Rhiana

Drawing one ring out from a scatter of hundreds of rings, Rhiana tapped it impatiently. There was at least one other dragon out there. It had snatched up a man from the bailey this afternoon. One rampant should prove little trouble to take down, whether or not any of Guiscard’s knights came to aid her.

Yet, who was she to endanger the village should she fail?

And why was Guiscard so adamant she not attempt the task?

“Why am I thinking failure?” she asked herself.

Would it not be better to at least try, than to not try at all? To wait for a slayer—a man—could prove too long.

Indeed. She was not the person to toe the line, then step back and wait for another to push out ahead of her. A dragon must be slain!

Lifting her head and clasping her hands about her shoulders, Rhiana closed her eyes. Summoning deep within those tendrils of the unknown that ever challenged her, she found the well of ambition, of honor and valiance that brewed.

Ambition she had been born with. It had kept her skirt hems dirty and her eyes focused to adventure. Honor she had witnessed in the skill and grace of Amandine Fleche, and in Paul Tassot’s heart.

Valiance is something she would ever strive for. To stand boldly in the face of danger, no matter the consequences.

Rhiana murmured the phrase Amandine had taught her two summers earlier, “Memento mori.”

’Twas Latin, and meant: Remember that you must die.

It wasn’t so much a morbid statement as a reminder that all life eventually comes to an end. Live it, before it is stolen from you. Seize it! “Meet all challenges,” Amandine had said to her. “For in the end, you will then look back and know you did truly live before death.”

Rhiana liked the phrase and thought of it as her motto. In fact, Paul had engraved it into the twisting dragon design that graced the stock of her crossbow. It served a reminder to her—and an epitaph to those dragons that fell courtesy of her crossbow bolt.

Hooking her foot upon the high stool rung and nodding to herself, Rhiana’s smile grew.

“No dragon is invulnerable. They all have a kill spot.”

And where there was a way, Rhiana was determined to find it.

A spring mist fell upon the bailey, beating down the loose dust stirred up by hooves and feet, and wetting the limestone castle walls to a dark sludge color. Narcisse waited inside the main doorway beneath the grand arches that bore the Guiscard family crest in gold medallions fixed to the stone. Champrey had sent a squire to retrieve his rain duster. One thing he could not abide was rainy weather. It made him sniffle and gave him the shivers.

The duster rushed to his side, the squire bowed and then helped slide it up Narcisse’s arms and flipped the heavy velvet hood upon his head. The generous hood completely shielded Narcisse’s face. He favored the foreboding menace look. Anne said it granted him power. But he already had power.

“Let’s be to it, then.”

He strode outside, followed by his entourage. At least six knights at all times to protect him from any who thought to protest their lord and master. Rarely were they called to arms, but the security could not be overlooked.

Narcisse had heard the whispers: the son was nowhere near so valiant as the father. Never make a benevolent lord.

And why should he? Everyone had exactly as they wished. There was no need for him to step beyond and show great mercies or benevolence. They had it all!

Oh, what a miserable life to be so satisfied. One must desire. One must…crave. And Narcisse did crave, which set him apart from all others.

“The beast was dragged from the bailey,” Champrey explained. He winced at the increasing rain and hunched his shoulders where water ran in rivulets over his brushed leather gambeson. “Took eight destriers to do the task!”

A massive beast lay at the bottom of the castle steps. Narcisse skipped down them. “Mon Dieu! What has been done?”

Ignoring his fallen hood, he bent over the carcass of scale, horn and talon. That someone had felled so magnificent a beast. Narcisse understood the threat to innocent lives, but no one could know what a boon the dragon served him.

“My…life,” he murmured. “What have they done?”

Oh, but there! There, between the eyes, yet leaked thick, dark blood from a horizontal cut in the transverse of the cross, a mark put there by God himself.

’Twas the first time he’d been so close to a dragon. And yet, he embraced the idea every evening. To look it over and marvel, yes, marvel, must be done. Indeed, they were deadly; a bane to a man’s well-being, why, his very mortality.

Narcisse scrambled over the meaty hind legs—thick as a log hewn for housing. Groping his way around the outstretched wing, he swung down to kneel before the belly. A small dragon, about six horses combined, yet to stretch out the tail would surely add twice the length. The belly scales were pale, like burnished gold, and they glittered even under the assault of the rain.

Pressing his palm to the slick scales, Narcisse slid his hand along them, moving toward the hind quarters of the beast, as the scales overlapped, so as not to cut his flesh on the sharpened edges. Minute warmth yet remained; he could feel it.

About him, his men strode around the massive beast, commenting on its lack of fierceness now it was dead.

“Not so ferocious now, is she?”

“Look here at the tail,” Gerard Coupe-Gorge said. “I could make myself an ax with this odd dagged scale. That would bash nicely through enemy skull.”

Why the man remained in St. Rénan, when he lusted so mightily for blood, was beyond Narcisse’s reckoning. But he would endeavor to keep Gerard in his lists, and not make an enemy of him.

Tracing his spread fingers over the belly, Narcisse turned his back to keep his motions covert. He drew away his hand and studied it beneath a hunched tent of his duster. Upon his palm glittered a thick coating of the finest substance. Dragon dust. A rare treasure in this village that thrived so magnificently. None were aware of its value.

Smearing his palm over cheek and nose, Narcisse inhaled deeply of the God-forsaken dust. He could not determine potency, did not feel anything. It had no taste whatsoever. He tested now. No, just a bit of saltiness he evidenced from his own flesh.

“A great loss.” He knelt back on his haunches and scanned the beast’s body. If it sat at the bottom of the steps for more than a day it would begin to rot and stink. The flesh could be eaten. The scales could be used in some manner. The tusks and talons could be fashioned into cups and dagger sheaths and be drenched in gold.

“Was it the wench who thinks herself a slayer?” Thinks—hell, she had slain. Narcisse knew of no knight in the garrison so bold. Save, Gerard.

“Indeed, my lord,” Champrey answered. “The demoiselle Tassot. Two dragons attacked the city this afternoon while you feasted. They swooped from the sky and right into the courtyard. The first dragon snapped one of our court musicians up. This one…well, you see.”

“I do see.” Narcisse tapped the belly, wincing at the loss this would cause him. His quest had been detoured. He muttered lowly, “And the wench took it down.”

“Many witnesses recall, with great theatrics, watching her run up the beast’s skull to plunge her sword into its brain as if St. George himself.”

Witnesses declaring her triumph? Narcisse smirked. So she had developed a following. “Impressive. The people revere her now?”

“In a manner. They are not sure what to think of a woman so bold. But we have always known she is different.”

“Yes, different.”

“And powerful.”

“Powerful?” Narcisse must suppose she was strong to have accomplished something like this. He had watched her grow from a dirty-faced child ever in trouble and being teased, to an independent young woman who would rather go off on her own then do as normal females did. She was…untamed.

A bit like Anne. Beguiling.

And she had slain two dragons in a single day. The woman must think herself quite the swagger.

“But there are more?” Narcisse stood and thinking to wipe off the dust, could only hold his hand by the wrist. The precious commodity must be preserved.

“The Tassot woman insisted she had slain one earlier by the sea, but my scouts report no evidence. The runner tells there is but the one that got away with the musician, my lord.”

Champrey would never speak the runner’s name, they both knew he was able, swift, and devoted to Narcisse. If gold could not buy one’s allies then promises to portions of land could.

“Just the one then?”

“He claims it. It is quite extraordinary, for that means—” Champrey tallied on his fingers “—there were three.”

“Many more than we’ve seen at one time.” If he had known sooner the riches that nested so close, Narcisse would have sent out half the garrison to the caves. As it was, he could still take advantage of the situation.

One remaining? That was all he needed.

“We cannot allow this woman to persist with her delusions,” Narcisse stated firmly. He must be careful with a situation such as this. Champrey, while his right-hand man, did not always agree with his politics. “She could…harm herself.”

“She is quite skilled, as proof is evident, my lord.”

Narcisse coached the tic tugging at the corner of his mouth to remain still. If there was another dragon, it could be his only chance for a continued supply. Small hope. But one, it seemed, he would be forced to cling to.

“Oh!”

All eyes looked up to the castle door. Looking frail in winter-white damask, Anne stood, her dark hair spilling down to her waist. The rain did not reach her beneath the arch of the doorway. Hands pressed to her mouth, wide eyes screamed what her voice could not manage.

“Bring her inside!” Narcisse ordered.

One of his knights responded, rushing up the steps, clinking mail and sword sheath punctuating his urgency.

“It is dead!” Anne shouted. “But you cannot— Oh!”

Her body wilted to a faint. The knight landed the top stair. He lunged to capture her about the waist before her head hit stone. “I have her, my lord!”

“Careful, Gerard. Watch her head. Bring her to the solar.”

Regret twanged at Narcisse profoundly.

He knew Anne’s affinity for the dragons. She, well…she related to them in a manner he could not fathom. Every evening at matins she said prayers for them, and then received a blessing of holy water. Without her blessing she could not sleep, and would roam beside the bed—for the chain kept her close—until the morning hours found her literally slumped on the cold stone floor. She pined to go to the caves. Always she spoke of the nest below her bed—for the caves wended about beneath St. Rénan. But there were no nests below. Narcisse knew not even a small dragon could permeate the narrow caves, but Anne refused to believe.

She should not have witnessed this spectacle. It was all the Tassot wench’s fault.

Bending and pressing both hands to the dragon’s tumescent belly, Narcisse gave orders. “Drag it to the kitchen entrance. We shall feast heartily for days. Preserve the skull, the talons and the scales.”

“Very good, my lord.” Champrey signaled to his men to man the ropes tied about the dragon’s legs and head. “As for the slayer? Do you wish to have a word with her?”

Straightening, and for the first time noticing his hair was wet for the fallen hood, Narcisse sneezed. Wretched rain. “Can she be brought to me posthaste?”

“Yes, my lord.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rhiana ran home and quickly changed to braies and a plain woolen tunic and boots. She strapped her talon dagger at her hip and then returned to the armory to don the scaled armor.

The sky darkened early this eve, for she tasted rain in the air. She left St. Rénan through the door guarded by Rudolph while the knights inside the castle ate the evening meal and, at the same time, groped a voluptuous wench.

It took but half an hour, her strides sure and swift, to broach the top of the mountain that capped the caves. Four megaliths marked the grounds as if a king’s crown. Keeping to the purlieu of the forest, she marked a spot beneath a massive twisting beech tree. Sending her companion to flight with a nod, she watched as the pisky flitted toward the cave opening. Sitting, she then propped her crossbow over her wrist, she closed her eyes to listen. For a heartbeat.

For challenge.

There, within the depths, beneath the earth and stone and centuries of vegetation fluttered the heartbeat. Heartbeats. Focusing, she picked out more than one, for each one was unique as a name or color.

Seven. That is how many heartbeats she counted. But she could not be sure, for some dragons might have burrowed deep into the labyrinth of caves below her resting place.

Mon Dieu. So many?

Did her senses play tricks with her? Was it just the one final dragon, and she interpreted it as so many additional beasts?

Again Rhiana closed her eyes. Breathing slowly, releasing each exhale on a lingering sigh, she quieted her core, which opened her to receive the sounds of life all around. Birds and squirrels, even a fox close by, were easily ignored for their rapid pulses registered as a high, agitated tone as they all sought shelter from the sprinkling rain.

’Twas a low bass pulse that fixed in her veins and matched her own heartbeat—that was the dragon. One, just below, and two to her left. Many more behind, some sleeping, others moving about. They were there, below her.

The villagers will be horrified to learn this. That their nightmare was far from over? But she must not keep it secret. Knowledge was power, and she would never keep them in the dark when all must know vigilance must be increased.

But why so many? All females? And with the dwindling hoard? Was it a doom, traveling in seek of a permanent home and nesting place? They could not have it here! She would not allow it.

But what could one woman do against so many?

A fine mist pelted the long spring grass spiking up at forest edge. Nestled at the base of the beech tree, Rhiana was protected from most of the rain by the canopy of thick glossy leaves. She didn’t mind getting wet. Enjoyed it actually, for the raindrops slipped over the scales on her armor and made it glisten.

It was the sound of raindrops plinking upon the leaves and ground that interfered with her concentration.

Content to wait out the weather, for she knew the dragons would not fly this night, Rhiana settled against the smooth trunk, wrapping her wool cloak about her shoulders and the armored tunic.

The pisky she had sent to reconnaissance the caves shimmered through the raindrops, its wings iridescent even in the nighttime, though the heavy droplets hampered its flight. The creatures were as common as butterflies but usually avoided human contact. Thanks to Anne, Rhiana had learned to communicate with them and win, if not their trust, at least their curiosity. Of course, a bribe was never sneered at.

Landing her shoulders, the violet pisky sat for a moment. Its tiny huffs were audible as beats inside Rhiana’s head. Patiently, she waited. And in thanks she pulled the small lambskin of fresh cream from her hip pouch and opened it before the pisky.

Fluttering to the edge of the lambskin the pisky drank heartily. After its repast, it flew up to Rhiana’s head and sat upon the crown, belly nestled into her thick tresses and arms dangling over her forehead. It began to tap upon her brow, and Rhiana counted.

“Nine?”

So there were two she had missed. Perhaps they slept more deeply, had chosen to hibernate. Or had they come to build a nest? Mayhap the two were males? Or they were maximas. The elder dragons infrequently took to the sky, choosing to nest upon the hoard and store up their energy. Their heartbeats became very sluggish. Rhiana had never opportunity to mark a maxima.

It was the young rampants, vigorous and voracious that flew the skies, reveling in their energy and seeking the kill in small field animals. They did not require the safety and rejuvenation of the hoard so often as the maximas.

For it was the actual hoard, piles and piles of gold and silver and pillages of fine metals that served the dragon’s lifeline. All replenished their vitae at least once a day by sliding slowly over the mounds of gold. The metals reacted with the sensitive belly scales, alchemizing rich vitae that permeated their scales and entered their very veins. Rhiana understood little of the actual workings of the transmutation, but it was how Amandine had explained it to her.

If kept from a hoard for overlong a dragon would eventually die. The oldest and largest of dragons needed a constant source of vitae. Though they were most powerful and could be so large as the castle keep, they needed little in sustenance beyond the hoard.

Nine.

So now she must plan how to take out nine dragons before they destroyed the entire village by slowly plucking up person by person. For, it seemed the beasts were intent on claiming humans, as opposed to livestock.

Singularly, was the only way she might defeat any of them. How to draw them out one by one? She may be able to handle two, but only with a distraction to keep one of them busy. But not a distraction as they’d had this afternoon.

With a flutter of its wings, the pisky buzzed her ear, and then spiraled upward to find a dry nesting spot amidst the glossy leaves.

To her left the heather meadow emitted a heady perfume. The rain-soaked blossoms oozed scent like a censer swinging through a church nave, Rhiana’s eyelids grew heavy. There was nothing more she could do this evening. The rain would keep back the dragons. They felt the rain as did the piskies; heavy upon their wings. She would dream upon it. Oftentimes she would fall asleep thinking of a trouble, and by morning, the answer became clear.

Standing and tugging down the scaled tunic, she lifted her crossbow to prop over her shoulder. The trek back to St. Rénan was one long league.

Raising a hand to wave thanks to the pisky, it was then Rhiana noticed the shadow cross before the brilliant midnight moon.

One rampant would not be kept back by the rain.

Crossbow drawn, she tracked the flight of the dragon above the sight. Finger tapping the trigger, she held. Utter calm befell her. She would not fire until it flew closer. The bolt could not travel so far; it would be a wasted shot.

She never panicked. But even so, her heartbeats fluttered like a pisky’s wings. Rain splatting off her nose and eyelashes made her blink, yet Rhiana held firm.

“Come thee, I bid you,” she murmured as the dragon’s shadow grew larger in her sights. “I’ll not tease you with a dance. Quick and painless, I promise thee.”

A burst of flame escaped the dragon’s nostrils. Had she moved?

Planting her feet and stretching out her right arm, elbow crooked and fingers firm upon the trigger, Rhiana drew in a breath.

The dragon swooped low, skimming the field. Mayhap it did not sight her, but only blew flame to warm a chill caused by the rain?

When she could smell the vigor stirring the blood of the beast, Rhiana touched the trigger. The bolt released. The dragon banked upward sharply. Target diverted. The bolt found its place in the wing.

“Blast!” Quickly working to reload, Rhiana kept the dragon’s trajectory in peripheral view. It hovered above the treetops, as if a fly suspended in a web, and then, it dropped.

She followed the dragon’s landing. Mid-fall, the bolt dislodged from the pellicle fabric stretched between the wing bones. The beast landed hard upon its left rear foot, then staggered and fell to its side in the center of the heather meadow.

Scampering over the twist of beech roots, Rhiana stealthily stalked through the brush and to the meadow.

The dragon growled and hissed out fire, but it did not call out the bellowing cry that would alert others of its kind. Was it so smart it did not want to bring others into danger? Or had she hurt it that much with her misplaced bolt?

Moonlight beamed upon the meadow, alighting the heather and grasses like a wilderness stage. Its wounded wing stretched out and flapping at the air, the other wing tucked tightly to its body, the dragon walked, tripping occasionally and landing its head in the thick violet stalks. It struggled, but made its way to the edge of the meadow, opposite where Rhiana stood.

Using its preoccupation as cover, Rhiana carefully stepped across the meadow in the dragon’s wake. Crossbow held ready to fire, she kept behind and to the left. The beast wobbled to the right.

Anger-scent strong, the dragon’s energy permeated Rhiana’s own flesh. A hard vibration of power pressed her quickly forward, eager to claim her prize.

A vicious snap of its head took out a tenderling maple at the forest edge. The dragon insinuated itself into the trees, crushing sticks and breaking branches in its wake. It made a horrible noise but had yet to cry out.

Rhiana chuckled softly. It would never sense her presence until it was too late. She simply had to follow it, and when it finally exhausted itself, make the killing shot.

“Can you come that?” she whispered.

A massive jut of stone concealed the dragon’s retreat. Megaliths dotted the top of this mountain, making childhood play exciting when the dragons were not in residence.

Rhiana trod up to the huge boulder and pressed her shoulders to it. Slipping along the slick stone wall she gained the corner round which the dragon had passed. She did no longer hear its shuffling steps and dragging wing.

Did it wait on the other side of the stone? Through all its struggles and noise, had the beast remarked her?

Whispering a prayer to St. Agatha’s veil, she drew up the crossbow. Closing her eyes, she listened. But her senses were drugged with the dragon’s anger. She could not fully concentrate on noise. And so, it was now or never.

Swinging around the corner, Rhiana drew the crossbow on target with a pair of human eyes.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A steel bolt—set between two intent eyes—aimed at Rhiana’s nose. She followed the weapon from glinting tip, down the crossbow stock, to a finger poised upon the trigger. Rain splattered the wooden shaft of the crossbow. Moonlight sparked in the very human eyes mirroring her own deadly gaze.

It took two breaths to realize she stood, not before a dragon, but a man wielding a crossbow. Where he had come from, she did not know.

“Stand down,” Rhiana demanded.

The man’s eyes narrowed and one dark, wet brow arched in defiance. “On my honor, my lady, you do not look like a dragon.”

“Neither do you resemble a fire-breathing beast. Lower your weapon, if you will.”

“You first.”

The man’s mail coif was pelted to his scalp by the increasingly heavy rain. And those eyes, she wagered they were blue, though she could not determine for the darkness.

Still she held her aim.

Avoiding looking at the tip of the bolt, Rhiana summed him up. Dressed head to toe in black leathers with steel spikes studding the coat of plates and his wrists. Broad-shouldered and tall as she, he must be a knight. But she did not recognize him as any from Lord Guiscard’s garrison.

“If you be honorable you would stand down first,” she sputtered in the pouring rain. “I must be on to the dragon!”

“It slipped down that tunnel.”

A nod of his head indicated the wall of stone to her left. Rhiana noticed the slit of blackness that must lead to the lower caves. She had never before remarked the tunnel. It had to be recent.

The muscles in her arms began to stretch and protest her position of aim, but she had no intention of backing down. Her thumb slipped from the trigger. Shivers, caused by the chill rain, echoed through her body. But her intentions were perfectly aimed.