Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Hiephora had been right to flee.

He entered a foyer where the fighting had been especially intense. Blood pooled under five bodies. One man was still alive. As Alemar drew nearer, he saw that it was Iregg. The rebel's jerkin was crimson across the entire front, and his aura was faint. He held up a mangled hand, opening his mouth. He produced no words, but the entreaty was plain.

"I can't help you," Alemar said.

The tremulous quiver of hope disappeared from Iregg's eyes. He lowered his hand. Alemar winced as if pierced by a lance. "I'm sorry."

The prince heard a noise to his left, and spun. A soldier jumped out of a doorway, battle ax high. Alemar ducked the swipe, but was bowled over by the man's charge. They tumbled. Chain mail pressed against the prince's face. They both rolled free and reached their feet at the same time. The attacker had lost his ax. Alemar had lost his sword.

The man was fully armored. Perhaps he thought himself invulnerable to an unarmed opponent, since he waited, as if he expected Alemar to try to pick up his weapon. Instead, the prince stepped in and punched. The gauntlet augmented his power, driving the mesh of chain mail into the soldier's sternum. The latter wheezed, red flecks flying from his lips. Alemar pounded again, and a third time. Ribs splintered with both blows.

He hit the man in the face, bending in the chin guards of his helmet, splitting lips, knocking teeth loose. The man choked. He had died with the first terrible blow. Now at last he wobbled, and, no longer supported by the pounding, slammed heavily to the flagstones.

Alemar stared at the gore on his gauntlet, transfixed. He turned back to Iregg. His comrade had lost consciousness. His aura waned. Alemar bent down, cradled Iregg's limp, broken hand inside his.

The prince could not help himself. Though certain that he would fail, he nevertheless tried to summon his healing power. A dull throb, a shadow of former vigor, thrummed along his bones, but nothing flowed out.

Impotent, he waited until the end. It came swiftly.

His muscles had grown painfully stiff; it was a struggle to straighten up. He retrieved his sword and walked on.

He met no more enemies. Instead, allies grew thick about him. They hailed him raucously, but he acknowledged them only with a raised hand. They directed him to Puriel's great audience chamber.

The shattered table, scattered braziers, dropped weapons, and fallen men gave evidence of the viciousness of the fight here. Elenya stood at the hearth. She issued orders to three of her lieutenants and the men hurried away.

One could hardly tell that Elenya's tunic had once been white. Alemar stared at her matted, crusted hair.

"None of it's mine," she said, gesturing at the blood. "Except this." She displayed a superficial slice along her forearm.

"Puriel?" Alemar asked.

"Not found. He wasn't in his chambers." She frowned at the sight of his red gauntlet and drawn sword. Without realizing it, she slipped into mindspeech. "What happened?"

"I was just up in the wizard's tower."

She nodded slowly. "I'm told it's burning."

He did not answer with words, merely sent an image of the four rythni losing their wings, the death of the pigeons, and the abandonment of the little people on the balustrade.

She wiped some of the gore off her cheek. "Not much you can do for them now," she said gently. "There are people in the courtyard who need your help."

He raised his sword. The blood on it had dried and would harm the metal if it he left the blade uncleaned. He shoved it back in the scabbard without wiping it. "I pity them," he said, and stalked out between the shattered doors.

Omril knelt at the lake's edge, cupping water in his palms and running it over his face until his fine vest was soaked. He stared morosely across the water. His tower, tiny in the distance, burned like a commoner's candle. His scrolls, his talismans, his birds-all gone.

"My lord?" asked his senior lieutenant. "Are you well?"

Omril's cohort waited expectantly, still shocked that their citadel was under attack. Many chafed to ride on. When the wizard had first called a halt in order to send his eyes to his pigeons, the junior lieutenant had begged to split the group and ride ahead. Omril had refused.

The wizard stood. He would not play a losing game. By the time he returned to the keep, the rebels might be in control, if they were not already. He might still win the day, but it would be a struggle, perhaps even a risk of his life. Time to regroup. He would save his counterattack for a better day, when he had more men behind him, when he could shape the situation to his advantage.

The garrison at Yent was the nearest source of reinforcements. That was where he would go. He gave the order.

The lieutenant was startled. "What of Lord Puriel?"

"Time for a new governor," Omril replied.

Owl lifted a blanket from a villager who had just died of his wounds, and carried it a short distance to another who still could make use of it. The wool weighed heavily in his grip. How could he be so tired that a single blanket would seem like such a burden? The man he tended shivered violently; the added covering seemed not to help. Owl had little doubt that soon he would be free to move the blanket again, as well as the one beneath it.

The tavernmaster stretched, popping his spine. The crowded barracks, where most of the wounded had been moved from the courtyard in the past few hours, had grown lighter. One of the nurses extinguished a lantern. Dawn.

The Elandri prince still worked, as he had done ever since he had emerged from the keep. He seemed to know which of the injured had a chance, and which did not, and concentrated on the former. He set bones, stanched bleeding that had thwarted the ministrations of others, relieved pain with powders, potions, and even the pressure of his fingers on certain places. Whenever not busy with their own efforts, Owl and the others watched in awe. And yet, for all his skill, Alemar did not seem to be using his legendary magic. The rumors must be true, Owl thought. The prince had lost his power. Fortunately, he was a fine physician even without it.

As if the new day were the cue he had been waiting for, Alemar abruptly left the barracks. Owl, seeing that there was nothing to be done for the patients at that moment, followed.

Alemar walked to the center of the courtyard, stopped, and gazed up at the wizard's tower. A faint wisp of smoke still spiraled from the gutted upper chamber. No one had tried to put the fire out, as it had not threatened the rest of the structure. Only now had it spent itself.

The castle had been secured, the drawbridge raised. The stronghold of the Dragon's forces had now become the stronghold of the rebels. Even those villagers who had not participated in any part of the battle now crowded within its walls. Anticipation and worry hovered in the air, palpitating Owl's skin with bony fingers. He followed Alemar up the stairs to the battlement to join the horde who waited above, nervously scanning the landscape outside the main walls. The princess stood there also, straight and intimidating in spite of her small stature.

"No sign yet?" Alemar asked his sister.

"None. Some of the scouts should be returning soon."

Owl was puzzled. What had happened to the little people, who had helped so much early in the fight? Surely they would keep track of Omril's position for the twins. Suddenly afraid, Owl realized that the wizard, with a full cohort, could be out there in complete concealment, waiting for the best moment to strike, able to raze the village while the residents hid behind the fortress walls.

Achird rose two handbreadths above the treeline. A scout jogged up to the moat and gave the password. In response the drawbridge lowered, and the man climbed up to report to the prince and princess.