Three Wells of the Sea- The Complete Trilogy

by Terry Madden

  He’d done as she’d asked him to do. He’d freed her of her servitude.

  Brixia haunted dark waters, she drowned those who harmed her or those she loved, exacting vengeance through eternity as the tiny, seal-coated pony. The water horse. The guardian of the tribe of Black Brac.

  Maybe it was only the memory, stirred by the quiet warmth of the horse beside him.

  He finally saw her, pushing through the crowd near Dish. She trotted toward him, red ribbons flying from her mane. He called her name.

  Dylan followed his gaze. “Brixia? Where?”

  “Just seeing things,” Connor said.

  He cooed to the light bay draft horse, and then drew the first of a hundred runes upon its muscled neck. His blood felt slick until it adhered to the short, silky horse hair.

  The atoms that contained the information that was its flesh trembled beneath his touch, danced and rearranged.

  He hoped Brixia was smiling.

  Chapter 19

  Dish urged his horse closer with the short crop he carried for the purpose. He’d forgotten to breathe.

  Connor stood in the middle of the circle of men wearing his jeans and a Metallica sweatshirt. His scratched sunglasses reflected the runes he was drawing. His mouth was set in a straight, unflinching line, and though the wind blew his long hair across his face, he never moved to push it aside.

  The draft horse before Connor lowered its head as the blood scribe moved his fingers methodically over its body. In complete relaxation, the horse closed its eyes. It was almost covered now in the strange markings. Connor dipped his fingers repeatedly into the wound on his arm like a painter going to his palette.

  The men were murmuring. Some called out unpleasantries, taunting Connor, who paid them no mind.

  Dylan held the other two horses. They jigged and sniffed, no doubt smelling the blood.

  Dish looked around again for Brixia. Connor had called out her name, as if summoning the horse. If Brixia was here, then perhaps Angharad was with her. Connor had seen them together, after all.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Iris asked Dish.

  “Blood magic,” Dish said. “Something I’d hoped never to see.”

  “Holy shit,” Iris muttered. “Connor Quinn?”

  As Connor drew, the runes on the draft horse began to pulse a faint green, like invisible ink put under a UV light. The horse relaxed, turned its head now and then to sniff at the blood on Connor’s arm, but showed no sign of alarm.

  When the runes were complete, Connor moved toward the sway-backed war horse. It danced and snorted as he approached, but as soon as Connor’s palm met the bony forehead, it became as docile as the draft horse. It sniffed at Connor’s hair as if waiting for its own turn.

  Its turn came.

  With bloody hands, Connor stroked the creature’s bony head before he cut. The old war horse stood for many seconds before it staggered and fell, then chuffed out its last breath. The greenflow twisted away from the fallen horse in diaphanous ropes, finding the field of runes on the draft horse and entering them, like roots through the chinks of a stone wall.

  The second horse fell beside the first.

  There were gasps and signs against evil among the crowd. But few turned away. All the while, Connor sang just under his breath, in a language Dish did not understand.

  The draft horse began to stamp and blow, its body changing. It gave a loud, low whinny. But the next sound it made was unlike a horse at all. It was a screech.

  The crowd retreated as the beast grew, its limbs stretching, muscling. When its neck had grown to three times its original length, Dish understand what it was becoming. He sought out Lyl, and found her standing with Saeth. As if feeling his gaze on her, Lyl turned to glance at him. She was pale, her arms knotted around herself.

  If Connor could only control it. Direct it.

  Many fled, but those who remained watched from a greater distance as wings peeled from the flanks, unfurling like those of a butterfly breaking from its chrysalis. Once free, the green wings flapped until it sent a gust that blew dust in all directions.

  The horse hide, once a coppery red, was now scaled armor. The runes were still visible as a faint pattern created by the order and color of the scales, which themselves looked like translucent shards of gleaming obsidian.

  The creature’s slim legs were now muscled joints that terminated in scythes at the end of each digit. The triangle of its horned and boney head turned and stared at Dish with the direct look of a predator. Its pupils were narrow black slits in deep orange irises. It would either eat him now—or wait for instructions before doing so.

  “Dish…Dish.” It was Connor’s voice. He was closing the ground between them, cradling his sliced arm and looking pale.

  “A dragon,” Dish heard himself say.

  “Yeah,” Connor said. “I was going for something between Smaug and Fafnir.”

  “I’d say…you succeeded,” Dish said, feeling weak himself.

  “Listen, it’s got animal greenflow in it. Nothing human. But horses are trained to obey, so it should be fine.”

  “Should be? For what?” Dish asked incredulously.

  “It must be commanded,” Lyl added, appearing behind Connor. “Not left to do as it pleases.”

  “Right,” Connor said. “It’s bound to me, but I want Nechtan to be able to guide it. You’ll be on the field.”

  “Me? How?” Dish demanded.

  “Let me cut you.”

  Lyl stepped between them and planted both hands on Connor’s chest. “You’ll be in the field as well. You’ll control it.”

  Connor was shaking his head. He indicated his bloody arm. “I’ve got to take care of this. Then I’ll follow.”

  “It’s all right, Lyl,” Dish said. Looking down at the two of them from the horse gave Dish a strange sense of vertigo. He could get used to having four legs under him.

  Lyl didn’t move. She grasped Connonr by the arms and shook him. “You can heal his legs in moments. Take another horse and give us our king again.”

  Connor shook her off and backed away, a look of sad incredulity on his face. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and met Lyl’s gaze directly with eyes full of pain.

  “To hell with you and your kingmaking. You just don’t learn, do you? It’s not Dish who needs healing.” Connor thrust a bloody finger at her. “It’s you. It’s this world you’ve built, this culture you’ve made. Dish is more a king without legs than anyone in this world who has them.”

  “You should know about kingmaking,” Lyl fired back.

  “Exactly.” Connor spread his bloody arms to indicate the desolation around him and the agitated dragon. “Look what I’ve made! And you want me to add to it?”

  “He’s right, Lyl,” Dish said, and then pointed at himself. “This is me.”

  She swallowed hard and showed her palms, her eyes on the ground.

  Connor slid the glasses back over his eyes, saying. “Dish…I want you to command this dragon.”

  Dish took a deep breath and extended his arm.

  The nick was quick and shallow. A small dime of blood beaded on his skin which Connor gathered on his index finger. Then he approached the dragon. It lowered its head like a horse for the bridle. He traced a mark on the flat forehead, between the wide eyes. It turned and gazed directly at Dish. This time, Dish felt less like the creature’s next meal, and more like an unseen tether had formed between them.

  “How? How do I—guide it?” Dish stammered.

  “Picture what you wish it to do,” Lyl explained, “and it will see it also.”

  “And hope it doesn’t turn on me.”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be fine,” Connor said. But it was clear his legs couldn’t hold him any longer. He folded to the ground. Dylan was beside him, wrapping a length of linen around Connor’s bleeding arm while the dragon paced and reared behind him.

  “Dish,” Connor said. “Use him wisely. He’s not immortal.”

  �
�Neither are we.” Then to Dylan, Dish said, “Take care of him. Follow when you can.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Dylan and Elowen helped Connor to his feet and led him toward the row of tents. Iris had chosen to stay behind as well. As Dish watched them go, a thought surfaced in his mind, one he’d never dared to allow himself to think until now. Connor could give him his legs back. But he wouldn’t, and Dish was thankful for that. Connor understood something lyl could not—there is wisdom deeper than any teaching by any master to be had in the limitations of the flesh. Dish wouldn’t trade that wisdom for something as vainglorious as legs. He’d have to talk to Lyl about it one day. If they had any more days.

  Dish stroked the neck of the black horse he rode. This horse gave him legs and speed. What else could he want?

  Dish turned his attention back to the dragon. He envisioned the great beast brandishing the scythes of it clawed right foot.

  It did just that.

  Could this dragon breathe fire?

  A belch of green flame answered, narrowly missing the nearest supply tent, and raising a cacophony of shouts and cries and the clatter of arms.

  Dish felt a smile turn the corners of his mouth. Connor had thought of everything.

  They had planned to march before dawn. By the time order had been restored, and Dish had gained some proficiency at commanding the dragon, the sun was nearing zenith. Before they marched, Saeth tightened the straps that bound Dish’s legs to the saddle. If it was cutting off his circulation, he would never know it. The tissue would just die. Something else to look forward to.

  “You might have to cut these legs off when we’re done,” he told Saeth.

  “Don’t worry, Lord,” Saeth added with a devilish grin. “There’s more to fear in the bog below than the loss of limbs that do thee no good.”

  The transformation from stone to human had apparently been complete, for Saeth’s skin no longer had a dusting of powdered rock, and her eyes were a cool, human blue. Her voice, which had once sounded like the sea washing over gravel, now had the melodic lilt of the northern lands.

  Dish, Saeth and Lyl rode at the rear. The dragon was never far, soaring about them as if testing its new wings. Dish was able to bring it close, or send it on ahead. He wished he could see through its eyes, to see what waited for them there.

  As they crossed the plain, the sunstone of Caer Sidi burst with prismatic rays, delivering color to a land bleached of it. Golden rays glanced from it to reveal what the fortress had accomplished during the night. The outer curtain walls, comprised of about a kilometer of snaking masonry, were as tall as those of Caer Emlyn, and Dish figured they had not reached full height yet. Crenellations carved of white stone looked like pearly teeth from this distance. The main gate was marked by dual spires, smaller siblings of the great central tower. Like it, the two gate spires were topped with gems, one of translucent blue like a sapphire and the other, ruby red.

  Dish had to admit, it was beautiful in spite of the destruction that stretched in all directions, evidence of the life it had required to reassemble.

  To the north, the great forests of the Felgarths looked like mounded ash, marked by gray clouds of it that had been kicked up by the breeze. The once verdant pastures to the east showed bare soil where dust devils spiraled across an insect-infested wasteland. The dust colored the sun brown.

  The combined forces of Ys, IsAeron and Emlyn were a shabby and weary bunch who were visibly rallied by the sight of the great beast that circled overhead. The warriors of the Old Blood were clearly heartened by the old magic that gave them a chance.

  “Can you see from its eyes?” Lyl asked him.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Try,” she said with a smile.

  He closed his eyes, his body rolling rhythmically with the horse’s. Whether it was his imagination or not, he thought he could see the rolling plains spread before him, could feel the wind in his nostrils and flowing over his wings. He banked to the north, flew over the road leading to IsAeron where he hoped to see Pyrs and his troops marching. He saw nothing but leafless trees and bare dirt.

  The touch of Lyl’s hand on his arm brought him back.

  “There,” she said, pointing across the expanse of mud that had been the bog. “On the walls.”

  They were close enough now to see what they were up against. The battlements crawled with men. The sunstone caught the late afternoon sunlight and scattered it in golden streamers across the gray bog, ropes of light that danced over the mudflats like starlight on the sea.

  The tower loomed black and resplendent, so much larger than it appeared from the distant ridge. It rose at least two hundred meters above the plain, Dish could discern vines, stalks and leaves of stone that branched from each other in the kind of elegant shapes only nature can create, cradling windows and balconies and turrets in a twisting bramble spire. He could hear the fortress growing.

  Dish sent the dragon closer, drawing the aim of a tower-mounted ballista. He knew from experience that the aim on such a weapon was poor. But the dragon was a large target. Lyl had warned him that an injury sustained by the dragon would likely transfer to him. Dish wished he’d strapped Connor onto another horse, and brought him along. He needed him.

  From the dragon’s vantage, Dish could see the way to the gate was flooded with rising lake water. What had been the bog was filling, and it completely encircled the fortress. He saw no shallows. The bridge that spanned half the flood was meant to link to a drawbridge. They needed that drawbridge.

  Dish ordered the men to rest and eat, remaining in their ranks. Half the archers had moved to the north side of Caer Sidi, and the other half to the south. Foot soldiers formed four battalions—Emlyn, IsAeron, Ys, and Cyr’s Old Blood. Fiach’s horsemen would be useless until the gate opened.

  In full view of the walls but beyond the archers’ reach, the men rested. Dish hoped the temptation would be so great, that Tiernmas would lower the drawbridge and attack.

  But as dusk approached, it became clear that would not happen. A night out here was not something anyone wanted to experience. They had to attack now, while they still had a few hours of daylight.

  Glaw approached on his big bay charger. “Can you send the beast against the gate?”

  “Even if the dragon takes the gatehouse down,” Dish said, “we still have to cross that water.”

  “We’d never reach the gate itself,” Lyl said. “The drawbridge is at least ten feet above the water.

  “I wonder…” Dish mused.

  Lyl blinked at him, squinting against the westering sun. “What are you thinking?”

  “How many men can ride on the back of a conjured dragon?”

  “Ride it?” Glaw spat. “Who would do it?”

  Dish turned in his saddle and met Saeth’s blue eyes. She nodded in deference, unaware of his plan. Maybe it was only in the movies that people could ride dragons. He was about to find out.

  “I know just the one,” Dish said.

  Connor’s warning replayed in his head. The dragon was mortal. Use it wisely. One hit from the ballista, and it would be down. “But first, we must take out that ballista.”

  Beyond the range of the archers on the walls, Dish brought the dragon to ground. It lay down at Dish’s mental command. Crouched low, it looked somewhat like a massive dog. Saeth didn’t hesitate to do as Dish asked. She approached the beast, both hands extended, cooing to it as she would to a nervous horse. She tossed a rope over its neck and formed a makeshift strap which she could use to anchor herself, much the way Dish was strapped onto his horse.

  Saeth climbed aboard, followed by Judoc, her second in command. He was light of build, but swift with bow and spear, a young man who had been turned to stone before he’d reached twenty years. And now he would ride a dragon.

  Once Saeth gave him the ready signal, Dish envisioned the dragon launching smoothly from the ground. It struggled with the added weight, lurching upward in a battle against gravity until i
t reached a fair height. There, it regained its balance. Dish heard cries of joy coming from Saeth and Judoc.

  “Launch the mangonels,” Dish told Glaw.

  The engineers began cranking back the arms. As they did, Ragnhast shouted from the ranks and pointed toward the gatehouse.

  “They comes!” he cried. “The little álfur comes!”

  “What is he saying?” Dish demanded.

  “The Sunless,” Lyleth said. “There.”

  Dish squinted against the setting sun to see what appeared to be a swarm of bees issuing from the spire. They writhed like a rope of faintly glowing specks, twisting toward them. He wished they were bees.

  A sudden realization struck him. They had made no shroud for the dragon.

  Chapter 20

  Nechtan rode away from Lyleth, down the line of men that stretched south. He shouted, “Lower your shrouds!”

  She pulled the marquisette hood over her head, and tucked it under the neck of her leather kirtle. Nechtan’s order rippled through the men. They helped each other position the makeshift hoods and tuck them in place.

  Through the sheer blue fabric, the castle walls looked like an underwater scene. Lyleth could see the Sunless swarms closing on them. If she and Ragnhast were right, once they were inside the walls, they would be safe from them. But they had to get inside.

  To the east, she searched for any sign of Connor. He should be following. They needed him now.

  With Ragnhast beside her, Lyleth dismounted and joined the northern battalion of archers. Once they had placed their shrouds, their captain called for formation. The archers with shields took the front line. Lyleth joined the second line, Raghnast at her side. She assumed it was him—his bright yellow braid dangled from the bottom of his shroud. He wore one of Iris’s creations, a canvas sack with wire mesh eye holes. He looked like one of the Wren Boys at winter solstice.

  She tucked his braid and the hem of the shroud under his armor to secure it.

  Creeping forward, the archers closed the distance between them and the water’s edge.