by S E Meliers
‘Yes, my Prince,’ Flint’s eyes glowed with approbation. He had been pushing for this move, tired of waiting.
Ironwood was more reserved. ‘How would you like to proceed?’ he enquired.
Cinder closed his eyes. ‘Kill the peasants, and the messenger. Chop them up, so the necromancer cannot use them, and catapult the pieces into the city. Bombard the city… here and here,’ he retrieved a map from the ground and outlined the area with his finger, ‘with the mangonels and prepare and man the siege towers. Let us take the city, and raze it. The bodies must be destroyed beyond resurrection. And spare no one.’
‘Women and children?’ Flint clarified.
‘No one.’ Cinder set his jaw. ‘I want this deed whispered of in horror for as long as the bones of those who die take to wear away in the wind. I want Lyendar to be a city of ghost and ruin before the army at Guarn begins to move.’
‘My Prince,’ Ironwood bowed his head. ‘This will indeed be a travesty made legend,’ he warned.
‘The price of victory is always blood,’ Cinder replied. ‘And the death of Lyendar will be the price of opposition.’
‘The necromancer and his army of skeletons?’ Flint enquired.
‘The dragons?’ Ironwood suggested abruptly.
‘The dragons?’ Cinder frowned at him. He did not like the dragons.
‘Yes, they grow restless at Truen,’ Ironwood replied thoughtfully.
‘I thought they were at Amori?’ Cinder was surprised.
‘They left Amori for Truen,’ Ironwood raised a shoulder and an eyebrow in a shrug. ‘I do not know why. I do not know anyone brave enough to ask them their reasons.’
Cinder bared his teeth in a grimacing smile, acknowledging the attempt at levity. ‘I do not like dragons,’ he grumbled.
‘I do not know many who do,’ Ironwood grinned, the sobered. ‘But they are restless and disloyal creatures, and if you do not utilise them, they may go to your enemy.’
‘True,’ Cinder pinched the bridge of his nose between his index fingers. ‘Which is one of the many reasons I dislike dragons.’
‘The necromancer stands on a balcony,’ Flint murmured.
‘True,’ Cinder straightened as the possibilities came clear in his mind. ‘He probably considers himself safe, behind the castle walls, far from the battle. They will not be expecting us to use dragons.’ He grinned grimly pleased. ‘If we time it right, they will not know of the dragons until the attack. They can set that necromancer to blaze on his balcony, and end his interference in our battles.’
‘That will lighten the men’s hearts to see,’ Flint beamed viciously.
‘If the necromancer dies, I assume his army will too?’ Ironwood suggested.
‘Possibly,’ Cinder acknowledged. ‘But I would just be pleased to be ensured that none of our men will rise from the dead to fight against us. Good.’ He straightened, satisfied. ‘Let us take out their water supply, too. Use the wizards, so we can still use the water ourselves. A slow killing pox would be best. I want Honesty alive when we take the castle, so I can kill him myself, but I would not be displeased if he were suffering in the interim,’ he relished that moment. ‘Ensure that none of our men drink the water unless the wizards have un-spelled it first. Set up water dispensaries to ensure this.’
‘There is another matter,’ Flint hesitated.
‘Yes?’ Cinder frowned. He knew what was coming. Curse Spider, he thought, her timing could not be worse.
‘The Hallows and the Priests have been behaving… oddly. A good number have disappeared completely.’
‘Yes,’ at least Spider had given him the luxury of forewarning so he could consider the approach to take. ‘The Hallows have been operating on my authority. I have become aware of certain personages within the Priesthood who were placing their own advancement and pleasure above the interests of the Monad and our people. They were given every opportunity to reform, and when it became obvious that they had no intention of doing so, they left me no choice but to act.’ He sighed. ‘I have given great thought to this. I answer to the Monad; the Priests, the Hallows, the nobility, and the army chiefs answer to me; the soldiers to the army chiefs and the peasants to the nobility. This is the order of things as the Monad set forth. The Priests and Hallows we speak of forgot this, or in their arrogance and greed sought to disrupt this order. I have corrected their mistake. Any questions?’ he made the last a threat.
‘No, my Prince,’ Flint dropped to one knee. ‘Your actions are just and wise. I pledge myself anew to your quest and promotion to King of a unified land.’
‘As do I,’ Ironwood also knelt.
Cinder suspected only Ironwood was truly sincere; but he was confident that Flint saw very clearly where his best interests lay and as long as Cinder’s interests and Flint’s coincided, Flint would be loyal.
‘Your loyalty and service will be remembered when the wealth of Rhyndel lays at our feet, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Dismissed.’ They rose to their feet, bowed, and departed. ‘Granite,’ he turned to his personal guard who stood discretely behind a section of curtaining. Visible, and attentive, but discrete.
‘Yes, my Prince?’ Granite moved forward.
‘See to it that my personal guard is increased as you see fit. I suspect there may be some… unease amongst the men when the Hallows’ actions are fully appreciated,’ he grimaced. Damn that woman.
‘Yes, my Prince,’ Granite bowed and stepped outside the tent. Obsidian immediately stepped in to replace him.
Outside, he could hear the general hum of the campsite interrupted by the outcry and terror of the peasants being dragged from their fields. He had a sudden thought and stepped out and through the camp, Obsidian on his heels. Flint, standing with a huddle of soldiers over a rough table spread with maps, saw his rapid departure and hurried to follow. ‘My Prince?’ he enquired.
‘Halt,’ Cinder called to the soldier in charge of the peasants. They had been dragged to the edge of the field by a party of soldiers, bound at wrist, and forced to their knees.
‘My Prince?’ Flint repeated as he strode across to join him. Cinder held up a hand to stall further inquiry, but gestured for him to stay. He viewed the peasants with distaste. They were a pitiful group, dirty and half starved, and harried between a party of well-armed and capable soldiers. One man already lay bleeding his life away into the dirt. Cinder’s intervention had given them hope, and tear stained and fearful faces turned up to him in appeal.
He had come for one purpose, but the amber-brown eyes of a young woman in the group caught his gaze and gave him a second idea. She was comely enough, he thought, and young enough. ‘Are you a virgin?’ he demanded of her. She blinked uncomprehendingly. ‘Well?’ he sighed impatiently. ‘It is not a difficult question. Have you known a man?’ She shook her head, finally. ‘No you are not a virgin or no you have not known a man?’ he gestured in futile frustration with his hands as if to throttle her.
She recoiled at the recumbent threat. ‘No, I have not been with a man,’ she managed, so terrified her voice was hardly more than a croak.
‘Good,’ he approved. ‘Take her to the dragons – they like virgins,’ he said to Flint, who gestured to one of the soldiers. She cried out in terror as she was seized, and several of the peasants reached out as if to pull her back into their midst. ‘Offer her to them when you have delivered my request for them to attend us here,’ Cinder instructed Flint, who nodded. ‘Clean her up first and put her in something…’
‘Becoming?’ Flint supplied.
‘Hmmm. I was thinking more… What they’d consider worthy of them,’ Cinder was disinterested in the details.
Flint gestured to the soldier who held the sobbing girl. The soldier nodded, and took the struggling girl away. ‘Is there anything else, my Prince?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Cinder frowned. ‘Take the peasants to where the castle can see their blood flow. I want them to see the full cost of their ploy. They cannot witness it back here. And make it b
rutal. I want the message received with full force.’ He turned on his heel and returned to his tent.
Praise
Truen was beautiful in an entirely different way to Amori. Where Amori was a gleaming white rambling metropolis, awe inspiring cliffs, sweeping sand and azure sea meeting shimmering sky, Truen was green. Except that green was too simple a word for the array of colours that Truen possessed. There was the soft flowing green of the grass plains, the deeply hued green of the forests, and the sparkling emerald of the lakes. There was the khaki green of the moss rocks at the base of the grey-stone castle, and the vivid green of the ivy that climbed the central tower walls, the brown-green of the water moat, the painted green of the shutters, and the red and green of the mossy rooves.
In the mornings, the lake wore a cloak of mist, at midday her diamonds were on display glinting and gleaming in the waters, and in the evenings she sang in a million tiny voices a harmony of insect and amphibian lust and love. Her waters were frigid, her banks gritty beneath the feet. The dragons enjoyed the salt-less bath, but missed the tepidness of the Amori sea – especially when they took human form.
Truen, unlike Amori, wore the scars of siege in crumpled walls and grieving faces. The people of Truen were repressed by their occupation, whereas those of Amori had been opportunistic of self-advancement. There was no sense of undercurrents and intrigues, no disruptions as heretics declared their rebellion and the Shoethalian soldiers enforced the new regime; there was just a sense of resignation. The Lord and Lady had converted, and so had the people, regardless of personal piety and generations of worship to their own gods, they now attended services to the new one without a murmur of protest. The red robed priests were bemused. They could not punish where there was no heresy, and yet there was no passion in the conversion, and a lack of sincerity though not in an irreverent way. The people of Truen had just… lost their heart.
The dragons were amused by the Priest’s confusion. They held no allegiance to the Shoethalian god, Praise had quickly learnt, and never pretended otherwise. The dragons were their own god. Why they fought for the Shoethalians was not something Praise understood, although Ember had tried once to explain it. The closest she came to comprehending the dragons’ motivation for joining this war was boredom. They joined, because they hadn’t anything more diverting to do with their time.
This was a young tangle of dragons, Ember had explained. The elder dragons were at home, concerned with their own occupations. The younger dragons quite often ventured out in the world in search of diversion and mates. Eventually, this tangle would return to the dragons’ homeland, and settle there; at least, until they got bored again.
At the moment, the dragons were enjoying the sights of Rhyndel. Amori had pleased them with its beach and cliffs. Truen diverted them with its contrasts to Amori. They were growing restless, however, with the inactivity of their days, and so when a messenger arrived from the Prince at Lyendar, he had the dragons’ full attention. He came to them at the lake, where they had claimed territory, the riders pitching tents where the grass was a lush carpet to cushion their sleep. They appropriated comforts from the village and castle as they needed, and thus the tents were furnished with cushions in rich fabrics and the riders drank the finest of wines from goblets made of blown glass, nibbling dainties from plates of silver.
Praise sat with the other riders, in the shade of the trees, and watched the soldiers approach. In their company, a man and a woman both dressed finely. She, however, was bound. This fact excited the other riders who whispered amongst themselves. ‘An offering to the dragons,’ Edge murmured in Praise’s ear.
Edge’s Cobalt took the address, separating from the tangle in order to share words with the messenger.
There had been hints that the dragons wished to join the battle at Lyendar, which was proving more challenging than Amori or Truen by far. The Prince, however, had not invited them, and there was some debate as to whether it would be polite to go uninvited. They had no loyalty to the Prince, but they did appreciate, and maybe respect, what he had achieved in battle thus far, and thus courtesy to him was considered.
It seemed that the Prince had finally asked them to join him, and what’s more, sent them an offering to sweeten the request. The woman was brought forward and held out for the dragon’s inspection. She was dressed in an ornate gown much too large for her, and, although she looked clean, her hair was a tangled mess. She did not resist the soldiers, did not scream or plead. She turned her face to the side, away from the dragons, as if to deny her fate. A single tear traced its way along the edge of her nose and she sniffed despondently before wiping her nose, awkward due to her bound wrists, against the sleeve of her dress.
‘Topaz likes the look of her, see?’ Edge nudged Praise to draw her attention to the dragon tangle. Topaz, a fine green hued dragon, was examining the girl quite intensely. ‘And he so determined not to mate for at least another century,’ she was amused.
Cobalt responded to the messenger, and dismissed him. The messenger cut the rope binding the girl’s hands, said something to her in warning, and the party retreated, leaving the girl behind. She continued to look away and silently cry. Praise could not imagine being so passive as to not even look to see what was coming for you, but she remembered well the terror of facing dragons for the first time.
Topaz separated from the group, and tossed the girl onto his back. She managed to stay there as the dragon took to the skies. ‘Ahhh,’ Edge gave a satisfied sigh. ‘It takes you back, does it not?’ she smiled at Praise. ‘Come; let us get a fire going. If she survives the ride… well, you will see.’
Praise worked hard alongside her companions to build high the fire and prepare a feast with which to celebrate. Wine was brought down from the castle supplies in large barrels as the dragons soared overhead in the last legs of the flight.
Praise lifted her face to the sky, searching against the glare of the sun for the red of Ember. She watched as Topaz plunged into the lake, dragging the hapless girl into the water with him. She shivered, but it was not with cold. Her skin tightened, her nipples drew in, and she realised she was aroused. Edge caught her eye and winked with a mischievous smile, and Praise realised that all the dragon riders were distracted, flushed, eyes glazed. Was it the Ardur, she wondered, or the bond with their dragon mates, or both?
As the dragon and the new rider emerged from the water, the dragon riders moved forward to greet her. Ardur was offered, and, grudgingly, accepted.
It was a different experience, Praise found, being a participant rather than the main party, but no less intense. Whereas the intoxication of the Ardur and the fear had coloured her mating - an experience that they all shared, she knew from conversations with her companions - being a mated dragon rider watching a mating occur... the memory, the wine, the subtle but present awareness of her dragon’s arousal, the flickering fire and the smell of smoke on the air… She felt primal, over-aware of her own body, of the sheen of fire on her hair, the touch of the cool air against her skin.
They all feasted, and drank too much wine, and as the evening descended, formed a semi-circle around the girl, Harvest, and the fire. Topaz took on his man form, something Praise had not seen him do previously. She was astonished to find him blonde to the point of whiteness – she had imagined him differently. Watching him take his mate for the first time, the dance of fire on flesh in a rhythm as old as male and female, her blood boiled, a flush rising to colour her skin. It was not embarrassment at the exhibition of mating, but desire; her heart quickened, beating a primitive rhythm of need against her ribs, and need coiled deep and dark within the cradle of her pelvis.
She crept between the dragons, and found that Ember had anticipated her. He had taken man form, and caught her hand as she approached him. She pulled him through the shifting shadows, their feet pressing the soft earth as they danced, a lingering moment here, for a kiss, and there, for a stroke of skin against skin, in feverish seduction through the encampment to the s
helter of her tent. She pushed him down into her pillows so she could straddled his hips and spread his long hair out in an array around his head, stilling in her task only to allow him to untie the strings holding her bodice together.
She traced her fingers over his eyebrows, down over his eyes to feel the flicker of his eyelashes against her palm, across his cheeks, and ran a thumb over his lips before leaning down to taste his tongue. He ran his palms up her waist and ribs, his hands naturally forming cups for her breasts, his thumbs stroking over her nipples lightly.
She reached down and caught his hands in hers, pulling them gently from her flesh and over his head. ‘Stay,’ she said with a small smile. He raised an eyebrow in amused enquiry, but stayed as directed. She bit his bottom lip before nudging his jaw, tilting his head back to expose the strong column of his throat. She kissed her way down his throat to his collar bone, tasted the hollow dip between bone, the exotic taste of dragon and man, before kissing her way back up to his mouth.
He had his eyes closed and a small smile lingered on his lips. She nibbled the corners of that smile. He started to bring his hands down. ‘No,’ she whispered, placing her hands on his wrists to still them in position above his head. ‘Stay. I am not finished.’ She could feel his erection straining against her trousers. She drifted down, trapping it against the bare flesh of her stomach. He moaned as she pushed against it, and she grinned, before kissing her way across his shoulders and down his chest, sweeping her hair over one shoulder so it remained out of her way but tickled him with its ends. ‘You are glorious, Ember,’ she told him looking up to find his eyes slitted, watching her.