Sword Play (21 page)

He’d done it. Maybe he’d be a legend after all.

Staring upward while willing life and warmth into his frozen muscles, he saw the sky suddenly occluded by a whiskered, horned head. The dragon peered down into his face, so close Sunbright breathed sulfur but dared not cough.

“Uh, thank you for the thrilling ride, O wise and beautiful Wrathburn!

“How looks this One King?” The earth shivered under Sunbright. “Humans appear much alike to me.”

“He is tall and yellow-faced and wears a long robe and that wondrous crown I spoke of.” Wrathburn had listened intently when Sunbright talked of the platinum and gem-studded masterpiece. “He is usually to be found in the biggest room in the largest building in the city.” The barbarian levered himself to one elbow, inadvertently banging Wrathburn’s snout with the other. “You can see the roof of the building above that wall!”

Yellow eyes pinned Sunbright like a butterfly. “You do me great service to warn me of this viper so close to my bosom. You will wait here to accompany me back to my cave for your reward. Look forward, lucky human, to a long and illustrious career as song-singer for Wrathburn the All-High!”

Sunbright’s face split into a grin like that of a dried skull. “Joy!”

Then the dragon tromped off, tail dragging a furrow, like a ship come aground in a hurricane.

Rolling upright, Sunbright wiped his face with both hands and took what seemed his first breath of the day. He watched as the dragon thundered toward Tinnainen. The beast had landed on a flat stretch of lichen-covered rocks and tufted grass not far from the road. Sheep and goat pens lined the road on both sides, and the animals sent up a pitiful bleating at the sight and smell of the giant predator. From the small town surrounding the city, terrified homeowners either fled down the road, into the hills, or toward the gates of the city, shoving orcish and human guards aside to gain sanctuary. The frightened guards tottered like puppets, some fleeing, some fainting, some dropping to their knees to pray. And all along the gray city walls, Sunbright saw heads pop up to see the dragon, then disappear, only to pop up again. The smart folks, he decided, were seeking the deepest cellars to burrow into.

Whistling as he watched—the dragon’s back was as high as the walls—Sunbright hoped the beast would merely take his quarrel to the One King and leave the city unharmed. He hated to think he might be responsible for the deaths of dozens if—

That hope evaporated along with a score of sheep and goats. As Wrathburn passed the pens, he snuffled and blew a firestorm of flame that slaughtered the livestock. Charred, smoking lumps were all that remained, except for an occasional bleating goat, its skin scorched half away. Even the battered corral stakes burned. The barbarian didn’t know if Wrathburn was simply being destructive in a mean-spirited way, or if he cooked the animals to eat later. Either way, it seemed Tinnainen was going to pay for harboring the One King, occupied willingly or not. A wail of terror from the folk along the city wall echoed the thought.

But Sunbright had his own worries, his own tasks. Drawing Harvester, he trotted wide behind the dragon to keep out of the beast’s line of vision. He had women to rescue, and scores to settle.

There were only three guards at the gates now, two orcs and a human. Trembling, they lifted their pikes as the dragon approached and called, “Halt in the name of the One—”

Wrathburn wheezed, and flames shot from his nostrils. The stone gateposts blackened, the wooden doors ignited, even the granite threshold blistered. The guards shriveled to charred twists dotted with molten metal. Screams sounded inside the gates as people’s clothing and the thatch on houses ignited. Terror had come to Tinnainen.

Wrathburn ducked to peer through the gates, his head as high as the stone lintel painted with a red splayed hand. Inserting his snout, the beast lifted. With a groan of grinding stone, the lintel pulled loose of the supporting gateposts. The small flanking towers crumpled like sugar cones. Blocks as big as bushel baskets bounced off the dragon’s scaly head, but except for blinking, Wrathburn didn’t seem to notice. Growling, the dragon jerked his nose clear, and the whole gate structure collapsed onto the smoldering mess that remained of the One King’s guards. More screams sounded within, but they were fading as the people fled out the city’s smaller gates.

Sunbright had to get into the city, and his chance came as Wrathburn slowly turned and paced along the city wall. The dragon arched a neck armored with red scales and peered over the barrier, sending more blocks cascading into the muddled streets. At one point he huffed and puffed a jet of flame that billowed high. Obviously someone had offered resistance, or perhaps simply a tempting target.

Sunbright skipped nimbly over the rubble and wreckage of the main gates. At one point his hobnails skidded down a blood-slick surface. The stumble saved his life, for just before him crashed a huge stone block that could have snuffed him like a candle. With a hasty glance upward, he dashed through the crumbling walls into the city proper.

Chaos, not the One King, reigned. Townsfolk were largely gone, having fled to leave the fighting to the soldiers, but here and there ran fat traders who’d rescued their strongboxes and fathers who dragged children. A scorched dog ran between Sunbright’s feet, howling. A dozen thatched roofs burned, flinging flaming tendrils of straw and reeds into the sky and swirling into the street. Blocks from the city wall had smashed in roofs, crushed a well, sent market stalls tumbling like dominoes. Like rats spilled from an upset grain sack, looters yanked stalls apart to grab unguarded goods. One thief slashed a knife at a merchant shielding his wife, demanding the man’s purse. Loping past, Sunbright kissed the thief across the back of one knee with Harvester’s keen blade. Hamstrung, the would-be robber collapsed. “Run for the hills!” yelled the barbarian over his shoulder as he sped on.

The king’s palace was a madhouse. Three stories tall and flat-roofed, it was one story higher than the city wall, and this third story was reinforced along that side with ramparts and stations for ballistae and catapults. An orcish general waved his arms and shouted frantically for soldiers to arm a ballista, a giant crossbow. The oncoming Wrathburn watched the activity with bored detachment, as a boy might study ants. At a shout, the ballista’s restrainer was cut. A tremendous pung-clack resounded, and an arrow nine feet long slashed the air, glanced off Wrathburn’s shoulder, and plunged half its length into stony soil.

Hissing, the dragon reared upright like a bear, planted giant talons on the ramparts of the third story, scattering the defenders like teacups, and blasted hellfire in one sweep across the roof.

Sunbright watched all this while peering around the corner of a house that was still standing, for he didn’t want Wrathburn to glimpse him. There wasn’t even a scream or whimper from the palace roof. If that had been the king’s main defense, the battle was over. People and soldiers raced and shoved their way out of the wide doors of the palace, and Sunbright had to wait until the flood stemmed. Sword cocked over his shoulder, the barbarian slipped inside.

Compared to the chaotic streets, the interior of the castle was quiet, most of the defenders on the roof dead. Someone must have left a trapdoor open, for the stink of scorched death wafted down the stairs as Sunbright ran up.

The second floor held the main hall and throne room. As always, the One King occupied the throne. Sunbright wondered if it would be burned from under him. The king calmly addressed a tiny knot of sweating courtiers and orc commanders. Behind the throne, Sunbright glimpsed the rainbow shimmer of a familiar gown.

On his left hand, Sunbright heard a rustling of papers from a clerks’ alcove, where Angriman gathered paper and parchment to his bosom as if they’d form a shield against an angry dragon. Sunbright padded into the room as silent as a leopard, yet the minister whirled. Gray-faced and pouchy, he demanded, “What have you done? What have you done?”

“Brought you something,” said the barbarian evenly. Reaching behind his back, he snapped the rawhide whangs that tied a bundle to his scabbard. Onto the table he tossed a thick book crammed with lumpy vellum pages. It landed with a thump. The ancient, cracked cover sported a ruby as big and evil as a dragon’s eye. He added, “Though it’s more of a trade, really. Wrathburn wants the king’s crown—with his head mounted inside.”

The angry man shook all over, spilling papers. “You weren’t to bring the dragon here!”

“The king commanded I enter the dragon’s lair and retrieve the book. So I have. So I shall take Greenwillow and go.” And Ruellana, he added mentally. “Now stand aside or die.”

“You’ll destroy the dream! You’ll leave the world to wallow in chaos and disharmony!”

This was blather taken from the king’s speech, and could go on for days. Unwilling to kill an unarmed man, Sunbright edged the minister aside with his sword and strode toward the throne. Courtiers and soldiers parted, some hurrying to the door. Ruellana was not in sight, but Greenwillow rose from her bench, golden shackles still chained to it, and smiled when she saw him. The barbarian nodded formally, both a greeting and a command to wait.

The One King also rose and, for the first time, departed his throne to step onto the flagstones and block the barbarian’s path. He was taller than Sunbright had reckoned, especially with his heavy, gaudy crown with backswept wings of silver.

The barbarian held his sword by the pommel and blade. “I fetched your book; now free Greenwillow.” And be quick, he thought. Grinding, tearing, stone-rending noises were increasing by the second. The dragon was ripping through the castle as if it were a stale cake, and this was his destination.

Calm as a pillar of ice, the monarch proclaimed, “None may command the One King. Your offense must be punished.”

“A real king honors his bargains,” spat Sunbright. “Defend yourself!”

The king stood still, hands by his side.

Sunbright didn’t know what to think. He hated to kill an unarmed man, but the king had access to any number of weapons in the hands of the nearby courtiers who watched the contest of wills. And Sunbright had given more than fair warning, been overly generous with this oath-breaking snake.

Rearing back, slinging his sword behind him, Sunbright sucked wind, gave a mighty battle cry, and slashed Harvester in a great, glittering arc at the king’s neck.

The sharp sword with the arched and hooked tip slammed to a halt against the king’s cheek and bounced off, as if Sunbright had hacked at an iron-wood tree.

Hurled off balance by the force of his blow, the barbarian staggered, shuffled his feet, and brought Harvester up in automatic defense. Aghast, Sunbright prayed. What in the name of Mystryl’s mysteries… ?

The One King had barely moved. No blood appeared at the long cut on his cheek. Instead, dark gray smoke flowed outward.

Courtiers gasped. Soldiers dropped swords.

In the dragged-out silence, with only the rending and booming of falling stone in the background, there came a slow, soft chuckle, as dry as last year’s dead leaves.

For the first time, the One King exhibited emotion.

He was laughing. But not properly, head back and shaking, but with the same deadly calm as always. The mouth was like a black slit from which issued the slithering chuckles.

Then, more horror. The king reached strong, corded hands to his face, and dug thick fingernails into his eyebrows below the shining crown. Smoke swirled faster from the wound that was not a wound. People groaned involuntarily as the monarch tugged, then tore the skin from his own face.

Shreds of false skin hung limp from his hands like taffy. But no one noticed, for they stared, pop-eyed, at the smoke-wreathed face.

It was dark gray, shriveled like an old leaf, with wrinkled pits for eyes and mouth, and only slits for a nose … and a parchment-wrapped skull.

“Lich!” grunted an orc.

“Lord of the undead!” rasped another.

Fiend, monster, Sunbright’s mind reeled off the names. And master trickster and schemer, plying the patience of the dead to work its evil ways amid living men.

Gripped by terror, Sunbright backed involuntarily, his feet clumsy and heavy. Harvester’s tip dragged on black marble to strike sparks. There seemed to be only one thought in his mind, and that was to run, hard and fast.

Then all present turned as the rear wall of the castle broke and crumbled. Great blocks of stone crashed down into the hall or fell to clatter outside. Weak sunlight illuminated the room.

Then it was blocked completely by a scaly face and glaring yellow eyes. Smoke spilled from Wrathburn’s nostrils as he rumbled, “King! I want you!”

Sunbright backed farther away from the lich king. Fearsome as it was, the threat of the dragon receded. The beast could only destroy his body. A lord of the undead could destroy him utterly, body and soul and being.

The lich that had been the One King seemed to revel in the humans’ terror. It raised healthy-looking hands above its hideous, rotted visage and shrilled a mad, screeching laugh. Smoke continued to dribble from the deep cut in the parchment skin of its cheek, but a single swipe of the man-hand sealed the wound.

This was nothing he could fight, Sunbright knew. There was no way to kill something undead. And a lich was the most powerful undead thing of all, it was rumored, an indomitable spirit wedded to an indestructible body, centuries or eons old, perhaps once a true and mighty sorcerer-king in the dim, distant past.

Whatever, attacking the lich would have the same result as attacking the dragon: a senseless and painful death, or worse. In the superstitious turmoil of the barbarian’s mind, he feared the lich might simply will him to death with sheer terror.

And the dragon was rumbling, hissing, the lich keening some weird cry or incantation like nails on a slate.

More of the walls collapsed until, looking up, Sunbright saw portions of the apartment he’d occupied above. Plaster and blocks fell like lethal rain. The courtiers and soldiers had finally had enough and raced for the far doors. Seeking only to free Greenwillow and flee, the barbarian bulled his way through them.