Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

The rythni! Somehow the prince had collected the energies of the little people, and had channeled them through himself. He had the strength of the entire forest to draw from-enough for an Ultimate Ward, enough to spin a trap. Omril choked, and took another step forward. He heard his servitors beat uselessly against the ward. Their frantic yells tortured him. Worthless soldiers.

He should have killed the woman while he had the chance.

Alemar's hands loomed. The sorcerer tried to raise his own to brush them away, but he could only get them as high as his waist. With tender, uncompromising finality, the palms closed around his jaws.

Wynneth struggled not to be frightened, as Alemar stood next to her, frozen eye to eye with the wizard, hands holding the latter's face. The sun dropped under the horizon, leaving the clearing brightly lit by Motherworld. Still the two combatants did not move. The Dragon's soldiers pounded against the ward, the cacophonous din driving her to tears. Would they never stop?

They had slowed down, she told herself, trying to be objective. They thrust their swords and pikes steadily but half-heartedly. The cohort that had been chasing the rebel band returned empty-handed, and they joined the ranks of awed observers. She hated those eyes, never giving her a moment to herself. That was almost worse than the fear that Alemar, in spite of his performance thus far, would fail.

Suddenly the wizard groaned. His eyelids fluttered like a man in a seizure. His knees sagged, and he sank out of Alemar's grip, hands clawing ineffectually at the prince's clothing. He curled up in a fetal position on the ground and whimpered.

Alemar sucked in air. His pupils contracted, and he gazed out at the armed throng surrounding them. They put up their weapons and gaped in shock. Finally he met Wynneth's worried stare.

"What did you do to him?" she asked, scooting away from Omril.

"I… showed him himself. It was more than he cared to know." Suddenly the prince sighed, and two great teardrops welled at the corners of his eyes. "He was not an evil man. He was just… unfeeling."

Then Alemar seemed to draw a veil over his expression, and when he turned to face Omril's army, he bore himself like a monarch. "You've seen a sample of my power. I give you a choice: fight me, fight my sister who waits in the forest, or leave. If you return straight to Yent, we will leave you unmolested. Refuse now and not a single one of you will live to see the coast."

They did not even murmur among themselves. They turned their eyes toward their captain, who stood just outside the circle of twine, scowling down at what had become of the Dragon's sorcerer.

"What of him?" the captain asked.

"He is mine."

The captain gnawed his lower lip. To return to the garrison without such an important figure would mean heavy discipline. He was a grizzled, barrel-chested man of advancing years, a veteran with the scars to prove it. He tapped his foot in the dust.

"The woods are thick between here and the settled provinces," Alemar commented mildly.

"We keep our arms?" he asked.

"If you wish."

He turned to his men. "Break camp. We're leaving tonight."

Alemar accepted the surrender with outward nonchalance, standing within the battle circle as if it were the site of his throne. Wynneth, on the other hand, knew that this was a facade intended to intimidate his audience, and she leaned against him and cried. The soldiers acted on their decision with dispatch. Except for occasional wide-eyed stares, they pretended the rebel prince, his wife, and the defeated wizard no longer existed, as if nothing mattered, in fact, but beginning the march homeward.

A tiny figure buzzed over the clearing and settled on Alemar's shoulder. The latter echoed its song of greeting.

"Half my people fell unconscious from the effort," Hiephora announced.

"He was stronger than I realized," Alemar said, his composure not quite masking his relief. "I'm not sure any single man could have defeated him."

"But you were not alone, beloved," said the rythni queen. "Nor will you be as long as you stay within the forests of Cilendrodel. Rejoice. You have won."

He laughed. Wynneth smiled to see him so triumphant.

"Very well," he said. "The wizard is mine. Let's be off to the south, where the real battle lies."

TOREN WOKE SUDDENLY, but like a warrior, gave no outward sign. He opened his eyes to slits. The forest whispered with the echoes of falling dew. He saw a single leaf, high above, caught by the morning sun. Two young wrens were practicing flight, darting from branch to branch. Deena's back pressed warmly against his. Geim and the rest of the party still slumbered, curled on either side of the ashes of last night's campfire. All was serene.

But he was being watched.

He scanned across a log that lay beyond his companions. A beetle clambered through the crevices in the bark toward a knot. It paused, waved its antennae, and abruptly changed direction.

A tiny man squatted behind the knot, peering out at the three humans.

Toren had never seen a rythni before, but Obo had, and the sight of one sparked a warm rush of nostalgia. He was mesmerized by the clean, slim lines of the little man's body-hairless, like a Vanihr, except for the thick blue mop on his head. Without rising Toren called out softly.

"Greetings."

The rythni jumped, stared at Toren for an instant, then ducked around the log faster than a hummingbird could fly.

Toren had expected nothing less, considering the timidity of the race. Even if he had known their language, he knew he could not have convinced the rythni to stay.

Geim, Deena, and the others lifted their heads and peered about with sleep-encrusted eyes.

"We had a visitor," Toren said, and told them what had just happened. "It's good news. Obo told me that rythni are seldom reported in western Cilendrodel. We must be getting close to our destination."

"Good," Geim grumbled. His mood had soured as soon as they had descended out of the Syril Mountains, out of the cool mountain air into the muggy climate of Cilendrodel in summer. "Maybe we can find a place that serves a decent meal soon."

Geim's hopes materialized by midday. They found an inn, a tiny establishment in an equally tiny community nestled at the edge of a grove of silk trees.

Toren and his group were dressed in the manner of the traders of the foothills of the Syril, who often arrived during the season to barter for silk. The innkeeper regarded the tall, blond, beardless visages of the two Vanihr with a quizzical frown, but he seemed satisfied with the others. His expression softened even more when Deena acted as the spokesperson. She gave him the standard story, that they were on their way to trade with quarn merchants near Garthmorron.

The innkeeper called to his wife, who hefted her massive body out of a chair and began clattering about in the kitchen. Her husband wiped down one of the common room's two tables and gestured for his guests to sit.

"That's bad country to be making for right now," he said.

"Oh? Why?"

"There was a rebel uprising at the governor's fortress near Old Stump three months back. They killed Lord Puriel, and tore down his castle. The Dragon sent troops to burn down the village, and now the whole province is in open revolt. And now some incredible news has come from the north."

"Which is?"

"Alemar, the Elandri prince, defeated Gloroc's sorcerer in single combat, and kept two cohorts of men at bay while he did it. The cohorts, when they returned south and saw that the countryside had risen up, joined the revolt."

"Are you sure?" Deena asked. She and the others masked their reactions, not knowing where the loyalties of the innkeeper lay.