Mistress of Dragons (27 page)

“Bellona!”
she cried. “Bellona! I am here!”

Her
shout echoed through the ravine, bounced off the canyon walls. She began
running down the hillside.

Caught
off guard, flat-footed, Draconas cursed himself for being an idiot. /
have
to tell Bellona,
Melisande had said earlier, and her voice had lingered
over the name as if it were a honey-dipped almond, sweet in her mouth.

“What’s
going on?” Edward cried, emerging from the cave, his naked sword in his hand. “I
heard voices. Where’s Melisande?”

“Stay
there!” Draconas bellowed, and dashed off.

Six
hundred years among humans, and they continued to astonish him with their
stupidity. For, of course, instead of obeying his orders and remaining in the
safety of the cave, Edward came crashing along after him.

“Melisande!”
he shouted desperately. “Come back!”

She
was some distance below them, scrambling frantically among the rocks and crags
and trees, making her way down the hillside more by luck and instinct than
skill. She halted abruptly, brought up short on a rock shelf that jutted out
over the ravine. The drop below was considerable. Searching for some way off
the shelf, she did not see the soldiers draw their bows and nock the arrows.
She would hear the order to fire, but that would be the next to the last sound
she would hear. The last would be the vicious humming buzz of the arrow and the
wet thunk as it thudded into her breast.

Draconas
cursed all humans roundly. She didn’t have to die. A magic spell had already
formed itself in his mind. He could use his magic to set fire to every single
arrow, burn them to ashes. But if Melisande did not know who he was now, she
would know or be able to guess then. She would recognize the use of dragon
magic.

He
thought of the plan, his plan, and of what would happen to Melisande if Anora
decided to proceed with it. Perhaps it would be best if she died, here and now,
at the hands of humans. Anora could not blame him . . .

Draconas
opened his hand, let the magic trickle out of it, as so much sand.

Edward
careened off boulders, shoved himself off trees, ran headlong down the cliff
face.

“Look
out!” he shouted. “Melisande, take cover!”

Melisande
lifted her head. She saw the warriors lifting their bows. She saw the arrows
aimed at her and she held out her hands.

“Bellona!”
she cried, pleading.

“Fire!”
called the commander’s voice, cold and proud and clear.

Edward
leapt onto the boulder beside Melisande. Catching her around the waist, he
flung her into a pile of soggy brush and dead leaves washed up along the bank.
He jumped after her, as arrows pierced the air where she had been standing.

They
both landed in a heap. Edward scrambled to his feet, pulling Melisande up with
him. Draconas hastened to meet them. He seized hold of her arm—limp and
unresisting—and hauled her up the bank, as Edward pushed her from below.

“Fire!”
came the order again.

Was
it his imagination or did that voice sound relieved? And was it also his imagination
or were those women terrible archers? Draconas flattened himself on his belly,
dragging Melisande down beside him. Edward shielded her with his body. Arrows
clattered all around them, striking the rocks or sticking in the mud or falling
among the trees.

Immediately,
they were up. Grabbing hold of Melisande, who lay crushed and half-stunned,
Draconas dragged her up the hillside. By Edward’s heavy breathing and swearing,
the king had also escaped injury.

They
scrambled up the hill, slipping and falling, rising and running. Melisande
moved in a benumbed state, not seeming to care what happened to her.

Halfway
up the hill, she startled him, therefore, by coming to a sudden halt. Shaking
off Draconas’s hand, ignoring Edward’s frantic protests, she stood on the
hillside, turned to look back at the warriors, who were once again on the move,
galloping down into the ravine, coming after her.

“I
told you,” Draconas grunted. “She means to kill you.” Two tears welled up in
Melisande’s eyes and slid down her cheeks, plowing small furrows through the
muck and mud on her face.

Turning
away, she shoved aside his hand, refused his help. She climbed on her own.

TIME
IS ON OUR SIDE, OR SO EDWARD CALCULATED.

The
warriors would have to cross the ravine and that would cost them time, for not
only would they have to find a way through the uprooted trees and branches left
after the flood, they would have to wade through oozing mud that sucked at the
horses’ hooves. Then the warriors would have to ride up the other side, which
was steep and treacherous, as Edward could attest.

“You
look after Melisande,” Draconas ordered, when they reached the horses. “I’ll
take the lead.”

This
was one order Edward was happy to obey and, after an anxious query to ascertain
if she had suffered any hurt—a query she did not answer, or even seem to
hear—he lifted Melisande onto the horse he had brought as a gift for the
Mistress. A bit belatedly, he asked her if she could ride.

“Yes,”
she said, but she did not look at him when she answered. She stared straight
ahead. Her hands grasped the reins only after he thrust them into her chill
fingers.

He
mounted his own horse swiftly, looked back worriedly at her.

“It
will be all right,” he told her.

She
sat on her horse, said nothing.

He
rode over to her, clasped his hand over hers. She flinched at his touch, but
she looked at him, was aware of him, and she did not withdraw her hand.

“You
have to live,” he said to her. “You are the only one who can save them.”

She
gazed at him long and he saw a flicker of life stir in the empty blue eyes.

Draconas
came galloping up. “You two can play patty-cake later!” he said with an irate
glance at their clasped hands.

Edward
snatched his away hurriedly. Melisande took hold of the reins, sat up straight
in the saddle, and urged the horse forward, falling in behind Draconas. Edward
brought up the rear.

He
had no idea where they were. He followed Draconas, who seemed to know exactly
where he was going and Edward did not question. Draconas appeared intent upon
saving Melisande’s life, protecting her from harm, and Edward would have given
his trust to the Devil himself, if that foul demon king had promised to save
Melisande.

Edward
divided his time watching for the warriors behind and keeping watch on
Melisande ahead. She did not once look back, and he thought that a bad sign.
She rode with a drooping head, abstracted, absorbed in her sorrow, letting the
horse go where it would. Fortunately, the horse was accustomed to following its
fellows and made no difficulty. Edward rode up closer, just to make sure.

He
was worried about her, and he would have liked to have stopped somewhere, build
a fire, warm her, dry her, find her meat and drink, for she had been as cold to
his touch as a corpse. They dared not stop. They had to keep riding. Every so
often, an arrow would rattle through the branches or thud into a tree trunk,
reminding them that death traveled behind.

They
spent the next few hours endeavoring to throw off pursuit. They rode up hill
and down. They doubled back on their trail, ducked into gullies, galloped
unexpectedly out of cul-de-sacs. Sometimes Edward would think that they had
lost the soldiers, but just when he started to breathe a little easier, he
heard hoofbeats drumming behind.

The
sun was midway between noon and evening, the hottest part of the day. The
horses’ flanks heaved, their bodies gleamed with sweat. Their eyes were wide
and wild and saliva dripped from their mouths. Edward was not in much better
shape than the beasts. Waking that morning, he’d been amazed to find out how
much better he felt. But then, as everyone knew, a good sleep cured most ills.
Heat, tension, and fatigue brought back the dull, pounding ache in his head. He
was stiff and sore from the hard riding, and he could not imagine how difficult
this must be for Melisande, who rode with her skirts hitched up over her knees.

She
said no word of complaint, however. She said no word of any kind. She did what
they told her, went where they told her in silence. Edward was just thinking
that this nightmare journey must go on and on forever, and then cooling shadows
washed over him, refreshed and revived him.

They
left the barren mountain trail behind, entered a forest thick with oak and
linden, poplar and pine and sighing willow trees.

A
breeze stirred the leaves. The air temperature dropped. The smell of water came
to both men and horses. Galloping up a slight rise, they topped it, and there
before them was the river, swift-flowing, wide, dark, and deep.

“The
Aston,” said Edward, reining in his horse. He cast a grim glance at Draconas. “We’re
trapped. There’s no ford here. We can’t cross. The warriors will catch us now,
for certain. You’ve brought us the wrong way!”

“On
the contrary,” Draconas returned, swinging himself out of the saddle. “This is
what I’ve been searching for. Look there.”

He
pointed to a trail, a narrow strip of dirt worn into the grass and weeds and
marked with countless hoofprints of deer and elk, crisscrossed by the paw
prints of wolf and fox and mountain lion and, here and there, the deep gouges
made by a bear’s claws. Draconas pointed again, not to the trail this time, but
on either side of it. Edward looked down. At first he saw nothing, then the
tracks leapt out at him, so that he wondered if he’d gone stupid or blind or both
to have missed them.

Two
faint ruts ran on either side of the muddy track.

“Wagon
wheels,” said Edward.

“Wait
here,” Draconas said. He tromped along the wheel ruts, following their trail,
and vanished into a thicket. He was gone some time.

Edward
had no idea what Draconas was looking for or what this had to do with them. He
glanced anxiously behind them. He hadn’t heard the hoofbeats for some time, but
he’d been fooled by that too often now to take much hope in it. He looked over
at Melisande.

“Are
you all right?” he asked.

“I’m
thirsty,” she said, not looking at him.

“We’ve
come to the right place for that, seemingly,” he replied, trying to win a
smile.

There
came a noise of rustling branches directly behind them. Edward turned swiftly,
his hand on his sword, but it was only Draconas, emerging out of the thicket.

“I’ve
found the wagon,” he reported, looking pleased with himself.

“That’s
interesting,” Edward remarked caustically. “I don’t see—”

“And
three boats,” Draconas reported. He turned and pointed. “They’re over there.
Drawn up on the bank, covered by a tarp.”

Edward
gazed out at the swift-flowing river and he suddenly understood. He eased
himself down out of the saddle, then went to help Melisande. She tried to
dismount herself, but she was stiff from the long ride and she half-slid,
half-tumbled into his arms.

Gasping
in pain, she bit back a cry, nearly falling as she tried to stand. Her clothes
were disheveled, her skirts up around her thighs. She shook her skirts down,
but not before he had caught a glimpse of bare flesh, saw that the skin on her
legs was rubbed raw from the constant jolting movement. He also saw that her
legs were shapely, well-formed, with small, delicate ankles and feet.

“You
should walk around, if you can,” Edward said in some confusion. “Restore the
circulation. I’ll see to the horses.”

Melisande
nodded and limped slowly toward the thick trees, her lips pressed tightly over
the pain.

“What
about the warriors?” Edward asked Draconas, who was removing his saddle and
bridle.

“I
think we’ve lost them,” said Draconas. “But only for the time being. That
leader of theirs has the tenacity of a bull baiter. She’ll track us down unless
we throw her off the trail permanently. The boats are sound. Though taking to
the river will mean leaving behind the horses.”

“That
is nothing,” said Edward, his gaze following Melisande. “She cannot ride any
farther. It’s a wonder she made it this long.” He paused, frowning. “Do you
think we should let her go off alone?”

“I
don’t believe she’d appreciate our company,” said Draconas dryly.

“Oh,”
said Edward in embarrassed understanding.

He
turned his back on the amused Draconas and began to unsaddle his horse, talking
to relieve his tension.

“Probably
those warriors will find the horses.”

“Better
the horses than us,” said Draconas. Walking down to the river, he cupped his
hands, scooped up water to slake his thirst.

Edward
flung the saddle onto the ground. “How did you know that you’d find boats here?
And the wagon? And how did you even know where ‘here’ was? I’ve been lost ever
since we left the cave.”

“Just
doing my job,” Draconas replied. “What you’re paying me for. As for the wagon”—he
raised his head, gazed down the river—”they had to have some way to transport
the babies.”

“Babies?”
Edward was confused. “What—Oh! Lord bless and keep me. I’d completely
forgotten! The babies from the cave.”

He
could not believe that it was only last night that they’d come across the baby
smugglers. It seemed a year of nights to Edward.

“Yes,
I suppose that makes sense. But how did you know they would travel by river?
How did you know you’d find boats?”

“A
lucky guess,” said Draconas offhandedly. Standing up, he cocked his head,
listening.

“Hear
anything?” Edward asked.

Draconas
shook his head. “No, I think this time we’ve lost them. Their commander’s good,
whoever she is.”

“And
yet, she is a woman,” said Edward. “I know that history speaks of female
warriors in ancient times, but... it seems very strange to me. Against God’s
wishes.”