The Sixth Strand

by Melissa McPhail

  But Raine’s truth, had that been a wicked awakening. Dawn had barely lit the sky when the knights of His Majesty’s honor guard had found their bedraggled way beneath the arches of Nahavand—without their king.

  Loran had heard their story amid an ever-amassing storm of fury. He’d sent a team in search—a two-day ride back to the site—but all they’d found was as the knights had told them: a burned-out pyre, what was left of the tents of parley.

  “Or else Viernan hal’Jaitar stood behind the attack on His Majesty,” added Lachlan val Reith meanwhile, pushing a hand through his blond-streaked auburn hair, “which amounts to the same thing. The question is, what do we do now?”

  They all looked to Loran, but he wasn’t ready to commit to any course of action that took them out of the kingdom where their king might or might not still be alive.

  “Morwyk is surely on the move towards Calgaryn,” Lachlan said when Loran said nothing.

  Tavon nodded. “The pass out of Morwyk must be clear by now.”

  “We should’ve left with the new moon,” Lachlan growled.

  “We can’t leave without His Majesty,” rumbled Ramsay.

  “He must be avenged,” Sir Kendrick agreed.

  “It’s rather important to establish if His Majesty is alive or dead before we rush off to avenge his murder, Sir Kendrick,” Rafferty pointed out.

  “And how do you expect us to do that, Makenna?” Tavon protested. “Just traipse on up to hal’Jaitar and say, ‘Excuse me, old chap, did you or did you not succeed in murdering our king?’”

  “There are other considerations.” Ramsay was prying open another pistachio with his thumbs. He looked up under his black bear eyebrows. “Gideon val Mallonwey had a thousand men in Abu’dhan.”

  “Shade and darkness, Ramsay.” Tavon threw up his hands and fell back in his chair. “Hal’Jaitar must’ve gotten to them or they’d have all been here by now.”

  “We need to give them more time.” Ramsay sucked the nut out of its shell, unruffled and resolute. “Gideon won’t fail us.”

  “We don’t even know if val Mallonwey is alive,” grumbled Lachlan, “but we know His Majesty’s kingdom is breathing its last if his army doesn’t return to protect it!”

  Loran admitted their position was untenable. They were isolated. Their intelligence lines were sparse. Sending men to watch the amassing battle on the plains beneath Raku had been a dangerous gamble that had narrowly missed disaster when reinforcements bearing the Duke of Morwyk’s standard had nearly marched right over them.

  His Majesty had given Loran explicit instructions: Fortify Nahavand. Wait for his return. But how long to wait for a man who might never come? How long before hope became their downfall? Before determination warped into denial?

  Loyalty had many branches. She was a great tree, requiring different strengths to face different challenges of wind and weather. How easy to be loyal when the realm stood at peace, when the only tests of conscience involved disciplining a soldier, or reprimanding an impudent baron, or setting a dispute to rights. As the saying went: It is easy to be brave from a distance.

  Far harder to stay steadfastly loyal when met with conflict and contention, especially when that conflict lay within your own heart; when frustration and disagreement burned holes in your chest, bleeding impotence; when the mystery of not knowing was almost as bad as the worst-case scenario you kept forcing yourself not to think about.

  They all wanted to go home—Loran as much as the rest of them. This purpose bound their ranks to solidarity when other armies might’ve splintered. Loran took solace in this. These men had fought together, seen death together, lost friends together, survived together. They trusted each other, and this trust helped maintain order, discipline, and a respect for the chain of command.

  Ironic how something so ephemeral could bind an army more surely than whips or duress—or the opposite, bribery or bloodlust—and far more securely than shackles.

  Loran let the officers argue, because it helped them to vent their frustrations, and because he wanted the benefit of their perspective. He knew that whatever he decided, his subordinates would follow—not because of hostility or threat, but because they trusted his decisions.

  By the bloodless horns of Herne, he wished he trusted them himself.

  That they would return to Dannym eventually went without question. But thinking about having to tell his queen that he’d lost her husband was worse in many ways than having to tell His Majesty’s subjects that he’d lost them their kingdom. For surely without the king there to bolster the courage and fortitude of his people, Morwyk would take Calgaryn and all would be lost.

  Whatever his choice, he had to make it soon. Loran prayed for guidance, prayed for clarity...prayed for a breeze.

  He shifted his heat-beleaguered body in his chair. “How much longer can we hold here?”

  Lachlan looked to him. “We’re short four days of full rations already if we make for the coast.”

  “Where the hell else would we go?” Tavon protested.

  Lachlan added somewhat reluctantly, “We could make it to the coast on half rations if we left three days from now, Lord Duke—barring any conflict with nature or the Nadoriin.”

  “Or dragons,” Tavon murmured.

  His eyes said what they were all thinking. After seeing what the dragon had done on the Khalim Plains—the lake of boiling sand was five miles long!—they couldn’t help but wonder why the dragon hadn’t already turned them to toast. They were all jumping at shadows.

  Loran was contemplating the risk of staying longer when horns sounded. Everyone stilled.

  Then they were on their feet in a great scraping of chairs and rushing behind Loran through the dark passageways of Nahavand, making for the nearest stairwell.

  The horns usually signaled attack, but they hadn’t blown the expected rhythm.

  Loran rushed up a dim, barrel-vaulted stair with the portal of daylight at its end too bright to look upon. He emerged, blinking, atop Nahavand’s crenellated wall to see the men already gathering along ramparts and in the yards, and all of them staring up into the sky.

  Loran followed the line of their gazes with his own as he pushed through the men—most were too distracted or dumbfounded by the sight to notice his arrival—to reach the watch officer.

  The latter moved smartly to attention at Loran’s approach. “Lord Duke.” He offered him the spyglass he’d been holding.

  Loran lifted the glass to his eye and his gaze to the heavens where a dragon was circling about a mile above them—the closest any of the creatures had ever come to the fortress. It seemed to be carrying a large crate in one of its hind claws.

  “Bloody hells, it’s big!” Tavon said from behind Loran.

  “What do you think it wants?” Rafferty asked.

  “Our attention, I’d say,” came Ramsay’s sonorous voice.

  Loran couldn’t believe what the spyglass was showing him. He held it away from his eye to assess the magnifying end for a spot or blemish.

  “It’s clean, Lord Duke,” said the wide-eyed watch officer. “It’s not a mirage.”

  “What isn’t?” Tavon asked the soldier.

  The watch officer nodded towards the dragon. “It’s carrying men on its back.”

  “Riders?” Lachlan pushed through to join the rest of the officers circling Loran.

  “Passengers,” Loran murmured, swallowing.

  The watch officer asked, low and tense, “Who do you think it is, Lord Duke? To me it looked like His Majesty.”

  Upon these words, loud and speculative murmuring spread.

  Loran stared through the spyglass, disbelieving.

  The king’s honor guard had told Loran an impossible tale about the battle on that fateful night when they’d lost their king.

  His Majesty had ordered his knights to spread out or be overtaken by marauders, and they’d quickly become separated by darkness as much as fighting. A fantastic flash of light beyond the next dune had
scattered the remaining marauders and enabled the knights to regroup, but when they’d found their way back to where they’d left His Majesty, not only had the king vanished but hundreds of men and horse as well.

  Loran had spent more nights awake than sleeping, wondering what had become of those men...of his king. But as the dragon circled closer, the spyglass revealed the faces of the men upon its neck, if not an explanation for them being there.

  He handed the spyglass back to the watch officer, feeling as weak with relief as with confusion. “Aye, it’s him. It’s His Majesty.”

  “It’s His Majesty!” someone shouted. “The dragon brings His Majesty!”

  In seconds, the word had shot through the ranks. The cheering that followed reverberated off the surrounding hills, such that Loran soon stood in a bowl of resounding enthusiasm.

  The dragon must’ve heard them, for it banked in a crescent and dropped elevation until it was soaring right towards the fortress. The men fell silent upon its approach. Verily, Loran could barely find his breath, watching the beast coming at them so fast. Its wingspan was wider than the entire fortress yard!

  As the dragon soared overhead, the men crowding the walls instinctively ducked, even though it remained easily hundreds of feet above them.

  Loran stood in the vacuum created by the men’s sudden collective inhale. His heart staggered through several rapid beats while gilded wings shaded him from the sun. Claws the size of wagon beds were tucked in close to the dragon’s bronze underbelly, save for the hind leg holding the crate.

  It banked and slowed as it neared the fortress wall. The men standing near prudently moved back, fled back, but Loran shoved forward, pushing through the gaping soldiers to be front and center for his king’s disembarkment. Powerful wings pounded the air as it hovered over the ramparts.

  The dragon carefully set down the crate, then settled both of its massive claws atop the wall—something on the order of a condor balancing on a piece of string. Then it lowered its head mostly beneath the outside wall, and the first passenger, dressed in white robes, slid the five feet or so from the back of its neck to the parapet. Then he helped the second passenger, dressed in blue, do the same.

  All seven thousand men watched in silence.

  Once the passengers were safely on the wall, the dragon lifted its head and affixed a great golden eye on them. The man in blue said something to the dragon, pressed a hand to his heart and bowed to it. The second man pressed his palms together and did the same.

  The dragon blinked once—it seemed a sort of acknowledgment—and launched into the sky.

  A storm of hot air buffeted the fortress, stirring dirt and dust and knocking more than a few men standing too close off their feet. Then the dragon was soaring away into the heavens.

  Its two passengers turned to face Loran and the masses of soldiers filling every possible inch of the fortress.

  Loran could barely breathe through the tangle of emotions making a knot in his chest. For a moment he stared, dumbstruck, recognizing his king but hardly daring to believe his eyes were seeing true.

  Then he found himself and fell to one knee. “Sire...” The word croaked out from lungs too tightly bound by incredulity. He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed his head—the better to shed tears of relief without anyone else noticing.

  Behind him, a massive rustling told the story of his men following suit.

  His Majesty King Gydryn came towards Loran, followed by the Basi wearing white noble’s robes. The latter had the look of a leopard about him—clearly all hard muscle beneath the foreign garments, a close-shorn beard accentuating the line of his jaw, and mid-length dark hair pinned close beneath his turban.

  Loran’s king was leaner than when they’d parted in Tal’Shira, but his body appeared hale beneath his billowing blue robes. His royal ring flashed as he took Loran by the shoulders and restored him to his feet.

  Then he pulled him close.

  The men cheered.

  The cheering continued all the while Loran stood within his king’s embrace...on as the king took Loran’s shoulders and looked him over with a smile...as Loran blinked his eyes dry and studied his king with wonderment...as understanding passed between them. On, as the knights of his honor guard pushed through the kneeling masses, only to kneel in lines behind Loran; as the king nodded his gratitude and bade them rise—bade everyone rise; as he looked to his assembled army filling the walls, ward, yard and beyond.

  On, until His Majesty raised his hands, whereupon a hush overcame them. Loran’s ears ached in the contrasting silence.

  “Men of Dannym, I thank you!” Gydryn’s voice sounded more resonant even than Loran remembered. “Thank you for your bravery. Thank you for your sacrifice. Your constancy and dedication honors me beyond words! I have much to tell you. Likely you have much to tell me. Let tonight be set aside for reacquainting, but today...let today be spent in preparation. For tomorrow—men of Dannym, tomorrow we ride for home!”

  Whereupon the cheering launched into a roar.

  ***

  While the cheering slowly died away and the men dispersed to the task Gydryn had set them, the king warmly greeted Sir Kendrick and his knights, then turned his attention to Loran and the officers and introduced them to Prince Farid al Abdul-Basir. There were more than a few slack-jawed captains upon this introduction, to be sure.

  Gydryn put a hand on Loran’s shoulder, meeting his duke’s gaze with gratitude in his, conscious of the questions heavy in the eyes of his officers. “The crate holds supplies for the troops and some Merdanti weapons I hope we’ll never have reason to need, Loran. Let’s get the provisions distributed.”

  “Many thanks, Sire.” Loran nodded to Lachlan val Reith, who rushed off to see the order carried out.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Aye, Sire.” Loran looked relieved at the suggestion. “This way.” He motioned everyone off.

  Gydryn and the duke led the way, followed by their officers and the host of knights of Gydryn’s guard, who were practically glowing with relief. Even the staid and solemn Sir Kendrick couldn’t entirely conceal his emotion.

  The king darted a smile at Loran as they walked side by side. “I half worried you’d all be gone.”

  Loran cast him a doleful eye. “I half feared the same.”

  “How long to prepare the army for travel?”

  “A day will manage it. We’ve been ready fer a fortnight, to be honest, Sire.”

  Gydryn sprouted a wry smile. “Ah, to leave or not to leave? I felt your conflict from a hundred miles away. I couldn’t get here fast enough.”

  Loran eyed him sidelong. “Hence the dragon?”

  Gydryn returned a solemn look. “Hence the dragon.”

  Loran led Gydryn to a shaded court where a long table appeared to have suffered a mass exodus. The officers righted chairs and stood before their places until the king settled into his chair at the end.

  At Gydryn’s behest, Farid took a seat on his left and Loran on his right. The officers then took their chairs amid a tense silence that shouted for Gydryn to fill it, preferably with some sort of explanation for where he’d been all this time. Their thoughts were so loud as to form a phantom chorus, chanting, A bloody dragon! His Majesty rode in on a bloody dragon...

  The king’s lips twitched with a smile. “So...” he let his gaze wander fondly across his men, “about the dragon...”

  A few rough chuckles broke the tension of the moment.

  Gydryn clasped hands on the table and addressed his officers gravely. “First and foremost, accept my assurance that the Akkad is not our enemy. Prince Farid is here as a representative of his father, but far more importantly, His Highness is the reason I’m alive.”

  The men fixed their gazes on Farid with sudden interest. With relief, Gydryn observed that none of them appeared to harbor any outward conflict in accepting what he’d told them. Perhaps they’d seen enough with their own eyes to know his words for truth. He didn’t
need to convince them of anything.

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Kendrick asked hesitantly, “what happened that night?”

  Gydryn nodded soberly to him. “Yes, I will tell you all.”

  So did he proceed into the story of the last many moons, beginning with the plan he’d made in secret with Spymaster Morin d’Hain, the Duke of Towermount Gareth val Mallonwey, and his wife and queen, Errodan:

  He would go to the south, ostensibly to participate in the parley, but in fact to do whatever was necessary to retrieve his army and bring them home.

  He didn’t go into all of the reasons why he had to be the one to do this—that his absence from Calgaryn would give Morwyk the chance to act and draw his sedition at last out into the open; or the necessity for Gydryn’s own personal involvement to free his army from hal’Jaitar’s hold—but he told them enough to make it clear that his intention all along was to bring their army home.

  He then spoke briefly of the letter he’d received while still on board the Sea Eagle, which confirmed their suspicions of an alliance between Morwyk, Bethamin and Radov, and he told them of the attempt on his life and his subsequent rescue, first by Kjieran van Stone and later by Prince Farid.

  He spoke of waking in the Emir’s palace in Raku, of the care they’d taken to nurse him back to health, and how he’d learned more of the insidious plot against his rule through meeting with the Emir and his prime minister.

  Lastly, he described the recent battle at Raku, where he and Prince Farid had nearly died as brothers in arms, only to be saved by the dragon who’d brought them both to Nahavand.

  For much of the story, his officers sat in silence with wide eyes and expressions of open wonder. Many looked shocked, but some few harbored the vindicated looks of men who’d suspected the truth all along—Ramsay val Baran, especially.

  Gydryn continued, “Prime Minister Al-Basreh told me that Viernan hal’Jaitar fled the battle with Prince Radov only moments before the drachwyr Mithaiya turned half of M’Nador’s army to ash. Loran, I assume our own sentries reported that the surviving army is falling back to Taj al’Jahanna.”