Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  “Yet you knew elves exist,” she teased, giving her black-haired, elf-born mate a suggestive smile. “Especially dark elves.”

  The gnomes scurried in; each barely reached Wolfe’s waist, and amid the dragons, they were incongruously small and round.

  “Witches!” the one wearing the white hat cried. “Ring-Witches! And each wears the Rings created by our long-gone kin! I am Jenus, King of the Gnomes of the Ceshon Mountains!” He bowed toward Gaulte, and then toward Mayra and Wolfe.

  “And greetings to you, Princess—she who wears the Rings, and bears the mark of a long lineage from a noble family.” A shadow crossed his merry face for a moment. “I fear I must alter that. You are heir-blood of he who now rules, not heir-blood of King Leisher, who will not rule. The most powerful Ring-Witch ever conceived. The King who refuses to wield his Rings.”

  He shook his head, but his infectious grin returned to his face and he turned to face Richart and Harald, who stood like statues, their mouths hanging open.

  Mayra tensed. The mark of a long lineage? How could he possibly know about her tiny, dragon-shaped birthmark, often shared by those of her family? She decided she’d rather not know, but she wondered what sort of revelation that jolly, oblivious little gnome would produce next.

  “And who do I see here, wearing Rings, though it was sworn they never would! I am most honored to meet Your Highnesses, Prince Harald and Prince Richart, the Royal Princes raised as reevers!

  * * *

  Silence.

  Mayra looked around. Well, the gnome king hadn’t disappointed. And now, Harald and Richart stared mutely at her. It wasn’t, she knew, because Jenus had addressed her as Princess; the Brens had known her grandfather was the King of Nesht for some time. What had left them speechless? Jenus had just revealed the identity of two princes to two dunderheads who had apparently just realized who—and what—they were.

  The fact that neither Harald nor Richart had ever realized they were the true royal blood-heirs to Nesht never ceased to amaze Wolfe, but not Mayra. Even had Leisher not abdicated his lineage, she knew these reever-born and reever-raised men would never have had such a thought.

  Richart and Harald were the true blood-princes of Nesht. And now King Jenus had revealed Mayra’s identity and that of Leisher to their companions.

  Those fellow witch-warriors were now eyeing her warily.

  Fists on hips, she glared at them. “So, you have learned something that surprises you. You knew something was wrong when we left the Fortress. But there isn’t time now for us to discuss the truth. But hear this, my friends. I am as much a princess as any of you are and it would serve you well to remember that.”

  Wolfe laughed. “Yes, that is true, as I discovered.” He turned to the gnomes and gave them a slight bow. “I am Wolfe Sieryd of Faras Hiete.” He held up a quelling hand, even as the wee king gave a start and his lips parted to speak. “You need not spring my identity upon the others. I readily admit to being a prince, but King Forcial removed that smothering crown from my brow by taking over my country—and finding himself with far more than he bargained for.”

  Richart and Harald burst into laughter. “Isn’t that the truth,” Richart agreed. “I’ve never heard so much regret from a victorious king.” He sliced a glance toward the witch-warriors. “And I agree with Mayra. This is not a place for titles.”

  Jenus gave them a huge grin. “I am sorry for making you discomfited, Princess Mayra, Your Highnesses. We rarely show such a lack of protocol. But we wished to meet you ere you left.”

  Mayra smiled down at the wee king, wondering if those revelations had been more intentional than the gnomes professed. She gave him a slight bow and extended her hand; Jenus grabbed it and brushed a light kiss across the back.

  “We bring you gifts to aid you in your rescue of the dragons whose absence has cast a pall over this Aerie,” said the gnome king solemnly. “And we send blessings over your quest that will aid you in saving beloved Tamsin.”

  Mayra looked up at Gaulte, who was blocking the doorway into the common. Beloved Tamsin?

  “Time is growing short,” the black dragon said aloud. “You must make ready to go.” Gaulte hesitated, then added, “Jenus has come to give his blessing to this quest.” He inclined his head toward the small gnome. “Majesty, I ask that your words now be spoken.”

  The room slowly darkened, as did the expression upon Jenus’ face. He raised his arms and the instant silence was startling.

  “In ancient times,” he began softly, “the tears which were cast over these scales were worth more than any quantity of gold or jewels. What was fashioned in grief was given freely.” Mayra blinked. The gnome’s voice seemed to be moving away from her, becoming stronger and louder. “That which was given to fortify was given benevolently and with great hope.”

  Mayra started as Jenus let loose a string of words and growls, unlike any language she’d ever before heard. A prickly, translucent mist was filling the room and across from her—

  She gasped. The figures of her companions were fading in and out of the gray mist. She jumped as Wolfe’s hand closed around hers; he drew her closer to him and she looked up at him. His beautiful face stared back at her; they stood together as the magic laden gray mists gradually gave way to familiar colors that made Mayra shiver. Did Wolfe feel the magic that danced around and swept through them? Did he recognize it? Wolfe’s arms tightened around her waist and laughter bubbled up in Mayra. He knew the passionate hunger carried by those colorful mists when they danced for the two lovers!

  Jenus’ words stopped; she watched him tighten his small fists and begin an impossibly loud chant, now with words she understood.

  But the words were in her head! Dragon-speak! At the same moment, panic spread across Fyrid’s handsome features and his hands flew to his head. Fleura threw her arms around his waist and drew him to her, seeming to realize, just as Mayra did, that somehow Fyrid could also hear them.

  Loxem! Artur! Tamsine! Mighty and beloved dragons of old, seek these tears now. Jenus’ voice dropped back to normal, soft and enthralling. Find and touch that which is unflawed, given without bodily duress, without physical cruelty, without magic. Given with the sorrow of a broken heart, from a creature that can no longer rage, who can now know the deepest pain brought by vanished love.

  Mayra swallowed. She felt tears sliding down her cheeks; hot rivulets of wetness merging with the raw ache that filled her. Her heart was beating faster and her stomach fluttered. She feared she was going to be sick.

  And then—she lurched forward—the chanting ceased.

  The armor around her body and the tiny scales that formed her necklace were blazing with a soft, shimmering light that remained cold. Around her, she could see the strange glow of armor on bodies, though the bodies themselves were still invisible to her. As the armors’ colors deepened, intense energy swelled within her. Animated, it expanded within her, filling her from top to bottom. She felt invincible, as though nothing—neither magic nor corporeal, not a hand, a blade, or a spell—could touch her.

  The lights faded; in a blink, the mists vanished. The room looked as though nothing had ever happened, the only change being a group of uneasy humans standing around, blinking, and gawking at each other.

  King Jenus rubbed his hands together, grinning. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Yes, Gaulte?”

  We have one last problem which we must ask you about. The gnomes could obviously hear Gaulte’s mind-speak, for the minute king turned to him a once, his smile gone.

  “Of course, Gaulte.” The king turned; his gesture brought one gnome forward. If possible, he was rounder than the others. “This is Hilthe. You requested a gnome knowledgeable of weapons far and wide, and there is no finer than he.”

  The gnome, Hilthe blushed, and Mayra grinned. Hilthe continued to look pleased until Payk stepped forward and produced the tube weapon. Then the gnome paled, his chalky white face garish in the candlelight as he stepped back.

  “Oh, Je
nus, no, this cannot be,” Hilthe murmured. He dropped to a stool and placed his small, gnarled hands against the weapon. “Where did you get this?” he demanded sharply of the Phailite.

  “I—that is, I didn’t”—Payk looked around helplessly; he obviously hadn’t expected to be accused of bringing something terrible to the gnomes.

  “Payk carried it in for me,” Gaulte interrupted softly. “He and his young kin are the only two who can make it work; therefore, he ensures its safety by handling it.”

  “What? What does that mean?” Jenus asked.

  “There’s a sliding clasp on one side.” Payk leaned over and pointed it out. “It makes it stop working unless it’s moved forward. Sometimes, if it is placed in the working spot, I can make it work. But we don’t want that to happen.”

  “No, we do not,” Hilthe murmured. He looked up at the others. “Gnome magic created this, though it is not a gnome creation. It is an evil weapon, its only purpose to destroy.”

  He didn’t look surprised to see the humans nodding.

  Hilthe stopped short and Jenus added, “There is something else about it, Gaulte, something that lies over it.” He watched as Hilthe motioned for Payk to remove the weapon. “This weapon has a ward which prevents it from harming whatever its maker designed it to protect. You must find the gnome who laid the ward there, for only that gnome can remove it. And then the foul weapon can be destroyed.”

  “Have you seen this weapon before?” Mayra asked.

  Both gnomes shook their heads. “But we have heard about it,” Jenus said. “That is how we recognized it. It is a widely told tale now, of a gnome forced to create such evil that he has sworn that he will not live in the sunlight or know joy again until he destroys it.”

  “Who is that gnome?” asked Wolfe. “Where can we find him?”

  A strange, bleak look settled over the face of the gnome king. “I am sorry, my prince, but I truly do not know. But he must be unknown to our world, for the gnome who does such evil is an outcast.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Ceshon Aerie

  Day ten of the First Moon of Wynter

  The courtyard was alive with activity. The moonless sky couldn’t have been more fortuitous, but required the use of torches to provide light for the travelers as they saddled the five dragons they would ride.

  Mayra stood aside with Gaulte, her hand on his shoulder. She had agreed to ride Fauler with Wolfe. Four other dragons—Larek, Hyaera, Corren, and Talft—would carry the Phailites and direwolves, and seven other witches. Talft also carried a basket full of jewels. The witches hoped Hagan was out hunting and not there to discourage—likely with bodily harm—a trade with the Phailites guarding the captured dragons—jewels and help to escape, traded for dragons.

  Payk had heard Fleura comforting Mayra and didn’t understand why, if the dominant witch could stay in contact with Gaulte, she was so uneasy about leaving him behind. He supposed it was something to do with their bonding, as Shaura had called it.

  The Phailite now watched the operation, which was rapidly becoming more comical than productive. The complaints of Talft had started as under-the-breath muttering by the massive blue dragon. Finally, he pushed back on the large container of jewels and swiped at it with a handful of wicked talons.

  “This itches and I don’t like it,” he told Kirik and Indiera, who were trying to adjust it for him. “Make someone else wear it.”

  “Who, Talft?” Indiera demanded, hands on her hips. “Should I wear it?” Her tone abruptly switched, and she smiled up at him; she stepped closer and whispered, “You were chosen because you are stronger, friend Talft. You must not discomfit one of your kin by forcing him to bear this burden.”

  Payk shook his head. Apparently, dragons weren’t invulnerable to the charms of a female human and a dragon not wishing to wear a basket—but knowing he must—was very particular about how he looked and felt while carrying it.

  Payk wasn’t happy about leaving Shaura behind, but the Healer and Theura needed to prepare treatment areas in case the rescuers returned with wounded. Theura was certain the dragons who had been prisoners would need her care. Payk cast an envious glance at Berent, who would ride behind Leyna.

  Berent seemed to take Payk’s look as an invitation to talk.

  “I am thankful to Mayra for the gift of the dragon scales,” the chieftain growled, careful to ensure only Payk heard him.

  Payk chuckled. “I was already thinking about the conflict ahead. I’ve never been as strangely decked-out as I am now.”

  Berent nodded. “And did you also fear you would empty your stomach into your lap when that gnome was chanting?”

  Payk gave the other man a surprised glance. “I did,” he admitted. “I’ve never had such odd feelings as this dragon armor gives me. Even as I thought it was going to burst into flames around me, I feel stronger, mayhap even invulnerable—”

  Berent interrupted with a snicker. “If we don’t look outlandish as hell, I’d be surprised,” he said, twisting his shoulders. “At least we’ve got a fur tunic to hide them.”

  “And on the other hand, a sword is a sword,” Payk added merrily. “This won’t be a mock fight, such as our clansmen often engage in. And a dragon—”

  “Payk.” Payk jumped at the soft whisper. He turned and Shaura’s sister Jannia smiled up at him. Berent wandered back to Leyna. “Don’t pine so. I know Shaura wishes to accompany you, but the duty to heal is so greatly engrained that she couldn’t turn away, no matter how much she wished to.”

  Payk swallowed. Was he supposed to be pining? He was preparing to battle a dragon and demented Phailites, by the gods. There wasn’t time for pining. He arranged his face into what he hoped looked suitably sad.

  “Thank you,” he returned. “I do understand the duty of a Healer, for I felt it first from Theura, so long ago, when she helped heal me. Shaura is the same. Very dedicated. I admire that.”

  Jannia started to speak, but abruptly turned and walked away and Payk jumped again as someone touched him yet again and immediately felt Shaura’s arms slip around his waist. She pressed herself against his back and hugged him tightly for a moment, then released him. He faced her.

  “Thank you, Payk, for your understanding words.” Shaura’s deep, soft voice still gave him chills. The pleasant kind. “I came by to say farewell.”

  She smiled as Payk wound a tress of her dark red hair through his fingers. The Phailite chuckled; she had confessed that she delighted in his fascination with her hair.

  “I brought you something,” Shaura said.

  She took a small token from her tunic pocket and held it out to him. In the flat of her palm lay a small braid of her hair, tied in a loop with a ribbon. The blue man picked it up carefully. He raised it to his nose, smelling her soap, a scent of flowers and green trees. He carefully placed it in an inside pocket.

  “I thank you, Shaura.” His gravelly voice dropped further. “I pray that the dragons will require much less of your touch than we fear they will, and that we have no humans for you to care for when we return.” Her startled expression stopped him and with an insight that made him a valuable negotiator in his village, he realized she’d not been certain he would come back to the Aerie.

  He bent and brushed a kiss on her lips. “I will return,” he promised.

  Shaura’s wavering smile indicated her relief. She nodded and watched the blue warrior climb up into Larek’s saddle and push himself to the rear to make room for Fyrid.

  Payk looked around. Where was the boy? And why was Larek quivering? Fyrid had fastened two harnesses onto the saddle Larek wore, then wandered off, supposedly to get the unruly direwolves up onto—

  Payk heard Shaura burst into laughter. He saw her pointing and bent down to follow her gesture, looking past dragons carrying baskets and witch-warriors who were settling themselves in their saddles. Most of them had stopped to watch and were also laughing. He bent further over as Fleura was doing and found his nephew, at Larek’s head.
Larek’s quivering was his laughter.

  Fyrid stood near the head of the gold dragon with the direwolves. As usual, the beasts seemed more interested in playing, ignoring Fyrid as he tried to get them onto Larek’s back. Finally, he corralled the male up against Larek’s leg and bent down to lift him. The young Phailite lifted Balc and staggered under the animal’s weight, newly acquired thanks to far too much food. Fyrid pushed the direwolf up onto the saddle, when Nena bounded up onto her hind legs and licked Fyrid’s face.

  Payk chuckled. The female was eager to get her share of attention. The elder Phailite moved to drop from the dragon to assist his nephew, but Fyrid was looking more exasperated by the moment and Payk decided he might only make things worse.

  * * *

  “Nena,” Fyrid shouted, struggling not to drop Balc. “Stop it!” He was keenly aware of the entertainment he was providing to the others and could feel his face darkening. He released Balc and lunged for Nena, but both jumped away and barked at him.

  Fyrid stood and stared at them, wishing he had magic to grab them up and—the two animals nimbly jumped into the basket the gold dragon wore. Fyrid shook his head. After ignoring his repeated attempts to get them onto the saddle—

  The young Phailite glanced up at Fleura, who was laughing. She dropped her arms and Fyrid suspected that had another moment passed, the two direwolves would have had yet another strange ride—being lifted by said magic, onto the saddle.

  Fyrid quickly fastened the basket shut. Light applause greeted him; he turned and bowed to the others before grabbing up his pack and climbing into the saddle.

  Payk laughed. He leaned back to let an embarrassed young man settle himself behind Fleura who waved at those staying behind. “We are all collected now,” she called out.

  “Are your animals finally settled?” Payk asked his nephew.

  “Aye, the behavior of the beasts is beyond correcting,” Fyrid admitted. He hesitated, ensuring his uncle saw the smile that danced across Fyrid’s profile as he turned slightly and added, “They also might not have enjoyed the first ride as much as I thought they did.”