Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  “The abbey is near the coast. My idea is that we fly east, hugging the coastline, until we find the abbey. We need to fly low to the ground,” he added, “so that I can see the landmarks to guide us.”

  Verdi looked back at him. Dag could only hope he and the dragon had reached a meeting of the minds. He shouldered his bedroll and approached the dragon, keeping an eye on the massive head. Verdi’s eyes followed his movements. Dag remembered that one mounted a dragon by climbing up on the foreleg and from there to the back. He pulled himself up onto the leg, feeling the tough, dry scales beneath his hands, noting with a soldier’s interest how the scales were like chain mail, overlapping each other in a way that would distribute an impact across a much larger area than the size of the striking object.

  No wonder bullets bounce off, he thought.

  Once settled on the dragon’s back, Dag grimaced at the pain in his buttocks, then braced himself and indicated with a shout that he was ready.

  A dragon trained to fly with a human passenger would leap into the air, then spiral upward to gain altitude, thus sparing the humans discomfort. The untrained Verdi sprang straight into the air, using his powerful hind legs to propel his body, and soared upward, his wings sweeping the sky.

  The force of the dragon’s takeoff flattened Dag back against the spike on the spine. Feeling his stomach drop out of him, Dag held tightly to the front spike and stared straight up past the dragon’s head into the clouds. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the ground rapidly falling away from beneath him. He could do nothing except hang on and pray that he survived and swore that if he did, he would never fly on a dragon again.

  Once in the air, Verdi leveled out and Viola and Petard joined him. Verdi spoke to his friends in the dragon’s impossible-to-pronounce language. Dag was holding on so tightly his arms began to shake. Chill sweat dried on his neck and chest. When his stomach caught up to the rest of him, he was sorry it did, for he tossed up his breakfast of roast deer meat.

  He was heartened to see the dragons heading east, the route he’d told Verdi. Dag felt better as the flight progressed. Verdi and the other three flew low, as Dag had ordered. He recognized several landmarks and was relieved to see that he’d been correct, they were heading in the right direction. But, at that, he almost missed the abbey.

  He located the harbor and the dock where the Cloud Hopper had docked over a month ago, after surviving an attack by the bat riders—the first time they had ever encountered the Bottom Dwellers. When he didn’t see the twin spires of the abbey nearby he concluded, somewhat puzzled, that he must be wrong. Only when they flew into view of the compound and he recognized the stone wall surrounding the cathedral, did he understand why he had not seen the twin spires. He stared in shock at the massive pile of marble, stone, and broken timbers that had once been the ancient, beautiful Abbey of Saint Agnes.

  Dag was so appalled by what he saw that he almost forgot to tell the dragons that they had reached their destination. He was about to call out, when he became aware that the three wild dragons had slowed their flight. Even Dag could see they were tense, uneasy.

  He discovered the cause. Two larger dragons had taken to the air and were flying toward them, moving slowly, cautiously.

  Dag recognized sergeants Hroal and Droal, former members of the Dragon Brigade.

  “The dragons are friends of mine!” Dag shouted to Verdi.

  The three dragons did not appear impressed. They began circling, drawing closer together.

  Greatly daring, Dag gripped with his thighs and raised himself up as far as he could. Holding on with one hand, he waved at the brothers.

  The dragon Droal lifted his head in astonishment and called out, “Sergeant!” The dragon barked in his usual laconic form of communication, “Who? What?”

  Dag had assumed the meeting between the dragons would be a happy one, a family reunion. But this was a family that had been long divided. Both sides were mistrustful, afraid. He realized in alarm that both were preparing for a fight! God only knew what would happen to him if the dragons decided to do battle in the skies.

  Dag had often heard Stephano and Miri talk about the differences between wild dragons and their civilized cousins. He had been skeptical. To him, all dragons looked alike. He now could see the differences for himself.

  Droal and Hroal were nearly two times longer than the wild dragons, and their bodies were easily twice as heavy and bulky. Their necks were thicker, their chests broader and more massive. The wild dragons were smaller, sleeker, more graceful and lithe. It was as if Dag were comparing the large, well-fed Doctor Ellington to a lean, scrappy alley cat.

  The three wild dragons thrust out their heads and hissed a warning for the strangers to keep their distance.

  “These dragons! Friends of mine!” Dag roared again, but this didn’t seem to have much effect.

  He could feel Verdi’s muscles quiver beneath his legs. He had no idea what the three wild dragons intended—flight or fight. Neither boded well for him.

  Droal and Hroal took matters in hand. Both slowed, veering off and showing their underbellies to indicate they came with peaceful intent. Droal spoke to the three in the dragon language. The only word Dag understood in the conversation was his own name. Dag didn’t know what was being said, but he thought he should respond. When Verdi peered around him, Dag gave an emphatic nod.

  After some lengthy discussion, during which the dragons flew in circles, neither side coming too close, Droal spoke.

  “All well, sir,” said the dragon. “Never met wild cousins. Wild cousins never met us. Suspicious. Finally convinced.”

  Dag sighed in relief. “Thank you!” He gestured. “You and I—we need to talk.”

  Droal grunted. “Thought so.”

  He and his brother flew off, and the wild dragons followed. The sergeants set down in a field near the abbey. After they landed they waited off to one side as the wild dragons, still wary and uncertain, made their own landing. The three wild dragons continued to keep their distance, watching Droal and Hroal with narrowed eyes, wings slightly raised, heads lowered.

  Dag slid off Verdi’s back and, giving the dragon a pat in thanks for setting him down in one piece, he again had to stifle a groan. Dignity prevented him from rubbing his backside. He walked stiffly over to speak with the dragon brothers.

  “Good to see you both again,” said Dag. He noticed for the first time the fresh scars from the horrific burns Hroal had suffered. “I notice you’ve been wounded, Sergeant. Are you all right?”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Hroal. “Yes, sir. Westfirth. Bat riders.”

  “We were there,” Dag said. “We barely escaped.”

  “Captain de Guichen. Safe?” Droal asked worriedly.

  “All of us safe, thank you. Stephano—that is Captain de Guichen—sent me to speak to you. Our boat was damaged and we had to set down on an island for repairs. We met these wild dragons. Stephano—Captain de Guichen—started telling them tales of the Dragon Brigade and, well, one thing led to another and when we left, these three followed us.”

  Droal and Hroal listened with grave attention.

  “Trouble is,” Dag continued, “they understand us well enough, but they can’t talk to us. We don’t know why they followed us, what they want from us. Captain de Guichen was hoping you might be able to ask them.”

  “Not easy,” Droal said, shaking his head and repeating, “Suspicious.”

  Hroal said something to his brother in their language. Both dragons looked with interest at Petard. Dag followed their gaze and saw the burns Hroal had sustained were similar to the burns Petard had suffered.

  “Roed,” said Hroal in grim tones.

  At this word, the three wild dragons all looked at Hroal. Dag had no idea what the word meant, but observing the level of interest shown by the wild dragons, he repeated it several times to himself, making a mental note to tell Stephano.

  “Bat riders made those wounds,” said Hroal.

  “
We were on the island when we were attacked,” Dag said. “That dragon there, the one with the wounds, saved our Gythe from the Bottom Dwellers. Those we used to call demons. They’re not. Demons, that is.”

  “Bottom Dwellers,” Droal rolled the words on his tongue. “Why?”

  “That is what they call themselves,” Dag explained. “Bottom Dwellers. They … uh … talked to Gythe. We think they call themselves that because they live at the bottom of the world. Deep below the Breath.”

  The dragon brothers digested this information.

  “Is possible,” said Droal, after a moment.

  “What’s possible?” Dag asked.

  “The bottom. Dragons went there once,” said Droal. “Found land.”

  “Didn’t like it,” Hroal added. “Came back. Never went again.”

  Dag thought this over. “You’re saying the dragons flew down below the Breath and survived. They found land. Was anyone living there?”

  Droal shook his head. “Long ago. Long, long ago.”

  Since dragons live to the age of three hundred or more, a long time to a dragon might be a thousand years or more. So if humans were not living on the bottom then, how did they come to be living there now? The answer was beyond Dag’s ability to puzzle out.

  All this time, the three wild dragons had been conferring. They apparently arrived at a consensus, because the female wild dragon, Viola, raised her head and made a trumpeting call. She walked forward several paces, her wings extended, her belly low to the ground.

  Droal raised his head and moved toward her. She halted out of striking range, but close enough to speak. Droal halted when she did.

  The two dragons began to converse. Dag walked about; he figured it was less painful than trying to sit down. He listened to the conversation, but it was nothing but roaring, hooting, and bellowing to him. He wandered over to gaze sadly at the ruins of the cathedral and recalled Father Jacob saying how the Bottom Dwellers had left constructs in the stone work designed to weaken and eventually bring down the building. The priest had asked the dragon brothers to keep guard on it, to make sure no one entered.

  Not that there was much likelihood of that, Dag thought sadly. The abbey was located in an isolated part of Rosia. No one ever came here anymore except the occasional ship lost in the mists and Trundlers.

  Dag’s thoughts went to his friends aboard the Cloud Hopper. He wondered if Miri had been very angry at Stephano, and how Doctor Ellington was faring without him.

  The conversation between the dragons continued. Dag heard a few words he understood, among them “Captain de Guichen” and “Château d’Eau Brisé,” the name of Stephano’s family estate. Dag couldn’t imagine why the dragons would be discussing this.

  The midday sun had reached its zenith. He was slowly roasting in his armor. He drank from his canteen; the water was tepid and stale. Sighting some trees in the distance, he decided to walk over, find a seat in the shade, maybe a stream. He hobbled across the field, walking off the stiffness in his muscles. He had nearly reached the trees when Droal called his name.

  Dag sighed, turned around, and walked back.

  “Clan elders sent dragons,” said Droal.

  “They did? Why?”

  “Bottom Dwellers. Roed. Kill dragons. The elders want—”

  “Excuse me, Droal,” Dag said, interrupting, “what is roed?”

  “Roed is roed,” Droal said, blinking.

  “Roed, not raeg,” Hroal added.

  The two seemed to think this explained everything.

  Dag gave up on the linguistic lesson. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the wild dragons listening intently.

  “Why didn’t the elders talk to us about the Bottom Dwellers?” Dag wondered. “I’m assuming the elders speak our language. Someone taught the young ones. If they can’t speak it, they understand it.”

  “Roed. Elders don’t trust any humans. Sent young to find kin.” Droal gave a thump of his tail on the ground.

  “Well, now that this is settled, I’m assuming they’re going to fly off to look for their cousins.”

  “Staying,” said Droal. “With you.”

  Dag’s jaw dropped. “Me? They’re staying with me?”

  “You and Captain de Guichen.”

  “They can’t,” said Dag flatly. “We live in Evreux. There’d be hell to pay.”

  “Captain de Guichen’s estate. Housing. Saddles. Learn. Dragon Brigade. My idea,” Droal said proudly.

  “Brother and I,” Hroal added. “Teach them to fight.”

  Stephano’s dream of forming his own Dragon Brigade had come true, Dag thought. Just not in the way he’d imagined.

  “Good idea, I guess,” said Dag, taking off his helm and scratching his head. “Do you know where the estate is located?”

  “Been there,” said Droal. “Old days.”

  “Excellent. You take charge of this lot,” said Dag, relieved. “I need to get back to Evreux. Do any ships and Trundler boats ever dock here?”

  Droal was shaking his head. “Dragons trust you.”

  “Won’t let you go,” Hroal added.

  “I have to join up with Stephano—”

  “Then they will follow. Where you go, they go,” said Hroal.

  Dag muttered a few swear words in Guundaran and wiped the sweat from his face. He wondered what to do. He looked over at the wild dragons, and the three of them gazed back at him.

  Dag gave a philosophical shrug. He’d learned early in his military career to take whatever you were handed and make the best of it. Bellyaching only made matters worse.

  “I suppose we’d best get started,” he said, and he clapped his helm on his head.

  16

  Who’s watching who, watching who’s watching who.

  —Rodrigo de Villenueve

  The king of Rosia, His Majesty Alaric le Fevre, returned to the royal palace after his trip to Westfirth. Once there, he insisted on ordering eighteen ships from the naval fleet that he had recalled from Braffa to remain to guard the palace. Cecile argued against this. She maintained that the ships were needed to represent Rosian interests in the city-state of Braffa, whose refineries produced the liquefied Breath of God that kept the naval ships afloat.

  King Alaric was vengeful, obdurate, with just enough intelligence to be dangerous. He had been a young man when he had ascended to the throne. He believed in his father’s delightful secret to ruling: leave all decisions to your ministers and advisers and if anything goes wrong, blame them.

  The Countess de Marjolaine was chief among Alaric’s advisers. He had wits enough to value her advice and generally abided by it. There were times, however, when he insisted on having his own way. Alaric could be as stubborn as a wyvern, as the saying went, and nothing Cecile said on the subject of the royal navy could deter him from ordering the ships of the line, commanded by his eldest son, Prince Renaud, to remain to defend their king.

  To give Alaric credit, he was honestly convinced that the bat riders were Freyans in disguise. Alaric hated the Freyans with a profound and malignant hatred such that if the attackers had been devils sent by Aertheum the Archfiend, Alaric would have been far less concerned. Never mind that Alaric had no explanation for the gigantic bats or the weapons that belched green fire. He had decided they must be secret weapons, developed by the Freyans.

  The grand bishop had always fostered Alaric’s hatred for the Freyans and now proclaimed loudly that the assault had been a Freyan attack. Cecile was surprised to learn that the stunning and exotic Idonia, Duquesa de Plata Niebla, was adding her voice to those blaming Freya, hinting she had secret information that pointed to the fact.

  Cecile had, as was customary, secretly investigated the Duquesa de Plata Niebla. Cecile remembered the woman from the last time she had been at court, years ago. Idonia had remained several months as a guest of the queen. King Alaric, being fond of beautiful young women, had attempted to seduce the duchess. She had fended off his advances, managing to do so in a way
that did not offend Alaric, but instead left him intrigued and admiring. She offered as her reason for refusing him the fact that she was dear friends with his wife.

  Alaric didn’t care two bent rosuns for his wife and continued to try to batter down the duchess’s resistance. Just when he thought he had won her, she had announced that she was leaving court to return to her estate because her husband, the duke, was in ill health. She had departed, and Alaric had turned his attentions elsewhere.

  Cecile’s agents had reported that the duchess appeared to be exactly who she said she was. Once she was gone, Cecile had forgotten about her.

  The duchess had returned older in years, but as beautiful as ever. She wore powdered wigs and powdered her dusky complexion. The white emphasized her black eyes, rose-red cheeks and lips. She was like a red rose among pink and white daisies. She claimed to be a widow now and a wealthy widow at that. Alaric liked his women young and he was no longer interested in bedding the duchess. He enjoyed having her around, however. She flattered him and amused him with her witty bon mots and gossip about the latest court scandals.

  Cecile had not liked the duchess when she had first come to court. A woman of obvious intelligence, wit, and charm, Idonia fawned over the silly, empty-headed Queen Annemarie. Cecile could think of only one reason for the duchess to spend so much time in the company of a woman who must bore her to tears—the queen could not keep a secret to save her soul. Her Majesty was a flowing font of information.

  The night after she returned from Westfirth, Cecile was in her suite of rooms in the palace, working late. She was meeting with her confidential agent, man-of-business, secretary, and trusted confidant, D’argent. The two were going over the countess’s dealings related to her large estate in Marjolaine. The wealthiest woman in Rosia, Cecile handled all her business matters herself. She and D’argent were discussing the collection of rents owed by her tenants. The countess’s mind was not on her work, however.

  She laid down the lorgnette she had been using to read the numbers and sat gazing at a painting on the wall opposite her—a landscape of her country estate done by a famous artist commissioned by her father.