The Dragoneer Trilogy

by Vickie Knestaut

  Paege looked at the man for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Trysten crouched and extended an open hand to the prisoner. He regarded her for a few seconds, and then grasped her hand. He glanced back at Paege quickly and then allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

  “Take Maejel to the weyr,” Trysten said to Paege.

  “Maejel?” the prisoner asked.

  “Yes. Maejel. We’re taking her to the weyr. We’re going to put both of you into a stall. It will be all right.”

  Paege replaced his sword and approached Maejel. The prisoner's eyes widened.

  “It’ll be all right,” Trysten repeated. She placed her hand upon the prisoner’s shoulder. He jumped at the touch, glanced at her quickly, then moved toward the dragon.

  Paege’s hand flashed to the hilt of his sword.

  “Easy,” Trysten said and held her hand out to Paege. “Give him the reins.”

  “Excuse me?” Paege asked.

  “The reins. Go get a harness, and then give him the reins. He’ll relax a bit. It’s not like he’s going to get on her and fly away.”

  “Because of you?”

  “Because of Elevera. She’s the alpha.”

  Paege’s attention went to the prisoner, then back to Trysten. “Shall I leave the torch with you?”

  She held out her hand. As she took the torch, two hordesmen ran up to her. Their hands went to the hilts of their swords when they saw the prisoner.

  “He’s under control,” Trysten called to them. “Have you made sure there are no others?”

  The hordesmen slowed their approach. “We’re looking now,” one of them said as he nodded to the darkness beyond the torch’s light. “But we haven’t seen anything unusual yet. Isn’t he one of the ones we captured before?”

  “He is. Make sure there are no others.”

  The hordesmen stood a few seconds longer and then retreated to the edge of the village.

  Trysten turned her attention to the prisoner, then pointed to his dragon. “Maejel.”

  The man nodded. “Maejel. Yallis bock.”

  She placed her hand over her heart. “Trysten.”

  “Trysten,” the man repeated.

  “Maejel,” Trysten said again and pointed to the dragon.

  “Maejel.”

  She pointed at herself again, then lifted her brows in what she hoped would be considered a questioning gesture.

  “Sa yalla,” the man said.

  She shook her head. “No. Trysten. Trys-ten.” She pointed to the dragon. “Maejel.” Then pointed to herself.

  “Trysten. Sa yalla.”

  Trysten jabbed her finger at her chest. “Trysten.” She then pointed at the dragon. “Maejel.” Then she pointed at the prisoner and lifted her eyebrows again.

  The prisoner regarded her for a second. “Rodden.”

  “Rodden?”

  The man nodded. He held his palm to his chest. “Rodden. Rodden lea nauchet wesliss yalleese domp.”

  “I pray that’s not your full name,” Trysten said.

  Rodden stared at her, almost expectantly.

  “Rodden,” Trysten said, then pointed at him.

  Rodden nodded. He then pointed at the dragon. “Maejel, yallis bock.” He pointed at Trysten. “Trysten, sa yalla.”

  “Yalla?” Trysten asked. “What does sa yalla mean?”

  “Sa yalla,” Rodden said with a nod. His gaze lowered a second, and he nearly bowed at the neck. “Sa yalla. Sa lea reem yallim.”

  A slight shiver passed over Trysten. Gooseflesh prickled her arms, and she was thankful for the long sleeves of the tunic.

  Paege returned with a harness and reins. As Rodden watched, Paege looped the harness around the dragon’s shoulders, then beneath her forelegs before buckling it. He then tied the reins to the metal loop over Maejel’s breast.

  “You sure about this?” Paege asked Trysten.

  “Where is he going to go?”

  As Paege handed the reins to Rodden, Prince Aymon called out Trysten’s name.

  She looked over her shoulder. The Prince stood in the entrance to his tent with Muzad hovering close behind. Prince Aymon leaned heavily upon a cane, and for a brief second, Trysten felt the same deep sympathy that took her by surprise when she looked at her father, his weight upon a staff instead of his twisted leg.

  “Is that truly one of the escaped prisoners you have there?” Prince Aymon called.

  “It is,” she called back, then turned her attention to Rodden. He looked at her with a stricken look upon his face, as if handing him Maejel’s reins had been a portent of grave danger. She placed a hand upon his shoulder and steered him around to the weyr.

  “Maejel,” she said, then jabbed her finger toward the weyr. “We’re taking Maejel to the weyr.”

  Rodden looked from the braided leather cord in his hand back to the face of his former dragon. His expression grew heavy, and for a moment, Trysten expected the man to toss away the cord and throw himself at the dragon’s feet.

  “Trysten!” Prince Aymon called. “I’d like a word with you. Now.”

  “It’ll have to wait,” Trysten called over her shoulder. “You can see I’m busy at the moment.”

  She nudged Rodden’s shoulder and pointed at the weyr again.

  Rodden turned back to Trysten, then bowed slightly again. His fist tightened over the leather cord until his knuckles blanched, and he trudged forward. Maejel fell in behind him, shuffling in the awkward manner of dragons on the ground, but it was not Rodden that she followed. It was Trysten, the Dragoneer.

  “Trysten!” Prince Aymon repeated.

  She held a finger up to the Prince. “In a bit, Aymon. I’m busy.”

  With Paege on one side and Trysten on the other, Rodden led the dragon across the yard. At the side door, the night watchman stood and stared. Borsal stepped out from behind the doorway. He started to plant his hands upon his hips, but then they fell limp to his side as his jaw dropped open.

  Trysten looked over her shoulder at the royal encampment. Prince Aymon had retreated back into his tent. She had not expected him to get out of his cot after taking an arrow in the thigh. With any luck, he’d remain in his tent for the rest of the night.

  As the three of them led Maejel into the weyr, Borsal stepped aside. “What is this?”

  “Which stall for this dragon?” Trysten asked.

  The night watchman pointed to the far end of the aisle, near the entrance to the hordesmen’s dining hall, where the courier dragons were usually kept. “Ulbeg’s stall,” he said, indicating the stall that had remained empty since Rast left in search of a translator.

  “What about Ulbeg’s stall?” Borsal asked. “What's going on?”

  Trysten placed a hand on Rodden’s shoulder and pointed to the end of the aisle. Rodden looked at the faces of the others and then gave a curt nod before leading his former dragon down the aisle.

  “We’re keeping him in here. In Ulbeg’s stall while it’s empty. I will post a guard at the stall at all hours, but he won’t be any trouble. I want him treated with the same respect and courtesy as we would show any dragon rider from another weyr."

  Borsal’s face grew red as he watched Rodden and Maejel shuffle away, Paege at their sides.

  “You still haven’t told me what is going on," Borsal said. "Is he not a prisoner now? Did we suddenly make peace with the Western kingdom while I was in my bunk?”

  Trysten stepped up to Borsal. “He allowed himself to be captured rather than leave his dragon. We can use his help right now. We need to be able to communicate with the Westerners now more than ever to find a way to bring an end to this cursed war.”

  Borsal looked from Maejel and Rodden to Trysten. “By the dragon’s breath, you’re dead serious aren’t you?”

  “Consider it an order, because it is.” Trysten nodded.

  Borsal’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. His face grew a more urgent shade of red, and then he shook his head. “All right, th
en. If you tell me there will be a guard on him from sunrise to sunrise, then fine. But how am I to care for the dragon?”

  “He will care for Maejel. You will provide him with the tools he needs and food and water for the dragon. As far as this weyr is concerned, he is a bonded rider. Treat him as such. But he is not to leave the stall. Find him a chamber pot. He will eat what the hordesmen eat, but he will eat in his stall. The weyrboys will serve his food and drink. Understood?”

  Borsal blinked, then shook his head. “And a blanket, then?” Borsal let out an exasperated sigh. “Right. A blanket then. I’ll go find that man a blanket and a pillow.”

  Borsal turned toward the equipment room beneath the Dragoneer’s den.

  “Borsal,” Trysten called.

  He stopped and turned back to her.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  In a move that surprised Trysten, Borsal grinned. “Don’t mention it, my lady. If all it takes to save this weyr from his countrymen is a blanket and a pillow, and a hot meal, then I’ll gladly be the first in line to serve him.”

  His grin echoed over Trysten’s face. Hopefully, this would go much smoother than she had anticipated.

  Trysten turned and asked the night watchman to get some food and water from the dining hall then resumed her place next to Rodden. The man gave her another grave look, full of fear and concern.

  “It’ll be all right,” Trysten said again. She attempted a reassuring smile, but it didn’t appear to convince Rodden.

  He glanced back at Maejel. The dragon stretched her neck out so that the tip of her jaw nearly rested on Rodden's shoulder. He turned away and continued to lead the dragon down the aisle.

  Trysten directed them into the stall. It was a bit cramped, as it had been built specifically for the smaller, male courier dragons, but it would do for their purposes. As Paege undid the harness, Rodden took Maejel's jaw up in his hands and placed his brow against the tip of her muzzle. He took a deep breath and appeared to recite something in quick, whispered words. The rolling cadence of speech nearly became a hum, a mesmerizing chant of sorts before he wrapped it up and looked into the great, brown eyes of his former mount.

  “Ah, Maejel,” the man whispered. His face flushed and his chest stilled as he held his breath. His throat bobbed with his effort to swallow the sorrow and torment hidden by his mask of resignation.

  Borsal stepped up to the half-wall that fronted the stall. “Here you are.” He presented a pile of wool blankets.

  “Thank you,” Trysten said. She took the blankets, then held them out toward Rodden to indicate they were his. He did not move, and so she placed them upon the straw.

  As she stood and turned back to Rodden, a quizzical look crossed his face. He looked at Maejel, planted a quick kiss upon the tip of her maw, and then turned his face to the vaulted ceiling.

  Trysten glanced up herself, and seeing nothing, looked at Rodden. He lifted his palms to the ceiling, as if presenting something, and with his attention still on something above, he knelt, lowered his hands, and hung his head, his neck extended. He looked for all the world like a man awaiting his execution.

  “What’s he doing?” Borsal asked.

  “Preparing to die,” Paege offered.

  “Trysten!” Borsal snapped.

  “We’re not going to kill him!” Trysten said. “I forbid it. In fact, keep Muzad and his men out of here and away from him. That is an order, no exceptions.”

  “Well, why does he think he is going to die, then?” Borsal asked.

  “Because that is what he would probably do if the situation were reversed,” Paege said.

  “Paege!” Trysten gasped.

  He looked up from Rodden to Trysten. “What? Why else would this occur to him? Why else would he think that he had to prepare to die like this? This must be how they do it in the West.”

  Trysten looked to the man, and her heart nearly broke to see him there upon his knees. What kind of monsters did Rodden think they were?

  That was it. “They think we’re the monsters,” Trysten said.

  “Us?” Borsal asked.

  “Us,” Trysten said with a nod. “He thinks that we will kill him and his dragon not because that is what they would do, but because that is what monsters do.”

  Borsal snorted. “Monsters attack unbidden. It is not us who invades their kingdom year after year. If they think we’re the monsters, then they’d do well to stay away from the mountain passes.”

  “Unless they think that what they’re doing is protecting their homes. What if they think that they have to keep us on the defensive to keep us from going through the passes into their kingdom?”

  “That’s a load of dry dragon manure,” Borsal scoffed. “Not a single horde from our lands has ever crossed those passes. We stay here and defend our own. We don’t go after them. If they didn’t come for us, there’d be no fighting season. It is the West that causes us to fight.”

  Trysten took a deep breath. She turned to Borsal. “Well, that is why we have to learn how to speak with this man. We have to find out why they keep attacking us. Whatever the reason is, something has changed. Never before have they sent an army after us. We have to find out the reason so that we can address it.”

  Borsal shook his head. “Well, in five days, it’ll hardly matter, will it?”

  Trysten turned back to Rodden. The man fought hard to conceal a tremble that ran through his arms, causing his shoulders to shudder.

  “It might be all that matters,” Trysten said.

  “This is all I could find on short notice,” the night watchman said as he exited the dining hall. He carried a tray that held a bowl of cold hare stew, a quarter loaf of bread, and a pitcher of water.

  “That will be fine. Thank you,” Trysten said as she took the tray from him. “You can resume your duties now, and thank you again.”

  The night watchman nodded and smiled. His attention slipped to Rodden, and his smile faded before he started up the ladder to the bell tower where he would resume peering into the dark for signs of trouble.

  “Paege,” Trysten said, and then motioned with her head for him to leave.

  Paege stepped out of the stall but did not go far.

  Trysten crouched before the prisoner. “Rodden,” she said. “This is for you.”

  He looked up at her, and then down to the food. His jaw shifted and tightened. He had to be hungry. There wasn’t much to eat in the plains if one didn’t escape with rod and hook or bow and arrow.

  She placed the tray before him, then stood and backed away.

  “Beck he?” Rodden asked as he laid a hand upon his chest.

  “Eat,” Trysten said, then motioned at the tray.

  Rodden stared at the food for a few seconds more, then picked up the bowl and began to slurp at the stew.

  Trysten grinned at the gusto with which the man ate.

  Chapter 3

  “Trysten!” Prince Aymon shouted.

  Trysten groaned. She and Rodden looked toward the middle of the weyr to see Prince Aymon limping down the aisle. His face creased with pain each time his weight landed on his left foot. Muzad and Jurdun, now commander of the Royal Horde, walked on either side of the Prince.

  She sighed and looked at Borsal. “Please find exactly one stool, and no more, for our guests.”

  Borsal did his best to bury a wicked grin and then went off to fulfill her request.

  “It’s good to see you on your feet, Aymon,” Trysten said as she exited the stall. “I was afraid your wound was quite serious.”

  “I cannot believe this!” Prince Aymon growled as he approached. “You have re-captured one of my prisoners, and you dared—”

  “My prisoner, Aymon,” Trysten said as she jabbed a finger at her breastbone. “He escaped from you. I captured him. He’s mine now, and he will be treated as I see fit. Is that clear?”

  “And how is it he will be treated? As an honored guest? I can't believe I'm seeing this! You mean to tell
me that you have put him up in the weyr with your own dragon as if he was a dragon rider from another weyr?”

  “He is a dragon rider from another weyr. And I will do my best to get on his good side, to show him some respect because I need to learn how to talk with him. We must learn their language if we are going to survive this fighting season.”

  Prince Aymon shook his head. His face twisted into a grimace of distaste as he stopped several feet before Trysten. “What are you talking about? We don’t need him to survive the season. We have royal reinforcements on the wing, and they will be here any day. Once they arrive, our forces will be great enough that the Western army will not stand a chance even with their spear launchers.”

  “And then what?” Trysten asked. “We just sit back, lick our wounds, and wait for the next army to come rolling down out of the mountains? Maybe we spend our time hoping that they don’t have a new weapon even more devastating than the spear launchers?”

  Prince Aymon scoffed. “How little you know of warfare. Once we defeat this army, there won’t be a second one. When word gets back to the Westerners that their army was turned back before it could even reach the first village, they will think twice before sending another. My father will establish a garrison in The Wilds, near the mouth of the Gul Pass to monitor any enemy activity. If another army tries to move through the pass, word will be sent to the kingdom by courier dragon to send immediate reinforcements. This situation will not be repeated.”

  “So that's your best idea?" Trysten challenged. "The Western army has drastically changed strategy. They have weapons and tactics we've not seen before. And all you're going to do is set up a lookout, so we know sooner the next time they come. You aren’t the least bit concerned about the why?”

  “They sense weakness in our land,” Muzad snorted.

  Prince Aymon lifted a hand to silence Muzad even before Trysten shot him a glare. The Prince drew in a deep breath and then shifted his weight. It was apparent that he was in a lot of pain.

  Trysten looked around and found Borsal waiting near Sone’s stall with a three-legged stool clutched in his hand. Trysten motioned for him.