The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  Her momentum almost carried her past the still form lying in the wet grass. Then she was on her knees beside Linden, gently raising his head, her dirk cast aside. A ball of coldfire—the light she had seen—glowed weakly a foot or so above the Dragonlord’s still form. His face looked waxen in its sickly light.

  She gathered him into her arms. He lay a heavy, limp burden against her. Maurynna went half mad with fear, certain that he was dead. But then, with a gasping effort that nearly pulled him from her embrace, he breathed. She tightened her arms around him; holding him close, she begged, “Linden! Linden, what happened? What did they do to you?”

  She thought he tried to speak, but no sound came. Maylin, slipping and sliding in the wet grass, dropped to her knees on the other side of Linden.

  “What’s wrong with him? Was he stabbed?” asked Maylin.

  “I don’t know. Help me look.”

  With Maylin supporting him, Maurynna slid her hand beneath Linden’s tunic. But there were no wounds, nothing to explain his condition. His skin was clammy, but that was no more than to be expected in this weather. Or was it? Maurynna paused with her hand over Linden’s heart. It hammered under her palm, its rhythm ragged and uneven. Was he ill, then? She could smell wine, but surely he wasn’t drunk. Then, ever so faintly, she caught the scent of woods lily.

  While she tried to think, she unpinned her cloak and wrapped it around the too-still Dragonlord. She took him back from Maylin to rest against her.

  “Rynna, what—?”

  Her frustration and fear overwhelmed her. “Maylin, hush! Let me think what to do!” Maurynna sobbed. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Think! Think! Think!

  Her mind spun in circles like a child’s top. Then came the memory of Healer Tasha’s sympathetic face. Maurynna’s panic fled before the thought of the ginger-haired Healer.

  But what if this were some illness only Dragonlords get? Tasha could do nothing then. But a dragon’s healing fire …

  “Mayiin—you’ve got to get the other Dragonlords. They’ll know what to do. I’ll stay here with Linden.”

  For a moment she thought her cousin would protest leaving her. But Maylin, bless her, stood and said, “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Here—in case those men come back. It would just trip me.”

  The short sword fell next to Maurynna’s leg. The next moment Maylin swirled the cloak from her shoulders and draped it over Linden’s legs.

  Before she could insist Maylin keep it, the younger girl disappeared into the darkness. Maurynna prayed the ferry was still running; with all the rain the river must be rising fast.

  She pulled Linden closer, trying to warm him with her body, ignoring the rain soaking through her clothes. Cradling Linden’s head on her shoulder and stroking his rain-drenched hair, she murmured encouragement as he struggled for each rasping breath.

  “Hold on, Linden—please. Maylin will be back soon and she’ll bring help. Please. Please,” she begged in an agony of fear.

  The ball of the coldfire sank closer to the ground. She guessed it would not leave unless Linden dismissed it—or died. Maurynna watched its feeble pulsing with dread, dying a thousand deaths every time the light flickered and threatened to go out. Each time it returned. But how much longer could it last?

  Maylin ran along the bank of the road, her lips pressed against the pain of the stitch in her side. She could hear the river now, the murmur of voices, the thud of feet on wood. A sudden blaze of lightning showed her the ferrymen making ready to cast off.

  Thunder rolled down the river valley, drowning out her cries. She shut her mouth so as not to waste her breath any more and ran harder. The moment the peal ended she screamed, “Wait! Wait!”

  But the men didn’t hear. The first stepped into the barge and took his place at one long oar. Maylin bit her lip and from somewhere found strength for a final burst of speed.

  The second man cast the rope into the ferry and pushed off from the landing, jumping into the boat as he did. He looked around at the sound of feet on wood. The first ferryman half rose from his oar.

  “What the bloody—?” he yelled as Maylin flung herself from the landing and fell sprawling in the bottom of the boat. The next moment the river caught the ferry and the men had to look to the oars or be swamped.

  Maylin pressed her face against the boards and ignored the cursing above—and at—her, concentrating only on getting her breath back.

  A kick roused her. She sat up, pushing her sodden brown curls back from her face, her lower lip jutting out in anger.

  “Fool cow! Coulda fallen in the river an’ been drownded!” the older of the two men snarled at her as he pulled on his oar. “Ought to charge you double for—”

  “I don’t have any money,” she said.

  The other man swore. “Gaw, Yattil, bloody little baggage thinks she be getting across for nothin’, then? Ought to throw you in, you thievin’ bitch, tryin’ to cheat honest men!”

  Maylin rolled out of the way of a second kick and came up on her knees. Then the temper that was so well hidden by the gentle eyes and round face blazed up. Whenever small, soft-spoken Maylin lost that temper, it startled whoever was its target. These men were no exception. They jumped, almost forgetting to row, when Maylin blasted them.

  “How dare you!” she raged. “How dare you! Keep your hands off of me, you fools, and listen. Delay me and likely your thick heads will part company with the rest of you, do you hear? This is life or death for Linden Rathan.”

  The ferrymen gaped at each other. “What do you mean?” Yattil asked sharply. “The young Dragonlord went over a while back now—”

  “That’s right,” said Maylin. “Someone ambushed him. My cousin is with him now. I’m going to get the other Dragonlords to help him.”

  Yattil stared at her as he rowed, obviously not believing and not daring to disbelieve. Then, deciding to err on the side of caution, he asked, “What happened?”

  Maylin took a moment to weigh how much she should tell, decided to leave Maurynna’s premonitions out of the tale. She related her story between the peals of thunder. “We—my cousin and I—are friends of the Yerrin bard Otter Heronson, who is Linden Rathan’s friend. Otter’s staying with my family, the Vanadins. We’re merchants.”

  The men nodded and looked relieved; they’d obviously heard of either Otter or her family. She was glad they didn’t ask why Otter was staying with them rather than the Dragonlord. She hadn’t figured out why either.

  Before they could have time to think of objections, Maylin continued, “Linden Rathan was supposed to meet … When he didn’t come, we went looking for him. Rynna and I found him not far from the ferry. Two men were bending over him. Rynna scared them off.” Maylin paused, shuddering, remembering the rage in Maurynna’s voice as her cousin had charged.

  She scared me as well! I thought only dragons could be that fierce.

  “Now I need to get the other Dragonlords. Linden Rathan is badly hurt or ill. They can help him.”

  The men looked at each other. Then Yattil nodded and they bent harder to the oars. Maylin doubted the old ferry had ever moved so quickly.

  She crawled past the men to the prow and hunched there, cold, miserable, and scared, willing the far bank to come into sight. The rain stung her through the thin fabric of her tunic.

  Gods help us, she thought. Let him still be alive. Then, from deep inside, How in blazes did Rynna know something was wrong?

  She curled up tighter against the boat, weighing all the evidence and possibilities in her “orderly merchant’s mind” as her mother had often teased her. For this would require a great deal of thinking—mostly to get around the fantastic idea lurking at the back of her thoughts.

  As the storm moved closer, Maurynna prayed as she never had before in her life, not even as she had prayed by her mother’s deathbed. She had been only a child then, too young to understand what death truly meant. Now she did. And the thought of losing Linden terrified her.

/>   She pressed her cheek against his forehead. His breathing seemed a little easier now and he felt warmer. She dared to let herself hope.

  He stirred in her arms. She tilted his head so that she could see his face. His eyes opened like a reluctant waker’s: slitting open, shutting again, then the eyelids struggling to open fully. He stared at her with terror-filled eyes.

  “Linden?” she whispered. “It’s Maurynna.”

  Her heart nearly broke at the look in his eyes. Then recognition dawned in them. He whispered something she didn’t catch.

  “What? What did you say?” Maurynna said. “Linden, who did this to you?”

  He spoke again. She bent her head to catch his words, but all she heard was “Questions. Ask … questions.” Then he snuggled into her shoulder. The trust in the gesture made her forget how cold and miserable she was.

  The next moment a spasm nearly wrenched him from her embrace and his breathing turned harsh and uneven once more. To Maurynna’s relief, the fit subsided as abruptly as it began.

  She rearranged the cloaks that he had dislodged, worried at how quickly he’d grown cold again. Once more she braced him against her shoulder and wondered if Maylin was across the river yet.

  And still the walk to where the Dragonlords are staying. I hope she doesn’t get lost.

  The thought of delay frightened Maurynna so much she scolded herself for borrowing trouble. Maylin wouldn’t fail her; all she had to do was be patient. The rumbling thunder mocked her as the lightning danced gaily across the sky.

  By the third convulsive fit Maurynna had learned the signs preceding them: a short gasp for breath followed by a quivering rigidity in the muscles. Then the bone-wrenching shaking and desperate gasping for air.

  Her arms turned heavy and leaden with the strain of supporting Linden’s weight. And the fits were coming closer and closer together. Once more Maurynna slid a hand under Linden’s tunic. She was no Healer, but the arrhythmic beating of his heart frightened her, now hammering like someone with a high fever, now skipping beats.

  And Maylin still had to find the Dragonlords’ estate.

  Gods—please help us!

  The boat pitched and rolled in the water. The silence of the ferrymen had a grim edge to it now. Maylin looked back as they struggled to keep the boat from shipping too much water. It strained against the thick rope it ran along as if fighting to be free, to seek the ocean not far away.

  Stupid thing, Maylin thought to the boat as once more she strained her eyes searching the darkness ahead. You’d not last the length of a sea chantey before turning turtle. Be happy with your river.

  It seemed they were barely moving at all now. Maylin cursed steadily under her breath and gripped the rail as if that would hurry the boat on.

  A huge bolt of lightning tore the night apart. Maylin squeaked in surprise. But the sudden flare had shown her the landing not far ahead—and a rider waiting upon the landing.

  She pressed her lips together. Whoever the servant was—he had to be a servant; no lord would forsake the comfort of his hearth this night—he could forget his original plans. She had more important things for him to do. She just hoped he wouldn’t waste too much time arguing.

  The landing was only a few feet away now. She rose to a crouch. The moment the prow thudded against the sloped landing she leaped from the boat.

  “You! she cried.”Take me up with you! I must find the Dragonlords.”

  The cloaked and hooded rider made no motion.

  Maylin stamped a foot in frustration. “Are you deaf, man? Hurry!” She scowled up at him, wondering if she could dump him from the saddle and take the horse. Not likely, considering her height. She’d have to bully him. “You fool—listen to me!”

  “I am,” the rider said calmly. “And if you are truly looking for the Dragonlords, why then—”

  He swept the hood back from his head, and with the same six-fingered hand brought forth a ball of light from the air. He leaned down.

  “You’ve found one,” said Kief Shaeldar. “Now—what is this about?”

  Forty-seven

  Maylin stared open-mouthed at Kief Shaeldar. Before she could gather her wits, he caught the ball of coldfire and brought it down to illuminate her face.

  “I know you,” he said. “You’re the one with the little girl that Linden waves to each morning.” Then, sharply, “Now what is this about? Be quick, girl, for I must cross the river.”

  He looked out across the Uildodd, frowning. It was plain he barely tolerated her delay.

  Another bolt of lightning and a long, rumbling peal of thunder gave Maylin time to find her tongue. She said, “My—my cousin knows Linden Rathan. She knew something was wrong—I don’t know how—but—”

  He cut her off. “Your cousin? She ‘knew something was’—Of course—Maurynna!”

  Maylin nodded. All at once his entire being was focused on her with an intensity that frightened her. She spared a moment to wonder why Maurynna’s name would invoke such a change in the Dragonlord, then poured forth her tale.

  She had barely finished when Kief Shaeldar jumped down from his horse. He turned as if to run to the open area before the landing, and then stopped.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” he snarled. “Not enough room to Change! Ferrymen—can you cross one more time?”

  “If we hurry, Dragonlord—the river she’s rising fast! But yon horse’ll be too much weight.”

  With the speed of a striking snake Kief Shaeldar caught her up and set her upon the horse. Too surprised to protest, Maylin snatched the reins he threw at her. Before she could speak he had jumped into the ferry. At once it receded into the darkness; Kief Shaeldar’s voice called out of the night, “I hope you can ride, girl! Follow the coldfire.”

  Stunned, Maylin nodded, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t possibly see her. Or could he? The tales said that Dragonlords’ eyes were sharper than truehumans’.

  She looked up at the ball of coldfire as it revolved slowly in the air before her and swallowed hard. “Lead on, then,” she told it.

  The coldfire obediently drifted along the track. Maylin backed the horse and turned it. It seemed a well-mannered, willing animal; she hoped it wouldn’t spook at the stirrups swinging loose against its belly. Small as he was compared to Linden Rathan, Kief Shaeldar was still much longer of leg than she.

  But the horse seemed not to mind as it ambled along. Bereft now of her mission and its all-consuming urgency, Maylin suddenly realized just how cold, wet, and miserable she was. Each drop of rain seemed determined to slide down her tunic’s neck. She hunched her shoulders and shivered. The night was vast and empty around her; only the coldfire seemed cheerful as it bobbed along.

  She wanted to kick it; nothing should be that blithe on a night like this with all that was happening.

  Maylin was half asleep and nodding in the saddle when she realized that what she had taken for distant thunder was in truth the pounding of horses’ hooves on the road ahead of her. At first she thought that the group of riders drawing closer carried torches and wondered how they kept them lit in this downpour. Then she realized that the “torches” were more balls of coldfire. Her own guide abandoned her and raced to join the newcomers.

  One rider stopped before her. The others formed a ring around her.

  She looked into the glittering blue eyes of Tarlna Aurianne. At the Dragonlord’s gesture, one of the other riders flung a cloak about Maylin’s shoulders. She huddled into it gratefully, rubbing the fur-lined softness against her cheek. Another rider offered her a skin of wine. She drank, the hot spiced wine warming her as much as the cloak.

  When Maylin returned the skin, Tarlna Aurianne leaned forward and studied her. Maylin shifted uneasily; she’d been teased too many times about the odd-colored eyes she shared with Maurynna.

  But Tarlna Aurianne only smiled and murmured, “Yes, you would be kin. You have the look about you.”

  Confused, Maylin said, “Um—aside from the eyes I don’t look t
hat much like Maurynna.”

  Tarlna Aurianne’s mouth quirked. “It’s there for those that can see, child.” She sounded amused. “You’ve done much for us tonight. The least we can do is offer you a warm bed and dry clothes. Come along.”

  The coldfire was barely glowing now. Maurynna ignored the tears and rain flowing down her cheeks and gently wiped blood from Linden’s face. During his last fit—the worst yet—he’d bitten his lip. Fearing that he would bite his tongue next, she slashed a strip from the bottom of her tunic and forced the folded cloth between his teeth.

  Could he have the falling sickness? she wondered. One of her childhood playmates had had it. But Naille’s fits never lasted this long that I can recall. She wished she could remember more about it.

  The muddy plop-plop of a horse’s hooves on the road startled her. Linden’s attackers were returning! She laid him down and grabbed Maylin’s sword since it was closer. But her legs had fallen asleep; she fell as she tried to stand. Cursing herself for a fool, she knelt before Linden, teeth bared, determined to take at least one of them with her.

  It wasn’t until she was tucked into the most luxurious bed she could imagine, a hot brick wrapped in flannel comforting her cold feet, that Maylin remembered Maurynna had never said anything about meeting the other Dragonlords—just Linden.

  Tarlna Aurianne doesn’t know what Rynna looks like—so how could she know whether I have the “look” of kin or not?

  Her earlier speculations from the barge bounded back into her mind, clamoring to be noticed like a pack of unruly puppies.

  I shan’t, she told them firmly, pay any attention to you. You’re nothing but moonshine.

  She turned them out again, rolled onto her side, and fell asleep.

  “Halloooooo! Rynna! Rynna—are you there?”