Dragonheart (17 page)

She gazed up at him. Her bright brown eyes glittered gold. Warm like her hair. “Kara . . .” she corrected, her lips so close to his, he felt the puff of breath that carried her name to him. It smelled faintly of the wild onions from last night’s stew. Bowen liked onions. He liked the smell.

“It’s just a little stiff.” Kara gently probed the wound with her fingers. Her touch on his skin made him jump. “Did it hurt?”

“No!” Bowen backed farther away, self-consciously working his arm back and forth. “No . . . Kara . . . thank you. I’ll limber it up in the village below. In a few days it’ll be just another scar.”

The familiar bite returned to his voice, reminding her—and himself—of the matter at hand.

“And what’s one more scar . . .” Despite her frown, Kara’s voice lacked its usual condemning edge. It was softly sad. “. . . for a knight, I mean? I once knew a knight who must have had many scars. For he was a very brave knight. Once he stood all alone against an evil king and even saved a rebel leader from a blinding.”

Bowen whirled around sharply, stunned by the declaration and the ghosts it evoked, ghosts that seemed suddenly to be swirling before him. Haunting specters of yokes smashed under his sword, freed men scrambling through mud and flame, the rumble of charging horses and shouting soldiers . . . and a screaming boy wearing a crown that did not fit him . . . and that he did not fit. And a girl . . . frightened, but brave, running through the confusion, toward a fleeing giant with hair like her own . . . a tousled mass of flame. And out of that scarlet memory another ghost came howling taunts at him. Another fiery jolt from the past, splashing from a bucket-headed helmet, washing over him with startled, crystallizing clarity. Red, red hair. Spilling all around the dazed face of a young girl. This girl. She was the one. The one he had spared that day. The one who had wounded Einon.

Einon.

Einon. Einon. Einon. Einon’s pall had shadowed everything the last few days. Bowen could not escape him. Or his words. “. . . Never! Never mine!” Even this girl was a part of Einon, linked to him by a long bloody trail of tragedy and desire; Einon’s desire to possess her and her desire to avenge the evils he had visited upon her. And they were
Einon’s
evils. No more sad fantasies of double-crossing dragons. But Bowen still hated that dragon. Still hated the heart. Without it, Einon would have died. And Bowen could have gone on believing, believing he had made a difference in one life that had been snuffed out too soon. But no, Einon had to live and expose the dream as delusion.

He turned from Kara, stammering bitterly, “That . . . knight of whom you speak no longer exists. He died of his wounds long ago.”

“Pity.” How much regret could she breathe into one word? “His kind is missed in this world where heroes turn out to be mountebanks only looking out for themselves.”

“Well, that’s the way the wretched world turns!” Bowen whirled back on her. But the heat was gone from her eyes now. They were moist and brown and filled with regret. As was her voice.

“And what about those who can’t look out for themselves? You could lead them, Bowen. You could give them courage and hope.”

“False hope!” His retort was as harsh as hers was pleading. Why didn’t she bristle? Why didn’t she rail at him?

As Bowen silently asked himself these questions a wincing trill slid out of Draco. Bowen glared over at him, but he was still gazing at the tor that jutted out of the foggy swamp. Bowen spun back to Kara, tenderly assaulted once more by her plaintive stare. He grabbed her fiercely by the shoulders.

“Even if you could raise that ragtag army of yours, what chance would they have against seasoned troops? The last time they tried, it ended up a massacre. I remember! I was there!”

“You had no part in that!” The firmness was back in her voice, the determination back in her eyes. “You spared me! You spared my father.”

Her fingers savagely tugged at the headband about her throat, then flexed out and clutched Bowen’s tunic in agitated appeal.

“Let others stand with you and this time the end will be different!”

“So fierce in your innocence. The dazzle of your dreams blinds you to dark truth.”

Bowen gentled his grip on her shoulders and gazed sadly in her flaring eyes, drinking in her angry beauty with melancholy yearning. Kara squirmed under his probing scrutiny and broke away.

“What are you staring at?”

“Myself, once upon a time . . . But you will learn, even as I did.”

“God spare me such knowledge that can steal a soul.”

He thought he would burn up in her glare, but she turned it from him and turned down the sloping hill, toward a mist-wreathed grove of trees.

“Where will you go, Kara?” Draco’s solemn voice stopped her. The filmy hoods of his eyes retracted, giving his gaze a strange luminosity. “It might be dangerous for you alone.”

One bitter bark of laughter shot from her lips and echoed off into the fog. “It
is
dangerous. And will be as long as Einon thrives. For everyone. Why do you care, Draco? Does my plea touch you?”

Bowen heard the hope that crept into her sneering tone. Perhaps she had spied a glimmer of compassion in Draco’s troubled, soulful stare. Whatever it was that flitted through those large eyes, Bowen didn’t like it. He knew that Draco was not the same dragon he had been before. He wondered if anything would ever be the same as it was before.

“Does it?” the knight demanded. “And does your longing for death finally outweigh your fear of it?”

Draco stared from Bowen over to Kara. Her anxious face also awaited an answer.

“No . . .” The dragon withered under the girl’s searing stare. Bowen almost felt sorry for him. “I can’t help you,” Draco droned. “Man abandoned dragon wisdom long ago . . .”

The girl’s unforgiving glance did not waver.

“Einon will not fall in my lifetime . . .” Draco mumbled, and his eyes went filmy again. Kara turned and strode toward the grove.

She was already a shadow in the mist when Bowen called after her. “You silly wench! Come back here! You can’t go wandering off alone. It’s not safe! Einon will have you in his bed or on his gibbet within this week. You’re helpless without us! What will you do?”

His echo sounded tight and shrill as it faded down into the haze of the hill.
What will you do? . . . What will you do?
Kara was already lost in the trees, but her answer drifted back through the fog.

“Try to turn the wretched world the other way.”

Twenty-One

MIST, MOSQUITOES, MORALITY,
AND MUD

“And what about my corpse?”

Bowen wiped sweat from his eyes, swatted at a mosquito, and watched the money sack pass from hand to hand . . . long, grubby fingers dropping trinkets of dubious value into the pouch . . . crude cutlery, glass beads, a pewter ring, some actual coins—all of base metal and low worth. A miserable ritual.

Bowen was miserable too. He smacked another mosquito off his neck and wrinkled his nose at the stink of rotting fish drying on some shabby nets near the marsh. Miserable. The village was miserable. The villagers were miserable. Towering, ragged giants, hollow-cheeked and haunted-eyed. No lord oversaw this fog-drenched, insect-swarming sweatbox. No minion of Einon’s for him to gouge.

Even that fact made Bowen miserable. He silently damned Kara. Damned her red hair and her hot eyes and her hot words. Damned her for dredging up the annoying pangs of his laggard conscience. Damned her and bid her good riddance. Things would improve in a few days and he would forget the embarrassment of finding himself in this dung heap. He damned the village too, whacked another mosquito, and maneuvered upwind of the fish stench. Even the climate and livestock were miserable.

Soon the smell of smoke began to overtake the smell of foul fish. It was coming from two skiffs, ablaze and adrift in the water. Draco’s little demonstration to ante up the stakes. Not much, but then Draco balked at doing any real damage. Still it was enough. At least for this paltry job.

The chief of the village, a gaunt giant, brought Bowen his fee. Rather than plumped with the jingling music of good coin, the sagging sack rattled and clanked with its sad treasure. Bowen reached for the limp bag reluctantly, knowing it was too late to renege and that they’d have to go through with this charade.

The tall chieftain thrust the sorry wealth of his village forward in his scrawny claw, nervously staring skyward, eyeing the dragon that was now circling the swamp with lazy menace.

“Wait!”

Bowen turned to see Kara push through the towering crowd, jabbing an accusing finger at him.

“That man is a fraud!”

The chief jerked the sack back. Kara smiled in gloating triumph. Bowen viciously squashed a mosquito on his cheek and wished it had been the girl instead.

“Is this a fraud?” He yanked his dragon-talon shield off his saddle and thrust it under the chief’s hawk-curved nose for closer inspection. “That girl’s a wandering idiot, babbling nonsense.”

“That’s a lie! This knight is no dragonslayer!” Kara lashed back.

“You are mistaken, my child.”

Bowen, Kara, and the chief turned to view the new speaker who had entered the debate. He pressed through the crowd, shooing a mosquito with a rolled-up scroll and leading his mule behind him.

“Gilbert!” exclaimed Bowen, delighted by the sight of his former ally. The monk threw his arms about the knight and embraced him warmly.

“Bowen, my lad! Praise the saints, you’re alive! And whole! You still have your strong right arm!”

“Well, of course, where else would it be?”

“Someone’s arm is buried back in that glade under a cross bearing your name. You would have been touched by the reverence of the ceremony I performed.”

Bowen smiled, remembering Sir Eglamore, and tolerated Gilbert squeezing his arm just to be sure he was in fact alive. The friar turned to the village chief. “You couldn’t put your trust in a better man. I have personally seen him slay almost two dragons!”

“Almost?” Kara asked skeptically. Gilbert smiled on her with the benign patience that a man of God always showed the dim-witted.

“Well, I didn’t actually witness the deathblow to the second one, but since Sir Bowen is here, he must have won.”

“Of course I won! I never lose.” Bowen stole Kara’s gloating triumph and smiled it back at her.

“And I do not lose my ballad.” Gilbert gleefully clapped Bowen on the shoulders. “Now, it will have an heroic ending.”

“Gratified to be a patron of the arts.”

“I long to recite it for you.”

“I long to hear it, brother.”

“What an honor! The poet performs for his inspiration!”

“The honor is mine, Gilbert. You are too lavish in your praise.”

“Nonsense! It will be my privilege to recount your courageous deeds right after you have added to them!”

At these words, Bowen paused. “Added to them?” he asked doubtfully.

“Once you have dispatched this winged marauder above!”

“Winged marau . . . oh! . . . above . . . yes!”

“Yes! Inflame my muse to even greater glories!”

“Yes! Do!” The chief, caught up in the cascade of Gilbert’s adulation, eagerly thrust the sack at Bowen once more. But Kara thrust herself between the knight and his fee.

“No! You mustn’t!” she cried. “He’s in league with the dragon!”

The flood of enthusiasm evaporated into parched silence. Exposed by the bold-faced truth, Bowen could only strangle down a sheepish gulp, try not to look guilty, and stare at Kara, silently vowing never to rescue another damsel.

Fortunately, everyone else was staring at the girl too. Gilbert. The villagers. Their chief . . . who slowly broke into a chuckle, then a laugh; a wide, wheezing giggle displaying rotten teeth and spewing rotten breath in Bowen’s face as the man once more handed him the pouch. Bowen joined the tall giant in laughter, whirling a finger beside his head as he nodded at Kara.

“Told you. An addlepated ninny!”

Everyone was laughing now. Even Gilbert, who, in pity for the poor unfortunate, at least attempted to veil his amusement with a hand over his mouth.

But Kara was used to being laughed at. “What if he loses?” she asked.

“I never lose!” Bowen brandished his shield of trophies, still laughing. But suddenly he was the only one who was so doing. The others were considering the question. Kara stole back her gloat.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she countered. “And if you do lose, will the dragon return your fee?”

Not much of a fee, thought Bowen. But it was all these poor brutes had. And the possibility that it might end up in some dragon’s maw had to be considered. The chief was already considering it, sizing up the dragon who was swirling above. Bowen stuck his fist into the sack and rooted around. “Oh, I’m sure the dragon has great need of a . . . wooden spoon?”

Though a good—if somewhat ridiculously illustrated—argument, the chief snatched back the bag anyway and left Bowen holding the spoon he’d plucked out.

“Ninny or no, she has a point,” the chief stated, and shrugged.

“Exactly!” Kara pressed her point. “Why should you be paid for work you’ve not done yet?”

The chief considered this also and snatched back the spoon too.

“I never lose!” Bowen’s sackless, spoonless fingers flailed in frustrated appeal.

“Then you’ll be sure to collect your fee”—Kara blandly smiled
—“after
you’ve slain the beast.”

“In advance!” Bowen hissed through curled lips. She had been there when they had plotted the whole gambit. She knew it was Bowen’s turn to die this time. “This monk will tell you I’ve been cheated before.”

Surely, these gullible rustics would choose the sage advice of a priest over some strange, mad girl.

They did.

“A suggestion,” Gilbert offered diplomatically. “Allow me to hold the fee as an impartial party. Would that be fair?”

The fire bolt caused Bowen’s horse to rear and he nearly spilled from the saddle, juggling both his lance and the reins.

“A little close, I think!” Bowen snarled at the dragon, hovering above.