Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Had the guard not been disoriented and weakened from blood loss, he would have broken free in short order, but as it was, Owl held him just long enough that a teenage boy reached them and, using a mace salvaged from another fallen member of the garrison, caved in the man's head.

"Are you hurt, sir?" asked the boy, as he stared dumbfounded at the man he had just killed.

Owl wiped a fleck of blood from his eyelid. "No. My thanks." His stomach heaved. Next to him, Nalicia stared sightlessly up at the stars.

Hiephora took wing, abandoning the security of the forest. Once more, she endured the jolt as she broached the aura around the castle. This time she cried out, stabbed to the core. The energies roiled and snapped, fed by the fear of the dying, the cold dispassion of the dead, and the hatred of foe for foe. She flew high, where the impact was less severe, and hovered over the great courtyard. She could not bring herself to look downward.

"Cyfee!" she called out.

No response. She quailed to think that her protegee lay embroiled in the carnage, yet Cyfee and three other rythni had not returned to the woods. They could not be dead. Her prophecy had been clear in that regard; no rythni would die in this fight. Otherwise she could not have asked a single one of her subjects to participate. She called again, flying a circuit of the fortress walls.

Over the governor's keep, away from the worst of the din, she heard a faint, urgent, keening cry, unmistakably a rythni song of distress. Yet, strangely, she thought she could detect an alluring whisper beneath it. Both emanated from the northwest tower of the keep.

The wizard's sanctum.

She circled warily before she dared land on the balcony. The room within was dim, foreboding, tinged with the mephitis of sorcery. The distress cry flowed from it clearly, mournfully. She ventured nearer the opening. A strange music, very unlike the harmonics of the forest, reached out and murmured to her.

"My queen!" cried a familiar voice.

Hiephora peered inside. Four rythni lay on the table in the center of the room, under a faintly luminescent net, beside a crystal vase containing a sprig of herb thick with white flowers.

"Cyfee!" At last Hiephora identified the odd undertone that she had heard above the castle. It came from the herb-a whisper promising love, dancing, dreams, and song, the perfect lure for a rythni. It was subtle, almost subliminal at first, drawing in the unsuspecting listener until the trap was woven too tightly for escape. She herself wanted desperately to venture inside, though clearly she, like her subjects, would be snagged like a fly in a web.

"Are you hurt?" Hiephora called.

"No," Cyfee replied. "But it won't let us go." She lifted an arm. The strands kept her from extending it. The other three companions, though awake, seemed unable to move at all.

"Stay still, then. I will bring help as soon as I can."

The wind over the lake licked at Alemar's hair, twisting it into his face. He blew it clear, since his arms, like the rest of him, were propped up by dozens of rythni. They were getting tired, these little ones. They had carried him non-stop from the site where he had been maintaining the camouflage spell around Claric until Omril's arrival. Their strength was fading rapidly, or perhaps it was the essence of the castle, sapping them of their resolve as they drew near.

"Just a little farther," he murmured. "You've done well."

A flutter of movement ahead of them pulled his gaze away from the battlements. "Prince Alemar!" called a small voice.

"My queen?" Alemar frowned at the sight of Hiephora. "What's wrong?"

"Treachery from the wizard," she declared. "Fly with me to his tower."

Following their monarch's lead, the weary carriers deposited Alemar on the balcony. "Stay," she commanded. "The prince will need you to take him off; the stairs are not safe." They gathered obediently upon the balustrade, though they shivered, stared nervously to either side, and occasionally flitted an inch or two into the air.

Alemar stared into the wizard's den, a furrow gathering in his forehead. He glanced back at the serene waters of Rock Lake, watching the ripples gleam from the light of Serpent Moon. Omril and his men would scarcely have reached the shore. It would take them until dawn to return to the fortress. His fingers abstractly stroked the pommel of his sword, unaccustomed to the weapon's presence on his belt.

From down in the guts of the keep came the sound of furniture breaking and doors being rammed open, and the shriek of metal on metal. Alemar disregarded it, focussing on the threshold between the balcony and the room. He saw a glow, hanging like a veil across the opening.

"There is a guard spell here," he told the queen, and suddenly thrust his gauntlet forward. The veil parted, falling into shreds on the floor and slipping like water into the cracks of the masonry. "Not a potent one. Just one to put strangers asleep should they intrude. Rythni must be too small to activate it."

He entered, found an oil lamp, and gingerly set it on the table. "Touch nothing," he warned as he lit it. The yellow glow spilled across shelves of thaumaturgical volumes, bottles of rare minerals, and complex equipment. The cage of pigeons caught his attention. The birds cooed, bobbing their heads, as graceless as only pigeons could be.

Cyfee and the three rythni waited quietly, their eyes full of doelike apprehension. Alemar examined the vase, the herb, and the net that confined them. "It's a moly-see the black roots? You'll have to warn your people. Omril may have planted others in the forest in order to snare you."

He plucked at the net with his gauntlet hand. The fibers clung to the gold mail like cobweb, and would not let go. It did nothing to free the rythni, merely mired himself.

"Hmmm," he muttered. He traced the strands to their source, a series of minuscule holes in the stems, just beneath the seductively fragrant blooms. He moved the flame of the lamp beneath the latter. The petals shrivelled and blackened, giving off an acrid smoke. A portion of the web loosened, allowing one of Cyfee's companions to sit up.

"It's working," Hiephora said.

Alemar nodded, and moved the lamp to the next stem. Suddenly the flame leaped sideways, igniting the entire net, enveloping the captives in a conflagration. Alemar gasped, flinging aside the lamp. The rythni shrieked.

He dived for the curtains, tore one from its rod and cast it over the table, snuffing the flame. At the same time, in the far corner, a new fire sprang from the spilled oil and licked its way up a bookcase. He ignored it, pulling back the fabric.

The four rythni writhed in agony, coughing, their skin baked deep red. Seared stumps twitched where their delicate, membrane-thin wings had been. Alemar choked.

It was instinct alone that made him duck. A massive tome on alchemy sailed through the space where his head had been. From another direction, a bottle launched itself from a rack. He twisted sideways. The glass shattered against the wall, releasing an acid that sizzled and ate into the marble floor. A drop struck his wrist, dissolving a patch of his skin the size of a small coin.

Hiephora landed on the table, wilting over Cyfee as if unable to believe what had just occurred. "Out!" Alemar cried. He raised his gauntlet to fend off more books. The queen acted as if she did not hear.

Alemar's sword tried to draw itself from its scabbard. He slammed it back into place. Then, with a flash of insight, he drew it on purpose and whirled toward the cage of pigeons.

One of the birds was staring straight at him, unperturbed by the fire, the moans of the little people, or the cyclone of flying objects.

Alemar lunged, thrusting, and drilled his sword through its avian chest. It died without a flutter.