King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

Wolfhere spoke gruffly. “Ride! Come, Manfred!”

Liath followed. She could not even risk looking back.

Her stomach had clenched into a knot and it felt as heavy as her heart. Not even a chance to say farewell! She blinked back tears.

“No sign,” said Manfred, who searched the fields and copses and straggle of burned and ruined outbuildings that separated them from the first distant bridge, the river’s edge with its low line of trees, and beyond it the walls of Gent.

They urged their horses into a canter. A hundred questions raced through Liath’s mind: Did the Eika have no weapons except spears? No armor? Was their skin their armor? If they were not human, and not of elvish kind, then what were they? And of what breed were their dogs, who looked more like four-legged devils than like dogs? Why did the Eika not pursue them? Ai, Lady, would they catch up with Hanna and the others? Would Hanna win free?

The rain started again. Her horse began to have trouble in the wet ground, and they had to slow down. They cut back toward the road, hoping to find better footing. Her back stayed dry, under the cloak, but already she felt trickles of cold rain dribbling down her neck and chest. Was Hanna also hampered by the rain? Would the Eika catch up to them? Or were the savages as reluctant to engage with the Dragons as they had appeared to be, back by the knoll?

Wolfhere cursed under his breath.

She looked, followed his gaze, and gasped aloud. Striding down from the north, the heavy gray clouds lowering behind them, came at least one hundred Eika, hair gleaming that strange, sickly white. They were armed with spears and axes and with round shields painted with fearsome red serpents coiled together over yellow or black or striped backgrounds. Their dogs massed, a restless, low hedge, before them.

Her horse needed no urging. It found the road, a firmer surface than the fields, and began to gallop toward the bridge. She looked back to see Manfred and Wolfhere just coming up onto the packed earth and rock of the road. Manfred lifted his spear upright and twisted it to unfurl the banner of the Eagles: an eagle with wings outspread carrying an arrow in its beak and a scroll in one talon. But the Eika were closer to the river. Already they ran at a steady lope that ate up the ground between them and their intended victims. Even Liath could see that the Eika would reach the bridge before the three Eagles could get there. She reined in her horse, wheeling around, but behind, back by the now distant knoll, another group of Eika had gathered, more than there had been before. Manfred passed her and kept riding, seeming oblivious to their inevitable fate.

Wolfhere came up beside her and slapped her horse on the rump. She started forward again, following him. To what purpose? At least, she thought bitterly, if Hanna survives she will be invested fully into the Eagles, a right earned by my death.

Wolfhere had sheathed his sword; he drew his left arm, hand clenched, across his chest, and then made a sharp sweeping gesture outward, toward the advancing Eika.

There came a flash, a glittering of light like a lire’s light seen from inside a dark room. Liath blinked; the horses staggered, whinnying in terror, and she clung helplessly as her gelding bucked once before calming. Manfred, a hand flung over his eyes, was almost thrown.

The Eika faltered, but only from a lope to a trot. A moment later, far away, a rumbling sounded that ended in a sharp clap as loud as a peal of thunder.

“Lady’s Blood,” swore Wolfhere, “there’s sorcery at work among the Eika. Liath, you must get in to the city, whatever happens to us. Do not hesitate or falter. When you win free, if I am dead, take yourself to the convent of St. Valeria and there throw yourself on the mercy of the Convent Mother. She will give you safekeeping.”

The outrunners of the Eika force had reached the bridge, and they gathered, forming a wall with their shields. She was still too far away to see the walls clearly, to see if anyone moved there, if anyone had noticed their plight.

Manfred settled his horse. He and Wolfhere exchanged a glance, and then the young man pressed his horse forward, galloping hard for the line.

“Straight after him!” cried Wolfhere. “And mind you not what you see.”

But she saw nothing, though she felt a tingling on her back and a slap of cold air against her cheeks. Manfred’s head and shoulders were abruptly invested with the tiny winkings of a thousand firebugs, but the sight faded against the red serpent shields, the Eika setting their trap and awaiting their prey, raising their spears.

She saw behind the Eika soldiers the stone and timber bridge, the gulf of air beneath, where the steep banks fell away to the river’s edge, and beyond, so close now that she could see figures standing along the parapet, the walls of Gent.

Without warning, the gates of Gent mawed open with a horrible screeching din.

And out from the city rode Dragons.

Thy charged at full tilt, lances lowered, teardrop shields as metal-gray as the lowering clouds, all blended together with the steady rain. The only colors were the red serpents and yellow shields of the Eika, the gold tabards of the Dragons as bright as if the sun had emerged, and the brass fittings on their helms like the masks of war.

The Dragons hit with an impact Liath felt as a shuddering in the air. A few broke all the way through and, rather than turning to aid their fellows now struggling with sword and ax against the Eika who had not gone down, they kept coming, heading for the three Eagles. Behind them, the second wave of Dragons hit the disintegrating Eika line. They did not bear lances but rather struck with swords and heavy axes. More Eika swarmed up from the river’s banks, and the melee swirled off the bridge and spread out into the fields on either side, a terrible ringing clash. Dogs leaped and ripped at Dragons and horses alike.

Six Dragons pounded up and wheeled round, forming into a loose wedge.

“Behind us,” shouted the man who was surely their leader. The broach which clasped his cloak at his right shoulder sparkled with jewels. A golden torque encircled his neck: the mark of a prince of the royal line. His gaze touched on Liath.

She stared, though she could see nothing of his face except his eyes, as green as jade. His helmet was not fitted with brass decoration, like those worn by his soldiers. It was inlaid with gold to form the aspect of a dragon, terrible to look on and yet, together with the other Dragons, all iron and gold and black, beautiful to look on.

Then they were moving back toward the fight. The two soldiers in front of her lowered their lances as Eika sprinted out into the roadway to block them. The weight of their horses drove them through. An Eika sprang up from the roadway and flung itself forward, ax raised high, toward the unarmored Wolfhere. The prince leaned right and cut across Wolfhere’s path, swung so strong a blow he cleaved the creature’s head from its neck. But more Eika came, and more yet, swarming toward the prince like bees drawn to honey or wild dogs to the hope of a fresh kill. The fighting pressed close all around them, and Liath hunched down, mumbling silent prayers. Manfred stuck one with his spear and then, as another climbed closer and the horses got bogged down in bodies and in the melee, lost it as the Eika fell away off the raised roadway.

They were almost at the bridge, but more and yet more Eika scrambled up, even up and over the stone braces, and formed a thick, living wall.

ere came up beside her and slapped her horse on the rump. She started forward again, following him. To what purpose? At least, she thought bitterly, if Hanna survives she will be invested fully into the Eagles, a right earned by my death.

Wolfhere had sheathed his sword; he drew his left arm, hand clenched, across his chest, and then made a sharp sweeping gesture outward, toward the advancing Eika.