Sir Halwain dismounted and calmly stood as the Paenalir surged forward with a thrust. Effortlessly deflecting the attack, he feigned a left, turning it into an upward cutting slash with blinding speed. An ugly cut opened across the desert man’s chest. Realising his foe was not as weakened as he thought, the clan leader circled warily, chopping and thrusting. Each time Sir Halwain parried the blows with consummate skill, counter-attacking with telling blows of his own, leaving the clan leader with cuts across his arms, face and chest. Fear began to show on the Paenalir’s face, and he started to back away.
Sir Halwain stepped forward, pressing his man back relentlessly. A thrust at the middle suddenly turned into an over arm swing as the Paenalir tried to block; almost too late he redirected his parry. It was to no avail as Sir Halwain’s sweeping blow broke the clan leader’s sword with bone-jerking force. The man gave out a piercing scream of pain, suddenly cut short as Sir Halwain’s sword continued its arc of death, severing his head and sending it spinning with a trail of blood to the sand. The headless body fell in a heap at his feet.
Remounting, Tolvarn Halwain gathered his men as the band from the pass came running towards them. A quick glance skyward told him that Matra approached rapidly. He would be glad of his help now, although casualties seemed low. The men had been hard pressed and were showing signs of tiring under the ruthless desert sun. As the Paenalirs swarmed around them, Sir Halwain sat his horse with a knot of his men around him, his sword dealing death with every stroke. The calm efficiency of Tolvarn Halwain awed and inspired his men. They rallied to him, spurred to greater effort by his seeming invincibility.
Tolvarn Halwain glanced across to see Jason Kith standing after being knocked from his horse, grim-faced and pale. The young knight favoured a wounded shoulder as a Paenalir rushed him. Seeing him struggle, he shouted a warning as two more Paenalirs stalked him. But could not make himself heard above the clamour of battle.
A sudden gust of wind blew sand across the battlefield, announcing the arrival of Matra, followed by a bronze dragon. As Matra swiftly changed shape and ran into the heat of battle, the bronze dragon landed on a nearby dune, surveying the scene impassively. The dragon gave scrutiny to Matra as he leapt onto a stray horse, a long sword in one hand. Matra spurred the horse on, charging into the midst of battle. Paenalirs fell dead or dying around him as he swung his sword until it became almost a blur of motion.
Jason Kith gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain in his left shoulder. His armour chafed the wound, sending spasms of pain down his arm. Parrying a blow from a Paenalir on his right, he saw his opening through eyes watering with pain and caked with sand blurring his vision. He lunged, thrusting down through the Paenalir’s guard. His foe started a scream that faded to a guttering moan as the sword passed through his gullet. Struggling to free the sword Jason looked up to see a face a mask of hate; a Paenalir stood, sword raised, about to deal him a killing blow. Jason closed his eyes, bracing himself for death.
Less than halfway to Jason’s head the Paenalir’s sword came to a halt as another sword clashed with it. Opening his eyes, Jason saw Matra’s sword crossed with his attacker’s. Twisting, Matra sent the Paenalir’s sword spinning hilt over blade in the air, landing out of reach. Undaunted, the man drew a long knife and lunged with a maniacal yell. Swiftly Matra stepped aside and skewered him.
The clan leader of the second band, seeing his clan all but defeated by the knights, raved, screaming curses at his hated enemy and charged his nearest foe. Matra turned to see the clan leader frothing at the mouth as he ran at him, sword swinging wildly. Having no shield, Matra blocked each blow with his sword, mustering all the skill and swordsmanship he knew as the Paenalir rained blow upon blow on him. Pausing to catch his breath, the Paenalir reached for a long-bladed knife from his waist and grinned through broken teeth.
“I first to kill firewing,” scoffed the clan leader in broken Ladlian. Spittle flecked his mouth as he spoke. Matra recognised the Paenalir word ‘firewing’, meaning dragon and grinned back at him as he circled warily.
Chapter Ten
Back in her room, Emeldra felt sick to her stomach as her focus surveyed the scene before her. Bodies lay all around, some gruesomely maimed or dismembered, most of which seemed to be Paenalir. Emeldra came across some charred remains of what looked like a dragon. Fear gripped her stomach like a vice; steeling herself, she cautiously continued. A battle raged ahead, and near the edge of the fighting, she saw Matra fighting a Paenalir clan leader. As she drew near, it became apparent that the odds were not in Matra’s favour as he faced a taller and cunning foe with two weapons to his one and without a shield.
Implacably Matra dodged a thrust and jabbed under his foe’s guard. Swiftly the Paenalir countered with the knife. Before Matra could withdraw a gash opened on his side. His head swam momentarily; shaking the sensation, Matra considered using magic. Although he wished to prove himself without the use of magic, he was, however, no fool. The foe he faced was larger, stronger and more skilled in close combat than he. What was more, the Paenalir knew what he could do and constantly harassed him to keep him off guard.
Suddenly the Paenalir kicked sand up in his face, momentarily blinding him. Matra’s sight cleared in time to see his enemy diving at him, his knife raised. He felt the sudden surge of energy before the Paenalir suddenly twisted in mid-flight, letting out a blood-curdling scream before falling dead on the baking sands.
“I thought I told you once I can fight my own battles, Emeldra,” Matra sent. Looking around, he noted the battle almost at an end.
“Well, if that’s all the thanks I get for saving your life, the next time a Paenalir is about to stick a knife in you, I’ll let him.” Though her words dripped with sarcasm, Matra felt the relief behind them.
“Emeldra.” He paused, taking a breath. “Emeldra, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said as Jason Kith approached him. “Emeldra, I know you are still there,” he tried again. “Emeldra, thanks,” he concluded finally, his tone reflecting the weariness he felt.
“You are welcome, and I’ll see you back at the castle, Sir Knight,” Emeldra sent in reply. “Can you contact Cara to heal your wound?” she added. Her tone had an edge of tiredness to it.
“I’m afraid she is needed elsewhere,” Matra replied.
“Oh, maybe I can help then.” Before Matra could protest she channelled healing energies through her focus. Matra felt the healing warmth flow through him.
Having soothed and all but completely healed his wounds, she turned her attention to the other knights. Healing Jason Kith and Sir Halwain and a few of the other wounded until tiredness finally caught up with her; wearily she returned her focus.
She briefly told Senion that though having minor wounds Matra, Jason Kith and most the knights were all right; the battle was all but over and won. Emeldra then retired to her bed for a rest. She did not see Matra and Jason fight side by side, nor did she see the few surviving Paenalirs fleeing for their lives.
Ridding a large chestnut horse, Matra considered the day’s events although his prescient visions had shown him the outcome of today’s battle, but not the intervention of the princess. He had been surprised by her ability to channel power through her focus. Such power was normally only associated with the most experienced of dragons and very few human sorcerers. That the heartstone had enhanced her abilities was apparent but even that did not seem to answer the extent of her fast-growing skills fully.
Matra stared ahead towards the pass where some Paenalir women and children huddled miserable and fearful, left behind as the few remaining survivors from the battle fled. It had been easy for him to suggest to the king an idea that was already going through his mind. Though harsh, the concept, in the long run, was the only way to stop the Paenalirs age-old hatred and their barbarous way of life without annihilating the race. At every opportunity, they would capture Paenalir women and children and bring them back to Ladlian. They would be gradually integrated into Ladlian society.
The plan was a long-term one with far-reaching consequences. Some of the Paenalirs captured, once educated, would be sent back to try and influence and bring change from within their own culture. Matra could not but admire a king who showed such magnanimity in allowing a fierce and longtime enemy to integrate within his own country in such a way. He wondered if the people of Ladlian would see it quite the same way.
Sir Halwain rubbed his quickly healing arm, thanks to the princess. He looked around at his company of the hundred knights he had started out with. Fifteen were killed and twenty-six wounded. All in all, he considered they had been lucky. Their prize had been fifty wretched human souls, all women and children. When they had first come upon them huddled together, the Paenalirs expected to be killed out of hand. When they were spared, given food and water, they first became suspicious. As time passed, they became surprised and grateful to be alive, looking at their benefactors with awed reverence.
There were still a few of the older children who remained suspicious and looked at them with hate-filled eyes, but most especially the women with younger children were grateful and tried to voice their gratitude, though none seemed to speak Ladlian. Sir Halwain glanced around once more and called a halt to the column. They had crossed the border a day ago and now were well inside Ladlian. Seeing the light was about to fail he barked crisp orders to make camp for the evening.
Rubbing his hands as he walked around the camp, Tolvarn Halwain felt the cold night air chilling his bones. Muttering a curse, he considered once again that old age was creeping up on him. It had been only a year since that he had offered to retire; the king had been adamant in his refusal. Now a year on, he considered once more the comforts of a place of his own with a hearth to sit by during winter months and warm his old bones. He looked up to see Matra and Jason Kith sitting by the fire, engrossed in conversation. Since Matra saved Jason in battle, the two had become fast friends. “Well that’s one thing that turned out well,” he mused, a brief smile crossing his face. Turning he went to inspect his prisoners.
Howling winds lashed the shoreline, sending waves crashing up the beach of the island. Clouds scudded across a darkened sky and lightning flashed in short forked bursts, briefly lighting the darkness. Driving rain came in such sheets that if any man had dwelt there, he would be foolish to venture out.
Deep in the mountain cave, the ancient being blinked his eyes. The storm that racked the island was part of the wards he had set to keep the island from prying eyes. Now soon he would have to lower the wards, having scryed the battle in the desert and seen the outcome. He felt the resonance spreading out like ripples on a pond. As the two youthful faces now sat deep in conversation over a campfire, settled their differences and forged a deep bond of friendship that would last even beyond death, another piece of prophecy had fallen into place.
The following day the column of knights skirted Hubbs Ford, a small sleepy village close to Castle Talmon with a stream running through it. Some of the villagers came out to meet the knights. On seeing the prisoners, they shouted gibes at them, and some threw stones. The knights closed around their prisoners, protectively. Matra once again considered the size of the problems that lay ahead of the king if he was to succeed in his plan to integrate the Paenalirs.
A thick damp fog descended at dusk, like a blanket covering the land, deadening all nearby sound to seemingly distant echoes as the column rode into the castle courtyard. A guard was sent to inform the king of their return. As Sir Halwain supervised the dispersal of the knights, Matra saw to his horse and retired to his room.
The king had assigned him a room in the castle itself rather than the cot he used to have in the barracks. This was in keeping with the new status given him since the lengthy discussions he had after returning from the glade. The king had made him Ambassador to the Dragons, giving him some other honorific titles he didn’t understand. The king had explained in a half-amused tone that he was the first Ambassador to the Dragons, and it would send visiting dignitaries into fits wondering whether to take it seriously or not and how they should address him.
“Can you read, my young friend?” asked Marcus Lanton, looking up from behind a stack of dusty books as Matra entered the library. Matra had been restless since returning from the desert three days past, he had seen Emeldra only once and had contacted her briefly on two occasions. Even his now almost constant companion Jason Kith had not lifted his mood this morning. An unshakeable feeling of a patient, brooding evil seemed to hang over him, so he had taken to wandering through the castle. How he ended up at the library, he did not know. A muffled sound within had prompted him to investigate. Realising he hadn’t answered the sorcerer’s question he smiled ruefully.
“Sorry, I was, lost in thought. Yes, I can read.” Matra looked around the room. Books of all shapes and sizes crammed into shelves. Stretching around three sides of the room and standing as high as the ceiling. Many of the books were very old, their covers battered and faded with use. A musty smell of ageing mingled with new parchment and ink pervaded the air. In one corner stood a heavy wooden trestle used for reaching the higher shelves. The sun shone through an arched window, shafts of sunlight highlighting wayward dust particles. The sorcerer sat on a bench behind a long oak desk, books stacked haphazardly around him.
“You might be interested in this then,” continued Lanton, turning his attention to the open book in front of him. Dark eyes regarded Matra thoughtfully. “It’s a book of prophecies, rather old and faded in places. There are, however, one or two references to a dragon king in more than three different prophecies.” He paused, plucking his beard; his eyebrows went up as he noted a look of recognition from Matra. “I see you’ve heard of this dragon king, my friend.” Lanton scrutinised Matra’s expression carefully.
“I’m not the dragon king,” Matra replied, smiling as he crossed the room to sit beside the sorcerer. “As far as I know the dragon king is only a legend that has been handed down through generations of dragonkind,” he said, returning the sorcerer's scrutiny. The sorcerer had a wise and kindly face with traces of humour; Matra knew he had a sharp mind also.
“What about the Weaver of Destiny then?” asked Lanton, stabbing a finger, emphasising the words in the book. Matra stopped still, hardly breathing as the sorcerer's eyes fixed on him expectantly.
“I think it says there that a human is supposed to be the Weaver of Destiny,” he answered, pointing to the relevant sentence in the book. Lanton smiled slyly at him.
“You seem very human to me,” began Lanton shrewdly. “This book here has some vague reference to dragons taking human form,” pointing to a thin book on top of a stack. He reached it down, opening at the book at the relevant page. “It says here, however, that the human form may have some flaws easy to spot.” He paused, studying Matra anew. “You look exactly like any other human I have ever met. I don’t see any notable differences in you, why is that?” he quizzed in conclusion. Matra’s face cracked into a thin smile as he replied.
“I can assure you that I’m a dragon, not a human sorcerer, so therefore I can’t be the Weaver of Destiny if that’s what you think, if indeed there is such a person.” Matra casually fingered through a leather-bound book on local folklore as he spoke.
“Maybe, but you just have confirmed what I have suspected for some time,” said Lanton, again smiling as Matra looked up from the book.
“What’s that?” Matra asked, considering reading the sorcerer’s mind to see what he was thinking. A sudden insight told him that was what the wily sorcerer was expecting, so he waited to glean what information he could from the sorcerer's reply.
“The princess is the Weaver of Destiny,” Lanton stated, arching his brows at Matra. Seeing Matra muttering an oath, he continued. “Come now, my friend, why else would you be here but for to help the one prophesied to be the Weaver of Destiny?” the sorcerer said in conclusion. Leaning closer, he put a hand lightly on Matra’s arm as he spoke. “I think you care for her too,” his voice
mellowing as he tapped Matra gently on the arm.
The look Marcus Lanton gave Matra assured him the sorcerer would not believe otherwise. Sighing resignedly, he spoke. “I hope you haven’t told her father any of this yet? I’m not sure how he would take it?” Matra could see why the sorcerer was one of the king’s closest advisers; he was indeed the cunning fox Cara had named him. He made a mental note not to underestimate him again.
“Yes, you are right it would not be advisable at present, but he will have to know in time,’ began the sorcerer. He stood handing the open book to Matra. “Maybe you would be interested in reading this yourself.” He stood, walking to the door, and half turned as if remembering something. “There is also a reference to a Maker of Change, would that be you?” In typical fashion, the sorcerer left without waiting for an answer.
Matra shook his head reflectively the fact the sorcerer had not waited for a reply suggested he already knew the answer. Sighing, Matra turned the book to the first page and began reading.
The steward stood before the king, looking uncomfortable and troubled by something. Looking up from the document he was scribing, the king rested his quill on the desk and studied the steward patiently waiting for him. Seeing the man’s discomfort, he decided not keep him waiting any longer.
“Yes, what is it, Maxis?” he asked frowning as he regarded his steward.
“Your Majesty, there is a dirty beggar man who is insisting on seeing you.” The steward paused, embarrassed by his predicament. “How he got past the guards to get this far I don’t know, but he says he won’t leave till he speaks with you,” concluded the steward in dismay.
“Very well then, show him in, Maxis,” the king replied, his expression blank. The steward started in astonishment. “Well, go on, man. Don’t keep the poor wretch waiting. I’m not indifferent to the needs of the people. If this poor man wants to speak to me the least I can do is give him an audience,” barked the king, seeing his steward hesitant.
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