Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  Early in his life, primarily for his own survival, Hugh had taught himself to be alert to all that happened around him. Now, in his fortieth cycle, such precaution was instinctive, a sixth sense. He knew the instant there was a shift in the wind, a rise or dip in the temperature. Though he had no timekeeping device, he could tell within a minute or two how much time had elapsed from one given period to another. His hearing was sharp, his eyes sharper. He possessed an unerring sense of direction. There were few parts of the Volkaran Isles or the continent of Uylandia that he hadn’t traveled. Adventures in his youth had taken him to distant (and unpleasant) parts of the larger world of Arianus. Not given to boasting, which was a waste of breath-only a man who cannot conquer his deficiencies feels the need to convince the world he has none-Hugh had always been confident in his own mind that, set him down where you would, he could within a matter of moments tell where upon Arianus he stood.

  But when the dragon, at the courier’s soft-spoken command, descended from the sky and landed upon solid ground, Hugh gazed around him and was forced to admit that for the first time in his life he was lost. He had never seen this place before.

  The king’s messenger dismounted from the dragon. Removing a glowstone from the leather pouch, he held the stone in his open palm. Once exposed to the air, the magical jewel began to give off a radiant light. A glowstone gives off heat as well, and it is necessary to place it in a container. The courier walked unhesitatingly to a corner of a crumbling coralite wall surrounding their landing site. Leaning down, he deposited the glowstone in a crude iron lamp.

  Hugh saw no other objects in the barren courtyard. Either the lamp had been left in expectation of the courier’s arrival or he himself had placed it there before he departed. The Hand suspected the latter, mainly because there was no sign of anyone else nearby. Even the nightrae had been left behind. It was logical to assume, therefore, that the courier had started his journey from this place and obviously expected to return-a fact that might or might not have much significance. Hugh slid down off the dragon’s back.

  The courier lifted the iron lamp. Returning to the dragon, he stroked the proudly arched neck and murmured words of rest and comfort that caused the beast to settle itself down in the courtyard, tucking its wings beneath its body and curling its long tail round its feet. The head fell forward on the breast, the eyes closed, and the dragon breathed a contented sigh. Once asleep, a dragon is extremely difficult and even dangerous to wake, for sometimes during sleep the spells of submission and obedience which are cast over them can be accidentally broken and you’ve got a confused, irate, and loudly vocal creature on your hands. An experienced dragonrider never allows his animal to sleep unless he knows there is a competent wizard nearby. Another fact Hugh noted with interest.

  Coming close to him, the courier raised his lantern and stared quizzically into Hugh’s face, inviting question or comment. The Hand saw no need to waste his breath in asking questions he knew would not be answered, and so stared back at the courier in silence.

  The courier, nonplussed, started to say something, changed his mind, and softly exhaled the breath he had drawn in to speak. Abruptly he turned on his heel, with a gesture to the assassin to follow, and Hugh fell into step behind his guide. The courier led the way to a place that Hugh soon came to recognize, from early and dark childhood memories, as a Kir monastery.

  It was ancient and had obviously been long abandoned. The flagstones of the courtyard were cracked and in many cases missing entirely. Coralite had grown over much of the standing outer structures that had been formed of the rare granite the Kir favored over the more common coralite. A chill wind whistled through the abandoned dwellings, where no light shone and had probably not shone for centuries. Bare trees creaked and dry leaves crunched beneath Hugh’s boots.

  Having been raised by the grim and dour order of Kir monks, the Hand knew the location of every monastery on the Volkaran Isles. He could not remember hearing of any that had ever been abandoned, and the mystery of where he was and why he had been brought here deepened.

  The courier came to a baked-clay door that stood at the bottom of a tall turret. He fit an iron key into the lock. The Hand peered upward, but could not see a glimmer of light in any of the windows. The door swung open silently-an indication that someone was accustomed to coming here frequently, since the rusted hinges were well-oiled. Gliding inside, the courier indicated with a wave of his hand that Hugh was to follow. When both were in the cold and drafty building, the courier locked the door, tucking the key inside the bosom of his tunic.

  “This way,” he said. The direction was not necessary-there was only one possible way for them to go, and that was up. A spiral staircase led them round and round the interior of the turret. Hugh counted three levels, each marked by a clay door. All were locked, the Hand noted, surreptitiously testing each as they ascended.

  On the fourth level, at another clay door, the iron key again made an appearance. A long narrow corridor, darker than the Lords of Night, ran straight and true before them. The courier’s booted footsteps rang on the stone. Hugh, accustomed by habit to treading silently in his soft-soled, supple leather boots, made no more noise than if he had been the man’s shadow.

  They passed six doors by Hugh’s count-three on his left and three on his right-before the courier raised a warning hand and they stopped at the seventh. Once again the iron key was produced. It grated in the lock and the door slid open.

  “Enter,” the courier said, standing to one side.

  Hugh did as he was told. He was not surprised to hear the door shut behind him. No sound of a key turning in the lock, however. The only light in the room came from the soft glow given off by the coralite outside, but that faint shimmer illuminated the room well enough for the Hand’s sharp eyes. He stood still a moment, closely inspecting his surroundings. He was, he discovered, not alone.

  The Hand felt no fear. His fingers, beneath his cloak, were clasped around the hilt of his dagger, but that was only common sense in a situation like this. Hugh was a businessman and he recognized the setting of a business discussion when he saw it.

  The other person in the room with him was adept at hiding. He was silent and kept himself concealed in the shadows. Hugh didn’t see the person or hear him, but he knew with every instinct that had kept him alive through forty harsh and bitter cycles that there was someone else present. The Hand sniffed the air.

  “Are you an animal? Can you smell me?” queried the voice-a male voice, deep and resonant. “Is that how you knew I was in the room?”

  “Yeah, an animal,” said Hugh shortly.

  “And what if I had attacked you?” The figure moved over to stand by the window. He was outlined in Hugh’s vision by the faint radiance of the coralite. The Hand saw that his interrogator was a tall man clad in a cape whose hem he could hear dragging across the floor. The man’s head and face were covered by chain mail, only the eyes visible. But the Hand knew his suspicions had been correct. He knew to whom he was talking.

  Hugh drew forth his dagger. “A hand’s breadth of steel in your heart, Your Majesty.”

  “I am wearing a mail vest,” said Stephen, King of the Volkaran Isles and the Uylandia Cluster. He was, seemingly, not surprised that Hugh recognized him.

  A corner of the assassin’s thin lips twitched. “The chain mail does not cover your armpit, Majesty. Lift your elbow.” Stepping forward, Hugh placed thin, long fingers in the gap between the body armor and that covering the arm. “One thrust of my dagger, there …” Hugh shrugged.

  Stephen did not flinch at the touch. “I must mention that to my armorer.”

  Hugh shook his head. “Do what you will, Majesty, if a man’s determined to kill you, then you’re dead. And if that’s why you’ve brought me here, I can only offer you this advice: decide whether you want your corpse burned or buried.”

  “This from an expert,” said Stephen, and Hugh could hear the sneer if he could not see it on the man’s helmed face. />
  “I assume Your Majesty requires an expert, since you’ve gone to all this trouble.”

  The king turned to face the window. He had seen almost fifty cycles, but he was well-built and strong and able to withstand incredible hardships. Some whispered that he slept in his armor, to keep his body hard. Certainly, considering his wife’s reputed character, he might also welcome the protection.

  “Yes, you are an expert. The best in the kingdom, I am told.”

  Stephen fell silent. The Hand was adept at reading the words men speak with their bodies, not with their tongues, and though the king might have thought he was masking his turbulent inner emotions quite well, Hugh noted the fingers of the left hand close in upon themselves, heard the silvery clinking of the chain mail as a tremor shook the man’s body.

  So it often was with men making up their minds to murder.

  “You also have a peculiar conceit, Hugh the Hand,” said Stephen, abruptly breaking his long pause. “You advertise yourself as a Hand of Justice, of Retribution. You kill those who allegedly have wronged others, those who are above the law, those whom-supposedly-my law cannot touch.”

  There was anger in the voice, and a challenge. Stephen was obviously piqued, but Hugh knew that the warring clans of Volkaran and Uylandia were currently being held together only by a mortar composed of fear and greed, and he did not figure it worth his while to argue the point with a king who undoubtedly knew it as well.

  “Why do you do this?” Stephen persisted. “Is it some sort of attempt at honor?”

  “Honor? Your Majesty talks like an elflord! Honor won’t buy you a cheap meal at a bad inn in Therpes.”

  “Ah, the money?”

  “The money. Any knife-in-the-back killer can be had for the price of a plate of stew. That’s fine for those who just want their man dead. But those who’ve been wronged, those who’ve suffered at the hands of another-they want the one who brought them grief to suffer himself. They want him to know, before he dies, who brought about his destruction. They want him to experience the pain and the terror of his victims. And for this satisfaction, they’re willing to pay a high price.”

  “I am told the risks you take are quite extraordinary, that you even challenge your victim to fair combat.”

  “If the customer wants it.”

  “And is willing to pay.”

  Hugh shrugged. The statement was too obvious for comment. The conversation was pointless, meaningless. The Hand knew his own reputation, his own worth. He didn’t need to hear it recited back to him. But he was used to it. It was all part of business. Like any other customer, Stephen was trying to talk his way into committing this act. It amused the Hand to note that a king in this situation behaved no differently from his humblest subject.

  Stephen had turned and was staring out the window, his gloved hand-fist clenched-resting on the ledge. Hugh waited patiently, in silence.

  “I don’t understand. Why should those who hire you want to give a person who has wronged them the chance to fight for his life?”

  “Because in this they’re doubly revenged. For then it’s not my hand that strikes the killer down, Your Majesty, but the hands of his ancestors, who no longer protect him.”

  “Do you believe this?” Stephen turned to face him; Hugh could see the moonlight flash on the chain mail covering the man’s head and shoulders.

  Hugh raised an eyebrow. His hand moved to stroke the braided, silky strands of beard that hung from his chin. The question had never before been asked of him and proved, so he supposed, that kings were different from their subjects-at least this one was. The Hand moved to the window to stand next to Stephen. The assassin’s gaze was drawn to a small courtyard below them. Covered over with coralite, it glowed eerily in the darkness, and he could see, by the soft blue light, the figure of a man standing in the center. The man wore a black hood. He held in his hand a sharp-edged sword. At his feet stood a block of stone. Twisting the ends of his beard, Hugh smiled.

  “The only things I believe in, Your Majesty, are my wits and my skill. So I’m to have no choice. I either accept this job or else, is that it?”

  “You have a choice. When I have described the job to you, you may either take it or refuse to do so.”

  “At which point my head parts company from my shoulders.”

  “The man you see is the royal executioner. He is skilled in his work. Death will be quick, clean. Far better than what you were facing. That much, at least, I owe you for your time.” Stephen turned to face Hugh, the eyes in the shadow of the chain-mail helm dark and empty, lit by nothing within, reflecting no light from without. “I must take precautions. I cannot expect you to accept this task without knowing its nature, yet to reveal it to you is to place myself at your mercy. I dare not permit you to remain alive, knowing what you will shortly know.”

  “If I refuse, I’m disposed of by night, in the dark, no witnesses. If I accept, I’m entangled in the same web in which Your Majesty currently finds himself twisting.”

  “What more do you expect? You are, after all, nothing but a murderer,” Stephen said coldly.

  “And you, Your Majesty, are nothing more than a man who wants to hire a murderer.” Bowing with an ironic flourish, Hugh turned on his heel.

  “Where are you going?” Stephen demanded. “If Your Majesty will excuse me, I’m late for an engagement. I should’ve been in hell an hour previous.” The Hand walked toward the door.

  “Damn you! I’ve offered you your life!” Hugh didn’t even bother to turn around. “The price is too low. My life’s worth nothing, I don’t value it. In exchange, you want me to accept a job so dangerous you’ve got to trap a man to force him to take it? Better to meet death on my own terms than Your Majesty’s.”

  Hugh flung open the door. The king’s courier stood facing him, blocking his way out. At his feet stood the glowlamp, and it cast its radiance upward, illuminating a face that was ethereal in its delicacy and beauty.

  He’s a courier? And I’m a Sartan, Hugh thought. “Ten thousand barls,” said the young man. Hugh’s hand went to the braided beard, twisting it thoughtfully. His eyes glanced sideways at Stephen, who had come up behind him.

  “Douse that light,” commanded the king. “Is this necessary, Trian?”

  “Your Majesty”-Trian spoke with respect and patience, but it was the tone of one friend advising another, not the tone of a servant deferring to a master-“he is the best. There is no one else to whom we can entrust this. We have gone to considerable trouble to acquire him. We can’t afford to lose him. If Your Majesty will remember, I warned you from the beginning-“

  “Yes, I remember!” Stephen snapped. He stood silent, inwardly fuming. He would undoubtedly like nothing better than to order his “courier” to march the assassin to the block. The king would probably, at this moment, enjoy wielding the executioner’s blade himself. The courier gently drew an iron screen over the light, leaving them in darkness.

  “Very well!” the king snarled.

  “Ten thousand barls?” Hugh couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes,” answered Trian. “When the job is done.”

  “Half now. Half when the job is done.”

  “Your life now! The barls then!” Stephen hissed through clenched teeth.

  Hugh took a step toward the door.

  “Half now!” Stephen’s words were a gasp, almost incoherent.

  Hugh, bowing in acquiescence, turned back to face the king.

  “Who’s the victim?”

  Stephen drew a deep breath. Hugh heard a clicking, catching choke in the king’s throat, a sound vaguely similar to the rattle in the throats of the dying.

  “My son,” said the king.

  CHAPTER 5

  KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM

  HUGH WAS NOT SURPRISED. IT HAD TO BE SOMEBODY CLOSE TO HIS MAJESTY, TO

  account for all the intrigue and secrecy. The Hand knew Stephen had an heir to the throne, nothing more than that. Judging by the king’s ag
e, the kid must be eighteen, twenty cycles. Old enough to get into serious trouble.

  “The prince is here, in the monastery. We”-Stephen paused, trying to moisten a dry tongue-“have told him his life is in danger. He believes you are a nobleman in disguise, hired to take him to a secret hiding place where he will be safe.” Stephen’s voice cracked. Angrily he cleared his throat and resumed speaking. “The prince will not question this decision. He knows well enough what we say is true. There are those who are a threat to him-“

  “Obviously,” said Hugh.

  The king stiffened, the chain mail clinked, and Stephen’s sword rattled in its sheath.

  The courier, with a whispered, “Restrain yourself, Your Majesty!” swiftly interposed his body between that of the king and the assassin.

  “Remember, sir, whom you are addressing!” Trian rebuked.

  Hugh ignored him. “Where am I to take the prince, Majesty? What am I to do with him?”

  “I will provide you with the details,” Trian answered.

  Stephen had apparently had enough. His nerve was failing him. He stalked past Hugh toward the door, turning his body slightly so that he avoided touching the assassin. He probably did it unconsciously, but the Hand, recognizing the affront, smiled grimly in the darkness and struck back.

  “There is a service I offer all my clients, Majesty.”

  Stephen paused, hand on the door handle. “Well?” He did not look around.

  “I tell the victim who is having him killed and why. Shall I so inform your son, Majesty?”

  The chain mail jingled softly; a tremor shook the man’s body. But Stephen’s head remained unbowed, his shoulders straight. “When the moment comes,” he said, “my son will know.”

  Stiff-backed, straight-shouldered, the king walked into the corridor; Hugh heard his footsteps receding in the distance. The courier moved to stand next to the Hand, not speaking until he heard-in the distance-the sound of a door slam shut.