The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  “No! Not a single soldier leaves Swalekeep, do you understand?” She flung her hair over her shoulder and clutched her velvet bedrobe tight to her breast. “Arrange the guards—cavalry, archers, everyone!—around the residence.”

  “As you wish, your grace, but that will leave the walls poorly manned. The population doesn’t know how to fight off an attack. Many will die.”

  “What do I care for a few dozen common folk? And you shouldn’t, either. What are you standing there for? Hurry!”

  The commander bowed and went to do as told. Chiana shouted for her maidservants to come and dress her at once. Giving orders in her nightgown was not encompassed in her image of a warrior princess.

  “Find my son. I don’t care if he’s in his bath or in his current mistress, bring him here instantly!”

  “Yes, your grace. And—and the prince, your grace?”

  “Idiot! Of course, the prince!”

  But who had the commander come to first? she asked herself as a silk shirt was buttoned at her wrists and a green embroidered tunic was lowered over her head. Not to Halian—to her. Chiana, Princess of Meadowlord, Roelstra’s daughter.

  Roelstra’s grandson arrived in her bedchamber just as she was stamping her feet to fit them more snugly into her boots. “What in all Hells is going on?”

  “Why are you wearing red?” she exclaimed. “Have someone fetch you a green tunic—no, wait! Violet!”

  “Pol’s color? No, thank you!”

  “Princemarch’s color!” She whirled on a servant. “My violet cloak—give it to his grace!”

  “I won’t wear women’s clothes!” Rinhoel snapped. “There’s a dark purple tunic in my chamber. Go get me that. It’s close enough.”

  “That will do.” Chiana made a gesture that sent all the servants fleeing, then clasped her son’s hands. “I can’t wait to see you riding at the head of our troops to defeat Tilal!”

  “So that’s what’s going on! Get word to the Vellant’im. They must come to our aid.”

  “Where’s Aurar?”

  “We don’t have time—and I don’t want her claiming she’s responsible for saving Swalekeep.”

  “The dragon Varek gave you, then,” Chiana told him. “He said to use it when we wanted to get a message immediately and only to him. Go get it.”

  Rinhoel laughed with excitement and bent to kiss her forehead. “Thank the Goddess. The wait was maddening!”

  Chiana watched him stride from her room, her heart swelling until she thought it must burst from her breast, take wing, and fly for sheer joyful pride. Her tall, strong, beautiful son, who would soon be High Prince in his grandfather’s place.

  The father of her son was next into her bedchamber. He, of course, had on gray mourning for Cluthine. The sight of him made her lip curl in disgust. She turned to the hearth and picked up the riding gauntlets warming on the fender.

  “You mustn’t be frightened, Chiana, I’ll take care of everything.”

  Frightened? Suddenly all the years of enduring the Parchment Prince roiled up in her, and she laughed in his face.

  “You’ll do nothing except what I tell you to do! Just like always, Halian!”

  He stared for an instant, shocked, but his recent encounter with Rialt must have given him confidence. “You run my princedom nicely, Chiana, but this is war. Leave it to me.”

  “If I’d left it to you, Swalekeep would be rubble by now! Who do you think kept the Vellant’im out?”

  “I know it was you, to save Meadowlord from being laid waste. But now they’re attacking us, Chiana—”

  “Goddess in glory! Didn’t anyone tell you? It’s not the Vellant’im at our walls, it’s Tilal of Ossetia! And with Vellanti help, we’ll beat him into the mud!”

  He seized her arm in a bruising grip. “Their help? Against one of our own? Have you lost your mind? Chiana, what have you done?”

  “Let her go.”

  Rinhoel stood stiffly in the doorway, his high-boned face flushed with anger. After a moment’s hesitation, Halian released his wife’s wrist. Chiana rubbed at it, smiling her contempt.

  “You have my leave to withdraw,” she said. “My son and I have important matters to discuss.”

  “Yes, run along now, Father,” Rinhoel seconded. “We don’t need you.”

  Halian looked from one to the other of them. “Then it was true,” he breathed. “Everything Rialt said was true.”

  Chiana only shrugged.

  “Which of you ordered Cluthine killed?” He grabbed her again, this time by the shoulders, and shook her. “Was it you? Did you tell them to kill her?”

  “Take your hands off me!”

  “How did she die? Tell me!”

  Very quietly, Rinhoel said, “Let go of her.”

  “Tell me!” Halian shouted, and Chiana yelped with the pain of his grip.

  “She—she was caught trying to sneak out of Swalekeep. Stop it, that hurts! It was an accident that she died!”

  “Liar! She was murdered!” He flung her toward a chair. “She never harmed you or anyone! Why kill her?”

  “She didn’t matter.” Rinhoel started for his father, moving with the easy, long-limbed grace of a hunting cat. “And you know something else? You don’t matter, either.”

  Halian paled and backed up a pace. “I’m your father. Your prince.”

  “You are nothing.”

  “Rinhoel. . . .” Chiana whispered. “No.”

  “It’s necessary,” he said, taking one of the polished fire irons from its gilded rack.

  Chiana squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her ears and bit both lips between her teeth. It was only a few moments later that gentle hands touched her cheeks, coaxed her arms down.

  “Mother.”

  She couldn’t open her eyes. “He—he’s—”

  “Yes. It needed doing.” He guided her blind into the solar. Only when she heard the bedchamber door close and the lock click did she open her eyes again.

  “We have a problem,” Rinhoel said briskly. “I can’t find the dragon token. Someone must have taken it—probably that miserable little whelp of Rialt’s. We can either go looking for it, or take Aurar’s. But we have to get word to Varek at once.”

  Something about him had changed, she thought numbly. Something was different. He was ruling Prince of Meadowlord now. That must be it. Of course.

  “Yes,” she said mindlessly. “Whatever you think best.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Kerluthan and his eighty riders made yet another circuit of Swalekeep, promoting the illusion that there were hundreds assaulting the walls rather than Draza’s mere sixty. Although one could scarcely term it an “assault,” he thought sourly. They were simply walking in.

  He led his riders through the east gates when they were opened to him, and clattered along the streets frightening the populace. Swords were raised but not used; these people were not the enemy. Drawing rein in a broad, tree-lined square near the princely residence, he looked around him in disgust. Not so much as a kitchen knife did he see, only stunned and fearful faces huddling in doorways and half-hidden behind windows.

  “My lord,” said his second-in-command, who served him at River Ussh as huntmaster, “I just had a look over the walls there. The prince’s guard is assembled, but making no move to attack. It’s my guess that they’ll protect the prince, but not the people.”

  Kerluthan had no quarrel with that on principle, but he was sharply disappointed. At least there would have been some enjoyment in a real battle. “I think it’s time for my speech, then,” he replied with a grimace. “Here’s hoping I remember the important bits.”

  But someone tall and fair had climbed up on a mounting block before a tavern, and beaten him to it.

  “People of Meadowlord! People of Waes! By his banner, and by my sure knowledge of him, that is Lord Kerluthan of River Ussh, athri of the High Prince! The soldiers with him are your brothers and sisters! They’ve not come to harm you, but to ask your
help against the invader!”

  “Who in Hells is that?” Kerluthan muttered. “He looks familiar. Good Goddess, it’s that fellow who was with Princess Naydra. The tutor.”

  Branig had drawn all attention. “Do you want vengeance on those who despoil your lands and drive you from your homes? How many of you fled here for your lives? Those of you from Waes, led to safety by Lord Rialt—you couldn’t stay and fight then, but you can now! Take up arms! Take back what is yours!”

  Kerluthan was irked. He’d taken a lot of trouble learning his speech, and now this man had said it all for him. Still, it had come from one of their own, not from him, and he supposed that was for the best. There was still one thing only he could say. Standing in his stirrups, he bellowed, “We gather at the east gate to ride against the Vellant’im for High Prince Pol! For the Azhrei!”

  “What about our own prince?” someone ventured on his left. Before he could reply, Branig gave a withering laugh.

  “Don’t you mean your princess? How many of you have helped load flatboats with food to be sent downriver? Your food, the winter’s stores, the work of your hands and backs! How far do you think these boats get, with the Vellant’im camped three measures away? And now that the warehouses are flooded, what will you eat? How can you hunt, with Vellant’im riding the hills and shooting down your game? Will your princess feed you from her own larders?”

  A murmuring chased through the crowd as they moved out of doorways into the main square. Behind Kerluthan rose the towers of Swalekeep, the oldest princely seat on the continent. He hoped Chiana and Halian were listening.

  Kerluthan raised his sword aloft. “Those of you with a will to it, come with me! Fight for Meadowlord as your prince has not!”

  “But—but we’ve nothing to hand, nothing to use—”

  Branig pointed west. “You’ll find swords and arrows stockpiled at breaks in the walls. Now someone ask me why there, when the Vellant’im are to the south!”

  He would never give answer. Four arrows thudded into his chest. He swayed with the impact and collapsed to the cobblestones.

  Chiana had been listening after all.

  Kerluthan and his soldiers were protected at least in part by their Leather armor. The common folk were not. They scattered in all directions—those who did not fall. Meadowlord’s light green fletching sprouting from their bodies like stalks of winter wheat.

  Kerluthan spurred his horse and led his people down a side street, out of range of the arrows. The residence’s low stone walls would be child’s play. But he had a greater prize waiting. He could not waste time, effort, or lives here. Cursing Chiana, he wheeled around and rode back through the twisting streets to the east gate.

  • • •

  Andrev looked up at Ostvel. “The guards didn’t follow, my lord.”

  “So. They have orders to protect Chiana. Damn the woman! There’s no doubt that Branig is dead?”

  “None, my lord. I took another look before I came back here.”

  “What’s Kerluthan doing?”

  A few moments passed, and then Andrev reported, “He’s checking wounds. The riders who were hurt are trading horses with those who aren’t. He’ll be short a horse or two, but it looks as if he hasn’t lost many. None dead, thank the Goddess. The ones who can will go help Lord Draza’s people, I think.”

  “Amazing. I expected Kerluthan to storm the residence.” He turned to one of the couriers. “My compliments to Lord Kerluthan, and tell him I sympathize with his desire to attack Chiana. But I beg him to wait as planned. Let’s hope the people of Swalekeep were shocked enough to arm and join us. But no matter what the numbers, at midmorning he must lead the charge.”

  “Very good, my lord. May I stay with Lord Kerluthan?”

  “Of course. He’ll need you more than I.”

  “Thank you, my lord!”

  Ostvel shifted in his saddle. “Where’s that other rider, Andrev? The one who must be sent to warn them?”

  Another pause. “Well away from Swalekeep, my lord. Going south at a full gallop on one of my grandsir’s horses.”

  “Then it won’t take long to reach the Vellant’im. Excellent. Kerluthan is not a patient man.” He sighed and unstoppered his wineskin, taking a drink to ease the chill. “And so we sit, and so we wait,” he murmured. “I don’t much like it, Andrev.”

  “No more do I, my lord.”

  But for a different reason, Ostvel knew.

  • • •

  Varek’s official title was Rusadi’lel: leader who understands war. He did. After a strenuous autumn campaign, he had settled his men near Swalekeep to wait for one of three things: an attack by Prince Tilal, a command from the High Warlord to march on the Desert, or spring.

  Varek had just over a thousand troops and half that many horses. His camp was on the crest of a low hill overlooking an excellent battle site. Ditches carried off most of the rain and the tents were relatively dry within—his men were used to the wet anyway and had slept in worse places. He was supplied by Princess Chiana (though much of the grain and wine was unusable, for which she would pay dearly when the time came). He had nothing to do but bide his time, improve his knowledge of the barbarians’ language, and miss his wives. He was getting bored.

  So when Lady Aurar came thundering into his camp, muddy to the tops of her boots, Varek welcomed her demands. The High Warlord would be pleased to have this finished. Nothing must distract from the final victory in the Desert. He smiled at Aurar, wondering if she would be so eager to have his help if she knew that he would destroy not only Prince Tilal but Swalekeep itself by nightfall. Briefly he toyed with the notion of keeping the Ossetian prince alive long enough to tell him how unimportant he was, that all this fighting through the southern princedoms was ultimately meaningless.

  Calling for seven clanmasters, he ordered them to ready themselves instantly to march. They nearly fell on their knees in gratitude at being chosen, and ran to unfurl their battle banners—not neglecting to fling superior smirks at those who would stay behind. Varek had never agreed with the High Warlord about the folly of such rivalries; the competitive spirit, once discouraged from its more murderous impulses and harnessed to a single purpose, kept the clans vying to outdo each other on the battlefield. But Varek was the first to admit that only the very personal power of the High Warlord had been able to unite them to that single purpose. What authority he himself wielded, he did in his master’s name, with fear and awe of the High Warlord obvious in his men’s eyes.

  Aurar knew by now how the Vellanti army was organized. Seven clanmasters meant just over three hundred soldiers. She gasped in outrage. “We need your whole army!”

  “Not so, my lady,” he told her. “To fight inside walls, horses are without use. Prince Tilal will find this soon. His men are best on horses. The men of these clanmasters are best on foot. Three hundred is good.”

  She argued—as if he would be swayed by a woman. He attempted to conform to these fools’ idea of politeness, but at last was compelled to turn his back on her and walk away to inspect the assembled warriors. She followed, still raving. Varek admired the exotic beauty of the enemy’s women, but if they were all as lacking in respect as Aurar and Chiana, he marveled that their men did not cut their tongues out.

  “Do you see this? Do you?” She held up the silver dragon token on its chain. “You made me a promise, Varek! I’ve supported your cause, my father died for it—”

  “Lady Aurar,” he interrupted, smiling, “you have not an idea of what is our cause.” He wasted a moment appreciating her speechlessness, then beckoned for her horse to be brought. She tried to kick him as he lifted her into the saddle. “Go back to Swalekeep. You will have guards to protect you.”

  To his eternal astonishment, she gave him a poisonously sweet smile. “I certainly will. Three hundred of them, that I will lead against Prince Tilal personally.”

  She rode to the head of the ranks. To a man they went rigid with insult. As amused as he was shocked,
Varek murmured something to one of the clanmasters. The man grinned and joined his warriors, and within moments Varek’s remark had spread, along with muffled laughter. Aurar heard and was furious, but when she started forward the three hundred marched at her heels quite willingly.

  What Varek had said was, “I think that one has ambitions to be a clanmother. Whoever brings me Prince Tilal’s head may show her how it’s done.” His warriors had been forbidden to soil themselves on the common women here—known to be rife with disease—but Aurar was highborn, unmarried, and virgin. Had she been born a princess, she would long since have been sent to the High Warlord. But Varek had decided Chiana’s young daughter would do for that purpose. By nightfall the girl would be on her way to the Desert.

  Varek gave orders that the remaining sixteen clanmasters make ready to march. Then he returned to his tent and opened the last of the bottles that had been Prince Rinhoel’s personal gift to him. It was a dark, copper-colored wine with a smoky aftertaste and a kick like a yearling colt. Halfway through the bottle, he felt equal to the coming fight; by the end of it, he felt sure he would survive it.

  He had no liking for war. It was a loud, messy, dangerous business; when he could avoid it, he did. Oddly enough, this made him extremely valuable to the High Warlord. Varek had, in fact, been chosen Rusadi’lel over men who had many more kills than he, because an army should not be commanded by a man who loved to kill. Any idiot could stick his sword through another man’s guts. Varek always knew, quite coolly, whose guts should be forfeit, and whose swords should do it, and why.

  • • •

  Kerluthan reined in so violently that his horse reared. Hundreds of enemy foot soldiers were advancing across an open field that should have been empty of everything but foraging mice. He had expected to see them, but not so soon.

  He looked back over his shoulder. His cavalry had been augmented by two hundred men and women, most of them from Waes, armed with bows and swords. Some of them were mounted. None of them were trained soldiers. For that matter, few of his own people were, either. Tilal had kept the Medr’im for his own attack—three young men schooled at Remagev and sent out by Rohan as an experiment in keeping the peace. They were now Tilal’s wing commanders and would enjoy considerable autonomy during the attack. But Kerluthan had only his own judgment to rely on in dealing with this problem in timing. He had been told what his part was and how best to accomplish it. He had no experience, either in theory or in practice, at changing tactics to fit the situation.