Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  Wolfe leaned back on one arm, watching and listening as his friends prepared their large, midday meal, chatting merrily, and filling their common room with a variety of odors that reminded his stomach, he was hungry. That room had become the dining room for the humans to use whenever they wished to dine together. Though they were now more comfortable in their own rooms, there hardly seemed time for them to do much more than sleep a few hours here and there in those rooms. For the last few days, they worked continuously and were now in the final stages of making ready to leave the Aerie.

  Wolfe and Mayra had arranged this evening’s meal, arranging the cushions into a circle and helping to place food in the center to assist the progress of conversation, especially certain issues he and Mayra wanted to raise. The group served themselves and ate in silence for a while, a collection of tired, hungry warriors who had spent their day cleaning and honing weapons and putting the final touches on the last of the equipment they planned to carry with them to rescue the Ceshon dragons.

  Wolfe finally leaned back against a pile of pillows and sighed, the edge taken off his appetite for now. He looked around the room. They all looked as weary as he felt. He finished a flask of cold water and sat forward.

  “I would like first to thank Harald, Shaura, Fyrid, and Fleura for our splendid meal,” the black-haired man began. “Mayra and I have been talking about certain issues related to living in the Aerie. In fact, our meal speaks to one of our problems.”

  The witch-warriors and Phailites surprised him with their nods of agreement.

  Mayra smiled at her mate. “I told you we weren’t alone in our concerns.” She gestured toward Fyrid. The bulk of a thick bandage wound around his muscular forearm was visible under his tunic sleeve. Mayra inclined her head toward the strip of cloth. “Fyrid, what happened?”

  “I burned myself,” the young Phailite admitted shyly; Fleura dug her elbow into his side and he winced. “As you wish. Fleura burned me.”

  Mayra’s eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t expect that. Perhaps we aren’t discussing the same problem?”

  “I was trying to cook the meat over there”—Fleura gestured toward the spit in the fireplace—”and I brushed against one of those poles. Fyrid saved it from harming me, but it burned him. Thankfully, Shaura was there to repair the damage.”

  Fyrid gave a slight shrug. “What I know of cookery is what I gained from standing by my mother as she prepared our meals.”

  Mayra smiled again. Cooking was the primary problem she and Wolfe had discussed earlier.

  Fleura nodded. “We need more kinds of foods,” she said. “And expertize we don’t have. We need cheeses, bread, milk, and more. We can’t bake. I daresay we will tire of this fare soon enough.”

  “Warriors need time to practice.” Kirik took up the complaint. “As Fyrid says, we and the Phailites are two different types of warriors. And we have much to teach each other as we learn to work well together.”

  “Three, actually,” Richart said, “for truly, the witch-warriors and reevers have different talents to share.”

  “Yes,” Wolfe said thoughtfully as he chewed on a piece of overcooked stag-elk. Yes, he admitted to himself, I am tiring of this dry, tasteless meat. He offered his trencher of remaining meat to Poppie, who took it eagerly.

  “We need to keep up our strength and speed,” Mayra agreed, “and keep our weapons-play keen. So, what are your ideas?”

  Berent eyed them for a moment, then nodded. “You need helpers. Servants.”

  “Retainers,” Mayra corrected. “Back in Nesht, we hire retainers to help us, and we pay them well. But we have no money here.”

  “We left our assets and monies at various Guilds in Nesht,” Wolfe said absently. “We didn’t think we would need such things here.”

  “So, that is our first problem,” Mayra said, passing a dish of vegetables to Kirik and wondering if she could remember how to make the delicious noodles—she still smiled at the odd word— the Fortress cook had served her. “Laid out for us to think over and resolve when we return with the missing dragons.”

  Her silvery-gray eyes met the icy-blue ones of Wolfe. As they had drifted to sleep the previous evening, he had given voice to something she had already wondered about many times. Were any of their companions considering returning to Nesht?

  Their voices had blended and both laughed—they each asked if the other was ready to return to Nesht. Almost at once Wolfe had shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t, and I know you wouldn’t, answer that question without careful thought and discussion.”

  Wolfe took Mayra’s hand almost absently. It appeared the others were considering ways to make their stay here more comfortable and that didn’t sound like people who wanted to leave.

  “Our current Elder once told us that the humans that lived in this Aerie kept stag-elk, birds, and sheep,” Payk said, and Berent nodded. “The dragons protected them from the rogue dragons that likely ate them purely out of spite, not caring too much for eating all that wool and feathers.”

  He looked surprised when the witches burst into laughter. As far as he knew, it had been a legitimate complaint from the dragons.

  “We also”—Wolfe broke off and glanced at Mayra and Kirik—”that is, some of us eat the meat from birds and sheep, but they are first skinned and plucked. We use the feathers to fill pillows and beds and for decoration. The sheep’s wool is soft and warm. It’s first processed and then used for clothes, blankets—in fact, it would be excellent for just about anything here because it’s so damned cold here.”

  “So, you need cooks and housekeepers,” said Berent thoughtfully, “and herders, woolworkers, someone who can spin and weave and stitch—” He stopped and grinned. “You should seek to hire the Phailites villagers for what they once did for the witches, many, many years past.”

  “And we are back to the problem of money,” Wolfe said. His black eyebrows drew together. “How were the Phailites paid back then?”

  Berent shook his head slowly, then said, “I actually don’t know. In these far lands, there are few places to spend money, so it isn’t as useful as bartering. I can’t imagine it was much different back then.”

  “What can the witches give?” asked Indiera curiously. “Fyrid, didn’t you say something about a legend of how the dragons helped your people tame the direwolves?”

  “Yes, Indiera,” the young warrior replied, giving the woman his charming grin. “There is such a tale, of an injured female direwolf who dragged herself to a dragon youngling for help. Those dragons took the female to a Phailite village as she was birthing her pups and having a hard time of it. They were born there, the people helped her raise the six pups and all the pups stayed. The female left the village at times, each time she returned to birth her pups. Finally, she left no more, and grew old with the humans. The village was full of her offspring and the Phailites loved them. From then on, we always had direwolves as companions.”

  The two direwolves, lying across Fleura’s feet, warming them, wriggled as though they knew their kind were being praised. Fleura smiled and slipped meat to them. “They’re so lovable,” she murmured.

  Fyrid snorted. “They aren’t supposed to be lovable or pets. They are my hunting partners!”

  Wolfe chuckled at seeing the smug smile Fleura gave the blue man. They were undoubtedly her pets now, not unlike LeLe—he stopped his idle thoughts and recalled the dragonlet, Smok, running out to jump into Fleura’s arms and displace Nena, the female direwolf, who had laid her head in Fleura’s lap. The dragonlet was noticeably resentful of attention given to Mayra or Fleura by the direwolves or Poppie.

  Where was the annoying little creature? Hadn’t one witch asked after the dragonlet recently? He started to ask Mayra but she leaned toward the Phailite chieftain and got his attention.

  “Berent, do you remember seeing any females of our kind, also captured by the invaders? They took many young women from the Fortress. No one has seen them since.”

  Berent
shook his head. “No, I saw no people of your colors.”

  “The time between the last attack and the one when Mayra freed Gaulte wasn’t enough for them to take the women back here,” said Harald thoughtfully.

  “So, as we did before, we must still assume they never left Nesht,” finished Wolfe. “King Forcial sent men into the mountains to find the camp of the attackers, but they never did.”

  “I know,” Mayra said sadly. “I hoped they might have brought them back first rather than try to keep track of them.” Mayra suddenly shuddered. “I hope the invaders didn’t pen them somewhere and then leave them.”

  Wolfe gazed at her a moment. Her words brought a dire picture to mind, but given the unusual training undertaken by female Tributes, they should have been able to survive. He would tell Mayra about them later rather than raise questions from the other witches or humans.

  The male Ring-Witch turned his attention back to the Phailites. “So, do you want to return to your village before we seek the mountain and the dragons?”

  “I want our village, and my father, to know that we are unharmed,” Fyrid said. “I have a duty to my—”

  Payk interrupted his nephew with a rude noise. “You want the world to know you spotted the Ceshon Aerie males first.” He laughed. “As well you deserve, my boy.”

  Fyrid grinned and shrugged.

  “Yes, of course,” Wolfe said. A slight grin touched his lips. “Wouldn’t the three of you arriving on the backs of dragons prove to your villagers that you are healthy?”

  Payk laughed. “I daresay someone would notice us!”

  The Phailite had finally shed a beard that made him look years older, to reveal a strong face, well-featured despite the distinctive white scar that ran from the outer edge of his right eye, down his hairline and onto his jaw. If Shaura said anything about the old wound, she did it privately and perhaps more with actions than words. Payk still seemed slightly dazzled by the woman who was sitting very close to him.

  “Our people are afraid of magic,” Berent said in his growly voice. “Half my people would likely die from fear if dragons landed amid them.”

  “Dragons don’t have magic,” Jannia protested. She hesitated, then added, “Not as a witch would define it. They don’t perform magic, but I suppose one could say they have magic because they are magic.”

  The Hyrnt chieftain gestured toward the Rings that Jannia wore.

  “Do witches take their magic from those bands?” he asked.

  “No,” Wolfe promptly replied, as the others shook their heads no. He nodded his head toward Mayra. “Will you explain them, my sweet? The instructors still teach your tale of our Rings at the Guild.”

  “They do?” That news delighted Mayra. Many years ago, while she was still at the Sorcery Guild, Marris au’Pernyn had assigned the young witch to write to the King of Nesht and explain what she understood about her Rings. She didn’t know until recently that the paper had never left the Guild. Instead, Pernyn had kept it and made it part of the first lessons to children of their Rings.

  Mayra touched her forefinger to her Ring. “The Rings are for enhancement of power,” she began. “The Sorcery Guild doesn’t give Rings where magic doesn’t already exist, for nothing would happen. They strengthen the wearer; anything we do, we could do without them, it would just take longer and require many extra actions.” She stopped and gestured toward Fyrid.

  “I saw you with your mouth hanging open when we used magic to pack up the camp,” she teased. “And Payk, you said you could see how you were so comfortable while sleeping out, but you didn’t understand how it happened. All of our gear is cumbersome, but we shrink it down so it fits in the saddlebags. But everything retains its weight, so we use magic to lift it where it needs to go. Overall, the Rings make magic possible with much less effort, enhancing swiftness and precision in using magic, and allowing us more time to strategize while casting.”

  “Fleura said that all of the witches are witch-warriors,” Fyrid said, “But you, Mayra, and Wolfe are Ring-Witches. But they all wear Rings, as well.”

  “They could have become Ring-Witches,” Wolfe answered for Mayra, “but their interest lay more in weapons than magic, or perhaps equally in both, but a Ring-Witch is stronger in magic. The training in magic is deeper, harder—” He broke off and hesitated.

  “Our magic is more powerful,” Mayra finished. “The Guild sees something in us that speaks to a grasp on our magic that comes from further within.”

  Mayra smiled at the Phailites. The hesitant smiles she received in return likely suggested they were still unsure how to interact with her, and she laid that at the feet of the dark warrior who sat close to her. She glanced at Wolfe; that scowl was perfectly normal for him.

  It was when his face lost all expression that one needed to be concerned.

  Wolfe had his own Ring secrets. Mayra hid a quick smile. Her mate would win praises were he to teach other witches that there was a very sexual side to Rings. She had learned that shortly after they met, when Wolfe had showed her other things Rings enhanced, with naught but his enthralling touch—but the others were waiting for her to continue, not muse over her man.

  “You say your clansmen fear magic,” said Wolfe abruptly. “But would they recognize us as magical beings?”

  Berent gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “We know that magic exists, but not every form it takes. Some of our elders have a rough type of sensitivity; they can perform some levels of healing and influence crops. But that is all I know about. They are a secretive group.”

  Fyrid and Payk nodded their agreement. “Where does magic come from?” Fyrid asked. “If it’s everywhere, why can only witches find it?”

  “Witches pass their abilities down through bloodlines,” Mayra replied. A sad thought—that Richart’s magic had led her to learn about Leisher—almost sidetracked her. She stole a glance at Wolfe, who gave her a slight nod. He knew her thoughts, he always did. “Who knows when it began? We base the fundamental reality of our magic upon being one with and using nature and the elements. Secondary magicks, which are physical, hands-on invocations, rely upon the knowledge of specific herbs and plants and alchemy. Our Rings assist both kinds of magic.

  “The Guild gives Enhancement Rings to a child once the instructors have taught them all that the Guild can teach them. I was—” Mayra stopped short. She had started to say she was an anomaly. But she now knew why the Guild Master had kept her within the Guild longer, and why her primary instructors were the masters of each discrete art.

  Her grandfather was the King of Nesht. His cousin had been the most powerful Ring-Witch born and had spurned those powers—and the Kingdom—to be a reever. Her lost warlord—closer that the father she had never known—she pushed those thoughts away.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her attention on her tale. Her fingers ran over the deep carvings in her Ring and she shivered. That touch had always relaxed her, but now she didn’t find the gesture soothing.

  “For all the lore known about the Rings,” Wolfe continued for her, “a far more significant amount is missing from the annals. We don’t know ourselves.”

  Mayra was remembering, reliving her own curiosity as a child, knowing now that the Sorcery Guild tutors weren’t reluctant to answer questions about the lost knowledge—and Mayra had had many—but other than repeating the mythos, there were few answers to give. She would have to ask the Librarian what he knew once that wandering dragon returned.

  She took a deep breath. Her listeners were being far more tolerant than she would ever have been, waiting for her to stop dreaming and continue.

  “Shall I explain now how we gain our Rings?” she asked softly. “Many don’t find it a pleasant tale.”

  Only Fyrid nodded, though more warily than he usually did when having his insatiable curiosity satisfied.

  “Very well. Inside each band are minute gold wires the Sorcery Guild calls filaments, of various lengths, spun as fine as hair. A Healer cut
s open our wrists all the way around and fuses the filaments with tiny nerves, the things that make a human feel and move about. They then grow into those nerves and become one with other nerves throughout our bodies. Supposedly, they can’t be removed without killing the person. After approximately a month we have healed enough to learn to control and use the Rings.”

  Mayra did not need to look up to see the horror, even revulsion in the faces of three grown men. Just reciting the procedure in those stark words made the process seem even more appalling than she remembered.

  As though to add more shock to an already horrific story, Wolfe added, “As we grow, the metal of the Rings grows with us. By the time we are adults, the metal and our flesh have bonded, and we are one with the Rings.”

  Mayra shot him a glare as though she knew exactly what he was trying to do. But she would not allow these blue men to fear witches. Or pity them, by the gods!

  “Rings are tools,” she continued. “They must be powered.” She touched the small, round disk at the top outer ring, holding up her arm to show it to them. “This gives eternal power to the Rings.” The cover slid back to reveal a small black shard that could have been metal or rock, glimmering softly as it caught the lights. At once, a slight shimmer rippled through the Ring, until she touched the disk again and the cover slid back in place.

  “What happens if they do come off?” Payk asked in a strained voice. He was holding Shaura’s hand and caressing it, as though he might erase what the Guild had done to place the Rings she wore.

  “It has happened twice that I know of,” Mayra replied. She looked around at the others, most nodded. “The first person died shortly after. The second—Marten—survived to see his Rings die as though they were flesh and blood. He lived and he is now the High Ring-Witch of Fortress Trandye.”

  “He doesn’t need his Rings?” Fyrid asked.

  “Noo,” Mayra replied slowly. “Somehow he no longer does. He doesn’t want them back.” Her words sounded both bemused and sad, but the Phailites had no way of knowing her sorrow was more for the pain her friend, Marten, had endured than the fact that he had lost his Rings.