Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  “Damn,” Raven said. “I wanted Taren’s head.” He spoke as mildly as if he talked of a new bridle, and Maurynna knew the same strange calm rode him as well. So this is what it is to die, she thought.

  And Death came.

  How are you faring? Linden mindspoke Otter as they rode.

  Well enough, Otter answered, but there was a tired note to it. Tired, and worried. Linden, I’ve been too afraid to ask, but-Did they … ?

  Get clear? I think so; I hung back to make certain. And if something had happened, I’m certain I would have felt it. Frustration with not truly knowing ate at him. But he had to cling to that belief or go mad.

  Thank the gods. They can drive a man mad, but … I love them both.

  Linden smiled sadly. Aye, he said, I understand. Then, Tell us when you need to rest, Otter; we’ll soon have a safe distance between us and those bastards.

  A mental snort of indignation. I’m good for a while yet, boyo.

  Linden smiled in truth this time. Then he stared out over the rolling grassland, and settled himself a little deeper in the saddle.

  Death came—but not for them. Before Maurynna’s astonished eyes, the black water roiled, and horse after horse vanished beneath the surface or was thrown into the air to land among its fellows. The yells of triumph turned to cries of panic in the blink of an eye as soldiers tumbled from their saddles and slid beneath the deadly waters, doomed by the weight of armor and weapons.

  Maurynna and Raven watched, transfixed by the slaughter before them, unable to move or look away. Some of the Jehangli soldiers, those closest to the far shore, turned their horses in time and retreated. There were pitifully few of them; they milled around Taren, who stared across the river as if he could fell them with a glare, the sunlight glinting in his white hair.

  Then one of the soldiers broke and ran. As though his flight were a summons, the others followed until only Taren was left. At last even he turned away from the deadly waters and rode off.

  Raven slid down from Stormwind. “Wha—what happened?” he said, his voice shaking. His icy calm was breaking at last.

  Maurynna’s followed. She whispered, “I don’t know. It felt … I thought …” But she no longer knew what she thought. What they had seen was impossible; there was no rational explanation for it. All she knew was that it scared the daylights out of her.

  “Raven, let’s get away from here.” And even though Boreal didn’t need the rest, she also dismounted to lead him, for she wanted to feel the solidness of earth beneath her feet, needed an anchor in a world gone mad.

  “What about the Two Poor Bastards?” Raven said. “They were following us.”

  “They know what they’re doing; they’ll find either us or the others before long.” She lifted her head, feeling the breeze on her face—and, for the first time, the tug of the imprisoned dragon. Was it because she was now the only magical being for miles?

  “This way,” she said, and set off across the rolling grasslands.

  Yesuin dozed in the saddle as he rode. He should make Rhampul today, he thought drowsily, as the horse trotted steadily on.

  He slipped into a half-waking dream. He was running so hard that he felt his heart hammering in his chest like a drum, each beat reverberating in his blood.

  Like a drum, like a drum … . He came awake with a gasp.

  Those were drums he heard! With a curse, Yesuin halted his horse and listened. His heart went cold within him as he recognized a rhythm he hadn’t heard since his childhood.

  He was in the path of a Zharmatian warband.

  How can they be on this side of the Black River?

  His first instinct was to dig his heels into his horse’s sides and race away. But his horse was already tired from the long days of traveling; he must husband its strength for as long as he could.

  He set off, keeping to the hollows as much as possible.

  At last Lleld slowed Miki to a walk.

  Linden, riding rear guard, was glad of it. Even a Llysanyin couldn’t gallop for candlemarks on end, although the greathearted creatures would run themselves to death if their riders’ lives depended on it. But there was no such need, he thought; they had kept the mad pace for a good two or three candlemarks now. Whatever horses of their enemies hadn’t been ridden into exhaustion would still be far behind.

  But not far enough to discourage them from the chase, he hoped.

  Otter slumped over his saddle. Nightsong looked back at him and nickered in concern. Then the mare stopped; by the way she planted her feet, Linden knew she wasn’t going another step.

  She had the right of it, anyway. Otter needed a rest. Linden called “Hold up!” to the others, and dismounted.

  Lleld turned in her saddle. “We rest here,” she said, “at least for a time.”

  The bard groaned as his feet touched the ground once more. He patted Nightsong’s shoulder and allowed himself to be led off to the side. More groans followed as he lowered himself slowly to the ground.

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” Linden asked, suddenly afraid that Otter had taken some wound during the escape and not said anything.

  “Not permanently,” Otter complained. “But I don’t think I’d be bedding any lasses even if one were here and throwing herself at me.”

  Linden laughed in relief. “Lie down and rest, you silly ass. One of us will see to Nightsong.”

  They made a rough camp in one of the hollows, not intending to stay more than a few candlemarks, just enough to eat a little and sleep. Then they would be off again, the gods only knew where, their mission to draw as many Jehangli soldiers as possible away from Maurynna and Raven.

  “We can’t keep going south as we have, or we’ll run into more settled lands,” Linden said as he chewed on a strip of dried meat. Maurynna and Raven will be traveling north and west—we don’t want to follow them. Northeast brings us back to Rhampul. Well, Lady Mayhem? You’re in charge.”

  Making a face at him, Lleld said, “I should toss this back at you as something military. But I say, south a little more, then west across that river Taren spoke of. Show ourselves on the rises as often as we must to keep them after us, lead the soldiers on a merry chase for as long as Maurynna needs, then lose ’em and ride like hell for the north. Once the power of the priestmages is broken, one of us can Change and search out Maurynna and Raven.” She lifted her chin at him in defiance. “What do you say to that?”

  “That it’s what I’d do. I’ll take first watch. The rest of you try to sleep even though it’s still day.”

  He left the others unrolling blankets. Again and again as he circled the camp, his mind and heart turned to his soultwin. Was all well with her? He remembered his confident words to Otter earlier; may the gods grant he was right, that the strange “fog” that kept him from sensing Maurynna clearly wouldn’t hide the mind-pain of her death.

  But Taren said to take us alive. It was small consolation, yet it was all he had. He clung to it.

  And as he walked, he found that he had forgiven Lleld. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t deliberately cruel. She had seized their one chance without hesitation; Gifnu’s hells, he would have done the same in her place. And the restrictions she now laid upon him made good military sense. It did not make them any easier to bear.

  He glanced up at the sun, and wondered how Rani and little Lady Mayhem would have gotten along.

  Likely very well indeed. It was a frightening thought.

  A couple of candlemarks or so later, he roused Lleld and sought his own blankets.

  Trot, walk, trot; Yesuin pushed his horse on mercilessly, cursing it when it stumbled from weariness. Yet with every step, it seemed, the drums drew closer. Then came the sound he’d been dreading: a shrieking, eldritch howl that froze his blood.

  He’d been seen. Yesuin looked over his shoulder and saw a waking nightmare—riders spilling over a rise, red horsetail banners flying. It wasn’t a large band, but he saw one rider turn back, no doubt to tell the
main warband of the prey to be had.

  Yesuin lashed his tired mount into a heavy gallop, crouched over its neck as it ran, and prayed.

  He was mad, flying in such a storm. But there was nowhere Linden could see to land and Change so that he might seek shelter in his human form. The thunder rolled over him, nearly deafening him with its peals, and the turbulent air tossed him about like a butterfly in a gale. Lightning stabbed the air around him. The thunder grew louder and louder … .

  Curse it! That wasn’t thunder! Linden shook himself awake and pressed his ear against the ground for an instant, then threw his blanket aside and jumped to his feet. “They’re coming!”

  Lleld took only a moment to wake up. Then she was on her feet and lashing her pack together. Otter was only a little slower. Jekkanadar ran back into the camp from his patrol of the perimeter; the Llysanyins followed at a smart trot.

  Each worked with grim efficiency and soon they were on their way. Lleld held Miki to a fast trot; Linden approved. It would keep them ahead—but not too far ahead. When the time came for more speed, the Llysanyins would still have it to give. And so they would play with their pursuers until it ended, one way or another.

  They had been riding for some time, keeping to the dips in the land as much as possible, when he heard it: the sound of hoofbeats—but in front of them, and close.

  How the hell did they circle around us so quickly? Linden thought in astonishment.

  Lleld pulled Miki up. “It’s not possible!” she cried.

  The others stopped as well. Then came a sound that raised the hair on the back of Linden’s neck. A ululation like a pack of wolves on a blood trail, a nightmare sound that drew ever closer, riding on a wave of thundering hooves. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He knew that sound—or one very close to it. It was so like the war cry of Bram and Rani’s warband that, for the space of a heartbeat, he was lost in time.

  But it was certainly not those he would have welcomed.

  Then a single rider crested the rise in front of them, his horse staggering with weariness. It slipped and slid down the shallow slope. When he saw them, the rider cried out in despair.

  As if it were a signal, two things happened almost at once. The exhausted horse fell, pitching the man from the saddle. He rolled the rest of the way down the slope, coming to rest almost at the feet of the Llysanyins.

  As the stranger got to his knees, a small group of horsemen spilled over the brow of the low hill, the strange, eerie cries echoing from rider to rider. Some carried long staffs with red horsetails streaming from them.

  One look, and Linden knew these were not the Jehangli soldiers who chased them. These were much worse.

  And the damned dirks were all they had for weapons. Useless as it was, Linden drew his anyway.

  Haoro entered the temple council room and took his seat. This was the first time the council had met since his recovery. He looked around.

  There were many empty seats, not to be filled until priests of a suitable rank could be brought in. And of those empty seats, most were of those who had agreed to support him in his bid to become nira.

  He didn’t have the time to cultivate more. His uncle’s latest message, destroyed just before coming here, allowed no more time for subtlety.

  The words danced in his mind as if written in fire: I will have the northern creatures soon. Do your part.

  He would have to move—and quickly.

  The riders swirled around them like leaves in a storm. The horsemen rode small, hairy ponies, big in the barrel and heavy-boned, and rode them as if they were part of the ugly little brutes. The galloping circle drew closer and closer until at some unknown signal they stopped, the ponies rolling back on their haunches to face in.

  Long, narrow faces with high cheekbones leered at them. So these are Zharmatians, Linden guessed, remembering things Taren had let drop.

  He looked from them to the man they’d chased. He was dressed somewhat like the Jehangli soldiers that had pursued them, but his face was not like other Jehangli he had seen. This one looked more like the riders. He was young, Linden saw, but haggard with exhaustion.

  There were only eight horsemen. And overconfident to boot; Linden read it in their wolflike smiles at the helpless prey they had found.

  The poor wretches have no idea what they’re up against, do they? So it’s two-to-one; the Llysanyins alone could take them, Linden thought, though he still wished for his greatsword, Tsan Rhilin. To the others he said, Otter—let Nightsong fight for you; just hang on to the saddle. She’ll get you clear first chance she has. Lleld, Jekkanadar, you do the same. Shan and I will follow once I’ve grabbed this poor beggar. Once we’re clear, the Llysanyins can outrun anything they’ve got.

  The man opposite Linden yelled a demand as he pointed with his sword and gestured. Although Linden couldn’t understand the language, the meaning was as plain as a sunrise: drop the weapon and get off the horses.

  “No,” Linden said in Jehangli. “And get out of our way.”

  A surprised babble of rapid speech filled with clicks and trills.

  “You speak Jehangli?” the man said in that language. His own version was so heavily accented that Linden could barely understand him.

  “Yes,” said Lleld. “We all do. Now do as the big man says. We’ve nothing to do with you or you with us. Let us go our own way and we won’t hurt you.”

  Shouts of laughter and derisive hooting. One bold fool spurred forward and snatched at the front of Lleld’s tunic. Before Linden could intervene, she grabbed the fellow’s arm and heaved. He flew through the air over her head.

  Linden had seldom seen anyone look so surprised. Poor wretch; no doubt the last thing he was expecting was a child-sized woman who’s as strong as he is. I could almost feel sorry for him.

  The man landed, tucked, rolled, and sprang to his feet. He picked up the sword that had flown from his hand and rushed at Lleld. Nightsong’s head shot out like a striking snake’s as he passed her; she caught the man’s forearm in teeth that could easily crush through skin and bone.

  The man knew it as well. He stood like a stone, his face impassive, but fear writ large in his eyes. Nightsong shook her head gently. Nothing. She shook her head again, harder this time and, judging by the sudden grimace of pain that shot across the man’s face, tightened the viselike grip of her jaws. He dropped the sword. Nightsong put one large hoof squarely atop the blade and released the man; he ran for his horse.

  “What goes on here?” a new voice asked in Jehangli.

  Linden turned to see a rider approaching at the head of a band of horse archers, a mixed group of men and women. At a signal, the archers fanned out and around so that the Dragonlords, Otter, and the stranger were enclosed within a double ring of Zharmatians for a moment. Then their original captors slipped back through the archers’ ring so that their comrades had a clear field.

  Linden’s hopes sank when he saw the archers. Not even a Llysanyin could outrun an arrow. They’d lost their chance for escape.

  Heavy scars, newly healed, slashed across the man’s cheeks, straight and deliberate as the blade that had made them. His expression, like the other Zharmatians’, was impassive, but his eyes were full of speculation. The man held up empty hands in token of peace.

  In return, Linden rested his dirk across his saddlebow.

  The man nodded, and the archers relaxed. “This was an ill-chance for you, to meet this one.” He jerked a thumb at the man standing quietly by Shan. “You’re baishin, outlanders,” he said. “More of the northerners the Jehangli bring in, yes?”

  Linden nodded.

  “I am Dzeduin, foster-brother to Yemal, temur of the Zharmatians. This dog is Yesuin, the temur’s half brother.”

  “Must have been one hell of a family argument,” Lleld murmured.

  “Why are you hunting him?” Linden asked.

  For the first time the hunted man spoke up. Staring at the ground, he said in a voice heavy with weariness, “Because
my brother has hated me since we were children. My mother was our father’s favorite wife, though Yemal’s mother was his First Wife.” Then he looked up at Dzeduin. “And when I was given as hostage to the Jehangli, my father grieved. Grieved, and wished it was Yemal in peril, didn’t he?”

  There was no answer. The hunted man bared teeth in a wolfish grin. “I always admired that about you, Dzeduin. You won’t lie.”

  The other Zharmatians murmured at that. Dzeduin’s hand clenched on his sword hilt, but that was all.

  “Your brother wants you,” Dzeduin said. “You’ll come with us. So,” he added, his gaze taking them in, “will the four of you.”

  Linden ground his teeth. There was nothing they could do, not with archers surrounding them. To fight would be suicide. “What would your temur want with a stray band of traveling entertainers? Let us be on our way.” He made ready to snatch Yesuin if the ruse worked.

  Now Dzeduin smiled, a bare curving of his thin-lipped mouth. “Traveling entertainers who have horses that think for themselves. Traveling entertainers of unusual strength—such as a small woman who can toss a man like a kitten. Traveling entertainers who are so important to Lord Jhanun, one of the most powerful Jehangli lords, that he sends a troop of soldiers under the direction of one of his most favored servants to take them. So Ghulla has Seen.”

  Dzeduin’s pony danced backward; he raised a hand. At once a Zharmatian rider swept in and pulled Yesuin up behind him. Then the archers’ bows were up once more, arrows nocked and drawn, each wickedly barbed head pointed at the little band.

  “Yemal will see you,” said Dzeduin. “Come.” His pony sat back on its haunches and wheeled around, then sprang into a run.

  They had no choice but to follow.

  Raven stopped ahead of her. “We’re safe. Even if there are any soldiers left, they’ll never catch us now.” He rubbed Stormwind’s nose, and ran a critical eye over both horses. “Look at them! Not even sweating after a run like that!” he said, grinning in delight. Raven slapped Stormwind on the rump and bent to examine his hoof.