Dragonwing

by Margaret Weis

  “Your Majesty!” Alfred was livid. “I can’t fly a ship! It takes skill, years of practice!” The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, he’s dead?”

  Bane glared at him defiantly, but his gaze dropped before Alfred’s. The chamberlain was no longer the buffoon; his eyes were suddenly strangely compelling and intense, and the boy found their penetrating stare highly uncomfortable.

  “He got what he deserved,” Bane said sullenly. “He was an assassin, hired by King Stephen to kill me. I’ve killed him first, that’s all.”

  “You?” Alfred’s gaze went to the feather. “Or your father?”

  Bane looked confused. His lips opened, then clamped shut. His hand clenched around the amulet as if to hide it, and he began to stammer.

  “No need to lie,” Alfred said, sighing. “I’ve known for a long time. Longer than your father and mother, or should I say your adopted father and mother, although adoption implies a choice, and they never had one. What kind of poison did you give him, Bane?”

  “Him? Why are you worried about him? Are you just going to let us crash?” the prince screeched shrilly.

  “He’s the only one who can save us! What did you use on him?” Alfred demanded, reaching out his hand to grasp hold of the boy and shake the information out of him if need be.

  The prince darted backward, slipping and sliding across the slanting deck until he was brought to a halt by the bulkhead. Turning, he stared through the window. The prince let out a whoop.

  “The elven ships! We’re heading straight for them! We don’t need that filthy murderer. The elves will save us!”

  “No! Wait! Bane! It was the berries, wasn’t it?”

  The boy dashed out of the steerage way. Behind him, Bane heard Alfred shouting that elves were dangerous, but he paid no attention.

  “I’m prince of Uylandia,” he said to himself, climbing the ladder to the top deck. There, clinging with his hands to the rails, he entwined his legs through them to hold on securely. “They won’t dare lay a hand on me. I’ve still got the enchantment. Trian thinks he broke it, but that’s only because it was what I wanted him to think. Father says we mustn’t take a chance, and so we had to kill the assassin to get his ship. But I know the enchantment’s still with me! Now I’ll have an elf ship. I’ll make them fly me to my father, and he and I will rule them. We’ll rule them all! Just as we planned.

  “Hey!” Bane shouted. Holding on to the rail with his legs, he let loose long enough to wave his arms. “Hey, there! Help! Help us!”

  The elves were far below, too far away to hear the boy’s cry. Besides, they had other, more important things on their minds—such as staying alive. Looking down from his perch, Bane could see the rebel ship and the imperial warship locked together, and he wondered what was going on. He was too high to see the blood spilling over the deck. He could not hear the screams of the cable-haulers, trapped in their harnesses, being dragged through the splintered hulls, nor could he hear the song of the rebel elves who attempted, even as they defended themselves, to turn the hearts of their brothers.

  Bright-colored dragonwings beat the air frantically or swung, broken, from snapped cables. Long grappling hooks attached to ropes held one ship firmly to the other. Elven warriors swung, hand over hand, along the cables to board the ship or leapt through the air to land on the deck. Far beneath them, the Maelstrom swirled and boiled, its black clouds with frothy white fringes lit purple by the incessantly flaring lightning.

  Bane stared down at the elves eagerly. He felt no fear, only a heady exhilaration caused by the rushing of the wind in his face, the novelty of his situation, and the excitement of his father’s plans coming to fulfillment. The dragonship’s fall had slowed somewhat. Alfred had managed to pull the wings out far enough so that the ship was no longer tumbling headfirst into the Maelstrom. But it was out of control and falling still, drifting downward in a lazy spiral.

  Alfred’s voice came to him from below. It was indistinct, he couldn’t understand the man’s words, yet something about the tone or the rhythm brought back to his mind the hazy memory of when the tree had crashed down on top of him. Bane didn’t pay much attention to it. They were nearing the elves, coming closer by the moment. He could see faces upturned, looking at him and pointing. He started to shout again, when suddenly both the elven ships broke apart, disintegrating before his eyes.

  Slender figures toppled into the nothingness around them, and Bane was close enough now to hear the screams that would end when they were swallowed up in the Maelstrom. Here and there fragments of the two ships, held aloft by their own enchantment, floated in the air, and he could see elves clinging to them or, on the larger pieces, some still battling.

  And Bane and his small ship were plunging down right into the center of the chaos.

  Kir monks do not laugh. They see nothing funny in life, and like to point out that when humans laugh, it is often at the misfortune of others. Laughing is not prohibited in a Kir monastery. It simply isn’t done. A child, when first taken into the halls of the black monks, may laugh for a day or two, but not longer.

  The black monk holding Hugh by the hand did not smile, but Hugh saw laughter in the eyes. Furious, he fought and struggled more fiercely against this one opponent than he had fought against any in his life. This opponent was not flesh and blood. No wound left its mark on it. No jab slowed it down. It was eternal and it held him fast.

  “You hated us,” said the black monk, laughing at him soundlessly, “yet you served us. All your life you served us.”

  “I serve no man!” shouted Hugh. His struggles were lessening. He was growing weak, tired. He wanted to rest. Only shame and anger kept him from slipping into welcome oblivion. Shame because he knew the monk was right. Anger that he had so long been their dupe.

  Bitter, frustrated, he summoned all his waning strength and made one final attempt to free himself. It was a weak and pitiful blow that wouldn’t have made tears come to the eyes of a child. But the monk let loose.

  Astounded, bereft of the support, Hugh fell. There was no terror in his heart, for he had the strangest impression that he was not falling down, but up. He was not plunging into darkness.

  He was plunging into light.

  “Sir Hugh?” Alfred’s face, fearful and anxious, floated above him. “Sir Hugh? Oh, praise the Sartan! You’re all right! How do you feel, sir?”

  With Alfred’s help, Hugh sat up. He glanced swiftly around him, searching for the monk. He saw no one other than the chamberlain, nothing except a tangle of ropes and his harness.

  “What happened?” Hugh shook his head to clear it. He felt no pain, only a kind of grogginess. His brain seemed too large for his skull, his tongue too big for his mouth. He’d awakened in an inn, on occasion, with exactly this same feeling, an empty wineskin at his side.

  “The boy drugged you. It’s wearing off now. I know you’re not feeling too well, Sir Hugh, but we’re in trouble. The ship is falling—”

  “Drugged?” Hugh looked at Alfred, trying to bring him into focus through the fog. “He didn’t drug me! It was poison.” His eyes narrowed. “I was dying.”

  “No, no, Sir Hugh. I know it might feel that way, but—”

  Hugh leaned forward. Catching hold of Alfred by the collar, he dragged the man near him, staring into the light-colored eyes in an effort to see into his very soul. “I was dead.” Hugh tightened his grip. “You brought me back to life!”

  Alfred returned Hugh’s gaze calmly. He smiled, somewhat sadly, and shook his head. “You are mistaken. It was a drug. I have done nothing.”

  Bumbling, oafish, how could this man lie and Hugh not know it? More important, how could Alfred have saved his life? The face was guileless; the eyes looked at him with pity and sadness, nothing more. Alfred seemed incapable of hiding anything. Had Hugh been anyone else, he must have believed him.

  But the assassin knew that poison. He had given it to others. He had seen them die as he had. None of them had ever come ba
ck.

  “Sir Hugh, the ship!” Alfred persisted. “We’re falling! The wings … pulled inward. I tried, but I couldn’t get them out again.”

  Now that his attention was called to it, Hugh could feel the ship rolling. He stared at Alfred, then let loose his grip on the man. Another mystery, but it wouldn’t be solved by tumbling into the Maelstrom. Hugh staggered to his feet, his hands clutching his pounding head. It was too heavy. He had the dazed feeling that if he let go, his skull might snap loose and roll off his neck.

  A glance out the window showed him that they were in no immediate danger—at least not from falling. Alfred had managed to bring the ship into some semblance of control, and Hugh could regain it completely easily enough, despite the fact that some of the cables had snapped.

  “Falling into the Maelstrom’s the least of our worries.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Alfred hurried to his side and looked out.

  Gazing up at them, so near that they could see every detail of their torn and bloodied clothing, were three elven warriors, grappling hooks in their hands.

  “Here, toss them up! I’ll make them fast!” It was Bane’s voice, coming from the deck above.

  Alfred gasped. “His Majesty said something about seeking help from the elves—”

  “Help!” Hugh’s lips twisted into a mocking grin. It seemed he had come back to life only to die again.

  The grappling hooks snaked through the air. He heard the thuds when they landed on the deck, the scraping sound of the iron claws sliding over the wood. There was a tug and a jerk that knocked him—unsteady as he was—off his feet. The hooks had caught hold. He put his hand to his side. His sword was gone.

  “Where … ?”

  Alfred had seen his gesture and was slipping and sliding across the unsteady deck. “Here, sir. I had to use it to cut you free.”

  Hugh grabbed hold of the weapon and nearly dropped it. If Alfred had handed him an anvil, it could have seemed no heavier than his sword in his weak and shaking hand. The hooks were dragging the ship to a stop, keeping it floating in the air next to the disabled elven vessel. There was a sharp pull and the ship sagged downward—the elves were scaling the ropes, coming aboard. Up above, Hugh could hear Bane chattering excitedly.

  Gripping the sword, Hugh left the steerage way, padded soft-footed into the corridor to stand beneath the hatch. Alfred stumbled behind, the man’s loud, clumsy footfalls making Hugh cringe. He cast the chamberlain a baleful glance, warning him to be silent. Then, slipping his dagger from the top of his boot, the assassin held it out.

  Alfred blenched, shook his head, and put his hands behind his back. “No,” he said through trembling lips. “I couldn’t! I can’t … take a life!”

  Hugh looked up above, where booted feet could be heard walking across the deck.

  “Not even to save your own?” he hissed.

  Alfred lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you’re not now, you’re soon going to be,” muttered Hugh, and began to silently climb the ladder.

  CHAPTER 26

  DEEPSKY, DESCENDING

  BANE WATCHED THE THREE ELVES PROPEL THEMSELVES HAND OVER hand across the ropes, their thin, shapely legs grasping it with heels and knees. Beneath them was nothing but empty air and, far below, the dark and awesome, perpetually raging storm. The elves were expert at boarding, however, and did not pause or look down. Reaching the deck of the small dragonship, they swung their legs over the sides and landed lightly on their feet.

  Having never seen elves before, the prince studied them as intently as they were ignoring him. The elves were nearly the same height as average humans, but their slender bodies made them appear taller. Their features were delicate, yet hard and cold, as if they had been carved out of marble. Smooth-muscled, they were extremely well-coordinated and walked with ease and grace even on the listing ship. Their skin was nut-brown, their hair and eyebrows white, tinted with silver that glistened in the sun. They wore what appeared to be vests and short skirts made like finely stitched tapestries, decorated with fanciful pictures of birds and flowers and animals. Humans often made fun of the elves’ bright-colored garb)—to their regret, most discovering too late that it was, in reality, elven armor. Elven wizards possess the power to magically enhance ordinary silken thread, making it as hard and tough as steel.

  The elf who appeared to be the leader motioned the other two to look around the ship. One ran aft, staring over the side at the wings, possibly to assess the damage that had caused this ship to tumble out of control. The other ran back to the stern. The elves were armed, but they didn’t carry their weapons in hand. They were, after all, on a ship made by their own kind.

  Seeing his men deployed, the elven commander finally deigned to notice the child.

  “What is a human brat doing on board a ship of my people?” The commander stared down his long aquiline nose at the boy. “And where is the captain of this vessel?”

  He spoke human well, but with a twist to his mouth, as if the words tasted bad and he was glad to be rid of them. His voice was lilting and musical, his tone imperious and condescending. Bane was angry, but knew how to hide it.

  “I am crown prince of Volkaran and Uylandia. King Stephen is my father.” Bane thought it best to begin this way, at least until he had the elves convinced that he was someone important. Then he would tell them the truth, tell them that he was of truly great importance—greater than they could imagine.

  The elf captain was keeping one eye on his men, giving Bane half his attention. “So, my people have captured a human princeling, have they? I don’t know what they think they’ll get for you.”

  “An evil man captured me,” Bane said, tears coming readily to his eyes. “He was going to murder me. But you’ve rescued me! You’ll be heroes. Take me to your king, that I may extend my thanks. This could be the beginning of the peace between our people.”

  The elf who had been inspecting the wings returned, his report on his lips. Overhearing the boy’s speech, he looked at his captain. Both laughed simultaneously.

  Bane sucked in his breath. Never in his life had anyone laughed at him! What was happening? The enchantment should be working. He was positive Trian hadn’t been able to break the spell. Why wasn’t his enchantment working on the elves?

  And then Bane saw the talismans. Worn around the elves’ necks, the talismans were created by the elven wizards to protect their people against human war magic. Bane didn’t understand this, but he knew a warding talisman when he saw it and knew that, inadvertently, it was shielding the elves from the enchantment.

  Before he could react, the captain grabbed hold of him and tossed him through the air like a bag of garbage. He was caught by the other elf, whose strength belied the slender body. The elf captain gave a careless command, and the elf, holding the boy at arm’s length as if he were a skunk, walked over to the ship’s rail. Bane did not speak elven, but he understood the command given by the elf captain’s gesture. He was to be tossed overboard.

  Bane tried to scream, fear choked off his breath. He fought and struggled. The elf held him by the scruff of the neck and seemed to be highly amused at the child’s frantic efforts to free himself. Bane possessed the power of magic, but he was untrained, not having been brought up in his father’s house. He could feel magic run through him like adrenaline, he lacked the knowledge to make it work.

  There was someone who could tell him, however.

  Bane grasped hold of the feather amulet. “Father!”

  “He can’t help you now,” laughed the elf.

  “Father!” Bane cried again.

  “I was right,” said the elf captain to his cohort. “There is someone else aboard—the brat’s father. Go search.” He gestured to the third elf, who came running back from the stern.

  “Go ahead, get rid of the little bastard,” the captain grunted.

  The elf holding Bane held the boy over the rail and then dropped him.

  Bane tumbled through the
air. He sucked in his breath to let it out in a howl of terror, when a voice commanded him abruptly to be silent. The voice came as it always did to the child, speaking words that he heard in his mind, words audible only to himself.

  “You have the ability to save yourself, Bane. But first you must conquer fear.”

  Falling rapidly, seeing below him floating pieces of debris from the elven ship and below that the black clouds of the Maelstrom, Bane went stiff and rigid with fright.

  “I … I can’t, father,” he whimpered.

  “If you can’t, then you will die, which will be all to the best. I have no use for a son who is a coward.”

  All his short life, Bane had striven to please the man who spoke to him through the amulet, the man who was his true father. To win the powerful wizard’s approval was his dearest wish.

  “Shut your eyes,” was Sinistrad’s next command. Bane did so.

  “Now we are going to work the magic. Think to yourself that you are lighter than the air. Your body is not solid flesh, but airy, buoyant. Your bones are hollow, like a bird’s.”

  The prince wanted to laugh, but something inside told him if he did so he would never be able to control it and would drop to his death. Swallowing the wild, hysterical giggling, he tried to do as his father commanded. It seemed ludicrous. His eyes wouldn’t stay shut, but kept flying open to watch in panic-stricken desperation for a bit of debris to cling to until he could be rescued. The wind rushing past made his eyes tear, however, and he couldn’t see clearly. A sob welled up in his throat.

  “Bane!” Sinistrad’s voice flicked through the child’s mind like a whip.

  Gulping, Bane squinched his eyes tightly shut and tried to picture himself a bird.

  At first it was difficult and seemed impossible. Generations of wizards long dead plus the boy’s own inherent skill and intelligence came to Bane’s aid. The trick was to banish reality, to convince the mind that its body did not weigh sixty-some rock, that it weighed nothing or less than nothing. It was a skill most young human wizards must study years to attain, yet Bane was having to learn it in seconds. Mother birds teach the young to fly by tossing them out of the nest. Bane was acquiring the art of magic in the same way. Shock and sheer terror jolted his natural talent into taking over and saving him.