Throne of Dragons

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Erin rode hard back toward the Spur, ignoring the pain of the knife wound in her leg. She sat tall in the saddle, chain shirt shining, short spear slung across her back. There were still traces of blood in the short darkness of her hair, because there hadn’t been time to truly clean up in the aftermath of their fight against the Quiet Men, not when they needed to carry the news back to the fort.

Sir Til and Sir Fenir rode beside her. Fenir was as quiet as always, graying and brooding beneath thick eyebrows, the clink of his half plate the only sound as he rode. It was more of a surprise that Til was just as quiet, riding forward with a fixed determination, his expression drawn and pale.

“You can’t still be angry that I charged in back at the village,” Erin said. “After everything they’d done?”

“And if they’d killed us, no one would know,” Til said. “If we didn’t make it back, there would still have been Quiet Men there, waiting to strike. Now, hurry your riding. We’ve a warning to deliver.”

Erin knew all of that, understood the consequences, but still wasn’t about to let it go. The Quiet Men had murdered an entire village’s worth of people. They deserved to die. She could no more have walked away and left them in peace than she could have knelt before them and let them cut her throat.

“Leave her be,” Fenir said. “We need to focus on getting back.”

Erin heard Sir Til sigh. “True. And you did fight well. You’re getting good with that spear. You’ll need to be.”

Erin knew why: war was coming. The Quiet Men taking a village was just the start. If they’d done that here, how many other places had they done it? How many more enemies would be coming?

It didn’t matter. They would kill them, no matter how many there were.

It was a long ride back to the black, jutting rock of the Spur. By the time it came into view, Erin could feel the ache of her muscles, the pain of her carefully bound wound growing with the effort of riding. Erin ignored it, because she was not some sensitive princess who needed to stop because of a little pain. She was a warrior, and she would be a knight.

Eventually, the fortress rose up ahead of them, sticking out on a random jutting of glassy black rock left over from the wars that had divided the continents. Gray stone stood above it, the gates open now to welcome them back.

As Erin and the others rode in, horns blared in welcome, and knights stood to either side in welcoming lines, swords raised. Erin felt like a returning hero, welcomed back into the embrace of a group of warriors out of stories, each one as powerful a fighter as any she’d met.

Beyond those ranks, she was surprised to see that the knights were starting to gather in the main yard of the fort, moving with an urgency that she didn’t normally associate with their training. Commander Harr stood at the heart of it all, gray-haired and bearish, his authority obvious as he called out commands.

“Every man is to bring rations for a month. The king might think this will be over soon, but King Ravin is a dangerous foe.”

He turned as Erin and the others approached. Erin slid down from her horse, hiding her wince of pain as her feet hit the ground.

“You’re back, good, just in time,” he said. “Tell me how your patrol went.”

Erin tensed then. Sir Til had been clear that he disapproved of how she’d handled things back at the village. What if Commander Harr agreed? What if this was all that he needed in order to send her back to be married off to whoever her parents could find for her?

“We found a group of Quiet Men holed up in a village,” Sir Til said. “They’d taken the whole thing, killing the villagers.”

“Forming a base,” Fenir added, in his usual clipped style. “Ready for invasion.”

“That’s bad,” Commander Harr said. “We don’t have the men to spare now to go and fight them.”

“It’s dealt with,” Sir Til said, in a tone that made it clear how it had been dealt with. “We were able to defeat them.”

“The three of you?” Commander Harr asked. He looked impressed. “How many?”

“A dozen,” Sir Til said.

“A dozen, and you’re all whole.” He looked over at Erin. “How did our newest recruit do?”

Erin swallowed, certain that this would be the moment when she found herself dismissed from the Spur, sent home, forced to go back to a life of sewing and dances rather than being the warrior she wanted to be.

“She fought well,” Sir Til said. “She needs to learn to listen a little more, and to hold onto her spear better, but she killed her share, and more. She saved my life in the fight.”

“Saved the life of the great Sir Til?” Commander Harr said. He looked impressed, turning to Erin. He held out his hand for her to take, clasping her wrist in his. “I’m impressed, recruit, but not surprised. I’ve seen how well you can fight. You’ll need that, and soon.”

“Because of the threat we found?” Erin asked.

Commander Harr shook his head. His expression turned serious. “It’s more grave than that. We’ve had news from Royalsport. I have the men readying to march.”

Erin frowned at that. What had happened back home? She caught herself, stopping short at the thought of the palace as home. She waited, too many thoughts running through her mind of all the things that might have gone wrong there. Was her father all right? Was her mother?

“It’s Princess Lenore,” Commander Harr said. “She has been captured by King Ravin’s forces and taken south.”

Shock flooded through Erin at that. Of all her family, Lenore had seemed like the one who was least likely to be in danger. Rodry might charge into a fight, or Vars might be cruel to the wrong person. Nerra spent all her time in the woods unprotected, and obviously Erin herself sought out danger, but Lenore? It made no sense.

“We have to get her back,” Erin said. In that moment, the minor pain of her wound, or her tiredness from having ridden here from the village meant nothing. All that mattered was making sure that Lenore was all right.

“King Godwin has ordered our knights to join him in marching to secure a bridge for long enough to recover her,” Commander Harr said. “You—”

“I’m going with you,” Erin said, before he could command her to stay there, insist that she remain behind where it was safe.

Commander Harr nodded. “I had no plan to stop you. You’re one of us, Erin. I was going to order you to hurry to be ready. You’ll fight beside us, and together, we’ll secure the kingdom.”

“And get Lenore back,” Erin said. That was the part that mattered to her, more than the rest of it.

The commander nodded again. “You have to remember that it will have taken time for the messengers to get here. I’m sure that Sir Twell and Sir Ursus rode as fast as they could, but by now, your sister could be deep into the Southern Kingdom.”

“Then I’ll go into it and get her back,” Erin promised. “I’ll tear out King Ravin’s heart to do it, if I have to.”

She had heard the stories growing up, of brave knights questing to recover fair maidens, saving princesses from dangers beyond reckoning. At the time, Erin had always thought that those were stupid stories. She hadn’t understood why the princesses didn’t just save themselves, kill the monsters, and go home to people cheering their name. She certainly never planned to go around waiting for a knight to come.

Now though, she was the knight, in all but name. She was the one who would be riding to the rescue.

“Come with me,” Commander Harr said. He led the way to where armor and weapons were laid out, the knights moving among them as they selected what they needed. “I was going to leave this until you had finished proving yourself, but if it is to be war, I will not have it said that you were ill defended.”

He took pieces from the stacks, passing them to Erin. Although it looked as though he was grabbing things at random, each piece seemed perfectly sized to fit Erin, chosen with the precision of long practice. He passed her a breastplate, greaves, bracers… an outer skin of plate that fit over Erin’s chainmail like a glove, each piece shining and silvered.

The end result wasn’t quite the full plate armor the commander wore, but instead something more mobile, with patches of chain in between the plates designed to ward off the worst of blows. He passed Erin a buckler, which she slid onto her left forearm, the shield small enough that she could still manipulate her short spear easily. Last came a half-helm to protect her head, the design of a dragon chased atop it in gold. It was the most beautiful thing Erin had seen.

“How… how is all of this here to fit me?” she asked.

Commander Harr shrugged. “You think a commander wouldn’t seek out suitable protection for his troops?”

Erin didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. It’s… perfect.”

“If you want to thank me, stay safe in the battles to come. Now, young recruit, you need to tend to your horse. We’ve a lot of riding to do to reach the south.”

Erin nodded, running for her horse. She wouldn’t let the commander down. More than that, she wouldn’t let her sister down. She would help to save Lenore and beat back the Southern Kingdom’s attack, whatever it took, even if it cost her life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The worst thing about being in chains in Lord Carrick’s dungeon… well, it was hard for Renard to pin it down to just one, really, although he’d had plenty of time to choose since they’d caught him trying to steal the gold Lord Carrick had taken from a wrecked ship bound for King Ravin. There was the strange abandonment of it, which meant that Renard probably looked even wilder than usual, red hair flying everywhere, beard crusted with mud and worse.

There were the occasional beatings, which had added a patina of bruises to his face, probably rendering his rugged good looks more rugged, but on average less… good.

“Yselle will not be happy with you!” he called out into the dark. “None of the women will be!”

Not that it made any difference. There was no answer.

The dark and the silence were definitely on the list. If he’d had his lute, Renard would have broken the silence with song, but he hadn’t, and in any case, his wrists were chained, chafing and restricting his movement. That was on the list of worst things as well. Then there was the part where he’d been sober for longer at a stretch than ever before in his life, the occasional presence of rats, the cold…

Oh, and the part where Lord Carrick would probably have him executed at some point. As worst parts went, that one had a certain… finality to it, although given the slow ways a man could be executed, there was no guarantee that a man couldn’t find worse things still before the end.

Oh well. It had to happen sometime.

That was the problem with Renard’s chosen profession: very few thieves got to retire comfortably at the end of it all. Those who didn’t end up swinging on nooses tended to be killed by whatever protections rich folk had set around their goods. It was almost, almost enough to make Renard wonder why he’d chosen to be a thief at all.

Idly, he started to go back over the choices that had led to this, but the trouble was that so few of them had really counted as choices at all. They’d just been… things he’d done, things that had seemed obvious at the time, or that he hadn’t been able to keep from doing because his fingers had been too itchy not to take a purse, or pick a lock, or climb a wall. Trying to make any of that sound like he’d actually made a decision about it would be far too much.

Even when it had come to trying to steal from Lord Carrick, it hadn’t been so much a decision as simply a need. Now, it seemed that he was going to die for it. At some point, when Renard had languished in his dungeon long enough, his lordship would take Renard out, try him, and decide on a suitably horrible way to kill him. All because Renard hadn’t been able to walk away from the thought of coin for the taking.

Renard checked his chains for what had to be the hundredth time, just in case they had developed a flaw that he could use. Annoyingly, they were still perfect, and even if he got them off, there was still a thick door, a dungeon full of guards, and the castle’s walls between him and freedom. How was a man meant to go about escaping in circumstances like that?

Renard was just settling into a nice solid round of despair when he heard the click of the lock. He braced himself, imagining that the guards had probably decided to give him another beating, but he still flinched when light streamed into the cell, harsh enough to make his eyes water after the darkness. It meant that the three figures who walked in were blurry at first.

Renard quickly found himself wishing that they had stayed that way. Instead, he was staring at three figures in dark, hooded robes, faces covered by elaborate masks that seemed to be the only individual things about their wearers. One wore a mask of interlocking greenery, another a mask with features so twisted that they seemed to hurt his eyes just looking at it. The third wore a blank white mask that gave no hint of emotion.

That was the one who spoke.

“Do you know who we are, Renard the thief?”

“Well, the masks and the robes are kind of a clue,” Renard said, keeping his tone light. This was a trick, it had to be.

“And now you think that this is false,” the man said. “Tell me, would even Lord Carrick impersonate us?”

Now Renard froze. He forced a smile even though inside, his heart was racing. It was true, no one would pretend to be this. These were the Hidden. It was said that they sought power in places most other men and women dared not even think about; that the earliest of them had been thrown out of the House of Scholars for research that should never have been attempted.

“You’re trying to hide your fear,” the one with the green mask said. By the voice, this one was a woman. “You think, if you’re flippant enough, the bad things of the world will skate by you.”

“Well, it’s worked out all right so far,” Renard said, jangling his chains for emphasis.

“It has left you waiting to die,” the one in the twisted mask said, his voice harsh, even guttural. His mask turned toward the one who wore the blank one. “Why seek a thief who has been caught?”

The blank faced one did not reply, but turned back to Renard. “Would you like to be free?”

Free. The word caught Renard’s attention, mostly because of the alternatives.

“And you could set me free?” he asked.

“We are here, aren’t we?” the blank-faced one said. “We walked in, and we could walk out again, with you. For a price.”

Of course there would be a price. People like this didn’t do anything for free. From what Renard had heard, they had all paid their own prices, to things beyond the twisting and turning of reality. What would they demand? Renard decided that another question was safer.

“What do you need stolen?”

They stared at him. At least, Renard assumed that they did. With the masks, it was hard to tell.

“You’ve walked into a castle owned by a powerful lord with a reputation for cruelty,” Renard said. “You’re offering to let me go. Now, either you really appreciate my lute playing, or…”

“Or we need a master thief,” the leader said, his blank mask providing no hint of his emotions. “Yes, we do.”

“All right,” Renard said. “Let’s start with this: do you three have names?”

The one in the blank mask hesitated, but then seemed to relent. “I am known as Void, and these are Verdant and Wrath. Our former names were given away. Such things have power.”

Renard was sure that they had all the power they could ever need. He’d heard about the Hidden.

“If you can walk in here,” Renard said, “why do you need me?”

Void stood there, looking from one to the other of his companions, as if trying to decide how much to say.

“To walk into a place of men is easy,” he said. “But the object we require for our… research is in a more difficult location.”

“What object, and where?” Renard asked. He said it reflexively, the way he might have with anyone who wanted him to steal for them. The fact that he was still in chains made no difference to that.

“Does it matter to you?” the one in the twisted flesh mask demanded.

But Void shrugged. “There is an amulet, locked away in a mausoleum above a volcano, protected in ways that suit your… skills. That amulet is said to give those who wear it power over dragons.”

“Dragons!” Renard said with a laugh, because who had seen dragons in years? “You must be joking. Is that what this is? Lord Carrick’s idea of a…”

He didn’t finish, because the woman in the mask of greenery leaned close to him. Verdant’s eyes… they seemed to start green, but then shifted to red, glowing from within with a fire that stole the breath out of him. Somehow, Renard suspected that this was one woman he wouldn’t be able to charm with a few well-chosen songs and compliments.

“We do not joke,” she said, as she moved back. “And we do not like having our time wasted.”

“Your time too,” Void said. “How long now until Lord Carrick drags you from here to your death?”

He had a point. Even so…

“No, thank you,” he said.

“What?” Wrath demanded, and he looked as though he might strike out at Renard in that moment.

“You think I haven’t heard rumors of the Hidden?” Renard asked. “I’ve sung enough songs in my time to hear those too.”

“They have written beautiful songs about us,” Verdant said. “But few true ones.”

Renard suspected that there was enough truth hidden away in those songs though; that the Hidden were collectors of power, to whom good and evil were irrelevant; that they could do things to a man that would imperil his very soul. Compared to all of that, even Lord Carrick didn’t seem so bad.

“There are things we could do to you if you refuse,” Void said.

“And then you still wouldn’t have a thief,” Renard pointed out.

“You would really refuse freedom? You would really choose death?”

Renard nodded. “If the alternative is going with you, yes.”

It turned out that he’d found a new worst thing. Compared to this one, even all the others didn’t seem so bad.

Void gestured to the others. “Very well. Come. We must do this… another way.”

He turned, walking out of the cell, the robed forms of the others following in his wake. The door shut behind him with a bang, the lock clicking back into place. Renard supposed it was too much to ask that they might leave it open.

Even as he settled back to wait for his death again, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d just avoided something far, far worse.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rodry and his friends raced into the landscape of the south, trying to catch up to his sister, while Rodry hoped against hope that he would be in time. They rode down paved trackways and over dirt roads, following the signs of the party that had been ahead of them ever since they crossed into this country.

For what had to be the hundredth time since the river crossing, Rodry cursed his brother Vars. Had he been a little braver, they might have had Lenore back by now, and the ones who had taken her might already be dead. When Rodry returned, their father would hear every detail of his cowardice.

For now, there was only the chase after Lenore.

One thing that surprised Rodry a little was how much the landscape had changed simply by crossing the river, as if the whole climate differed just with that small shift. There were trees here, but they were olive and fig as often as apple, the forests light and hot rather than the rain-filled landscapes of the Northern Kingdom. The ground around seemed drier, and Rodry was sure that they had ridden past at least a couple of vineyards, set into the sides of hills. The people they had seen dressed as simply as peasant folk back home, but differently as well, with slashed skirts and blouses in place of dresses, broad hats in place of hoods. It seemed that almost everyone wore a flash of red or purple somewhere too, perhaps in homage to King Ravin.

They shrank back away from Rodry and the others as they passed, perhaps sensing some of the fury of their mission.

“How much further to this hunting lodge?” Rodry asked Kay.

His friend shook his head. “I don’t know, Rodry. I only know that it even exists because of my father.”

“What use is knowing that a place exists if you don’t know where it is?” Rodry demanded, and then bit back his anger. He wasn’t his brother, to lash out at those who didn’t deserve it. “We ride on.”

And in riding, they had to hope that they were going in the right direction. Seris, Mautlice, and the others were doing their best to track the group ahead, the way they might have done when hunting, and a whole traveling party was easier to track than any deer might have been, but even so, what if they took a wrong turn? What if they rode right into the heart of Ravin’s kingdom, but couldn’t find the place in it where they were keeping Lenore?

The answer to that was simple: they would burn Ravin’s kingdom until they found her.

They paused in a spot where the trail branched a dozen different ways, tall, arching trees rising up around in a rough circle. There was a low hut there, barely more than a lean-to, while around, the ground was churned up as if it had seen far more than a dozen riders come through there. There were bushes and rocks around the diverging paths, some set here and there with candles, as if the whole place were some great shrine or meeting place. Rodry saw it as far more than that though.

He saw it as the perfect place for an ambush.

“Down!” he yelled, as arrows flew from the bushes, throwing himself from his horse even as a shaft flashed past where his head had been. Around him, he saw his soldiers and friends duck, or raise their shields, or fling themselves from their horses the way Rodry had. Some weren’t quick enough. He saw Mautlice spin, blank-faced, from the saddle, a crossbow bolt sticking from his chest. A soldier took an arrow in the shoulder, crying out in pain.

The enemy poured out of their hiding places then, and it seemed that half a dozen of them were dressed in odd clothes, carrying a strange selection of weapons that marked them out as Quiet Men rather than normal soldiers. There were those too, though, red tunics marking them as King Ravin’s troops, armed with spears and short bows.

“You didn’t think that we’d notice you following, Prince Rodry?” one of the Quiet Men said, drawing a pair of long knives. He was tall and shaven headed, the glint of oiled chainmail showing here and there under his clothes. “You didn’t think we’d be waiting?”

Rodry drew his longsword as he stood, taking it in two hands, holding back his anger just for a second.

“You’re one of the ones who took my sister?” he demanded.

The Quiet Man nodded. “Shall I tell you everything that we did to her while we had her to ourselves? Shall I detail every last—”

Rodry struck out in the middle of the man’s words, his anger driving him forward into the attack. The Quiet Man caught that attack on his knives, but Rodry was already twisting away, cutting down toward his foe’s legs. He heard the crunch of bone as the blade struck home, but he had to fall back to avoid the next sweep of the man’s knives.

Rodry’s friends charged forward then, taking their cue from him, while the soldiers jumped in to support them. He heard the sudden clash of blades, and the screams of the dying. In that moment, everything was chaos, the ambush unfolding around him in one continuous stream.

One of King Ravin’s soldiers appeared in front of him, and Rodry hacked him down with an overhead stroke. He felt a blade bounce from his armor, turned, and kicked another soldier away.

One of the Quiet Men, a woman, had a strangling rope around Kay’s neck, pulling tight and hanging on close as a lover. Rodry lunged forward, plunging his longsword up under her ribs, no hint of remorse at cutting down one of those who had hurt his sister, only satisfaction. Kay turned and nodded his thanks, then barely parried a sword blow in time.

Rodry had no time to help with this foe, because the one with the two knives was there again before him, staggering forward on one leg, cutting high and low. Rodry gave ground, looking for room to wield his longsword in full strokes, but the Quiet Man kept pressing forward, giving him no room to strike the way he wanted to. Rodry had to twist and turn, using the bracers of his armor to deflect thrust after thrust.

Rodry heard the scrape of someone behind him, felt the whisper of something heading toward his head. If he hadn’t spent so long training in the House of Weapons, he might have done the foolish thing and turned to face the new threat. Instead, Rodry dropped to his knees, thrusting up over his shoulder with his longsword. He heard a cry as a curved sword passed over his head, felt the give of flesh under the thrust of his sword’s point. He ripped it out, then struck forward with the pommel of his sword, catching his attacker in the stomach and doubling him over.

Rodry came back up to his feet, half turning as he brought his longsword around in a great swing that hacked through his opponent’s neck and kept going into the dirt. It stuck there for a moment, and the foe he’d struck at over his shoulder all but fell into him. They went down together, neither of them holding their sword anymore, both of them punching and kneeing and grabbing while around them the fight continued to rage. An elbow smashed into Rodry’s face, a knee struck his stomach. He clung on for dear life, because he could feel his opponent weakening, the blood pouring from him thanks to the wound Rodry had inflicted.

Then Rodry saw his foe starting to reach down for a knife at his belt and knew that if he reached it, it wouldn’t matter how much greater Rodry’s strength or stamina was, because he would slide that blade into a gap in Rodry’s armor as easy as breathing.

Rodry grabbed for his foe’s arm in desperation, forcing it away from the weapon. They rolled, and Rodry came up on top, striking down with an armored forearm again and again. He heard the crunch of bone, but kept going, until it seemed that blood filled the whole world, and the foe beneath him went limp. Only then did Rodry dare stand, snatching up his longsword, looking around for another foe to fight.

There were none; his friends and the soldiers with them stood victorious, or most of them did. Mautlice still lay unmoving on the ground, and two of the soldiers who had accompanied them lay just as dead. Rodry wondered what he would be able to say to Mautlice’s father, and he simply didn’t know.

It was worse for King Ravin’s forces. Around them, King Ravin’s men lay dead or dying.

“Take their tunics and their flags,” Rodry ordered his men. “We might need them, soon enough.”

Only one of King Ravin’s forces still stood. One of the Quiet Men stood with his back to a tree, sword out, surrounded by Rodry’s men. Rodry stormed over, pointing to him.

“Where is she?” he demanded. “Which way?”

“I surrender to you,” the Quiet Man said. He dropped his sword. “It is said that you are a brave and noble prince, so you will not cut a man down in cold blood.”

“Which way?” Rodry demanded again.

The Quiet Man said nothing, but his glance to one of the paths was enough. They would find the tracks, would find where Lenore had been taken.

As for this one, who had been part of this, who had done unspeakable things to his sister… Rodry stepped forward then, sword back behind his shoulders.

“You would not,” the Quiet Man said. “You would not murder a prisoner.”

He took one large step level with the tree, letting out a cry of pure rage as he struck in a horizontal blow. The Quiet Man looked at Rodry in shock as the weapon struck home, slicing through flesh to cut deep into the bark of the tree behind him. He tumbled, headless, eyes still staring.

“This is not murder,” Rodry said, spitting into the dirt. “It’s an execution.”