When Dragons Rage

by Michael A. Stackpole

  She stretched out, leaning forward on one hand, so she could close her other over both his hand and the ring. “Then keep it. Wear it. This is what I want.”

  “Yes.”

  Alexia raised her face to his and brushed her lips over his. That brief caress, barely felt, sent a thrill through her. It wasn’t until that moment that she knew she’d intended to kiss him, and wanted to do so again.

  Crow pulled back, his lips parted, his right hand coming up to caress her left cheek. “Highness . . .”

  “Shhhhh, no talking.” She rubbed her cheek against his palm, then turned her head and kissed it. Her violet eyes looked up. “Tonight I want, I need, to be held by you. I need your strength, your warmth. I need you.”

  “Princess . . .”

  “I said ‘no talking.’ ” She smiled and kissed him again, properly this time. “The consort of an Okrans Princess would never think of contradicting her.”

  Crow wordlessly caressed her left cheek, then sank his fingers into her hair and pulled her mouth to his for a deeper kiss. Their tongues tangled, caressed, and explored.

  Alexia broke the kiss reluctantly, but continued to smile as she pulled back to look up into his eyes. “Now, my consort, join me in my bed. Many nights I have been denied the comforts of my husband’s arms and I desire greatly to make up for that lost time.”

  CHAPTER 33

  K ing Scrainwood sat on his throne, watching Cabot Marsham lead Lady Norrington and her insipid son away to their chambers. Good-hearted, nice, loyal. Scrainwood found Kenleigh only slightly more tolerable than the sycophantic Marsham, but Marsham was so much more useful.

  Scrainwood would house the visitors from Valsina for several days while he considered whether or not he would actually grant them the lands he’d given to the whoreget thief. The legalities of the whole thing mattered not to him. There were legalities and regalities, and he’d always found the latter took precedence.

  “You might as well grant them the lands, Highness.” Tatyana stepped from Linchmere’s shadow. “The boy will be grateful, and his mother might well warm your bed tonight.”

  “If you read my thoughts so easily, you truly are the witch they say you are.” Scrainwood snorted and looked at his son. “You may leave us. None of this will interest you.”

  Tatyana grabbed hold of Linchmere’s sleeve as he started to retreat. “Highness, he should hear. There will come a day when he needs to know what passes between us.”

  The King of Oriosa looked over at his second son. The man’s bovine brown eyes displayed little comprehension. He recalled when his boy had been keen and bright-eyed, eager to learn—a happy, laughing child. Then his mother drowned and life drained from him. “Very well, Linchmere. Stay. Learn. Say nothing, now or ever.”

  His son, silently and unceremoniously, plunked himself down on the floor and picked at the lacings on his shoes.

  Tatyana moved forward, momentarily eclipsing the prince, then stepped onto the carpet and turned to face the king. “I have, of course, no more love for what has transpired here than you. The subversion of justice that resulted in Crow’s release is only made palatable by the fact that the treason charges can later be reinstated and he can be detained at any time. That was very clever.”

  Scrainwood bowed his head. “I am not without resources when it comes to dealing with legalities, Grand Duchess.”

  “I see that, Highness.” Her cold eyes glittered. “I would suppose that your use of this stratagem was in response to pressure placed upon you? Augustus threatened invasion? A regency for your son?”

  The king shivered with recollection of the confrontation. “I won certain other concessions.”

  “Yes?”

  “Indeed.”

  She looked at him intently, as if her blue eyes could compel him to tell her of the fragment of the Dragon Crown now housed in the vaults of his palace.

  He snorted. “No, Grand Duchess, nothing that should concern you, nor will it. Suffice it to say, Alcidese troops will not bespoil my lands. If Augustus’ troops are to head north, they will do so by ship or a long march through Saporicia.”

  Tatyana laughed, then turned to look at Linchmere. “Learn from your father, for he is a master at playing both ends against the middle. Chytrine leaves him his nation because he has harbored her troops and allowed them some passage south. Augustus does not attack because of the fearful toll you Oriosans would take on his people. Were either to overstep the bounds of his agreements with them, he would turn to the other for succor. Well played, this game will retain his realm for him, and for you or your children.”

  Linchmere looked up, his mouth open and jaw slackened at her words.

  Scrainwood put an edge in his voice. “Grand Duchess, speak to me. You freely accuse me of treason against the Southlands, but would not any other action consist of treason against my own nation? The news from Muroso is grim. Sebcia has fallen. Chytrine will have troops roaming into Sarengul, with Alosa and Nybal marshaling their forces on their mountain borders. She pours into Muroso. From there she has a choice, Oriosa or Saporicia, and I much prefer her fighting to the west than turning my nation into a long corridor to Alcida.”

  The grand duchess turned back toward him. A smile curved her lips but never escaped to infect the rest of her face. “Your grasp of strategy is laudable, Highness. So, the question becomes, then, if you will move your troops north, to Valsina, then drive west to choke off Aurolani supply lines. A sharp stroke north and west would close the Sebcian border, leaving Alcidese, Saporician, and Loquelven troops to crush her host against the anvil of your troops and Bokagul.”

  “Ha! And leave my troops caught between her retreating forces and the reinforcements streaming down from the north?” Scrainwood stood and shook his head. “I am not a fool, woman. I thought we had established that. What you suggest is the task to which heroes aspire. I have no such aspiration.”

  “I would do it, Father.”

  “What?” Scrainwood looked down at his son. “You would do what?”

  “I would lead our troops to smash the Northern Empress.” His dark eyes brightened. “We have very good troops, Father. We could march north and have them poised, just as she said.”

  “Have you heard nothing I said, Linchmere?” Scrainwood threw his arms wide. “There you are, intent on covering yourself with glory, without thinking for a moment of your nation. You want to be a hero? I have known heroes.”

  He looked at Tatyana. “I remember your grandnephew, Kirill. I remember him being a hero, and a grand one he was. He fought so hard, and he wept when we fired Svarskya. And he fought hard at Fortress Draconis, but what did it get him? He was slain; in an instant he was smashed against a wall.

  “Is that what you want, my son? Do you want some divot in a wall somewhere to run with your blood? Do you want your mask, gore-soaked and stained with your brains, brought to me by ragged refugees fleeing the horde Chytrine would send to punish me? Because that would be how I remembered you as Chytrine’s creatures hunted me. And all this just so you can be a hero?”

  Linchmere looked down. “But Erlestoke is loved.”

  “Erlestoke is dead!” The king snarled, balling his right fist and slamming it against his thigh. “Have you come to gloat over that, witch? The alliance you offered, marrying your Alexia off to my Erlestoke, now cannot be. Even if she were not maintaining this fraud of a marriage to Crow, would she take Linchmere here? Of course not. Have you any minor nobles who would take him? No, they would not. So, the future of my nation is doomed, but I choose not to hasten its death with some futile act of heroism.”

  Linchmere lifted his chin. “How do you know it would be futile, Father? Our troops are good.”

  “Yes, of course they are good, son, very good.” Scrainwood shook his head. “You are letting that little thief’s words get into your mind, but he knew nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. How good our people are has no significance. Chytrine has dragonels. You have seen such things at Fortress Draconi
s, I know you have. When you were younger they might have delighted you, but now you must know what they do. It is more than bowling a rock through ranks of lead soldiers. They tear people apart.”

  In an instant Scrainwood found the past merging with the present. Again he stood in the throne room, but the old throne room, the one he had changed so he could forget. He stood there, his mother’s head in his hands. Her eyes stared up at him, her lips still working, as her blood dripped through his fingers. He tried to read her lips, wanting to know what her last words for him were, but he could not make them out.

  He opened his hands and watched her head fall away. Her expression screwed up into one of pure rage, then her head hit the marble floor. It exploded as if it were rotten fruit. He leaped back, surprised that he could only hear the sound of his boots scraping on stone.

  Tatyana looked up matter-of-factly, neither concern nor curiosity on her face. “What is it, Highness?”

  “Probably your doing, witch.” Scrainwood wiped his hands on his tunic, then glanced down at his son. “Leave us, now.”

  The boy—what am I thinking, he is a man, has long been a man—stood. “Father, I have never asked you for anything but this. Let me lead our troops . . .”

  “Ha!” The king curled a lip back in disgust. “That fool of a Norrington might think Oriosans noble and kind, and the sort to soften at such a heartfelt appeal. In some faery tale, son, I would grant you your request. You would be victorious, then would return here and I would bless you for your efforts, but that is a fancy, Linchmere. You will lead no Oriosan troops. I will never grant you that leave. In fact, I expressly forbid it. Now, go!”

  The prince stalked from the room, disappearing behind the folds of the mask-curtain. Tatyana watched him leave, then turned back to Scrainwood. “This is your course, then, to balance on the edge of a knife until circumstances force you to choose one side or the other?”

  “There is no other course open to me, and you know that. I cannot stand alone against Chytrine. If she threatens to come into Oriosa, then we shall be overrun from the south and east. If I ally with her, the same thing will happen from the other direction.” The king mounted the steps to his throne again and seated himself. “It is a sore position in which I am placed.”

  “It is a dangerous game you play, but one I understand.” Tatyana’s eyes tightened. “If you ally with Chytrine, Okrannel will hate you.”

  “Another burden. You have no nation, and what few troops you have raised are back in your homeland fighting beneath a Jeranese general. The hatred of your nation will sting me, but I will endure it.” He paused. “Have you something to offer me, or shall I bare my back so you may scourge me as you will?”

  “I offer you, once again, Okrannel’s hand in friendship, Highness. I offer you a plan.”

  “Yes, and that would be?”

  “Okrannel and Oriosa are held in pity and contempt. The Okrans people are the human Vorquelves, yet we are regaining our homeland with the help of others. We will be under an obligation to show our strength and our gratitude. What I propose is simple, and requires nothing but staying on your present course.”

  Scrainwood raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. “I am listening.”

  “The further south Chytrine drives, the longer her lines of supply. The situation you have seen is true; a deft strike will cut her troops off and let them wither to the south. But her successful campaign will demand more and more troops, which will leave her fewer and fewer with which to defend Okrannel. Once my homeland is free, my warriors will come here to Oriosa. Together our troops will strike, with my Alexia at their head. Together our nations shall destroy the Aurolani host.”

  “You suppose many things, Grand Duchess. There are many ifs before a then in your plan.”

  The old woman shook her head. “No, no, this is not supposition at all. Alexia herself will guarantee it. When she undertook her dream raid in Okrannel, she dreamed well. She dreamed of a series of battles that she would lead, in Saporicia and Muroso. They all led to a grand battle in which Chytrine’s forces were crushed. She was exalted above all commanders, and glory was showered upon her and her nation.”

  The light flashing in Tatyana’s eyes did surprise Scrainwood, for none of that animation made it to the leathery flesh of her face. He could tell that she fervently believed in the dreams, and the strength of that belief played into her voice. Her words almost made him believe himself.

  “I fail to hear how Oriosa benefits, Grand Duchess.”

  Tatyana’s eyes resumed their usual cold blue fire. “Her allies are lauded as well, Highness, and her dreams tell of bold masked troops intervening at a crucial point in the battle. Your troops, Highness, clearly.”

  Scrainwood thought for a moment, then snorted. “This is the new game, then? We have a Vork prophecy that starts everything, and now the dream of some Okrans princess will end it? And what lies between fantasy and dream?”

  “Nightmares, Highness; horrible nightmares.” Tatyana smiled thinly. “But there is always winter before spring, dark before dawn. Join with me, and the dawn shall be as bright as it can be.”

  Dawn. When we execute those who would play at treason. The King of Oriosa slowly nodded. “Through nightmares then, to awake again at dawn.”

  CHAPTER 34

  W ith the thunder of the discharging quadnels echoing loudly, Erlestoke leaped through the smoke and fire. The sword had drained the world of color again, so that the crawl to his left had black ink splashing from two hideous quadnel wounds, not red blood. It heightened other perceptions. A vylaen fell back with half its skull blown off. The grey fluid spattering those behind soaked torpidly into their fur.

  The first of the gibberers bearing the heavy crate his squad had come to steal looked up. Surprise registered starkly on its face; Erlestoke’s saber slashed through that dumbfounded expression. As that gibberer reeled away and his corner of the ironbound oak case dipped toward the ground, Erlestoke’s saber came up and around, then down, cleaving cleanly through the arm of another gibberer. It howled piteously and stumbled away, clutching the pulsing stump to its chest. The front of the case slammed into the ground, though two other gibberkin still held up the back end.

  The Oriosan Prince leaped forward again, planting both feet on the case. The added weight bent the other two gibberers. The saber whistled down, opening the one on the right from mid-spine to crown. The other made to draw its longknife, but a quadnel shot blasted heavily into its chest, knocking it backward.

  Erlestoke stepped lightly forward, as if he were at a ball. He could feel the saber’s pernicious influence in the way he moved and what he was thinking. He had a mission, which was to steal the item in that case, and that was far more important than his life—or any life. The mission was as foolhardy as it was desperate, but it was even more vital.

  Through the smoke, one of the cloaked figures came toward him. Up close it looked much bigger than it had before and, to complicate matters, the saber’s magick appeared to be muted in its presence.

  Doesn’t matter. I was a warrior long before I had an enchanted sword.

  The creature came on swiftly, not running, but with long strides that ate up ground. Behind it came a cadre of crawls, gibberers, and even a few vylaens. The human prisoners who had worked on the dig held back. Chained together, they could have done nothing anyway—though Erlestoke decided their reluctance to join in was more than just a practical consideration.

  The prince closed with the cloaked figure and realized almost too late that it had to be nearly ten feet tall. He slashed at it crossways, looking to open its belly, but its left hand came out and down, sweeping from beneath the cloak. Erlestoke caught a hint of some sort of scaled armor on the forearm and expected the blade to shear through it.

  To his surprise, it did not.

  The creature’s left arm came around and over, then its long-fingered hand closed over the saber’s forte. With a single tug, the cloaked figure ripped the blade from his hand—so
swiftly that Erlestoke’s glove came with it. Then the creature’s right hand emerged from the cloak and slammed an open-palm blow square into Erlestoke’s chest.

  A hideous crack rippled through him and the prince flew backward, landing heavily on Jullagh-tse as she dragged the case away. She went down hard and the case slewed around. She shoved Erlestoke from her, her clawed feet scrabbling for traction.

  Erlestoke rolled forward and flopped on his back. His chest ached with each breath, and only keeping them shallow prevented the pain from spiking. He got his elbows under him and started to lever himself up, but his ribs cracked again, forcing him to gasp.

  Behind him he heard the urZrethi. “Prize is clear.”

  The cloaked creature loomed large and larger.

  “Go, go, go!” Erlestoke tried to shout, but only the first word had any volume. Digging his heels in, he tried to drag himself backward, but he could not escape the thing coming for him.

  Both of its arms came up, opening the cloak to reveal a leathery scale armor that reminded him, vaguely, of a Panqui’s armored flesh. Gold glinted in streaks and speckles on the green scale armor as it towered over him. Sharp horny knobs and spurs sprouted on the forearms and elbows. Clawed fingers rose to rake terrible hooked talons down through him.

  Four quadnels spoke as one. Before the smoke hid the creature, Erlestoke saw one of the balls hit its broad chest and bounce away. Of the other shots he could not see what hit where, but the figure did stagger backward. The prince heard a mighty hiss and the thump of heavy footfalls.

  Erlestoke rolled onto his stomach and heaved himself up, but his left foot lost traction and he crashed down again. His left shoulder hit the ground, jolting more pain through him. He cried out, then looked up at Ryswin, standing there, his silverwood bow drawn. “Go!”

  The elf shook his head. “Hurry.”

  Erlestoke clawed at the icy ground and lunged forward just as the elf released the arrow. Behind him came a gurgle, then an angry roar that faded into a hiss. As Ryswin grabbed his left shoulder and hauled him upright, the prince hazarded a glance backward.