Mistress of Dragons (12 page)

The
other four men bore down on Edward, ignoring Draconas.

The
king had been taken aback to see a monk attacking them, but he’d recovered and
was meeting his opponents’ attack with enthusiasm, his sword cutting and
slicing and parrying, all the time keeping his back and that of his horse to
the log. For the moment, Edward was in no danger. Draconas looked about for the
more deadly foe.

Unable
to control his horse, the monk had gone careening off down the road. Horse and
rider were now about half a furlong away, the monk struggling frantically to
bring his horse under control so that he could return to the fray. Draconas had
time to assist the king and reduce the number of their enemies before he had to
deal with the monk.

Running
up behind the thugs, Draconas swung his thick, oaken staff like a club, giving
one man a clip on the helm that set it chiming like a church bell. The man fell
from his horse. Edward thrust his sword through the throat of another, who slid
from the saddle, choking on his own blood.

The
monk regained a modicum of control and managed to turn the horse around. He
came galloping back for another pass and Draconas had to leave the remaining assassins
to Edward.

Taking
up a position in the middle of the road, Draconas watched in bemusement to see
the monk come charging straight at him, attacking mindlessly, arms akimbo, feet
flying out of the stirrups. His eyes, wide and lit with madness, stared at
Draconas. Howling again about demons, the monk pointed his finger.

Draconas
was prepared for the magic. He spun his staff in an arc. A shield of silvery
blue energy formed in front of him, shielding him. He crouched behind the
shield, ready to spring.

The
monk’s magic struck the shield. Light sizzled. There was a crack like thunder.

The
monk’s horse panicked, reared back on its hind legs, front hooves pawing at the
air. The monk went flying, head over heels, and landed with a thud on the
hard-baked dirt.

The
horse galloped off. The monk tried to struggle to his feet. One arm dangled
useless. He couldn’t put his weight on his leg. He half-dragged himself to a
huddled crouch, then thrust his good hand into the folds of his ragged robes.

Expecting
a knife, he halted, watching and wary. Madmen are frightening opponents because
there is no telling what they’re going to do. This one obviously felt no pain,
for he continued to glare with ferocious hatred at Draconas, gibbering and
cursing him as “demon spawn.”

Keeping
his staff raised, Draconas edged forward.

“I
don’t want to have to kill you,” he told the monk. “I just want to talk to you.”

“The
devil take your foul kind!” the monk snarled.

His
hand darted out from his breast. In it he held a small glass vial.

Draconas
dropped his staff and lunged, but he was too late. The monk yanked the stopper
from the vial and dumped the contents down his throat.

The
monk gagged. His tongue burst out of his mouth, swollen and purple. His eyes
bulged and he grabbed for his throat. Choking, the monk pitched forward, dead.

“Damnation,”
swore Draconas.

Hearing
booted footsteps running up behind, he whipped about, raising his staff.

“It’s
me,” said Edward, scratched and bloody, dirty and sweaty, but otherwise unhurt.

Draconas
relaxed and turned back to the dead monk.

“What
did you do to him?” Edward demanded, coming up to stand beside Draconas.

“Nothing,”
said Draconas. Bending down, he lifted the man’s hand, exhibited the vial still
clasped in the clutching fingers. “He drank poison.”

“But”—Edward
gasped—”that’s a mortal sin. And he was a holy father—”

“Bah!”
Draconas snorted. “He’s no more a holy father than I am. He’s just dressed up
to look like one.” He lifted the head, indicated the bald pate encircled by the
tonsure. “Sunburned. A true monk’s skin on top of his head would be tanned from
the sun. That tonsure was newly cut.”

“You’re
right,” said Edward, puzzled. “But why should an assassin disguise himself as a
monk? I could understand if he’d been trying to sneak up on me, but he came
riding straight at—” He halted, and eyed Draconas thoughtfully.

“Maybe
he’s carrying something beneath his robes.” Draconas tore the black fabric from
the man’s back, then halted, appalled at what he saw.

Red,
roped, ugly wheals crisscrossed over the monk’s spine and shoulders, the type
of scars made by a whip or lash. Some were old. Some were fresh.

Not
much in this world fazed Draconas. He’d seen every sort of cruelty man could
inflict upon man, some of them highly creative, and he had not blenched. This
sickened him. He replaced the robes with a gentle hand, and rose to his feet.

“Good
God,” said Edward, shocked. “I wonder who did that to him?” He glanced back at
the other men, lying in the dust.

Draconas
shrugged. “No way of knowing.”

“I
wonder something else,” said Edward coolly. “He attacked you, not me.”

Observant
bastard. Draconas had been hoping the king hadn’t noticed that fact.

“He
was a madman. Who knows why he did anything?” Edward stood staring down at the
body, shaking his head. “I don’t believe it. Those other four were mercenaries,
hardened soldiers, well-trained and, from the looks of this”—he held up a
bloody money pouch—”well-paid. I found this on one of them. Silver coins,
twenty of them. These men were professionals and such veteran sellswords don’t
work with lunatics. Yet, he was obviously one of them.”

“Truly
a mystery,” said Draconas. He bent down to pick up his staff, and gazed
speculatively down the road. “I know you planned to stay the night in Bramfell,
but I don’t think that would be wise. I say we leave the road, detour around
the city, and strike off directly through those fields to the northwest.”

“The
way will be much more difficult to travel,” stated Edward. “And slow our
journey considerably.”

“Better
we arrive behind time, than not all,” Draconas said. “Whoever hired these men
is probably sitting in a tavern somewhere in Bramfell, waiting to hear how they
fared. When the assassins don’t show up, he’ll come looking for them.” Draconas
glanced around at the dead and the wounded. “And he’ll find them. Nothing we
can do about that. But at least he won’t be able to find us.”

“You
think whoever did this will try again?”

“Don’t
you?”

“Do
you know what I think, Draconas?” said Edward, his hazel eyes golden as the sun
in the leaves. “I think kings aren’t the only ones with enemies.”

He
walked back to his horse, wiping the blood off his sword as he went.

“That’s
true enough,” Draconas said to himself. He stood staring down at the body of
the lunatic, who
had
been a madman, if he hadn’t been a monk. What had
driven him mad? The dragon magic burning in his blood, the ill-usage, the
terrible sights he’d seen. His last words echoed in Draconas’s mind.

The
devil take your foul kind.

The
monk had known the truth about Draconas. He had known where to find him. He’d
been taught how to use the dragon magic against Draconas, though not taught
very well.

Only
twelve dragons had known the plan to find the Mistress of Dragons, the twelve who
sat on Parliament. One of those was either in league with Maristara or was
passing on information to the one who was.

“Which
means that I owe you an apology for doubting you, Braun,” said Draconas grimly.
“We all do.”

Now,
at any rate, he had his answer to the nagging question that had been bothering
him ever since the king had mentioned it: With no travelers on the road to
interfere or see them, why did the assassins wait to attack them until they
reached the shelter of the trees?

The
answer was simple.

The
assassins weren’t hiding their deed from the eyes of man.

They
were hiding it from the eyes of the dragon.

BEFORE
THEY COULD CONTINUE ON THEIR JOURNEY, Draconas had to chase after his horse.
When he had caught the beast, he had to dissuade Edward from giving the bodies
a decent burial. As Draconas pointed out, they were paid killers and, if they
had been caught by the law, they would have been hanged, their bodies left to
rot on the scaffold to serve as a warning to others. Leaving them here was no different.

“Plus,”
said Edward, struck by a new thought, “leaving them will give the sheriff of
Bramfell the chance to investigate the matter. When next we stop, I’ll send a
message to the duke, telling him what happened and urging him to find out who
paid these men to kill us.”

“An
excellent idea, Your Majesty,” said Draconas, who had no intention of allowing
anyone to investigate anything.

He
searched the body of the monk, but did not find anything useful; not that he
had expected to do so.

“What
happened to the bastard I hit on the head?” he thought to ask.

Edward
glanced about. “I didn’t see. Probably came to his wits and ran off.”

“All
the more reason to be leaving, before he reports back to whoever hired him that
he failed. The sun sets late, we have another couple of hours at least.”

They
left the road, moving slowly at first, for they were forced to guide their
horses through the tangle of bramble and bracken that lined the roadside. Once
free of that, they struck open meadows and they were able to ride more swiftly.
Draconas had the very great satisfaction of seeing the road and the forest
surrounding it dwindle in the distance.

Topping
a rise, they halted to let the horses rest. The king glanced back over his
shoulder and stiffened in the saddle. “Smoke,” he said, pointing. “Back there.”
The sun was near to setting. Shadows filled the valley. Red-orange light gilded
the high hills and the treetops. Black smoke curled in a straight line into the
still air. “A campfire,” said Draconas.

“That
is no campfire,” said Edward grimly. “The dragon has set fire to the forests
around the road.” He squinted to see into the sun. “Must be close to where we
were when we were attacked.”

“All
the more reason to make haste, Your Majesty,” said Draconas.

The
king watched the smoke another moment, his lips compressed in a straight, tight
line.

“I’m
glad you’re on my side, Draconas,” he said abruptly. “You
are
on my
side, aren’t you?”

“I’m
never on anyone’s side,” Draconas responded. “But I like to be paid.”

Edward
eyed him a moment, then he burst out laughing, a hearty laugh, that rang among
the hills. “I like you, Draconas.

Damned
if know why, but I do.” He galloped off, his gaze fixed on the twilight-touched
mountains.

Draconas
cast a final glance back at the smoke. Braun, doing his job. Destroying the
bodies.

They
rode hard for five days. Draconas insisted that they rise early and sleep late,
pushing themselves and the horses to their limit in order to cover as much
ground as possible. Braun and Draconas kept watch for anyone following
them—Draconas from his vantage point on the ground and the dragon from the
air—but no more mad monks appeared.

Draconas
guessed the reason why. They had tried to kill once and failed. They could try
again—chasing him all over the countryside—or they could harbor their
resources, wait for him to come to them.

Maristara
knew where he was bound and why. She would have her trap set for him at the
point where she figured he would have to cross—the pass that led through the
Ardvale mountains.

Maristara
had sealed off the pass three hundred years ago, using her magic to create a
rock slide that effectively blocked the old road. The ordinary traveler would
not think of trying to cross, but a persevering adventurer might be able to
climb over and clamor around the boulders that filled the cut. Since her magic
prevented him from entering, Draconas had planned on trying to send Edward,
cloaked in magic, through the pass at that point. He had to rethink this plan,
however. Maristara would be on the lookout. She’d have guards posted, probably
more deranged magicians.

As
for Edward, if he was worried about assassins or breaking through enchanted
barriers, he didn’t show it. The king might have been on a holiday outing. He
was in a good humor, talking and laughing and looking eagerly about him. They
crossed the border of his kingdom, entered a strange land—a land strange to
Edward. Draconas had traveled here once before only a short time ago. He’d made
the attempt to cross the border, braved the enchantment. He still had the fresh
scars to show for it.

“My
life was once quite pedestrian,” said Edward on the evening of the fifth day,
as they sat around the fire. “I plodded along the road, one foot in front of
the other. Then came the dragon, and suddenly I am doing cartwheels and
handsprings.” Draconas was doing cartwheels and handsprings—mental gymnastics.
The king talked. Draconas only half-listened, said “yes” or “no” or “Is that
so?” every so often. He was thinking about Maristara, what to do now that she
knew they were coming. Abandoning his goal was not an option. Before the attack
by the monk, Draconas had been skeptical, as were the other dragons, of Braun’s
claims and accusations that Maristara had a partner and that these dragons were
using humans for some nefarious scheme. The monk possessed of the dragon magic
(or by the dragon magic, as the case may be) had changed Draconas’s mind.

Braun
is wrong about one thing, Draconas reflected. It is not human flesh the dragons
are after. It is human talent. We suspected that Maristara gave women the
dragon magic. Now it seems as if she is doing the same for men, only not quite
as well. Perhaps human males do not adapt to the dragon magic . . .

No,
that’s it!
Draconas realized, struck by sudden insight. She’s teaching the
males to use the magic to kill. Human females are taught defensive magic, to
protect the monastery and the dragon. Human males are being taught to use the
magic to destroy. No wonder it’s driving them insane.