The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (52 page)

“She’s left me,” he mutters, hearing himself rave like some old drunk who’s lost his woman.

“Who has?”

“She . . .” No, there she is. He feels her now. Touching, filling, merging with the trees, with the leafless branches and the sodden earth of the meadow and the snow and the muddied rim of the pond, entering the very substance of the Grove as she had entered him, molecule by molecule.

As she flows into and through, the snowdrifts swirl up and coalesce into the shapes of woodland animals. Pale and huge, they stalk across the meadow. The barren trees writhe like a nest of vipers. The smoke rising from the campfires twists into the form of winged raptors, and the water of the pond leaps up as fish, their gaping mouths lined with teeth.

The sentries bellow their alarm. The quiet camp explodes into action, as the bedded-down troops glance up from their
dice games and weapons repair. Voices cry out for light, though it is not yet night. The fires flare high as wood is thrown on in armloads. A hundred torches burst to life. The dark profiles of running men and rearing horses crisscross the brightening glare.

The Librarian hauls himself out of his tumble into grief and outrage. Knowing no other direction but forward, he raises his arm and gestures his little battalion on across the meadow, while around them the trees sway and the whirlwind snow shapes of stag and bear ride guard.

“More light!” the voices cry, now less distant and more frightened. Other commands ring out, but panic deafens the soldiers. They stumble over each other, reaching for their boots, their weapons, their helmets, striking out against shadows and blindly maiming their friends. The campfires swell into bonfires, shooting flame and spark into the thick dark air above the meadow. A man on a tall white horse circles the central fiery tower, yelling threats and encouragement. His white robe takes on the ruddy colors of the fire, and his raised sword throws shards of light far enough to flash in the Librarian’s eyes.

The shadows recede before the fire’s onslaught. The snow beasts seem less substantial, even flimsy in the glare. Taking heart at the banishing of darkness, the soldiers come to their senses and once again hear the hoarse shouts of their officers, and especially the mounted white-robe, who rides among them like a dog among sheep, herding them into order.

“Illusions only! Pay them no heed! Magic has no force among the righteous!” the white-robe rails, and even through the veil of centuries, the Librarian recognizes the voice of Brother Guillemo.

He glances behind him, with fleeting thoughts of retreat. He is halfway between camp and portal. The last of the women, Margit’s twins, each assisting one of the older refugees, hurry through the stone arch hovering insubstantially among the trees. The Librarian grimaces at the finality of it, then releases his stranglehold on a tiny shred of Air’s consciousness, which is all that’s kept the portal open after his own passage through it. The gateway, its stone pillars and iron grille and its slice of view into the
sun and green of Deep Moor, vanishes into snow and air and darkness.

And then, Earth arrives. Water completes her transmutation. Her numberless crystalline motes swirl up into the whirlwinds to be carried over the camp as a glittering cloud with uncanny intent. Raindrops hiss in the bonfires, the early warning of the downpour that follows, quenching the flames with a great whoosh and a belching of black smoke. New cries of dismay rise from the soldiers, blinded again by smoke and oncoming night, and another wave of terror as the ground shudders and sways, jerking them off their feet. Still the white-robed rider, Brother Guillemo, whips his frothing mount through the panic and pandemonium, one moment exhorting his troops to bravery, in the next, promising courts-martial and executions if they do not stand and fight. Many are frightened back to their posts. Even more choose to take their chances with the shadows and the spectral beasts. They flounder off into the drifts between the trees, where their retreat is cut off by a new flare of light. The armies of the king have entered the Grove unchallenged for the first time since the siege began. Surrounding the camp, the foot soldiers light their torches. Fra Guill’s army is circled by a ring of bright and steady fire.

Taking advantage of Air’s ubiquitous eye, the Librarian observes how, for many of those seeking to flee, the appearance of the enemy seemingly out of nowhere and at night completes the destruction of their fighting spirit. They throw down their weapons, and then themselves, begging rescue from the fury of unnatural forces, and from their mad leader as well. Fear lends others strength enough to hack a way through the enemy line. Mounted squads are immediately sent off in pursuit. But the Librarian knows this is not the real battle. He hopes that the fighting will be over soon, now that it has accomplished its purpose, which was to clear the Grove of this pesky human intrusion so that the important work can begin.

But there is one intrusion more to be reckoned with. Never having dealt with him, and despite the Librarian’s warnings, Air has overlooked Brother Guillemo. Until he’s done for, this king will not leave the Grove. And the priest
sees this is likely his final stand, which makes him a desperate and unpredictable obstacle. Already he has succeeded in re-forming a substantial phalanx of his personal guard, his white-robed priest-knights. On their huge and spirited horses, they fill the central clearing, stirring up the pond and spilling out into the snow-swept meadow. But he does not order them to attack. He’s stalling for time, the Librarian guesses. Several of the knights have dismounted to build up the largest bonfire, still smoldering damply at its heart. The flames rise high as the dragons pull back, allowing the king’s armies to march away their prisoners, clear the wounded, and tighten their ring around the remaining enemy. A respectful space is left for Earth, the only visible dragon, to take his place among them. The men tip their pikes to Erde, who rides proudly on Earth’s shoulder. Water glitters among the tree branches like a galaxy of stars. Air waits. She thinks the humans will be gone soon. Again, the Librarian cannot convince her that she’s wrong.

The Deep Moor refugees have been spotted, and Hal is racing around the outer ring to greet Rose and draw her up onto his saddle. But he soon sets her down again, signaling Wender over to shepherd them to the safety of the camp outside the Grove. As if in evidence to the Librarian’s point, Rose and Raven insist they will stay. Linden joins them, murmuring that a healer might be needed. Stoksie and Luther vow to protect them, while Margit and Lily insist that they will join the fight. Wisely, Hal doesn’t argue. He shrugs, kisses Rose soundly, and rides back into the line.

Inside the ring, Brother Guillemo rides around the central bonfire as if celebrating a victory. His white-robes have drawn their mounts up around him in a second ring. Guillemo has thrown back his hood so that his pale face shines in the firelight, cut across sharply by black brows and a black beard that shelters a surprisingly full, red mouth.
A sensual face
, muses the Librarian, whose earlier collisions with the hell-priest left him little time for leisurely observation. The priest’s deep voice carries without straining, as an actor’s must, lending it a disturbing quality of intimacy, despite its volume and grandiose rhetoric.

“Illusions!” he is bellowing. “If you do not heed them, they can do no harm!”

“But the dragons . . .!” shouts one of the white-robes, as if speaking an assigned role.

“Dragons! A mere creature of Nature! God decrees that man’s proper destiny is to rule over Nature! Nature is chaos! Chaos is the enemy! Man brings order and piety and civilization!”

The Librarian’s old habits of protest stir in his gut like a nest of hornets.
If cutting down a grove of sacred trees is your idea of piety and civilization
, he wants to shout,
language has lost all its meaning. This is filth, what you’ve done! You are filth!
But because the dragons still wait, he keeps his silence.

“Man must bend all Nature into harness!” the priest continues, as if he stood in the pulpit of a church and not on the field about to fight his last battle. “Water, wind, the products of the earth! All are created to fuel humankind’s drive toward our manifest destiny! I know this to be true and good and righteous! If you believe in me, if you believe in that destiny, they cannot stand against us!” He whirls his horse at the circle of his own men. A way parts for him, as if rehearsed, and he rides boldly into the no-man’s-land between the opposing forces. Now his exhortations are aimed at the front ranks of the king’s infantry, who stare back at him stonily with pikes at the ready.

“You there!” He singles out one soldier in particular, a boy with sullen eyes. “Most likely you will die tonight! You think you have the advantage of numbers, but hear me! Few can stand against my knights! What will become of your immortal soul if you die fighting for a dragon’s cause?”

The Librarian notes several nods among the boy’s neighbors. Heads bend together, muttering.

“You there!” The priest spurs down the line, flirting with the archers in the rear by dancing his horse in and out of their range. He pulls up across from an older infantryman. “Is it right that your stripling king forces you into battle in support of
witches
, who should be properly burned in God’s name?”

More nods and mutters, even some audible grumbling.
The Librarian grinds his teeth. He’s just realized what the dragons are waiting for. They’re still expecting the fourth of them to arrive.

Erde shivers as Fra Guill evokes the horrors of the stake. She’s slipped down from Earth’s shoulder to his forearm, avoiding the hell-priest’s line of sight, and hopes that the women standing in the warmth of the dragon’s shadow will do likewise. Is he looking for her even now? For Rose, or Raven? As he wheels his horse in her direction, Erde shrinks against the dragon’s chest, then gasps as a hand grips her ankle.

“Hey, can I come up?” N’Doch grins up at her, his teeth very white against his face and his face very dark against the snow. He vaults up beside her and ruffles her hair, which is his idea of an appropriate greeting. “So far, so good. Was that you brought in the army?”

“Sort of. I mean, they were already out there, waiting.”

“Good move. Speaking of waiting, what’s going on? Water’s too discorporate to make any sense.”

“That’s what they’re doing. Waiting.”

“What for? Why don’t they just finish the bastard?”

Erde stares at him.

“You’re giving me that old surely-you-know-by-now look.”

She replies as if reciting a lesson. “A dragon cannot end a life without asking that life’s permission.”

“I mean the soldiers, not the dragons. How can they stand to sit still for that crap?”

“Oh.” Erde frowns gently. She’d stopped listening to the hell-priest long ago. “I think they’re waiting for the dragons to do it.”

“Well, someone better let them know they could be in for a long wait. Surely Hal knows better.”

“Sir Hal answers to his king.”

N’Doch rolls his eyes. “The old king thing.”

“Don’t be disrespectful.”

He makes another sour face, tapping the ridges on Earth’s chest plate. Erde sees he’s anxious, a bit jumpy.
“What about the Fire dude?” he asks finally. “You think he’ll show?”

“I don’t know.” She realizes she’s disappointed, and yes, nervous, too. Earth had nearly convinced her that Fire would be unable to resist Air’s final summons. But if he doesn’t come, what next?

“Okay, here we go. Somebody’s making a move. It’s Hal. What’s he up to?”

N’Doch points along the rank of soldiers, and Erde pulls up out of her defensive slouch to look. Hal has urged his horse forward from beside the king, and is riding with slow deliberation around the ring on a path that will bring him face-to-face with Brother Guillemo. His back is erect. His chin is high. The dragon-hilted sword lies unsheathed across his red-leathered thighs. Erde thinks he looks the very picture of a King’s Knight.

N’Doch whistles softly. “No chance of one man taking this creep down. What’s Hal gonna do, challenge him? I wouldn’t trust that dude to fight fair!”

“But no one has more reason to challenge him.” Erde chews her lip, worried. “And he feels this is all his fault for not seeing what Fra Guill was from the beginning, and for not putting a stop to him then.”

“Hey, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“Is what?”

“Never mind.”

After a moment, Erde says, “Still, I wish he would let a younger man fight. If only . . .”

She hesitates so long that N’Doch fills in the rest. “If only Dolph was here?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, I’d like that, too.” He pats her shoulder. “Don’t worry. If it goes bad, the dragons’ll step in somehow.”

There’s another pause, so that the sound of Fra Guill haranguing the troops intrudes like a physical presence between them. Finally, Erde says, “We put so much faith in them.”

“You’re the one who taught me to.”

“But what if three is not enough? What if Lord Fire doesn’t come? What if our dragons can’t do what needs to be done?”

“Then the world goes down the tubes, I guess. Least, that seems to be what they’re suggesting.”