Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands
Page 50
burned away. His fingers shook so badly that he
had trouble unfastening his belt buckle, but there was
no shame in being afraid now, not when the entire
fyrd had collapsed in screaming terror. He
would not have thought so many men could all fit on the
dais, but they could--and on the rear half
of it, too. Those at the back must be crushed and
suffocating, but they were in less immediate danger from the
firedrake's wrath.
He was stamping his feet back into his boots
when the firedrake rumbled angrily and surged
closer.
"Arrrh!" it said in jets of fire. "Arrrh,
arrrh, arrrh, arrrh!"
It was black clinker and burning rock and heat
so intense that it was difficult to look at, even
along the length of Cynehof. A red haze glowed
around it. At times it rose up into a man's
shape, although two or three times a man's
height, and at others it was merely a fountain of
rock and lava, surging and flowing and crumbling,
never the same for more than a few seconds. As it
progressed it left behind it a smoking, bubbling
ridge of broken ground like a solidified wake,
so it seemed to be erupting out of the floor, but in
its manlike moments it waded forward on
massive legs, churning up the flagstones.
Even when it was at its most human it had no
face, and every move or change of shape caused
its outer crust to crack and break off, exposing the
glowing fires within.
Once inside the hall it reared up to the
likeness of a giant, and the rafters over its head
began to smoke. "Arrrh!" it said again, a roar of
complaint. The ground trembled.
A dozen men made a dash for the door. The
firedrake caught them as they went by, although no
one could say for certain whether it swatted them with a
giant stone hand or just collapsed in their
direction, engulfing them in an avalanche. They
had time to scream once and roll over a few times
before they became cinders half buried in glowing
rubble. Flames ran up the wall beside them. As
the firedrake reassembled itself from a new
upsurge of lava, the greasy rafters above it
ignited. The whole building would go in minutes.
Stripped to his boots, Radgar snatched up
his grandfather's sword again. Cu`edblaese had
died; Fyrlaf been horribly maimed, but
Aeled had survived. Now it was his turn. Dad
had battled his drake outdoors, not trapped
inside a tinderbox like this with no room to run. The
air was already pain to breathe, and his skin was pumping out
sweat so he could hardly see or clutch the
sword. He had never realized a firedrake
would be so enormous.
He turned to look at the terrified mob behind
him and located Cynewulf the Good, still in his
crown and robes. Like everyone else he was
whimpering and trying to burrow his way into the mob, but
his bulk and flab could not displace the tight-locked
muscle of the other men.
"Come, Uncle!" Radgar seized a handful of
ermine-trimmed velvet. "If I must die, then
you certainly die first." With the strength of youth he
hauled the King away from the crowd, ran him across
the dais, and hurled him off. Screaming, the fat
man sprawled down on the floor.
"Arrrh, arrrh!" The firedrake lurched
slowly forward. It was almost to the hearths now, plowing
up the floor like a man wading through slush. All
the front end of the hall was ablaze. "Arrrh?"
As the King scrambled to his feet, Radgar
jumped down after him and prodded with his sword.
"Move! Die on this blade or move!"
Wailing and struggling--and bleeding, for Radgar
had no time for mercy--Cynewulf backed toward
the firedrake. "What are you doing?" he
screamed. The heat became unbelievable, but
worse for Radgar at the moment than for him. His
fur collar and crown protected his neck and head
and the rest of him was well shielded.
"I want the truth! Whose idea was it to kill
my father?"
"I know nothing about--arrrh!" Cynewulf's
scream sounded very much like the firedrake's roar,
octaves higher. With one slash, his grandfather's
sword had opened Cynewulf's garments from
collarbone to waist, and opened the flesh under it also.
Blood spurted even redder than the robes.
"It was Ambrose! That Blade he sent
promised me the throne. His orders were to get a
peace treaty and kill Aeled."
"Ambrose ordered him to kill my father?"
"Yes! Yes! He had never forgiven him for the
Candlefen foering."
"And the Queen? Speak!" Radgar drove his
victim onward, ever closer to the raging furnace
of the firedrake.
Cynewulf fell back from the sword, clothes
smoking, hair and beard frizzling in the heat.
"Charlotte was my prize, my price! I had
wanted her for years. Mercy, mercy!"
"You showed no mercy, ni`eding! Tell of the
rest of your crimes. How did you manage
to hang on to the throne? Speak! I will
make you speak!"
The King tumbled to his knees, writhing as the
heat worked through his robes. "I confess! I
confess everything. I used a conjurement on your
mother. I take Chivian gold--four hundred
thousand crowns a year Ambrose sends me
to turn a blind eye and keep the peace."
The firedrake continued to move closer, coming
slowly, cascading lava from its joints. It
glowed brightly in the dense smoke that now filled the
hall, looming over the two men like a sun in
cloud. Radgar could hardly breathe for coughing, but
he forced out one more question.
"And Ae`edelno`ed?"
"He was plotting treason!" Cynewulf
screamed. "When Ambrose sent word that you were on
your way home, I knew he would conspire with you
against me."
It was enough, more than enough. If any witnesses
at all survived from this disaster, Cynewulf would
be condemned forever in the annals of his country.
"Up!" Radgar dropped his sword and used
both hands to drag the wailing monarch to the
firedrake. Lava spewed up from the floor.
The fat man's garments burst into flames. So
did Radgar's boots. Screaming, he hurled
himself aside, rolling away in agony.
Cynewulf was trapped and engulfed, although in the
smoke it almost seemed as if the firedrake
lifted him up in both hands and peered at him
curiously while he burned away.
Radgar hauled himself back from the edge of
madness. He could indulge in faints and hysterics
later. First he must deal with this fiendish thing before it
killed everyone in the hall. He snatched up his
sword again and also--with some vague instinct that it was
important and should not be lost--the golden crown of
/> Baelmark.
Dad had told him, "I just made it notice
me and then ran like an otter for the water." But
Dad had met his firedrake in the open air.
This one was blocking the only way out.
Somehow he must attract the firedrake's
attention and lead it back the way it had come. If
he merely angered it, it might charge straight
at the fyrd. If he did not do something soon,
everyone would broil or suffocate.
Shuddering, he ran at the monster.
Strike it and get past it and keep running--
simple but almost certainly impossible. It had
collapsed into a heap again and seemed to be trying
to rebuild its manlike form once more. Why did
it choose that shape? Screaming in fury and agony
both, he scrambled up the rising slope. Aiming
at where its heart would be if it were human, he
drove the sword into a crevice, hoping to vault
over that hint of a shoulder, come down on the far
side, and keep on running. That did not happen.
He had expected his blade to meet resistance,
but the molten inside of the abomination was runny as
water, so the sword went in up to the hilt. A
huge slab of the outer crust broke off, releasing
torrents of fire and lava. The fiery
avalanche swept Radgar down the
firedrake's left side and rolled him across the
floor until he hit the wall. There he lay,
at the monster's mercy.
The firedrake did not turn on him as he
had expected. It roared as if it, too, was in
pain. It went straight out a side wall, which
exploded into fiery ash. Radgar was ripped and
bleeding, bruised in a thousand places, but out there
was rain and cold ground, so he scrambled up from the
rubble and lurched after it. His quarry was fleeing and,
houndlike, he must pursue, his insane hatred
burning hotter than the drake itself.
Some crazy citizens had gathered to watch the
destruction of Cynehof. They fled as the monster
churned toward them, moving almost as fast as a man
could run--as fast, anyway, as a seriously
injured man running on raw feet.
Like a dust devil crossing a field on a
summer day, the firedrake waded through
Waro`edburh as if seeking to escape the puny
figure behind it. Whatever Dad had said about being
chased by his firedrake, this one fled, a
complete reversal. Clothed in steam and flame,
it mainly followed the winding streets, but at times
it cut corners, and then buildings vanished in
spouts of flame, raining burning debris and
starting a thousand fires. Only the torrential
rain and the wide spaces between houses saved the
entire city from destruction. In retrospect,
Radgar remembered very little of that mad pursuit.
Some deep, hunter instinct continued to function and
he ran through pain and exhaustion, driven insane
by hate. This was what anger was for! Once
or twice his quarry wavered, as if about to turn
and fight, but each time it resumed its former
downhill path before he reached it.
At the harbor the drake seemed to sense its
bane, the sea, for it veered off course and moved
along the beach, exploding boats and longships.
Radgar tried to cut it off, screaming at it.
He had lost too much blood; he was almost too
weak to brandish what remained of his sword. Just as
he decided that he would have to close with the monster
again, it turned away and waded through a rocky
outcrop to the water's edge. Without hesitation, it
plunged off. A single mountain-sized scream,
and the drake was gone, the harbor had a new pier.
Radgar was deluged in boiling spray, which was a
welcome relief after what had gone before.
The only way out of his torment was to faint, so
he did.
He lay on a very hard surface, wrapped in
a cloak or blanket. He could guess that he
was in an elementary, because conjurers were chanting,
sending waves of spirituality washing over him and through
him, healing, soothing--and just as flaming well! He
felt as if he'd been grated like carrots and
threshed like grain. Still, by rights he should have been
burned to ash a dozen times over, so he should not
complain. The voices seemed distant and had a
curiously muffled tone that told him he was back
in the Haligdom.
He kept his eyes shut, feeling the spirits working
their miracle and enjoying it, for the fading away of
pain was intense pleasure. Even when the conjurers
completed their incantation and fell silent, he had
no great inclination to return to the world. Cynewulf
was dead and Wulfwer, too, so it would be a better
world. So was Charlotte Aedeswif, poor soul,
and Wasp also, if he had gone back
to Weargahlaew. Neither had deserved the troubles
life had given them. The witenagemot would
elect a new king, no doubt, and the runner-up
would immediately challenge.
So? Radgar had a good claim now, after
defeating the firedrake. But a great weariness had
settled over him. No! Let them kill one
another off to their hearts' content, to the last
tanist. He had survived his first taste of
political life, if only barely,
and one sip was enough. The estates that rightfully
belonged to him would make him very rich, so all he
need do was stay off the booming sea and never go
a-foering on the western wind. Then no one
would try to involve him in politics. He could
grow fat and live to a ripe old age on the
fame he had earned that night. He could acquire
a concubine, just to find out what all the fuss was
about, and perhaps in time a wife. He had conquered a
firedrake! That was good, very good. Radgar
Dracan-bana! His father would have approved. He
was a worthy Cattering, fit to stand with his
ancestors.
Yet he still had unfinished business.
Cynewulf was dead and Yorick as good as, but the
real culprit behind his father's murder was still very much
at large.
"He's frowning," said Leofric's voice.
"Is that a good sign?"
He tried not to react, but then his mouth smiled
so he opened his eyes and looked at a complete
ring of faces peering down at him--red beards,
white beards, no beards, male and female.
Few of them were recognizable against the light of the
lanterns hung high on the eight pillars.
Someone was being extraordinarily extravagant with
lamp oil! He moved a few muscles
experimentally and everything seemed to be present and
functioning. His feet hurt. He tried to speak
and nothing happened, but then strong arms raised him
and a beaker was put to his mouth. He drained it
six times before uttering a sound, and the first words he
spoke were a demand for more. They sat him up so
> Aylwin and another man could slide a tunic on
him, dressing him like a child.
The great dome seemed almost empty, although it
held the eight conjurers and a score or so of his
shipmates from Faro`edhengest. It was good to be
alive, to see those smiles. Why, though, had he
not been treated in one of the smaller elementaries--
and why all by himself? There would be many injured people in
Waro`edburh after so many fires. The rain was still
falling, for he could hear its deep drumming on the
roof, but there was another noise that he could not
identify, a vague rumble like surf on a
rocky coast.
"Well?" Leofric demanded. "Nothing's
missing. All we can see wrong on the outside
are some bruises and gashes, and they should clear up
very shortly. How do you feel on the
inside?"
"Weary. A bit sore, still."
"Spirits, man! Is that all? After what you
did?" His single eye glistened. It was not like him
to show such emotion. "These learned people have done
wonders for you and want to be the first to thank you for
what you did. Do you feel up to that?"
"I must first thank them for what they have done for
me."
They helped him stand. Reluctantly he
accepted the stool they brought, for he was absurdly
shaky and his feet hurt, which was a novel
humiliation for a man who had not known a day's ill
health since childhood. Aylwin knelt
to dress him in leggings and garters without as much as a
by-your-leave. The exuberance of the conjurers'
thanks was yet another embarrassment. Three men
and five women ... he had never had people fawn
over him before, except some of the sillier juniors
at Ironhall the day he bested Wolfbiter at
fencing. He had only done his duty, he
insisted, and without their healing skills he would not be
here now.
Then--over his vehement protests--Leofric
knelt to kiss his hands, followed by Aylwin,
Ceolmund, and his Faro`edhengest brethren.
They hailed him as hero and dracan-bana,
talking much nonsense. They all had an ominous
sparkle of excitement about them. They did not
seem to realize that Radgar Aeleding had decided
to retire from political life, and he was beginning
to suspect that telling them so would make very little
difference to whatever it was they were plotting. No one
threw away this much lamp oil just to heal one
battered boy. The door was being opened and closed,