Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

Grasping the sword, Nick took two or three practice swings to limber up his arms and then indicated, with a nod of his head, that he was ready. Gareth forced Hugh to his knees before the block. The knight stepped back, but not far, only two or three paces. His fingers flexed nervously around the knife concealed in the folds of his cape. His excuse was framing itself in his mind. When the blade sank into his neck, Hugh screamed out that it was you, Magicka, who killed my lord. I heard it clearly. The words of a dying man are, they say, always true. Of course, I know that he lied, but I feared the peasants—being a superstitious lot—would take it ill. I thought it best to cut his miserable life short. Magicka wouldn’t believe it. He’d know the truth. Ah, well, Gareth didn’t have that much left to live for anyway. The executioner grabbed hold of Hugh’s hair, intending to position the prisoner’s head on the block. But Magicka, perhaps sensing an uneasiness in the crowd that not even the excitement of a forthcoming execution could quite banish, raised a restraining hand.

“Halt,” he cried. His robes swirling around him in the chill wind that had sprung up, the wizard walked toward the block. “Hugh the Hand,” said Magicka in a loud, stern voice, “I give you one more chance. Tell us—now that you are near the Realm of Death—have you anything to confess?” Hugh raised his head. Perhaps the fear of approaching oblivion had finally struck him.

“Yes. I have something to confess.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Magicka gently. The smile of triumph on the thin, aesthetic face was not lost on the watchful Gareth. “What is it you have to regret in leaving this life, my son?”

The Hand’s swollen mouth twisted. Straightening his shoulders, he looked at Magicka and said coolly, “That I never killed one of your kind, wizard.” The crowd gasped in pleasurable horror. Three-Chop Nick chuckled beneath his hood. The longer this death dragged out, the better the wizard would reward it.

Magicka smiled with cool pity.

“May your soul rot like your body,” he said.

Casting Nick a look that plainly invited the executioner to have a good time, the wizard stepped back well out of the way, to keep the blood from spattering on his robes.

The executioner drew forth a black handkerchief and started to bind it around Hugh’s eyes.

“No!” the assassin shouted harshly. “I want to carry that face with me.”

“Get on with it!” Foam flecked the wizard’s lips. Nick grabbed his hair, but Hugh shook the hand free. Voluntarily the prisoner laid his head down upon the bloodstained marble. His eyes were wide open, staring unblinkingly, accusingly at Magicka. The executioner reached down, took hold of the man’s short braid, and yanked it over to one side. Three-Chop liked a clear expanse of neck with which to work.

Nick raised his blade. Hugh drew a breath, gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes focused on the wizard. Gareth, watching, saw Magicka blench, swallow, and dart hasty glances here and there, as though seeking escape.

“The horror of this man’s evil is too much!” the wizard cried. “Be swift! I cannot bear it!”

Gareth gripped his knife. Nick’s arm muscles bulged, preparing for the downward stroke. Women covered their eyes and peeped out between their fingers, men craned to see over each other’s heads, children were hastily lifted up to get a better view.

And then there came, from the gates, the clash of arms.

A gigantic shape, blacker than the Lords of Night, appeared above the keep’s towers. No one could see clearly in the gloom, but the flapping of huge wings was audible. The gate guards clashed sword against shield, sounding the alarm, causing everyone in the courtyard to turn his attention from the impending execution to the threat above. Knights drew their swords and shouted for their mounts. Raids by Tribus corsairs were commonplace, and one had been expected daily in retaliation for the abduction and subsequent death of the elflord who had allegedly hired Hugh the Hand.

“What is it?” bellowed Gareth, endeavoring vainly to see what was going on, torn between leaving his post at the side of the prisoner and rushing to the gates that were his responsibility.

“Ignore it! Get on with the execution!” snarled Magicka. But Three-Chop Nick demanded an attentive audience, and he had lost this one. Half of the crowd was staring at the gate; the other half was running toward it. Lowering his blade with an air of wounded pride, Nick waited in hurt and dignified silence to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s a real dragon, fools! One of ours, not an elf ship. It’s one of ours!” Gareth shouted. “You two, keep an eye on the prisoner.” The captain raced to the gates to quell the spreading panic.

The battle dragon swooped low over the castle. A score of rope cables, glistening in the torchlight, snaked through the air. Men leapt from the dragon’s back, slid down the cables, and landed in the courtyard. Everyone could see the silver insignia of the King’s Own glittering on their panoply, and the crowd muttered ominously.

Swiftly the soldiers deployed, clearing a large area in the center of the courtyard and placing themselves in position around it. Shields in their left hands, spears in their right, they stood at relaxed attention, facing outward, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes or answer anyone’s questions. A lone dragonrider appeared. Flying over the gate, the small, swift-flying dragon hovered over the circle cleared for it, wings holding it poised in the air while it scanned the area in which it would land. By now its rider’s elegant livery, flashing red and golden in the flaring torchlight, could be easily recognized. The people caught their breath and glanced at each other with questioning eyes.

The riding dragon settled to the ground, wings trembling, its flanks heaving. Flecks of saliva dripped from its fanged mouth. Jumping from the saddle, the rider cast a swift glance around the courtyard. He was clad in the short gold-trimmed cape and red flared coat of a king’s courier, and the people waited in breathless anticipation to hear the news he had to impart. Almost everyone expected it to be a declaration of war against the elves of Tribus; some of the knights were already looking about for their squires so that they might be ready to muster at a moment’s notice. It was, therefore, with considerable shock that those standing in the courtyard saw the courier raise a hand gloved in the finest soft and supple leather and point at the block.

“Is that Hugh the Hand you are about to execute?” he shouted in a voice as soft and supple as his gloves.

The wizard strode across the courtyard and was admitted into the circle through the ranks of the King’s Own.

“What if it is?” answered Magicka warily.

“If it is Hugh the Hand, I command you, in the name of the king, to deliver him to me—alive,” said the courier.

The wizard glowered at the man darkly. Ke’lith’s knights looked questioningly in Magicka’s direction, awaiting his orders.

Until recently, the Volkarans had never known a king. In the world’s very early days, Volkaran had been a penal colony established by the inhabitants of the main continent Uylandia. The famous prison at Yreni held murderers and thieves; exiles, whores, and various other social embarrassments were shipped off to the surrounding isles of Providence, Pitrin’s Exile, and the three Djerns. Life was hard on these outer isles, and over the centuries, the isles produced a hard people. Each isle was ruled by various clans; each clan’s lord spent his time either beating assaults off his own lands or attacking those of his neighbors on Uylandia.