Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

The light flashing in Tatyana’s eyes did surprise Scrainwood, for none of that animation made it to the leathery flesh of her face. He could tell that she fervently believed in the dreams, and the strength of that belief played into her voice. Her words almost made him believe himself.

“I fail to hear how Oriosa benefits, Grand Duchess.”

Tatyana’s eyes resumed their usual cold blue fire. “Her allies are lauded as well, Highness, and her dreams tell of bold masked troops intervening at a crucial point in the battle. Your troops, Highness, clearly.”

Scrainwood thought for a moment, then snorted. “This is the new game, then? We have a Vork prophecy that starts everything, and now the dream of some Okrans princess will end it? And what lies between fantasy and dream?”

“Nightmares, Highness; horrible nightmares.” Tatyana smiled thinly. “But there is always winter before spring, dark before dawn. Join with me, and the dawn shall be as bright as it can be.”

Dawn. When we execute those who would play at treason . The King of Oriosa slowly nodded. “Through nightmares then, to awake again at dawn.”

With the thunder of the discharging quadnels echoing loudly, Erlestoke leaped through the smoke and fire. The sword had drained the world of color again, so that the crawl to his left had black ink splashing from two hideous quadnel wounds, not red blood. It heightened other perceptions. A vylaen fell back with half its skull blown off. The grey fluid spattering those behind soaked torpidly into their fur.

The first of the gibberers bearing the heavy crate his squad had come to steal looked up. Surprise registered starkly on its face; Erlestoke’s saber slashed through that dumbfounded expression. As that gibberer reeled away and his corner of the ironbound oak case dipped toward the ground, Erlestoke’s saber came up and around, then down, cleaving cleanly through the arm of another gibberer. It howled piteously and stumbled away, clutching the pulsing stump to its chest. The front of the case slammed into the ground, though two other gibberkin still held up the back end.

The Oriosan Prince leaped forward again, planting both feet on the case. The added weight bent the other two gibberers. The saber whistled down, opening the one on the right from mid-spine to crown. The other made to draw its longknife, but a quadnel shot blasted heavily into its chest, knocking it backward.

Erlestoke stepped lightly forward, as if he were at a ball. He could feel the saber’s pernicious influence in the way he moved and what he was thinking. He had a mission, which was to steal the item in that case, and that was far more important than his life—or any life. The mission was as foolhardy as it was desperate, but it was even more vital.

Through the smoke, one of the cloaked figures came toward him. Up close it looked much bigger than it had before and, to complicate matters, the saber’s magick appeared to be muted in its presence.

Doesn’t matter. I was a warrior long before I had an enchanted sword.

The creature came on swiftly, not running, but with long strides that ate up ground. Behind it came a cadre of crawls, gibberers, and even a few vylaens. The human prisoners who had worked on the dig held back. Chained together, they could have done nothing anyway—though Erlestoke decided their reluctance to join in was more than just a practical consideration.

The prince closed with the cloaked figure and realized almost too late that it had to be nearly ten feet tall. He slashed at it crossways, looking to open its belly, but its left hand came out and down, sweeping from beneath the cloak. Erlestoke caught a hint of some sort of scaled armor on the forearm and expected the blade to shear through it.

To his surprise, it did not.

The creature’s left arm came around and over, then its long-fingered hand closed over the saber’s forte. With a single tug, the cloaked figure ripped the blade from his hand—so swiftly that Erlestoke’s glove came with it. Then the creature’s right hand emerged from the cloak and slammed an open-palm blow square into Erlestoke’s chest.

A hideous crack rippled through him and the prince flew backward, landing heavily on Jullagh-tse as she dragged the case away. She went down hard and the case slewed around. She shoved Erlestoke from her, her clawed feet scrabbling for traction.

Erlestoke rolled forward and flopped on his back. His chest ached with each breath, and only keeping them shallow prevented the pain from spiking. He got his elbows under him and started to lever himself up, but his ribs cracked again, forcing him to gasp.

Behind him he heard the urZrethi. “Prize is clear.”

The cloaked creature loomed large and larger.

“Go, go, go!” Erlestoke tried to shout, but only the first word had any volume. Digging his heels in, he tried to drag himself backward, but he could not escape the thing coming for him.

Both of its arms came up, opening the cloak to reveal a leathery scale armor that reminded him, vaguely, of a Panqui’s armored flesh. Gold glinted in streaks and speckles on the green scale armor as it towered over him. Sharp horny knobs and spurs sprouted on the forearms and elbows. Clawed fingers rose to rake terrible hooked talons down through him.

Four quadnels spoke as one. Before the smoke hid the creature, Erlestoke saw one of the balls hit its broad chest and bounce away. Of the other shots he could not see what hit where, but the figure did stagger backward. The prince heard a mighty hiss and the thump of heavy footfalls.

Erlestoke rolled onto his stomach and heaved himself up, but his left foot lost traction and he crashed down again. His left shoulder hit the ground, jolting more pain through him. He cried out, then looked up at Ryswin, standing there, his silverwood bow drawn. “Go!”

The elf shook his head. “Hurry.”

Erlestoke clawed at the icy ground and lunged forward just as the elf released the arrow. Behind him came a gurgle, then an angry roar that faded into a hiss. As Ryswin grabbed his left shoulder and hauled him upright, the prince hazarded a glance backward.

One of the quadnel shots must have shattered the cloak’s clasp, for the creature had come through the thinning smoke naked. The armor Erlestoke had seen had not been clothing but flesh, and the hood had hidden a hideous head with spikes and horns. The face appeared almost human, though devoid of hair and covered in scales—save that a muzzle began to jut forward, and the lipless mouth displayed the lethal curve of ivory fangs.

The elf’s arrow protruded from the creature’s mouth. It coughed and grasped the arrow as crawls and vylaens came to its aid. Erlestoke saw nothing more as the elf bodily dragged him into the small passage they’d discovered, and down between rough-hewn walls to sanctuary.

Erlestoke gasped with pain. “Slow, I can’t run. My ribs.”

“We have to, Highness.” The elf glanced up along their back trail. “We haven’t stopped it, just made it angry.”

“You know what it was?”

“Not for certain, no, but you recall my telling you about the kryalniri ?.”

“Nightmare creatures from long ago, yes.”

The elf nodded solemnly. “There are stories, seldom told, of things that used to prey on beasts like the kryalniri . They are ancient and fell. The only things older are dragons, and the further we are from it, the happier I’ll be.”

Goruel knelt on one knee in the snow and spat out the arrow. A little greenish black blood came with it, staining the snow. It had not hurt him as much as it had surprised him. Even the soft flesh of his mouth had not let it penetrate enough to lodge. As he swallowed he could feel a slow trickle of blood running down the back of his throat, but the wound would soon close and the injury would be of no consequence.