Dragon's Winter (19 page)

Rising, the dragon-lord walked to the window. Looking toward the towering black silhouette of Dragon’s Eye, he said pensively, “You have lived in my domain how long? Three years? You must know I have never taken form.”

“I have heard so.”

“And do those who speak of it say why?”

“They say different things.”

Karadur whirled, his eyes suddenly blazing. “Answer what I ask you, man!”

It was like facing a firestorm. Nerves thrumming like harp strings in a wind, Wolf said, “They speak of sorcery, and of a curse.”

“Yes.” Karadur lifted his hands to his face a moment. When he dropped them, the hard, disciplined detachment had returned. “Three and a half years ago, on a quiet September night, a month after my twentieth birthday, I made my talisman. I had no parent living to tell me how, so I guessed what to do and how to do it. I made it out of gold, shaped it in dragonfire, and tempered it with blood.” He pushed the sleeve from his arm, exposing a white scar on the underside of his left forearm. “My brother, Tenjiro, took it from me, and locked it in a box that he made, a box that eats fire.” Azil Aumson, in the corner, made a sudden movement. Karadur did not look at him. “He has it now, somewhere in the northern ice, hidden in a fortress he has made for himself.” The Dragon-lord extended his fingers. Blue flames flickered from wrist root to tips. “I have, as I have had since childhood, some dragon powers. I have a physical strength that far outstrips the men who serve me. I can call fire, the blue illusion fire that does not burn, and true fire.

But I no longer summon dragonfire, and I cannot take the form.” He nodded toward the tapestry on the wall. “That was Dragon. I am not Dragon.” The slow, painful words were more harrowing because the deep voice did not change. “Four people know of this. Three of them are in this room.” He almost smiled. “I hope you can forgive me for telling you.”

Wolf said softly, “My lord, I am honored.” The back of his tunic was soaked with sweat.

Karadur leaned forward, just a little. “Would you show me your talisman?”

Wolf had not expected that request. He fumbled for the silver chain around his neck. Drawing it over his head, he cupped the rude little silver wolf in the hollow of his palm.

Karadur touched it lightly with one huge finger. “How old were you when you made it?”

“I was fourteen.”

“Did someone help you? Tell you what to do, and how?”

“My mother Naika.”

“Your father is dead?”

“He was alive, my lord. He is dead now: he died four years ago. He was much older than my mother. But my father was not changeling.”

“Before you made your talisman, did you know you had a wolf inside you?”

“I knew. My family told me, and also, I had some of the wolf-gifts. I could hear, and I could smell.”

“But you could not change. You were not—Wolf.” Karadur’s hands closed hard on each other. He gazed again at the dark bulk of the mountain, as if it held some secret, or a promise. Wolf remembered the savage silence of the plundered ice.

I do not want you to go
, Thea had said to him, when word of the levy came to them.
I need you. Shem needs you. Say you will not.

I will not
, he had said then.
I have fought my battles.

Across the room, Azil Aumson was watching him.

When he came into the courtyard, he found Rogys standing at Thea’s elbow.

“I’m to escort you home. Dragon’s orders.” A stable boy trotted up, leading his grey mare. She was shaggy, like the horses the Isojai raiders rode, but bigger, a cross between an Isojai pony and the larger southern breeds. The Lemininkai stables had been full of her kind.

Shem bounced in Thea’s arms. “Orse!”

“Hush,” Thea said. “You may stroke her nose, but you must be quiet.” She steered Shem’s fingers to touch the long velvet nose.

“Shem quiet,” her son whispered.

“You must both be tired,” she said to Rogys. “You just came back from the ice.”

Rogys shrugged. “I’m all right And Silk can go longer than I can.”

The big gates were open. Men on horseback were filing through, riding in pairs. All were armed with swords; most carried longbows, with a quiver of trefoil-barbed arrows.

“Where are they going?” Thea asked. Her hand brushed Wolf’s. He put his arm around her waist.

“Patrol,” Rogys said. “That’s Forgon’s company, from Castria. That’s Olav,” he said, pointing to a huge blond man, walking beside a dun horse. He bore a bright ax across his shoulder. “He heard there was a war, and came all the way from Serrenhold to fight. That’s Irok, on the horse. He’s a northerner, from Hornlund.” Irok was small and dark, and carried an Isojai bow. The two men were deep in conversation. “When they came here, neither could speak the other’s language, and now they’re the best of friends “

Thea said softly, “Husband, are you well?” Wolf nodded, and brushed her hair with his lips. He would have to tell her.

He did not want to tell her. He glanced upwards to the tower. The castle was a maze, and at its heart a fire lay burning.

Halfway down the hill from the castle gate, Rogys said to Thea, “You want to ride?”

“Yes!” Thea said. Wolf unwound his arm. Rogys put his cupped hands under her foot and swung her into the saddle.

Shem crowed in excitement. “Shem up now!” he commanded. Wolf handed Shem to Thea. Wide-eyed, he gripped the pommel in both mittened hands. The sky stayed grey. Flakes of snow circled teasingly on the warm wind.

They halted briefly in Chingura to eat: bread and meat from the Keep’s kitchen, generously portioned, and cold porridge for Shem.

South of Chingura it grew warmer. The clouds stirred, and separated: sunlight blazed through grey in a bright circle of glory. It was noon when they reached the meadow. Shem slept, head on Wolf’s shoulder.

Wolf put a hand on Silk’s rough-coated neck. “Our thanks. Will you come in for a moment, and get warm?”

Rogys demurred. “Why would you want a stranger at your homecoming? I think it’s going to snow. I’d like to get Silk back before the light goes.” He patted Shem’s cheek. “Goodbye, little wolf.”

“Another time,” Thea said firmly. “You must stay another time.”

“I will.” The redhead raised a hand in farewell.

Shem muttered, and then sneezed abruptly, and woke. “Orse!” he complained.

“The horse went home to its stable, my heartling,” Thea said. She took him from Wolf’s arms. The house was cold. Wolf knelt beside the hearth. The pile of straw and twigs in the arched fireplace sat as he had left it. He struck flint, and lit the kindling. Thea brought the angry Shem to the fire.

The sight of the flames soothed him; he stopped crying, hiccuped, and then stilled.

“Boof,” he said contentedly. He reached his hands toward the warmth. “Fire hot.”

“That is fire,” Thea said. “True fire. Very, very hot. Shem take care.”

Wolf said, “Thea. We need to talk.” Someone banged on the house door. Thea put Shem into Wolf’s arms.

“Who can that be?” She opened the door.

Cold air swirled in. A grinning, hairless man holding a naked sword took two strides into the house. Tearing Thea’s cloak from her shoulders, he laid the sword tip against her naked breast. Shem, feeling the tension race through his father’s frame like fire through straw, gasped for breath, and yelled.

“Come outside,” said the man with the sword, “or I’ll kill her.” His voice rasped like iron dragged over stone. His eyes were blood-red. With the point of the sword, he prodded Thea through the door.

Helplessly Wolf followed. Four red-eyed wargs stood growling in the meadow.

Wolf said, “Who are you?”

“My name is Gorthas. Put the boy down,” said the hairless man.

“No.”

The sword point moved to Thea’s throat. “Then watch her die.”

Wolf knelt, and set his son on the snow. Long-armed, the man seized Shem by the nape of the neck and ripped his shirt, exposing Shem’s soft belly to the air. He laid the cold steel across the child’s bare skin. A trickle of blood ran into Shem’s pants. The wargs licked their lips.

“I wonder,” said that hideous voice, “which you will choose to do: save your wife, or your child? If you move to help her, I will gut him like a fish.”

He laughed, and spoke in a tongue Wolf did not know.

Thea called his name. Wolf cried out, his muscles locked and shaking. The wargs bore Thea to the ground. Wolf shut his eyes. Shem was screaming.

“No!” said Gorthas in his ear. “You will watch. Or your son dies.” Wolf opened his eyes. Thea was on the ground, bloodied, torn. Her hazel eyes fixed on his face.

I love you
, he said to her, with all the vital power of his mind. Go
quickly, my love.

He saw her face change, and the life leave it, like water spilled from a jar. In Gorthas’s grip, Shem screamed and struggled in an agony of revulsion and terror. The wargs lifted from Thea’s lifeless side, their jaws bloodied, and grinned.

Wolf crouched. Leaning forward, Gorthas ripped the sword and sword belt from his waist. “If you change,” he said, “I will kill your son.”

He fought them with his hands. But they clawed and tore at him, and the strength drained from him with his blood. His collarbone and both legs were broken, his right arm nearly out of its socket, most of his ribs cracked, his left eye gone. As he lay helpless on the cold snow-covered ground, they ripped his abdomen open. A hand tore the silver talisman from his throat.

“You’ll not need this again, changeling. Thank you for the sport. Your son will live—until dinner.” He smiled, and kicked Wolf in the torn intestines. The explosion of pain took his senses. When he regained consciousness, he was alone with the body of his wife.

He was shivering. The carrion stench of his attackers contaminated the spot like a loathsome fog. Something rustled, to his right. He glimpsed behind a rock a sleek pale form, a glittering eye: a young lynx, hungry, but wary. It knew he lived.

Wait a little longer, cousin...

A fat flake of snow wandered desultorily to kiss his cheek.

He shivered fiercely, uncontrollably. The snow was falling faster now, and the light was fading. He barely felt the wound in his belly. The retreat of pain meant that his nervous system, like the rest of his body, was dying. He did not mind, because Thea was dead, and he had not saved her. He tried, with all his strength, to roll toward her, but his body was frozen, save for the uncontrollable shivering. Her dark hair fanned across the snow, looking much as it had that morning, spread across the pillow in sleep. He tried to touch it, but his right arm would not respond to his will.

Shem...
The name was a blade, sharper than fang or claw, more bitter than his own death, which waited for him now behind the rock. Prayer had never been his habit, but he stared at the white sky and prayed,
If he must die, merciful gods, let it be swift, with no further fear and torment.
He had no confidence that the silent gods would hear him.

Hawk would be so angry at him. He wondered if she would ever see the letter he had written to her...

A raven called, somewhere amid the stripped birches. It, too, was hungry. Behind the rock, the impatient lynx stirred. Then it lunged. Its hot jaws closed on his exposed throat.

The wargs traveled quickly over the ice.

From Dragon Keep to Mitligund was an eight-day journey for a man. It took the wargs four days. The beasts had no need of sleep or rest or food, and Gorthas could put sleep behind him at will, though he did need to eat.

The man he served, though not his master, had given him clear instructions.

“Kill the father and mother however you wish. Bring me the child unharmed. Keep it fed, clean, and dry. If it is hurt, I will put you in the cage with the bear.”

Since it was his master’s will that he obey this little sorcerer, Gorthas did so. There was nothing in him of compassion or sympathy, but intelligence told him to bring the woman’s fur-lined cloak, and wrap the child in it, for warmth, and for the quieting comfort of the smell. He made a pouch of the cloak and slung the child across his back. The boy ceased to scream after a while, and simply sobbed. They halted as necessary to clean and to feed him. The first day the boy closed his lips, and refused to eat the little bits of raw meat that the man held to his mouth. Gorthas considered forcing the food down his throat, but reasoned that if that were done, he might choke, or struggle, and hurt himself. He did force water into the soft angry mouth. The child made fists, and tried to strike him, which amused him.

The second day the boy was weaker, and ate.

The fourth day they reached Mitligund. The Black Citadel gleamed in the cold white light. Ice warriors on their ice horses galloped to meet him, but Gorthas ignored them, knowing them to be illusion. The great black gate yawned like a toothless mouth. As his wargs trotted through it, their three fellows, who had led the soldiers on their fruitless chase, rose to greet them. The sentry at the inner door was human, one of those whom the wizard had bought with gold, and held with terror. The wargs eyed the living man hungrily.