Dragonwing

by Margaret Weis

  Two dragons, guided by helmed and armored riders, swooped in low over the heads of the mob, sending them ducking into doorways and dashing down alleys. A call from their leader, still wheeling high overhead, brought the dragon knights back into formation. He descended and his knights followed him, the dragons’ wingtips clearing the buildings on either side of the street by barely a hand’s breadth. Wings tucked neatly at their flanks, their long tails lashing wickedly behind, the dragons alighted near the cart.

  The knights’ captain, a paunchy middle-aged man with a fiery-red beard, urged his dragon closer. The tier—terrified at the sight and smell of the dragons—was heaving and howling and going through all kinds of gyrations, causing its handler no end of grief.

  “Keep that damn thing quiet!” snarled the captain.

  The tiermaster managed to catch hold of the head and fixed his beast with an unblinking stare. As long as he could maintain this steady gaze, the stupid tier1—for whom out of sight was out of mind—would forget the presence of the dragons and calm down.

  Ignoring the stammering, babbling sheriff, who was hanging on to the captain’s saddle harness as a lost child hangs on to its newly found mother, the captain gazed sternly at the bloody, vegetable-stained prisoner.

  “It seems I arrived in time to save your miserable life, Hugh the Hand.”

  “You did me no favor, Gareth,” said the man grimly. He raised his shackled hands. “Free me! I’ll fight all of you, and them too.” He flicked his head at the remnants of the mob peeking out of the shadows.

  The captain of the knights grunted. “I’ll bet you would. That death’s a damn sight better than the one you’re facing now—kissing the block. A damn sight better and a damn sight too good for you, Hugh the Hand. A knife in the back, in the dark—that’s what I’d give you, assassin scum!”

  The curl of the Hand’s upper lip was emphasized by a feathery black mustache and was clearly visible even in the failing light. “You know the manner of my business, Gareth.”

  “I know only that you are a killer for hire and that my liege lord met his end by your hand,” retorted the knight gruffly. “And I’ve saved your head merely to have the satisfaction of placing it with my own hands at the foot of my lord’s bier. By the way, they call the executioner Three-Chop Nick. He’s never yet managed to sever a head from a neck at the first blow.”

  Hugh gazed at the captain, then said quietly, “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill your lord.”

  “Bah! The best master I ever served murdered for a few barls.2 How much did the elf pay you, Hugh? How many barls will you take now to restore my lord’s life to me?”

  Yanking on the reins, the captain—his eyes blinking back tears—turned the head of his dragon. He kicked the creature in the flanks, just behind the wings, and caused it to rise into the air, where it remained, hovering over the cart, its snakelike eyes daring any of those lurking in the shadows to cross its path. The dragon knights riding behind likewise took to the air. The tiermaster, his own eyes watering, blinked. The tier once more trod sullenly forward, and the cart clattered over the road.

  It was night when the cart and its dragon escort reached the fortress keep and dwelling place of the Lord of Ke’lith. The lord himself lay in state in the center of the courtyard. Bundles of charcrystal soaked in perfumed oil surrounded his body. His shield lay across his chest. One cold, stiff hand was clasped around his sword hilt; the other hand held a rose placed there by his weeping lady-wife. She was not among those gathered around the body, but was within the keep, heavily sedated with poppy syrup. It was feared that she might hurl herself upon the flaming bier, and while such sacrificial immolation was customary on the island of Dandrak, in this case it could not be allowed; Lord Rogar’s wife having just recently given birth to his only child and heir. The lord’s favorite dragon stood nearby, proudly tossing its spiky mane. Standing beside it, tears rolling down his face, was the head stablemaster, a huge butcher’s blade in his hand. It wasn’t for the lord he wept. As the flames consumed its master’s body, the dragon which the stablemaster had raised from an egg would be slaughtered, its spirit sent to serve its lord after death.

  All was prepared. Every hand held a flaming torch. Those milling about the courtyard awaited only one thing before they set fire to the bier: the head of the lord’s murderer to be placed at his feet.

  Although the keep’s defenses had not been activated, a cordon of knights had been drawn up to keep the curious out of the castle. The knights drew aside to allow the cart entry, then closed ranks as it trundled past. A cheer went up from those standing in the courtyard when the cart was sighted rumbling beneath the arched gateway. The knights escorting it dismounted, and their squires ran forward to lead the dragons to the stables. The lord’s dragon shrieked a welcome—or perhaps a farewell—to its fellows.

  The tier was detached and led away. The tiermaster and the four men who had pushed the vehicle were taken to the kitchen, there to be fed and given a share of the lord’s best brown ale. Sir Gareth, his sword loosened in its scabbard, his eyes noting every move the prisoner made, climbed into the cart. Drawing his sideknife, he cut the leather thongs attached to the wooden slats.

  “We caught the elflord, Hugh,” Gareth said in an undertone as he worked. “Caught him alive. He was on his dragonship, sailing back to Tribus, when our dragons overtook him. We questioned him and he confessed giving you the money before he died.”

  “I’ve seen how you ‘question’ people,” said Hugh. One hand free, he flexed his arm to ease the stiffness. Gareth, loosing the other one, eyed him warily. “The bastard would’ve confessed to being human if you’d asked him!”

  “It was your accursed dagger we took from my lord’s back, the one with the bone handle with those strange markings. I recognized it.”

  “Damn right, you did!” Both hands were free. Moving swiftly, suddenly, Hugh’s strong hands closed over the chain mail armor that covered the knight’s upper arms. The assassin’s fingers bit deep, driving the rings of the chain mail painfully into the man’s flesh. “And you know both how and why you saw it!”

  Gareth sucked in his breath, his sideknife jerked forward. The blade was three-quarters the way to Hugh’s rib cage when, with an effort of will, the knight halted his reflexive lunge.

  “Get back!” he snarled at several of his fellows, who, seeing their captain accosted, had drawn their swords and were preparing to come to his assistance.

  “Let go of me, Hugh.” Gareth spoke through gritted teeth. His skin was a ghastly leaden hue, sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Your trick didn’t work. You won’t meet an easy death at my hand.”

  Hugh, with a shrug and a slight sardonic smile, released his grip on the knight’s arms. Gareth caught hold of the assassin’s right hand, jerked it roughly behind his back, and, grabbing his left, bound the two together tightly with the remnants of the leather thongs.

  “I paid you well,” the knight muttered. “I owe you nothing!”

  “And what about her, your daughter, whose death I avenged—”

  Spinning Hugh around by the shoulder, Gareth swung his mailed fist. The blow caught the assassin on the jaw and sent him crashing through the wooden slats of the cart. Sprawled on his back on the ground, the Hand lay in the muck of the courtyard. Gareth jumped down from the cart. Straddling the prisoner, the knight stared down at him coldly.

  “You’ll die with your head on the block, you murdering bastard. Bring him,” he ordered two of his men, and kicked Hugh in the kidney with the toe of his boot. Gareth watched with satisfaction as the man writhed in pain. The knight added grimly, “And gag his mouth.”

  1 In the wild, these enormous birds are a dragon’s favorite prey. Tiers’ wings are large and covered with soft feathers and are almost completely useless. They can, however, run extremely fast on their powerful legs. They make excellent beasts of burden and are extensively used as such in the realms of the humans. Elves consider the tier repulsive and unclean.
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br />   2 The barl is the main standard of exchange in both elven and human lands. It is measured in the traditional barrel of water. An equivalent exchange for a barrel of water is one barl.

  CHAPTER 2

  KE’LITH KEEP, DANDRAK,

  MID REALM

  “HERE IS THE ASSASSIN, MAGICKA,” SAID GARETH, GESTURING TO the bound-and-gagged prisoner.

  “Did he give you any trouble?” asked a well-formed man of perhaps forty cycles, who gazed at Hugh with a sorrowful air, as though he found it impossible to believe that so much evil could reside in one human being.

  “None that I couldn’t handle, Magicka,” said Gareth, subdued in the presence of the house magus.

  The wizard nodded and—conscious of a vast audience—straightened to his full height and folded his hands ceremoniously over his brown velvet cassock; he was a land magus and so wore the colors of the magic he favored. He did not, however, wear in addition the mantle of royal magus—a title he had, according to rumor, long coveted but one which Lord Rogar, for reasons of his own, refused to grant.

  Those standing in the muddy courtyard saw the prisoner being led before the person who was now—by default—the highest voice of authority in the fiefdom, and crowded around to hear. The light of their torches flared and danced in the cold evening breeze. The lord’s dragon, mistaking the tenseness and confusion for battle, trumpeted loudly, demanding to be unleashed upon the enemy. The stablemaster patted it soothingly. Soon it would be sent to fight an Enemy that neither man nor even the long-lived dragon can finally avoid.

  “Remove the gag from his mouth,” ordered the wizard.

  Gareth coughed, cleared his throat, and cast the Hand a sidelong glance. Leaning near the wizard, the knight spoke in low tones. “You will hear nothing but a string of lies. He’ll say anything—”

  “I said, remove it,” remonstrated Magicka in a commanding tone that left no doubt in the minds of anyone standing in the courtyard who was now the master of Ke’lith Keep.

  Gareth sullenly did as he was told, yanking the gag from Hugh’s mouth with such force that he wrenched the man’s head sideways and left an ugly weal on one side of his face.

  “Every man, no matter how heinous his crime, has the right to confess his guilt and cleanse his soul. What is your name?” questioned the wizard crisply.

  The assassin, gazing over the wizard’s head, did not answer. Gareth smote Hugh rebukingly.

  “He is known as Hugh the Hand, Magicka.”

  “Surname?”

  Hugh spit blood.

  The wizard frowned. “Come, Hugh the Hand can’t be your real name. Your voice. Your manners. Surely you are a nobleman! The baton sinister, no doubt. Yet, we must know the names of your ancestors in order to commend to them your unworthy spirit. You will not speak?” Reaching out a hand, the wizard caught hold of Hugh’s chin and jerked the man’s face to the torchlight. “The bone structure is strong. The nose aristocratic, the eyes exceedingly fine, although I seem to see something of the peasant in the deep lines in the face and the sensuality of the lips. But there is undoubtedly noble blood in your veins. A pity it runs black. Come, sir, reveal your true identity and confess to the murder of Lord Rogar. Such confession will cleanse your soul.”

  The prisoner’s swollen mouth widened in a grin; there was a flicker of flame deep in the sunken black eyes. “Where my father is, his son will shortly follow,” Hugh replied. “And you know better than any here that I did not murder your lord.”

  Gareth raised his fist, intending to punish the Hand for his speech. A glimpse of the wizard’s face caused him to hesitate. Magicka’s brow cleared in an instant, his face smooth as a pail of fresh cream. The sharp eyes of the captain, however, had noted the ripple that passed across its surface at Hugh’s accusation.

  “Insolence,” the wizard said coldly. “You are bold for a man facing a terrible death, but we will hear you cry out for mercy before long.”

  “You better silence me and silence me quick,” said Hugh, his tongue running across his cracked and bleeding lips. “Other wise people might remember that you’re now guardian of the new little lord, aren’t you, Magicka? Which means you can run things around here until the kid’s … What? Eighteen? Or maybe longer than that if you can keep your web wound tight around him. And I’ve no doubt you’ll be a great comfort to the grieving widow. What mantle will you wear tonight—the purple of royal magus? And wasn’t it strange, my dagger disappearing like that. As if by magic—”

  The wizard lifted his hands. “The ground quakes in fury at this man’s blasphemy!” he shouted. The courtyard began to shake and tremble. Granite towers swayed. People cried out in panic, huddling close together. Some fell to their knees, wailing and pressing their hands in the muck and mud, shouting in supplication to the magus to ease his anger.

  Magicka glared down his long nose at the captain of the knights. A punch from Gareth, given somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, in the small of Hugh’s back, caused the assassin to gasp and draw a painful breath. The Hand’s gaze, however, never wavered or faltered, but remained fixed on the wizard, who was pale with fury.

  “I have been patient,” said Magicka, breathing heavily, “but I will not be subjected to such filth. I apologize to you, captain,” the wizard continued, shouting to be heard above the rumbling of the ground and the cries of the people. “You were right. He will say anything to save his miserable life.”

  Gareth grunted but did not reply. Magicka raised his hands placatingly and, gradually, the ground ceased to shake. People drew deep breaths of relief and rose to their feet again. The knight’s gaze flicked aside at Hugh, met the Hand’s own intense, penetrating stare. Gareth frowned; his eyes went from the assassin to the wizard, and they were dark and thoughtful.

  Magicka, speaking to the crowd, did not notice.

  “I am sorry, truly sorry, that this man must leave this life with such black spots upon his soul,” said the wizard in grieved and pious tones. “Yet so he chooses. All here are witness that I have given him ample opportunity to confess.”

  There were sympathetic, respectful murmurs.

  “Bring forth the block.”

  The murmurs changed in aspect, becoming loud and anticipatory. People shifted around to get a good view. Two burly warders, the strongest that could be found, emerged from a small doorway leading to the dungeon of the keep. Between them they carried a huge stone—not the lacy and delicate coralite1 of which almost everything in the city except the keep itself was constructed. Magicka, whose business it was to know the types and natures and powers of all rocks, recognized the stone as marble. It did not come from this island or from the larger, neighboring continent of Uylandia, for no such rock existed there. The marble, therefore, came from the larger, neighboring continent of Aristagon, which meant that this block had been dug out of the land of the enemy.

  Either it was a very old piece of marble and had been brought over legitimately during one of the few periods of peace between the humans and the elves of the Tribus Empire—a theory the wizard discounted—or Three-Chop Nick, as he was known, had smuggled it over, which Magicka thought probable.

  Not that it mattered. There were numerous diehard nationalists among the lord’s friends, family, and followers, but the wizard doubted if there were any who would object to a piece of dung such as Hugh the Hand losing his head on an enemy rock. Still, they were a hotheaded clan and the wizard was thankful that the marble was so covered with dried blood that few of Rogar’s kin would recognize the stone. None would think to question its origin.

  The marble block was about four feet by four feet and had a groove cut out of one side that was almost exactly the size of the average human neck. The warders—staggering under the weight—hauled the block out into the courtyard and placed it in front of Magicka. The executioner, Three-Chop Nick, ducked out from beneath the doorway and a tremor of excitement rippled through the crowd.

  Nick was a giant of a man and not one soul on Dandrak knew who he rea
lly was or what he looked like. Whenever he performed an execution, he wore black robes and a black hood over his head so that, when passing among the populace on a daily basis, he would not be recognized and shunned. Unfortunately, the result of his clever disguise was that people began to suspect every man over seven footspans in height of being an executioner and tended to avoid them all indiscriminately.

  When it came time to deal out justice, however, Nick was the most popular and sought-after executioner on Dandrak. Whether an incredible bungler or the most talented showman of his time, Three-Chop certainly knew how to entertain an audience. No victim ever died swiftly, but lingered on in screaming agony as Nick hacked and chopped away with a sword that was as dull as his wits.

  All eyes went from the hooded Nick to the black-haired prisoner, who—it must be admitted—had impressed most of those present with his coolness. But all those in the courtyard that night had either admired or actually been fond of their murdered liege lord, and it was going to be a distinct pleasure for them to see his killer die horribly. The people noted with satisfaction, therefore, that—at the sight of the executioner and the bloodstained weapon in his hand—Hugh’s face set in masklike calm, and though he carried himself well and forbore to tremble, they could see his breath come quick and hard.

  Gareth grabbed the Hand by the arms and, dragging him out of the wizard’s presence, led the prisoner the few steps to the block.

  “What you said about Magicka …” Gareth hissed the words in a low undertone, and, perhaps feeling the wizard’s eyes boring into his back, let the sentence stand unfinished, contenting himself with interrogating the assassin with a glance.

  Hugh returned his gaze, his eyes black hollows in the flickering torchlit night. “Watch him,” he said.

  Gareth nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face unshaven. He had not slept since the death of his lord two nights previous. He wiped his hand across his sweat-rimed mouth; then the hand went to his belt. Hugh caught a flash of fire, reflecting off a sharp-edged blade.