The Prophecy
Page 12
Perryn didn’t understand the Norse language, though the dragon evidently did. The shaman spoke to the dragon for a long time, gesturing frequently toward the south, where Idris lay.
Horror crept through Perryn’s heart. His father had speculated that the Norsemen had sent the dragon to cripple Idris, though no one had been able to figure out how they could control the great beast. There had been rumors, whispered horrors, but Perryn hadn’t really believed them. Slanders against an enemy were commonplace in any war. But the truth lay before him now. Had the scene Perryn watched taken place in the distant past? Or worse—much worse!—did it happen every year?
The shaman stopped talking and gestured to the warriors, who dragged the children forward. The boy began to scream. The girl was struggling.
Perryn dropped the mirror and clapped his hands over his ears, closing his eyes till he was certain the image had vanished.
He felt sick, sick to his stomach, sick at heart. How could he—worthless, his father’s voice whispered—possibly stop that?
Didn’t the prince of Idris have to try?
Perhaps he could sneak into the dragon’s lair, free his friends, run south. He could live in safety for years, maybe for the rest of his life. But if he ran away without confronting the dragon, without trying to save his people, it would prove that his father was right about him. Forever.
Perryn gazed over the valley where his mother had died, and the eyes behind the spectacles were no longer the eyes of a scholar. He’d already wasted part of the day and there was much to plan, and to do, before he could challenge the dragon.
Go with your strengths.
He had to try.
PERRYN FED STICKS INTO THE SMALL FIRE WITH weary determination. He had heard the sweep of the dragon’s wings passing over the cave shortly after sunset, so he felt safe in kindling this small flame. He was using King Albion’s helmet as a kettle, to boil down the remaining water from the black bog. He hoped that if it became thick enough it would work as a poison instead of a sleeping potion, but he had no way to test it, and no time.
When he wasn’t feeding the fire Perryn sharpened the ax. There was almost no moon, but the starlight reflected off the snow. He could see well enough.
He picked up the armor Prism had dropped and stuffed it with snow. He braced its legs with sticks he had gathered throughout the day, packing the joints so it stood in the likeness of a man, one arm upraised in challenge. He tore his spare shirt into strips and tied Sam’s broken hilt into its fist. His wet gloves froze on the icy metal if he let his hands rest there too long, and the heat of his exertion fogged his spectacles.
It was easy to conceal the snare loop in the trampled snow, to rig the snare to spring as Lysander had taught him—one of the many skills he’d acquired on this journey. Scholarship wasn’t worthless, but it had its limits.
The trees here were small and stunted, but Perryn found one that he could bend without help. He feared it wouldn’t last long against the dragon’s strength.
When he finished, he looked up past the heavy shelf of suspended snow till he spotted the outcropping of rock he had located earlier that day. A single pine tree grew near it.
To take the old powder kegs from the cave up to the rim of the valley, he had to circle around its edge. One keg was slung against his chest, the other on his back. He carried the ax, the shovel, and the third torch in his hands. He had to tear up his cloak to make the slings, but even so, he was sweating when he reached the place on the cliff top that he had marked from below.
Perryn dropped his gear and sank down, his chest heaving. The stars that had risen at sunset had almost crossed the sky—not much time till dawn. The dragon might return sooner than that, and he dared not rest too long in the cold lest his muscles stiffen.
Perryn picked up the shovel and began to dig.
THE SKY WAS BRIGHTENING, AND IF HE DUG ANY deeper he wouldn’t be able to climb out of the hole.
Perryn laid one barrel in the bottom of the hole and split the lid of the other with the ax. He carefully placed that barrel upright, digging powder out of the split with his fingers to cover the lid. He had long since abandoned his soaked gloves, and his hands were freezing.
He heard the windy rush of dragon wings.
Perryn bounded out of the hole. He couldn’t see the valley floor from where he stood, so he snatched up the torch and the ax and scrambled up the rocky outcrop.
Crouching in the shadow of the pine tree, Perryn looked down. The dragon gazed at the snow knight, standing just outside the reach of Perryn’s snare. Perryn fumbled in his belt pouch for flint and steel and bent to kindle the torch. His hands were steady, not shaking at all—which was odd, for he’d never been more frightened in his life.
“So, a single challenger today. With no weapon. But you don’t smell like a mage.” The dragon’s voice was softer than before, but even at this distance every word rang clear in Perryn’s mind. It sniffed again. “In fact, you don’t smell much like a man.” The dragon stepped toward the unmoving knight.
Flame crackled and Perryn’s torch began to burn.
“What manner of foolish creature are you?” It took another step. Perryn held his breath. The small tree sprang upright and the snare loop flew, off center, catching one of the dragon’s wings.
The dragon jumped. Its head swung toward the snow knight, and flame burst from its mouth, consuming the armor of the twenty-seventh warrior-king of Idris. The dragon sniffed at the pile of collapsed metal, laughed, and began to untangle the rope from the most fragile part of its great frame.
Perryn dropped the torch into the hole and ducked. The blast shook the rock, and he clutched at the tree. Snow rained down on top of him.
In the silence that followed, the mountains seemed to breathe.
The dragon stopped pulling at the rope and stared upward. A rumble started and grew louder. Almost in slow motion, the huge bank of snow began to fall.
Suddenly, the dragon understood. It yanked violently on the rope, but the young tree bent and absorbed the strain.
The snow crashed down the mountainside, gathering speed as it fell. The thunder of the avalanche consumed the dragon’s roar.
Another stream of fire shot from the dragon’s mouth. The tree burst into flame, and the rope snapped, but it was too late. Billowing with white spray, the avalanche engulfed the great beast like a tidal wave, swept it down the valley, and covered it.
The rumbling died. No more snow fell. Perryn heard nothing. He wasn’t sure if there was nothing to hear, or if the noise had deafened him. Then he sat up, and the scrape of his boots against the rock was startlingly loud. He let go of the tree. He had gripped the rough bark so hard his palms were bleeding. There was no trace of the dragon. More than anything else, Perryn wanted to flee the valley, to grab Prism and Lysander and just go.
But discovering facts wasn’t a scholar’s only job—he also faced the truth.
People buried near the surface had dug their way out of avalanches, and the dragon was stronger than any man. The dragon thrived on cold.
Perryn looked carefully over the valley, noting the place the dragon had gone under as well as he could. Then he picked up the ax and started down.
PERRYN STOOD ON THE SLIPPERY, HARD-PACKED snow and waited, ax in hand.
He had found a piece of his cloak at the top of the cliff and wrapped it around himself, but the rest of it was gone. He shivered convulsively, but he was barely aware of the cold.
Malthin wrote that the only way to fight a magical creature was with magic. But Bocaccus, in The Anatomy of All Creatures, had proved that severing its spine would kill any living thing. Perryn watched the snowfield and wondered where the dragon would emerge. And when. He prayed it would be never, but he couldn’t leave until he was certain.
He’d coated the ax head with the condensed black bog water. That might be magic. Or it might not even be poisonous. Perryn could experiment with it someday, if he survived. He wondered if Prism and Lysa
nder were all right. He didn’t dare to wonder if they were still alive.
The snow to his left stirred. Or was it a trick of the eyes? Slipping and sliding, Perryn hurried over to the spot. His heart pounded.
Nothing. A trick.
Then the snow heaved violently, and the dragon’s head burst through. Perryn was standing to its side. The beast’s neck stretched upward, and Perryn swung the ax at its exposed throat.
A small gash appeared. The dragon turned and saw Perryn, who tried to jump away and slipped. The dragon’s mighty head smashed him down, into the snow, the ax flying from Perryn’s hand. The small spikes along its jaw tore into Perryn’s leg, and he cried out.
The dragon’s head lifted. As it struggled to free its body, Perryn rolled and snatched up the ax. In a slithering, scrambling crawl, he managed to get behind the dragon. As the back of its neck rose above the snow, he saw the ridge of sharp spikes that ran along it, marking the position of the spine. Perryn drew a shaking breath and swung the ax again.
It was like striking a column of iron. The blow jarred his arms to the shoulders, but another cut appeared, oozing dark blood.
“I will roast your bones,” the dragon’s voice reverberated in Perryn’s thoughts. It twisted its head to breathe fire, but Perryn stepped right up behind its neck, and the flame shot off to one side.
He swung the ax again.
The dragon’s head snapped back, trying to crush him, and the spikes on its spine tore open Perryn’s shoulder. He fell to his knees. The dragon’s head swung again, but it couldn’t bend its neck far enough to reach him. From his knees, Perryn swung the ax again, and again.
“I will destroy you!” the dragon roared. Perryn’s brain went numb under the blast, but his hands and body found the familiar rhythm, and he worked steadily, chopping through the writhing spine.
The dragon roared again, but Perryn could no longer distinguish words.
Blood burst out as he severed a vein, splattering his spectacles and obscuring his vision. It stung as it seeped into the wound in his shoulder, but Perryn chopped on without pause.
A fragment of music drifted through his mind, blending with the rhythm of the ax, but he couldn’t place it. His world had narrowed in a woodcutter’s concentration. Nothing existed but the ax and the target.
With a soft crack, the dragon’s spine broke. Perryn lowered the ax. He was standing, though he didn’t remember rising to his feet. The dragon lay still, its head rolled awkwardly to one side.
Perryn’s shoulder burned as if flames consumed it. His blood burned. The dragon’s blood was everywhere. Dragon’s wrath. It would be this dragon’s final anger.
Perryn fell, but he didn’t hit the ground. Strong arms caught him. He heard Lysander’s voice, though he didn’t understand what the bard said. The last thing he saw, before his sight failed, was Prism, walking steadily toward him through the filthy, blood-soaked snow.
HE WAS LYING AGAINST PRISM WHEN HE CAME TO. They had carried him out of the valley to the shelter of the cave and lit a fire, even though it was broad day.
“Because once Prism took care of the fever, you were freezing,” the bard explained.
“You must be cold yourself.” Perryn was wrapped in the bard’s cloak.
“I’m fine,” said Lysander. “Better than fine, now I’m out of that stinking hole.”
Perryn understood. His torn calf and shoulder throbbed, and every muscle in his body ached, but he felt wonderful. He’d managed to tell them what happened to Sam, and what the sword had said.
“What happened to you?” Perryn asked.
“We woke up in a cage,” said the bard. “The dragon must have used it to store dinner. Evidently, it preferred the freshest meat.”
“The freshest meat?”
“Nothing fresher than live.” The bard’s voice was light, but his expression wasn’t.
“The cage was filthy,” Prism added primly.
“It was obviously designed to hold cattle or deer,” the bard continued. “Climbing out was no problem once the dragon left. Before that,” he shivered, “it was watching us.”
“It wanted to eat me,” said Prism indignantly. “But Lysander stopped it.”
“Not stopped,” said the bard. “Only delayed. I talked, sang, told jokes—”
“It had a horrible sense of humor,” said Prism.
“I’ve never had a tougher audience,” Lysander admitted. “Or one I was happier to see leave. After I escaped I had to find a way to free Prism. It would have been easy, if it hadn’t been so blasted dark. I had to do everything by touch, and then it took the rest of the night to grope our way out of the cave. We reached the entrance just as the dragon poked its head out of the snow. Then we had to get down the cliff without breaking our necks. Fortunately, Prism got to you in time.”
“So you saved Prism, and Prism saved me.” Perryn reached out and stroked the unicorn’s flank. Three gray dapples bloomed there. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know if I am,” said Prism. “I’ll get more respect around the forest now. Perhaps there’s something to be said for fulfilling your destiny. Not too quickly, of course.”
Perryn smiled. “Will you go south now?” he asked the bard.
Lysander shrugged. “No reason to. Now that the dragon’s dead, your father’s men will be able to hold back the Norsemen. Though it will be warmer in the south. And richer.” He grinned at Perryn and then sobered. “We heard the avalanche. I see the powder is gone so I can guess most of it, and you can tell me the rest later. But what will you do now? Your father will have to respect you, after this.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure my father has enough strength to change, not anymore.” The knowledge still hurt, deep inside. But a scholar faced the truth. “I have to go home and tell him what happened, and about Cedric, but then I’m going south. I’m going to study in the universities.”
The magic of men might be fading from the world, but the magic the gods had wrought was still strong. The north held other dragons, and sooner or later the Norsemen would find a way to bind one to their service. There had to be a way to defeat them, with or without magic. Some answer a scholar could find.
Lysander whistled. “Your father won’t like that. Warrior or not, you’re still going to be the forty-fifth king of Idris.”
“I know,” said Perryn. “And I want to be.” How strange to feel so certain of it. Worthy of it. “But it will be on my terms,” he added. “Not my father’s.”
“I see,” said the bard softly.
“I could never have done it without you,” Perryn told them. “Both of you. And Sam.” His throat tightened with grief and love.
“So, in a way,” said Prism, “the prophecy came true. Didn’t it?”
Lysander snorted.
Perryn smiled.
And thus it is recorded that in later years, when Perryndon, the first of the great scholar-kings of Idris, was asked if he believed in the power of prophecy, he simply smiled and said nothing.
About the Author
HILARI BELL lives in her hometown of Denver, Colorado. Her favorite books are fantasy, science fiction, and mystery—all the ingredients for a great novel. She is the author of THE GOBLIN WOOD and A MATTER OF PROFIT, which were both ALA Best Books for Young Adults and New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age, and THE WIZARD TEST. Visit Hilari Bell online at www.sfwa.org/members/bell.
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ALSO BY HILARI BELL
A Knight and Rogue Novel: The Last Knight
The Prophecy
The Wizard Test
The Goblin Wood
A Matter of Profit
Copyright
THE PROPHECY. Copyright © 2006 by Hilari Bell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.
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About the Author
Other Books by Hilari Bell
Copyright
About the Publisher