Vorfgan had run all night. He was exhausted. Hot and exhausted, as he contemplated the dawn. At least it had stopped raining now, though the gorse and furze of the open country here was still wet – the aroma of damp ferns, brittle wood and browned heather was inescapable. As the early light turned the sea a fiery red, he looked about him. Here the land sloped towards the sea, ending in sharp precipices and sheer cliffs. The scrub made such land uninhabitable to humans and, apart from the odd cluster of sheep and occasional inquisitive rabbit, it was completely deserted. He stopped running, feeling a sheen of sweat freeze on his face and brow. Time to take stock.
He did not know how he had survived the nightmare of the previous day. Seeing the loose horse and clambering on to it had been a terrible mistake. Before he had known it, he was surrounded by monsters, blocking his route to the manor house. His mount was proving impossible to control so terrified was it – it bucked and reared and it was only the sight of a wyvern directly overhead that finally compelled it to move. They had shot down a side street at breakneck speed, hotly pursued by two of the terrible beasts. They had left the village and were hurtling southwards down a tiny path when they were finally caught. A great head appeared to his immediate left and swung against them like a battering ram. His horse fell, throwing him, and he heard its terrified snickering as its legs snapped under it. Vorfgan leapt to his feet as quickly as he could, watching in horror as one wyvern fell on to the screaming horse, ripping it to pieces with its bloodied jaws. More disturbing was the sight of a second creature landing beside the first, for it was looking directly at him.
Vorfgan froze. There was no possible escape for him. The wyvern looked at him, as though sizing him up wondering what sort of meal he would make. Then it looked at its companion, which was evidently relishing its meal. It seemed to prefer this second option.
It lunged at its fellow, screeching as it tried to steal what was left of the horse from it. As it did so, it swung its vast tail, inadvertently directing it at Vorfgan. The Baron turned to run.
Too late. The monster’s tail glanced his shoulder, sending him flying into the air. He felt a sharp, agonising burst of pain before he landed on to the soft earth, the bracken cushioning his fall. He lay still watching the two wyverns as they fought over the horse’s carcass. Finally, the one that had made the kill drove off the other, which, frustrated, hissed its annoyance as he flew into the air before turning away and flying back to the village, now only discernible as a black smudge in the distance.
Ignoring the eye-watering pain in his shoulder he watched the remaining creature finish its meal. It was now crunching bones for their marrow, something it seemed to find very tasty. Vorfgan remained as still as a statue, not daring to move, watching the creature slobber, great streams of wet spittle dripping to the ground as it finally finished. Did it remember him? Vorfgan held his breath, wishing his heart would slow down or at least not beat so loudly. The wyvern looked around, its red eyes beady and inquisitive, then with great sweeping beats of its veined translucent wings it was off, following its predecessor back to the village, although flying not nearly as quickly.
Vorfgan waited until it had dwindled to the size of a bat, then cautiously got to his feet. Without thinking, or stopping to consider the logic of his decision, he turned in the other direction and ran. Southwards, towards the sea. And now after a wet night that had banished the last flecks of snow from the countryside he stood near to the cliffs, regarding the ocean in all its dull leaden glory. Below him he saw a hollow in the ground; it was unusual because it was covered in grass, not bracken, and a couple of flat grey slabs lay at its edge. He made for it. He needed somewhere to rest and think and he also needed to check his shoulder. The pain there had dulled but the entire shoulder throbbed intensely. He needed to loosen his leather jerkin, if nothing else.
Once in the hollow, he sat resting his back against one of the flat rocks. Pulling out his knife, he twisted his head and looked at his shoulder. He recoiled in shock. Unbeknown to him, something was sticking out of the back of his shoulder, something he was completely unaware of. Feverishly he started to cut away his jerkin and woollen undershirt, exposing his skin. It took him a while, but eventually he could pull enough of his garments away so that the whole shoulder was left exposed. As he looked at it, he fought back a wave of nausea.
His entire shoulder was black. Gritting his teeth, he gingerly took hold of the foreign object that had invaded him and pulled. He screamed in pain as it came free releasing a jet of hot yellow pus that splashed on to the damp rock underneath. Whatever it was, it was now out of him.
He looked at it. It was some kind of spike or spine, thin, pointed and made of something akin to cow horn. Obviously it had come from the tail of the dragon creature. He had run with it stuck in him all night – how by the Gods had he not noticed? He still felt hot. He lay back and adjusted himself, so his head lay on the flat stone. His temperature was raging and the cool rock felt good to him.
Time to think. He was on the southern part of the island, Thudig’s old country. Thudig’s manor house could not be far away and some of his men were there, claiming it in his name. Osperitsan was lost, at least for now; the wrath of these lizards had torn the capital away from him. He could cling on in the south but was unsure if it was really worth it. He sighed wheezily. By the Gods, he felt tired. Maybe he could catch up with his men and sail back to Clutha, join up with the siege of Vihag. Yes, that was it – leave Osperitsan to Einar for now; he could always return at a later date. But for now the mainland campaign was the important one. With Vihag in his hands he would have the port he needed and would control most of the north-west. That was it. This was a setback, nothing more than that. These lizards would fly onwards after they had gorged themselves here and then the land would be his. Just as he had planned. His new fiefdom would be formed by the spring and the Grand Duke would have to accede to his demands. All he had to do was find his men, and he would do that once he had rested, once the pain in his shoulder had eased. All he needed was some rest, for he seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. By the Gods, he had never felt so tired. He lay back on the rock shutting his eyes, listening to the gulls. Time to sleep.
And in the hollow Vorfgan remained. Remained until his entire body had become so black and putrefied, not even the gulls would touch his necrotic flesh. It was left to the worms and the blowfly larvae and the maggots to do the work of breaking down his corpse until only bones and fragments of his clothes remained. The bones gradually disappeared, taken by birds and scurrying creatures which could crack them and get at the marrow. Finally, it was just his skull that was left. It had rolled backward over the stone until it faced inland, looking at the domain he had conquered. However fleetingly it may have lasted, it had still been his land, the fruit of his untrammelled ambition. And as if recognising this, his skull kept on grinning. And it would never stop, ever.
The fleet of Tanaren sat at anchor close to the harbour. Every weapon was manned, every bowstring tensed, every man stood nervously at arms wondering when, or if, the wyverns would set upon them. Night came accompanied by the sounds of the lizards calling to each other from high on the island. Men prayed, seeking comfort against their gnawing fear. No one slept that night.
Except for Duke Nicholas, who alone among the soldiers feared little from the deadly beasts. After waking at dawn he strolled on to the deck where every man there was gabbling excitedly to each other. For the wyverns had disappeared. Sometime in the night they must have taken off together for not one could be seen anywhere on the island. Soon after dawn Nicholas and the vanguard of the troops made harbour. Many catapults and ballistae had been prepared to repel them, but all of them had been wrecked and coated with the blood of their operators. Blood bathed the streets, only partially washed away by the rain. Something truly terrible had happened here. But not to the villagers. As Nicholas walked up and down, the harbour doors began to open and villagers started to emerge. The wyverns, they said, had gone
for Vorfgan’s men, no one else. A couple of villagers had died but it had seemed that in every case they had just got in the way as the lizards hunted down Vorfgan’s troops at every turn. Everyone stood amazed; it was as if the wyverns had been fighting on their side.
It was the same in Osperitsan village. The townsfolk hid in their homes but there had been no attempt by these creatures to attack them. Most of their ire had been directed at the manor house. On entering its courtyard, Nicholas saw the truth in those words. The whole place looked like a butcher’s yard – bodies torn limb from limb everywhere – and Nicholas’s boots squelched in the thick blood and scattered entrails. Someone had actually managed to kill one of the wyverns. Its head had been sliced clean off and lay some feet from the rest of its body; of its killer, though, nary a trace remained.
There were survivors in the manor house – servants, townsfolk, soldiers and barons loyal to the Grand Duke. Loyalists and traitors were separated and Nicholas knew that he would be here for a while; there was much rebuilding to be done.
A portrait of his daughter stood, untouched, in the great hall. He stood, looked at it and said a silent prayer to the Gods. He would remember her; he would make sure that everybody did. He turned to his soldiers and started giving out orders. Oh yes, he would make sure that everybody remembered her, however lofty their station might be.
Meanwhile, as another night drew to a close, Ceriana finally woke and looked up at the sky. She did not know how many days she had remained here; she also found it strange that she still did not feel hungry, child or no. Another change she could not account for. Her cloak she clutched around her tightly, not wanting to look at herself too closely, for she was not yet ready to accept whatever it was she was ... becoming. Underneath her the dragon stirred, for she now lay upon its back, between its wings. They had become closer and closer as they both watched their thralls, the wyverns, wreak their havoc on Osperitsan, so much so that Ceriana could anticipate its every thought, her every thought. Not just anticipate them but control them, too. For she was Ceriana, Mistress of Dragons, a role that she finally understood she had been destined to fill since her birth.
As she looked above her she saw the first of the wyverns fly overhead. Their task complete, they had returned at last and now it was time for them all to leave.
‘We are done here, my beautiful girl,’ she purred softly at the great beast. ‘Now it is time to show me your city and for me to decide what to do with the Grand Duke.’
The dragon understood. She waited patiently as Ceriana adjusted herself, moving forward and digging her tiny hands under the scales on its neck, gripping firmly on to the flesh underneath.
She felt the colossal draught of beating wings behind her and, with a gasp of barely suppressed excitement, saw herself being lifted off the ground. Whereas the wyverns flew with a reptilian grace, smoothly and sleekly traversing the air, Utan-ka-garanhath, the great she-dragon on which she now sat was all about power and strength, eating up the air with steady rhythmic beats of its mighty wings. Ceriana felt not the cold, nor was she afeard of her position on the neck of the beast, for nothing could happen to her now. Soon Thakholm was a tiny dot in the great ocean as they flew close to the clouds, heading for a destination Ceriana knew nothing of. No matter, though – her course was set and irreversible; her destiny waited ahead of her, beyond these clouds, and it was now her time to fulfil it.
38
When Morgan finally got round to visiting Cheris in her room she was, as he suspected, in floods of tears, slumped over her dresser. He knew something was wrong when he passed the two knights posted at the door. They were both young men and looked awkwardly away from him as he came towards them; they could obviously hear her but Morgan guessed they had little experience in comforting a lady in despair.
He walked over to the far end of the room where she was sitting, cradling her head in her hands, her small cat rubbing her leg as though trying to reassure her. To his surprise, the second she saw him she stood and put her arms around him. He reciprocated, hugging her tightly as her tears worked their way out of her system.
‘I was such an idiot,’ she sobbed finally. ‘I wanted to frighten him, make him uneasy, but he just seized the chance to shame me further.’
Trask was right about one thing, she did have a faint smell of perfume about her. ‘He did nothing of the kind,’ Morgan replied.
‘Oh come on,’ she implored. ‘You know he did. He humiliated me all over again, made me feel like a cheap whore.’
She seemed suddenly to realise that she was holding him and released her grip, stepping backwards a little. ‘From my behaviour, no doubt you feel the same.’
Morgan looked at her, sympathy in his eyes. ‘You are lonely here, aren’t you? I thought the other mage might keep you company a little more.’
‘He does, when he can.’ She picked up Rosamund and started stroking her. ‘But private meetings, without the knights being there, are difficult to get. It is far easier back at the college where we outnumber them comfortably, and you are right, I am lonely. Where is your bodyguard?’
‘I have given her an hour off, so she can sleep. We will all need to rest a little before Trask gets here, and his men are coming; it will be a matter of hours before they arrive.’
‘Hours?’ she raised an eyebrow. ‘They are that close?’
‘Yes. They will be here by the afternoon.’
‘’Lissa’s teeth, I did not know they were so close.’
They were both silent for a second. Then Morgan asked the question he had always intended.
‘Your plan. Do you wish to proceed with it?’
Her heart stopped for a second. It was an insane plan; in a way she never thought the day would come when she could put it into action. But that day had arrived. And she had to decide. Now.
‘Yes,’ she said, haltingly. ‘Yes. I cannot go on like this, feeling dirty and ashamed all the time; I have no choice really – he will haunt my dreams for ever otherwise.’
Morgan had always known the answer. He held up a scroll that had been tucked into his belt. ‘Authority to pass anywhere into or out of the city,’ he said. ‘Transportation has been arranged, as we discussed earlier.’
She smiled nervously before taking the scroll. ‘Thank you. I assure you again that no one in the city will be hurt. It is impertinent of me, I know, but I need to ask a couple of further favours of you.’
His voice was wary. ‘Go on.’
‘Nothing too taxing, I hope,’ she said, sensing his reluctance. ‘First of all, can you see Mikel in about half an hour, and tell him I am ready. Make sure the knights don’t hear you.’
‘Very well, and the second thing?’
‘If I do not come back, and let’s be honest, it is likely that I will not – can you adopt Rosamund for me. She eats little and is very affectionate.’
‘You want the Baron of Felmere to adopt a kitten.’
‘That’s right. The more eccentric ladies of the court will love you for it.’
He sighed. ‘Artorus’s eyes, if you wish. You will be wanting me to wear a pink satin cape next.’
‘That was my third request.’
He groaned. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way but at times you really sound like my wife.’
‘Oh!’ She started a little, surprised. ‘I didn’t mean to...’
‘I said do not take my words seriously. I doubt you can cook like her somehow.’
She giggled, wiping her eyes dry. ‘I burn water. Pilfering from the kitchens is my strength.’
‘I do not doubt it. Now’ – his voice took on a graver tone – ‘it is my turn to ask you something.’
‘’Lissa’s blood, it is like having Marcus back.’ She looked to the heavens. ‘What is it?’
‘You kill Trask as you intend. You are outside the city. You return to find it besieged. I will try and keep men on the side gates alert for you, but there is no guarantee you will be able to get back in. What will you do?’
He nodded. ‘I understand. I wish with all my heart that you would turn away from this course, but I understand why you cannot. Gods protect you, Cheris.’
‘Lucan protect me,’ she said. ‘He will be the only God that matters tonight. Thank you, Morgan; we may never speak again, so I would like to say thank you one final time, for showing me that not all the men out here are as Trask is.’
They hugged again. ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘And come back. I need you to choose a suitable pink cape for me.’
She laughed softly as he left her, closing the door tightly behind him. She had half an hour then. It was time to move.
Half an hour later both Knights of the Thorn standing guard outside her door had calmed down a little. Their charge was a lot quieter now; evidently the Baron’s visit had worked wonders on her. They had been trained as men of war and in understanding the nature of the magical arts, but the ability to comfort a distraught woman was a duty neither knew how to perform. They were both young men in their first year after their promotion from squire; they had both been expecting to be sent to the Isle of Tears where most of their order were based but, with the death of Sir Norton and his companions, they had been retained here, until this mage’s tour of duty was over. Boredom was the enemy now, and tiredness. They were due to be relieved soon, having been outside her door all night and riding out to parley with the enemy with her. One of the knights yawned; he had taken off his helmet for some air and now, in his weariness, it slipped from his mailed gauntlet to go clattering on to the floor.
‘What was that?’ said his companion, coming to with a start.
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