When Dragons Rage

by Michael A. Stackpole

  As a dragonel ball skipped in from the Long Hall and bounced off the fountain’s lip, Kerrigan turned his head and smiled at the sorceress. “I know what you want. Are you sure?”

  She nodded, then turned to her confederates. “Go!”

  Each of them grew long legs and moved to a position near the top of eight halls that converged on the Grand Gallery. The only entryway the sorceresses left unattended was the northernmost, through which the enemy was advancing. As one, the seven sorceresses grew their left arms long and reached up to touch the keystone in each of the other arches.

  Magick rippled through the air, shifting and shapeless, yet tangible enough to send a tingle through his flesh. It began to move in a circle, starting at the southernmost position and flowing to the right. It came around faster and faster, building in intensity. It struck him first as a light breeze, then a hot summer wind.

  At the entrance to each of the seven halls, the air began to shimmer. As the heat built the arched image wavered, then began to grow more opaque, filled with amorphous mist that thickened into a billowing curtain. Then that ethereal fabric tightened like a taut sail against the wind, sealing every hall, save that through which the Aurolani advanced.

  The onyx sorceress took Kerrigan’s right hand. “Now.”

  The human mage drew in a deep breath, then let his sense of magick flow into hers. Heat came back along the connection, as if their energies boiled against each other, but soon the current became smooth and quick. The tingle again ran over Kerrigan, then poured through his spine and up into his head. There it swirled around, tightening into a roiling spiral.

  Kerrigan extended his left hand and found the statue’s sense. His fingers closed and met resistance. He adjusted his grip, slipping it down farther toward the base, then tightened it. He caught a hint of surprise from the urZrethi, then exhaled, set his teeth, and yanked.

  With a great cracking of stone, he tore the statuary from the heart of the fountain.

  Water geysered through the hole, rising in a column ten feet in diameter to slam into the gallery ceiling and spray back down. A cold wave hit Kerrigan, shocking him enough that he dropped the statue and fell back. Then, sputtering, he stepped forward again to the balustrade and watched the water boil and froth.

  As with fountains everywhere, the water came to it under pressure. The magick he had detected on the statue had restrained most of the water, only allowing that slender shaft to come up through the fountain’s heart. With the statue gone and the spell broken, the flow was no longer plugged. It raced down through the tunnels that brought water to the urZrethi realm.

  Already the water level of Lake Osemyr had fallen an inch. In a week, a river in Oriosa would run dry. By the end of that same week, a lake would form north of Bokagul, and a village that had once sat in a sleepy little valley would forever disappear.

  But now, given only one outlet, the water cascaded into the Long Hall. The first Aurolani were in some ways the luckiest. When the wall of frigid water hit them, most were shocked into unconsciousness. Those who were not struggled against the rising flood, choking and sputtering until the rushing water propelled them into the shafts raised above Will’s blood. The water’s weight was sufficient to pass them through as if mud through a fine mesh screen.

  Hundreds of thousands of gallons raced into the Long Hall, sweeping everything before them. Gibberers tumbled and bounced off walls. Water wrapped some around pillars, crushing them like eggshells. The dragonels were lifted and tossed about as if mere toys. Their heavy bronze barrels smashed the troops they rolled over. Shot moved down the Hall like pebbles in a stream, and firedirt was contemptuously swirled away in the flood’s rage.

  Farther on the water flowed until it reached the portal through which the Aurolani troops had entered. It burst forth in a torrent that sent those yet waiting in a little canyon scurrying for higher ground. The water filled the canyon, then streamed north to swell a rivulet over its banks and flood a valley.

  Kerrigan shook his head, flicking water from the ends of his hair. “How long will you let it flow?”

  “How long will it take for their stink to be cleansed?” The sorceress shook her head. “If Lake Osemyr must be drained, then so be it. Hours or centuries, this river of tears will run until we never need fear unleashing it again.”

  CHAPTER 43

  W ill frowned as Kerrigan looked over at him. The thief raised a hand to the fine stitchery that Peri had used to close the wound in his forehead. “Really, Ker, it’s fine. You just go on using your magick to fix up those who need it.”

  “It really would take no time at all.”

  Will shook his head. “Having a scar isn’t going to be so bad. Be worth a drink or two when I tell how I got it.”

  “As you wish, Will.” The mage shook his head wearily and returned to his work.

  After the battle, the company was conducted to a new coric. In the lower common room, Kerrigan worked with Bok on Lombo’s wounds. The draconette shots had done little more than stun the Panqui, though a few shots had drawn blood. Kerrigan had not had an easy time removing the draconette balls or repairing cracked bits of Lombo’s bony hide—but mostly because Lombo hated being fussed over.

  The Panqui’s protestations had finally been enough to get Kerrigan focused on the others. After Lombo, the most grievously wounded had been Princess Sayce. Now Will cut across the lower chamber of the coric and up the steps to the woman’s sphere. There he crossed to the rounded doorway leading to the princess’ chamber.

  He hesitated for a moment and his heart rose in his throat. Sayce lay on a soft pallet with a white sheet draped over her, tucked up to her throat. Her head lay on a satin pillow all but hidden by the flaming carpet of her hair. Her mask had been removed, but in its place she wore a light lace replacement. Like the sheet, it was white, and served to emphasize her pale skin.

  For a heartbeat he feared she was dead, but her chest rose and fell slowly. Relief flooded through him. The idea that those eyes might never open again was something he couldn’t countenance. Once he saw she was resting peacefully, he smiled and the tightness around his heart eased.

  Will turned to leave, not wanting to disturb her, but she stirred. He looked at her, and slowly she turned her face toward him.

  As she had lain there, he’d only seen her right profile, but the left side of her face was mottled purple and blue, with yellow at the edges. The lace courtesy mask stood out against that angry flesh. She snaked her left hand from beneath the sheet and raised it as if to touch her face, then let her arm fall across her stomach instead.

  “Will?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” Will’s voice grew small and he swallowed. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  She snorted lightly, then winced. “My head hurts more than when a horse clipped me.”

  “I can get Kerrigan.”

  “No, no; don’t.” Her voice gained a little strength and a lot of urgency. “He’s done enough for me. Come in. Sit.”

  “But you should be resting.”

  “I am on a stone bed in a rock hole, which is a lot like being entombed.” Her right eye flashed brightly—far more so than her bloodshot left eye. “Feeling half-dead in a grave is not very restful.”

  Will smiled and entered the room. He thought for a moment about sitting on the edge of her bed, but it was narrow enough that she’d have to move closer to the wall. Instead, he sat on the floor with his back to her bed and looked up at her over his right shoulder. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”

  “I was lucky. Dranae thinks the draconetteer didn’t load enough firedirt or that it was wet, so only some of it burned. The ball hit the left side of my forehead. My mask helped. Still cracked my skull, but your friend healed that.”

  The thief shivered. Kerrigan had described it as a depressed fracture—which was the fancy way of labeling the big dent in her head. Kerrigan managed to get the bone out of her brain and fix up all the immediate damage. It had been a harrowin
g healing for Kerrigan, tired as he was from helping the urZrethi to flood the hallway, but he had triumphed.

  “He can take care of the rest of it. You’ll be good as new.”

  “Why don’t you let him fix your face?”

  Will shrugged uneasily. He didn’t mind having a scar there—not that he thought Peri’s handiwork would leave much of one. The scar would create a link between him and Crow, since they’d both earned scars fighting Chytrine. Heroes always had scars. In some ways it seemed to Will as if it were cheating for a hero to be unmarked.

  “Kerrigan has better things to do than to make me better-looking.” Will smiled. “As if that could be done.”

  Sayce smiled and let her right hand drift down from beneath the sheet to brush fingers through Will’s brown hair. “You may be right there, Will. Making me look better would take a lot of work. The left side of my face is throbbing.”

  “You look fine.”

  “Is that some honest deception, Will? Stick with thieving. You don’t lie very well.”

  “I’m not lying.” Will frowned, and the stitches pulled a bit. A blush warmed his cheeks, then the frown melted into a goofy grin he was glad she couldn’t see. “You look a lot better now than when I saw you fall.”

  Sayce nodded weakly. “I know what you did, Will. When I was hit, I didn’t black out. Not at first. It’s not like I remember events in order. I do remember your voice, though.”

  Her fingers idly played with his hair, but she turned her face to stare toward the dim ceiling. “I had been hit hard. I knew I was hurt. Badly. I was going to die. The shock . . . the pain . . . I couldn’t see out of my left eye. I couldn’t move. And then . . . then, Will, I heard your voice. ‘By my blood, you will not pass.’ My life had been slipping from me, but your order, it stopped me. I wasn’t going to pass from this life. I couldn’t. So I knew I would survive.”

  She glanced down at him again and smiled. “Earlier, Kerrigan came in and wanted to fix my face. I told him to go away. He sighed.”

  Will nodded, relishing the sensation of her fingers against his scalp.

  “He said, ‘What is going on with you people?’ I asked what he meant, and he told me you refused to be healed, too. Kerrigan thought it must have something to do with being hit on the left side of the head.” She twined a lock of his hair around a finger. “When I found out that you refused healing, I decided I would, too.”

  “But, Princess, you could use it.”

  “You don’t understand, Will. Your men, the Freemen, they’re willing to take a mask from you and wear your mark to honor you. Similar wound, same engagement. I’ll wear this bruise to honor you for saving my life.”

  “But I didn’t . . .”

  She lowered her hand and pressed a finger to his lips. “Stop. You acted when it was needed. Think about any hero you know. Think about Crow. Heroes don’t think about acting heroic, they just do. They see a need and they fulfill it.

  “You know, Will, I never doubted you were the Norrington of prophecy. I might have wondered if you were truly the hero he was supposed to be, but no more.” Sayce exhaled heavily and her eyes fluttered. “I’m sorry, I’m drifting back to sleep. I don’t want to be rude.”

  Will stood slowly, taking her hand in his, then laying it on the edge of the bed. “Rest some more.”

  “You’ll come see me again?”

  Her question made his stomach do a little flip-flop. “Of course.”

  “Good.” She smiled and closed her eyes.

  Her lips moved again, but Will could not hear what she was saying. As quietly as he could he left her chamber, fingering the stitches above his left eye. He’d thought of it as a link with Crow, but now Sayce had forged it into a link between them. That idea pleased him.

  He thought more about it, and let the events tumble back down into the whole myth he’d conjured about his life. Once upon a time he wanted to be known as Will the Nimble, the King of the Dimandowns. He wanted to be known as a rival to the Azure Spider. Resolute had accurately ridiculed that notion at their first meeting, then had led him off on an incredible series of adventures. He’d gone to Vilwan and seen dragons battle. He’d gone to Okrannel and had seen an Aurolani army crushed. He’d been feted and celebrated in Yslin and Meredo. He’d raided Wruona and stolen a fragment of the DragonCrown from the Azure Spider.

  And now he had traveled the halls of Bokagul and saved a Murosan Princess from a horde of gibberkin.

  Any one of his adventures would have been more than enough for a heroic song. He had, in less than a year, achieved far more than he could have ever dreamt of in his childhood. In fact, he realized, had he been born that very day and raised as he was, his hero would not have been the Azure Spider, but Will the Nimble.

  Yet, in realizing that he had attained his childhood goal in less than a year, he discovered how hollow an achievement that was. Princess Sayce had been right: heroes did not think about acting heroic, nor did they dwell upon having been heroic. And while things he had done might seem heroic in hindsight, at the time they had to be done and, more important, if he had not done them, someone else in the company would have. His actions were not at all special in the company he kept.

  Will smiled slowly as somewhere, deep down inside, the child he had once been screamed in outrage at the idea that he was not special. The times, they are special, and they call for a lot from us. He looked around the coric and nodded as Resolute entered and Kerrigan scolded Lombo into silence.

  Qwc buzzed over and landed on Will’s right shoulder. “Doing well, Will?”

  “I am indeed, Qwc.” The thief smiled. “I’m tired, sore, sewed up, and not looking forward to the winter trek to Caledo. I know we’re going to get hurt, and I fear some of us will get dead.”

  “Does not sound like doing well to Qwc.”

  “But I am, Qwc.” Will nodded solemnly. “The company I keep sees to that.”

  CHAPTER 44

  T ry as he might, General Markus Adrogans had not found a way to guarantee that less blood than water would flow in the taking of the Three Brothers. The arrangement of the three fortresses had thwarted enemies for centuries, and most of them had not had to contend with the frigid cold snap that had settled over the countryside. For while it brought no snow, it made the march north agonizing.

  Adrogans had brought his troops down into position three days before the assault and begun creating two siege machines. He opted for rams, with roofs and stout sides to protect the men wielding them. That made them incredibly heavy and slow to move, but if Darovin did have dragonels, the rams’ robust construction might shrug off a few balls. The question really became one of whether or not they could withstand enough shots to break through the first oak gate.

  The Jeranese general had deployed the Blackfeathers to snipe at guards and keep them always on alert. While the river supplied no real attack route against the Three Brothers, its frozen surface did allow Beal mot Tsuvo and her troops to range north around the forts and along the road, setting up ambushes for any Aurolani reinforcements coming south to the Three Brothers.

  Adrogans huddled inside a thick, furred robe, then pulled his scarf down and spit. His spittle cracked in the air as it flew. “At least Duke Mikhail’s dream was accurate concerning the day’s weather.”

  Phfas snorted. “You place too much trust in Svarskya and the Kingsmen.”

  “If this plan works, it will be because of them.” Adrogans glanced back along the roadway. The ram slowly advanced thanks to the efforts of the Gurol Stoneheart battalion. They sang a deep, lusty tune, rhythmic and guttural. With each repetition it grew in power. The ram, which looked very like a covered bridge on wheels, ground forward. The heavy wheels crushed the snow as it moved, while the ram itself swayed forward and back, side to side, with each motion. The warriors had hung their round shields on the exterior walls, so the bold devices painted in reds, blues, greens, and golds lent it a fierce martial air.

  The horses and liveried warriors of the K
ingsmen waited around the corner from Darovin. Their horses stamped and blew out great plumes of angry steam. The warriors all had lances. From the tips of some fluttered gay pennants. Anonymous in their heavy armor, they would not be easy to kill, yet Adrogans knew that many of them would die. Any mounted horsemen trapped in the citadel would be slaughtered, yet there had been no way to deny Duke Mikhail’s request to let the Kingsmen go in first.

  As the ram slowly came into view of Darovin, activity increased on the battlements. A few arrows arced out at the crawling ram, but none of them hit. Out by the river, a few elven shots hit the tower from the far shore. One gibberer did fall flailing to the ice below, but its body failed to break through. The crusted snow cracked beneath it, and a light dusting of powder puffed up and quickly floated down to cover the body.

  Phfas pointed a finger at the top of Darovin. “They signal.”

  The yellow flag that had been flying over the first tower slowly came down, then a red flag and a black pennant were raised. Across the river, elves flashed mirrors to communicate what the flags at the other sites were doing. Varalorsk acknowledged the signal by repeating it, then offered a green flag. Darovin replied by lowering, then reraising, its red and black flags.

  Adrogans smiled. “Red to report a threat, black to dismiss it and the offer of help. The commander at Darovin is confident he can deal with the threat. Good, very good.” He turned to the signalman on his left. “Signal the Blackfeathers to advance toward the Darovin river tower.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The signalman used his mirrors to communicate that order to the elves. Mistress Gilthalarwin ordered her warriors to emerge from the brush on the far shore and approach in a long skirmish line that began to tighten into a semicircle as it drew closer. The gibberers launched arrows at them. While their height did allow the Aurolani archers greater range, their lack of accuracy—especially in face of the breeze—made their defensive efforts less than effective.

  The Darovin commander reacted by sending more troops running out over the arched pathway to the river tower. The Darovin garrison should have numbered approximately one hundred, and the river tower had enough room for half that number of archers to be employed effectively. Even with the elves’ superior skill at archery, the chances of their doing much against the tower were nil.