Dragonheart (3 page)

. . . Buckethead’s hand tore the hilt from Einon. The young king seemed to come to his senses in that moment and clawed at Buckethead’s hand, struggling to tear the sword from it. The blade flipped out in a spray of mud and Buckethead awkwardly thrust it forward, plunging it into Einon’s chest. Einon gasped, still staring with startled eyes into the youth’s face, and lurching back off the blade, sagged to his knees, then pitched forward.

Bowen’s rage and grief were unleashed in an anguished scream as he swooped up behind Buckethead, one hand tangling in the youth’s long red hair and the other ripping his sword from his grasp and raising it back to strike in one fluid motion.

But as he jerked the young rebel back by the hair, he suddenly hesitated even as Einon had, now knowing why.

Buckethead was a girl!

A girl . . . only a year or two older than Einon. Even the grime of battle could not hide her beauty, haloed in the splendor of gleaming red hair. Bowen trembled above her in anger and stunned surprise. Her bright eyes were wide with fear, but eerily resigned, asking no mercy and expecting none. Bowen could not stand to look at them.

With a tormented wail, he flung the girl roughly from him, her hair ripping from his clutching fingers. She went spiraling to the ground and lay there, gasping, her bright eyes staring back at the knight in confused amazement. Again Bowen yelled and menaced her with his waving blade. She tore off into the night, no longer questioning her miraculous fortune.

“Bowen . . .” Einon gurgled weakly, his mouth half full of mud. Bowen knelt beside him and gently turned him over. As he did so, something clanked against the metal studs of his belt. It was the crown. Einon clutched it in his hand. It was sticky with blood—Einon’s blood—which oozed from a gash in his chest, seeping a scarlet ribbon across his surcoat, across the severed dragon-head crest of his ancestors.

“Bowen . . . ?” Einon murmured his name again. Bowen braced the limp, half-conscious body against his own, wiping mud from the boy’s face.

“I’m here, my prince . . . my king!”

Two

MOONLIGHT PILGRIMAGE

“It has the stench of dragon!”

“Dead, madam . . .”

Aislinn watched the blood splatter on the floor, pool around the hem of her gown. It dripped from Brok’s wounded shoulder as he knelt before her bedchamber altar. It seemed odd to see Brok bowed in such a sacred place. Of course, the brute had not come in reverence for the great silver cross that decorated her candlelit holy table, nor for the wood-carved, gold-trimmed dragon icons that flanked it. Piety compelled him not at all, merely protocol. He knelt there because he had interrupted the queen at her prayers. It was to her he knelt, not God. Still, the sight of Brok on his knees before her altar seemed odd, almost sacrilegious.

“King Freyne, your husband, is slain.” Brok’s words spilled out in a rough, breathless ramble. The blood from his wound spilled out in a steady
tap, tap, tap
onto the stone floor.

Aislinn gazed at him impassively. He had obviously fought long and ridden hard. He was filth-smudged and weary. His stark gaze searched her face for a reaction to his news, but he was disappointed. She accepted it with stoic resignation and motioned him off his knees, then turned to the altar, crossed herself, and lit the thick candle at the base of the cross. The jeweled eyes of the carved dragons glittered in its yellow light. Their shadows loomed on the curved wall of the small alcove. The shadow of the cross stretched between them, as though they were its guardians.

Aislinn blew out the taper and moved to her open window. She could hear the distant sounds of fighting, still, and could see the battle fires that pocked the dark plain below. Sudden worry trembled on her lip.

“The prince?” she asked of Brok, not turning around.

“With Sir Bowen.”

“Safe then.”

Her sigh of relief was drowned out by the echoing clank of her chamber door slamming open. At the sound, both she and Brok spun. A slant of light spilled across the floor of the long room—a torch from the hall outside. In the halo of the open door stood a silhouetted knight, a limp form cradled in his arms.

With a gut-sinking premonition, Aislinn stepped from the altar alcove and slowly, then quickly weaved to the door. A single tear trickled muddily down Bowen’s battle-grimed face as Aislinn gasped at the sight of her crumpled son in his arms.

“Forgive me, my queen,” Bowen whispered huskily.

Aislinn sagged against the door, speaking with quiet, bitter anger. “It’s not your fault. The cruel excesses of his father brought him to this end.”

She gestured to her bed. Bowen strode across the room, wordlessly shoving past Brok, who had bustled up to help, and gently laid the boy down among the sleeping furs. Aislinn sat on the edge of the bed. She saw the bloodstained crown still clutched in the hand that flopped across his chest. As she tried to lift it back Einon stirred, and a feeble whisper slid from his unmoving lips.

“My crown . . .”

Aislinn whirled to Bowen.

“He lives.”

“He dies, madam.” Bowen shook his head and knelt beside the bed. “Beyond all help.”

Aislinn turned back to her son, probing his wound with unflinching fingers. Her voice was curiously calm, even hopeful.

“Not all . . .”

A scarlet moon loped along the black path of night like a marauding wolf, hungrily eyeing the snake of flickering light that slithered through the mountains behind the castle.

“Inside the table’s circle,
Under the sacred sword.
A knight must vow to follow
The code that is unending,
Unending as the table—
A ring by honor bound.”

Bowen’s voice was clear and strong against the wind, against the distant echoes of the battle far below. Aislinn looked down on the knight from her horse and smiled. Bowen had dismounted and led his horse so that he could walk beside Einon. The young king lay on a hide pallet borne by four royal guards. Torchbearers led the way up the tortuous mountain trail as Brok guided Aislinn’s horse through the ancient Roman ruins.

In the glow of the wavering torches and under the strange crimson moonlight, the crumbling stones loomed out of the night like suspicious red-faced sentinels, as if gravely challenging the procession for trespassing. Bowen preferred them splashed with sunlight—pale and chalky, bleached of all their mystery. Was it only hours ago that Einon had dashed among these stones, lashing out with his blade and his oaths? Bowen longed to hear those murmuring lips curse him once again.

“Speak the words with me, Einon.” Bowen plucked the crown from where it bounced on the stretcher and, placing it in Einon’s hands, took up his recitation. “A knight is sworn to valor . . .”

“. . . sworn . . . to valor.” Einon murmured the litany.

“His heart knows only virtue . . .”

“. . . virtue . . .”

“His blade defends the helpless. His might upholds the weak . . .”

Einon’s mumble slid into a groan. Bowen shook him. “You must stay awake, my lord. You must! Recite the code . . .”

“. . . code . . .” Einon breathed out the word, his fingers flitting absently over the crown.

“Yes!” Bowen continued. “His might upholds the weak . . .”

“His . . . word speaks only truth . . .”

“Yes . . . yes . . . His wrath . . . ?” Bowen prompted.

“His wrath undoes the wicked.” They recited it together. Then the crown slipped from his fingers once more and Einon slipped into unconsciousness.

“Einon?” Bowen leaned over him The boy was still breathing, but barely. Aislinn must have been mad to think he could survive all this jostling. He wondered if the ancient arts of her clan could truly save Einon. More, he wondered what those arts were and why they necessitated this nocturnal journey. Where was she taking them?

She sat her horse proudly—head high, eyes straight ahead. The wind caressed her yellow hair, tinged pink under the scarlet moon, blowing it back from her graceful neck and smooth jaw. The night embraced her beauty, which was only enhanced by her quiet, eternal melancholy.

Her people had come from the lands of the North Seas. Old in their ways and old in their knowledge. Some whispered that they were magicians. Aislinn only smiled when she heard such talk, saying one man’s witchery was merely another’s wisdom.

Bowen was suddenly jarred from his thoughts by an eerie trilling. It seemed to echo from farther up the mountain, its music haunting and mournful. The others heard it too, halting in their tracks.

“Proceed,” was all Aislinn said. Her voice was placid, her face composed. But her blue eyes sparked excitement as she listened to the trill. She turned and caught Bowen watching her.

She stared at him as though she were stealing his thoughts. And her sad smile strangely stole his fears.

“The right can never die . . .” She spoke softly, “You also proceed, Knight. Teach my son the code . . .”

Bowen obeyed.

“The right can never die,
If one man still recalls.
The words are not forgot,
If one voice speaks them clear.
The code forever shines,
If one heart holds it bright.”

For another hour they climbed up the mountain, Aislinn directing their path. At intervals, the weird trill floated, ghostlike, through the air, bouncing off the hills, sounding as though it came from everywhere. And each time it was closer.

Now it was very close. Aislinn had led them to the dark maw of a cave. From within came that forlorn song. Bowen now knew what was singing it. And he suddenly feared Aislinn’s magic.

“I know what place this is.” He eyed the queen warily. “It has the stench of dragon.”

“Not the dragon’s stench,” Aislinn calmly remonstrated. “Merely man’s pollution of him.”

She took a torch from one of her guards and disappeared into the cave. Bowen and Brok exchanged uncertain glances. Aislinn’s voice issued out of the blackness beyond. “Come and fear not.”

Bowen looked at Einon’s limp, still form on the pallet; then he scooped the boy into his arms and followed Aislinn into the dark unknown. With a grunted sigh, Brok reluctantly motioned the others into the cave and brought up the rear.

Three

THE DRAGON

“Witness the wonders of an even greater glory.”

Even the torches could not dispel the gloom. Their flickering blaze illuminated bubbling mud pits and bones. Steam misted off the gurgling muck holes and writhed through the maze of stalactites and rock formations.

Bowen’s darting eyes hunted the dismal shadows for a sign of life. He spied it in the cave’s farthest recesses—a faint iridescent ripple of movement. And the sighing, lonely trill. Toward this Aislinn discreetly, humbly, approached.

“Lord! Serene One!” Her voice reverberated through the hollow chamber. The trilling stopped. Bowen heard the guards murmur uneasily. His eyes never left the glow at the back of the cave. It seemed brighter, defining some uncertain shape. Aislinn signaled for silence.

“Your song is sad tonight,” Aislinn said respectfully.

“No stars in the sky tonight.”

The voice came from the large, eerie shape shimmering in the shadows. It too was large and eerie, yet strangely soothing and sad.

“No bright souls glitter on this dark night,” Aislinn moved toward the glow. “Only a moon. Blood red.”

Bowen had followed cautiously behind the queen. He eased Einon down on a flat stone beneath the ledge where the creature stirred. Placing a hand on his sword hilt, he hovered protectively over the boy, suspiciously listening, his eyes always on the shadowy presence above. He could see now that the peculiar iridescence was the beast’s scaly hide. It emitted the wavering glow every time the dragon shifted, as it did now, cocking its head and appraising the woman below him.

“Aislinn, Daughter of Athelstun.”

“Yes, Lord,” Aislinn answered warmly, pleased that the dragon had recognized her. “Whose people loved you and called you kind friend.”

“Once,” hissed the dragon. “Long ago. No more. No longer fickle man’s friend. Feared. Forgotten.”

“I have not forgotten,” Aislinn replied. “I do not fear.”

“You warm the bed of him whose ancestors first drove us to dank holes and night’s shadow.”

“Politics, Dragon Lord, not love. A bride of conquest, my betrothal bathed in blood, my people driven out and slaughtered even as yours.”

“My crown!” Einon shuddered out in sudden delirium. His cry ringed the cavern walls, as though spoken by a thousand tongues:
Crown, crown, crown
. . . Both Aislinn and Bowen knelt to comfort the boy.

“Peace, Einon,” Aislinn murmured sweetly, stroking his brow.

“No peace,” Einon muttered, feverishly fondling the crown. “Red hair. Red hair. Like fire. Like blood.”

Einon slumped back, semiconscious. Only Bowen knew where the boy’s mind wandered. Only he knew of the red-haired assassin. The assassin he had let go. Suddenly sensing motion behind him, he reeled back.

It was the dragon, leaning over the ledge. His half-hooded eye glinted in the darkness, surveying the prince . . . his bloodstained surcoat . . . the severed dragon’s head on it.

“Freyne’s child,” the dragon droned wearily.

Aislinn whirled on the dragon in desperation. “No! Mine!”

“Is this why you come, dragonslayer’s wife?”

“Dragonslayer’s widow!” returned the queen emphatically, then softened her tone, though it remained husky with emotion. “Please! He’s not his father.” She pointed to Bowen. “This knight is his mentor. He has taught him the Old Code. And I will teach him
your ways!”

The dragon turned to Bowen. Entranced by the creature’s luminous stare, the knight did not see the taloned claw that loomed out of the darkness until it was almost too late. He went for his blade, but held back as the dragon also went for a sword . . . the sword within the circle on Bowen’s surcoat. The talon plucked gingerly at the symbol.

“The Old Code . . .” mused the dragon with a raspy sigh, then withdrew his claw. Bowen noticed the middle talon was half-severed. A whispery hiss escaped the dragon, sounding strangely like laughter, and he held the jagged talon up before his shiny eyes.