Wings of Fire

by Jonathan Strahan; Marianne S. Jablon

  “She’s a hellion. No man will ever want to wed her,” Roderico diCorsini said, so gloomily that it made his daughter smile. But Joanna Torneo laughed. She knew very well whom she would marry. She had seen him, shining brighter than the moon, soaring across the sky on his way to his castle in the mountains, and had vowed—this was a fifteen year old girl, remember—that Iyadur Atani, the Silver Dragon, would be her husband. That he was a changeling, older than she by twelve years, and that they had never met disturbed her not a whit.

  Despite his age—he was nearly sixty—the rancor of the lord of Serrenhold toward his neighbors did not cool. The year Joanna turned five, his war band attacked and burned Ragnar Castle. The year she turned nine he stormed Voiana, the eyrie of the Red Hawks, hoping for plunder. But he found there only empty chambers, and the rushing of wind through stone.

  The autumn Joanna turned fourteen, Roderico diCorsini died: shot through the heart by one of Martun Hal’s archers as he led his soldiers along the crest of the western hills. His son, Ege, inherited the domain. Ege diCorsini, though not the warrior his father had been, was a capable man. His first act as lord was to send a large company of troops to patrol his western border. His next act was to invite his neighbors to a council. “For,” he said, “it is past time to end this madness.” Couriers were sent to Mirrinhold and Ragnar, to Voiana and to far Mako. A courier was even sent to Dragon Keep.

  His councilors wondered at this. “Martun Hal has never attacked the Atani,” they pointed out. “The Silver Dragon will not join us.”

  “I hope you are wrong,” said Ege diCorsini. “We need him.” He penned that invitation with his own hand. And, since Galva lay between Derrenhold and Dragon Keep, and because he loved his sister, he told the courier, whose name was Ullin March, to stop overnight at the home of Jon Torneo.

  Ullin March did as he was told. He rode to Galva. He ate dinner that night with the family. After dinner, he spoke quietly with his hosts, apprising them of Ege diCorsini’s plan.

  “This could mean war,” said Jon Torneo.

  “It will mean war,” Olivia diCorsini Torneo said.

  The next day, Ullin March took his leave of the Torneo family, and rode east. At dusk he reached the tall stone pillar that marked the border between the diCorsini’s domain and Dragon’s Country. He was about to pass the marker, when a slender cloaked form leaped from behind the pillar and seized his horse’s bridle.

  “Dismount,” said a fierce young voice, “or I will kill your horse.” Steel glinted against the great artery in grey mare’s neck.

  Ullin March was no coward. But he valued his horse. He dismounted. The hood fell back from his assailant’s face, and he saw that it was a young woman. She was lovely, with olive-colored skin and black hair, tied back behind her neck in a club.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Never mind. The letter you carry. Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  The sword tip moved from his horse’s neck to his own throat. “I will kill you.”

  “Then kill me,” Ullin March said. Then he dropped, and rolled into her legs. But she had moved. Something hard hit him on the crown of the head.

  Dazed and astonished, he drew his sword and lunged at his attacker. She slipped the blow and thrust her blade without hesitation into his arm. He staggered, and slipped to one knee. Again he was hit on the head. The blow stunned him. Blood streamed from his scalp into his eyes. His sword was torn from his grasp. Small hands darted into his shirt, and removed his courier’s badge, and the letter.

  “I am sorry,” the girl said. “I had to do it. I will send someone to help you, I promise.” He heard the noise of hoof beats, two sets of them. Cursing, he staggered upright, knowing there was nothing he could do.

  Joanna Torneo, granddaughter of Roderico diCorsini, carried her uncle’s invitation to Dragon Keep. As it happened, the dragon-lord was at home when she arrived. He was in his hall when a page came running to tell him that a courier from Ege diCorsini was waiting at the gate.

  “Put him in the downstairs chamber, and see to his comfort. I will come,” said the lord.

  “My lord, it’s not a him. It’s a girl.”

  “Indeed?” said Iyadur Atani. “See to her comfort, then.” The oddity of the event roused his curiosity. In a very short time he was crossing the courtyard to the little chamber where he was wont to receive guests. Within the chamber he found a well-dressed, slightly grubby, very lovely young woman.

  “My lord,” she said calmly, “I am Joanna Torneo, Ege diCorsini’s sister’s daughter. I bear you his greetings, and a letter.” She took the letter from the pocket of her shirt, and handed it to him.

  Iyadur Atani read her uncle’s letter.

  “Do you know what this letter says?” he asked.

  “It invites you to a council.”

  “And it assures me that the bearer, a man named Ullin March, can be trusted to answer truthfully any questions I might wish to put to him. You are not Ullin March.”

  “No. I took the letter from him at the border. Perhaps you would be so kind as to send someone to help him? I had to hit him.”

  “Why?”

  “Had I not, he would not have let me take the letter.”

  “Why did you take the letter?”

  “I wanted to meet you.”

  “Why?” asked Iyadur Atani.

  Joanna took a deep breath. “I am going to marry you.”

  “Are you?” said Iyadur Atani. “Does your father know this?”

  “My mother does,” said Joanna. She gazed at him. He was a handsome man, fair, and very tall. His clothes, though rich, were simple; his only adornment a golden ring on the third finger of his right hand. It was fashioned in the shape of a sleeping dragon. His gaze was very direct, and his eyes burned with a blue flame. Resolute men, men of uncompromising courage, feared that fiery gaze.

  When they emerged, first the girl, radiant despite her mud-stained clothes, and then the lord of the Keep, it was evident to his household that their habitually reserved lord was unusually, remarkably happy.

  “This is the lady Joanna Torneo of Galva, soon to be my wife.” he said. “Take care of her.” He lifted the girl’s hand to his lips.

  That afternoon he wrote two letters. The first went to Olivia Torneo, assuring her that her beloved daughter was safe in Dragon Keep. The second was to Ege diCorsini. Both letters made their recipients very glad indeed. An exchange of letters followed: from Olivia Torneo to her headstrong daughter, and from Ege diCorsini to the lord of the Keep. Couriers wore ruts in the road from Dragon Keep to Galva, and from Dragon Keep to Derrenhold.

  The council was held in the great hall of Derrenhold. Ferris Wulf, lord of Mirrinhold, a doughty warrior, was there, with his captains; so was Aurelio Ragnarin of Ragnar Castle, and Rudolf diMako, whose cavalry was the finest in Ippa. Even Jamis Delamico, matriarch of the Red Hawk clan, had come, accompanied by six dark-haired, dark-eyed women who looked exactly like her. She did not introduce them: no one knew if they were her sisters, or her daughters. Iyadur Atani was not present.

  Ege diCorsini spoke first.

  “My lords, honored friends,” he said, “for nineteen years, since the old lord of Serrenhold died, Martun Hal and his troops have prowled the borders of our territories, snapping and biting like a pack of hungry dogs. His people starve, and groan beneath their taxes. He has attacked Mirrinhold, and Ragnar, and Voiana. Two years ago, my lord of Mirrinhold, his archers killed your son. Last year they killed my father.

  “My lords and captains, nineteen years is too long. It is time to muzzle the dogs.” The lesser captains shouted. Ege diCorsini went on. “Alone, no one of us has been able to prevail against Martun Hal’s aggression. I suggest we unite our forces and attack him.”

  “How?” said Aurelio Ragnarin. “He hides behind his walls, and only attacks when he is sure of victory.”

  “We must go to him, and attack him where he lives.”

  The leaders looked a
t one another, and then at diCorsini as if he had lost his mind. Ferris Wulf said, “Serrenhold is unassailable.”

  “How do you know?” Ege diCorsini said. “For nineteen years no one has attacked it.”

  “You have a plan,” said Jamis Delamico.

  “I do.” He scanned the room. “Forgive me, my lords—I would have the lesser captains leave.” Silently, the men left the room. So did the servants.

  And Ege diCorsini explained to the lords of Ippa exactly how he planned to defeat Martun Hal.

  At the end of his speech, Ferris Wulf said, “You are sure of this?”

  “I am.”

  “I am with you.”

  “And I,” said Aurelio Ragnarin.

  “My sisters and my daughters will follow you,” Jamis Delamico said.

  Rudolf diMako stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Martun Hal has stayed well clear of my domain. But I see that he needs to be taught a lesson. My army is yours to command.”

  Solitary in his fortress, Martun Hal heard through his spies of his enemies’ machinations. He summoned his captains to his side. “Gather the troops,” he ordered. “We must prepare to defend our borders. Go,” he told his spies. “Watch the highways. Tell me when they come.”

  Sooner than he expected, the spies returned. “My lord, they come.”

  “What are their forces?”

  “They are a hundred mounted men, and six hundred foot.”

  “Archers?”

  “About a hundred.”

  “Have they brought a ram?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Ladders? Ropes? Catapults?”

  “They have ladders and ropes. No catapults, my lord.”

  “Pah. They are fools, and over-confident. Their horses will do them no good here. Do they think to leap over Serrenhold’s walls? We have three hundred archers, and a thousand foot soldiers,” Martun Hal said. His spirits rose. “Let them come. They will lose.”

  The morning of the battle was clear and cold. Frost hardened the ground. A bitter wind blew across the mountain peaks. The forces of the lords of Ippa advanced steadily upon Serrrenhold Castle. On the ramparts of the castle, archers strung their bows. They were unafraid, for their forces outnumbered the attackers, and besides, no one had ever besieged Serrenhold, and won. Behind the castle gates, the Serrenhold army waited. The swordsmen drew their swords and taunted their foes: “Run, dogs! Run, rabbits! Run, little boys! Go home to your mothers!”

  The attackers advanced. Ege diCorsini called to the defenders, “Surrender, and you will live. Fight and you will die.”

  “We will not surrender,” the guard captain said.

  “As you wish,” diCorsini said. He signaled to his trumpeter. The trumpeter lifted his horn to his lips and blew a sharp trill. Yelling, the attackers charged. Arrows rained from the castle walls. Screaming out of the sky, a flock of hawks flew at the faces of the amazed archers. The rain of arrows faltered.

  A valiant band of men from Ragnar Castle scaled the walls, and leaped into the courtyard. Back to back, they fought their way slowly toward the gates. A second group of men smashed its way through a postern gate. They battled in the courtyard with Martun Hal’s men.

  Ferris Wulf said to Ege diCorsini, “They weaken. But still they outnumber us. We are losing too many men. Call him.”

  “Not yet,” Ege diCorsini said. He signaled. Men brought the ram up. Again and again they hurled it at the gates. But the gates held. The men in the courtyard fought, and died. The hawks attacked the archers again, and the archers turned their bows against the birds, and shot them out of the sky.

  A huge red hawk swooped to earth and became Jamis Delamico.

  “They are killing my sisters,” she said, and her eyes glittered with rage. “Why do you wait? Call him.”

  “Not yet,” said Ege diCorsini. “Look. We are through.” The ram broke through the gate. Shouting, men flung themselves at the breach, clawing at the gate with their hands. But there were many more defenders. They drove the diCorsini army back, and closed the gate, and braced it with barrels and wagons and lengths of wood.

  “Now,” said Ege diCorsini. He signaled the trumpeter. The trumpeter blew again.

  Then the dragon came. Huge, silver, deadly, he swooped upon the men of Serrenhold. His silver claws cut the air like scythes. He stooped his head, and his eyes glowed like fire. Fire trickled from his nostrils. He breathed upon the castle walls, and the stone hissed, and melted like snow in the sun. He roared. The sound filled the day, louder and more terrible than thunder. The archers’ fingers opened, and their bows clattered to the ground. The swordsmen trembled, and their legs turned to jelly. Shouting, the men of Ippa stormed over the broken gates, and into Serrenhold.

  They found the lord of the castle sitting in his hall, with his sword across his lap.

  “Come on,” he said, rising. “I am an old man. Come and kill me.”

  He charged them then, hoping to force them to kill him. But though he fought fiercely, killing two of them, and wounding three more, they finally disarmed him. Bruised and bloody, but whole, Martun Hal was bound, and marched at sword’s point out of his hall to the courtyard where the lords of Ippa stood.

  He bowed mockingly into their unyielding faces.

  “Well, my lords. I hope you are pleased with your victory. All of you together, and still it took dragon fire to defeat me.”

  Ferris Wulf scowled. But Ege diCorsini said, “Why should more men of Ippa die for you? Even your own people are glad the war is over.”

  “Is it over?”

  “It is,” diCorsini said firmly.

  Martun Hal smiled bleakly. “Yet I live.”

  “Not for long,” someone cried. And Ferris Wulf’s chief captain, whose home Martun Hal’s men had burned, stepped forward, and set the tip of his sword against the old man’s breast.

  “No,” said Ege diCorsini.

  “Why not?” said Ferris Wulf. “He killed your father.”

  “Whom would you put in his place?” Ege diCorsini said. “He is Serrenhold’s rightful lord. His father had three sons, but one is dead, and the other gone, who knows where. He has no children to succeed him. I would not reign in Serrenhold. It is a dismal place. Let him keep it. We will set a guard about his border, and restrict the number of soldiers he may have, and watch him.”

  “And when he dies?” said Aurelio Ragnarin.

  “Then we will name his successor.”

  Glaring, Ferris Wulf fingered the hilt of his sword. “He should die now. Then we could appoint a regent, one of our own captains, someone honorable, and deserving of trust.”

  Ege diCorsini said, “We could do that. But that man would never have a moment’s peace. I say, let us set a watch upon this land, so that Martun Hal may never trouble our towns and people again, and let him rot in this lifeless place.”

  “The Red Hawk clan will watch him,” Jamis Delamico said.

  And so it came to pass. Martun Hal lived. His weapons were destroyed; his war band, all but thirty men, was disbanded and scattered. He was forbidden to travel more than two miles from his castle. The lords of Ippa, feeling reasonably secure in their victory, went home to their castles, to rest and rebuild and prepare for winter.

  Ege diCorsini, riding east amid his rejoicing troops, made ready to attend a wedding. He was fond of his niece. His sister had assured him that the girl was absolutely determined to wed Iyadur Atani, and as for the flame-haired, flame-eyed dragon-lord, he seemed equally anxious for the match. Remembering stories he had heard, Ege diCorsini admitted, though only to himself, that Joanna’s husband was not the one he would have chosen for her. But no one had asked his opinion.

  The wedding was held at Derrenhold, and attended by all the lords of Ippa, except, of course Martun Hal. Rudolf diMako attended, despite the distance, but no one was surprised; there was strong friendship between the diMako and the Atani. Jamis Delamico came. The bride was pronounced to be astonishingly beautiful, and the bride’s mother almost as
beautiful. The dragon-lord presented the parents of his bride with gifts: a tapestry, a mettlesome stallion and a breeding mare from the Atani stables, a sapphire pendant, and a cup of beaten gold. The couple drank the wine. The priestess said the blessings.

  The following morning, Olivia diCorsini Torneo said farewell to her daughter. “I will miss you. Your father will miss you. You must visit often. He is older than he was, you know.”

  “I will,” Joanna promised. Olivia watched the last of her children ride away into the bright autumnal day. The two older girls were both wed, and Federico was not only wed but twice a father.

  I don’t feel like a grandmother, Olivia Torneo thought. Then she laughed at herself, and went inside to find her husband.

  And so there was peace in Ippa. The folk of Derrenhold and Mirrinhold and Ragnar ceased to look over their shoulders. They left their daggers sheathed and hung their battleaxes on the walls. Men who had most of their lives fighting put aside their shields and went home, to towns and farms and wives they barely remembered. More babies were born the following summer than had been born in the previous three years put together. The midwives were run ragged trying to attend the births. Many of the boys, even in Ragnar and Mirrinhold, were named Ege, or Roderico. A few of the girls were even named Joanna.

  Martun Hal heard the tidings of his enemies’ good fortune, and his hatred of them deepened. Penned in his dreary fortress, he took count of his gold. Discreetly, he let it be known that the lord of Serrenhold, although beaten, was not without resources. Slowly, cautiously, some of those who had served him before his defeat crept across the border to his castle. He paid them, and sent them out again to Derrenhold and Mirrinhold, and even—cautiously—into Iyadur Atani’s country.

  “Watch,” he said, “and when something happens, send me word.”

  As for Joanna Torneo Atani, she was as happy as she had known she would be. She adored her husband, and was unafraid of his changeling nature. The people of his domain had welcomed her. Her only disappointment, as the year moved from spring to summer and to the crisp cold nights of autumn again, was that she was childless.