The Fire Dragon (11 page)

Degwa stomped off, her wooden clogs loud on the
stone floor, and hurried down the staircase. Elyssa rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“Ye gods!” Elyssa whispered. “My apologies, Lilli.”

“There's no need for
you
to apologize. Ah well, Decci is what she is, and that's true for all of us.”

When she returned to her chamber, Lilli opened her wooden chest and found the brooch that had once been her mother's. She sat down in her chair and held the silver knot up, letting it catch the sunlight. Why was she keeping it? she wondered. Her mother—a murderess, a sorceress who had used Lilli's own gifts ruthlessly for the clan's advantage. And yet Merodda had put out considerable effort to save Lilli from a horrible marriage; at times she had been kind as well, for no reason other than that Lilli was her daughter. A token for those good things, Lilli decided. That's why I keep it.

Thinking of her blood-kin made Lilli remember Braemys, her cousin, her half brother, and once, too, her betrothed. Dark thoughts gathered, that he was likely to die in the coming fighting. But what if he won the battle? What if Maryn were killed instead? One or the other of them would have to die to settle the feud between them. Deverry men always settled feuds that way, with the death of one or the other. With the brooch clasped tight in one hand, she rose and walked to the window. Outside the sky blazed with gold light, streaked with pink and orange against the darkening blue.

“Dear Goddess,” Lilli whispered. “Let Maryn be the victor. I beg you.”

And she wondered if she would ever get free of him.

Just at sunset the scouting parties returned to Maryn's camp. Armed with Nevyn's report, Maryn had sent Branoic with some of the silver daggers to the southeast, while a squad from Daeryc's men had ridden straight east. Neither party had seen either half of Braemys's army, which meant that the enemy was, most likely, making camp for the night.

“I'll wager they march here tomorrow, Your Highness,”
Branoic said. “This Braemys—he's young, but he's got a good head on his shoulders.”

“So your betrothed told me once,” Maryn said. “She knew him well, after all.”

“I take it His Highness discussed the matter with her?”

“I did, truly. Why wouldn't I?”

Branoic said nothing more, but his slight smile had turned dangerous. For a moment the two men stared at each other, their eyes narrow, their jaws tight-set, Maryn standing with his plaid cloak draped over one shoulder and his hands set on his hips, while Branoic, his clothes dust-stained, knelt at his feet. The other scouts, waiting behind Branoic, took a step back, but Maryn's servant stopped, dead-still, at the mouth of the tent behind him. Nevyn felt a cold warning run down his back and strode forward, ready to intervene. His movement brought them both to their senses. Maryn forced out a smile and turned it impartially upon all of the waiting men, including Branoic.

“Well done,” the prince said. “Don't let me keep you from your fires.”

“My thanks, Your Highness.” Branoic rose and bowed. “It's been a long day's ride.”

In the company of the other scouts Branoic strode off into the sea of tents. Maryn's servant sighed aloud and darted away. Nevyn raised an eyebrow at Maryn, who shrugged.

“My apologies,” Maryn said. “I need to watch my tongue.”

“A wise thought,” Nevyn said.

“That's the worst of it, isn't it? Being the prince, I mean. I'm not allowed to lapse like ordinary men.”

“Even ordinary men need to watch their tongues now and again.”

Maryn gave him a sour smile, then turned and without another word ducked into his tent. In the gathering twilight Nevyn walked back to his own. The worst danger for the kingdom would arrive tomorrow with Braemys's army, but the worst danger for the prince and those who loved him was waiting back in Dun Deverry.

Deep in the night, once the astral tide of Earth had settled into a steady flow, Nevyn scried again, and once again he found the two halves of Braemys's army, one to the south, one to the east, camped under the stars without tents or campfires. They had sacrificed everything for speed. If Maryn had lacked the presence of a dweomermaster, he and his army would have found themselves caught between two forces like a bite of meat between two jaws.

As it was, of course, they were warned.

Well before dawn Maddyn woke. He sat up in the silent darkness of his tent and considered the odd sensation troubling him. In a few moments he realized that, for the first time in days, he felt hungry. Somewhere near at hand Branoic had left him a chunk of bread on just this chance, but he could see nothing but a triangle of lighter dark at the tent's mouth.

“Curse it all!”

Cautiously he got to his knees and began feeling the ground at the head of his blankets. Behind him he heard a rustling and a sound that might have been a whisper. A silver glow cast sudden shadows. When he twisted round he saw his blue sprite, glowing like the moon and grinning at him.

“My thanks,” he said. “And there's the bread.”

Branoic had left it wrapped in cloth upon his saddle, the only thing in the tent that would serve as a shelf. Maddyn found a covered tankard of watered ale nearby as well. With his sprite for company, Maddyn began dipping the bread in the ale and eating the moist bits, but he'd not got far into the chunk before he realized he was making a mistake. He tried a sip of plain ale and felt his stomach burn and twist.

“So much for that.”

Maddyn wrapped the bread back up, then lay down again, but it took him a long while to sleep with his stomach cramping and complaining. When he finally dozed off, he dreamt of Aethan, lying dead on the battlefield, and woke in a cold sweat. This time, at least, dawnlight
streamed into the tent. From outside he heard voices, talking softly; then someone pulled the tent flap to one side and stuck his head in: Nevyn.

“Ah,” Nevyn said. “You're awake.”

“More or less, my lord.” Maddyn sat up, then clutched his aching stomach with both arms. “I tried to eat somewhat in the night.”

“With bad result, I see. The prince wants to see you.”

“I'll come out.”

Much to his relief, Maddyn found that he could crawl out of the tent with some effort and then, with Nevyn's help, stand up. The prince had already donned his chain-mail shirt, but the hood lay on his shoulders, and he wore no helm. In the dawnlight his hair gleamed as if the sun itself were honoring him.

“Don't try to kneel or bow,” Maryn said. “How do you fare?”

“Not so well, Your Highness, I'm afraid.”

“You look pale about the mouth still,” Nevyn put in. “After the army rides out, I'll have a better look at you.”

“My thanks, my lord.”

“Mine, too,” the prince said, nodding Nevyn's way. “I wanted to see you, Maddo, because I was just remembering how you and the silver daggers smuggled me from Pyrdon to Cerrmor, all those years ago. We had so little then, do you remember? And we hadn't the slightest idea of what we were riding into.”

“So we hadn't.” Maddyn smiled, the first time he'd felt like doing so in some days. “And you slept on the ground like an ordinary rider.”

“I did.” The prince smiled in return. “I remember sharing a fire with you and Branoic.” The smile vanished, and for a moment the prince was silent. “Ah well,” he said at last, “long time ago now, but that ride began everything. And so I wanted to come thank you now that we're about to end the matter.” Maryn held out his hand. “I only wish that Caradoc were here.”

“So do I, my liege, so do I.”

As he shook hands with the prince, Maddyn felt tears
in his eyes, mourning not only Caradoc but all the men the silver daggers had lost in one battle or another. It had been a long road that they'd travelled to bring the prince to his rightful Wyrd.

“Well,” the prince said, “I'd best be gone and let you rest. It's time to get our men ready to march.”

Nevyn left with the prince, and Maddyn crawled back into his tent and lay down. The canvas roof, glowing from the light outside, seemed to spin around him. He'd not eaten a true meal in days, but was it hunger making him so light-headed? He doubted it. More likely it was the grief of war.

Nevyn accompanied the prince back to the royal tent. Out in front of it, his vassals were gathering to receive their orders for the battle ahead. Gwerbret Daeryc and Gwerbret Ammerwdd stood in front of the huge red-and-white banners of the wyvern throne, and the rising sun gilded their mail and glittered on their sword hilts. Behind them stood the tieryns, and behind them, the men who could only claim a lordship for their rank.

“Good morrow, my lords,” Maryn said, grinning. “Shall we go for a bit of a ride on this lovely morning?”

Some laughed, some cheered him.

“Very well,” Maryn went on. “We're dividing our army to match Lord Braemys's little plan.”

Nevyn merely listened as they worked out the battle plan. Gwerbret Ammerwdd would command approximately half the army and station it, looking east, across the main road. The other half, with Maryn in charge, would make its stand facing south at the rear of the other. As an extra precaution, Maryn decided to send some twenty men a few miles north to keep a watch for any further cleverness that Nevyn's night travels might have missed.

“Good idea,” Gwerbret Ammerwdd said. “I don't trust this son of a Boar.”

“Indeed.” Daeryc glanced at Ammerwdd. “The crux is this. Your men have to hold until Braemys charges the
prince. We can't be turning our line to join your fight until then.”

“I'm well aware of that.” Ammerwdd's voice turned flat. “And I think our prince knows he may trust me on the matter.”

“Of course!” Maryn stepped in between them. “I have the highest regard for both of you.” All at once Maryn grinned. “I think me Lord Braemys is in for a bit of a surprise.”

“So we may hope,” Nevyn put in. “He's badly outnumbered, and cleverness was the best weapon he had.”

“Well, it's blunted now. Still—” Maryn hesitated. “Pray for us, and for the kingdom.”

“Always, Your Highness. Always.”

When the army rode out, Nevyn stood at the edge of the camp and watched till they were out of sight. The cloud of dust that marked their going hung in the air, as cloying as smoke, for a long time. Perhaps, he told himself, perhaps today will be the last battle ever fought over the kingship. All he could do now to ensure it was to invoke the gods and hope. With a weary shake of his head, he walked over to the circle of wagons to meet with the other chirurgeons. They all needed to ready their supplies for the flood of wounded that would soon deluge them.

Like the others, Nevyn would work on the tailgate of a wagon, sluiced down with a bucket of water between patients. On the wagon bed itself he arranged herbs, tools, and bandages, then put a second set of supplies into a cloth sack. Eventually, if the prince won the battle, Nevyn would go to the battlefield to see what he could do for the wounded left there.

At the wagon to his right, Caudyr was doing the same. He was a stout fellow in the prime of life now, not the frightened lad Nevyn had first met as Grodyr's apprentice all those years ago. Grey laced his blond hair—prematurely, really, but then he was often in pain. He had a clubfoot, which gave him an uneven, rolling gait for one thing but for another threw his entire body out of alignment. His hips
and knees protested so badly that as he aged he had more and more trouble standing for any long while.

Today as Caudyr laid out his supplies, he looked so pale, his mouth so twisted, that Nevyn went over to his wagon.

“Are you all right?” Nevyn said.

“I will be.” Caudyr paused to stretch his back and grimaced. “I slept wrong or suchlike, is all. It'll loosen up in a bit.”

Nevyn considered him, but he had nothing to offer to kill pain but strong drink, an impossibility since Caudyr would need all his wits about him.

“Well,” Nevyn said at last. “Try to sit down till the battle joins, at least. Though it won't be long now. The prince will be making his stand only about a mile from here, but it's going to take time for the Boar's army to find us.”

“Only a mile?”

“He wants to be close at hand should Braemys decide to raid the camp.”

“The wretched young pigling tried it last time, truly. He's a clever man, young Braemys.”

“He is. Unfortunately.”

Both men turned and looked beyond the huddled wagons. Outside of the ring, Oggyn was marching his company of spearmen into position. Beyond the wooden wall they stood shoulder to shoulder in an overlapping formation three men deep. With long spear and shield they made a living wall and a formidable one against an attack on the baggage train. Let's hope they have naught to do but stand there, Nevyn thought. But who knows what the gods have in store for us?

In the hot spring sun Prince Maryn led his men to the chosen field. The army jounced and jingled down the road in a plume of dust that drifted across green pastures and rose high in the windless air, an invitation to Lord Braemys and his allies. As usual when the army marched to battle, the silver daggers rode at its head with Prince Maryn safely in their midst. As he always did, the prince grumbled and complained, too, as if after all these years of riding to
war together he still feared that his men would think him a coward. And as usual, Branoic was the one to reassure him.

“Ah for love of the gods, Your Highness!” Branoic said. “If you fall in battle, all these cursed years of fighting won't have been worth a pig's fart.”

“True spoken,” Maryn said. “But it gripes my heart all the same.”

Not far from camp lay their destination, a stretch of fal-low fields beside the east-running road. When they turned off the road they found the grass high enough to swish around their horses' legs. With the silver daggers around him Maryn stationed himself at the road, facing south. As each unit arrived he rose in the stirrups and waved a javelin at the spot where he wanted them. Warband after warband trotted across the field till the grass lay trampled into the dirt. Over a thousand riders waited in a rough formation, a curving line some six men deep, an unpleasant surprise for Lord Braemys.

Acting at the prince's request, Gwerbret Ammerwdd led the other half of the army past them. He arranged his units into a shallow crescent with the embrace facing east and blocking the road to greet their share of the enemy when it appeared. Their line stood at right angles to Maryn's, like a bowstring with Maryn's formation the arrow, nocked and ready. By the time the full army stood disposed, the sun had nearly reached the zenith. Ammerwdd rode up to the prince and made him a bow from the saddle.