It’s weird, but N’Doch wishes he had a guitar in his hands. He feels at a distinct disadvantage. Not that one song, even the right one, could explain or justify his presence here completely. But it could sure help.
With the shedding of the long, concealing cloaks, he sees that the men are dirty and wet through, that their faces are bruised, that their layers of silk and leather and mail are muddied, bloodstained, and torn. What’s more, weapons have come into view. Not on the Challenger, of course, but the Bodyguard Wender and the tall guy both wear sleek, leather-sheathed knives at their waists and swords on their hips. Swords. Real ones. Fine steel, glinting with firelight. To N’Doch, these big blades seem impossibly long. He can’t see how you wouldn’t trip on them. The tall guy is just unbuckling his to lay it aside when Rose brings N’Doch and Sedou to his attention. Having done so, she looks momentarily at a loss.
N’Doch grins. Rose speechless? He hasn’t seen this in the whole week he’s known her. “Mais, par où commencer?” he says to her. Where do you start?
“Eh bien, mon petit. J’en sais rien.”
He sees the men eyeing him, over Rose’s shoulder. Taking in his youth, his height, how his head nearly grazes the ceiling’s lowest beams. Noting Sedou’s athletic build, and the shared alien ebony of their skin, the difference in their faces. These men have seen most of what their world has to offer, N’Doch can tell, but probably their world doesn’t include Africa yet. They don’t know what they’re looking at, and they’re not used to that. He recalls how the girl stared at him so much at first, mostly when she thought he wasn’t looking. These guys are not so polite. They start staring and keep right on at it.
The dragon stirs in his mind.
We could be men to them, or demons.
It gets real quiet for a moment in that darkening room, and N’Doch wonders if he’s in any danger. The windows have gone all iron gray, blank with night and snow. Nowhere to run. He’s got his eye on the Honcho, whose bright, curious gaze shifts from himself to Sedou and back a few times, questing, reading for information and understanding. This guy knows something important’s afoot, when strangers—male, alien strangers—have preceded him into this women’s haven at Deep Moor.
But Rose reels off the names with the ease of a talk show hostess, like there’s no one but us humans in the room. She introduces the Honcho as Heinrich von Engle, late of Weisstrasse. He throws a smile their way and, real quickly, adds, “Just Hal Engle.”
The Challenger apparently answers to the name Adolphus Michael von Hoffman, Baron Köthen, a name longer even than Engle’s sword, but he volunteers no shortcut of any kind. N’Doch remembers the girl saying her father was a baron and that she grew up in a castle. Must mean this Köthen dude is somebody important.
Rose keeps up the talk show chat as she explains the language problem, that one of these “foreign” visitors speaks German, the other doesn’t. N’Doch notices there is no mention of the always ongoing simultaneous translation by dragon power. He decides he’s just regained several points of lost advantage. Then the tall guy Engle surprises him by saying quietly to Rose, “I have read of dark men such as these. Have they come from the south below the sea? Is one the mage his lordship sought?”
“No, but N’Doch and Sedou have traveled back with Lady Erde from the place that she went with him.”
“Ah.” Engle holds up a finger, shakes his head once. His eyes flick toward the Challenger, who’s moved off restlessly to stare out a window.
Rose gives this some thought. Then she says aloud, “He doesn’t know?”
“Rosie . . .” Engle murmurs.
“If you’ve brought him to stay, Heinrich, there’s no way we can keep it from him.”
Engle looks flustered. Oddly, he glances at Sedou, like the “dark man” has said something to him, or might be about to. “I don’t think it’s . . . well, I hadn’t expected them back so soon.”
“Really, I’m such an inconvenience to you, Heinrich. Why don’t you just get rid of me?” The Challenger turns from his study of gray on gray outside the window. “What don’t I know?”
Engle stares down at the floor, then up again at Sedou. His eyes narrow, then refocus suddenly in a kind of veiled wonder, as if he’s been asked an unexpected and remarkable question. N’Doch doesn’t want to look. He’s afraid the dragon’s chosen a really stupid moment to shape-shift. “He wouldn’t have believed me if I did tell him, Rose. Never has. He’ll require the proof of his senses.”
“This is interesting,” murmurs Sedou.
“Well,” says Rose. “No time like the present.”
“I don’t . . .” Engle begins. “Wait. Wait.” He chews his lip, overgrown with a shaggy mustache, then regards Rose from under lowered brows, like a child planning mischief. “But you said, Rosie, more than one . . .?”
“Two.”
“Is the . . . other . . .?” He tilts his head toward the barn.
“Not exactly.”
“Ahhh. I wish the girl were here to guide me.”
“No, you don’t.”
N’Doch realizes there’s some old sort of game playing itself out here between Rose and her lover, like if she just came right out and told him everything he wants to know, he’d be disappointed. Even though it’s clear he wants to know it desperately. His gaze drifts back to Sedou.
“Ah. That’s it,” he says again, more softly. His eyes flutter closed, as if in utter gratitude. N’Doch hears in his voice the same veiled wonder that had been in his look. “Shape-shifter.”
Beside him, Sedou stands a little taller.
At the window, the Challenger clears his throat. “Am I to die, my knight, before being offered enlightenment?”
“Wait. Wait. A moment, please. You cannot know how . . .” Engle gropes behind him for the sword he’s laid on the table. He takes it in both hands and pulls it slowly from its sheath. N’Doch suppresses the primal shiver that seizes him at the cool rasp of that much steel being drawn. The blade grabs his attention like a shout. It flashes bright shards of firelight into his eyes. Both its faces are honed to an invisible edge, but he can see scarring up and down the length. This blade has been well used. He had a machete once that looked almost as murderous, a weapon he loved, so he is both horrified and mesmerized, like the snake before the mongoose, as Engle sets the empty sheath aside and comes toward him. The man moves easily still, not like an old man but a fighter. N’Doch holds his ground. But it doesn’t matter. Engle’s wondering gaze is not fixed on him.
The dragon is a whisper in his head.
He knows.
“What? How?” murmurs N’Doch out loud. “Like Baraga?”
The last guy who twigged to what Sedou was had blown N’Doch to bits.
No. Just knows. I’d say, good instincts and a lifetime of study.
Engle approaches, his eyes on Sedou. Five paces away, he stops. “Rosie,” he says hoarsely, over his shoulder. “Am I right about this?”
Her reply is loving, and so quiet that N’Doch can barely hear it. “Yes, Heinrich. You are the finest dragon-hunter of them all.”
Hunter? N’Doch readies himself, his mind tossing up all the ways he might wrestle that mean-looking gorgeous blade out of the tall guy’s hands. Except that Engle is not raising the sword to strike. He’s turned it hilt-upward, set its point gingerly to the floor, and gone done on one knee, head bowed, at Sedou’s feet. When he speaks, it’s in Frankish, more fluent than Rose’s, and N’Doch gets an inkling who she learned it from.
“My lord,” says Engle. “My sword is ever at your service.”
Rose smiles. “Actually, Heinrich, it’s ‘my lady.’”
“Is it so? An excellent symmetry! My lady, then.” Engle is unfazed. “I thought my life’s whole purpose satisfied when I pledged myself to one of your kind, my lady. I never dreamed of the good fortune that will allow me to serve two.”
The hair stands up on the back of N’Doch’s neck. There’s something so pure, so absolute in Engle’s
tone. Without any proof, the guy just believes. And Sedou shows no embarrassment at having this old soldier down in front of him. N’Doch watches as his brother grasps the offered sword like he’s handled one all his life. The hilt is carved, with the winged figure of a dragon coiled around a tree. Sedou lifts the blade and holds it upright in front of him. He brings it close, lining it up with his nose until his breath fogs the polished metal. Then he sets it back a bit, regarding its gleaming ferocity with solemn bemusement. Like he’s moved by thoughts he can’t possibly begin to express or explain. Like the sword itself is a whole story to him. The reflection that N’Doch sees in the steel is the dragon’s eye, not his brother Sedou’s. The voice is Sedou’s, but the words come from another time and place as he answers Engle in perfect old German.
“I am glad, Sir Knight, that we meet first at a moment when I possess the hands to take up this blade in gratitude, and return it to you with my acceptance of your pledge of service.” Sedou reverses the hilt and extends it forward. N’Doch lets go a breath, amazed. The Challenger, he sees, is staring at them in disbelief.
“What service may I perform?” Engle intones, his eyes shining.
“We will speak of that.”
Engle rises, takes the sword, and drops the blade by his side. Then he stands back with a final bow. It all goes so smoothly, it’s like they’ve rehearsed it. Or like they both just instinctively knew what to do. N’Doch feels he’s in the presence of something ancient beyond understanding. Beyond his understanding, at least. One of the things he likes about life, he decides, is that it’s still always catching him by surprise. He thinks of the girl, always going on about dragon lore and dragon purposes, all the stuff he’s supposed to know for some reason, and doesn’t. A lifetime of study, the dragon had said. This must be some of what they’re both talking about.
And as quickly as it began, the ritual is over. Engle relaxes, and the dragon-as-Sedou is just Sedou again, a big dark man with a smile that could eat you alive. Engle turns to N’Doch with a little bow.
“And you are her guide? Welcome.”
N’Doch starts to stick out his hand, then holds back and returns the bow as best he can. This whole event is feeling like one big performance anyway. But he can tell it’s real enough to Engle. And maybe to the others. Across the room by the fire, the Bodyguard Wender is looking pretty weirded out. He’s on his feet, easing his half-drawn weapon back into its scabbard as if he’s not sure he should.
But the Challenger has set his bearded jaw. “Keep me in the dark, Heinrich, if you must, but explain at least why a King’s Knight kneels so readily to this . . . stranger!”
“Ah, an ancient and venerable stranger!”
“I repeat, kneels to a stranger, but would not to the best pick among us for healing the kingdom?”
“Not the best until you learn a little control,” Engle tosses back with half his attention. He’s still grinning and elated.
“What?”
“Or even the best, yes, but not the most legitimate.”
“Legitimate?” The Challenger jabs a finger in Sedou’s direction. “Is this legitimate?” N’Doch notes how quickly the hard rage in him breaks into the open. “What, have you found us some new pretender? One that Otto himself doesn’t even know he’s sired?”
“No need to be offensive,” Raven murmurs from the fireplace.
Engle flashes Sedou a complicit glance, then turns back to the room looking flushed and victorious. “Dolph, Dolph, you misunderstand. This is another thing entirely. You’ll be on your knees yourself when you’re faced with the truth of it.”
“Never!”
“Don’t doubt it, lad.”
“Don’t call me that!” the younger man snarls.
Engle spreads his hands. “Dolph . . .”
“No! Never again! This is ended, Heinrich!” He spins away, then back again immediately, his wrists pressed together in Engle’s face. “You bound me! Me! In Erfurt, I showed you greater honor!”
At last Engle focuses on him. “Yes! You did! I freely admit it! But, Dolph, here . . . here in Deep Moor, I could not indulge your current death wish, for the sake of others. You cannot know how precious the thing is that’s being guarded here.”
“A kingdom is precious, Heinrich! What could be more?” The Challenger moves up on him again, circling. Wender’s hand returns to his sword hilt.
“I’ve tried to tell you, Dolph, how many times over the years! Before I knew myself for sure! I even tried to tell you in Erfurt, but you were so interested in a crown, you wouldn’t listen! Now even you will be unable to deny it!”
The Challenger halts his advance. His shoulders go slack like he’s had a sudden realization. “What in hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the truth!”
“The truth of what?”
The two men glare at each other until Rose says. “Really, Dolph, the best way to explain it is simply to show you.” Rose takes Engle’s arm, and then the Challenger’s. “Come, gentlemen. This won’t take long.”
Earth had already been anxious when she fled to him: worried about her, about the war and the safety of Deep Moor, and increasingly impatient to resume his Quest. But it was the big dragon’s way to be anxious, just as it was his way to soothe and comfort those in need. Especially his dragon guide, though Erde knew he did not understand why she wept so disconsolately as she curled up against his plated chest.
ARE YOU ILL? YOU SEEM HEALTHY. HAVE YOU NOT EATEN?
I’M NOT HUNGRY.
YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD ALWAYS EAT WHEN YOU HAVE THE CHANCE.
DEAR DRAGON, I FEEL FINE.
YOU DO NOT SOUND FINE. PERHAPS YOU HAVE NOT RESTED ENOUGH?
She had thought her mind completely open to him. Now Erde wondered if certain subtleties of human emotion were simply incomprehensible to a dragon. She found them mysterious enough herself, and she was the one experiencing them. Why should she be so stricken by the plight of a man she barely knew? And how could this sadness also feel so sweet?
The dragon would be no help here, though he’d continue to try until she worried about worrying him, about distracting him from the truly important considerations, like the Quest. For the dragon’s sake, then, she must dry her tears and seem to take comfort as he bent his great head over her, rumbling his concern into her mind.
She’d nearly dozed off when she heard the big door slide open. Lanterns glowed at the distant front of the barn. She heard Rose’s voice and Hal’s, then Köthen’s muttered reply. She and the dragon had watched the meeting in the great room through Sedou/Water’s eyes. She knew Hal would be obscenely cheerful, as he was now able to raise his life-count of dragons from one to two. And Baron Köthen would be . . . well, perhaps the dragons could help him feel better about his situation, if she could get him to talk with them. She knew from her own experience that the dragons could heal the mind as well as they had healed N’Doch’s broken body.
As voices and lanterns approached, Erde scrambled up from her warm nest beside the dragon’s foreleg and hid behind the hayrick. Beside the dragon’s left claw, her own lantern flickered in the draft from the open door.
“I’ve a mind just to send you in first and let him eat you,” she heard Hal say. “But come on. This way.”
She’d chosen a good vantage, a full field of view once they rounded the corner of the big open stall where the dragon lay sleeping. He looked beautiful, she thought, huge and glimmering in the lamplight, fading into darkness behind, so that his true size was exaggerated by the dancing shadows. She saw Hal’s eyes light with the fire of a devoted lover. He forgot Baron Köthen for a moment and strode straight to the dragon, to touch two reverent fingers to a huge ivory horn. “My lord Earth,” he whispered. “Are you well?”
Köthen followed more slowly, caught a glimpse of what lay massed before him in the dim lamplight, and—mid-stride—went utterly still.
He looked away, looked back, then for a long time, only his dark eyes moved, abso
rbing, measuring each detail, assuring himself of the reality of an existence that, all his life, he had denied the possibility of. He shook his head twice in a wordless negative. Finally, he let out a long, long breath and swore softly to himself.
Hal stirred and noticed him standing there. Without a trace of the triumph he must surely be feeling, he stepped aside to gesture Köthen forward. Slowly, Köthen, moved up beside him, his eyes fixed on the dragon as if it might vanish the moment he looked away. His hand strayed to the older man’s shoulder, as if nothing awkward had ever passed between them. Whether he was giving or taking support, Erde couldn’t be sure. Together, the two men stared up at the dragon’s bronzy head and scimitar horns.
“Impressive, my knight,” Köthen said, as if speaking was no longer the easiest thing. “Is it alive?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Really? Am I dreaming?”
Hal laughed softly. “No, lad, you’re not dreaming.”
Oddly, Köthen seemed to accept this. “Sweet Jesus. A dragon. Does it . . . breathe fire?”
“No.”
“No? How disappointing for you. Does it turn lead into gold?”
“That’s alchemy. Have you forgotten all I taught you?”
“Only the stuff I never thought I’d need,” Köthen replied ruefully. “Well, does it hoard gold, then? Are you rich again?”
“Hah. If he was a hoarder, he’d be unlikely to give me so much as a coin of it.” Hal regarded the dragon fondly. “No, there are many things he isn’t or doesn’t do that one might have expected a dragon to be or do. He doesn’t fly either, that is, not as you might define flying.”
“As I might?” Köthen turned his gaze from the sleeping dragon to study Hal’s face. “And how might you define it?”
Hal grinned at him. “It was he who snatched me from your grasp at Erfurt.”
Köthen’s chin lifted. “Ah. The first nail in my coffin.”
“No, the first was raising your sword against your King.”
The Book of Fire Page 11