Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  And now Anora was dead, too. Maristara had outwardly disdained the powerful dragon. Inwardly she stood in awe of her. Anora was dead, slain by the wretched humans—a fate she had predicted would come upon them all.

  Maristara was left to fight this battle on her own. She had to finish what they had begun. She had to. She had no choice.

  Maristara’s hold on Dragonkeep was tenuous, at best. Grald’s despotic rule had caused many of the citizens to question his authority. The people hated and distrusted the mad monks. Few had dared do anything about it, but then came the lethal blast that had destroyed so much and killed so many. Shortly after that, the Abbey collapsed mysteriously, Grald vanished, and an army of strange warriors that no one had known existed marched through their streets.

  Maristara had flown to join the army, leaving the palace guarded by the mad monks, never dreaming that the humans, armed and led by some wretched blacksmith, would invade it. There they had discovered the bodies of the hapless young women who had been impregnated by Grald. The truth about his breeding program was revealed and now most of the city of Dragonkeep was in open rebellion.

  As for Seth, Maristara had already lost that kingdom. The people there knew the truth, as well. Ven had shown them the body of the Mistress in the tomb. Once she had seen that, the High Priestess had looked into the Eye and let her gaze roam far. She had used the Eye’s magic to see the past and the present. There had been nothing Maristara could do to stop it. Apparently, all these years, the Watchful Eye had been watching her.

  Maristara pondered Anora’s dying words. Her colors had already started to fade when the dragon spoke them.

  “We are our own doom, Maristara,” Anora had whispered.

  And there had been a tinge of horror in those colors, the revelation coming too late.

  The Parliament was dissolved. War was inevitable. Maristara’s new allies were hot-headed young dragons who, if not for this, would have been out stampeding cattle for the fun of it. She couldn’t stop them. They wouldn’t listen to her.

  And here, rising up through the mists of her rage and gloom, was a human. The Prince who had helped Ven kill Grald. The Prince who had killed Anora. He was inside her mind, trying to kill her.

  Maristara was in no mood for it. Her fury boiled like the fire in her gut, and she was about to expend it all on him, searing him with the blast that would leave his brains mush, when, suddenly, the Prince was gone. He dropped out of her mind as though he’d fallen through a trapdoor. Maristara didn’t have time to wonder, for there, in his place, was the Walker.

  He wore his human shape, his human boots.

  She saw Draconas in her mind, even as her eyes glared down on the castle below and the shadow of her wings glided over it. The women of Seth were working their magic. She could feel their power directed against her, as she had once directed that same power against others of her kind.

  “So you have taken sides,” she said to Draconas. “You’ve turned against your own kind.”

  One of her young cohorts dove down on the castle, spraying it with fire. She tried to warn Litard, but he did not listen. The flames hit the magical barrier created by the sisters and flared back at him, forcing him to make a sudden, violent, twisting turn to escape being toasted with his own breath.

  “I don’t want to fight you or the others,” Draconas replied. “You can still stop this, Maristara. Your army is exhausted and demoralized. The magic they use comes with a price—the warriors grow too weak to fight. That’s the true reason that the warriors waited so long between attacks, isn’t it? It was not a cunning ploy to let the humans stew in their fear. It was simply that your army didn’t have strength enough to do battle.

  “And while it is true that your humans are powerful in the magic and well-trained as a fighting force, they were never taught how to survive in the world outside their sheltered cave. Grald never expected they would have to. He expected a swift victory, followed by capitulation. He did not foresee a prolonged war, which is what you have now. Your warriors are footsore and weary and half-starved. Many have fallen ill. They have no supplies and no supply lines. They cannot undertake a siege of the castle, and now that the priestesses of Seth are here, Edward can hold out against your army for a long, long time. Call them off, Maristara. Retreat. Go back to Dragonkeep.”

  “And then what, Walker?” the elderly dragon asked. “What happens then? Will your humans leave us alone now that they know where to find us? Or will they come with their armies to conquer us?”

  “We can talk, negotiate . . .”

  Maristara snorted. Shadowed silence fell between them.

  “Anora was right,” Maristara said at last. “We are our own doom.”

  Marcus came back to consciousness to find himself lying on the floor beneath a stone bench. He sat up, rubbing a sore jaw. His father and Ven both bent over him.

  “What happened? Are you all right?” Edward asked in concern.

  “Draconas hit me!” said Marcus.

  Edward smiled. “He’s done the same to me on occasion. Usually for my own good. Here, can you stand?”

  Marcus staggered to his feet, supported by his father. He could hear strange sounds coming from outside—roars and bellows and eerie, bestial screams of wordless rage and defiance.

  “Father, what is it? What is happening?” Marcus glanced back at the chapel. “Anna, the sisters—”

  “The High Priestess and the sisters are all safe and well. They are resting from their labors. Your mother has taken charge of them.” Edward was grim. “Come and see for yourself, son.”

  As Marcus walked outside, a drop of liquid hit him in the face. He thought at first it was raining, but the sun was shining, the day was clear. He touched the liquid on his cheek and drew back his hand.

  His fingers were red with blood. Blood that had fallen from the sky. He lifted his eyes, tilted back his head, and gasped. He had to hang on to his father’s arm for support, or he might have fallen.

  In the sky above Idylswylde, dragons fought dragons.

  Long, long, long ago, when humans themselves were living in caves, some far-distant ancestor of Marcus’s might well have looked into the sky and been awed and terrified by the same sight. No human had witnessed such a battle since, and now both armies halted in their killing to watch the fight, which was horrible and deadly beautiful.

  Scales flared green and blue, red and black and purple, as the sunlight glinted on bodies that wheeled, dove, and soared. Lightning flared and thunder split the skies and shook the ground. Flames crackled as the dragons breathed their scorching breath, trying to burn wings or blind eyes. Jaws snapped. The dragons tore at each other with clawed feet. Blood fell in a gruesome shower, spattering on the cobblestones and sliding down the castle walls.

  Marcus shaded his eyes, seeking Draconas, but the sun was directly overhead, and it was hard to tell one dragon from the other. He tried to venture inside his little room, but the fury and hatred smote him and seared him, so that he had to leave or risk being consumed.

  “There he is,” said Ven. His dragon eyes could see clearly. He had learned to look into the sun. He pointed.

  “And the big one? Who is that?”

  “Maristara,” Ven answered.

  “And what about the smaller one? I think I have seen her before.”

  “Her name is Lysira. She guided us to Seth.”

  “She’s in trouble,” said Marcus.

  Lysira, intent on fighting one of the younger males, did not realize that Mantas had cunningly drawn her into a trap. As he battled her, Maristara was diving down on her from above.

  “Yes,” Ven remarked impassively, calmly watching the battle as one might watch a bull-baiting, with no care who wins.

  “You hate them all, don’t you?” Marcus said. “You’d just as soon see them all die.”

  Ven flicked him a glance. “Do you blame me?”

  “No,” said Marcus. “I don’t suppose I do.”

  Lysira breathed a gout
of flame at Mantas, who evaded it. Before she could breathe again, he turned tail and flew off. Lysira’s roar of triumph was cut short by a gasp of fear and astonishment as the shadow of her foe fell dark upon her.

  Lysira rolled away, twisting her body, and the move saved her life, for Maristara had been about to seize hold of the smaller dragon’s neck in her powerful jaws and snap it in two. As it was, Maristara managed to sink her teeth into only a portion of Lysira’s neck, the sharp fangs piercing the scales and into flesh. It was not the hold she had wanted, not a lethal hold, but it would do. Maristara tightened her grip and began shaking Lysira like a dog shakes a rat with the same intent—to break her back.

  Screaming in pain and outrage, Lysira writhed and struggled in the other’s grip, trying desperately to break the powerful dragon’s hold on her. A dark shape streaked toward her. Not knowing whether this was death or life, Lysira involuntarily shut her eyes.

  Draconas had been fighting a defensive battle, hoping to prevent dragons from killing each other. Thus far, though the dragons had done a lot of damage, none had died nor was even critically injured. He had begun to hope that Maristara might be engaged in this battle merely for show and that she would soon be willing to give up and call it a draw.

  Maristara might have done so, but she had suddenly seen an inviting target in the young female. Maristara owed Lysira, who had led the dragon’s children into Seth. In addition, the death of the female he loved would suitably pay back Draconas for all the harm he had done Maristara and her allies. Maristara attacked Lysira, and Draconas saw that the elder dragon meant this attack to end in death.

  He flew straight at Maristara, striking her with his claws extended, hitting her on the flank with all the force he could manage.

  Maristara gave a grunt as Draconas barreled into her, knocking the wind out of her. Her jaws opened. She was forced to let go her hold on Lysira so that she could breathe.

  Lysira was badly hurt, however, and barely conscious. She started falling toward the ground, unable to help herself. The young male, Mantas, swooped in, thinking to finish her off.

  With a howl, the old dragon Malfiesto dove at the youngster and, with a flurry of claws, buffeting wings, and lashing tail, drove Mantas away. The irrascible old dragon snagged the half-conscious Lysira gently in his claws and carried her away. Draconas, seeing til is, inwardly apologized to Malfiesto for every bad thought he’d ever had about him.

  Draconas turned his attention back to Maristara. She was breathing painfully, and he thought he had probably broken some of her ribs. Blood dribbled from his claw marks on her flanks. Her head drooped. Smoke, not flame, came from her nostrils. She seemed about finished. The fire in her belly was doused.

  “Give up, Maristara,” Draconas sent his colors to her. “I don’t want to kill you or any dragon. Let this be an end of it.”

  Nodding, her breath coming in heaving gasps, Maristara turned and started to fly away. Draconas gave a deep sigh and was looking about to see what had become of Lysira when Malfiesto’s colors boomed blazing red.

  “You idiot! Behind you!”

  Draconas whipped about to see Maristara lunging straight at him.

  “This is not an end. It is only the beginning.” She crashed into him.

  The two grappled, slashing and snapping, kicking and snarling, hitting each other with wings and tail. Magic sparked and crackled around them. Locked in a deadly embrace, the two began to spiral toward the ground.

  “They’re both dead,” said Ven, and even he had a note of tension in his voice.

  “God, no!” cried Marcus.

  The sons of Melisande watched in pity and horror the battling dragons plummet to the earth—falling on top of the dragon army.

  Shadow and blood covered the dragon warriors, who, staring upward, saw their danger. They fled, panic-stricken, running for their lives, some of them seeking cover beneath the very castle walls they had, only moments before, been attacking. The soldiers manning the walls, mesmerized by the terrible sight, let their foes come and did nothing.

  Down and down the dragons fell, rolling over and over, and they were both within a heartbeat of death, when one of the dragons suddenly broke free and, shaking loose the hold of the other, began clawing and fighting and flapping upward.

  “Which is it? I can’t see!” Marcus cried, half-blinded by the sun, which made all colors black.

  The other dragon tried to recover, but one wing was in tatters. The dragon pitched over and crashed headlong into the ground.

  The impact shook the foundations of the castle, knocking men off their feet, causing towers to tremble and sending cracks snaking up the walls. An enormous dust cloud arose, momentarily obscuring the body from sight. Men who ran to the walls to try to see were soon choking and coughing as the cloud roiled over them.

  “Which is it?” Marcus cried again.

  “Maristara,” Ven returned. “She is dead.”

  Marcus raised his eyes to see the red dragon flying wearily overhead. Draconas circled the carcass of the enormous dragon that lay sprawled out over several hills. Maristara had fallen so fast and from such a height that the body had half-buried itself in the ground.

  “Go home,” Draconas said, speaking to the other dragons. “The battle is finished.”

  “For today,” said Mantas, snarling, and, with a final glance at Maristara, he and his cohorts flew off.

  “For today,” Draconas repeated, and his colors were so dark and sorrow-laden that Marcus knew better than to intrude, and he silently withdrew, leaving the dragon to his grief.

  The fight was all knocked out of the dragon warriors. The death of the dragon who had commanded them finished them off. They picked up the bodies of their dead comrades and, using what illusion magic remained, they disappeared from sight. They had no more strength to return home. Sailors and fishermen, upon returning to the city of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston, were outraged to find that every sailing vessel in the harbor had gone missing and so the army made its inglorious way back to Dragonkeep.

  The people of Ramsgate tended their wounded and buried their dead with hymns of praise, and celebrated their salvation in the church that evening. Their major concern was what to do with the carcass of the dragon, which would soon start to rot. They would have to cut down a forest of trees to find enough wood to burn it, and the smoke created by such a conflagration would smother the populace if the wind was in the right direction.

  As it turned out, they did not have to worry. The day after the battle, a dozen dragons appeared in the skies, led by one dragon with flaring red scales. The dragons created a magical web that sparkled like stars as it dropped down from their claws and settled over the carcass. The dragons lifted up the body, cradled in the starry web, and bore it away with them. All that remained was the enormous crater that the body’s fall had gouged into the earth.

  Ever after, the site would be known as Dragon Downs.

  In the days that followed, Marcus and Ven spent much of their time together, and they were often joined by Anna, the High Priestess of Seth. Ven and Anna between them told Marcus about Sorrow and Lucien and the other children. Marcus listened in awe, disturbed by what he heard, yet glad at least for Ven, that he had found something good in his life.

  The three had only a few days together, for the warrior women of Seth were anxious to return to their home. They feared that dragons might attack the kingdom in their absence. Ven, too, was eager to return to his family.

  The king gave the women of Seth as many gifts as they would accept, and he and his knights paid them every honor as they were about to depart.

  “I thank you and your people for all you have done for us,” said Edward to the High Priestess, as she prepared to take her place in the chariot that would bear her home. “Without your help, we would not have survived. And,” he added, with a smile that lit the hazel eyes, “I look forward to the alliance of our two kingdoms.”

  The High Priestess of Seth and the Prince of Idylswylde smi
led at each other. Sometimes rulers do have a say in who they marry.

  “As do I, my soon-to-be Daughter,” said Ermintrude, giving the young woman a tender embrace. The dimples were back, undaunted.

  King and Queen bid a more reserved farewell to Ven. Neither of them could ever feel completely comfortable around their son’s half-brother. Ermintrude, especially, had trouble knowing what to do with her eyes, which kept going, despite her best efforts, to the clawed, scale-covered feet.

  “Whatever will we do with him at the wedding?” she asked her husband in a low voice, as they walked back to the palace. “My father will die of the shock.”

  “All in all, not such a bad thing, my dear,” Edward remarked.

  The warrior women mounted their horses. The drivers took their places in the chariots, along with the priestesses of Seth. Anna and Marcus and Ven lingered together, reluctant to say goodbye.

  “What will you do, Ven? Where will you and the children go?” Marcus asked, for if ever there were destined to be outcasts in this world, it was these half-human, half-dragon children of Grald.

  “For the time being, we will remain in Seth,” Ven said. “The sisters have invited us to live among them until we feel more at ease. This time has not been easy on Sorrow and the others. They are learning how cruel and hurtful you humans can be.”

  “And how kind,” Marcus reminded him with a glance at Anna. “And compassionate.” He reached out to take her hand, loath to let her go.

  The High Priestess flushed in pleasure. Her fingers twined around Marcus’s.

  “True,” Ven admitted. “But no human community will ever fully accept us. Someday, when the younger children are stronger, we will leave Seth and find a homeland of our own.”

  The commander of the warrior women was restless. She did not dare say anything to the High Priestess, but Marcus could see by the restive way her horse cantered about on the stones that she was eager to be on her way. It was time to say farewell.

  The brothers embraced. Marcus helped Anna into the chariot. He kissed her hand and pressed it to his heart. She bent down and kissed him on the lips, and a cheer went up from the knights and the soldiers on the walls.