When Dragons Rage, Page 3

  Will’s eyes narrowed, as the hints of a shadow plan began to collect in his mind. “Yes, yes, I would like that.” The young thief smiled up at his host. “Sing to me of Squab. There is much I want to learn.”

  CHAPTER 3

  K errigan Reese shivered in his bed, huddled beneath a thick woolen blanket that smelled of sour sweat. The corpulent youth had pulled the blanket up over his head. He endeavored to keep still, so that the crackling scrunch of the mattress’ straw couldn’t drag him back to reality.

  The shivers betrayed him, however. The tremors coaxed little sounds from the straw. The scrabbling of rodents, perhaps, or of insects. Or of beetles burrowing into a grave, devouring the flesh of the dead . . .

  He shook his head, letting the resulting thunderclap of sound banish those thoughts. For a moment or two it worked, then the sounds returned. And beneath them, the buzzed roar of the common room’s rabble: laughing, shouting, and singing some stupid song.

  Kerrigan wondered how they could sing at a time like this. Everything had come crashing in on him. The world he had known in his first seventeen years had exploded like an alembic in a failed spellcasting. His life on Vilwan had been one of peace and comfort—though he had failed to recognize that at the time. His tutors had been severe taskmasters, but had taught him all manner of spells that no Human sorcerer had mastered in centuries. If ever!

  He had known the way of the world, of the evil that was Chytrine. The grand history of Vilwan had informed him of the wars that had been fought against her. He had read of the loss of Vorquellyn and of the war before his birth. Okrannel had fallen to Chytrine’s forces then, but she had been stopped at Fortress Draconis. The clear assumption had been that the last war had put a stop to her predations, but her renewed attacks against the Southlands gave lie to that idea.

  And her attacks had destroyed his life.

  Chytrine had formed an alliance with Vionna, the Pirate Queen of Wruona. The pirates had sent a fleet to attack Vilwan, complete with dragonels mounted aboard the ships. There was even a dragon. A fierce battle had raged at the northern tip of the island. The pirates had failed in their invasion, but not without exacting a terrible price.

  Kerrigan did not know of that battle firsthand. He, like so many sorcerers his age and younger, had been evacuated from Vilwan. As the ships that had brought troops to Vilwan took Apprentices and Adepts away, the true focus of Chytrine’s plan was revealed. Pirates attacked the evacuation fleet—destroying ships, devastating a whole generation of magickers. Kerrigan himself had been sorely wounded, and save for luck and circumstance would have died.

  From there he had been made a plaything of Panqui juveniles, traveled to Yslin and on to Okrannel, where he had helped with the preparations for the siege of Svoin. He’d then been sent to steal a portion of the DragonCrown that Vionna’s consort, the Azure Spider, had stolen from Jerana. On that quest his last tutor, Orla, had been slain.

  And then there was the siege of Fortress Draconis and a second evacuation to the south. In that one, he had taken charge of a small company of children. He’d been unable to protect the young sorcerers who had been on the ship with him, but he vowed he would not let these children—the scions of the fortress’ brave defenders—come to harm.

  He’d borne up bravely through it all. He was able to acknowledge that, but once they’d reached Oriosa and he was freed of the vow he’d given the Draconis Baron, things had spiraled down into him. Orla, as she was dying, told him to have nothing further to do with Vilwan and to follow Crow and Resolute. Resolute clearly had nothing but contempt for him—it helped very little that Resolute seemed to hold everyone in contempt. Crow, who had been kindly and gentle, now languished in prison, leaving Kerrigan very much alone.

  Strains of a melody leaked up from below and Kerrigan recognized it, which rather surprised him. Though he could wield great magicks, he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. One of his mentors had a weakness for common tavern songs, and performers had come to Vilwan to entertain him—all for Kerrigan’s benefit, of course. Kerrigan remembered none of the verses of this song, but the refrain came back strongly as the audience below joined in.

  Now Squab is dead,

  They’ve cut off his head,

  And plied torch to his heart.

  Garlic in his mouth,

  Head buried facing south,

  His body torn apart.

  ’Tis the way,

  To treat cowards, they say.

  ’Specially those who think they’re so smart.

  The song would continue with some Squab misadventure or other, showing him a fool. Kerrigan did not doubt that Crow had been Hawkins. When the Oriosan authorities came to arrest him, Crow had warned Kerrigan to keep the secret the Draconis Baron had entrusted to him. Crow’s cryptic and secretive behavior at that point had told Kerrigan that he was guilty as charged. But as for Crow’s being Squab, that had surprised Kerrigan—primarily because Squab had always been a simpleton and Crow had been anything but.

  The secret he’d been entrusted was now all he had. Reaching inside his layers of tunics, he fished out a leather sack heavy and bulging as if it housed an apple made of metal. As he opened it he did catch the glint of gold, but one that flashed scarlet after a moment. He poured the object into his right hand, then cupped his left beneath it, too.

  Fortress Draconis had once housed three fragments of the DragonCrown Yrulph Kirûn had fashioned centuries before. After his defeat the Crown had been broken apart and the pieces scattered. The Draconis Baron had asked Kerrigan to fashion a decoy for the ruby fragment, then had given the true fragment to him, to let him carry it away during the evacuation.

  The ruby set in gold glowed with a rich red light that slowly pulsed. The young magicker had once held another DragonCrown fragment, but it had remained lifeless and cold to his touch. This one had warmed while in his possession and as he brushed fingertips over it, the glow intensified where flesh touched stone.

  Kerrigan had not noticed the light in the stone when he was at Fortress Draconis; he would have told the Draconis Baron if he had. It had first appeared on retreat from the fortress and had grown steadily since. He didn’t know what it was, or why it was happening.

  He probably should have been frightened, but he wasn’t.

  The ruby’s glow suffused the tight, dark space beneath the blanket. Kerrigan studied it and it slowly pulsed. He could feel some warmth in his fingers—at least he thought he could—so he brought the gem closer to his face, to see if he could feel heat there.

  He did, a little, but then the glow stopped pulsing and instead expanded into a scarlet tunnel that drew him in. Quick panic rose in him, throbbing through his stomach. A tingle ran over his body—the same sensation that prickles the hair at the nape of the neck when being watched unseen. Kerrigan tried to pull his head back, push his hands down, but found his body locked in a rictus as hard as the magickal armor that would rise through his flesh to protect him.

  You are but a boy.

  The words came softly, whispered and insubstantial, yet seeming to pierce the red haze that defined his world. He had no sense of his body, and yet no sense of freedom. It was as if his entire being drifted amorphously behind the point of his vision. He wanted to turn and look, to see if he could find whoever it was that spoke to him, but he couldn’t.

  There is nothing to see, boy, because you are within.

  Two things came to Kerrigan immediately. First, he knew that whoever was speaking was reading his thoughts. He tried to shield them, but even the most rudimentary protection was knocked aside like a dry leaf before a gust of wind.

  The second thing would have set him to trembling except that his body could not move. The words filled his mind like the swell of a wave, but they were but the foam at the crest: translated, distilled, strained, and predigested so he could grasp them. Beneath surged unprecedented power.

  A million questions raced through his mind. Though he could make no sense of the chaos, the s
peaker—a female, of this he was certain—sorted through them as if they were a handful of coins. Trickles of something that might be amusement caressed him. He sought to concentrate.

  More amusement met this effort. You are quite learned, boy, but not yet wise. You are a child in your father’s clothing, playing at being a man.

  The words—“boy,” “child,” “father,” and “man”—rolled around in Kerrigan’s mind. They had some of the nuances conferred on them by common convention, but there was more as well. He would have expected a sharper contrast between boy and man, yet both came tainted with a sense of youth, even infancy. Father and child should have possessed a greater affinity for each other, but instead there was a dislocation. It was as if father was used to acknowledge a biological connection with child, but hinted at none of the nurturing and education a parent would provide.

  Kerrigan again focused. Who are you?

  Mirth came full, but carried with it a whiplash sting. Names have power, as well you know. But names have no power now, for us. We are players being played. Pawns. Our destinies intersect and spin away, then curl back again to fuse or destroy.

  He less heard the words than got a sense of soaring, wheeling, looping, and diving, as a bird might, riding the buffeting winds above a cliff. The sensation initially left him feeling light and quick, then, at the last, hit hard and he spun out of control.

  A gentle presence caressed his mind and peace returned. Forgive me, boy, for I have long been without company and have forgotten my strength.

  Kerrigan shivered. I’m not a boy. And not a pawn.

  No pawn ever sees himself as a pawn.

  Who controls me?

  ’Tis not so simple a game, Kerriganreese. Many play, many exert control. Ours is not to resist, but to know when we are being controlled. We cannot determine where we will fall, but perhaps how we will fall.

  Confusion ripped through his mind. He had grown up with cryptic remarks galore on Vilwan; such was the way of wizards. He had always assumed these things were largely bluff, but here he was reading ripples on the surface of a deep ocean. While he wanted to know more, he also knew he’d drown.

  Perhaps wiser after all. The words warmed him. You know much must be done. You cannot do it alone. You are stronger than even you think, but your strength comes from your friends. Forget this, and the world will suffer.

  The sting came swift and brutal, stabbing deep into his belly. The paralysis released him. His body snapped forward and he rolled onto his left side, clutching the DragonCrown fragment to his belly. The flesh quivered and he tried to pull himself more tightly into a ball, but his girth prevented it. The agony in his middle cast lightning into the rest of him, but after a moment it evaporated, leaving him sweaty and cold.

  As cold as the stone in his hands.

  Kerrigan cast the blanket off and gulped down cooler air. He rolled onto his back and lay there gasping. He stared up at the shifting shadows and streaks of light cast up through the ill-fitting floorboards. Sweat stung his eyes, and he swiped at it with his hand before returning the fragment to the leather bag and tucking it back inside his shirt.

  He had no idea what had just happened to him—no concrete idea, though he did have fragments. A mind had touched his. He knew it wasn’t Chytrine, since she would have scourged him. This mind bore him no malice. The pain he’d known at the end had come because this mind’s use of the word “suffer” carried with it far more import than the human word.

  The word resurfaced in his mind and he saw it in fine script, as if a mask behind which something hid. The way the Oriosan King hides his cowardice behind a mask. In this case, however, the word covered something more terrible. It concealed a horror so overwhelming that were it to be unmasked it would shatter his mind.

  Logic suggested that he had been speaking with a dragon. After all, the DragonCrown had been fashioned to make them subject to the owner. The one gem that Chytrine possessed gave her control over at least one dragon. Had he touched the mind of an enslaved dragon?

  Kerrigan shifted his shoulders and sat upright. That doesn’t matter. Whether it was an enslaved dragon or some trick Chytrine had played upon him was immaterial. The suffering that mind knew would become a daily occurrence if Chytrine won.

  The young magicker shook his head. With the help of his friends, he was determined this would never happen.

  CHAPTER 4

  W ith his arms flailing unsuccessfully to control his flight, the Tolsin guardsman landed hard on the round wooden table, shattering it completely. The short drop to the ground forced a grunt from him and caused his tin-pot helmet to bounce off. It clunked and danced across the floor, striking Call Mably full in the knee, which was, for Alexia, a consequence unintended but hardly unwelcomed.

  Mably—a scrawny man with brown eyes and thin lines of hair covering his pate—hissed and clutched at his knee. He glanced up at her with a hot glare. He wore a leather mask of Oriosan green that had been festooned with a variety of marks and little badges to stress his authority as Tolsin’s magistrate, and its gaudy display only served to undermine the glare’s heat. He straightened up at his table in the Thistledown Tavern, and did his best to keep his voice even.

  “To what do I owe this honor, Princess Alexia?”

  Alexia took one step forward, pinning the guardsman’s right hand to the floorboards. “I came to visit Crow, but this man was under the mistaken impression that no such visit would be allowed.”

  Mably’s nostrils flared for a moment, then he picked up a small steaming bowl of mulled wine. “He was not mistaken. The Traitor is to be allowed no visitors.”

  Alexia frowned and turned her head partway to the left. She let her own gaze fall over a few of the tavern’s patrons near the fireplace. As they abruptly looked down, pretending to mind their own business, she spoke softly. “If I heard you correctly, Magistrate, you said Crow would be allowed no visitors.”

  “I did, Princess.”

  “And you are under the mistaken impression that rule would apply to me?”

  “I am.”

  Alyx walked over to him, the golden mail surcoat she wore rustling as she went. She leaned down, her gloved hands pressed firmly to the table, her nose a gnat’s length from his. “I noted your impression was ‘mistaken.’ ”

  Mably’s eyes hardened as much as they could, which meant they avoided looking as runny as soft-boiled eggs—but not by much. His voice tightened, rising in register. “I recall that. It was not.”

  “Ah, very good. Then consider this. I am a Princess of Okrannel. I am of the same rank as your King Scrainwood. King Augustus is married to a cousin of mine. If I were to choose to deem your prohibition an insult, then demand satisfaction of you, what do you think would happen? Do you think any of your people would stand against me? And do you think that if I slew the lot of them, you included, I would be censured or punished in any way at all? Don’t nod, Mably. You might not be the smartest man alive, but you are not that stupid. I want to see Crow. I will see Crow. Now!”

  She straightened up and hooked her thumbs behind the round buckle of her belt.

  Mably reached for his wine coolly, but the ripples in the liquid as he grasped the bowl revealed his fear. He raised his left hand, flicking it casually toward the back of the tavern. “The princess wishes to see the prisoner. Let her pass.”

  “You are most kind.”

  Mably’s voice grew cold. “Even you would not imagine you would be allowed to wear a weapon.”

  Her eyes tightened. “You have my word of honor . . .”

  “Yours, yes, but not his. You see my predicament, Princess. Your sword belt, please.”

  Alexia unbuckled it and slid it off. Then she rebuckled it and hung it from a peg on one of the tavern’s wooden columns. Unrestrained by the belt, the mail hung on her like a girl’s summer shift, rustling loudly as she crossed to the back corner. There, a corpulent guard struggled to his feet, pried a wooden chair off his ample buttocks, then moved it aside fr
om the trapdoor leading down into the cellar.

  As the man opened the door, she took a lantern from a wall peg and turned the wick up. The opened trapdoor revealed a steep set of ladderlike steps, and cold and moist air washed over her as she descended. The guard closed the door over her head and the scraping sounds from above indicated he’d resumed his post. She listened closely to see if Mably was ordering him to keep her imprisoned, but she heard nothing. A pity. While she hoped the magistrate would do something stupid, he was too much of a coward to strike openly.

  Since it was a small town, Tolsin didn’t have much need of a gaol to house prisoners. When Crow had arrived someone had decided they needed a place to keep him—and the best option turned out to be the root cellar below the Thistledown. Alexia was fairly certain that Mably owned the tavern or had an interest in it, and that the Oriosan government would be charged for keeping Crow safe.

  As nearly as she could tell, the preparations for housing Crow had been kept to a minimum. A corner of the cellar had been cleared and a patch of straw had been spread out. An eyebolt had been hitched to a rafter and from it hung chains that ended in manacles. The chains were long enough that Crow could lie down, and that surprised Alexia.

  The light from her lantern finally touched Crow himself, bleeding some color into what had been the white ghost of a figure huddled in the corner. He’d been stripped of his clothing, and while his long white hair and beard suggested antiquity, his body was still that of a younger man. His left leg remained slightly swollen from broken bones that had only been partially healed by magick. A single scar started at his hairline to the right side of his face, came down over his cheek, then picked up two companions at his collarbone, which then traced down past his hip and thigh to his knee. A plethora of other scars, all white with age, crisscrossed his body.

  Alexia gasped—not because of his nakedness or the scars, but because of the new livid bruises on his chest, his arms, legs, and face. His lower lip had been split and his left eye was all but swollen shut. A crust of blood matted the hair at his right temple and one bruise on his chest clearly bore the imprint of a bootheel.