by Andre Norton
A moment of panic seized her, as quickly stilled.
"Let it happen," she whispered. "I have done what was needed and now I know the truth. Let Harous wallow with his new light o' love as he would. Very soon he will be exposed for what he is, and I will be avenged."
She strove to straighten the bedclothes again, aware of her growing weakness.
Then she composed her limbs, folded her hands across her bosom, and closed her eyes. More gently than she dreamed possible, she drifted off into a sleep from which she knew she would never awaken.
"We must give her as fine a funeral as we can arrange," Ysa said to Lady Ingrid, who had brought the news of Marcala's death. "The Cragden tomb will now hold the most beautiful and accomplished countess that line has ever known. Please notify
Lord Royance."
"Lord Royance is not in Rendelsham, Madame," Lady In- grid replied. She looked down, as if fearing Ysa's wrath. "Nor is he in the city, as far as anyone knows."
"Not here—" Ysa stared at her lady-in-waiting, frowning. Where could he be?
Then, all at once, she knew. That cursed Ash wenchl She must have gone directly to Royance with Marcala's mad tale of disloyalty and treason, and the old fool had been taken in by it. They were probably halfway there by now.
She made sure her face was composed and showed no distress beyond what the death of her great favorite would be expected to cause. "Notify Lord Wittern," she said to In-grid. "He is, after all, the King's great-grandfather. He will send word to all the nobility still in Rendelsham so that they may gather and pay proper respects to the wife of our Lord High Marshal in his absence. I will prepare the list of whom to summon."
"Yes, Madame," the lady-in-waiting said. She hurried off to do Ysa's bidding, obviously relieved at not having been required to bear the brunt of the
Dowager's displeasure.
Ysa's mind was already busy with details of the near-royal funeral to come.
Rannore would have to be present, even in her increasingly obvious condition.
Lady Rannore, she thought with some contempt, and not Her Highness, the Young
Dowager Rannore of Rowan, Yew, and Oak. That title had always rankled Ysa. It came much too close to proclaiming her aged…
Gattor of Bilth, who had removed to his town house in Rendelsham when he learned that the great encampment of the Four Armies would be placed almost at his doorstep. He must attend as well. Who else? Lady Anamara, she supposed.
She went to her writing desk, took a piece of paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and began to make notes. If she tried hard enough to keep herself busy at this task, she could ignore the truth that Marcala's death had been, in some respects, a relief to her. The Countess had, right from the start, been entirely too clever for Ysa to trust her as much as she would have liked. Marcala had served her purpose, even as Harous had served his.
It occurred to her to wonder if Harous really had turned traitor or if it was only a figment of Marcala's poisoned imagination. Well, either way, it would all be resolved. Now Ysa could afford to be grateful to Ashen for having dragged
Royance out on what she hoped was a fool's errand. Royance would not preside over a solemn moment here in the city where his presence was virtually required, but he would, in a just and equitable manner, ascertain Harous's loyalty.
Even if the remote possibility that Harous was toying with the idea of betraying his country proved true, she trusted Royance to deal with the upstart count and put him back firmly in the ranks of its unswerving, staunch nobility.
She still had the black dress and jet jewelry from the funeral of her son, King
Florian, and that Sea-Rover Obern. They might be slightly out of fashion by now, but they would do. After all, Rendel was at war and some sacrifices must be made.
The scratch of her pen filled the room as the Dowager went on with her plans and list-making.
Twelve
Joining the handful of other women who had been pressed into service as nurses,
Ashen found herself almost submerged in the needs of the wounded. The worst off were those who had encountered the blast of mist from the rodlike weapon the
Dragon rider had carried.
"It was like breathing in fire," a Rendelian soldier told her, gasping for breath. "And it still burns—"
"Hush," she said soothingly. "Don't try to talk. I will bring you cool water to drink."
"Make it more than cool. Ice itself wouldn't put out the fire. And an ice pack for my chest, please! It still burns."
Around her, others who had been involved with the fight with the Dragon clamored for the same. She busied herself with tending to their requests until the pitcher she carried was empty and all the ice used. And still they begged for more. She emerged from the infirmary tent where she was working, to take a short rest before returning to her labors. A short distance away, she spotted Rohan and waved to him. He hurried over to join her.
"It's good to see you, Ashen," he said. "But what brings you here, of all places? I just got a summons to go to Hynnel's tent, and I think Lord Royance is there with Gaurin and some others as well. Is there something amiss? The back of my neck is tingling, the way it does when there is danger around."
"I fear we are all in danger," Ashen said. "You are hurtV She gently touched the fresh bandage on his head.
"Just a scratch. But ray war-kat, Bitta, has an injured paw. You have a way with animals you learned from Granddam Zaz."
"Yes," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "I will look in on—Bitta, is it?"
"Thank you. Now, I have to hurry."
Then he was gone. Ashen was glad he had not had time to press her for an explanation of why she was here. He would find out soon enough, from Gaurin and from Royance. Far better than they be the ones to tell him and those few others they were prepared to take into their confidence.
She dipped water into a pitcher, adding fresh, clean snow from the interior of the nearest drift to cool it. She couldn't carry enough snow to make into ice packs and still take water to the injured. Someone else must do it. Bracing herself, she returned to her task of trying to save the lives of those who,
Ashen feared, were beyond saving.
She wished Zazar were with her. But she saw no way to send word to the Wysen-wyf that her services were most sorely needed.
Tusser carefully stationed his men where the terrain would be to their advantage, be it ever so slight. Here, a low cliff surmounted by trees flanked the coast road on one side so closely that the Ice Dragon's flanks would scrape the stones, and on the other, a steeper cliff dropped almost straight down into the sea. The big problem lay in making sure the Dragon kept to the road and did not take flight. However, with Bog-men to battle, Tusser felt confident it and its rider would not attempt to flee.
Also, he believed, there was a certain other advantage, one that would even the odds. He watched down the road, hoping that the man Sumase had sent would return in time. Things would go poorly for them all, if he did not.
To his relief, he caught sight of Lorko, pushing through the brush to the side of the road. The Bog-man waved triumphantly, showing the three sacks of flammable powder he carried, the ones Tusser had filched during the fight with the Dowager's men. That weapon of Outlander force was one all his plans depended upon.
"Vanka not want to give," Lorko declared, dropping his burden before the headman, "but I make her anyway."
Tusser turned to Sumase. "Who is best thrower?"
Sumase frowned a little. "Hili," he said after a moment. "He hit mark very often."
"Then send Hili up in a tree at top of cliff," Tusser instructed. "When Dragon comes by, Hili throws powder in sacks on Dragon. You understand?"
"No. But I tell him."
Tusser grinned. "You'll see, later. Now get everybody in place. Dragon near."
Sumase went off to do the headman's bidding. The timing was good, Tusser believed. Judging by the way the ground underfoot trembled slightly with the b
east's footfalls, it must be just around a bend in the coast road. Then Sumase returned to Tusser's side.
"I send somebody to stir up birds also," Sumase reported. "Maybe even Gulper or two, if we lucky."
"My plan works out, nothing be left for Gulpers or birds either," Tusser returned grimly. He hefted a couple of shortened spears, the shafts behind the points oddly wrapped in greasy rags. "But good thought, though. You got fire in pot?"
"Just like you tell me. But I not see—"
The Dragon came into sight. Its rider drew back on the reins, obviously assessing the narrowness of the pathway and whether it would be to his advantage to urge the beast aloft. At that moment, several of the giant birds inhabiting the cliff beneath the battleground flapped into sight from the seaward cliff edge as if to cut off the Dragon's escape. Tusser whistled through his fingers and the Bog-men jumped up from their hiding places, shouting and brandishing their weapons.
"Run, run," some of them chanted.
Others named the rider coward, and not a few added coarse and unflattering comments as to the man's ancestry.
The rider urged his mount forward. Now the Dragon could not spread its wings to drop snow upon them, but a gout of ice issued from its maw as it roared defiance. A few Bog-men, mad for battle and heedless of Tusser's orders to await the signal to attack, rushed forward, jabbing with shell- tipped spears. The rider pointed a metal rod at them but his mount's wild twisting movements made a good shot impossible.
"Back!" Tusser shouted. "Get back!"
He couldn't wait to see whether they obeyed or not. The plan must be carried out, for this would be the only chance he got. The headman looked up toward the top of the low landward cliff and waved. Hili waved back. Tusser saw him draw back his arm, aim, and throw.
One sack hit squarely on the Dragon's back and powder scattered down one side, with some spilling over the ridges on its back to the other side as well.
Neither the Dragon nor its rider appeared to notice. The second sack, not as well aimed, hit lower on the Dragon's flank. However, the third struck the rider as well as engulfing the Dragon's head with the deadly powder.
Some of the giant birds were now in action against the great reptile. Others swooped toward the men from the Bog. Tusser could delay no longer.
He stuck the point of one of his shortened spears into the fire pot. The rags caught fire immediately. He launched the spear. It caught the Dragon in the chest, at a spot where only a small amount of powder coated its scales. The second fire-tipped spear lodged in the beast's neck. With a roar that stopped even the most battle-crazed of his men in their tracks, the Ice Dragon was instantly engulfed in flames.
"Back, back!" Tusser shouted again. "Everybody, get back!"
He did not have to repeat that order. The Bog-men scrambled away from the writhing horror the Dragon and its rider had become. Mad with pain and fear, the beast roared, trying to stretch its wings. It succeeded only in losing its footing on the narrow road. Two of the giant birds were struck by the flailing Dragon and, in turn, caught fire. The rest of the flock scattered, flying for their lives, all appetite for battle gone. Three Bog-men went over the edge of the cliff, and their screams blended with those of the giant birds and the flaming Ice Dragon.
A thick stench of burning Dragon-flesh and scorched feathers filled the air.
With a second roar the enormous beast shivered all along its spiny back. It shook its head and, as Tusser watched, something flew off and dropped to the ground—the rider. His body still blazed, and Tusser knew it would do so until the powder had burned itself out.
Again, the Dragon stumbled, coming too close to the seaward cliff edge. It scrabbled frantically at the rocks, finding no secure hold. Then it fell, and as it dropped it stretched its wings in a last vain effort to fly.
A spiraling trail of smoke and sparks arose in its wake as it followed the
Bog-men it had, perhaps inadvertently, slain. In the shocked silence that ensued, those atop the cliff on the shore road clearly heard the dull crunch as it smashed into the waiting rocks out of sight below. Then the silence was broken by the sucking sounds of splayed feet pulling huge misshapen bodies from the waters, and familiar deep grunts. The Bog-men knew the Gulpers were about to feast.
Tusser drew a deep breath. Now was the moment, he knew, when he would prove himself even better than his father Joal had ever been. Joal would never have known even how to attack such a danger, let alone destroy it. He turned to his companions, grinning.
"That how we kill Dragons," he said with an air of careless confidence, as if this feat were one that the Bog-men accomplished every day.
Sumase whooped, and within a moment the remainder of his men were bellowing with the kind of laughter that only comes after escape from a moment of great peril.
Even Hili, still up on the cliff above and relatively safe, shouted along with them. From his vantage point he began pelting them with small stones until Lorko and Kipu climbed up and threatened to throw him off.
"What about this?" Sumase said, when the commotion had begun to die down. He indicated the body of the Dragon rider, still burning in the middle of the coast road.
"Leave," Tusser said. "If birds want, let them have."
Sumase grunted.
Lorko came up to them. "We go back to village?" he said. "Vanka say she have something to talk to Tusser about."
It was Tusser's turn to grunt. Lorko was not the most diplomatic of men and he had said Vanka had not wanted to give up the sacks. He could well imagine
Vanka's displeasure, and he saw no reason to endure it sooner than he had to.
"Go get rod from rider. Proof we kill. Push over for Gulpers if you want. Then we go back to where we fight," he said, fingering the badge he wore as General of the Bog Army. "Tusser promise. Give pledge of honor."
Royance, Gaurin, Hynnel, and Rohan made their way through the camp, the command tent their objective. Snow was beginning to fall again, Royance observed wearily—big, heavy flakes. In a matter of moments it was snowing heavily enough to make visibility uncertain at a distance of more than a few feet.
"I will speak to Harous first," Royance said, "and see if this matter can be settled without quarreling. That is my duty, as Head of the Council."
"Of course," Gaurin said. "Your head is cooler and much wiser than ours."
Hynnel and Rohan also nodded assent, though Royance could tell that they were inclined to proceed with more directness and less diplomacy than he exhibited.
If only they knew, he thought. He would gladly take Harous by the throat and shake the truth out of him, if the Lord High Marshal by so much as a breath indicated that the charges against him held even a fraction of truth.
Nevertheless, he smiled, mustering all his diplomatic skills. "Time enough for hostilities, if it comes to that, young men," he said. "Ah, we have arrived."
"Is Lord Harous within?" Gaurin asked the guards outside the door.
"Yes, sir. He had his breakfast some time ago, received preliminary reports of the battle, and has not left his tent," one guard replied. He shivered a little.
"You must be cold, standing here in the open. Go and get some hot food," Royance said kindly. "I do not think anybody is going to attack our headquarters, not while we are inside. And surely not in the heavy snow." Then, when the grateful men had gone out of earshot, he added to his companions, "The fewer ears to overhear what will be said in the next little while, the better."
Gaurin and the others nodded and followed Lord Roy- ance inside, where it was markedly warmer because of the brazier that always burned. The main room of the tent was empty.
"He has his private quarters beyond," Hynnel said. He led the way and touched a small bell hanging beside the entrance. There was no stir from inside and Hynnel made bold to open the flap.
The chamber beyond was empty, yet there was an indefinable sense that it had been vacated recently. A trace of something like perfume lingered on a breeze wafting through a rent in
the far wall, bringing flakes of snow with it.
"Did something creep into the camp and attack Harous from behind?" Rohan cried, alarmed. "Some fell northern beast?"
"I think not," Gaurin replied. He examined the edges of the slash in the tent wall. "This has not been torn but cut, as with a dagger."
"But who—" Rohan scowled, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Lord Harous was taking no chances on meeting with us," he said, answering his own question.
"We must go after him," Gaurin said. "Or them. I see two sets of footprints leading from the tent. Human footprints."