The dragon roared again and leaped into the air, its wings beating. The gray-skinned elf on the back of the creature cast another spell, and a glittering lance of ice the length of a horse shot from its hand. The lance hurtled towards Calliande, and both she and Antenora cast the warding spell. Overlapping domes of pale light appeared, and the icy lance shattered against the defensive magic. The dragon flew to the north, and for a moment Calliande feared the dragon would attack the town, unleashing its acidic breath at random. Hundreds of people might die before Calliande could force the creature back to earth.
But the dragon banked, swinging around to the south, and Calliande saw green fog roiling behind the creature’s fangs. The dragon and its elven rider were returning to attack her.
Oh. Good.
“Keeper,” said Antenora. “You defend, I shall strike.”
“Aye,” said Calliande, pulling together power for another spell. She had used similar tactics with her friends in Owyllain when they had faced the Confessor’s dragons. If Calliande charged her warding spells with the power of the Keeper’s mantle, almost nothing could penetrate them. She could hold the fury of one dragon’s breath at bay easily enough. And while Calliande could wield spells empowered with all four of the primal elements, she could not match Antenora’s skill with the magic of elemental flame.
“We seem to have drawn its attention,” said Antenora, elemental flame blazing to life along the length of her black staff.
“Good,” said Calliande. “We’re the ones best equipped to fight this thing. Now!”
She thrust her staff upward again, white fire pulsing along its length, and once again she called a shimmering dome of white light overhead, a warding spell charged with the mantle of the Keeper. The dragon’s acidic breath struck the ward and shattered, the deadly mist vanishing into nothingness. At the same time, Antenora hurled a shimmering globe of elemental fire the size of Calliande’s head. It shot skyward and struck the dragon’s left flank, and it blasted a smoking crater into its flesh, melting through the armored scales. The dragon screamed in agony, its head thrown back as it sprayed a plume of acidic mist into the air. It circled over the castra, its rider bringing the creature around to attack again, but Calliande saw that the dragon was favoring its right wing. The wound that Antenora had blasted into its flesh was healing, but not fast enough.
“Aim for its right wing!” said Calliande. “Try to bring it to the ground!”
Antenora nodded and began another spell, the white fire of the Well of Tarlion mingling with elemental flame along the length of her staff. The dragon completed its turn and roared, more mist spraying from its jaws only to slam against Calliande’s warding spell. In the same instant, Antenora thrust her staff, and a mingled sphere of white and yellow-orange fire leaped from the end of her staff. The dragon tried to dodge, but this time it was too slow. The sphere struck the base of its right wing, and even from a distance, Calliande smelled the charred reek as the fire sank into the dragon’s flesh. Its right wing collapsed from the wound, and the dragon screamed.
It plummeted towards the earth, and the dragon struck the courtyard with a thunderous crash, the flagstones shivering beneath Calliande’s boots. The gray-skinned elf was thrown from the back of the dragon and hit the ground hard, rolling to the side. The dragon started to rise, its claws rasping against the ground, its head swinging towards Calliande.
But it was too slow.
Calliande summoned magic, and this time she worked a spell of elemental ice, fusing it with the mantle of the Keeper. She made a lifting gesture, and a spike of ice as thick as a grown man shot from the ground beneath the dragon’s head. It stabbed into the dragon’s jaws, pinning them closed and blocking off the plume of acidic mist.
It also stabbed into the dragon’s brain, the top of the spike bursting from its skull in a spray of glowing golden blood. At once, golden fire started to twist and writhe over the length of the dragon’s body, its form shrinking and diminishing.
Calliande heard the rasp of steel and saw that the gray-skinned elf had drawn a sword, the blue fire and shadows of dark magic twisting around his right hand.
“Surrender,” said Calliande in Latin. “You need not die here.”
The red-eyed elf strode forward, lifting his sword.
“Surrender,” repeated Antenora in the dark elven tongue. “You need not perish.”
“Human vermin,” said the elf in the dark elven language. “You shall fall to the wrath of the Signifier.”
The Signifier? Calliande had never heard that term before. It did sound like the title of a dark elven lord, like the cruel names it amused the dark elves to bestow upon each other. She would have asked more, but it was too late. The red-eyed elf charged, drawing back his sword to strike and lifting his free hand to cast a spell of dark magic.
Antenora was faster. Her next spell of elemental fire hit the gray-skinned elf’s forehead and blasted out the back of his skull in a spray of embers and smoke. The elf collapsed dead to the ground, crimson eyes wide in surprise.
Calliande looked around with the Sight, seeking for the presence of any dragons. There were none. But the Sight did show her the currents of magic surging around the white stone in the forum, and the rippling power around the gate that had opened in the stables. Worse, it showed her that several other gates had opened nearby. Calliande could not pinpoint their location, not exactly, but she feared that several were inside the walls.
“I have never seen an elf of any kindred that looked like that,” said Antenora.
Calliande stepped closer and looked at the dead elf. The creature had unquestionably been an elf. It had the pointed, upswept ears and the sharp, alien features common to the high elves, the dark elves, and the gray elves of Owyllain. But Calliande had never seen an elf with gray skin, nor one with crimson, blood-colored eyes.
“Nor have I,” said Calliande.
Antenora shrugged. “Perhaps it is a dark elf that has succumbed to magical mutation or…what on earth?”
She gripped her staff, starting another spell, and Calliande followed her apprentice’s gaze. The golden fire blazed around the slain dragon and then cleared. When the fire faded, the slain dragon had shrunk to the corpse of a naked human woman of middle years, pale and gaunt. Calliande’s spell of ice had left the woman’s face and skull a bloody ruin.
“A human?” said Antenora, surprised.
“Aye,” said Calliande, her voice grim. “The Confessor’s dragons did the same thing when they were slain. I am not certain, but on whatever world is on the other side of that rift, humans can be transformed into dragons. It must make them vulnerable to magical enslavement. And when they are slain, the transformation is broken, and they return to their original form.”
“The poor woman,” said Antenora. “Likely death was a relief.”
“Most probably,” said Calliande. A stray memory flashed through her mind, how the urdhracos called the Scythe had begged Ridmark and Third to kill her. Instead, the Scythe had transformed, becoming Selene, and without her aid, they would not have won the War of the Seven Swords. Could the dragons be freed similarly? Calliande did not know, and she doubted one of the dragons would permit her to find out.
“We should investigate the stone in the forum,” said Antenora. “If we can determine how it is opening those rifts, perhaps we can keep any new ones from opening.”
“Aye,” said Calliande. “Wait. Let’s help Ridmark close the rift in the stables, and then we can go out together. It will likely take some time to understand the magic on the stone, and he and Valmark and the others can keep any goblins from surprising us while we work.”
“Agreed,” said Antenora. “We…”
There was another flash of brilliant blue light from the forum, and an arc of blue lighting lashed across the dawn sky, stabbing to the northwest. The Sight showed Calliande the surge of power, and she saw the currents of magic stirring and twisting.
“Another rift just opened in the town,” s
aid Antenora.
“It did,” said Calliande, her voice grim. “We had better hurry and help Ridmark.” Part of her was relieved that none of the wild gates had opened inside the keep. Her children were safe there for now. The rest of her mind worried for the townsmen, who would have no warning that an attack was coming. “I think…wait. Wait.”
She focused the Sight, trying to get a clearer understanding of the power swirling around the town.
“That rift didn’t open inside the town,” said Calliande. “It opened inside the monastery.”
“The monks will have no defense,” said Antenora.
They wouldn’t. Calliande thought the monks of the Monastery of St. Bartholomew greedy and venal, but that didn’t mean they deserved to be torn apart by rampaging goblins.
And Accolon Pendragon was there, unarmed and weakened from weeks of fasting.
He didn’t deserve to be torn apart by rampaging goblins, either…but if he was killed, there was a definite possibility of civil war in Andomhaim’s future.
“Come,” said Calliande. “We must hasten.”
She ran towards the fighting in the stables, Antenora following her.
***
Chapter 10: The Novice
The doorkeeper’s lodge in the Monastery of St. Bartholomew was drafty and smelled of mildew. The roof leaked, so it was just as well that it hadn’t rained recently, though the smell of damp earth and wood never quite left the room. There was one cot where the assigned night watchman slept, and Accolon Pendragon found it lumpy and uncomfortable.
He didn’t mind. He embraced the discomfort. Pain was what he deserved.
Damnation, in truth, was what he deserved.
Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Caitrin hanging from the rafter in her room.
And he had driven her to it.
Accolon had been in love with her. Well, maybe not love, but he had enjoyed her company, and he had been fond of her. After the Frostborn war was over and he had come to live with his father and his sister in the High King’s Citadel in Tarlion, Accolon had been unnerved to find himself the center of attention in many different situations. Before the Frostborn war had begun, he had been the son of a Swordbearer and a minor knight. A prestigious social rank, to be sure, but hardly one worth notice. Once Accolon reached his majority, he might marry the daughter of a minor noble or a knight, but it was more likely he would marry the daughter of some rich merchant or prosperous freeholder looking to increase his own standing.
But then Tarrabus Carhaine had murdered the High King and his three trueborn sons, which meant that Arandar was the High King…and Accolon was the heir to the realm of Andomhaim.
Suddenly far more people wanted Accolon’s time and attention and favor.
Accolon’s father had done his best to ease him into his new responsibilities. The time Accolon had spent as Lord Ridmark’s squire during the Frostborn war had been helpful, which showed him how to lead men in battle. Granted, Lord Ridmark had commanded the Anathgrimm orcs, who rejoiced in fighting and bloodshed in a way that neither humans nor normal orcs did, but many of the same lessons applied. Accolon had taken on tasks for his father, learning to wield the authority of the crown prince in both law and war, and he had become comfortable in his new role.
But there was one thing that neither his father nor Lord Ridmark had prepared Accolon to handle.
Just how intoxicating the attention of women could be.
Accolon had the normal urges, and during his time as a squire in Tarlion, he had flirted with both the girls of the court and the daughters of the city’s merchants and craftsmen. They had seemed to find his attentions pleasing, for the most part, and he had stolen a few kisses when the opportunity had presented itself. But once he was the crown prince, suddenly every unmarried woman in the realm wanted to draw his eye. And more than a few of the married ones, as well.
He had tried to remember the church’s teachings on chastity, on how a husband should have but one wife. Certainly, his father had never taken a mistress and nor had Lord Ridmark. Yet throughout Andomhaim, it was commonly accepted that lords and knights might have a mistress or two. Not encouraged, certainly, but simply accepted as a fact of life.
And it was also expected that the High King would have numerous mistresses and bastard sons. His father was something of an exception in that regard. But Arandar had been a bastard himself and had no wish to inflict that experience on any of his children.
One day Accolon had been talking to the daughter of a minor lord at dinner, and the woman had hinted that she would be more than willing to spend time alone with him.
He had decided to take her up on that, and he had slipped into her bedchamber that night.
She hadn’t protested. Far from it, in fact, and it had been one of the most enjoyable experiences of Accolon’s life.
In the three years since the end of the War of the Seven Swords, Accolon had been with eight women. Never more than one at a time, and once the affair had run its course, he always made sure that there were no hard feelings, that the women could expect a royal favor at court. As enjoyable as he found these diversions, none of them had really touched his heart. His father loved the High Queen, and Lord Ridmark loved the Keeper, but Accolon had come to realize that such close marriages were the exception rather than the rule among the nobles of Andomhaim. Indeed, he had seen marriages where the lord and lady didn’t even particularly like each other but stayed together for mutual advantage or to make sure that their titles passed to suitable progeny.
For that matter, Accolon had learned that in the realm of Owyllain, a man could take but one wife, but he could have as many concubines as his wealth could support.
Accolon had to admit that he could see the wisdom in such an arrangement.
Then he had met Caitrin Rhosmor.
She was the daughter of a minor noble house in Cintarra. Her parents had died when she was young, and she had become the ward of the Master of the Scepter Bank, one of the members of the Regency Council after Prince Cadwall and his sons had died of illness. Once Caitrin came of age, the Master of the Scepter Bank sent her to Tarlion to learn the social graces required of a noblewoman and to meet others of her rank. To put it more bluntly, the Master had sent her there to find an advantageous husband.
Accolon had been drawn to Caitrin from the moment they had met at court. She had been a striking woman, with dark red hair and brilliant green eyes. While she had been beautiful, she had also been bright and vivacious, able to stand up to the pressure of Accolon’s rank and fame. It had been a bit more work than usual to seduce her, but she had succumbed in the end, and they had both enjoyed themselves immensely.
Then three months into their affair, she had become pregnant.
Caitrin had been worried, but Accolon reassured her. There were precedents and traditions for such occurrences. He couldn’t marry her, of course, the difference in their ranks was far too pronounced. But he would see that she was taken care of. His own father had been old Uthanaric Pendragon’s bastard, and while Uthanaric had never shown his son any favor, he had taken care of Arandar’s mother, and he had made sure Arandar had gotten his start as a man-at-arms in service to old Dux Kors Durius of Durandis. While not the most prestigious start in life, it was a secure living, and Arandar had worked his way up to become a knight and then a Swordbearer.
Accolon would do the same for their child, he told Caitrin. She had been mollified by that and had seemed pleased at the prospect of becoming the crown prince’s long-term mistress. While hardly an official position, it would give her influence and comfort. Accolon’s father hadn’t been happy about the situation, and Accolon had listened to several stern lectures without complaint, but in the end, Arandar had acquiesced without a fight. Accolon realized that his father felt guilty about the burden his ascension to the throne of the High King had put upon his children, and so usually gave both Accolon and Nyvane what they wanted without much protest. Accolon had never leaned much on t
hat before…but he was fond of Caitrin. And, if he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to having children. Perhaps the time had come for him to find a wife and start giving his father some legitimate grandchildren.
Then one day, about three months into her pregnancy, Accolon had gone to visit Caitrin, and had found her hanging from the ceiling in her room.
Even now, months later, Accolon still saw the horrible scene every time he closed his eyes. Caitrin had just started to show her pregnancy, and the way her weight hung against the noose had pressed the cloth of her gown taut against her belly. The noose had been so tight that it had split the skin of her neck, the blood running down her chest and stomach. Her green eyes were open and bulging, but they had filled with blood and turned near solid red. Her lovely face had turned a hideous purplish-black color, and her bulging tongue swelled against her white teeth. Her hair, dark and red and shining, seemed almost obscene against her ghastly expression.
And the sight of it had broken something within Accolon.
He had seen bloodshed, both during the Frostborn war and during the campaigns his father had undertaken against the Mhorites in Durandis and the medvarth and khaldjari in the Northerland.
But this was something else.
The explanation was obvious. Accolon had seduced Caitrin outside of marriage and impregnated her with a bastard child. On the surface, she had been willing to bear the child and become his mistress, but the guilt of it had gnawed at her. Finally, her mind had snapped, and in desperation, she had taken her own life. Suicides were damned, and the soul of the unborn child would never be baptized.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 14
