The lost Dragons of Barakhai bob-2

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Collins finally managed a scream, though he still harbored no hope that any creature of Barakhai would instinctively run from humans. He gave an abrupt twist that brought him halfway around and freed his arms for the battle. The teeth jarred loose, tearing away furrows of hair and scalp with a pain that brought tears to Collins' eyes. He flailed at the creature. His right fist struck something solid and furry. Still winched around the recorder, his left caught the creature a smashing blow across a whiskered cheek. The recorder shattered in his fist, pieces skittering through the cavern. The animal tumbled to the ground, and Collins surged to his feet, seeing it for the first time in the dim outer reaches of the lantern's glow. Tawny and cat-shaped, it launched its muscled frame at him again.

  Cougar. Dizzy and slowed by his wounds, Collins threw himself sideways. Puma, mountain lion. The bulk of the creature crashed against his side, tossing him like flotsam in a gale. He scrabbled to regain his footing, desperate to find it before the cougar found him once more. He stumbled backward over a stalagmite, tripped, and fell. The unexpected motion foiled the graceful animal's attack again, and it went sailing over Collins. Shadows danced on the ceiling, and he found himself hemmed in by stone formations. He needed to act swiftly or die, and his mind raced, strangely clear. He had read more than his share of nature stories and preferred animal shows on public television to anything "prime time." He tried to recall any detail about cougars that might help him now.

  Shadows. Collins glanced wildly around him, trying to locate the animal before it pounced again. Shadows come from light. It was not a cougar fact, but any animal would shy from fire. He dove for the source of the shadows, seizing the torch on the move. The cougar bounded after him, catching him a paw blow to the head that sent him skidding across the uneven ground, senses reeling. He let the force take him where it would, clutching the torch like a lifeline. Then, at last, memory surged to the fore. Men had hunted cougars to dangerously low numbers because of one fatal flaw: unlike other large cats, they never stood down dogs. Toy poodles had been known to tree the fiercest, most massive males. Once hunting dogs caught the scent of one of the now rare cats, the outcome was inevitable. Collins only hoped Barakhain cougars suffered from that same instinct.

  As the beast flew toward him, Collins held his ground. He thrust the torch into its face, barking madly in his best imitation of Korfius.

  With a yelp of pain and surprise, the cougar threw itself sideways, rolling, its fur alight. Turning on its heels, it screeched off into the deeper caverns.

  The torch dropped from Collins' suddenly trembling fingers. His head buzzed, making coherent thought all but impossible. He dragged himself toward his backpack, seized it, then hauled it to his chest until it lay balled beneath him. Agony screamed through his whole body so that he found himself incapable of focusing on any one injury. Something pattered steadily to the stone. Blood, he realized, but it took another few beats to add, my blood. His consciousness swam, and he fought to anchor it with the terrifying knowledge that if he blacked out, he was cougar chow.

  Staunch the bleeding. Collins did not need medical training to know that no first aid mattered more. Attuned to any sound that might herald the cougar's return, he pulled the tatters of his T-shirt tight across his back and head, knotting it over his chest and brow. The myriad abrasions and cuts over his ribs, abdomen, and limbs hurt but they did not require tending yet. His body could handle them. He tried to stand, instantly pummeled to the ground by vertigo. Still clutching the pack, he inched his way across the floor. Returning to Prinivere seemed the wisest course, though it would lose him all the ground he had attained. She could heal the wounds that hampered his every movement. Yet, Collins realized, he would have to find her first. Backtracking seemed at least as far as pushing onward, and he doubted she still waited for him at the entrance.

  Collins lowered his head, driven to move but certain haste would only assure that he lost consciousness and, ultimately, lead to his death. Despair rushed down upon him. He was alive but gravely injured. His task had seemed nearly impossible before, now it had become even more so. But he also knew that the young dragons held the key to rescuing not only Zylas, but now himself as well. He had little choice but to push on and hope for the best.

  Chapter 9

  THE cart lurched toward Opernes Castle, drawn by a buckskin horse now disguised as a tea-brown, dusty mule. In the driver's seat, Ialin forced himself to grip the rope reins securely in both hands and concentrated on not fidgeting. He wore the face of Eshwyn the merchant, but he had known from the start that he could never pull off that deception for long. Aisa perched on his shoulder, and Vernon hid in a deep pocket, both as convinced as Collins that the plan was precisely as it seemed. The mind reading dragon had to know the extra layer Ialin had devised, but she feigned ignorance of his secret with the ease of long practice.

  On the far side of the moat, a pair of male guards challenged from the parapets. "State your name and business."

  Ialin met the gaze of one with trained steadiness and dutifully imitated the merchant's voice. He willed his body in place, winching his hands to white fists to keep from wringing them. So far, jettisoning his own nervous habits preoccupied him more than any attempt to pass for the other man. "Do not play games with me, Shirith." He continued to stare at the guard to his left. "Wittmore." He indicated the other with a tip of his head. "You know who I am."

  Both guards smiled. Shirith spoke first, "Certainly we know you, Eshwyn, but not that rickety wreck you came in."

  Ialin snorted, clenching and unclenching the muscles of his backside against the seat. It allowed him to give in to his need for constant movement without revealing it to the guards. "I lent the regular rig to my good-for-nothing brother. I didn't think I'd need it for a spell, but then I got a whole load of vilegro. It won't keep, and I wanted to give His Majesty first rights to it. I borrowed who and what I could to get it here." Ialin gestured at the old cart and Falima, who kept her head low in a mulish posture.

  Silence followed.

  "So," Ialin continued, "I'm irritable, annoyed, and tired. Are you going to let me in, or do I take my business elsewhere?" He had deliberately chosen an excellent product. Not only did the spoilage story work for explaining the mule cart in place of Eshwyn's finer ox-drawn wagon, the guards would anticipate the rare and delicious gahiri the castle cook would create from the vilegro seed.

  "I'll get the drawbridge." Wittmore disappeared.

  Ialin lowered his head, hut not before he caught a glimpse of several faces peering at him over the parapets. The king had increased his outer wall guards and, probably, his patrols. Ialin hoped that meant shorting the inner defenses. Likely, no guard in human form was off duty, but that only supplied the castle with a few extra hands. No decree of the king could delay, abridge, or change the horse and dog times of his security forces.

  Ialin dismounted from the cart as the drawbridge jerked downward, chains clanking and creaking. He caught Falima's halter as she tossed her head with a series of nervous snorts. The braid of rope tore at his callused palm. "Quiet," he reminded. "Be still. You're a mule, not a horse. A mule."

  Falima quieted, though her hooves beat a wild, chaotic tattoo against the dirt.

  Ialin gritted his teeth. Her behavior would give her away more surely than any noise. Mule vocalizations varied in their similarity to a horse's, but they tended toward a steady calmness that precluded panic. As the plank dropped to the ground in front of Ialin, he made a difficult decision he had considered on the trip. Falima's enormous switch-form turned her into a liability once inside the castle grounds. Aisa thought Falima could blend in with the guard forces, but Ialin had doubts. He preferred not to risk anyone unnecessarily. In her current form, Falima did not have the overlap to protest; and, though he knew he would catch trouble for it later, Ialin planned to take advantage of that weakness.

  Ialin unbound Falima from the cart. He removed the various ropes, waving them into her face. "Yay, mule! Get on hom
e with you!"

  Startled, Falima reared. When she dropped back down, Ialin hissed into her ear. "Go on, Falima. Go somewhere safe. We'll meet up with you later." Seizing the traces, Ialin hauled the cart onto the drawbridge. Despite the light load, it was more difficult than he expected; he had to hurl all of his meager weight into the task. Not for the first time, he wished he were larger. Constant movement had granted him strength beyond his bulk, but only that of a normal-sized man.

  The cart rumbled across the slats, boards squeaking. Aisa squawked and flapped, her wings kicking up a draft that stirred the water and dried the sweat on Ialin's neck. A wing beat slapped him in the face, flopping a greased clump of black hair into his eyes. He paused to brush it back into place. "Easy, Frida." He used the name of Eshwyn's wife to remind Aisa of her role. "Please don't make this any harder."

  Aisa rumpled her feathers and hunkered down on Ialin's shoulder.

  Once across the moat, Ialin met two more guards at the gate, one a willowy female, the other a compact male. He knew the man's name, Thelfori, but not the woman's. He nodded a greeting to both.

  The woman studied him with clear curiosity. "Do you always leave one of your entourage behind?"

  Ialin glanced over his shoulder, glad Falima had left his line of vision and not attempted to follow. The last time she had crossed this drawbridge, the hollow ring of her hooves against suspended wood had spooked her. "First time," he admitted. "She has another engagement, and she's just about ready to switch. I only paid her to come this far."

  The guard just grunted, helping her companion pull open the heavy, ironbound gates.

  Ialin hauled the cart into the gatehouse, trying not to look winded. The doors swung shut behind him, immersing him in darkness. He took the moment to flex every muscle. He felt locked in cramps from head to toe, tired of suppressing the natural and constant motion that kept him alive in hummingbird form. Then, the doors in front of him swung open, placing him back into the bright rush of sunlight and the judgment of a group of guards.

  Now, Ialin could not wholly suppress his anxiety, nor did he believe he needed to do so. Even a regular to the court of King Terrin might find an increase in his guard accompaniment intimidating. He glanced around his escort, as if seeking solace in familiar faces. Though not as skilled at reading others' emotions as Zylas, Ialin did manage to pick out one soft-eyed woman who clearly sympathized. He smiled and winked at her, and her grin broadened.

  A burly man held out his hands. "Let me take the cart, sir."

  Ialin gave over his burden gladly. His companions lay safely on his person, for now. Aisa eyed the gathering, cocking her head this way and that to bring every guard within the scrutiny of at least one steel-blue eye. Vernon stayed still in his pocket, taking his cues from Ialin. For the mouse's sake, he tried to keep his muscles loose, his movements fine and smooth. If the guards examined Ms cargo closely, they would find lesser plants buried beneath a layer of vilegro. He hoped it would not come to that. Pawing through a merchant's wares was imprudent at best and potentially dangerous. To do it at the request of the king meant gravely insulting his guest. Without the monarch's consent, a guard risked charges of theft or treason.

  The female guard who had returned Ialin's smile worked her way through the group to take his arm. He searched his memory for her name, without success. He smiled warmly and whispered, "Thanks."

  "I thought you might prefer a familiar face." The guard steered Ialin toward the castle. "Your usual room, Eshwyn?"

  Ialin nodded, knowing precisely which guestroom Eshwyn preferred, on the third floor in the south wing.

  "Do you need to gather your personals?"

  Ialin could have kicked himself. He should have anticipated that question, too. "We don't plan to stay long. Anything I need, I can send for."

  "Very well." She gestured at her closest associates, and they gave Ialin more space. Some peeled away to various tasks, leaving a crew of five to lead him to the inner courtyard.

  Ialin avoided speaking as much as possible, devoting the majority of his attention to maintaining his persona and not squirming. He tried to ignore all thoughts of Zylas. Worry already drove him to an extremely risky rescue. He could not afford to betray his intentions by exhibiting concern or need. So far, he appeared to have passed whatever tests the guards had thrown at him. The facade could only hold up so long, however. The renegades' information was as imperfect as the men and women who gathered it, and they could not be present for every miniscule interaction. At some point, he would need to properly recognize a stranger, would overlook an unanticipated fine detail that the real Eshwyn would never miss. Anyone who came to Opernes Castle now, in the hours before Zylas' execution, would have to weather suspicion and undergo intense scrutiny. Ialin wondered how long he could hold out.

  They passed through another gatehouse, into the inner courtyard, and headed toward the castle. Unable to wholly suppress the fretfulness that assailed him even in the most familiar circumstances, Ialin turned every movement into something seemingly deliberate: a scratch, a readjustment, a gesture. When he had joined the renegades as a starry-eyed, idealistic youth, he had never expected any plan this crucial to fall squarely on his tiny shoulders. Zylas was the key to so much; without him, the renegades might fall apart without achieving the one goal that mattered: removing the Curse that had haunted Barakhai for centuries. Benton Collins had been right about one thing; they should never have risked Zylas on the previous mission. Like Prinivere, the rat/man should sit in some safe command center, changing quarters with every threat, concern, or whim.

  That thought brought a smile to Ialin's lips. He could not imagine anything short of magic keeping Zylas from the rebel movement's front, and it raised a familiar paradox. That which made the albino such a charismatic key figure for their cause also placed him in positions of greatest peril. His many successes had left them all complacent. Luck, not omnipotence, had kept Zylas alive this long. Now, it seemed, he had run out of it.

  Realizing he had come back to the very topic he had vowed to avoid, Ialin turned his attention to the castle which was drawing ever closer. His entourage seemed unbothered by his long silence, even the woman who now unlinked her arm from his. Soon, they stood in front of the castle door, and Ialin's escort chatted briefly with the sentries. Those moved aside, and the massive door swung open to reveal the inner regions of Opernes Castle.

  Ialin had never entered the massive edifice through the door before and never in human guise. He toed the line between gawking and giving enough of his mind to his surroundings to memorize them while still holding his constant drive to move at bay. He also kept his attention on the guards, watching for evidence of suspicion, anything that might suggest a need to switch to his second plan. He dared not rely on Collins, certain the blundering fool would foul up the rescue, just as he had his last mission, the one that ended in Zylas' capture. True, the Other-worlder had managed to bring them the crystal that enhanced Prinivere's fading magic, but he had nearly died in the process and had made innumerable mistakes along the way. Including cannibalism. Ialin still found the crime unforgivable and wondered how his friends managed to work so comfortably with a murderer. Other renegades had killed, when necessary, but they had never struck down innocents. The realization that Collins had slaughtered, butchered, and eaten a sweet elderly woman whose only crime was that she happened to have a rabbit switch-form sent a shudder through Ialin.

  "Cold?" the female guard asked as she led Ialin up the spiraling staircase.

  Though that was not the case, thanks to his racing metabolism, Ialin had no better explanation for his shivering. "A bit. That draft howling down the stairway bothers me every time I come. You'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now."

  One of the men grumbled, "Never noticed it, myself."

  "Really?" said a third, the only other woman. "It creeps into my bones, even when the hearth's going and it's warm air washing over me."

  That started a casual discussion t
hat Ialin appreciated, as it allowed him to fall back into silence. Slow plans frustrated him, especially with his switch time approaching.

  He would certainly find Zylas downstairs in the dungeon, yet he dared not even look in that direction yet. He allowed the group to usher him upward, past the kitchen/artisan level, past the dining hall/library level, and to the third landing. Ialin naturally turned south; but one of the guards opened the left-hand, northern door and gestured for him to enter the meeting room.

  It was not standard procedure. Ialin swallowed his discomfort and forced a tense smile, concentrating on the need to hide his concern. Nothing this day had proceeded in its regular fashion, and that seemed to have more to do with the king's paranoia than any specific suspicions about him.

  Ialin stepped around the guards to peek inside the small room, its only furniture a scarred wooden table surrounded by chairs. A colorful tapestry of patternless design filled most of one wall. Another wall supported a narrowing window that overlooked the courtyards, thin enough at its innermost dimension to thwart anything larger than an insect. From experience, Ialin knew he could wriggle through it in switch-form, and that gave him a guilty sense of security. If all else failed, at least he could escape, though it would mean abandoning his companions. A silver flagon of wine and three matching goblets sat on a lace napkin in the middle of the table. Two doors led out of opposite walls: the one he had entered by and another headed deeper into the castle to servant's quarters and more guest rooms.

  Ialin froze on the lintel, uncertain and wondering if he faced another test. "Excuse me, but my 'usual quarters' are the other way." He made a motion toward the south door.

  The familiar woman took Ialin's arm again and ushered him inside the meeting room with an apologetic look. "The chamberlain will be with you shortly."

  The chamberlain? Ialin's heart skipped a beat, shaken by the idea of facing a chief officer in the king's household. Assuming she meant Jarvid, the chamberlain who oversaw the visiting merchants, Eshwyn had a close, long-term relationship with him. The renegade agents hidden among the servants managed only spotty information when it came to the specifics of conversations and personal interactions, Ialin would have to play things carefully and mostly by ear. He steeled his resolve, lifting his chin, and guessed at the best response. "Don't I even get a chance to settle in first?"