Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  Fyrid’s fist shot out and the older male flew back; two of his friends caught and straightened him. Two others stepped forward to defend the stunned man; Fyrid’s hand hovered near the long blade strapped to his thigh, but suddenly, a small figure threw herself between Fyrid and the others.

  “Fyrid!” Fleura reached for his hand, but the younger man gave her a quick shake of his head.

  “This is men’s business, Fleura,” he murmured. “Step back with the others.”

  Fleura flashed him a disbelieving look. She whirled on the man Fyrid had struck and that man’s eyes widened at her sudden aggression.

  “Fleura,” Fyrid said quietly. “I need you gone.” Even more quietly, he added, “Not attacking him.”

  “She is yours?” Kyayn sneered.

  Fleura gasped, unmistakably offended. She sent a baffled look toward Fyrid; she started to speak when the look on his face stopped her short.

  Fyrid realized the moment comprehension struck Fleura. Kyayn was Fyrid’s enemy, that one person he’d once confessed he hated. Within that moment of her hesitation, Fyrid drew his sword, as silently and swiftly as the witch-warriors had taught him. He continued the movement, swinging the blade around in a graceful swipe at Kyayn.

  Kyayn shouted as he jumped back and looked down. Fyrid had sliced his tunic open. Kyayn slapped his hands against his chest and felt around, but Fyrid had drawn no blood. Kyayn jerked his head up, snarled out a curse, and yanked his own blade from its sheath.

  As soon as Kyayn’s weapon was free of the sheath and Kyayn was readying himself, Fyrid attacked.

  Wolfe’s fighting lessons lined themselves up in Fyrid’s mind. The first would set the tone of the battle.

  Never let your opponent take that moment to get the upper hand.

  Fyrid used his height as Wolfe had taught him, raising his blade so that Kyayn had to reach up to meet the downward swipe of metal. Fyrid’s technique threw Kyayn off balance; the short-haired man staggered, and promptly met another onslaught from Fyrid, who brought his blade up from the side and caught Kyayn, nearly toppling him yet again.

  Fyrid stopped.

  “Steady yourself, Kyayn,” he said coldly. A slight smile touched Fyrid’s lips. He was giving Kyayn charity, and all knew it—none more than the man on the other side of crossed blades.

  Anger your opponent; he cannot fight your cold reason while he is enraged.

  The anger churning in Kyayn’s dark eyes was almost comical. A desperate curse erupted from the man and he lunged at Fyrid. Fyrid sidestepped him, slid the flat of his blade between Kyayn’s arm and torso, and lifted. Kyayn’s arm flew up; he appeared to be waving his sword helplessly for a moment. He lost both steadiness and composure, unbalanced by the weight of the weapon, but perhaps more so by the laughter from those around the two young men.

  The sooner you make your opponent look like a fool, the sooner you will win a bloodless battle.

  Fyrid saw mindless rage ignite on Kyayn’s face and knew the battle was going to get fierce.

  The fiery kindle of rage in a fool lights nothing more than the errors he will make. Watch his eyes.

  Kyayn rushed at him, raising his sword, and shouting incoherently. Fyrid brought up his blade and met the downward swipe of Kyayn’s sword. Though the weight of anger behind that thrust sent pain shooting through Fyrid’s arm, the younger Phailite did not hesitate. He pushed back, grabbed his hilt with two hands, and brought his blade against Kyayn’s blade with all his strength. At the last moment, Fyrid tilted it slightly so that the sharp edge and broadest parts met the other man’s sword in its middle.

  Kyayn’s blade broke cleanly in two and fell. As Kyayn fell behind his broken weapon, Fyrid moved back and almost gently, sliced into Kyayn’s jaw, opening a cut as long as his finger.

  A neatly placed scar will remind your opponent ever after of the warrior to whom he lost.

  Kyayn groaned softly as blood poured from the wound.

  “Call the Healer,” Fyrid said stonily. What a disappointment—but he now looked forward to applying Wolfe’s last lesson. He drew his throbbing arm closer to him and raised his head to look around.

  Where was Fleura? Was she truly angry enough to leave—Fyrid froze.

  Across the room stood Fleura and Kyayn’s father, Grice. He had locked his large hand around her forearm. Fyrid started to step forward and persuade the furious man to leave his magical, overzealous lover alone, but stopped short. There wasn’t a man in this village capable of taking on one of the witch-warriors, male or female.

  He decided—as Fleura had given him his battle, so he would give her hers. Fyrid recognized that look on Grice’s face—the man was going to do something incredibly rash. Grice needed a lesson in manners as much as his son had in humility. Who better to teach him than the fiery-tempered young woman who was even now deliberately inching Grice around so he could not see his wounded son.

  Fyrid transferred his gaze beyond Fleura to Wolfe and Mayra. They looked as though they were nearly quivering with the effort to remain out of Fleura’s fight.

  Show them why you belong to no man, my sweet, Fyrid sent to Fleura, and then chuckled at the expression that danced across her lovely face.

  * * *

  Fleura had quickly recognized that she must remove herself from Fyrid’s battle. She turned to keep her eyes on the two men, stepping back until Jannia stopped her. Jannia glanced at her friend, then slowly nodded approval. You did the right thing.

  Dear gods, if he gets hurt—the younger witch began.

  Watch!

  Fyrid fought with graceful, efficient moves. Kyayn was the obvious aggressor, but to Fleura’s surprise, young Fyrid was leading the fight along the path he had chosen. Her eyes flickered to Wolfe. Fyrid fought in the same understated manner as Wolfe did. It was obvious—he had been learning more from Wolfe than he had the other witches.

  Fleura looked around. The villagers were quick to appreciate that although Kyayn had started the fight, Fyrid outmatched him, and the look on Kyayn’s face showed that he knew it.

  She felt a movement directly behind her, turned with a smile, thinking one of her friends had come to comment on how well Fyrid had learned blade work from them. The eyes she looked up into were ablaze with insane fury in a roughly hewn face twisted with rage. Kyayn’s father, Grice.

  “You little bitch,” he said softly. “You caused this.”

  He grabbed her forearm, too caught up in his wrath to notice that Wolfe and Mayra had stepped up behind him. Fleura gave a slight shake of her head and he chuckled. “You want to fight with someone, don’t you? You have no idea what that boy is about. Hanging about with his mother and grandfather long past his time, whimpering and spying and telling on his friends.”

  Fleura let him rant as she slowly guided him around so he couldn’t see that Fyrid had just defeated his son, broken his sword, and marked him.

  Suddenly, Fyrid’s voice filled her. Show them why you belong to no man, my sweet. Fleura barely kept from gasping—or smiling.

  “From what I have heard,” she said softly, “I would apply those words more to your son than Fyrid.”

  Grice’s eyes narrowed. His grip on her arm tightened.

  “Perhaps Fyrid is bewitched,” Grice growled. “Permitting a woman to put on such a demonstration. To dress thus and carry such weapons. I would have taken you well in hand; he must not be strong enough.”

  From the corner of her eye, Fleura saw Fyrid give her a slight shake of his head, and that quick gesture said so much. Fyrid hadn’t killed his opponent and neither would she. But that didn’t mean Grice wouldn’t be taking a harsh lesson away from his first encounter with a witch-warrior.

  Fleura sent a bolt of heat from her Ring; Grice yelped and quickly dropped her arm, staring at her as he flexed his hand. The whisper of metal on leather echoed throughout the silent room as Fleura pulled her sword from the sheath across her back.

  “Going to fight me alone?” he sneered.

  “
Of course.” She let her voice to express her surprise at his question. “And,” she added quietly, “I will give you one last chance to unsheathe your sword.” Grice’s blade remained sheathed at his back.

  Within the space of a heartbeat, she had taken a step closer to him.

  Grice, his mouth agape, shook his head. “I cannot fight a woman!”

  “But you can challenge one?” Fleura raised her blade until it sat horizontal across her chest. “You can insult all women, but you are not fighting a woman, grandfather.” His eyes flashed and her lips curved into a humorless smile. “You are fighting a witch who has trained as a warrior since she had six years.” The blade she held aloft took on a red hue that grew brighter and deeper until it was no longer merely a sword, but unmistakably a thing of death.

  * * *

  The Healer had removed Kyayn from the hall. Those people who had plainly enjoyed the fight between Fyrid and Kyayn were now murmuring shocked words over the offensive actions of Grice af’Sauder.

  Despite her warning, Grice’s blade remained in its scabbard. Either he was determined not to take the young woman’s threat seriously, or he feared her. Though Fyrid expected Grice’s friends to laugh at the humiliated man, none did. Instead, they began to back away slowly, melting into the stunned crowd around them.

  Fyrid could almost feel sympathy for Grice as the older man twisted his shoulders. Grice continued to stare down at the young woman who had undoubtedly made him look and feel like an utter fool. She did not falter; neither her stance, nor her blade wavered.

  Grice’s arms dropped beside him and he briefly bent his head. Fyrid stepped forward, but in the next moment, Grice’s hidden arm jerked back slightly; Fyrid never had a chance to shout out a warning before Grice’s lips drew back in a snarl and he lunged.

  Fleura whirled away as his long knife flew past her. Before any of her friends could react, she dropped to a squat, swung the flat of her blade around, and forced his feet out from under him. Grice collapsed to the floor; the crack of his head against the wooden floor echoed throughout the call. Slowly, she stepped forward, her face cold as she bent and sliced a mark identical to his son's into the slack jaw of Grice af’Sauder.

  “A neatly placed scar will remind your opponent ever after of the warrior to whom he lost,” she said aloud, softly. Her words echoed through the midhall.

  Fyrid reached Fleura and pulled her into his arms. He squeezed her tightly, then released her.

  “Defeated by a woman!”—the whispers throughout the midhall were more female than male. “And she is such a small woman!”

  “He never even drew his weapon.”

  “By the gods, I think he was afraid!”

  “Shh, he can hear you.”

  “So, let him. He’ll not be hunting with me or my sons any—”

  Grice stirred, then slowly staggered to his feet. His face was crimson. A trickle of blood ran down his temple and into the larger stream from his jaw. He started as a large hand clapped down on his shoulder.

  “This is over,” Heyr af’Unshyr said coldly. “You and your son have equally shamed your name. Kyayn is with the Healer now; you also need to see her. And you have something to say to our guest, have you not?”

  Grice nodded and slanted Fleura a chastened look that turned to surprise when she handed him a piece of cloth and gestured toward his jaw.

  “I beg your forgiveness,” he said, then wiped blood from his face. “You are undoubtedly a warrior, though I do not know what kind.”

  “I am the kind of warrior who has earned the right to choose the man with whom I will share my days and then lie beside at night.” Fleura’s voice was quietly forceful. “And this man and I have chosen each other.” She glanced around the room, and Fyrid could see that Fleura seemed to be speaking more to the young women who had gathered together near one side of the room and were watching her, intently. “We are free women, we do not answer to any man, unless that man is the commander leading us into battle. That commander could just as easily be a woman. We are equal to our men in all ways.”

  Grice nodded once and left the hall. The silence behind him seemed to affect him more than any chiding would have.

  Fyrid, convinced none of his former playmates would approach Fleura again, took in the rapt attention of those young village women who were still staring at Fleura. Only one gazed at him, sadly, and when their eyes met, he winked.

  * * *

  Payk af’Unshyr saw the unusual gesture by his nephew—a wink for the young woman Fyrid had once pined for, and Payk started to admonish him, but Tesha seemed to grasp something different from the action. She looked astonished, angry, and then thoughtful, all in the space of a breath.

  Payk realized that several of the other women had the same reflective look, and he wondered if they had taken something deeper from Fleura’s words; something that would bode ill for the men in the Clan. Perhaps future clansmen would remember this day as the day two cultures came together for the betterment of at least the Phailite women.

  For Fleura’s words had evidently dumbfounded the men. Payk knew that Fyrid had hoped the villagers would see Fleura as the delightful woman she was, but Payk now wondered if they would brand her as a troublemaker. A frightening troublemaker.

  Payk chuckled. Fyrid didn’t care. Payk turned just as Mayra stepped up alongside Heyr. Payk drew closer to listen.

  “We have a dangerous task to perform,” the Ring-Witch said quietly, “and your clansmen have decided they must help us. As Payk said, there are people you banished from your Clan, who are now helping a rogue dragon. Payk and Fyrid will be invaluable to us, for they know the ways of your people, and we don’t.”

  Heyr nodded slowly as though he had only now realized his son and his brother weren’t staying behind. As he spoke, the hall’s huge front doors again flew open and slammed into the walls behind them.

  This time, more than one person reached for their weapon.

  Wind and snow swept in, along with a thundering noise outside that was quickly growing louder. Two men ran in, both gasping for breath.

  “Heyr!” shouted one of the village guards. “Come, hurry! By the gods, you must see this!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Sorst Village

  Day eleven of the First Moon of Wynter

  The roar of resounding rumbling grew closer, now accompanied by a slight jerking movement of the floor. Mayra grabbed Wolfe’s arm and pointed—most of the villagers were running toward and then pouring out the doors. He nodded and grinned. Of course, they wanted to see what was happening outside the building! They burst out into the cold morning and bright sunlight.

  “Brave people!” Wolfe shouted to Mayra. They followed the villagers. Mayra took for moment to notice that several direwolves, including Fyrid’s two, had found the deserted stag-elk carcass.

  The guards were running and gesturing, one backtracking to make sure the chieftain followed him. Heyr, straining on his makeshift crutch, went as swiftly as he could through the crowd; when Payk passed him to go ahead, Heyr waved his arm, gesturing Payk on and telling him to hurry. Fyrid, his mother, and the witches slowed to stay with the village leader.

  Across a wide pathway, something still unseen was hurling snow and debris into the air. Above, they heard the rapid flapping of the dragons, then saw them, flying low as they followed one another, intent on something on the ground.

  “Dear gods!” Uuala cried. She turned on her mate and grasped his arm. “What are they doing? Are they attacking?”

  Heyr halted, pulled her to him, and pointed through a grove of trees. They could all now see what the dragons were doing.

  Five dragons were flying slowly, herding a stampede of stag-elks away from the forest and into the village. Twelve or so of the huge animals trampled their way through snow, bushes and young trees, bellowing heatedly as the smallest dragon, Corren, flew down, lightly using his talons and wings to keep them running as a tight group, in the right direction. The reddish-
brown dragon, a huge grin on his scaled face, swept low to funnel them toward a narrower opening and into a huge pen. The last and largest beast ran into the pen, pawing the ground, bellowing and snarling up at the dragon.

  “Close the gates!” Payk and Heyr shouted together.

  For a moment, panic kept the stag-elks bawling and rearing up, but as the animals stamped down the snow, thick grass began to emerge and they quieted, eager for the unexpected treat.

  Harald Bren, master of growing even the most stubborn of greenery, lowered his arms as the tender grass grew to brush the knees of the elk.

  Fauler lowered himself near the pen and landed. There was yet another burst of commotion and a group of young children burst forth from the crowd, laughing as they ran to the dragon. Before any of the adults could do more than cry out, the huge creature lowered his head and nuzzled against several of the now-giggling young ones. Before Fyrid could reassure the parents, their cries of terror turned to wonder-filled gasps and murmurs.

  “I miss my nestling so,” Fauler said softly. He glanced up at the other dragons, still gliding above, then turned back to the villagers. “Have our friends told you of our quest?” The crowd murmured, and some shook their heads, followed by many replies of no. “A rogue dragon has captured our mates and our nestlings—our young ones. We have learned where they are, and we will now free them.”

  “That bastard Plyn brought this about!” Payk shouted harshly. “It was he who took the male dragons to Nesht, to kill and destroy those people! Some of those you declanned, Heyr, went with Plyn and are still with that rogue dragon, imprisoning the Aerie’s females and children.”

  “And you must free them,” Uuala finished quietly. as She gazed up at her son and her face lit up. “Oh, Fyrid of course you must!”

  “And these animals?” asked Heyr cautiously, his voice still strained.

  Fyrid, who knew well his father’s mind, wondered if Heyr envisioned a situation where dragons herded Sorst villagers as easily as they had stag-elks. The young man shook himself and slapped his arm across his father’s back—a jovial hug, but aware of his father’s handicap.