Ширли Мерфи - The Dragonbards

They got ten of the boldest onto Windcaller’s back, Aven and the bard girl pushing the last ones up as the big dragon lifted. In the center of the courtyard, Iceflower was bleeding badly but she thrashed and roared, teasing and distracting the soldiers.

Seastrider returned and Marshy slid down, panting, “Tebriel is safe on the barge.” As they pushed children onto Seastrider’s back, they saw soldiers poised on the wall above Iceflower, spreading a net.

“Heave . . .

“ Now!”

The net fell over the fighting young dragon in pale folds.

“Tighter—pull it tighter!”

Iceflower plunged and flamed, burning net, burning soldiers, as Windcaller returned.

It was all Kiri and Aven and the girl could do to get the last children mounted. Where was Marshy? Then Kiri saw him in the center of the courtyard, clinging to Iceflower, both of them tangled in the net. Kiri swung onto Windcaller’s back behind a tangle of children, and Windcaller sped at the soldiers, blasting flame. Seastrider, loaded with children, dropped to fight beside her.

The dragons cut the net away, Marshy scrambled onto Iceflower’s back, and the three dragons lifted, Iceflower limping in flight, the big dragons heavy and slow with the weight of the children. They made for the cadacus field as soldiers with torches stormed out the gate.

While Seastrider and Iceflower circled, Windcaller dropped to the oak, and Kiri reached in. “Quickly, come on. Neeno, Afeena. Hurry.”

Tybee and Albee swept out to her shoulder. Afeena and Neeno crept into her hand as torches appeared, coming fast. She tucked the two owls into her tunic. The dragons pulled for the sky, fighting to lift themselves above the treetops.

High up in cloud, Kiri felt the child behind her relax against her. The pounding of her own heart eased. She felt like screaming with relief. She looked across at Iceflower. The poor dragonling was fighting the wind instead of using it, breeching across it in weak, uneven struggle. It won’t be long, Kiri said. It isn’t far to the barge. You were very brave—you did a fine job, both of you.

She could feel Marshy’s pride in the dragonling and his shivering relief that they were out of there. She could feel Aven’s wonder as the little boy looked down through the night sky. Now that they were away, the bard girl seemed strangely remote. They were just over the lights of Lashtel’s harbor when Kiri remembered what Teb had intended to do. “Drop!” she cried. “Circle, drop down!”

Chapter 17

The unliving conquer by changing all memory and naming themselves our saviors. Only the bardsong can destroy their lies, and without dragons, the bardsong is all but gone from Tirror.

*

“The ships,” Kiri cried. “Burn the ships!”

The dragons dropped with their burden of children, and skimmed low over Aquervell’s seaport, driving a wind before them that rocked the tethered boats. They belched out sheets of fire—a ship blazed up, another. Dry decks and masts exploded into flame. Soon the whole harbor was burning. In the pulsing red glare, men dove into the water or ran along the quays, screaming. From the backs of the dragons, the children watched wide-eyed. While the harbor roared and crackled with flame, the dragons rose into the smoky wind and headed for the tip of Aquervell.

The late moon hung behind cloud, the sea black shadows cresting and moving—every shadow might be the barge, they couldn’t see it clearly until they were nearly on it. Seastrider breathed a small flame, and they saw it rocking below them. In the red light, they saw Garit and the children crouched beside the still body of Tebriel. Two rebel soldiers stood guard. The dragons came down on the sea.

Children slid to the deck, the soldiers catching the smallest ones. Seastrider nuzzled at Teb. Kiri slid down, to kneel beside him.

He was unconscious, his face cold and white, smeared with dark bruises. Garit had covered him with a pile of blankets. Kiri looked up at Garit, helpless and afraid. “He hasn’t moved, or spoken?” Garit shook his head. Kiri held Teb’s hands, trying to warm them. What could she do for him? How could she help him?

Desperate, she began to talk to him—maybe the sound of a voice would touch something in him. Maybe a voice could be a lifeline of human warmth, to draw him back. She told him they had gotten the children out, that they now had two new young bards, that the dragons all were safe. She told him how Iceflower had kept the soldiers busy while they carried him out of the castle, how they got the children onto the dragons. She told him that they had burned the harbor. Teb showed no sign that he heard, and Quazelzeg’s words rang cold in her mind. The bard is mine now.

Stricken, she kept talking—it didn’t matter what she said; all that mattered was that she connect with what was alive deep within him. Somewhere within his wounded mind he must hear, something of his spirit must hear her. She paid no attention to the bustle around her as the men set sail. As they sloughed through the surf, she talked about Nightpool, about the otters, about Charkky and Mikk, about how Thakkur and Hanni had been so excited to find each other. The slave children listened, entranced. As the moon dropped below clouds, Kiri could see the children’s faces, hungry for story, hungry for life and warmth. She could feel Seastrider’s smooth summoning of Tebriel, too, as the dragon sought to pull him back from emptiness with silent power. As the barge moved across open sea, Kiri spoke of the magic places, of the sacred sanctuaries, and how men and speaking animals had once found fellowship there. She could see the wonder and longing on the faces of the slave children.

They were nearly past Ekthuma, the night fading. Teb’s eyelids moved. When Kiri felt his cheek, it was warmer. She told him again that they had escaped from Quazelzeg, that the children were safe. Garit poured tea from the crock—he had given the children tea and bread and cheese. Kiri brushed the warm tea across Teb’s lips, and after a long time, when he licked his upper lip, she felt like cheering.

“Lift him, Garit. Help me lift him, to lean against the mast.”

When he was sitting up, she put the mug to his lips.

He swallowed. The cup shook in her hand. Seastrider pushed at him and licked his face. He was alive; he had come back to them.

But there was no recognition in him. He sat staring at them blankly, his body awake but his mind not yet returned. Seastrider nudged and worried at him. Then, frustrated, the white dragon began to sing to him, forming lucid visions of moments she and Teb had shared.

As the raft made its way south toward Dacia, Seastrider’s song took them across the shifting endless skies, buffeted by twisting winds, soaring on thrones of rain and swirling ice. She lifted them above islands of dark clouds humping like the backs of a million giant animals, and over cloud plains white as snowfields. She dodged lightning through crashing black storm, and she sang of silent lands like green jewels, where rivers ran in a tracery of blue.

The slave children drank in the splendid wonders, hugging to themselves hungrily all Seastrider’s wild freedom and fierce love. But Teb sat quiet and pale, staring at his hands, seeming aware of nothing. Seastrider pressed her big white head against him, and Kiri held him close, but he did not respond to them.

When an agitated rustling began in Kiri’s pack, she opened it, and little injured Neeno crawled up out of the darkness, his wings dragging. The tiny owl stood tottering on the leather strap, staring at Teb, his round yellow eyes deep with puzzled concern. “He is very ill.” Neeno blinked, clacked his curved beak in a loud staccato, and shouted with all his remaining strength, “Wake, Tebriel! Ooo, wake!” He peered at Teb. “Do you hear me? Wake!” He cocked his head, looking. “Oooo! Wake, Tebriel! Wake! Wake!” He clattered again, and his angry shout rose to a commanding shriek. “Bring yourself back, Tebriel! Wake up, Tebriel! Wake up!