Part 1 (1/2)

Dragonsword.

Dragon Death.

Gael Baudino.

To those who died.

To those who survived.

To those who are still lost somewhere in Vietnam.

The author would like to express her deepest thanks to Jan Bender and Gary Echternacht of the Gryylthan Emba.s.sy, Los Angeles branch, without whose generous a.s.sistance this book would not have been possible.

* CHAPTER 1 *

Amild sea ... and a mild breeze that brought the little fis.h.i.+ng boat across the cold gray water of the inlet that led to Quay. Skimming the waves like a sea-bird, it approached the charred pilings of the docks, hesitated, sails luffing, as though uncertain of its reception, then took the wind once again and came on.

Sheltered by the earthworks that ringed the town, Hahle watched it, frowned doubtfully, readied his bow. ”Myylen.”

Myylen was thickset, with muscles that were used to heaving on ropes and gathering sails: a seaman, like his comrades, dragged out of his boat and into battle. ”Here, councilman.”

”Your eyes are younger than mine. What do you see in that boat?”

Myylen crept carefully to the edge of the rough parapet. The breeze freshened. Spray wetted his long, dark hair. ”Two men,” he said after some time.

A boat. From Vaylle. But why so small a boat . . . and so few pa.s.sengers?

”Alive, Myylen?”

Myylen squinted. The boat drew nearer. Hahle felt a chill that had nothing to do with his bare scalp or his years, that sprang rather from the intuitions of an old warrior: it was going to be a hard march, and a worse bivouac. And comrades would die. In fact, Hahle was afraid that comrades had already died, and that among them was one of his students.

”Such a fine young lad,” he murmured to himself. But no; the lad was gone. His place had been taken by a woman. And now she ...

Myylen shook his head. ”They do not move.”

Driven haphazardly by the wind, the boat turned and ran broadside onto the gently sloping sh.o.r.e a stone's throw from the parapet. It rocked in the lap of waves for a moment, then, as though suddenly sure of its footing, it heeled over and was still.

Not a sound from the boat. Not a movement.

”Who comes?” shouted Hahle. He had fitted an arrow to the bow string, and his strong right hand was covering the nock: three fingers taking the string on the pads, the shaft gripped lightly between the index and middle. ”Who comes to Quay?”

The wind died, then came up again. The sails rattled as though petrified. Behind Hahle and Myylen, crouching in the shelter of the earthworks, men drew swords and readied pikes with a set to their faces that told of frantic battles against weapons for which they did not even have names. Ten days before, Quay had been struck by a thing from the sky. The lady Kyria had labored mightily, but though she had healed the wounded, the dead were nonetheless dead, the houses were burned, the streets were choked with rubble and filled with the sweet odor of decay.

And now this boat.

”Sir,” said Myylen, ”we can-”

His words were interrupted by a faint, choking sound that grew abruptly into a forsaken wail. Hahle flinched and started to draw his bow, but he realized then that what he heard came not from any hound, nor from a thing in the sky, but rather from the throat of a man. Compelling as the voice was, though, he resisted the urge to run to the boat. ”Myylen, Stahn,” he said. ”Follow me. With caution.”

The three climbed over the parapet as the others kept a lookout, and in a minute, they stood on the damp sand. The wailing continued, and now it took on the shape of words: ”For the love of the G.o.ds, help me!”

Again, the urge to run. Hahle fought it in himself and quelled it in his men with a sharp glance. ”But I know that voice,” said Myylen. ”The one called Helwych.”

”That waterfly? But-”

The voice: urgent, compelling, almost commanding. ”Help me!”

Myylen and Stahn stumbled forward as Hahle, his cautions sticking in his throat, ran to catch up. When they reached the boat, they found that Myylen was right: there were two men there. One, a stranger, obviously Vayllen, was dead. Helwych, though, was alive.

The lad seemed cut in a hundred places, burned over what little skin was not cut, and so bruised and battered that it was hard to recognize him for the swelling and discoloration. He was bleeding furiously from a gash in his forehead, and his eyes peered frantically from out of a blood-drenched face.

”The Vayllens,” he gasped. ”All smiles and favors until we reached their city, and then-” He broke off, coughing.

Hahle and his men vaulted into the boat. Myylen and Stahn bent over the sorcerer. Helwych shook, choked, vomited a mixture of blood and bile.

”-and then they turned on us, and ...”

Helwych seemed in danger of bleeding to death as he spoke. Myylen and Stahn cut strips from the sail and attempted to bind up the worst of his wounds, working quickly as he choked and retched; but Hahle felt the cold again. ”We need more than sailcloth here,” he said, his throat as tight as the grip of his hand on the bow. ”Stahn, run to the town and fetch what physicians we have.”

Stahn nodded and, shouting for the physicians, vaulted over the gunwale. But his weight caused the boat to s.h.i.+ft and roll, and it pitched Hahle backwards and onto the corpse of the Vayllen.

Myylen looked up, startled. Hahle stared at the dead man. The skin of the body was lined and tan, and its blond hair was bleached nearly white by the sun. Such as you betrayed my people. Such as you will pay dearly.

Helwych was gasping through a froth of spittle and blood. ”And they . . . and they ...”

Frowning at his clumsiness, Hahle climbed to his feet and made his way to the young sorcerer. ”And the others?”

”Dead.” Helwych choked, winced at Myylen's rough ministry.

”All of them? No survivors at all?”

Helwych blinked, his mouth working. ”All dead.” There was an odd tone to his voice, and his eyes s.h.i.+fted a little in their b.l.o.o.d.y sockets. ”I alone escaped to tell you.”

As the days had slipped by into mid-February, the weather about Kingsbury had grown milder. The storm three weeks ago had spent the last of the winter's strength, and the winds had s.h.i.+fted to the southwest, bringing a warmth that presaged the coming of spring.

In the house of the king, Seena nursed her infant son, the tender expression of a young mother warm on her face. Her heart was full. She had her children and her husband, and Gryylth was changing in wonderful ways. Nearby, Relys watched as Ayya played with a toy broom, wielding it with childish carelessness; and though the girl might sweep some day in earnest, she would, Seena knew, never learn the bow of subservience, and Vill would never know a time when his sister was not his equal, save perhaps in strength.

But the sun was setting, and with nightfall would come things less of wonder and more of horror. Ban-don had been destroyed in the night, and though that slaughter had not been repeated in Gryylth, still darkness brought with it the distant baying of spectral and murderous hounds and a curious, eager snuffling that visited many a door both within the town and without.

The light faded. Seena shuddered and held Vill closer. The infant mumbled, his soft hands padding at his mother's breast.

What would happen, she wondered, if the hounds and the things from the sky came to Kingsbury in earnest? Ayya might never learn the bow . . . but she might well never learn it because- Seena jerked herself away from her thoughts. No. Alouzon had gone off to Vaylle, and if there were anyone capable of bringing that renegade land to heel, it was the Dragonmaster. The younger men might mock her behind her back because she was a woman, but those who had fought with her regarded her almost as though she were a G.o.d who had deigned to come to Gryylth to help Her children, face-to-face, hand-in-hand.

A heavy step at the door. Relys looked up from Ayya, and her hand went to her sword; but the guards outside murmured greetings, and Cvinthil's soft tenor carried into the house. In a moment, Seena's husband had entered. He shut the door behind him, took off his cloak, and hung it on a peg.