumped back, sitting with her back to a pillar and drinking some of her healing mithuan, a fiery liquid that would restart almost any heart, no matter how old and tired.

  Thou hast saved my son, Meghan of the Beasts, Keybearer of the Coven, Sorceress of the Earth, and for that I thank thee. The mother dragon’s mind-voice penetrated the mists of exhaustion clouding Meghan’s mind. In gratitude, I shall tell thee our name. Call it and one of my blood shall come, and give thee whatever aid is needed. Do not call it unless in great need, though, Meghan Keybearer, for even with my decree the dragon does not come lightly to any whistle.

  Then, d
eep in her mind, Meghan heard a name of such power that it seemed to wrench away some veil, and again she had the sensation of time unrolling away, the great joy and sorrow of a living life.

  Caillec Aillen Airi Telloch Cos, the dragon intoned.

  Meghan was overcome. She stared into the dragon’s huge golden eye and said quietly, Thank ye, my Banrìgh. I ken the honour done to me. She felt a part of her drown in that rough fire.

  Thou mayst choose anything thou desirest from our treasures, the dragon said.

  Meghan got to her feet and stumbled forward to kneel before the mother dragon, who regarded her with a bright topaz eye that seemed suspiciously moist. My thanks, Your Greatness, and indeed I want nothing but the safety o’ my people and your help in defeating Maya the Ensorcellor.

  So be it, the mother-dragon said, and she lifted one great claw and threw something across the room to Meghan in a scatter of bright sparks. Meghan threw up her hand automatically and when she opened her fingers, found within all seven of her rings, including the moonstone Isabeau had made her. There was also a dragoneye stone, blazing with red-golden fire. My thanks, she stammered and with a bound of her heart slipped her rings back into her pocket.

  Now, my sons, it is time to wreak our revenge on those misbegotten soldiers! the mother-dragon cried and there was a great whirring of wings and lashing of tails as the dragons sprang into the air and flew out of the great hall. Meghan felt her breath catch, for never had she seen a sight of such perilous grandeur as those great creatures on the wing.

  Now, sorceress, I would like thee to meet my daughter, the mother-dragon said and heaved herself back onto the pile of treasures, where she turned round and round before settling her great bulk down again. She will fly thee down to where thy friend is kept. Be thou careful, Meghan Dragon-Lord, and do not stay long.

  Meghan bowed her head in thanks, then rose as straight as her old back would allow, and looked the queen-dragon directly in the eye. The bright blaze opened all around her and she flew into its dark heart confidently. My Banrìgh, there is one more thing I would fain ask ye. A few nights ago, at the height o’ the Red Wanderer … something happened. A spell was enacted. We felt it and I ken ye did too, for we heard the bugling o’ your sons. I would fain understand what it was.

  The queen-dragon shifted her great bulk, and treasure scattered under her claws, a massive chalice rolling down the stairs and coming to rest at Meghan’s feet, a string of lambent pearls tangled in its handle. When she spoke there was unease in her mind-voice. It was a Spell of Begetting, she answered. A very ancient spell, and one that requires great power and careful timing.

  Was the spell successful?

  Indeed it was. The babe born of that spell shall have great powers indeed. Conceived at the height of the comet, it shall be born with winter and the tides of darkness. It is then that the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead is at its thinnest. This will be no ordinary babe.

  Meghan nodded, ice gripping her entrails. The queen-dragon blew gently on her, the steamy, sulphurous breath lifting her hair and warming her through. Be of good heart, Meghan Dragon-Lord. I have known thy family for a very long time. Aedan’s blood is strong in thee. Thou art his daughter indeed. Remember our name and when thou callest, I shall send my sons to thee. That I pledge for the centuries of friendship between our families.

  Meghan thanked her again, though she was still shivering with a cold the dragon’s warm breath and words could not dispel. A Spell of Begetting … and a child born at Samhain, night of the dead. A new thread had indeed been strung.

  Slowly Meghan began the long ascent out of the dragon’s hall, first checking her patient, who now lay still, his hide dull and grey tinged. His skin was cooler, however, and his breathing steady. She felt great satisfaction in having been able to save his life, particularly since it had resulted in the dragons pledging their support, a result she had hardly dared dream of. The climb up the spiral ramp left her legs trembling and her heart shaking, and she cursed her old body, wishing for the resilience and vigour she had once known. Of all the challenges Meghan had faced and bested in her long and challenging life, this had to be the most difficult, the one in which she would most need all her resources of strength, cunning and wit.

  Meghan reached the blessed safety and light of the valley at last, and there found a tall youngster clad all in white fur. Dazzled by the contrast between the dark hall and the brightness of the rising sun, Meghan strained her eyes to see the person’s features, wondering what he or she was doing here in the valley of the dragons. Then a shock like a knife blade went through her, for the shadowed face looked just like Isabeau’s. She staggered and would have fallen except for the saving arm of the stranger with Isabeau’s face.

  Propped against the high step, Meghan groped into her pouch and came out with a small flask. The stranger helped her unscrew its lid, and she drank a few mouthfuls of the heady liquid.

  ‘The dragons be indeed fearful, auld mother,’ the stranger said, by her voice a young woman.

  Meghan said nothing, only scrutinised her face and body closely, realising the resemblance had not been the wishful thinking of a fond old woman or the after-effects of her terrifying day and exhausting night. This young woman was indeed identical to Isabeau, except perhaps a trifle thinner in the face. She was as tall as Isabeau, and as slender. Her hair was concealed by a fur hat and ruff, but by the colour of her brows and lashes Meghan could tell she would be as red-haired.

  ‘What is your name?’ she finally managed to ask.

  The girl’s brows rose with a certain hauteur, but she answered readily, with a halting accent as if the language was foreign to her. ‘I am Khan’derin, ad-Khan’gharad gessepKhan’lysa o’ the Fire-Dragon Pride, Scarred Warrior and heir to the Firemaker.’

  ‘Khan’gharad. I ken that name … Is he your father? Who is your mother? Ye could be Isabeau’s twin, ye look so alike!’ She scanned Khan’derin’s face carefully, and the girl lifted her head and stared back at Meghan coldly, her face austere beneath the white fur cap.

  ‘My mother has always been unknown to me,’ Khan’derin said with no sign of sorrow. ‘But I am daughter to the grandson o’ the Firemaker, he who is called Khan’gharad.’

  ‘Who is the Firemaker?’

  Khan’derin’s answer was extremely reluctant and Meghan thought it was only the girl’s respect for her age that made her answer at all. ‘The Firemaker is Auld Mother o’ the Fire-Dragon Pride. The Firemakers are children o’ the Red, given to the People in reward for their long exile, to bring warmth and light to the howling night, and protection from the enemies o’ the prides. I am her great-granddaughter and heir, so it does no’ really matter who my mother was. However, I am bonded to the service o’ the sleeping sorceress, and I have wondered if that was done because she is my mother. Asrohc says she thinks this is so, though no-one tells her anything either.’

  ‘Who is Asrohc?’ To Meghan’s amazement a wave of burning colour swept up over the girl’s face and her eyes fell for the first time. Against the crimson of her sunken cheeks Meghan saw two thin scars that ran across either cheekbone and remembered Khan’derin’s strange way of introducing herself. Meghan repeated her question, but Khan’derin looked up coldly, saying, ‘Please come with me. I have been informed ye wish to travel down to see the sleeping sorceress. I will take ye there.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the Cursed Valley, o’ course,’ the girl replied scornfully.

  Feeling very tired and very puzzled, Meghan leant heavily on her staff, clutching her plaid about her. ‘I am tired. I need to rest and eat afore I can begin a journey.’

  ‘We may no’ sleep in the dragons’ valley, auld mother,’ Khan’derin said in a respectful voice that still seemed somehow mocking.

  ‘I see,’ Meghan said. ‘Then we must go slowly, for indeed I am feeling my age this morning.’

  ‘We need no’ go far, auld mother,’ the girl said in her col
d voice. ‘I have been informed ye have been given the Queen’s name. That means ye may cross your leg over the dragon’s back. We shall fly down on dragonback.’

  Meghan had lived a very long time, so long she sometimes wondered why she had not died long ago, letting her escape the prison of her body. Sometimes she longed for that release; other times she was afraid she would die before her tasks were complete. Still, she often wondered what more life could bring, she who had been born a banprionnsa but was likely to die outlawed and reviled. The moment she heard she was to fly by dragonback, she knew, and great joy welled up in her. To think she was to fly, at last, after so many years reading of it, so many years longingly watching Ishbel’s aerial acrobatics! To think she, Meghan of the Beasts, was to cross her leg over the back of a dragon, that most mysterious and frightening of faery creatures.

  Khan’derin lead Meghan towards the loch where steam billowed up from the warm waters that lapped at the sides of a small dragon. Only her head was fully visible, the eyes shut, the nostrils floating just above the water.

  ‘The dragons love the water. It is cold for them up here and the water is bonny and warm,’ Khan’derin said, the first thing she had said without prompting.

  ‘Why is that?’ Meghan asked, as always insatiably curious.

  ‘The belly o’ the mountain is hot. Long ago he ate all o’ his enemies at a banquet in revenge for the rape o’ his daughter, but the gods were displeased, for he had broken bread with them then betrayed the law o’ the prides by killing his guests. So his enemies lie uneasily in his stomach and sometimes he belches. Once, long ago, he tried to rid his stomach o’ them by vomiting, but all that came out were his own fiery entrails.’