The Fire Dragon

by Katharine Kerr

  A good many of the lords swore, muttering among themselves. When Maryn raised a hand, they fell silent.

  “Oh ye gods!” Maryn said. “And does he think he's in any position to dictate these conditions?”

  “He doesn't, Your Highness,” Gavlyn said. “There's no arrogance here, just fear. Their herald's going to ride back to their camp when he gets my answer. A long ride, he said, but he refused to tell me the slightest thing that might tell me where the camp was. I take it that Lord Braemys's army is much depleted.”

  Everyone turned to look at Nevyn. Since he'd scryed on the etheric during the night past, he had answer for them.

  “It is,” Nevyn said. “I'd say he has no more than a thousand men, and that's a very generous guess. A good many of his allies must have deserted him.”

  “Indeed?” Ammerwdd stepped forward. “If we were to hunt him down, we'd have an easy victory and end the Boar clan forever.”

  “Your Grace!” Gavlyn turned dead-white. “The man's asked for parley.”

  “Just so.” Maryn smiled in a wry sort of way. “We've done our best to conduct ourselves honorably all through the war, and I've no desire to dishonor myself and my vassals now.”

  Ammerwdd started to speak, then caught himself with a shrug.

  “Very well,” Maryn went on. “What are these conditions?”

  “I've no idea, Your Highness. We've not got that far.”

  “Ye gods!” Ammerwdd muttered. “How long will the little bastard weasel? It's an insult, Your Highness, for a man to drag these things out. How long are we going to put up with him mocking our honor?”

  “Consider this, Your Grace,” Maryn said. “Suppose we cut the parley short. Braemys and his men will flee. If they reach Cantrae safely, we could spend a year digging them out of it.”

  “True spoken.” Ammerwdd gave in with a bow in the prince's direction. “He won't talk as long as all that.”

  “Just so.” Maryn smiled, then turned to Gavlyn. “Tell the Boar clan's herald that we'll parley till we reach an honorable conclusion to the matter.”

  “My thanks, Your Highness. I'll just be on my way, then.”

  To pass the time till Gavlyn returned, Nevyn organized the wagon train that would carry the wounded home to Dun Deverry. Maryn designated fifty sound men for an escort, and Oggyn handed over supplies for everyone. By then the army had eaten enough of their supplies to free up six wagons. Others of the wounded men would be able to ride.

  “Just keep the pace slow,” Nevyn told Maddyn. “Not that you'll have much choice in that.”

  “True spoken,” Maddyn said. “Do you have private letters you want delivered, my lord?”

  “I do.” Nevyn reached into his shirt and handed him two silver message tubes. “One for Bellyra, one for Lilli. Go to Lilli first. She'll read the headings and tell you which is which.”

  “The princess can read, too.”

  “I know, but I don't want her getting a look at Lilli's letter.”

  “I see.” Maddyn smiled briefly. “Very well, my lord. Lilli first it is.”

  Maddyn put the letters into his own shirt for safekeeping. Nevyn considered him: still pale and visibly thinner, but he had managed to keep some porridge down that morning.

  “Be careful of what you eat and drink,” Nevyn said. “No dried beef and suchlike for you, bard.”

  “Oh, have no fear of that, my lord! One round of spoiled food is enough to last me for life.”

  The wounded men left camp at noon. Nevyn stood in the road and watched them go until the dust cloud shrank to a smear on the distant view. He could only hope that they'd all reach the dun alive, but for many of them, he feared.

  All that afternoon Gavlyn and the Boar's herald held their talks out in a green pasture to the north of the camp. By evening, nothing had been truly settled, but Gavlyn felt confident that the herald was bargaining in good faith.

  “We'll reach an end to this eventually,” Gavlyn told Nevyn. “Not soon, but eventually.”

  “What exactly is Braemys so afraid of?” Nevyn said. “Do you know?”

  “From what his herald told me, I'm guessing he fears capture more than death. He suspects our prince of wanting to hang him.”

  “Ah. That would explain it, then. It's a terrible death for a fighting man.”

  “I don't know how convincing I am, but I've tried to make clear to the herald that Maryn is the soul of honor.”

  “Well and good, then. There's not much else you can do.”

  On the morrow the negotiations started again. Soon after Gavlyn rode out, Nevyn noticed a few wisps of cloud streaking the western quadrant of the sky. A west wind picked up, and all morning the clouds came in, a few stipples at first, then a sky-spanning reach of them, like a spill of clabbered milk against a blue dish. Oh splendid! Nevyn thought. The most important parley in a hundred years, and it's going to rain! Unless, of course, he did something about it. He left the prince to his vassals and hurried to his tent.

  Outside the noisy life of the camp strolled by: men laughing and jesting, or mourning some dead friend in an outburst of rage. Thanks to long practice Nevyn could withdraw his attention from it all. He sat down cross-legged, let his breathing calm, then visualized a ray of silver light circling him deosil, that is, in the direction of the sun's travel through the sky. At each cardinal point he placed, again in his imagination, a five-pointed star of blue fire. When he spoke a word of power, the imaginary circle sprang into life on the etheric plane. While he couldn't see it with his physical eyes, he could feel its energy trembling and surging all round him.

  With the place of working prepared, Nevyn called to the Lords of Water. Streaks of silvery-blue light appeared in front of each pentagram, wavering at first, then solid, turning into pillars of light. Within each swam a vaguely human form. Nevyn could hear them as a chorus of thoughts within his own mind. How they might hear him lay beyond his knowledge. Yet they understood when he asked them to prevent the storm, and he understood when they told him it was impossible. They could, however, bring the storm to a head early, so that after a night's rain the next day would dawn clear.

  “I thank you for that,” Nevyn told them. “It will do splendidly.”

  With a murmur of assent, they disappeared.

  By sunset the iron-dark clouds seemed to hang so close to earth that it seemed one could reach up and touch them. The setting sun could do no more than stain the west with a sullen orange. Just before the night smothered even that faint glow, a weary Gavlyn returned to camp. After the evening meal, when Maryn's vassals joined him around the fire in front of the royal tent, Gavlyn delivered his report.

  “Lord Braemys insists that Prince Maryn meet him in open country. He suggests that each side bring a personal guard of twenty men, a councillor, and a herald. The guards must stay some thirty yards away from the parley itself. Braemys has a field in mind, some ways from our camp, that's free of trees and suchlike. He says that each side will be able to see the surrounding countryside clearly and thus be assured that no ambuscade has been laid by the other.”

  “Very well,” Maryn said. “This all sounds fair to me. Nevyn, will you be able to tell if he has some treachery in mind?”

  “Most likely, Your Highness,” Nevyn said. “But truly, think of the situation. Braemys is badly outnumbered. If he chose treachery, he'd lose the subsequent battle and his life.”

  “True spoken. Gavlyn, meet the herald tomorrow as early as you can and tell him we accept these conditions.”

  “I'll ride out at first light, Your Highness.” Gavlyn bowed to him. “I think he's as eager to get this done as I am.”

  A sudden flash of silver burst overhead. For the briefest of moments Nevyn wondered if Braemys had dark dweomer on his side after all, but he caught himself with a laugh. The promised storm had begun. Thunder boomed and rolled, and as it died away Nevyn could hear the whinnies of frightened horses and the yells of the men rushing out to calm them. The lords gathered around Maryn as
if to protect him and braced themselves as a second bolt split the sky. The rain broke and fell in a downpour. The fire hissed, fought, and died. All through the camp, fires drowned until the only light was the occasional flicker of a sheltered lantern.

  “Get back to your men!” Maryn called out. “There's naught more to be said here.”

  Again the lightning, and again the thunder.

  “Except by the gods,” Maryn added, and fast. “And by their will and the power of Tarn the Thunderer.”

  Apparently his tribute appeased them, because the next flash of lightning shone less brightly, and it took a brief while after before the thunder sounded. Even though the lightning moved away fast, heading for the east, the camp spent a wet and miserable night. Still, when they woke the next morning, the rain had stopped, just as the Lords of Water had promised. In the cold grey light, men pulled wet clothes from soggy saddlebags and spread them out to dry, then lined up at the provision wagons for clammy flatbread and sopping strips of dried beef.

  After he ate, Nevyn picked his way through the mud to Maryn's tent. The prince was standing outside with a fistful of soggy bread in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other.

  “There you are,” Maryn said with his mouth full. He swallowed hastily. “Gavlyn's already ridden out.”

  “Good,” Nevyn said. “I hope the other herald's there to meet him.”

  “Me too. I'll just send my manservant to see if Owaen's picked our twenty guards. If he has, let's ride.”

  The location of the parley proved to be some five miles north of the Wyvern camp. With ten silver daggers riding in front and ten more behind, Nevyn, Maryn, and Gavlyn followed a narrow dirt track that led through flat green fields where weeds and brambles grew as high as their horses' chests. The track brought them to a road of packed earth, and there they paused. Some distance ahead, in a long stretch of flat pasture where, just as Braemys had promised, there was neither wall nor copse to hide so much as one traitorous swordsmen, they could see a gathering of men on horseback. Owaen rose in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with one hand while he counted. He sat back down with a satisfied grunt.

  “Just twenty, Your Highness,” Owaen said, “and one man well out in front. Braemys, I'd say, but there's no sign of his councillor or herald.”

  “It matters not to me,” Maryn said. “He's the one who asked for them.” With a wave to Nevyn to follow, Maryn turned his horse and headed in the direction of the waiting riders.

  By then the wind was driving the storm away, but while the western half of the sky shone clear, in the east clouds hung dark like a huge wall, so that it seemed they met outside of some fortress of the gods. On a blood bay gelding with black mane and tail Lord Braemys rode out to meet them. He wore neither helm nor sword, though Nevyn could see the bulky lines of a mail hauberk worn under his shirt. In the flood of sunlight his blond hair gleamed. A wary five yards or so away he stopped his horse and sat, reins in one hand while he looked them over. Braemys was just raising his first beard, Nevyn noticed—a sprinkling of fine hair on his chin and upper lip. Nevyn heard Maryn swear under his breath and glanced at the prince, who was staring at his enemy in a kind of amazement. Only then did it occur to Nevyn that with his fine features and wide blue eyes, Braemys looked very much like Lilli.

  With a toss of his head Maryn recovered himself.

  “Greetings, Lord Braemys,” Maryn said.

  “And mine to you, Your Grace,” Braemys said, “Gwer-bret Cerrmor.”

  For a moment they considered each other. When Nevyn opened his etheric sight, he saw the young lord's aura gleaming a steady gold, shot with red. Rage, no doubt, but not treachery. Satisfied, Nevyn closed the sight down.

  “Gwerbret I am of that city,” Maryn said at last. “But I hold a bit more rank besides. I take it that you refuse to swear fealty to me as the rightful high king in Dun Deverry.”

  “I do.” Braemys looked him straight in the face. “But who reigns in the Holy City is no longer a concern of mine or of those to whom I owe protection.”

  Maryn blinked, caught off guard. Braemys smiled, just slightly, and went on speaking.

  “I wish to remind you of the terms you laid me, Your Grace, before the summer's fighting. You told me that I had two choices, to swear to you or leave your lands forever. Very well. My clan, those few of our vassals who hold loyal, my retainers, the farmers who have served my clan, my artisans and my servants, my warband and the warbands of my vassals—” Braemys paused for breath. “They're all waiting for me to the north of here with their possessions and livestock. We shall quit your lands forever, just as you demand.”

  “What?” Maryn blurted. “Where will you go?”

  “North,” Braemys said. “North of Gwaentaer lies unclaimed land. It's rough country, I hear, full of hills and rocks. You need not fear I'll found a rich kingdom there to threaten you or suchlike.”

  “That's daft!”

  Braemys merely smiled for an answer. It was daft, Nevyn thought, but rather splendidly so, a wild gesture of a very young lord. When Maryn glanced his way, as if for advice, Nevyn shrugged.

  “Lord Braemys seems to have thought this all out,” Nevyn said. “If he wishes to withdraw from your jurisdiction, then no law of the land will stop him.”

  “Just so.” Braemys turned solemn. “Our ancestors left the Homeland, didn't they, rather than wear the harness the Rhwmanes had all laid out for them? Do you think I'm not as brave as they?”

  “I know naught about you at all.” Maryn had recovered himself and spoke with dignity again. “But you tell the truth about our ancestors.”

  “Just so. Will you keep to the terms you gave me, or go back on your sworn word and prevent us from leaving?”

  “Never will I go back on my sworn word.” Maryn sounded on the edge of snarling.

  “So I've heard, Your Grace, that you're a man with a fine sense of honor.” All at once Braemys tossed his head back and laughed. “I gambled on that, didn't I?”

  “Just so,” Maryn snapped. “And you've won.”

  “My thanks.” Braemys made him a half bow from the saddle. “There remain, Your Grace, the terms of my clan's withdrawal. Shall we have our heralds and councillors discuss them?”

  “By all means, my lord, by all means.”

  The terms took another full day of negotiations, but in the end things worked out thusly. Gwerbret Ammerwdd with his warband and his direct vassals with their warbands would escort Braemys and his followers north to the border, whilst Maryn and the remainder of his men would push on east. The prince would proclaim Cantrae and the Boar clan lands to be attainted; then he would dispose them upon some loyal vassal of the high king—after Maryn was proclaimed as such. The politicking that winter, Nevyn knew, was going to be nearly as fierce as the battles of the summer, and Maryn agreed.

  “We'll fight one war at a time,” Maryn said. “That's all any man can do.”

  “Just so,” Nevyn said. “But start weighing every word you speak now. An idle saying can sound like half a promise to a greedy man.”

  “Unfortunately, that's true spoken. I'll be as cautious as a cat in a bathhouse.”

  One last request made by Braemys was too honorable to be refused. He had men under his command who had been wounded too badly to travel north. Maryn agreed easily that he would add those men to his own and have their wounds tended.

  On the morrow, while the heralds finished the last few details of the settlement, Nevyn set out to fetch the Boar clan's wounded. Tieryn Anasyn of the Ram offered to bring his warband along for an escort. They assembled some wagons for the worst injured and some horses for the rest as well as the usual medical supplies. In the sunny morning, they plodded along a path that ran uphill beside a stream. The foam-flecked water gurgled cheerfully around black rocks. The wagons creaked along behind the riders, and now and again one of the teamsters started a song and his fellows joined in. The sense of peace achieved made Nevyn himself smile, though the task ahead wasn't going to be a
pleasant one. If the Boar's herald had given them good directions, they would reach the wounded men's camp in a few miles.

  “It's honorable of young Braemys,” Anasyn said, “worrying about his wounded this way.”

  “It is,” Nevyn said, “and I was glad to see it in the lad.”

  “I only wish his honor had taken him off to Cerrgonney before the battle and spared us all such grief.”

  “Indeed. Some of the dead are men I mourn for.”

  “My heart grieves for my sister, losing her betrothed.”

  “So does mine. Branoic's one of the men I was referring to.”

  “I thought he might be. I only wish I could have broken the news to her myself, but she's a warrior's daughter. She'll heal.”

  “Just so. At least she has her dweomer studies to keep her position at court secure.”

  “Oh, I never doubted that it would be.” Anasyn turned in the saddle and smiled at him in a weary sort of way. “If naught else, she could serve the princess as one of her women.”

  Nevyn suddenly realized that Anasyn had no idea that his beloved little sister was the prince's mistress. Some men would have rejoiced at the influence this would give them at court, but Anasyn had been raised to treat his womenfolk with scrupulous honor and respect.

  “Did you have much chance to talk with Lilli before we left?” Nevyn said.

  “I didn't,” Anasyn said. “I rode late to the muster, and she seemed much distracted by somewhat.”

  “Er, she was, truly.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Nevyn sighed, considering. Anasyn would eventually discover the truth no matter what he did.

  “Well, my lord,” Nevyn said at last, “her fortunes have become quite complicated. She was betrothed to Branoic, and I truly do think she loved him, but the prince took quite a fancy to her.”

  Anasyn's face turned scarlet. His hands tightened on his reins so hard that his horse jerked its head up. With a foul oath Anasyn relaxed the reins again.