Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  Before any of them could move, Larek dropped his basket; the crash of its weight and the tinkling of stones from within echoed through the cave. He pushed the heavy basket past the humans, closer to Tybor.

  “We are here to ransom the dragons you took, Tybor,” said Berent resolutely.

  “We have brought the jewels Plyn af’Nanyn sought,” Wolfe added. “And we leave you no choice, as we are well-prepared to take the captives.”

  “Lord Hagan found the only jewel he needed,” laughed one of the men at the cauldron, and Tybor shot him a poisonous glare.

  Tybor drew closer to them, a swaggering Phailite with an evil grin. “Who are you to make such demands?” His eyes flickered to the basket. “What is in there?”

  Larek extended a foot and slowly shoved the basket to one side. He gave a hard push, and it tipped over. Jewels spilled out, clinking and tumbling together, coming to rest in the torchlight, glittering, a silent fortune that called to any human, especially a Phailite who did not wish to work honestly.

  “This is for the return of the dragons,” Wolfe said again. “We will take them now.”

  Before the Phailite leader could speak, there was a flurry of movement at the edge of the light, atop a stack of wood. Several bedraggled gnomes stood there, one holding Poppie, another waving frantically.

  “No, no, witchlings!” yet another cried, wringing his tiny hands. “You cannot bargain with such men! They will take the dragon jewels, and you will face Hagan!”

  “Be silent, Feshr,” snarled Tybor. “Get back to your hole, now!” He peered closer at the small cat. “What is that beast?”

  “She is my companion,” Wolfe replied calmly. “You may bring out the young dragons, first.”

  “I won’t,” he said incredulously. “That would leave us to bear the wrath of Lord Hagan?”

  “We will help you escape Hagan,” Larek said suddenly. “If you have not harmed our kin, we will assist you. And you may have these rocks.”

  “Rocks,” echoed Tybor, shaking his head. “Stupid dragons. We will have a savage dragon after us forevermore, and they are merely rocks to you.”

  “Does that mean you will take our offer and release the dragons?” Mayra asked.

  “I can see no other alternative,” Tybor mumbled and shot a glance at Larek. The two men at the cauldron whispered together. “I cannot refuse your offer.” He raised his head and fixed hard eyes on Wolfe. “But you must defeat Hagan ere we leave.”

  Wolfe nodded slowly, unconvinced. This is far too simple.

  Mayra glanced at him. He had again broken the ban on mind-speak. The Phailites didn’t react, but she wasn’t convinced that the leader hadn’t understood them.

  I agree, Mayra returned. This entire situation was making her more and more uneasy. The Phailites were seeing shadowed, faceless, and genderless warriors with hollow, echoing voices, standing in front of a dragon, and yet nothing seemed to bother them.

  Something in the pendants had changed them. And someone controlled the pendants.

  She couldn’t chance letting Tybor know that she knew about the pendants. Instead, she glanced at the gnomes, who still stood atop the pile of wood with Poppie. As though called, the black cat jumped down and scurried across the cave floor to sit next to Wolfe.

  Tybor bent and picked up an exquisite stone nearly the size of his hand. He looked it over for a moment, then returned it. “Put these back in the basket!” he barked toward the men closest to him. He grinned at Wolfe. “We expect Lord Hagan to return in less than an hour, should you wish to hide yourselves away. I, for one, will make ready to leave this cursed cave.”

  The men around him laughed, and many nodded in agreement. In the next moment, a strange sound filled the cave—a thin, piping sound—and Tybor froze. The soft whispers of the two men still tending the plant-drug stopped.

  Mayra stiffened. What was happening? A soft curse left Wolfe’s lips.

  As Mayra watched in astonishment, both the gnomes and the enspelled Phailites vanished back into the shadows of the cave, the two drug-makers hunched over the vile brew in the black cauldron and frantically spooned the green liquid into a large jug, and Tybor moved away from the basket of jewels. Before her eyes, he changed—his body slackened, the arrogance left his face, and he bent his head toward the back of the cave, unexpectedly presenting a weak, submissive man.

  Gods, how I wish Gaulte were with us. An odd quiver went through Mayra and her eyebrows drew together—was that the black dragon, far away, reaching for her?

  “Tybor,”—a soft and amused feminine voice filled the cave—”do not touch those!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In the Cavern of Hagan

  Day eleven of the First Moon of Wynter

  As the soft, unseen female voice echoed through the walls and ceiling, pale streaks of myriad glimmering colors lit up the wall in the furthest corner of the cave. The lights moved and merged with the echoes of words around them until they faded away and it was silent.

  Colorful cavern walls didn’t impress Mayra, but she appreciated the influx of warm air mixed with the sweet smells of flowers, another thing she had missed since leaving Nesht.

  The chilling scream of rock grating against rock cut through the silence and momentarily froze Mayra in place. Then her hands flew up to cover her ears; nothing helped block the stomach-churning sound of shrieking rocks. She swallowed the nausea that swept through her and stared as the entire cave wall wavered and moved back. A stone staircase seemed to—no, it was—emerging from the surrounding rock!

  Even as she fought with her own gut reaction to the rock’s unnatural sounds and movement, she could feel her people around her, moving about uneasily. The others look to you for strength! Now, chin up! She took a deep breath and turned to Wolfe with a jaunty grin.

  “How exciting,” she said, waving an indifferent hand toward the wall. “Our dutiful enemy has turned her long-expected appearance into a performance act for us.”

  There was soft laughter around her. Mayra turned away from the spectacle a moment, on the pretense of talking to Wolfe, knowing he would realize her amused indifference was necessary to assure their fellow fighters that Mayra was unconcerned about the approaching enemy. He went down to her and his lips touched her ear.

  “It is all a farce,” he whispered. “Simple to cut down, and much more satisfying.”

  Before Mayra could reply, they both turned to see a column of shimmering air slide over the top of the empty stairs and linger a few moments, then vanish.

  A woman appeared. Mayra silently drew her sword. The newcomer swept her eyes over the cavern floor, lingering on no one until she reached Larek. Her smile widened, and she slowly descended the stairs.

  “Time for the performance of a lifetime,” Mayra whispered so quietly the others barely heard her.

  As the woman reached the step halfway down the staircase, recognition washed over the witches and Phailites; the collective gasps drew a sharp look from Wolfe—even for his mate.

  Mayra regained her composure at once. She had drawn her sword, now she reached up and pulled back her hood. Dear Goddess—her face—let me appear weak and frightened before my enemy, for this battle will need more trickery than strength. Larek is untethered, exhibiting teeth and talons, yet this woman continues to smile, untroubled! And by the Goddess, she looks like me! Her thoughts were more imploring than she wanted, more pleas to the Goddess than prayers.

  Mayra finally understood why Fyrid and the Hyrnt villagers had stared at her the first time they had seen her. Mayra was staring, as well, equally befuddled, feeling as though she were meeting her twin. Who was she? Where had she come from? Where was the Phailite woman she fully expected to find here, she who had led Tolle to betray his father and king?

  There were two women involved, approximately the same size and age—but only this one was present. Mayra briefly closed her eyes, reaching out to seek the magic of the other woman. And what Mayra felt from her was unlike anything
she’d ever before known. The Ring-Witch could hardly believe it, but she had arrived at a conclusion that she simply could not discard. The feeling that was so strong Mayra knew she was right.

  This woman had to be both the woman who had appeared to the villagers in Hyrnt, and the one who seduced Tolle, and caused him to betray Nesht. Had none but Tolle ever seen her? Hadn’t anyone else noticed she looked just like Mayra?

  There was no magic Mayra knew of that would enable the woman to assume her features so accurately. Her replication was far beyond the unknown woman’s same long, curling blond hair and small stature—her face was uncannily similar. The twin wore wrist rings that were so close to Mayra’s that someone must have helped her copy them. The black cloak the woman wore completed the picture. How had she known about a cloak—they had taken the cloaks with them from the Aerie.

  New realization washed over Marya. Someone in the Aerie had given this woman information about Mayra!

  If not for the newcomer’s accent, having a twin might have concerned Mayra. If the woman kept her mouth shut, the Goddess knew what kind of trouble she could cause for the Ring-Witch.

  Mayra stole a glance at Wolfe. He looked stoic as ever, but he must be as astonished as was his mate. Mayra’s lips tightened. She had never seen the Phailite woman, yet somehow she had taken Mayra’s overall appearance and turned it into something indecent—even evil.

  And it was all a performance. This overbearing woman commanded a troupe of mindless men, performers for Hagan. Could it be possible that she somehow also help sway over the demented dragon? Mayra unconsciously drew her cloak closer to her. A simple rescue mission had suddenly become much more complicated, much more dangerous. She wished Gaulte were there.

  * * *

  Wolfe tightened his hand around Mayra’s. He had felt her odd thoughts—a performance?—as soon as she touched his hand. Through their contact, he felt jolts of strong emotion—beyond the fact that a woman who looked just like Mayra had suddenly come into the picture, Mayra was incredulous about something.

  She is Cherra af’Nanyn.

  Poppie? He glanced down; he could feel her, still draped across his boot, purring. He sensed Mayra, turning and looking up at him. Within the hood, she nodded. She’d heard Poppie. Wolfe stared at the woman across the room.

  Now he understood the performance aspect of his mate’s clever thoughts. Cherra, sister of Plyn af’Nanyn, taking on Mayra’s features, playing her games with Aristen and Tolle. And now, the setting of the surrounding cavern, and especially Cherra’s entrance onto the stage from her magical stairway was overwhelmingly theatrical. Tricking their adversary would be a fitting revenge.

  Wolfe’s ice-blue eyes swept over the assembly of cowering, bowing men, and a slight sneer touched his full lips. He, too, found the arrival of the woman more annoying than troubling, but he suspected she meant to frighten or impress the newcomers. Seeing the cave guards grovel in terror before Cherra might have troubled other warriors, but her actions did not impress either the witches or the Phailites around him.

  As Cherra walked down the steps and drew closer, her resemblance to Mayra drew murmurs from around Wolfe. She was much like Mayra in her overall appearance, and though less in her actual features, he understood why seeing Mayra the first time confused Fyrid—and the Hyrnt villagers.

  Wolfe, an expert in the many ways of disguise that any successful spy would recognize, studied her carefully. This wasn’t a disguise but neither could he find anything that explained so many similarities between the two women. Cherra wore boots, a dark-green tunic and leggings and she had white-blond hair hanging loose to her waist. But her small features were neither elfin nor as elegant as Mayra’s were, and she wasn’t a deceptively willowy female whose strength could be unexpected. The Rings she wore weren’t real, nor did she carry Mayra’s black sword. In fact, she didn’t appear to be armed at all.

  The overall theatrics of this woman—Cherra af’Nanyn—made Wolfe wonder why, but more importantly, how? There was a reason behind all he saw, but it would have to wait. He had finally met the woman responsible for the betrayal of Nesht and the Ceshon dragons, and he was ready to lay waste to this foul nest of spies and conspirators. But not until he discovered how she had accomplished such a massive deception.

  Cherra stopped on the last step, reached up, loosened the clasp on her cloak, and let it drop. Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. On each of the woman’s shoulders sat a dragonlet—Smok, and a dark red one. Both were curled up, each making itself as small as possible.

  Wolfe glanced at the black cloak and wondered who had told Cherra what Mayra had worn today. His intimidating eyes went to the dragonlet, Smok. Wolfe’s free hand curled into a fist. The little bastard ignored him. Wolfe would get his answers, later. But Smok had best stay out of Wolfe’s reach; the life of a traitor—even a dragonlet—was worth nothing to a warrior.

  As she took the last step down, the woman stopped. She continued to gaze steadily, not at the witches who had invaded the cavern or the considerable bulk of the gold dragon that blocked the exit, but at the pile of glittering jewels that rose above the tops of her boots.

  Cherra bent to retrieve a large blue jewel. The way she handled it, raising it high to admire, made him believe she knew the worth of the treasure before her. She had lived in Nesht, possibly maintained a life somewhere there—when she wasn’t in Ceshon, betraying dragons.

  “So, brave humans,”—her voice was soft and chillingly cold—“a dragon accompanies you. And you bring ransom for our captives? Yet you do not appear until Lord Hagan is away? Why is that?”

  “Hagan has no interest in this treasure,” Mayra replied quietly. “We brought this to appeal to the humans holding our Aerie captive.”

  “Your—” The other woman broke off and took a step closer to Mayra. Wolfe’s hand tightened on the knife at his side. He saw similar actions in the others and wished they had entered with blades drawn. Mayra was the only one with a sword drawn, and she was holding her blade almost carelessly, resting the blade flat against her shoulder.

  “Won’t you pull back your hoods?” she asked, her smile friendly and genuine. “I can hardly understand you.”

  Wolfe made the first move, and the others followed. Cherra’s gaze went over them, expressionless until she reached Mayra, who had already revealed herself, earlier. A slight smile lifted her lips. Her eyes, large and, like Mayra’s, silvery-gray, flickered up to Larek and a slight sneer touched her lips.

  “Humans and Phailites, with dragons?” the woman demanded. “And you claim to belong to an Aerie?”

  The more Cherra said the greater puzzle she was. Witches almost always recognized one another; he would swear she had more than dragon magic about her and if so, she should have known them. He considered what he had learned about her from his brother, Aristen, and from Tolle Bren, and concluded that her strategy for dealing with people was to mislead them, as she had done with those two men. Was that her intent now? He snorted. Not one witch or Phailite around him would trust the woman any further than they could throw a dragon.

  Wolfe cleared his throat. Her eyes now turned to him, and the smile that curved her lips was so charming that Wolfe felt Mayra stiffen.

  “You are called Cherra, are you not?” he asked abruptly.

  That sweet smile vanished. Her lips thinned.

  “How might you know that, brave warrior?” Her gaze flashed to Berent, then returned to Wolfe, going over him with a boldness that surprised the dark Ring-Witch. “As I know none of you, except one.”

  “You tried,” replied Wolfe softly, “to convince my brother to betray his King.”

  If his information meant anything to her, she hid it well. She did not respond; instead, she looked puzzled and shook her head.

  “I have talked to many men in the past,” she said.

  “No doubt,” Mayra muttered. “Or likely done more.”

  “What was that, my dear?” Cherra purred. She passed a dismissive glance over Mayra and turn
ed back to Wolfe. “You know my name; might I know yours?”

  “I am Wolfe Sieryd.”

  She tilted her head. “I—do I know that family name? Oh, I beg your pardon. I am Cherra an’Nanyn.”

  Wolfe could have feigned disinterest, but instead, he widened his eyes and looked astonished. “You—are you related to—” He broke off, sensing that Mayra had caught on. Surely, as Cherra was playing with them, it was only reasonable that he and Mayra put on an act for Cherra.

  Cherra laughed excitedly at his amazement. “Yes, Plyn af’Nanyn was my brother! He overwhelmed and used foolish, peaceable dragons to lead a noble group of warriors against the weak king of Nesht. He almost succeeded.” Her eyebrows drew together. “And according to Lord Hagan, one of you killed him.”

  Wolfe glimpsed Mayra’s face and bit back a grin. His woman was tiring of this; he knew she wanted answers! But instead of showing her impatience, she slowly slid her black sword back into its sheath and took a step forward. Everything about her was relaxed and careless—the picture of an unprepared young woman who was far too trusting—and Wolfe loved it.

  * * *

  Cherra an’Nanyn? Mayra had known she was correct, about two women being one—but Cherra was not the same color as her brother. As she considered that mystery, the snarling, enraged features of Plyn af’Nanyn flashed before the Ring-Witch. The man had once been handsome, but broken, blackened teeth marred his face. The hatred in his demeanor had made him seem more demonic than human. Cherra seemed to be the opposite of the man, tranquil and captivating, but here she stood, wearing her arrogance as she wore Mayra’s clothing.

  Were the plain, green, witch-warrior garb Cherra wore Mayra’s or merely a copy? How had this woman known so much about her—even what she had elected to wear this day? How could Smok have helped Cherra when he hadn’t been seen at the Aerie for some time?