Throne of Dragons

Perhaps Commander Harr would have counseled caution, ordered her to hold back. Erin couldn’t do so, though, not when someone might be in danger. Tying her horse’s reins to a tree, she took her spear and hurried forward, ready to help.

***

The only advantage to fighting eight men at once, as Odd saw it, was that at least anyone he struck out at was likely to be an enemy. He slashed and cut, keeping his foes at bay with the sheer fury of his sword work, so that coming forward at him would have been like wandering into a hailstorm made of steel.

Even so, some of the bandits tried it. The one with the beard hacked at him with that axe of his, and Odd wove away from it, catching the head on his cross guard and knocking the man back. He parried another blow from a knife, ducked in behind a tree, and popped out of the other side in time to thrust his point in between a man’s ribs. The bandit gasped and stumbled, but still aimed a clumsy blow at Odd’s head.

Odd was already moving, the battle madness flowing through him now as he laughed in his fury. The world seemed such a strange place in moments like these, joyous and terrifying and anger filled all at once, the sharp edges of no more moment than the trees around him. One scraped at Odd’s arm, and he must have felt the pain, but his main concern was hacking back with a diagonal stroke that all but cut the other man in two.

He danced between the trees, and between the blades, knowing that to stay still against so many men was to die. Not that Odd usually cared about dying, but to do so before he had delivered his message would be… unfortunate. He saw the big man with the axe again, ran forward for him, but the smaller knifeman was there instead. Odd saw that long knife flashing for his skull and swayed back, cutting up from underneath to slam his blade into his foe’s hands, taking them off at the wrist while he screamed.

That was two, maybe three if the one he’d stabbed died soon. Given that there were still six left, that was a bad thing. One against six was not a situation a man could survive, especially unarmored. That was why Odd gave ground, dodging between the trees, forcing them to come at him singly, where he could fight them.

It wasn’t like he was going to run.

He grinned as another came at him, ducked under the sweep of a blade, drove his shoulder into the man’s gut. As he fell back, Odd aimed a swipe at his throat, but there was a branch in the way. Besides, there was another man coming in from the side: the big one. Odd had been wondering where he’d gone. He parried another blow of the axe, but the big man slammed into him, knocking him sprawling.

He should have died then, because hitting and moving against so many was one thing, but knocked to the ground against them was dead, no matter how audacious you were. The big man loomed over Odd, axe raised, and it seemed to Odd that he should have been truly terrified in that moment, should have cared that his life was about to come to an end in the middle of a forest for no real reason.

He’d never been much good at meditating back at the monastery, but there was a kind of meditation in this, in watching the rise of the axe, sinking into the flow of the battle, seeing the trees overhead, seeing the head of a spear sprouting from the axe man’s chest…

Wait, that wasn’t right, was it?

A figure stepped from behind his opponent as the axe man fell, the light shining behind them so that it took Odd a moment to realize that this was a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. She wore nearly full armor, plate over chain, in the fashion of the Knights of the Spur, and there was something set, almost hard, about her features. In that moment, she was already turning, parrying the blow of a long knife with her buckler, bringing her spear around to slash at another man.

Odd was on his feet then, rushing to her side, cutting left and right at the foes who came at him. One tried an overhead stroke and Odd didn’t even parry, just rushed inside it as he cut across the man’s stomach to bring him down. He beat aside another blow from the side, and saw the girl lance her spear into another man’s heart. Odd bounded close to one of the bandits, turned his wrists, hacked through his throat. He spun…

The forest was empty now except for him and the girl, who stood over the last of their foes, her spear wet with blood. Odd stood there, sword raised, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to work past the battle madness that insisted he should keep fighting just for the sheer joy of it. It seemed to take forever before he could lower his blade, clean it, sheathe it.

“I’m Odd,” he said, because none of the other names he had fit him anymore.

“I…” The girl frowned. “That’s a name?”

Odd nodded. “Might be someone’s idea of a description too, I suppose. This is usually the part where you tell me your name, knight.”

“What makes you think I’m a knight?” she asked.

Odd raised an eyebrow. “Well, the armor is a clue. Also, I’ve… seen them fight.” He didn’t want to tell her all of it, or they really would be fighting. “You’re a Knight of the Spur, aren’t you?”

“I…” She hesitated before she nodded, suggesting that things were more complicated, but Odd was used to complicated. “My name’s Erin.”

“Lady Erin,” Odd said. He assumed that even the Knights of the Spur wouldn’t just call a girl knight sir. “Just that, or have they given you a nickname yet?”

“Not yet,” she said. “And it’s… just Erin.”

“Give them time,” he assured her. They’d been the first ones to call him the Mad, after all. “What brings you out into the forest, just Erin? Aside from saving the likes of me?”

Maybe that was the point, though. They said that the world was kind to fools and madmen. Maybe this kind of savior was what kindness looked like.

“I’m traveling to save my sister,” the girl said.

“Save her from what?” Odd asked.

“King Ravin’s forces have taken her south, over the Slate. They say he plans to invade.”

Odd froze at those words. Could it be a coincidence that here, in the middle of nowhere, he would run into a knight who knew about the threat from King Ravin? Surely it had to be fate, or a sign? The abbot had always said that the world fit together in more complex ways than a human mind could hold. Maybe this was one.

“What are you doing out here?” Erin asked. “There can’t be many monks wandering the forest. Still fewer monks carrying swords.”

Odd thought about explaining who he was, but that would cause too many problems. Instead, he gestured to the way he’d come.

“I came here from Leveros to warn of a threat from King Ravin,” Odd said. “His men have taken the island, and I fear they plan to use it as a staging point to invade without crossing the bridges. I seek those with the power to help: the knights, or the king.”

“I could… help get your message to both,” Erin said.

“And I could help you to recover your sister,” Odd replied. It seemed strange to be promising this, when he already had a task, but there had to be a reason that he had met this girl here, like this.

She looked around, and Odd knew that she was looking over the bodies, seeing the violence he had done. Ordinarily, people looked at him with horror when they saw that, but now, Odd saw hope. This was one case when a man of violence was more use than one of prayer.

“You swear you’ll help me find her?” Erin asked.

Odd nodded. “On my oath as a…” What was he now? What had he ever been? “On my oath.”

“And I swear I’ll help you spread the word about the invasion,” Erin said.

Odd took her hand. Her grip was strangely strong for her size, but then, she was a knight. It had been a long time since Odd had ridden beside one, let alone on a mission to save a lost young woman. For a moment, just a moment, he felt like a hero.

Still, he was sure that the feeling would pass once the killing began.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the circle of light within the vaulted chamber, Devin worked at the forge until his arms ached with it, trying to get the star metal to respond as it should, trying to get the magic to do all that he wanted.

It was harder than he could have believed, but the most frustrating part of it all was that sometimes it did work. Sometimes, magic rippled out, so that only Master Grey’s runes, set into every surface, contained it. On those times, the metal responded to him, shifting in response to his touch, but that only served to make all the other times that much more frustrating.

How much time had he spent down here working now? How many attempts had he made? Too many attempts to truly count now, and the frustration of that was only made greater because he was not one of the men who had gone south toward the bridge, trying to get Princess Lenore back.

He wanted to be, wanted to be the one who could save her, clasp her hand in his, bring her back to safety. He wanted to know that she was well, and happy, but more than that, he wanted to be the one to do it, wanted her to look at him as a savior. It was the closest that a peasant like him would ever get to… no, he couldn’t think like that, had to focus on this.

Master Grey had told him as much; had told him that this was the crucial part he had to play. Yet Devin couldn’t see how it was crucial that he stayed here and learned to use the flickers of magic that had come to him before, how it was important that he was able to forge a sword, or that he had strange dreams.

Master Grey certainly wasn’t here to explain any of it. The sorcerer had gone, off about some task that he hadn’t even begun to explain.

If he’d gone, though, there might be an opportunity in that. It meant that his rooms would be empty. It meant that there might actually be a chance to find out more about all of the things that the sorcerer wouldn’t talk about, to find out about his birth, and why he had been given to strangers to raise…

Making a decision, Devin set down his hammer.

He walked up the steps from the basement forge, the light from torches marking out a stone-walled path for him to follow. He followed it up, the blankness of the walls finally giving way to tapestries and statues, nooks and carved posts as he came out into the body of the castle.

It seemed quiet compared to what Devin knew, but only because the times that he’d seen it before, it had been in the grip of either a wedding feast or preparations for a rescue. Now, there were servants, and a few nobles here and there, but not the crowds of guests that there had been before. He stopped one of the servants, who looked at him nervously, clearly not knowing who he was.

“Which way do I go to Master Grey’s tower from here?” he asked.

That made the servant’s eyes widen in obvious fear, and they pointed in silence. It seemed like the best that Devin was going to get. He set off in the direction they pointed, down a hall where red floor tiles were cracked with age, and the walls held pictures over which drapes had been drawn, as if to shield them from view. More secrets; why was everything close to Master Grey a secret?

Devin eventually found a stone arch, with a light wooden door set into it. The door had a star carved upon it, the center a kind of face that looked out, eyes smooth and blank, as if blind. There was no lock on the door, but as Devin pushed at it, it didn’t give. He tried again, setting his hand on that star shape to push…

Some flicker of power rose up inside him, and Devin felt the door give way. Within, there were stairs, these ones made of marble edged with pale ash, circling around an open center to the tower, so that it seemed all too possible for Devin to plunge to his death if he put a foot wrong. Looking down as he rose, he could see lines strung across from one point on the stairs to another, forming a kind of net. Except that it wasn’t a net, because Devin had seen the mystical symbols Master Grey had used in the forge. This was one of those, only much larger.

He kept climbing until he reached the top of the tower. There, the stairs gave way to a broad room, with another set of stairs leading up from it. This room was filled with accoutrements that seemed to point to Master Grey’s profession: brass instruments and glass vials set on tables, books arranged on shelves, held in place by goblets or alchemist’s tools, or, in one case, a skull set with jewels.

A table stood to one side, covered in charts and papers as if Master Grey had been trying to work something out. There were maps, of the Northern Kingdom, the Southern Kingdom, and another landmass that could only be Sarrass. There were marks on some of the maps: intersecting lines that seemed to indicate an attempt to narrow something down. A pendulum with a golden chain sat atop one of the maps.

All of it suggested that Master Grey was working on something Devin didn’t understand, but that was hardly a revelation. He needed information instead, needed to know what was going on. Devin started to search the books on the wall, hoping that there might be some clue hidden there.

Most were indecipherable. They held diagrams that made no sense, or notes in languages Devin had never even seen, let alone knowing how to read them. There were other notes, written in a hand that had to be Master Grey’s, but they talked about experiments or the qualities of substances, the value of powdered pearl set against a bezoar, the usefulness of gold in outlining runes…

Devin headed up the next set of stairs, finding a room that was almost bare in comparison to the one below. There was a bed in there, carved from slats of wood that seemed so old they were almost fossilized. The rest of it was blank, with white daubed walls that would have been plain, except that someone had inscribed mark after mark in red, purple, and gold.

There was a trunk there, again with no lock, as with the door. Just as with the door though, something rose up in Devin as he touched it, and the slats of the box seemed to move in response, sliding back like the petals of a flower unfolding.

There were objects within: a set of robes, a ring of gold, a ring made from polished wood, a glass globe held in a hand that seemed to have been carved from stone. There was a book, too, bound in leather that had been stained with what looked like blood, but also with something a deep, azure blue. It was so thick that Devin could barely contain it in one hand.

Devin opened the covers, and found Master Grey’s writing within. There were more notes of the kind that he’d seen below, but there were also private things, personal notes on everything from the feelings of the king to the progress of a project that seemed to consume much of his thoughts. It was a diary of sorts, mixed with a notebook, and Devin found himself flicking back through it, trying to understand why the magus had gone to him, had sought him out.

Every second that he stood there, his heart pounded. Devin didn’t know where Master Grey had gone, which meant he didn’t know how long it might be before he returned. He was only too aware that he had no excuse if the other man appeared there, and he didn’t want to think about all the things that a magus might be able to do to those who angered him.

He needed to know though. Any danger was worth the risk.

Devin kept looking back through the journal, until finally, he found a single entry that made his breath catch.

I have located a boy born on the night that the dragons flew, one who was not killed. There are signs that he may have power; signs that he might be the new magus that the kingdom, the world, needs as the dragons come and the nations fall into blood. He may change the course of all of this. The weapon will be the first test, and the rest will follow. He must be the one. Already, I can feel my days growing shorter…

Devin stared at that. He’d known that he had magic, but this… it hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know what to think, the enormity of it too great, the weight of it settling on him. Master Grey made it sound as if Devin were his replacement, not just his student. More than that, he made it sound as if a terrible threat was coming, and Devin… somehow he was supposed to be the one to save them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The hunting lodge was like a small fortress in itself, so that Rodry found himself looking at it the way he might have a castle he was about to lay siege to. He needed to find a way in, needed to find a way to get to his sister, needed to get her out of there.

The difficult part was that all of the same elements that served to make the lodge work for hunting made it defensible too. It had rings of ditches around it, probably there to keep game in place for hunters, but they would slow horses just as easily. It had wooden towers from which to spot deer or stranger beasts and shoot them, but those would let soldiers fire down at attackers just as well. The stone walls might serve to keep guests warm, but they would keep enemies out, too.

Then there were the soldiers there. They camped at the edge of the hunting grounds, at least a small regiment of them, clearly preparing for war. There were spearmen there and archers, knights and swordsmen, all in a camp flying King Ravin’s colors, surrounded by wooden stakes.

“Please tell me that there’s a plan,” Kay said, with obvious nervousness.

“They’ll have taken Lenore to the lodge,” Rodry guessed. He could see horses tied up outside it. “We ride up like we belong there. We wear King Ravin’s colors so that the soldiers think it’s their own returning from ambushing us, and hope that gets us inside.”

“That’s why you had us take the tunics and flags?” Kay guessed.

Rodry nodded. He’d planned for this. He didn’t say how fragile that plan was, how easily someone might recognize them by all the ways in which their forces clearly weren’t the ones that had set out to intercept his. He didn’t say that, in any other circumstances, he would hold off, find a different plan, do this another way.

There was no other way; his sister was in danger.

So he pulled on the red of King Ravin’s forces, set off in the direction of the lodge, and tried to pretend that all was well. He and the others were far enough from the encampment that they wouldn’t be able to make out individual faces, just the red that proclaimed them to be on the same side. He saw one of the soldiers wave, and ignored it, kept riding.

There were two guardsmen by the doors to the hunting lodge, and the closer Rodry and the others got, the more concerned they looked. A hundred yards off, and they looked surprised that so many men would be coming at the lodge. Fifty, and they were shouting, trying to ready their weapons.

Rodry hit the first of them even as he stepped forward, ordering Rodry to halt. His sword swept down, all but cutting the man in half. Beside him, the sergeant lanced a spear through the chest of the second.

“Go, your highness,” the man said. “We’ll hold the way for you.”

There was no time for hesitation now, no time for thought. Rodry leapt down from his horse, Kay, Seris and his other friends following in his wake while the soldiers from Vars’s regiment spread out around the entrance to the hunting lodge, ready to hold it against any who came.

Rodry stepped up to the hunting lodge’s door and kicked it with one booted foot. It was barred, but it was only wood, and not truly designed to hold back a determined attacker. On the second kick, it splintered. On the third, it gave way, letting Rodry and his friends pour into a hallway lined with wooden panels, and hung with the trophy heads of creatures killed there for King Ravin’s sport. Rodry saw deer and bear, wolf and stranger things, like the skull of a beast with three horns and wicked teeth, or a bull-like creature that seemed strangely human in its expression. There were doors on every side, obviously leading to the various rooms of the lodge. A broad teak staircase headed up toward a second floor hung with the hides of creatures. There were statues there to King Ravin’s greatness, while the far wall was painted with a scene of him hunting a beast that towered over him.

Rodry had no time to take in the details, though, because an enemy was already running at him, short sword in hand.

The man lunged for Rodry, and Rodry managed to turn out of the way, battering his foe against the wall hard enough to crack the wainscoting. He saw Kay finish him, but Rodry was already moving on.

“Lenore! Lenore, where are you?”

Another foe came at Rodry, and this time he felt a spear skitter from his armor. He hacked back at the man’s legs, bringing him down.

“Lenore!”

“Rodry!”

A single shout came from somewhere above, cut off as if a hand had been hastily placed over Lenore’s mouth. Or as if something worse had happened.

More foes came out of the doors at ground level, rushing forward in a mass as they started to recover from the shock of being attacked so suddenly. Rodry’s friends met them with steel, but he pressed forward, shouldering a man aside, battering away a blow from another. He had to get to Lenore. A man stood ahead of him on the stairs and Rodry lanced the point of his sword through a gap in his foe’s armor, ignoring the impact as a mace slammed into his side. He threw the enemy down into the melee below, saw the body slam into Seris’s opponent to knock him back.

Rodry continued up the stairs, to a landing lined with wooden doors. He kicked one, then the next, searching for Lenore, determined to get to her. The last of them opened before he could kick it, and he stumbled forward into a bedroom where the windows were covered with barred slats. One of the Quiet Men was there waiting for him: a woman who slipped a strangling cord around his throat. Across the room, a man held Lenore, one arm around her throat, a sword in his other hand.

Rodry knew he could deal with the woman easily, because all he had to do was reverse his sword, but the moment he did that, the man would be free to strike at Lenore. Even as he thought about it, the strangling rope was tightening about his throat, cutting off his air, making it hard to even think.

He did two things simultaneously: he threw his sword, flinging it point first, and he threw himself backward, throwing himself and his attacker into the wall. He felt his full weight, along with the hardness of his armor, slam into his foe, smashing the breath out of her, loosening her grip even as it sent them both down to the floor. At the same time, he saw his sword plunge into the skull of the man there, bringing him down, sending him toppling backward.

Lenore cried out as he fell away from her, but she reacted faster than Rodry could have hoped. She grabbed for the man’s weapon, snatching it up and throwing it in Rodry’s direction. Rodry’s air-starved brain grabbed for it, and his fingers closed around the hilt. He slammed the short sword backward, hearing the woman gasp as it went into her, feeling the strangling rope finally give way on his neck.

Rodry scrambled clear of her, back to his feet, rushing over to his sister and hugging her close.

“Rodry!” Lenore said.

“Lenore, are you safe, did they hurt you?” Rodry asked.

“I…” Lenore stood there. “They…” She shook her head. “Are they dead?”

She grabbed for the sword sticking from the man’s skull and pulled it clear. The woman was still moving, but only for a moment, because Lenore brought that sword down sharply, hacking into her neck once, then again.

Rodry took the sword from her as gently as she could.

“We need to go,” he said. “We need to get home.”

“Home?” Lenore said, as if the very idea were hard to take in.

“Come on,” Rodry said. “Stay close to me.”

He led the way from the room, Lenore following in his wake. The battle was still raging, and even as he watched, Rodry saw a blade plunge into Seris’s stomach, his friend striking back with an axe as he fell to bring down one of King Ravin’s soldiers. Rodry cut down the next man to step into that space, cutting his way forward through the violence.

“I have her,” Rodry yelled out to the others there. “With me!”

His remaining friends formed up around him, as tight as any group of true knights could have been, and Rodry had never been prouder of them than he was in that moment. They fought their way to the door, then out into the sunlight.