A lone dragonrider appeared. Flying over the gate, the small, swift-flying dragon hovered over the circle cleared for it, wings holding it poised in the air while it scanned the area in which it would land. By now its rider’s elegant livery, flashing red and golden in the flaring torchlight, could be easily recognized. The people caught their breath and glanced at each other with questioning eyes.
The riding dragon settled to the ground, wings trembling, its flanks heaving. Flecks of saliva dripped from its fanged mouth. Jumping from the saddle, the rider cast a swift glance around the courtyard. He was clad in the short gold-trimmed cape and red flared coat of a king’s courier, and the people waited in breathless anticipation to hear the news he had to impart.
Almost everyone expected it to be a declaration of war against the elves of Tribus; some of the knights were already looking about for their squires so that they might be ready to muster at a moment’s notice. It was, therefore, with considerable shock that those standing in the courtyard saw the courier raise a hand gloved in the finest soft and supple leather and point at the block.
“Is that Hugh the Hand you are about to execute?” he shouted in a voice as soft and supple as his gloves.
The wizard strode across the courtyard and was admitted into the circle through the ranks of the King’s Own.
“What if it is?” answered Magicka warily.
“If it is Hugh the Hand, I command you, in the name of the king, to deliver him to mealive,” said the courier.
The wizard glowered at the man darkly. Ke’lith’s knights looked questioningly in Magicka’s direction, awaiting his orders.
Until recently, the Volkarans had never known a king. In the world’s very early days, Volkaran had been a penal colony established by the inhabitants of the main continent Uylandia. The famous prison at Yreni held murderers and thieves; exiles, whores, and various other social embarrassments were shipped off to the surrounding isles of Providence, Pitrin’s Exile, and the three Djerns. Life was hard on these outer isles, and over the centuries, the isles produced a hard people. Each isle was ruled by various clans; each clan’s lord spent his time either beating assaults off his own lands or attacking those of his neighbors on Uylandia.
Thus divided, the humans were easy prey for the stronger, wealthier elven nation of Tribus. The elves gobbled the humans up piecemeal, and for almost forty cycles, the elves ruled both Uylandia and the Volkaran Isles. Their iron grip on the humans had come to an end twenty cycles earlier, when a chieftain of the strongest clan on Volkaran married the matriarch of the strongest clan on Uylandia. Rallying their people, Stephen of Pitrin’s Exile and Anne of Winsher formed an army that overthrew the elves and hurled them-some of them literally-off the isle.
When Uylandia and Volkaran were free of occupation, Stephen and Anne proclaimed themselves king and queen, murdered their most dangerous rivals, and, though it was rumored that they were now intriguing against each other, the two continued to be the most powerful and feared force in the realm. In the old days, Magicka would have simply ignored the command, carried out the execution, and done away with the courier if the man proved obstinate. Now, standing in the shadow cast by the pitch-black wings of the battle dragon, the wizard was reduced to quibbling.
“Hugh the Hand is the murderer of our lord, Rogar of Ke’lith, and it is the king’s own law that we take his life in punishment.”
“His Majesty fully approves and applauds your excellent and swift execution of justice within his kingdom,” said the courier with a graceful bow, “and he regrets that he must interfere, but there is a royal warrant out for the arrest of the man known as Hugh the Hand. He is wanted for questioning in regard to a conspiracy against the state-a matter which takes precedence over all local affairs. Everyone knows,” added the courier, looking directly into Magicka’s eyes, “that this assassin has had dealings with the elflords of Tribus.”
The wizard knew, of course, that Hugh hadn’t had dealings with an elflord on Tribus. The wizard also knew, at that instant, that the courier knew this as well. And if the courier knew this, then he might know a number of other things-such as how Rogar of Ke’lith had truly met his death. Caught in his own net, Magicka flopped and floundered.
“Let me see the warrant,” he demanded.
Nothing, it seemed, would give the king’s courier greater pleasure than producing the king’s warrant for Magicka’s viewing. Thrusting his hand into a leather pouch that hung from the dragon’s saddle, the courier withdrew a scrollcase. He removed the scroll inside and handed it to the wizard, who pretended to study it. The warrant would be in order. Stephen wasn’t one to make a mistake like that. There was the name, Hugh the Hand, and it was sealed with the Winged Eye that was Stephen’s device. Gnawing his lip until it was raw and bleeding, Magicka could do nothing but cast his people a much-suffering glance that said he had tried but greater powers were at work here. Placing his hand over his heart, he bowed coldly in silent, ungracious acquiescence.
“His Majesty thanks you,” said the courier, smiling. “You, Captain!” He gestured. Gareth-his face carefully expressionless, though he, too, had followed the unspoken as well as the spoken-came up to stand behind the wizard. “Bring me the prisoner. Oh, and I’ll need a fresh dragon for my return trip. King’s business,” he added.
Those two words-king’s business-could commandeer anything from a castle to a flagon of wine, a roast boar to a regiment. Those who disobeyed did so at their extreme peril. Gareth looked at Magicka. The wizard literally shook with rage, but said nothing-merely gave a swift, short nod-and the knight left to obey the command.
The courier deftly retrieved the parchment, rerolled it, and slid it back into its scrollcase. As he glanced about idly, awaiting Gareth’s return with the prisoner, his gaze alighted on the bier. Instantly his face assumed an expression of deep sorrow.
“Their Majesties extend their sympathy to Lady Rogar. If they can be of service, her ladyship can be assured that she has only to call upon them.”
“Her ladyship will be most grateful,” said Magicka sourly.
The courier, smiling once again, began to slap his gloves impatiently against his thigh. Gareth was leading the prisoner past the King’s Own, but there was as yet no sign of a fresh mount. “About that dragon-“
“Here, my lord, take this one,” cried the old stablemaster eagerly, offering the reins of the lord’s dragon to the messenger.
“Are you certain?” queried the courier, glancing from the bier to the wizard. He was, of course, familiar with the custom of sacrificing the dragon-no matter how valuable-in honor of the fallen.
Magicka, with a furious snort, waved his hand. “Why not? Carry my lord’s murderer away on my lord’s most prized dragon! King’s business, after all!”
“Yes, it is,” said the courier. “King’s business.”
The King’s Own suddenly shifted their stance, turning their spears point outward and locking shields to form a circle of steel around the courier and those who stood near him.
“Perhaps there are some aspects of the king’s business you would be interested in discussing with His Majesty. Our gracious monarch will be happy to arrange for the governing of this province in your absence, Magicka.”
The shadow of the wings of the circling battle dragon slid over the courtyard.
“No, no,” protested the wizard hastily. “King Stephen has no more loyal subject than myself! You may assure him of that!”
The courier bowed and answered Magicka with a charming smile. The soldiers surrounding him remained attentive and on alert.
Gareth, sweating beneath his leather helm, entered the circle of steel. The captain knew how close he’d come to being ordered to fight the King’s Own and his stomach was still clenching.
“Here’s your man,” Gareth said gruffly, shoving Hugh forward.
The courier took in the prisoner with one swift glance that noted the lash marks on the back, the bruises and cuts on the face, the swollen lip. Hu
gh, his dark sunken eyes seeming to have vanished completely in the shadows beneath his brows, regarded the courier with a detached curiosity that held no hope, only a sardonic expectation of further torment.
“Cut loose his arms and unlock those manacles.”
“But, my lord, he is dangerous-“
“He cannot ride like that and I have no time to waste. Do not worry”-the courier waved a negligent hand-“unless he can sprout wings, I do not think he will try to escape by leaping from the back of a flying dragon.”
Gareth drew his dagger and cut the bonds around Hugh’s arms. The stablemaster, summoning his helpers with a cry, gingerly entered the ring of steel, removed the saddle from the courier’s spent mount, and put it on the back of Lord Rogar’s dragon. Patting the dragon’s neck, the stablemaster cheerfully passed the reins to the courier. The old man would not see the dragon again; whatever came into King Stephen’s hands never left. But it was far better to lose it than be forced to thrust a knife into the throat of a creature who loved and trusted him, then watch its life spill out, wasted on a man dead and gone.
The courier mounted. Reaching down his hand, he held it out to Hugh. The assassin appeared for the first time to comprehend the fact that he was freed, his head was not on the block, that terrible sword was not about to sever his life. Moving stiffly and painfully, he stretched out his hand, caught hold of the courier’s, and let the man pull him up on the dragon’s back.
“Bring him a cloak. He’ll freeze,” ordered the courier. Many capes were offered, and he selected one of thick fur and tossed it to Hugh. The prisoner wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, reached back and gripped firmly the rim of the dragon’s saddle. The courier spoke a word of command and the dragon, with a trumpeting call, spread his wings and soared upward.
The leader of the King’s Own gave an ear-piercing whistle. The battle dragon flew down until the ropes dangling from its back were within the soldiers’ reach. Swiftly they climbed back up and took their places on the dragon’s large flat back. The dragon lifted its wings, and within moments the shadow was lifted, the sky was empty, night’s gray gloom returned.
In the courtyard below, men glanced at each other in silence, their faces grim. Women, eyeing their husbands and sensing the tense atmosphere, hurriedly rounded up children, sharply reprimanding or slapping those who whined.
Magicka, his face livid, stalked into the keep.
Gareth waited until the wizard had departed, then ordered his men to set fire to the bier. The flames crackled as the men and women gathered around and began to sing their lord’s soul to his ancestors. The captain of the knights sang a song for the lord he had loved and loyally served for thirty years. When he finished, he watched the leaping, roaring flames consume the body.
“So you never killed a wizard? Hugh, my friend, you might yet get your chance. If I ever see you again … King’s business!” Gareth grunted. “If you don’t show up, well, I’m an old man with nothing left to live for.” His eyes went to the wizard’s quarters, where a robed silhouette could be seen looking out the window. Having his duties to attend to, the captain walked to the gate to make certain all was secure for the night.
Forgotten, an artist bereft of his art, Three-Chop Nick sat disconsolately upon the block.
CHAPTER 4
SOMEWHERE, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM
THE COURIER KEPT HIS DRAGON UNDER TIGHT REIN. GIVEN ITS HEAD, THE SMALL
riding dragon could swiftly outfly the larger battle dragon. But the courier did not dare fly unescorted. Elven corsairs often lurked in the clouds, waiting to snap up lone human dragonriders. And so the going was slow. But at length the torches of Ke’lith vanished behind them. The craggy peaks of Witheril soon obscured the smoke rising from the bier of the province’s fallen lord.
The courier kept his dragon flying near the tail of the nightrae-the battle dragon. It was a sleek black wedge, cutting through night’s gray gloom. The King’s Own, strapped into their harnesses, were so many black lumps upon the nightrae’s back.
The dragons flew over the small village of Hynox, visible only because its squat, square dwellings showed up plainly. Then they passed over Dandrak’s shore and headed out into deepsky. The courier glanced up and down, this way and that, like a man who has not flown much before-an odd thing in a supposed king’s messenger. He could see two of the three Wayward Isles, he thought. Hanastai and Bindistai showed up clearly. Even in deepsky, it was not truly dark-as dark as legend held night had been in the ancient world before the Sundering.
Elven astronomers wrote that there were three Lords of Night. And though the superstitious believed that these were giant men who conveniently spread their flowing cloaks over Arianus to give the people rest, the educated knew that the Lords of Night were really islands of coralite floating far above them, moving in an orbit that took them, every twelve hours, between Arianus and the sun.
Beneath these isles were the High Realm, purportedly where lived the mysteriarchs, powerful human wizards who had traveled there in voluntary exile. Beneath the High Realm was the firmament or day’s stars. No one knew precisely what the firmament was. Many-and not just the superstitious-believed it to be a band of diamonds and other precious jewels floating in the sky. Thus, legends of the fabulous wealth of the mysteriarchs, who had supposedly passed through the firmament, evolved. There had been many attempts made by both elves and humans to fly up to the firmament and discover its secrets, but those who tried it never returned. The air was said to be so cold it would freeze blood.
Several times during the flight, the courier turned his head and glanced back at his companion, curious to note the reactions of a man who had been snatched from beneath the falling ax. The courier was doomed to disappointment if he thought he would see any sign of relief or elation or triumph. Grim, impassive, the assassin’s face gave away nothing of the thoughts behind its mask. Here was a face that could watch a man die as coolly as another might watch a man eat and drink. The face was, at the moment, turned away from the courier. Hugh was intently studying the route of their flight, a fact that the courier noticed with some uneasiness. Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Hugh raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the courier.
The courier had gained nothing from his inspection of Hugh. Hugh, however, appeared to gain a great deal from the courier. The narrowed eyes seemed to peel back skin and carve away bone, and might have, in a moment, laid bare whatever secrets were kept within the courier’s brain, had not the young man shifted his eyes to his dragon’s spiky mane. The courier did not look back at Hugh again.
It must have been coincidence, but when the courier noted Hugh’s interest in their flying route, a blanket of fog immediately began to drift over and obscure the land. They were flying high and fast and there was not much to see beneath the shadows cast by the Lords of Night. But coralite gives off a faint bluish light, causing stands of forests to show up black against the silvery radiance of the ground. Landmarks were easy to locate. Castles or fortresses made of coralite that have not been covered over with a paste of crushed granite gleam softly. Towns, with their shining ribbons of coralite streets, show up easily from the air.
During the war, when marauding elven airships were in the skies, the people covered their streets with straw and rushes. But there was no war upon the Volkaran Isles now. The majority of humans who dwelt there thought fondly that this was due to their prowess in battle, the fear they had generated among the elflords.
The courier, considering this, shook his head in disgust at their ignorance. A few humans in the realm knew the truth-among them King Stephen and Queen Anne. The elves of Aristagon were ignoring Volkaran and Uylandia because they had much bigger problems to deal with at the momenta rebellion among their own people.
When that rebellion was firmly and ruthlessly crushed, the elves would turn their attention to the kingdom of the humans-the barbaric beasts who had stirred up this rebellion in the first place. Stephen knew that this time the elves would no
t be content with conquering and occupying. This time they would rid themselves of the human pollution in their world once and forever. Stephen was quietly and swiftly setting up his pieces on the great gameboard, preparing for the final bitter contest.
The man sitting behind the courier didn’t know it, but he was to be one of those pieces.
When the fog appeared, the assassin, with an inward shrug, immediately gave up attempting to ascertain where they were going. Being a ship’s captain himself, he had flown most of the airlanes throughout the isles and beyond. They had been taking a negative rydai [3], traveling in the general direction of Kurinandistai. And then the fog had come and he could see nothing.
Hugh knew the mist had not sprung up by chance, and it only confirmed what he had begun to suspect-that this young “courier” was no ordinary royal flunky. The Hand relaxed and let the fog float through his mind. Speculating about the future did no good. Not likely to be much better than the present, the future could hardly be worse. Hugh had done all he could to prepare for it; he had his bone-handled, rune-marked dagger-slipped to him at the last moment by Gareth-tucked into his belt. Hunching his bare, lacerated shoulders deep into the thick fur cape, Hugh concentrated on nothing more urgent than keeping warm.
He did, however, take a certain grim delight in noting that the courier seemed to find the fog a nuisance. It slowed their flight and he was continually having to dip down into clear patches that would suddenly swirl up before them, to see where they were. At one point it appeared that he had managed to get them lost. The courier held the dragon steady in the air, the creature fanning its wings to keep them hovering in the sky in response to the rider’s command. Hugh could feel the courier’s body tense, note the darting, shifting glances cast at various objects on the ground. It seemed, from muttered words spoken to himself, that they had flown too far in one direction. Altering course, the courier turned the dragon’s head and they were once again flying through the mist. The courier cast an irritated glance at Hugh, as much as to say that this was his fault.
Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1) Page 3
