Heartless

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Suddenly, there he was.

  Her eyes widened and her breath stilled. She did not hear the shouts from a hundred dragonish throats, did not take in the swift surge of heat and anger. Her gaze was filled with Prince Aethelbald standing in the mouth of the tunnel over the dark cavern, held by two enormous men with black talons. He was unarmed, yet his face was, she thought, serene even in the harsh red firelight.

  “Who are you and how dare you cross our borders?” the Bane of Corrilond, who stood forefront in the mob, demanded.

  “I seek a princess,” he replied. His voice rang clear among the harsh snarls that rose in response.

  “A princess?” The Bane of Corrilond spat. “We have no princess here. We are all brothers and sisters, not princes and princesses. And you have not answered my question. Who are you?”

  “I know who he is.”

  The dragon girl started in surprise to hear the rasping voice of the yellow-eyed boy beside her.

  “Who is he, then?” the Bane of Corrilond asked, turning red eyes toward the ledge where the two sat.

  Instead of answering, the yellow-eyed boy slid from the ledge and elbowed his way through the crowd and up the path until he stood face-to-face with the captive.

  “Hello, Prince of Farthestshore,” he said.

  “Hello, Diarmid,” Aethelbald replied.

  “What do you call me?” The yellow-eyed boy snorted. “Is that a name?”

  “It is your name.”

  “Funny thing, that. No wonder I forgot it. I have no name now, Prince. How long has it been since last we met?”

  “Five hundred years by the Near World’s count.”

  “Only five hundred? I thought perhaps more. Seems like an eternity since last I really burned!”

  “What is this?” the Bane of Corrilond cried, coming up beside the yellow-eyed boy. “Is this one of your former kin?”

  The yellow-eyed boy laughed and flung an arm around Aethelbald’s shoulders. “This is the Prince of Farthestshore, my one-time master of yore!” He spat the word with a spark of fire. “The selfsame master who, five hundred years ago, tried to undo the gift our father bestowed upon me. He tried to quench my fire!”

  The people of the cavern roared as in one rage-filled voice. “Burn him!” some cried. “Tear him! Bleed him! Enemy of our father!”

  The dragon girl gripped the stones of the ledge so hard that blood trickled from her fingers. Her dragon kin writhed in fury below the tunnel mouth, and more flames rose in the darkness until the whole cavern glowed. The yellow-eyed boy laughed again and pushed the Prince to the ground, eliciting approving shouts from his comrades. The two big men who had dragged Aethelbald in grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He shook one of them off, but three more reached in and seized him so that he could not move. The yellow-eyed boy stepped forward and took Aethelbald by the throat, grinning cruelly, fire dancing in the corners of his mouth.

  “Wait.”

  The Bane of Corrilond’s voice filled the cavern, and her kin quieted before her. She hauled the yellow-eyed boy back from the Prince. He bared his teeth at her, but she ignored him, gazing instead into Aethelbald’s stern face. “Wait,” she repeated. “We must save him. How often do we come across such fair and fresh meat? What more worthy gift could we offer our Father?”

  The dragon folk murmured in agreement, but the yellow-eyed boy licked back flames. “He’s no good,” he spat. “He’ll not take the fire and would taste bitter to our Father.”

  “We shall see,” the Bane of Corrilond said. “In the meantime no one harms him. Throw him in the cage.”

  The dragon girl watched as the dragon folk pulled Prince Aethelbald down into the cavern, the crowd jeering and jabbing him, threatening him with fire. They dragged him underneath her ledge, and he raised his eyes and saw her.

  “Una.”

  She saw his mouth form the word. Her name.

  Covering her face with her gnarled and scale-covered hands, she turned to the wall. The din of dragon voices filled her ears and did not let up for hours.

  31

  The curtains were drawn, admitting no outside light. But the long drapes caught the glow of the brands in the fireplace and reflected it back until the room was all red and shadows. Lionheart, having retired from his father’s court for the day, sat quietly in those shadows. He’d given orders to his attendants to admit no one, not since his brief interview with Captain Catspaw and his men.

  “Cowards!” Lionheart had shouted at them as they clustered before him.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness,” Catspaw had said, cringing away. “We did our best, but we could not – ”

  “Could not? Would not, you mean. Has the honor of Southlands no claim on your hearts? I promised Prince Aethelbald the help of twelve loyal men, and this is how you serve me?”

  “Please, Your Highness – ”

  “Out of my sight!” the prince had snarled, and the captain and his men had crept from the room, slinking like frightened cats. When they had gone, Lionheart had ordered his attendants from the room as well and, muttering curses under his breath, had drawn all the curtains and pulled his chair up close to the fire.

  There he had sat – how many hours now, he could not guess. But the fire was almost dead, leaving behind only the popping embers. The room grew colder, but Lionheart did not move to put a log in the grate, nor did he summon his man to do it for him.

  “Cowards,” he growled again.

  Shameful, those men. You should punish them. Rid yourself of those who will not serve you as they should.

  “I should rid myself of those weasels,” Lionheart muttered. His fingers tensed, relaxed, then tensed again.

  You cannot afford to keep them in your service, my prince. They will only hinder your work.

  “I cannot afford to keep men like those in my service.”

  Rid yourself of them as soon as possible. Just as you did the girl.

  Lionheart covered his face with both hands. He drew in a sharp breath, like a sob. “Get out of my head!”

  Oh, my sweet prince –

  “GET OUT!” he roared and leapt to his feet. Hardly knowing what he did, he reached into the fire, took up a handful of the scalding embers, and flung them into the darkest corners of his room. “Get out! Go away from me!”

  Silence crept in around him. Deep and black and dark.

  Then suddenly his mind’s eye filled with a vision, a memory of two red eyes, ovens of fire. He had crouched, a quivering wretch, in the shadow of that Beast, and a fiery voice hissed in his head:

  “Give me her heart, Prince Lionheart, and I will let you live.”

  “No!” he whispered, closing his eyes. But still the memory played before him, as vividly as though he were caught forever in that one moment in time. He groveled before a great, black king. “No!”

  “Your life for her heart. It is an easy enough exchange. Then you may return to Southlands, reclaim your crown, rule your people. But give me the heart of this princess, your love.”

  “Leave me in peace!” Lionheart pulled at his hair with his burned hands, desperate to free himself of the memory.

  “It is the only way, Prince Lionheart. What other choice do you have?”

  “It’s yours. Take it!”

  The memory faded; the fire died away. Lionheart stood again in the silence of his chamber, which was cold and black as a crypt. He felt tears in his eyes but blinked them away and dropped his head heavily to his chest.

  A woman’s voice brushed his consciousness again – subtle, serene. A seductive voice speaking from far-off reaches, without fire, without warmth, like a sunless day.

  You did what you had to do, Lionheart.

  “I did what I had to do.”

  There was no other way.

  “No other way.”

  Now take my hand and walk with me, Prince of Southlands, and I will show you what it means to see your dreams realized.

  He raised his head and for a moment caught a flashing vi
sion of white, white eyes and a black hand extended to him. Then it was gone, and his chambers were silent once more.

  “I did what I had to do,” Lionheart whispered, a shiver running through his body. “There was no other way.”

  –––––––

  Behind the walls and ramparts where Imoo and Rogan stood, in the ancient, moss-grown keep of the fortress, high in a private chamber, Fidel sat by candlelight, reports and papers spread out before him. He should pack them away and go to bed, he knew – should have done so hours ago. But he also knew that he would not sleep, and as long as sleep eluded him, he might as well work.

  Three weeks now, Fidel had lived tucked away in this remote fortress, far from the comforts of his palace. Strategically it was the safest place to which he could flee, for the mountain pass was narrow and it would be difficult for any attackers to penetrate the defenses General Argus had arranged under the direction of the three Knights of Farthestshore. Fidel did not doubt his own safety.

  The papers before him contained figures on supplies and the needs of the troops that were gathering from various reaches of Parumvir. The country had not come together for war in many years, and Fidel suffered agonies as he realized just how defenseless they had become during the generations of peace.

  Somewhere outside among the cold mountains, shouting voices rose in the air.

  Fidel pulled another sheaf of papers toward him. Commanders of various garrisons had sent reports, and some sent pleas for assistance that Fidel was unable to give. The world was falling apart, yet what could he do to stop it? He’d sent word to allies in Beauclair and Milden but so far had heard no response.

  Fidel cursed and pounded the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “What can I do against the Dragon? There are no heroes left in this day and age who can fight him.”

  The shouts outside increased, and a horn blast rang clearly. Fidel, pulled from his thoughts, pushed his chair back and went to the window. He cupped his hands in order to see through the dark glass. Torches flickered below him in the fort yard. Risking the cold night air, Fidel opened the window and leaned out to get a better view.

  The clang of sword on sword filled his ears, the shouts of commanders and even General Argus’s voice booming in the night, “To the king! Find the king!”

  “Shippening,” Fidel breathed and drew back from the window. In the same moment he heard pounding on his door, and Sir Oeric burst in.

  “Your Majesty,” the knight said. “The Duke of Shippening – ”

  “Impossible!” Fidel roared and with a mighty swoop knocked all his papers and the candle from his desk. “Impossible!”

  “Please, sire,” Sir Oeric said. He stood like a great boulder in the doorway, and his drawn sword had blood on the blade. “My brethren can deal with the duke, but we must be certain you are safe. If you will come with me . . . ”

  He stepped over the piles of papers on the floor and took hold of the king’s arm, for Fidel had slumped heavily against the wall. The king looked up into the knight’s white-saucer eyes, and suddenly his own haggard face hardened and he knocked Sir Oeric’s hands away. “Away with you! I’m not some old dotard, not yet!” He straightened his shoulders and took down his own sword from where it hung, ever ready, beside the door. He strapped it about his waist and stormed from the room into the hall.

  There was no escape; he knew that. If Shippening had breached the wall, there would be no escape for any of them. Fidel made his way down the stairs, hearing the sounds of battle from the floor just below.

  “Please, Your Majesty!” Sir Oeric cried behind him. “Not that way!”

  He whirled on the knight, drawing his sword as he spoke. “Away from me!” he cried.

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Oeric said, looming huge above him on the narrow stair, “I am charged by my Prince to keep you safe. You must come with me.”

  “I’ll not abandon my men here!”

  “But, Your Majesty – ”

  Fidel did not hear what else the knight might have said, for in that moment he heard a scream, a voice that he recognized. He whirled and continued down the stairs into the hall below and threw himself at the first man in Shippening garb that he saw. His sword came away red with blood. He turned and blocked another attack, then drove his blade home. He looked through the haze of the torchlit hall, his mind numbed by the din of battle, and his face went suddenly pale.

  General Argus lay against the wall, blood soaking his front, a young aide fighting desperately to defend him. With a roar, Fidel lunged across the hall to the general’s side. “Argus!” he cried, dropping to his knees.

  The general raised his eyes and tried to speak, but no voice came. Fidel gazed down at him for what seemed a small eternity, but the press of battle forced him to his feet again. He stood back-to-back with the young aide near the door leading into the yard. A crush of men poured through – men of Shippening. Around him were some of his own people, but they were far outnumbered.

  Fidel raised his sword and shouted, “To me, Parumvir!”

  Men gathered at each side and rushed forward with him into the onslaught. But there was too little room in the hall. They were crowded together and could hardly raise their swords without cutting each other. The men of Shippening pushed them back, and when Fidel, panting, leaned against the far wall, the number of those who stood with him was greatly reduced. Blood oozed down his right hand, and he felt his face to find more blood and a long, stinging cut on his cheek.

  Sir Oeric appeared beside him. “Sire,” he growled through sharp fangs, “with all due respect, I insist that you stay back with your men.”

  Even as he spoke, more Shippening soldiers spilled into the hall. Breathing hard, Fidel could only watch them coming, but Sir Oeric brandished his sword. “Stay back,” he repeated, then charged forward alone into the attack.

  For a moment he seemed to be swallowed up by the enemy. Then, bit by bit, Fidel watched in amazement as the men of Shippening fell away, fleeing the hall, spilling back out into the yard in the face of one man’s defense. Soon only the fallen soldiers of Shippening remained in the hall, their blood mingling with that of Parumvir’s men. Fidel, sword in hand, ran to the door and looked out into the yard.

  Men of Shippening flooded through the gates and over the walls. Alone in their midst stood the three Knights of Farthestshore. And as they fought side by side, the enemy could not draw nearer to the fortress keep. For the first time since the alarm was sounded, Fidel found his heart lifting. They would survive the night after all. He shouted in defiance of the Duke of Shippening and charged forward with his faithful men at his heels. Emboldened, they threw themselves with renewed vigor at their attackers, driving them back across the yard, back over the walls.

  Fidel stood beside the knights, his face full of triumph as he turned to them.

  But they stood pale as three ghosts. Sir Oeric said in a low voice, “He has come.”

  The next moment, like two great suns in the night, the eyes of the Dragon appeared in the darkness between the walls at the great gate.

  The green-eyed knight cried out in dismay, but even as he did so he charged into the Dragon’s very face. “Rogan!” Sir Imoo shouted and ran after him. A great burst of fire, roaring like a hurricane, burned the night, and the second knight only just fell away in time to avoid the fate of his brother.

  Then the Dragon passed through the gates, and with one sweep of his claw he sent Imoo flying across the yard, where he struck the wall and fell like a crumpled reed doll upon the stones.

  Sir Oeric placed himself before King Fidel, but though he was great and tall as a giant, he seemed but a tiny child before the black majesty of the Dragon.

  And the Dragon, as it looked down upon him, laughed.

  “Well met, sir knight!” His voice was full of fire, and Fidel felt the poison of his breath wafting over him. “It’s been a while since last I set eyes upon you. Found yourself a name yet, goblin?”

  Sir Oeric did not reply but
stood protectively over the king, his sword arm upraised.

  The Dragon laughed again, a thunderous sound. Fidel dropped his own sword and fell to his knees, and even the knight stepped back and cringed away as sparks flew and burned his skin. “I owe you too much to crisp you to cinders,” the Dragon said. “I do not forget a service rendered, however unwillingly. If not for you, little knight, I might yet be bound to the Gold Stone! So no, I’ll not kill you now. But you will have to stand aside and let me take the little king.”

  “Go to the hell prepared for you, Death-in-Life!” the knight spat, his deep voice strangely thin before the monster’s might.

  “In good time, little goblin,” the Dragon said, raising the crest on his head. “If you’ll not oblige me, I may send you there before me.”

  “You cannot!” Sir Oeric declared. “My life is not yours!”

  But the Dragon smiled. “And who’s to stop me?”

  His tail, sinewy as a snake, thick and strong as an oak, lashed out, and the end of it wrapped about Sir Oeric’s waist, lifting him from his feet. With a snap like a whip, the Dragon flung the knight from him, over the wall and into the darkness, laughing as he watched him fly. Then he turned his burning eyes once more upon the king. His vast body dwindled, the wings shrinking and folding into a long cape, and his burning eyes, no longer set among scales, were instead set in a face of white skin stretched over a skull of black bone.

  In the body of a man, he stepped over to the king, who fell upon his face before him.

  “Greetings, King Fidel,” the Dragon said. “It’s time to come home.”

  –––––––

  The cage sat off to one side of the bloody throne. The cage itself was stained with the blood of countless captives, but it sat in such a dark corner that some of its hideousness was hidden. One could smell it, even so.