Dragonheart (24 page)

“Nor need to . . .” Aislinn assured him, and gestured with her torch as five barbaric brutes rose out of the stairwell behind her and stood in an eerie tableau. All were armed to the teeth. Einon stared at his mother curiously.

“A mother’s gift to her son,” Aislinn explained. “Sir Uhlric, Sir Ivor, Sir Cavan, and the brothers Tavis and Trahern. The finest to be had . . .”

All five bowed to Einon. He looked from them to his mother again. “Finest what . . . ?”

“Dragonslayers.”

Taken aback by this uncharacteristic kindness, Einon’s look of disbelief slowly shifted to sly amusement. His mother. Always silent. Always alone. Always thinking. And he had never known what. But he knew now. Blood above all. Just as she had saved him years ago, she would not fail him now. He impulsively grabbed his mother’s hand and kissed it. As he glanced back up into her unfathomable face, he saw the sky waver behind her like a black tapestry rustling in the wind.

Bowen watched the blackness seep into Draco’s scales, overwhelming their natural color and making him indistinguishable from the night. Even sitting atop the dragon and clinging to his neck, he could barely make out where dragon ended and the night began. It was like riding a piece of sky.

The camouflage allowed Draco to circle low over Einon’s castle. Austere and forbidding, its gray shadow sprawled across the mountain ridge. The light of the torches and forges in the courtyard washed over the wide, massive battlements. One could march a regiment across them ten abreast. It was impregnable, but not pretty. In some places Einon had incorporated the old Roman ruins. But most of its sleek lines and ancient elegance had been sacrificed to create a lumbering edifice that defied the landscape and tortured good taste . . . a hulking monument to one man’s arrogance and ambition.

“It’s a strong fortress.” Bowen surveyed it glumly, mourning the crumbling stones and the tall grass where he had taught a boy how to defend himself . . . and had failed to teach him how to defend an ideal. He mourned his own failure too.

“Yes, it
is
strong,” Draco agreed. “But your plan is stronger. Never fear Einon will fight
your
battle . . . Tomorrow, find me in the thick of the fray!” He might have meant the last as an eager war cry, but Bowen had caught the doleful lilt in his voice.

“What do you mean?” the knight asked.

Draco did not immediately answer. “Your shield, Knight!” he said at last. “Fling it to the four winds.”

Bowen unstrapped the shield from his arm and, with both hands, spun the shield out into the night. As it spiraled through the blackness Draco smote it with a streak of flames from his nostrils. It exploded in a blaze of red light, the talons that hung upon it burning furiously, glowing with a supernatural brilliance.

All the clamor of the courtyard below ceased as Einon and the dragonslayers stared at the strange, sparking fire in the sky.

“A comet,” one of the brutes whispered fearfully. And Einon also feared. A comet foretold cataclysm, disaster, the death of kings.

“Not a comet,” Aislinn’s calm voice reassured them. “See! It hovers. It does not fall like a comet.”

“What, then?” Einon turned to his mother. He could not control the quaver in his voice.

“I have heard the elders of my clan speak of it when I was a girl.” Her eyes watched the light in curious fascination. Her voice was soothing. “In the Lands Beyond the North Seas, once home to my people, this sky fire blazed often in the night. It was said to be the torches of the dead come from paradise to bless the living left behind. I believe it is your father, Einon.”

“Father?” Intrigued, Einon cocked his head and stared at the mystical fire. His mother placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“Yes; Freyne.” She spoke softly, serenely. He felt the heat of her torch against his face. “Come to tell you he is proud and to destroy his enemies once and for all. To claim the mantle of his clan and do what he could not. Slay the dragon!”

“The dragon . . .” Einon repeated as though in a trance.

“My people say that if you whisper, the wind will carry a message back to the spirit.” Aislinn herself was whispering, her lips were almost against his ear. “Speak to your father, Einon. Pledge to him the death of the dragon. Give him the prize that was denied him.”

And Einon whispered as she desired. “I swear, Father! The dragon will die!” And as the wind swirled his vow away the flame in the sky was snuffed out and the only light in the dark was the stars. Excited voices echoed up from the courtyard. Einon spun questioningly to his mother, her beauty ablaze in the torchlight. She smiled, strangely, a smile that was like nothing Einon had ever seen her make before. Her eyes were tender and tragic and moist as they looked on him. For the first time he no longer feared them.

Her hand smoothed the tenseness in his cheek. “He heard, my son. He heard.”

Had the wind carried the whisper so far so fast? Einon stared out into the night again. The sky was alive with black motion.

Part VIII

THE BATTLE

His wrath undoes the wicked!

—Old Code

Thirty

FIRST BLOOD

“Four years hasn’t improved them any.”

The volley of fire arrows bounced harmlessly off the castle wall and sputtered out. Einon laughed and watched Bowen ride down the line of his pitiful rebel force, shouting orders. They had crept up the mountain road near the gates just after noon. Einon watched the amusing spectacle from the battlements with his knights and generals.

“Seems Sir Brok overestimated their numbers.” Felton chuckled, gesturing with his jewel-cuffed stump. Today it was a black cuff, to match his black armor.

“There were more,” growled Brok.

Another pathetic volley of flaming arrows plunked against the parapet wall. One of the barbs actually managed to eke its way over the wall. Einon calmly reached out and caught it in midair in his guantleted hand.

“More or less, four years hasn’t improved them any,” Einon said, blasély inspecting the still-burning arrow.

Felton chuckled and smirked at Brok. “No. Hardly worth the effort. They’ll get bored and go home before dark.”

“Why wait?” Einon smiled. “We’ll send you out to chase them off. After all, ‘One noble is worth a hundred peasants,’ ” he quoted. “The numbers are about right. Just save a few for the rest of us.”

Felton gulped uneasily as Einon wagged the fire arrow in his face. But a worried Brok was unamused.

“There were more,” he insisted. “And where’s the—” He choked on the question and the blood drained from his face as he stared skyward in stunned surprise. A sudden shadow blotted out the sun, and as Einon turned to ascertain the cause of Brok’s astonishment, an explosion of fire sprayed the battlements, sending soldiers screaming and leaping for safety. Einon dashed for cover with the others. Above the flames he saw the dragon hovering in the sky, framed by the sun’s golden orb.

The cheers of the rebels echoed up from below as the beast rained more flames down upon the battlements. Einon whirled to his dragonslayers. Cavan, dressed in mail made of dragon scales and wearing a helmet rimmed in dragon fangs, cocked a large catapult while Uhlric loaded it with a jagged-edged pike. The brothers Tavis and Trahern maneuvered the catapult, Ivor directing them by waving his giant battle-ax this way and that as he scanned the skies for the dragon’s position.

When he emerged, it was not where they were expecting him, but bursting out of a cloud of smoke. As the dragon loosed a firebomb at them, burning scaffolding and falling rock came shattering down on the dragonslayers. Uhlric, struck by a flaming beam, careened against the catapult, pivoting it and unintentionally triggering the firing mechanism. Immediately the pike shot out—and impaled Ivor, who was driven back, stunned, and skewered against the wall as the lance embedded itself into the stone. He hung there, dangling, his now useless ax still clenched in his fist.

The dragonslayers frantically regrouped, commanding a small force of soldiers to a specially constructed platform upon which were mounted four catapults armed with grappling hooks.

Cavan gave the order to fire as the dragon swept into view. But as the hooks raced skyward the dragon rolled, dodging two of the hooks and grasping the other pair in his claws. Rocketing upward, he yanked the chains that were attached to the hooks with him. Men scattered as the platform trembled and cracked beneath them. Some were not so lucky, being crushed as the platform was ripped from its foundations and slammed into the wall.

Dust belched past a livid Einon, who drew his sword and shouted to his knights, “Well, do we stay in here like sitting ducks or crush those rebellious dogs?”

Brok led a chorus of war cries and barked orders. Battle horns sounded and men scurried into position. Einon briskly descended the stairs into the courtyard, where his horse awaited. As he mounted he again gazed up at the battlements.

Sir Cavan ran along the wall, screaming at the dragon and whirling a grappling chain with a hook at either end. As the dragon dived in he loosened the chain and snared the beast’s back foot.

Cavan now scurried to secure the other hook, but before he could do so, he was carried away by the dragon. Hanging on to the chain, Cavan spun in the air as the dragon slammed him into a tower, driving the fangs that adorned the dragonslayer’s helmet deep into his thick skull.

The slain hunter slid down the tower wall, plummeting to land at the hooves of Einon’s horse. The horse reared and Einon frowned down on the dead dragonslayer. “Oh, lovely . . .” he murmured.

He gazed up at the dragon. The grappling chain had hooked itself to the ledge of the tower, and the dragon was whirling madly in the air, caught. He rained fire down on the three remaining dragonslayers, who rushed in, lobbing spears at the creature. Einon hoped the louts got lucky before the dragon razed the entire castle. But meanwhile there were other problems to attend to.

“Open the gates,” Einon commanded.

They were opened. Down the road he saw Bowen and his puny force, and scowled in savage rage. He knew more of the dogs were hiding in the woods. He knew that Bowen wanted to lure him there, hoping that a battle waged in the forest would give them an advantage over skilled fighting men. For no matter how long and how hard Bowen had drilled this rabble, they were and always would be peasant scum, not warriors. And he, Einon, would crush them.

As Einon considered his enemy’s strategy Bowen stared across the short distance directly at him. In his eyes was a challenge. He wore the fighting grin that Einon remembered so well from his youth. Cocky and condescending. Einon thought he had wiped it off his face that day at the waterfall. Now he’d
carve
it off.

“Madman. Does he think he can defy me with only trained apes and arrogance?” Einon muttered to himself. “Well, today his code dies. Once and for all.” Motioning his men forward with his sword, he bellowed, “Pave my road with peasant corpses! But leave the knight for me!”

They thundered out of the castle, foot soldiers following the mounted knights, and the peasant force broke and ran for the forest at the foot of the mountain without a blow being struck.

Einon laughed deliriously at such a spectacle. “Shear them like the sheep they are!”

From her tower window, Aislinn watched Einon rout the rebels into the forest . . . but she knew their defeat would not be achieved that simply. The sight of dragon only confirmed her suspicion. He hovered at the end of his chain, oblivious to the spears of the dragonslayers, watching the retreating rebels . . . almost smiling, she thought.

Thirty-One

MORE BLOOD SPILLS

“Scatter or die!”

Bowen reined his horse and waited at the far end of the forest glade. Treetops echoed with the rumble of hoofbeats, the rattle of metal, and the shouts of men.

This morning, as they had marched out in the predawn light, Bowen had felt confident and strong. Kara and Gilbert had ridden at his side. Banners that bore his coat of arms crackled in the breeze. His motley but determined warriors had fallen in sharply behind Hewe and the other commanders, and once Bowen reached the crest of the ridge, he had looked back to see the proud line that extended, seemingly without end, through the pasture and over the bridge behind the village huts. The women and children and those soldiers left to guard them flanked the long procession on either side. Then Draco had swooped down from his cliff perch, skimming along the line, dipping a wing in salute. A thousand raised weapons answered the salute and the dawn had erupted in one great shout of exaltation.

But now, as he waited, nervousness overcame confidence and he hoped that Einon’s own confidence would prove to be his undoing. He had taught the boy strategy. He knew Einon expected to collide with the rest of Bowen’s force here in the forest. That the boy had taken the bait told Bowen that Einon underestimated the peasant army. But Bowen asked himself, had he indeed overestimated them? Would their courage hold?

As Einon broke into the glade with his men, Bowen raised his new shield. As it sparked in the sun it roused a spontaneous cheer from his own small band of men. Their battle cry went up with a rattle of staffs, swords, and spears.

The cry was answered by the rattle of more weapons. From behind every tree and shrub the shout rolled out in a deafening roar. At the rear of Einon’s cavalry, He we swung out of a tree on a rope, a blazing brand in his hands. He dipped the torch in a trench filled with pitch that was hidden under a dead shrub. Fire immediately burst out, and ran across the glade and around the horsemen, cutting them off on three sides. The horses panicked as the walls of flame rose. The only way out was through . . .

. . . Bowen! . . . and the hundreds of peasants that emerged from the shelter of the forest, swelling the ranks of the knight’s small band. At the sound of screams and cries rising from another part of the woods, Bowen knew his troops had engaged the cutoff foot soldiers. He motioned his men forward with his sword and they charged en masse. Pikemen picked knights off horses as they tried to jump their steeds through the flames. Others descended on them with swords and axes.