Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  “You did!” Bane sat forward, blue eyes glittering. “How? How did you come to know so much about elves?”

  The ash glowed red in the pipe, then dimmed and faded. Hugh ignored the question.

  “When Stephen and Anne managed to unite the clans, the elves finally opened their windows. In flew arrows and spears, and humans with swords scaled their walls. The uprising was swift and well-planned. By the time word reached the Tribus Empire, most of the elven overlords had been killed or driven from their homes. The elves retaliated. They assembled their fleet-the greatest ever seen in this world-and sailed for Uylandia. Hundreds of thousands of trained elven warriors and their sorcerers faced a few thousand humans-without our most powerful wizards, for by then the mysteriarchs had fled. Our people never stood a chance. Hundreds were slaughtered. More taken prisoner. King Stephen was captured alive-“

  “It was not his wish!” cried Alfred, stung by the sardonic tone in Hugh’s voice.

  The pipe gleamed and dimmed. The Hand said nothing; Alfred was goaded by the silence into continuing talking, when he had never meant to speak. “The elven prince Reesh’ahn had marked Stephen out and ordered his men to take the king unharmed. Stephen’s lords fell at his side, defending him. And even when he stood alone, he fought on. They say there was a ring of dead around him, for the elves dared not disobey their ruler, and yet none could get close enough to take him without being killed. Finally they rushed him en masse, bore him to the ground, and disarmed him. Stephen fought bravely, as bravely as any of them.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” said the Hand. “All I know is that the army surrendered-“

  Shocked, Bane turned to face him. “You must be mistaken, Sir Hugh! Our army won the Battle of Seven Fields!”

  “Our army won?” Hugh raised an eyebrow. “No, it wasn’t the army who won. It was one woman who beat the elves-a minstrel called Ravenlark, for, they said, her skin was black as a raven’s feathers and her voice was like that of a lark singing to welcome the dawn. Her lord had brought her to sing his victory, I suppose, but she ended up chanting his death song. She was captured and taken prisoner like the rest of the humans. They were herded together on a road that ran through the Seven Fields, a road littered with the bodies of the dead, wet with their blood. They were a pitiful lot, for they knew the fate that awaited them-slavery. Envying those who had died, they stood with heads bowed and shoulders slumped.

  “And then the minstrel began to sing. It was an old song, one everyone remembers from childhood.”

  “I know it!” Bane cried eagerly. “I’ve heard this part.”

  “Sing it, then,” said Alfred, smiling at the boy, pleased to see him happy again.

  “It’s called ‘Hand of Flame.’ ” The boy’s voice rose shrill and slightly off-key but enthusiastic:

  The Hand that holds the Arc and Bridge,

  The Fire that rails the Temp’red Span,

  All Flame as Heart, surmount the Ridge,

  All noble Paths are Ellxman [11].

  Fire in Heart guides the Will,

  The Will of Flame, set by Hand,

  The Hand that moves Ellxman Song,

  The Song of Fire and Heart and Land:

  The Fire born of Journey’s End,

  The Flame a part, a lightened call,

  The sullen walk, the flick’ring aim,

  Fire leads again from futures, all.

  The Arc and Bridge are thoughts and heart,

  The Span a life, the Ridge a part.

  “My nurse taught it to me when I was little. But she couldn’t tell me what the words meant. Do you know, Sir Hugh?”

  “I doubt if anyone does now. The tune stirs the heart. Ravenlark began to sing it, and soon the prisoners lifted their heads proudly, their backs stiffened. They lined up into formation, determined to walk to slavery or death with dignity.”

  “I’ve heard it said the song is elvish in origin,” murmured Alfred. “And dates back to before the Sundering.”

  Hugh shrugged, uninterested. “Who knows? All anyone cares about is that it has an effect on elves. From the sound of the first few notes, the elves stood transfixed, staring straight ahead. They looked like men in a dream, except that their eyes moved. Some claimed they were ‘seeing pictures.’ “

  Bane flushed, his hand tightly grasping the feather.

  “The prisoners, noticing this, kept on singing. The minstrel knew the words to all the verses. Most of the prisoners were lost after the first, but they kept up the tune and joined in strong on the chorus. The elves’ weapons fell from their hands. Prince Reesh’ahn sank to his knees and began to weep. And, at Stephen’s command, the prisoners marched away as fast as their feet could carry them.”

  “It was to His Majesty’s credit that he didn’t order a helpless enemy slaughtered,” said Alfred.

  The Hand snorted. “For all the king knew, a sword in the throat might have broken the spell. Our men were beaten. They wanted only to get out of there. The king had it in his mind, so I’ve been told, to fall back on one of the nearby castles and regroup and strike again. But it wasn’t necessary. When the elves came to their senses, the king’s spies reported that they were like men awakened from a beautiful dream who long to go back to sleep. They left their weapons and their dead where they lay and returned to their ships. Once there, they freed their human slaves and limped home.”

  “The beginning of the elven revolution.”

  “Supposedly so.” Hugh dragged slowly on the pipe. “The elf king proclaimed his son, Prince Reesh’ahn, a disgrace and an outlaw and drove him into exile. Reesh’ahn’s now stirring up trouble throughout Aristagon. There’ve been attempts made to capture him, but each time he’s slipped through their fingers.”

  “And with him, they say, travels the minstrel woman, who-according to legend-was so moved by the prince’s sorrow that she chose to follow him,” added Alfred softly. “Together they sing the song, and wherever they go, they find more followers.” Leaning back, he misjudged the distance between himself and the tree trunk and whanged himself on the head.

  Bane giggled, then clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, Alfred,” he said contritely. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Are you hurt?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Alfred said with a sigh. “Thank you for asking. Now, Your Highness, you should be going to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Alfred.” Bane ran to get his blanket from his pack. “If it’s all right, I’m going to sleep here tonight,” he said. Looking up at Hugh shyly, he spread his blanket out next to the assassin’s.

  Hugh rose abruptly to his feet and walked over to the fire. Knocking the bowl of the pipe against his hand, he scattered the ashes. “Rebellion.” He stared into the flames, keeping his eyes averted from the child. “Ten years have passed and the Tribus Empire is as strong as ever. Their prince lives like a hunted wolf in the caves of the Kirikai Outlands.”

  “The rebellion has at least kept them from crushing us beneath their boot heels,” stated Alfred, wrapping himself in blankets. “Are you certain you’ll be warm enough that far from the fire, Your Highness?”

  “Oh, yes,” the boy said happily, “I’ll be next to Sir Hugh.” Sitting up, clasping his small arms around his knees, he looked up at the Hand questioningly. “What did you do at the battle? …”

  “… Where are you off to, captain? It seems to me the battle’s being fought behind you.”

  “Eh?” The captain started in fear at the sound of a voice when he had figured himself to be alone. Drawing his sword, he whirled around, and peered into the brush.

  Hugh, his weapon in hand, stepped out from behind a tree. The assassin’s sword was red with elven blood; Hugh himself had taken several wounds in the vicious fighting. But he had never for one moment lost sight of his goal.

  The captain, seeing a human and not an elf warrior, relaxed and, grinning, lowered his sword, which was still clean and bright. “My lads are back there.” He gestured
with his thumb. “They’ll take care of the bastards.”

  Hugh, eyes narrowed, stared ahead.

  “Your ‘lads’ are getting cut to ribbons.”

  The captain shrugged and turned to continue on his way. Hugh caught hold of the man’s sword arm, jerked the weapon from his hand, and spun him around. Astounded, the captain swore an oath and lashed out at Hugh with a meaty fist. The captain ceased to fight when he felt the tip of Hugh’s dagger at his throat.

  “What?” he gabbled, sweating and panting, his eyes bulging from his head.

  “My name is Hugh the Hand. And this”-he held up the dagger-“is from Tom Hales, and Henry Goodfellow, and Ned Carpenter, and the Widow Tanner, and the Widow Giles …” Hugh recited the names. An elven arrow thudded into a tree nearby. The assassin didn’t flinch. The dagger didn’t move.

  The captain whined and squirmed and shouted for help. But there were many humans who were shouting for help that day, and no one answered. His deathscream mingled with many others.

  Work completed, Hugh left. Behind him, he could hear voices raised in song, but he paid scant attention. He was imagining the puzzlement of the Kir monks, who would find the body of the captain far from the field of battle, a dagger in his chest, and in his hand the missive, “No more shall I send brave men to their deaths.” …

  “Sir Hugh!” The small hand was tugging at his sleeve. “What did you do in the battle?”

  “I was sent to deliver a message.”

  CHAPTER 22

  PITRIN’S EXILE, MID REALM

  THE ROAD HUGH FOLLOWED WAS, AT THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY, A BROAD,

  clear stretch of highway. They met numerous people on their way, for the interior of the isle was well-traveled. As they neared the shore, however, the road narrowed. It was rough and ill-kept, littered with splintered branches and broken rock. The hargast trees, or crystaltrees as they were sometimes called, grew wild in this region and were far different from the carefully cultivated “civilized” trees grown on the hargast farms.

  There is nothing quite so beautiful as an orchard of hargast trees-their silver bark gleaming in the sunlight, the carefully pruned crystalline branches clinking together with musical sounds. The farmers work among them, pruning them, preventing them from growing to the outlandish size that obviates their usefulness. The hargast tree has the natural ability not only to store water but also to produce it in limited quantities. When the trees are kept small-about six to seven feet in height-the water they make is not used to enhance their own growth and can be harvested by driving taps into the trees’ bark. A full-grown hargast tree, over a hundred feet tall, uses its water itself. Its bark is too thick to tap. In the wild, the hargast’s branches grow to tremendous lengths. Being hard and brittle, they break off easily and shatter when they hit the ground, scattering lethal shards of sharp crystalline bark. A hargast forest is a dangerous place to traverse and consequently Hugh and his companions met fewer and fewer people on the road.

  The wind blew strongly, as it always does near the coastline; currents of air sweeping up from the underside of the isle eddied and swirled among the jagged cliffs. Strong gusts caused the three to lose their footing, trees creaked and shuddered, and more than once they heard the ringing, shattering crack of a falling tree limb. Alfred grew increasingly nervous, scanning the skies for elven ships and the woods for elven warriors, although Hugh amusedly assured him that not even the elves bothered with this worthless part of Pitrin’s Exile.

  It was a wild and desolate place. Cliffs of coralite jutted into the air. The tall hargast trees crowded close to the road, cutting off the sunlight with their long, thin leathery brown filaments. This foliage remained on the tree during the winter and only fell off in the spring, prior to growing the new filaments, which would suck moisture out of the air. It was nearly noon when Hugh, who had been paying unusual attention to the trunk of every hargast tree growing close to the roadside, suddenly called a halt.

  “Hey!” he shouted to Alfred and the prince, who were trudging wearily ahead of him. “This way.”

  Bane turned to stare at him questioningly. Alfred turned-at least part of Alfred turned. His upper half swung around on Hugh’s orders, but his lower half continued acting on previously given instruction. By the time all of Alfred managed to obey, he was lying in the dust of the road.

  Hugh waited patiently for the chamberlain to pick himself up.

  “We leave the road here.” The assassin gestured toward the forest.

  “In there?” Alfred peered with dismay into the tangle of underbrush and densely packed hargast trees, standing unmoving, branches clinking together with an ominous musical sound in the swirling winds.

  “I’ll take care of you, Alfred,” said Bane, taking hold of the chamberlain’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “There now, you’re not scared anymore, are you? I’m not scared, not at all!”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” said Alfred gravely. “I feel much better now. However, if I might venture to ask, Sir Hugh, what necessitates our going this way?”

  “My airship is hidden in here.”

  Bane gaped. “An elven airship?”

  “This way.” Hugh gestured. “And be quick about it.” He cast a glance up and down the empty road. “Before someone comes along.”

  “Oh, Alfred! Hurry, hurry!” The prince pulled at the chamberlain’s hand.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” answered Alfred unhappily. He set his foot into the mass of last spring’s rotting filaments on the roadside. There was a rustle, the underbrush leapt and quivered, and Alfred did the same. “What … what was that?” he gasped, pointing a trembling finger.

  “Go!” grunted Hugh, and shoved Alfred ahead.

  The chamberlain slid and stumbled. More out of terror at falling headlong into the unknown than out of agility, he managed to stay on his feet in the thick undergrowth. The prince plunged in after him, keeping the poor chamberlain in a constant state of panic by descrying snakes beneath every rock and log. Hugh watched them until the thick foliage had blocked them from his sight-and him from theirs. Reaching down, he picked up a rock and removed from beneath it a sliver of wood, which he thrust back into the notch that had been made in the trunk of a tree.

  Entering the forest, he had no trouble finding the two again; a wild boar blundering through the thickets could not have made a greater clamor.

  Moving with his accustomed soft-footed tread, Hugh was standing right beside them before either of the two was aware of him. Purposefully he cleared his throat, figuring that if he didn’t give some indication of his presence, the chamberlain might drop dead from fright. As it was, Alfred nearly leapt from his skin at the startling sound, and almost wept with relief when he saw it was Hugh.

  “Where … which way, sir?”

  “Keep going straight ahead. You’ll strike a cleared path about twenty feet further.”

  “T-twenty feet!” Alfred stammered. He gestured at the thick brush in which he was entangled. “It will take us an hour to get that far, at least!”

  “If something doesn’t get us first,” teased Bane, round-eyed with excitement.

  “Most amusing, Your Highness.”

  “We’re still too close to the road. Get moving,” commanded Hugh.

  “Yes, sir,” muttered the chamberlain.

  They reached the path in less than an hour, but it was hard going nonetheless. Though brown and lifeless in the winter, the bramble bushes were like the hands of the undead, reaching out with their sharp nails to tear flesh and rend clothing. This deep in the forest, the three could hear quite plainly the faint crystalline hum caused by the wind rubbing against the hargast branches. It was much like someone running a wet finger over a crystal glass, and had the effect of setting the teeth on edge.

  “No one in his right mind would come in this accursed place!” grumbled Alfred, glancing up at the trees with a shudder.

  “Exactly,” said Hugh, and continued to beat a path through the brush.

&n
bsp; Alfred walked ahead of the prince and held back the thorny branches so that Bane could pass through them safely. The brambles were so thick, however, that this was often not possible. Bane endured scratched cheeks and torn hands without complaint, sucking his wounds to alleviate the pain.

  How bravely will he face the pain of dying?

  Hugh hadn’t meant to ask himself the question, and he forced himself to answer it. As bravely as other kids I’ve seen. Better to die young, after all, as the Kir monks say. Why should a child’s life be considered more precious than a man’s? Logically, it should be less so, for a man contributes to society and a child is a parasite. It’s instinctive, Hugh supposed. Our animal-like need to perpetuate our own kind. This is just another job. The fact that he’s a child shouldn’t, won’t matter!

  The bramble bushes gave way eventually, with a suddenness for which Alfred was evidently unprepared. By the time Hugh reached him, the chamberlain was lying sprawled facefirst on a narrow space of cleared ground.

  “Which direction? That’s it, isn’t it?” cried Bane, dancing around Alfred in excitement. The path led only one direction. Deducing that it must lead to the ship, the prince bolted down it before Hugh could answer his question.

  Hugh opened his mouth to command him to come back, then shut it abruptly.

  “Oh, sir, shouldn’t we stop him?” queried Alfred anxiously as Hugh waited for the chamberlain to drag himself to his feet.

  The wind whipped around them, shrieking and moaning, driving h’ne bits of stinging coralite and hargast bark into their faces. Leaves swirled at their feet and the crystalline tree branches swayed above their heads. Hugh stared through the fine dust to see the boy running headlong down the path.

  “He’ll be all right. The ship’s not far from here. He can’t mistake the trail.”

  “But … assassins?”

  The child’s fleeing his one true danger, Hugh said silently. Let him go. “There’s no one in these woods. I would’ve seen the signs.”