Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

Yanking on the reins, the captain—his eyes blinking back tears—turned the head of his dragon. He kicked the creature in the flanks, just behind the wings, and caused it to rise into the air, where it remained, hovering over the cart, its snakelike eyes daring any of those lurking in the shadows to cross its path. The dragon knights riding behind likewise took to the air. The tiermaster, his own eyes watering, blinked. The tier once more trod sullenly forward, and the cart clattered over the road.

It was night when the cart and its dragon escort reached the fortress keep and dwelling place of the Lord of Ke’lith. The lord himself lay in state in the center of the courtyard. Bundles of charcrystal soaked in perfumed oil surrounded his body. His shield lay across his chest. One cold, stiff hand was clasped around his sword hilt; the other hand held a rose placed there by his weeping lady-wife. She was not among those gathered around the body, but was within the keep, heavily sedated with poppy syrup. It was feared that she might hurl herself upon the flaming bier, and while such sacrificial immolation was customary on the island of Dandrak, in this case it could not be allowed; Lord Rogar’s wife having just recently given birth to his only child and heir. The lord’s favorite dragon stood nearby, proudly tossing its spiky mane. Standing beside it, tears rolling down his face, was the head stablemaster, a huge butcher’s blade in his hand. It wasn’t for the lord he wept. As the flames consumed its master’s body, the dragon which the stablemaster had raised from an egg would be slaughtered, its spirit sent to serve its lord after death.

All was prepared. Every hand held a flaming torch. Those milling about the courtyard awaited only one thing before they set fire to the bier: the head of the lord’s murderer to be placed at his feet.

Although the keep’s defenses had not been activated, a cordon of knights had been drawn up to keep the curious out of the castle. The knights drew aside to allow the cart entry, then closed ranks as it trundled past. A cheer went up from those standing in the courtyard when the cart was sighted rumbling beneath the arched gateway. The knights escorting it dismounted, and their squires ran forward to lead the dragons to the stables. The lord’s dragon shrieked a welcome—or perhaps a farewell—to its fellows.

The tier was detached and led away. The tiermaster and the four men who had pushed the vehicle were taken to the kitchen, there to be fed and given a share of the lord’s best brown ale. Sir Gareth, his sword loosened in its scabbard, his eyes noting every move the prisoner made, climbed into the cart. Drawing his sideknife, he cut the leather thongs attached to the wooden slats.

“We caught the elflord, Hugh,” Gareth said in an undertone as he worked.

“Caught him alive. He was on his dragonship, sailing back to Tribus, when our dragons overtook him. We questioned him and he confessed giving you the money before he died.”

“I’ve seen how you ‘question’ people,” said Hugh. One hand free, he flexed his arm to ease the stiffness. Gareth, loosing the other one, eyed him warily.

“The bastard would’ve confessed to being human if you’d asked him!”

“It was your accursed dagger we took from my lord’s back, the one with the bone handle with those strange markings. I recognized it.”

“Damn right, you did!” Both hands were free. Moving swiftly, suddenly, Hugh’s strong hands closed over the chain-mail armor that covered the knight’s upper arms. The assassin’s fingers bit deep, driving the rings of the chain mail painfully into the man’s flesh. “And you know both how and why you saw it!” Gareth sucked in his breath, his sideknife jerked forward. The blade was three-quarters the way to Hugh’s rib cage when, with an effort of will, the knight halted his reflexive lunge.

“Get back!” he snarled at several of his fellows, who, seeing their captain accosted, had drawn their swords and were preparing to come to his assistance.

“Let go of me, Hugh.” Gareth spoke through gritted teeth. His skin was a ghastly leaden hue, sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Your trick didn’t work. You won’t meet an easy death at my hand.”

Hugh, with a shrug and a slight sardonic smile, released his grip on the knight’s arms. Gareth caught hold of the assassin’s right hand, jerked it roughly behind his back, and, grabbing his left, bound the two together tightly with the remnants of the leather thongs.

“I paid you well,” the knight muttered. “I owe you nothing!”

“And what about her, your daughter, whose death I avenged—” Spinning Hugh around by the shoulder, Gareth swung his mailed fist. The blow caught the assassin on the jaw and sent him crashing through the wooden slats of the cart. Sprawled on his back on the ground, the Hand lay in the muck of the courtyard. Gareth jumped down from the cart. Straddling the prisoner, the knight stared down at him coldly.

“You’ll die with your head on the block, you murdering bastard. Bring him,” he ordered two of his men, and kicked Hugh in the kidney with the toe of his boot. Gareth watched with satisfaction as the man writhed in pain. The knight added grimly, “And gag his mouth.”

“Here is the assassin, Magicka,” said Gareth, gesturing to the bound—and-gagged prisoner.

“Did he give you any trouble?” asked a well-formed man of perhaps forty cycles, who gazed at Hugh with a sorrowful air, as though he found it impossible to believe that so much evil could reside in one human being.

“None that I couldn’t handle, Magicka,” said Gareth, subdued in the presence of the house magus.

The wizard nodded and—conscious of a vast audience—straightened to his full height and folded his hands ceremoniously over his brown velvet cassock; he was a land magus and so wore the colors of the magic he favored. He did not, however, wear in addition the mantle of royal magus—a title he had, according to rumor, long coveted but one which Lord Rogar, for reasons of his own, refused to grant.

Those standing in the muddy courtyard saw the prisoner being led before the person who was now—by default—the highest voice of authority in the fiefdom, and crowded around to hear. The light of their torches flared and danced in the cold evening breeze. The lord’s dragon, mistaking the tenseness and confusion for battle, trumpeted loudly, demanding to be unleashed upon the enemy. The stablemaster patted it soothingly. Soon it would be sent to fight an Enemy that neither man nor even the long-lived dragon can finally avoid.

“Remove the gag from his mouth,” ordered the wizard. Gareth coughed, cleared his throat, and cast the Hand a sidelong glance. Leaning near the wizard, the knight spoke in low tones. “You will hear nothing but a string of lies. He’ll say anything—”

“I said, remove it,” remonstrated Magicka in a commanding tone that left no doubt in the minds of anyone standing in the courtyard who was now the master of Ke’lith Keep.

Gareth sullenly did as he was told, yanking the gag from Hugh’s mouth with such force that he wrenched the man’s head sideways and left an ugly weal on one side of his face.

“Every man, no matter how heinous his crime, has the right to confess his guilt and cleanse his soul. What is your name?” questioned the wizard crisply. The assassin, gazing over the wizard’s head, did not answer. Gareth smote Hugh rebukingly.

“He is known as Hugh the Hand, Magicka.”

“Surname?”

Hugh spit blood.

The wizard frowned. “Come, Hugh the Hand can’t be your real name. Your voice. Your manners. Surely you are a nobleman! The baton sinister, no doubt. Yet, we must know the names of your ancestors in order to commend to them your unworthy spirit. You will not speak?” Reaching out a hand, the wizard caught hold of Hugh’s chin and jerked the man’s face to the torchlight. “The bone structure is strong. The nose aristocratic, the eyes exceedingly fine, although I seem to see something of the peasant in the deep lines in the face and the sensuality of the lips. But there is undoubtedly noble blood in your veins. A pity it runs black. Come, sir, reveal your true identity and confess to the murder of Lord Rogar. Such confession will cleanse your soul.” The prisoner’s swollen mouth widened in a grin; there was a flicker of flame deep in the sunken black eyes. “Where my father is, his son will shortly follow,” Hugh replied. “And you know better than any here that I did not murder your lord.”