Rhiana

“Are you not a knight?” she shouted against the heavy rainfall. “Pledged to serve your lord, and to protect women and children?”

That got him. The man slowly lowered his crossbow. The usual weapon, fashioned of hard wood with a steel band and fixings.

Stubble marked his narrow jaw. An angry nose, bent to the left, shouted of previous injuries. Completely soaked, the rain softened what Rhiana suspected would prove a rugged complexion. Not an entirely distasteful face.

Or it may be Rhiana was cold, wet and starting to hallucinate, for the air wavered with the cloying heather and the distinct odor of the dragon’s sage essence.

“You surprise me, my lady.” The man stepped back a few paces to stand beneath an oak tree. There the rain was half so strong, so Rhiana joined him, yet kept the crossbow waist level and pointed at him—ready. “The last thing I would have expected to find upon this mountain, besides dragons, is a woman wielding a weapon as if a warrior.”

Rhiana slicked a palm over her scaled armor. The dragon scales glimmered in the moon’s light.

“Who are you, sir? And why are you tramping about the forest with a weapon? Lord Guiscard looks unkindly on those who would hunt his deer and boar.”

“I am dragon hunting.”

Now he set the crossbow against the tree trunk, and crossed his arms over his chest. His gauntlets skittered over the rows of narrow steel studding his leather coat of plates. Rhiana had once fashioned the plated armor, but preferred chain mail, for she could shape it to fit a body exact.

Peering curiously at her, his gaze worked such a hypnotic fix upon her, she found herself stepping closer. Right up to him.

“I wasn’t sure if dragons had reinhabited the caves here at the seaside,” he said.

“Reinhabited? You’ve hunted here before?”

“Not me, no, but I’ve been told these caves are rich and attract the fire-breathers. I had thought to check for myself—with success! My shot to the beast’s belly was most effective in bringing it down.”

“Your shot?”

Gape-mouthed and stunned, Rhiana spun a look to the dark crevice where the dragon had disappeared, then back to the man. He had a fine opinion of something that was not his to claim.

“’Twas my bolt which felled the beast. An arrow to the belly penetrates merely fat. Nothing more than a bee sting to the creature. But to fly with a torn wing?”

“I beg to disagree, my lady.” He splayed a steel-plated gauntlet before him in explanation. “A deep wound to the belly on the younger rampants penetrates easily to the lower organs. My bolt was enough to disorient the dragon. It has been wounded, mayhap, seriously. Likely now it will be an easy track.”

Rhiana chuffed out laughter. “You plan to track the beast into its lair?”

“Of course.”

Cocky, self-important— Be this man a slayer? For only one trained and experienced would consider so dangerous a tactic.

Had Lord Guiscard held good on his claim he would call for a slayer? But that was only this morning when Rhiana had spoken to him. This man had not been summoned to St. Rénan.

“Be my guest,” she offered. “I shall stand in wait of your triumph.”

Only a fool would be so, well, foolish.

A nod, and tilt of his crossbow against his shoulder, and the man began to march toward the tunnel entry framed by the rain-slick megaliths. The lackwit planned to enter the cave, teeming with dragons. Nine of them, by Rhiana’s estimate. Of course, he could have no idea there was more than the one he claimed to have felled.

The idea of a stranger come to hunt dragons in her territory put up Rhiana’s hackles. And that he did not grant her the fell-shot?

“There are many more inside!” he called. He slapped a palm to the stone near the razor-slash entrance that could very well plummet to the very fires of hell. The gauntlet clanked dully against stone. “I guess a dozen.”

“Nine.” Rhiana stepped into the rain and tramped across the slick grass to join him. How did he know there were others? Fascination prompted her to learn more. “How long have you been here, sir?”

“Just arrived.”

Then how could he possibly have determined… “What be your name?”

He bowed grandly, palm to his chest. As he rose, he performed a sneaky, but chivalrous move by lifting one of Rhiana’s hands to his mouth.

She almost pulled away when she realized he planned to kiss it, but curiosity stayed her. It was a knight’s manner. Chivalry, and all that bother. He merely bussed her flesh with his closed mouth, wet with rain. Heat tendrils traveled up her arm, disturbing her as equally as they excited her. It was the closest she had ever come to a kiss.

“My lady, I am Macarius Fleche, dragon slayer.”

Rhiana tugged back her hand. Fleche? But that was…

“Actually,” he continued, “I am the greatest slayer in all the land, which includes the English isles, all of Italy and the upper parts of Spain. I remain unmatched by any who claim the same occupation. I’ve twenty kills to my record, all within a decade.”

Twenty kills? Impressive. Two a year. What a prize the doom below their feet would offer. Said prize, being more than mere notches to his crossbow. For slayers who took out a dragon were promised all they could carry from the hoard as payment. It was an unspoken rule of the land.

Macarius Fleche. That name…

“Know you Amandine Fleche?” Rhiana tilted her head to dissuade the raindrops from her lashes. “He is a dragon slayer.”

“Was.” And the man’s face changed, the twinkle in his eyes flitting away. With a hook of the crossbow over his shoulder he paced away from Rhiana, walking the expansive curve of the megalith.

Was? But that would mean—

Rhiana rushed after the slayer. “He is dead?”

“Last summer,” the man called.

Mon Dieu, Amandine was dead?

There waited a horse behind the megalith, hobbled beneath a copse of maple, and soaked to the hide. The horse bristled its back as Macarius attached his crossbow to the flanks and secured it with a tug to each of the leather belts. The man then turned to Rhiana.

“You are the female dragon slayer I have been told about.” A statement. He did not wait for her response. “I did not believe it. And yet now, mayhap there be some tidbit of truth to it.” He stretched his hand up her length. “Very fine armor. Remarkable even. Rather, I can believe in the possibility of a female slayer, but there yet remains the proof of it.”

Well. Not at all pleased with his indifference, Rhiana took a step toward him, and then marked her anger. Now was no time for arguments. Besides, she need prove herself to no man. Most certainly not to one who considered himself the greatest.

“What be your name, my lady?”

But of course, she was being rude. How easily a foul mood clouded her better senses. Odette would surely admonish her for playing the ruffian when delicacy of manner was required to attract a man’s eye.

Not that she’d any intention of enacting her pitiful powers of attraction.

Lifting her chin proudly, she declared, “Rhiana Tassot. I am a dragon slayer. And I have no cause to prove it to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I am off to my home. The weather bechills me, and the wounded rampant will not show again this day, to be sure.”

“St. Rénan?”

Reluctant to answer, Rhiana knew it was the closet village for leagues. “Yes.”

“I am headed there myself.” The man mounted the horse and reined it toward Rhiana. He bent at the waist and offered a hand. “I can carry another rider behind me.”

Staring at the black leather palm of his gauntlet, Rhiana vacillated. ’Twasn’t as if the plague crawled across the leather. But the offer made her sort of crawly inside. He had demanded proof of her skills. Had almost cast her aside as an impossibility, and so, of little concern. He was as all other men, bullheaded and prideful. Believing women belonged slaving over the hearth fire, or sweeping out their men’s dirty boot-prints, or moaning beneath them between the sheets.

The greatest slayer in all the land? Ha! And how many kills had he marked in the past day? Likely, zero to her two.

Cocking her head to the left, Rhiana shook it in answer. “I favor walking. It keeps me strong.” With that, she marched off toward the walls of St. Rénan.

For the longest time, Rhiana was aware the man followed her from a distance. Marking her long strides with a slow pace that surely put his beast to misery for the rain. The trek down the mountain went swiftly. Over the decades a path down the counterscarp that wedged a gouge all around St. Rénan, made for a quick, if plummeting walk. Her pace continued across the field of rape that would be harvested for oil and grain come autumn. She would not turn to look at him. That is what he wanted, no doubt, a pleading look.

Eventually the man passed her by, tipping a nod to her, and then pressing his horse to a canter for the village drawbridge.

It was then Rhiana stopped and fisted her hands over the scales that ended just below her hips.

“The daring…”

Well, he had offered her a ride. She should not be angry for that.

But why did it miff her he’d not offered a second time? As he’d passed her by? She would have turned him down again. Of course! But he could not have known that. Any man would have continued to press her to accept a ride. A gentle man who believed in chivalry, grace and honor.

“Macarius Fleche, eh?”

The surname was common. There was a Fleche who fashioned arrows in St. Rénan. He could not be related to Amandine Fleche. Not once, while training her, had Amandine mentioned a son or other relation.

Amandine was dead? How? When? This man had announced his demise with little regard. He could not be a relative, for would he not have shown some emotion?

Struck to her very heart, Rhiana’s tears mixed with the rain as she trudged onward. Her belly began to ache with an inexplicable hollowness. She had lost without having been aware. The old man had taught her selflessly, giving to her the gift of his skills, and asking in return that she strive to be the best.

“I have become quite good,” Rhiana murmured as she stalked, wet and weary, onward.

But the best? She had only begun her adventures in dragon slaying. To take her measure now would not be fair, especially when matched against one who had been slaying for a decade.

I am the greatest slayer in all the land.

“We’ll see about that.”

CHAPTER NINE

He passed by a set of boots, slumped over, but as if standing in wait of a knight to jump into them and race to action. The main gate to the city was imposing, stretching three stories and mounted with a barbican lined in spikes. The entire stretch of battlements was mounted with spikes.

Macarius wondered did the city see siege. Seaside villages often invited pirates and plunderers merely because access was so easy. And yet, the very air seemed so still. Complacent.

His mount pawed the ground impatiently as he again called out for notice, and finally got an answer.

“Who goes there?”

“Macarius Fleche, the great—”

“You are a stranger,” droned back at him from somewhere behind the stone walls. “No admittance.”

He looked about. Not a soul to be seen or heard, save the woman tromping through the field behind him. Pretty, be she. But a woman stalking dragons at night and in the rain? “I seek an inn to stay for the night, if you please.”

“All strangers must be vouched by a resident and accompanied as well.”

“But—” Macarius searched for the squint hole behind which he might find an eye that belonged to the obnoxious voice.

“Display your weapons, stranger!”

Obliging, for he was tired and did seek a bed, with a frustrated sigh Macarius drew out his sword and moved his mount to reveal the crossbow.

“Insufficient proof of affability. And not even peace-tied!”

“What? Why you—”

Rhiana walked up behind Macarius and kicked the portcullis door. “Open up, Rudolph. I will vouch for this man.”

Silence followed. The woman did not look at him. Macarius could not decide if he were pleased or put off that she was attempting to aid him.

“Very well, my lady. But I never get to turn anyone—”

“Rudolph!” She gave another brute kick to the door and it started to rise on squeaky ropes and pulleys. With a grin to Macarius, she strode inside.

Macarius Fleche rode into St. Rénan upon his sixteen-hand white destrier displaying all the posture of a great and mighty knight. He was a great knight. He’d earned his spurs from Charles VII himself in the unending battle against the Burgundians to rule Paris. His battle sword, Dragonsbane, worked for the good of many. It erased a scourge mere men could never dream to vanquish. As the last of the legendary dragon hunters he had traveled to this particular walled city after hearing tales from Amandine of the female who slayed dragons.

A female slayer? Nonsense. No woman had such fortitude.

Macarius had been determined to see her with his own eyes, to judge if Amandine were merely making a tale or if he had dreamed a woman in his aging thoughts. Surely the old man had a penchant for a well-rounded woman. But Amandine had generally tupped them, not trained them to slay fire-breathing dragons.

And what to think now he’d looked upon the woman?

Rain pouring upon their heads, she’d stood defiantly at forest’s edge, solid steel crossbow aimed at him. At him! For a moment Macarius had little doubt, if prompted, she’d touch the trigger. Fright tended to make females goosey and irrational. And then to boldly refuse a ride? And wearing armor that looked as if it were fashioned from dragon scales. She had no right to wear the scales without the kill!

The air inside the battlement walls bustled with an odd tumescence. His mount taking the dirt road in careful clops, Macarius inspected the buildings and houses. Most were two or three stories, very large and spacious. All of stone, even the rooftops were slate or tile. No thatching or wood structures. Interesting. All of stone? Rather smart, he mused, for a village that must be frequently set upon by fire-breathing dragons.

Meows from a gather of mangy cats sang a wretched tune beneath a dripping slate tiled roof. Shop fronts were closed, wooden boards pulled down and tied for the evening. Macarius neared the castle courtyard and noticed the blazing iron torches shaped like dragons. Banners swayed in the minimal breeze. Distant pipes called to revelry. Indeed, merrymaking stirred behind the castle walls.

There were almost a dozen dragons nesting but a league to the north. Did the village fête in the shadow of such danger?

Were they aware? But surely their female slayer must have alerted them? Else, why ever would she be so quick with him at the gate if she had not rushed to warn them all?

Amandine had not given him details of his stay in St. Rénan, only that it was a happy summer. He did never elaborate; so many secrets he kept to his breast. But Macarius knew the old man had likely a woman, or two, reason enough to stay a while in any city. But he could not imagine Amandine taking the young woman he had met as a lover. He did possess decency. So what had called him to the woman?

Whistling to direct his mount to the left, Macarius spied a thin young man doddling outside a cart stacked with firewood.

Upon question, the squire in ragged green hosen—but a spit-spot clean tunic—informed Macarius the villagers had gathered in the castle keep to celebrate the kill. A dragon had been slain in the courtyard this afternoon. Lord Guiscard invited all to celebrate and drink and eat for days. Dragon meat would be passed around until all had filled their bellies.

Mayhap the woman had slain a dragon. And this day? Hmm… Of course, Macarius required proof of the act. Likely the village men had rallied and taken down the beast.

“And,” the squire added, “it be much safer than walking about outside. The dragons will swoop down and bite you right out of your boots.”

Macarius had noted the boots sitting just outside the battlement walls.

“So, boy,” he leaned down from his high mount, “you know there are other dragons?”

“To be sure! They fly the sky waiting for a man to forget his caution.”

Macarius nodded in agreement. He straightened in the saddle. That familiar surge of adventure teased his muscles. Such fortune to arrive at a dragon infested city.

Nine dragons, the woman had said. And how had she counted?

“My thanks,” he said to the young squire. “Will you lead me to your lord?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Alive with merriment, music and much ale and smoking meat, the keep was crowded from wall to wall with most every resident of St. Rénan. Dragon meat was tender and savory when cooked right, Lydia had once told Rhiana. Still, no amount of cajoling would convince Rhiana to taste the meat. It was difficult enough to account herself for the sin of killing. And it wasn’t as if dragons were bred for consumption, like a lamb or even cattle. But she did not discount others for joining in the feast.

Rudolph skipped by her, a hunk of dark meat on a stick clasped in one hand and a giggling female’s derriere in the other. Rhiana returned his wink and then found herself sliding her palms over the pale ocher tunic and braies she wore.

All about her couples were dancing and whispering in each other’s ears and some even kissing. Dulcimers decorated the air with lively rhythms that enticed women’s hips to swivel and the men to circle about them. The women wore their hair in braids and curls and crowned their temples with delicate flower garlands. No wonder they attracted a curious suitor, Rhiana decided, the sway of their skirts and the tinkle in their laughter was an entrancing thing. So utterly female and beguiling.

And here she stood, being passed by, almost as if a ghost, by every male in the room. A hard lump at the back of her throat made a swallow difficult. “I…” Want, she thought. What they have. To be fancied by a man. To know a man’s regard.

Should have changed to a gown—

The sudden gush of fire close behind Rhiana made her spin. There, near the hearth, stood Sebastien de Feu, the fire juggler. Wearing brown leather braies—he never wore a shirt; fire hazard—the dancing fire tricked across his muscled chest, drawing Rhiana’s interest. In each hand he held a five-pronged torch that resembled a dragon’s claw, glittering with flames at each of the five talons. Swishing the torches before him painted brilliant white dashes and circles and zigs in the air to delight all. Children danced around him, unsuccessfully held back by their mothers.

Sending a charming smile to Rhiana, he then breathed upon one of the torches and sent the flames gushing over heads and toward the center of the keep.

Compelled by the beauty of the flame, Rhiana stepped closer. She forgot her masculine attire. Why, she forgot the festivities. All that mattered was the flame dancing through the air, swishing hot breaths across her face as she moved even closer, until she stood so close a child called out for her to mind her distance.

Sebastien’s grin defied the difficulty of his stunt. Though he wore a steel helmet fashioned with bronze laurel leaves around the perimeter to protect his long black hair, Rhiana had noticed previously he also wore many a scar from burns. The most prominent on his left forearm, which stretched to a thin pink sheen, because his muscles were so bold and tight.

“You are entranced, douce et belle?”

Shaking her head out of its tizzy, Rhiana realized Sebastien spoke to her. Douce et belle. Too pretty a moniker to place to her, but he was ever kind to her, and always willing to talk.

He leaned in toward her. She could hear the fire torches hissing behind his back. The scent of the oil he used to keep the torches burning sizzled in the air. And the scent of him, oil mixed with his intense and dark presence, almost overwhelmed Rhiana.

It could be the smoke and flame; they always disturbed her senses.

She touched a stone in the nearby hearth wall, for balance. Consciously tugging the hem of her tunic, she could not meet the man’s dark eyes. Dark like the lava stones in the caves, she knew, for whenever he was not noticing her, she noticed him. A flutter in her breast troubled, and suddenly she could not find her voice.

“My lady? Have my flames burned your tongue silent?”

She shook her head. A tilt of her chin caught his eyes, and she held his stare for a few moments. Feeling her neck and face flush with warmth, Rhiana convinced herself it was merely the close presence of fire.

So close, the fire, and in the form of muscles and sinew and beguiling dark eyes.

“You never talk to me, douce et belle. Do I frighten you? I would like it if you would say but a few words.”

Frightened by something so wonderful as flame and…and…him? Rhiana began a grin.

“My lord, the dragon slayer!”

Suddenly alerted by the seneschal’s voice, she turned from Sebastien’s beguiling eyes and stood on tiptoes to see about the keep. Dancers who reveled and made merry parted as a stranger entered the keep.

Finding an audience with the baron of St. Rénan proved easy enough, even after the squire had abandoned him for the lure of hot dragon meat and a game of sticks. Macarius had merely to sight in the high table amidst the revelry of drunken lackwits. The glint of gold tableware could not be missed.

Macarius strode through the grand hall glittered with golden fixings and freshly strewn rushes. Fresh flower garlands draped the doorways and the backs of chairs. Tapestries on the east wall depicted the dragons’ fall from grace with the evil angels. A particularly grand dragon skull, gilded around the circumference of the eye openings, hung high on the wall over Lord Guiscard’s chair. The upside-down cross indicating the kill spot glittered with rubies set in gold.

Studying the beast’s skull, he determined Amandine might have been responsible for that one. He knew of but two other slayers in Europe, and rarely did they venture close to the sea, for the added hazards, such as the cliff-side entrances to the dragons’ lairs and, well, there was the sea and all its dangers. Amandine had liked to travel the coast, knowing the greatest challenge always offered the most satisfying results. Besides, he’d once told Macarius of the sirens. He had not seen one himself, but what riches he would give to see a flash of scale and to catch a pretty green smile.

Sirens. Macarius nodded. Yes, he would like to see the sort, and would, surely, for his travels took him far and wide. What a catch that would make, eh? He would commission a massive tank and display her for all to see when finally he settled and built his own castle upon the sea.

But enough of that nonsense. He had a more urgent commission to gain. If there were so many dragons, that could only mean one thing—the hoard, which attracted the beasts, must be tremendous.

The seneschal who had seated himself to the right of the lord whispered into his ear and gestured toward Macarius. His reputation obviously preceded him for the baron nodded and grinned. How joyous this village would be to receive him into their arms!

“My lord Guiscard.” Macarius bowed grandly before the damask- and silver-lace festooned high table. His gauntlets clicked against the sword sheath at his hip. Flames from the many wall torches glittered across the mesh hauberk skirting in dags below his coat of plates. The very flesh on the left side of his body pinched with the movement of so grand a bow, but Macarius was accustomed to pulling a face over the pain. “I am delighted you have bid me welcome into your home.”

Guiscard twisted his fingers, ringed with sapphires, and studied Macarius with vivid blue eyes. “My seneschal tells me you are a dragon slayer?”

Did Macarius detect a note of boredom in that tone? Must be the abundant wine, and a night of festivity surely altered a man’s sense of generosity and need for protection.