Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  Fauler raised his hand, much as Gaulte—and Wolfe—often did. “Then we shall hunt further west.”

  Bring extra meat as a gift. They might not need it, but it would be kind.

  Fauler nodded at Wolfe’s suggestion and turned back to the other dragons. Wings unfurled in a show of brilliant color and they took to the air. Before anyone could warn Heyr or his mate, sheets of soft, loose snow went swirling upward. Fyrid deftly shielded his parents from the blowing snow he had known the dragons would create.

  He grinned at them. “I now know that dragons ascending will do that,” he said. “I got covered once myself!”

  Heyr shook his head and once again grabbed his younger brother’s arm. “By the gods, I knew you would bring him home,” he declared in a husky voice.

  “And you!” the woman added with a smile. “That beard was a constant reminder of your injuries. I am happy to see it gone.”

  “Aye, Uuala,” Payk agreed gruffly. “I was ready to move on.”

  “A woman convinced him it was time to be rid of it,” Fyrid said dryly, grinning at his uncle. “A Healer, Mother.”

  Heyr laughed. “I am not surprised.” His dark eyes went briefly over his female visitors, lingering on Fleura, close within the arm of his son. He grinned at his brother. “And now you look your proper age—four and thirty—don’t you?”

  Mayra smiled at the surprise on Jannia’s face. Mayra had guessed that Payk was only a few years older than Jannia’s sister, Shaura, but the white beard and the scar he bore had aged him well beyond those years.

  “This can wait,” Fyrid’s mother—Uuala—said firmly. “I see our guests are cold and probably want nothing more than a fire at the moment.”

  Fyrid, his arm still around Fleura, threw the other arm around his mother’s shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I see some things haven’t changed.”

  Uuala gave Fyrid an affectionate smile. “No, you are wrong, my son,” she said so softly that only those standing close to the two, heard. “You are a man now. My firstborn, you went away as my boy. Your manners are the same, but there is something else. You are stronger now, from within.” She patted his arm. “It is a good gift, Fyrid. The strength of a leader.”

  * * *

  The midhall, as Heyr had called it, was a huge building that could easily accommodate twice as many people as were now moving about inside it.

  Several men had started fires in the four enormous fireplaces, one in each wall, while other men, seated on benches at long wooden tables, were cutting half-frozen meat into chunks. Women were setting up cooking pits and pots in the fireplaces where massive cooking hearths—one at each short side of the hall—contained easily recognized cooking implements. Next to one hearth stood a huge hanging grill and a smoker, while the other held flat grills and roasting racks. Stacks of chopped wood in heavy black metal racks stood in the corners close to each of the fireplaces.

  In a short while, bread was cooking in smaller racks, alongside large cauldrons of porridge and pans of bubbling eggs, enhanced with chunks of meat.

  Mayra sat silently, taking in the sound around her while she breathed in the many scents. Happiness settled over her. The smells and sounds of food preparation were the same, no matter where she was.

  And she was warm at last! She joined the others already removing heavy outer clothing, piece by piece. As the last, her coat, fell away she heard Fleura’s unhappy murmur and looked up. The villagers around them were now realizing that half the visitors were oddly-dressed, heavily armed women. Some of the sounds of happy chatter died down.

  Mayra had never seen so many shocked faces staring back at her.

  Continue, ignore them for now, and smile when you can. Mayra’s mental command to the witches was firm. I will not have them fear us.

  She followed her own guidance and then turned to Fyrid’s parents. She inclined her head gracefully.

  “I thank you for receiving my people is such a friendly manner,” she said with her always-charming smile, given in full to Fyrid’s mother, to a lesser degree to his father. She knew the ways of Nesht villages, where she would present herself as an equal to this man, but she didn’t know the pair, so she reserved her warm and friendly gestures for the other woman.

  “We welcome you,” Heyr returned warmly. “I thank you for the comfort you have given my kin, even so far as bringing them home on dragons.” He paused. As befitted his station, the chieftain was clearly curious, perhaps even concerned, as to why they were there. “Are they your dragons?”

  “Oh, no,” Mayra said, laughter in her voice. “They are their own dragons, we are our own humans, and together, we are friends and colleagues. Fyrid and Payk have become our friends.”

  “Mayra?” She looked back. Fyrid was drawing his mother closer to the Ring-Witch.

  “Mother, this is Mayra, and this is her mate, Wolfe. This is my mother, Uuala ara’Kantar.”

  Uuala’s name startled Mayra; she returned Uuala’s shy smile, wondering if Uuala had noticed the heir-line of Mayra’s name was also ara. It meant that Uuala also extracted her lineage primarily from her female side. Mayra had never found out whom the Ferren was, who had made her Mayra ara’Ferren.

  As Mayra stepped aside, she sent a fleeting smile to Fleura. Fyrid was already introducing Fleura and though his tone was guarded, his arm about the young witch-warrior’s shoulders, once again drew the eyes of both parents. Alarm danced across the sweet face of his mother but his father was amused—and appreciative of his son’s woman. There was a soft, feminine cry from somewhere behind them, which was hushed up by other women.

  Mayra sighed soundlessly. A reever armed with powerful weapons, brimming with power and wielding the authority of the king, was never an outsider, never heard sounds of distress or disapproval from a crowd of people. She wasn’t enjoying this. She started as a feather-soft touch brushed her arm. She turned and found herself eye-to-eye with the female she had thought to be Fyrid’s sister.

  The younger woman’s smile was anxious. “I am Lorea and Fyrid is my elder brother.” Her large, lovely eyes dropped back to Mayra’s hand. “You are like moonlight, my lady, while you”—she moved to touch Wolfe but saw Mayra tense, and dropped her arm—”you are the color of a young stag-elk!” She smothered a laugh and looked around at the others, her eyes lingering on Kirik. “Are you all from different clans?”

  “No,” Mayra began. “We are from different areas within our kingdom. We don’t—”

  Both women started as the main door flew open and several young men rushed in and quickly slammed the door against the wind. They all appeared to be about the same age as Fyrid. Two of them carried a young stag-elk between them that looked like a fresh kill.

  The youth at the front—a husky man with short-cropped curls—immediately started toward the head of the table where the chieftain and his family had gathered and were seating themselves. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he spied Fyrid and faltered.

  Mayra could feel Fyrid, standing next to her, stiffen. She thought the new arrival would say something rude to her young friend, but then all the latecomers noticed the guests. Though the young man at the front of the small group retained arrogant indifference, the expressions on the faces of his five friends were almost comical in their disbelief.

  Mayra hid a smile. Fyrid had returned with unexpected company and apparently, fully armed warriors were worth more for conversation than one small kill. She recognized troublemakers; these young men probably represented a lifetime of conflict for Fyrid and others of his age. As the shorthaired man drew closer, she could see that he was probably a year or two older than the others and Fyrid.

  “Kyayn!”

  The sharp call from a gruff-looking male seated near the chieftain caused the leader of the young men to jump. The rest of the group had already split up and had joined their various families. Someone had removed the stag-elk; probably back outside where Mayra impishly hoped Nena and Balc, still running around outside, w
ould find it.

  Mayra returned to watching those who were preparing the food. As food cooked, well-ordered and efficient women, and some men, went back and forth to the various cooking areas. They worked and talked together comfortably, with organization born of repetition. It reminded her of her mother, working in her small kitchen, singing softly as she gave young Mayra small tasks and told her tales of where various recipes had come from. Mayra always wished she had paid better attention.

  “There are many advantages to living in isolation,” Payk said softly to Mayra. “I was watching you watch them. The village eats almost all our meals here, together. The villagers decide among them who will perform which tasks. Some hunt, some prepare, others serve, but usually one member from each family will serve their own kin. It works well.”

  Mayra nodded. “I can see that. In a group of people this large, there needs to be such harmony.”

  “Times are changing us,” Heyr said softly, staring out over the room. “Young people always want change. Or to leave.” He turned his dark, haunted eyes on Wolfe. “Bringing the dragons here—my own son riding a dragon—makes that longing even stronger.”

  “Father, the dragons need our peoples’ help,” Fyrid said quietly, so the surrounding villagers couldn’t hear him. He hesitated then shook his head. “I must speak with you later, Father, Mother. There are changes, and while I want to blare out to everyone the dragons’ requests, you are our chieftain, and you will decide what you tell our people.”

  “Are we?” Uuala ara’Kantar asked abruptly. At her son’s questioning look, she smiled sadly. “Are we still your people?”

  Both Fyrid and Payk looked so shocked that Uuala’s smile returned, genuine and apologetic at the same time. “You answered my question. And I shouldn’t have asked it. I fear I know what you will tell us later. I can see it in your face, your eyes. Both of you. The Elder will want to speak to you.” She looked around. “To all of you.”

  Mayra wondered what could be so terrible from Uuala’s perspective about her people living in an Aerie.

  Heyr leaned forward until he could see Berent. “And perhaps you and I will have time to talk, Berent?”

  If Heyr’s peace offering surprised the other chieftain, he didn’t show it. Berent merely inclined his head and said, “I think that is an excellent idea.”

  As though some unheard call went out across the hall, people rose and headed to the different fireplaces. Several young women appeared across the table from the guests, bringing and setting down plates of bread, huge serving bowls of hot porridge, and eggs and meat, then returning with pitchers of water, what looked like hot tea, and ale, pots of honey, and preserves.

  It was a feast that the witches relished, yet regarded enviously, for none of them had such cooking abilities, and none could ever serve such a varied and delicious repast. It made the desire to bring Phailites to the Ceshon Aerie all the stronger. As the last of the servers joined their families to eat, Heyr cleared his throat. The sound seemed to carry across the hall, for conversation stopped at once.

  “And now we are together,” said Heyr mildly. He rose slowly, steady on one leg, and raised a large tankard of ale. “Eat, my friends, and then we will call upon Payk and Fyrid to tell us the tale of how they came to return to us riding dragons!”

  Fyrid grinned, and Mayra saw the young man called Kyayn choke on his drink. Kyayn slammed his tankard back to the table and continued to stare at Fyrid. Mayra hid a grin as Kyayn’s father turned his head and whispered something, waited a moment, then dug his elbow into the younger man’s side. Finally, the shorthaired young man looked away.

  “Serve yourself!” Heyr commanded his guests and his people, and they did.

  * * *

  Wolfe watched the villagers as he ate, thinking of countless similar villages he had passed through in the past. The same smells and sights, the shy glances his way—no, at all the witches, male and female—that spoke of young people and some not so young, perhaps wanting contact with a mysterious stranger. His eyes passed over Fyrid’s young sister and he suppressed a grin. He’d seen Mayra’s reaction when Lorea went to touch him. He’d never had a woman possessive over him; this one was all he desired in a mate, he’d known it within a day of meeting her. But watching lovely young ladies cast beckoning looks his way tended to revive one’s self-regard.

  Mayra, as always, did not notice those gazing at her, including the burly and overconfident man who had called the young Kyayn to heel. It was part of what had enabled Wolfe to overcome a tendency toward blind jealousy. She told him she saw no other man but him as her mate and lover, her unconscious actions showed it to be the truth.

  Wolfe turned his thoughts to what Heyr had said about the changes sought by the younger people. There was no small amount of excitement among the younger villagers over their guests; perhaps that would be the outset of finding people willing to work alongside the dragons. He put such musings aside to listen to Heyr prepare his people to listen to the tales of his kin and the dragons. Such stories, prepared and told properly, would be retold for generations to come.

  And Fyrid and Payk would be immortal, even while absent. They weren’t coming back, and Wolfe knew it wasn’t just because of the lure of the women they had chosen to ride into battle alongside and to share not only their beds, but their very lives. It was the adventure, the spirit of the dragons and the witches. The souls of these men were those of warriors, not farmers and tradesmen. Perhaps they only needed a sword and a battle to realize it.

  Wolfe wondered how many people the village might lose during the next few years if they followed in the footsteps of Fyrid and Payk.

  * * *

  With the food eaten and everyone comfortably full and eager to listen, Payk and Fyrid had told their tale. The witches had very little to add to the short narrative. The quality of storytelling—from fear to exhilaration—left little doubt as to the truth of their tale. The questions alone had taken twice as long as the tale and once they were answered, it was late into the morning.

  People rose and pushed tables and chairs to the walls. Cleaning began. Some villagers left, still others gathered into small groups to talk, and many approached Fyrid, Payk, and the newcomers to talk. Wolfe thought it inevitable that after far too much ale, the young men who had made themselves conspicuous during their late arrival would band back together and make remarks about the exotic women.

  They’d been ogling the women ever since they had noticed them; it only worsened once the witches rose from behind the tables and revealed their unusual warrior garb. Such clothing was by necessity snug; the warm, heavy cloth was comfortable during a fight and didn’t flap around, providing an easy target. Wolfe supposed he was accustomed to the witches being covered from neck to knee, but when compared to the loose pantlets and long flowing tunics worn by the village women, the clothes of the witches couldn’t help but reveal each of them as slender, lithe, and well-shaped.

  Wolfe doubted very much if any of these men had ever encountered women such as the witches, who were different in more ways than they could imagine. With wild young blood, one and all, he thought perhaps the trouble that was brewing might be the most entertaining thing since they had left the Aerie. He just hoped the village had a good Healer or two. And that no one dared lay a hand on Mayra. He was too content to go after someone, sword in hand.

  * * *

  Fyrid wasn’t aware that sometime in the last month he had transferred some of the regard he had once had for his father, to Wolfe Sieryd. But the young man did realize that he often watched Wolfe for signals as to how to contend with both the witches and the dragons. Fyrid, standing next to his father and listening to Heyr talk with Kirik and Jannia, glanced at Wolfe and away. The next moment, what Fyrid had seen registered and his gaze flew back to the older man.

  Fyrid recognized Wolfe’s attentive—yet expressionless—face. As the younger man watched, Wolfe’s intimidating, ice-blue eyes traveled over Kyayn af’Grice and his ring of troubl
emakers, and then flickered to Mayra and Fleura, who were talking with Fyrid’s younger twin siblings, Alin and Lorea. Wolfe then leaned back against the wall, calmly crossed his boots at the ankles, and rested his wrist across the hilt of the large knife he wore at his hip, assuming the stance of a harmless man, no more dangerous than the small cat now resting in Lorea’s arms.

  Fyrid had seen that misleadingly casual pose before. Wolfe was expecting a fight, just as he had when Berent had first joined their small group of humans. As though called, Berent joined Wolfe at the wall and said something to him. A white grin flashed in Wolfe’s sun-browned face and Fyrid felt a twist of jealousy.

  Berent and Wolfe had become friends—a prince and a chieftain, or just two warriors? Perhaps once Berent was gone—

  “Women dressed so, wish only for you to see what they offer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Sorst Village

  Day eleven of the First Moon of Wynter

  The comment erupted into the odd, sudden silence that full rooms sometimes experience, when all stop talking for a moment. The words echoed throughout the hall.

  Kyayn af’Grice had spoken. He looked startled for a moment, then straightened himself. An opening parted between him and the chieftain as people backed away. Anxious glances and the villagers’ reaction to the offensive comment made it clear to the visitors that Heyr did not permit such talk in the company of women.

  Fyrid stepped away from his father, toward Kyayn, whose lips twisted into a sneer.

  “You’re not to speak of our guests—no, any woman—with such disrespect,” said the young Phailite quietly.

  Kyayn snorted and his companions broke into laughter. Kyayn took a step closer, and seemed slightly surprised when Fyrid strode toward him, slowly and deliberately. Kyayn fluttered his lashes and his voice went up. “Have the young warrior maidens charmed noble Fyrid into boldness?” he demanded. “Or was it less charm and more a baser sort of enjoyment?”