The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  He gave a convulsive shiver of disgust, silently begging Meiglan’s pardon for even mentioning her daughter’s name in Miyon’s presence. Telling the truth about Jihan’s gifts and a whopping lie about where she got them had been the inspiration of the Goddess, he was sure. It had been so easy for Miyon to think that since the Merida had bedded one of their own with him, the diarmadh’im would have done the same. As if he had qualities worth preserving in future generations, Andry thought sourly, wondering how Meiglan had turned out so innocent and innocuous. As long as he was apologizing, he added one for maligning her ancestry with sorcerous connections. Having Miyon for a father was bad enough.

  But it had all worked. By the grace of the Goddess and his own wits, it had worked. Andry curled onto his side, pulling a blanket up, and at last began to relax. Tomorrow Miyon would leave Dragon’s Rest on a fool’s errand to Rezeld, where he and Chiana and Rinhoel would wait in vain for an army.

  What would they do when the appointed day arrived and the Vellant’im and sorcerers didn’t? Perhaps they’d do everyone a favor and murder each other.

  On the smile this thought brought him, Andry fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  Like any sensible dragon, the Azhrei sought shelter the instant he saw the sandstorm blowing up from Skybowl.

  But there was nowhere to go. They were too far from the foothills to outrace the wind—as Kazander pointed out while leaping from his saddle. Pol was momentarily agape as the Isulki tugged his horse around so its tail faced south and touched the animal behind the knees. Instantly the stallion knelt, nesting into soft sand for all the world like a dragon settling down for a nap. Kazander then crouched beside the horse’s neck, unfurled his cloak around both their heads, and vanished.

  Pol, Maarken, and Riyan exchanged amazed glances, shrugged, and followed Kazander’s lead. It took some persuading to get Pol’s proud golden Azhenel to wallow on his belly in the sand. Hunkered beneath his own little tent, cloak drawn sung around his stallion’s withers, Pol grinned at the sight he must make: a woolen lump of a head ending in a horse’s ass.

  It occurred to him that Sionell would doubtless call it appropriate.

  Only the brief tag end of the storm caught them on its meandering journey across the Desert, its main force spent. But as the horses struggled to free hindquarters half-buried in sand, Pol realized the pause had been a Goddess blessing. A hard ride down from Feruche had left scant time for rest. Relaxing back against Azhenel’s shoulder, listening to the wind that sounded like a great rushing river of Air, tension eased from Pol’s muscles and the grim urge for battle loosened its hold on his chest.

  Maarken, emerging from his cloak, cast a sour look at Kazander. “Is this why we can never find you after you’ve stolen—pardon me, borrowed—a few horses?”

  “High and Mighty Battle Commander, Most Noble Lord of Whitecliff, Worthy Heir to Radzyn’s splendors—” Kazander’s grin lifted his mustache from the corners of his mouth like a pair of black pennants. “That would be telling.”

  The sandstorm delayed their progress to Skybowl. By the time they neared the crater, sunset had washed the Desert sky in crimson and orange that faded to smoky violet. It was much too late in the day to do battle. Or so Pol thought, until Maarken pointed to the first moon peeking up over the horizon.

  “See that? The sky’s clear. We can do it, you know. They won’t expect us to do anything so foolish.”

  “Neither do I,” Pol complained. “I’ve studied enough about war to know that fighting in the dark isn’t recommended.”

  “No, but the major objection doesn’t signify.” Maarken smiled, his gray eyes nearly colorless in the dusk. “Hells, I’ll even make Walvis shave off his beard, just in case.”

  Riyan, on Pol’s other side, gave a start as he realized what Maarken was proposing. “It would be difficult to mistake us for them, wouldn’t it? Once a battle is engaged, it’s all confusion anyway. You have to watch and make sure you’re not skewering your own people.” He nodded. “I think it might work.”

  “Kazander?” Pol turned to the Isulki lord, and told himself he should have known better than to expect sensible caution from him. The korrus’ eyes glittered with gleeful anticipation.

  “Did you not witness it with your own eyes, Great Azhrei? The sky itself proclaimed your colors, and those of the Battle Commander.”

  Pol sighed. “If you say so. All right, Maarken. The moonlight should be bright enough. We’ll have to hurry, though, and let Walvis know what we’ve got in mind.”

  “Why bother? Once he hears the commotion, he’ll be down the mountain with everyone he can muster.”

  Riyan agreed. “Let’s just choose our moment and do it.”

  Vellanti scouts had seen them, of course. Pol ordered camp set up and word passed to every man and woman: kill anyone wearing a beard and gold beads. Then they waited for the moons to rise above the sand.

  But before Maarken had judged the silvery light strong enough to fight by, three shadows appeared in the night sky and three dragon voices called out on the freshening wind.

  “Somehow, I don’t think they’re happy to see us,” Maarken commented, wincing as his black-and-silver Pavisel’s angry shriek was immediately seconded by Riyan’s Sadalian.

  “Putting ourselves in danger,” Pol agreed. “Potential harm to their precious human possessions.” He almost ducked as Azhdeen swooped low, his voice at least twice as loud as the others’.

  “We might as well have it out with them,” Maarken went on, “and explain why we’re here.”

  Riyan was already starting across the sand to where Sadalian had landed. All at once he looked over his shoulder and said, “Pol, do you remember what we talked about after the Pillar? Would it be possible to use them?”

  He slanted a startled glance at his friend, but in the next moment strands of moonlight wrapped him so firmly that he gasped with the shock.

  Easy! I’m not made of crystal, but you could shatter me just the same!

  Azhdeen tightened his hold and settled on the sand with wings outspread and forelegs clawing the sky. He flung his head back and roared, looming over Pol like a mountain peak over a pebble.

  Of images there were none this time. The onslaught of emotion nearly felled Pol. Fury, concern, indignation, warning, and what felt like—but surely could not be—a fierce protective love. Each time Pol tried to gather thought enough to conjure in the air between them, Azhdeen’s grip increased and his anger redoubled until Pol fell to his knees, certain his head would split open.

  Stop! Please, stop, you’re hurting me!

  Better Pol should be hurt by this than killed by the dragon-slayers scuttling through the sand like insects.

  That was when he understood. Through the pain and the struggle, he knew that Azhdeen was afraid.

  Oh, no, my friend, you mustn’t! That’s why I’m here, to kill these things that killed one of your own! And with a mighty effort, he called Fire and within it a scene of battle wherein every Vellanti died.

  Azhdeen’s bellow was a sword thrust through Pol’s skull. He barely felt the wind of powerful wings as the dragon leapt into the air, and knew nothing of the shouts of his troops as three dragons swept over the sand toward the enemy.

  “Pol! Damn it, wake up! Pol!”

  “Your grace?”

  He moved feebly, the air thick against his fingers. After a moment someone helped him sit up, and he realized he’d been trying to swim through sand.

  “Gentle Goddess, Mother of Dragons,” Kazander said at his side. “I thought that bloody great beast had slain you, my lord.”

  “Close,” Pol muttered. The moonlight was a painful dazzle. He shut his eyes. “Kierun, your wineskin, please.”

  He heard the squire fumble at his belt, but Kazander beat him to it. “This helped before, my lord,” he said, and poured the familiar and incredibly foul mixture down Pol’s throat.

  When he stopped choking, he found his head had begun to clear. Bu
t he didn’t feel quite up to standing just yet. He opened his eyes again, saw Walvis, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” the older man grinned. “Surely you didn’t think I’d miss this?”

  “But—Goddess, how long was I out? And where’s Maarken? And Riyan?”

  Kazander answered. “The Battle Commander’s little lady was gentler with him than those two great sires were with you and Lord Riyan. He’s already gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “To the battle, mighty Azhrei.”

  “Damn it, don’t call me that!” Pol bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Kazander. But I don’t understand. Battle?”

  Kierun’s voice was quick with excitement. “The one started by your dragon, my lord.”

  • • •

  Camanto had successfully avoided both Isaura’s and Arnisaya’s beds, having no desire to sleep with either lady. Given a choice between a vast mass of flesh and an ice-blooded murderer, he chose neither. Instead, he eyed the maid who lugged his bathwater upstairs—Sabriam spent thousands on culinary luxuries, but nothing on modern plumbing—and invited her to his bed.

  After much mutual enjoyment, Camanto snuggled down beside her, relishing the warm woman-scent, and reviewed events with satisfaction. Laric was here. Edirne was dead—though sooner than expected and not as intended. Sabriam had knuckled under. Ships were being outfitted, and small matter that they belonged to Arlis. Camanto would have preferred to be Laric’s sole source of help, for then he could have maneuvered the prince into concessions after the war. But his presence with his soldiers on the expedition to recapture Firon would count for much. He wouldn’t get all of what he wanted, but he wasn’t greedy. He would be the next ruling Prince of Fessenden. That was quite enough.

  He patted the round, firm hip of his bedmate and congratulated himself on excellent management. He’d been surprised several times but never thrown off stride. A prince’s most important talent was the ability to adjust to changed circumstances and turn them to his benefit. Not for nothing had he studied Rohan’s career and observed him at Riall’im, agreeing wholeheartedly with the late High Prince’s belief that wit could accomplish what war used to, and without war’s inconvenience.

  Camanto would have to engage in a bit of the latter, of course, once in Firon. But he would not lead the battle. It was Laric’s princedom, after all. Tact alone must keep Camanto well to the rear, so that it could be seen that Laric alone led his army to victory. He’d have to remember to mention this to Arlis, and keep him out of things, too. Such sensitivity to Laric’s position was the sign of a truly noble man.

  The girl shifted languidly, her fingers sliding down to his groin. Excitement curled in him. He woke her with soft mouthings against her ear. She giggled sleepily at the erotic words, her body flirting with his as he rolled her onto her back.

  “Wait, my lord,” she protested. “I brought something to enhance my lord’s delight.”

  “You’re doing just fine as you are,” he told her, laughing.

  “But this will give my lord twice the pleasure. Lord Sabriam uses it in hopes it will give him any pleasure at all,” she added with a grin.

  “You think I need help?”

  “Oh no, my lord, not you! Twice tonight you have made me very happy! And I can feel you’re about to once more. But this isn’t for a man who can’t. It is meant for a virile man. Will you allow it?”

  “Why not? It might be amusing.”

  She wriggled from beneath him and padded naked to where she had tossed her clothes. Soon she was back with a little covered jar.

  “May I, my lord?”

  He lay back, propped on his elbows so he could watch her by moonlight. She dug a finger into some heavy, strange-scented cream and stroked a thin line down the center of his chest from throat to belly. The sensation was exquisite, a soft-crawly chill that slowly heated his flesh, turning him to fire.

  “Goddess!” he moaned, writhing with the pleasure of it. “Whatever that is, let me have the whole jar!”

  The girl wiped her finger meticulously clean on the sheet. “Only a little is necessary, my lord,” she said, dipping her hand into a full wine cup on the bedside table. “You’ll feel the effects soon.”

  When he did, he screamed.

  • • •

  What the dragons began, humans must finish.

  Although the Vellant’im no longer fell on their knees or ran in terror at the sight of the huge beasts, Riyan had been essentially correct, back at the Pillar: a flight of them sweeping through the sky, blotting out the moonlight, could make the bravest of the enemy shudder. Pol would have been terrified himself if he hadn’t known the three dragons were on his side.

  He didn’t last long in the thick of it. The agony in his head, helped by Kazander’s noxious potion only enough so he could ride and fight, came back in force when a bearded warrior on a Radzyn mare knocked the side of his helm with the flat of a sword. He didn’t fall from the saddle, but as he swayed drunkenly and scrabbled to right himself, he saw another sword gleam its silvery moonlit way toward his belly.

  Another sword countered it in a crash of steel. “Kazander!” Maarken shouted. “Get Pol out of here!”

  “No—I—”

  “Do as you’re told!”

  Groggy with pain, he heard Azhdeen scream overhead and looked up. Kazander had his reins and was tugging his infuriated stallion out of the chaos. “Stop it, damn you—”

  “With respect, great and noble Azhrei—shut up!”

  Pol opened his mouth to argue, then broke into a cold sweat and bent over his horse’s neck, sure he was going to vomit. By the time he’d swallowed the bitter bile back down where it belonged, he was a quarter of a measure from the fighting and Kazander was calling his name.

  Straightening, Pol glared weakly at him and sheathed his father’s sword. “If you had a castle, I’d deprive you of it for this.”

  White teeth flashed beneath the sweeping black mustache. “Indeed, I have been meaning to offer you my best tent, High Prince. The one with the silken ceiling and silver stakes, where I pay homage to my wives.”

  Pol grunted, not up to continuing the banter. Snatching his reins back, he turned Azhenel around and got his bearings. Maarken was nowhere to be seen in the frantic shifting mass of swords and bodies, but Riyan was over there flailing away, and Walvis near him, and Sethric’s unmistakable head of curly dark hair.

  “Go help that stupid boy. He’s lost his helm and I don’t want him to lose his head as well. Go on, Kazander, I’m fine,” he ordered impatiently.

  “But Lord Maarken said—”

  “Go on, damn it! Velden of Grib hates me enough as it is. I don’t want to have to tell him his nephew died while you babbled on about it!”

  Kazander galloped off. Pol spent the next little while wondering if he was going to faint. The indignity of the thought kept him sternly in his saddle; Azhdeen’s next roar nearly startled him out of it.

  The dragon flew toward him out of the moons, and though he was nothing but a blackness against the sky, Pol knew by the sound of his wingbeats that he was hurt. Azhdeen landed a little way from him; he was already off his horse and racing toward the dragon.

  A great shout went up from the Vellant’im. Pol barely heard it. He ran straight for the wing Azhdeen held out at an awkward angle, conjured a fingerflame so he could get a look at the silvery underskin.

  “Oh, Goddess,” he breathed, seeing an arrow lodged in the flight muscles beside one long bone. There were other rents in the dragon’s hide where arrows had scraped the hide, pricking blood. Pol turned to look into Azhdeen’s huge eyes, and whispered, “This will hurt. Hold still, I beg of you. It has to come out.” Gripping the arrow with both hands, he yanked it from the dragon’s wing.

  Azhdeen growled low in his throat and butted his head against Pol’s backside. “Just a little bit longer, while I clean it,” Pol said, and unstoppered the waterskin at his belt. He poured the whole of
its contents over the wound. The dragon yelped once, then hummed as cool water soothed the gouge.

  “That’s better, is it?” Pol asked, smiling as he rubbed the delicate blue-gray hide between Azhdeen’s eyes. The dragon rumbled, stretching his hurt wing. “If you can fly on that, old son, get yourself up to the lake and I’ll bring something later to make it heal. Too bad Chayla isn’t here. She’d treat you eagerly enough. But I’m afraid Feylin won’t get near—”

  Azhdeen reared up to his full height, jaws parting in a deafening shriek. The injured wing swept forward to enclose Pol in a suffocating shimmer of silvery hide. He pushed it away, gently at first and then more insistently—and saw a hundred and more Vellant’im bearing down on him, marching in closed ranks, their swords aloft like so many fluttering steel feathers polished by moonlight. Leading them was a white-garbed man who wore no gold in his beard, who held no sword, whose lips moved in impassioned screams Pol’s numb ears could not hear.

  Two things crossed his mind as he drew his sword: a piercing disappointment that it was not the High Warlord he faced, and a vicious glee of anticipation. He was about to kill these savages who had dared hurt his dragon.

  They stopped just out of arrowshot when Azhdeen howled again. Pol heard it more as a vibration in the hollows of his body than against his sound-shocked ears. He laughed, seeing them hesitate.

  “What are you waiting for?” he shouted, stepping from the shelter of the dragon’s wing, unable to hear his own voice. “If it’s me you want, I’m here!”

  The man in white robes surged forward, and Pol saw the rust-colored stains on his clothes, the bandage across his brow. He stumbled slightly in the sand, recovered his balance, and pointed a long, shaking finger at Pol.