The Inn at Cork Tree

There were no rooms at the inn in Cork Tree; Lord Enziet’s party had taken them all. Arlian and his companions were allowed to park their wagon in the stableyard, however, and to purchase the ordinary supper. The five travelers had eaten and drunk their fill when the disgruntled ambushers finally came straggling in.

“… sorcery, I tell you,” one man in Enziet’s livery was saying as he entered.

“It probably was,” Lord Toribor agreed wearily. “He probably knew we were there and went around us, and is well on his way to Stonebreak by now.”

Arlian turned to look at the new arrivals.

“Shall we go after him?” Stonehand asked.

“I don’t know,” Toribor said. “I’ll need to talk it over with Drisheen. For now, though—innkeeper!”

The innkeeper appeared, a tray ready in his hands. “The ale’s still cold,” he said, “and I’ve kept your supper warm, but it may be the worse for the wait.”

Arlian looked at his own empty mug. The ale was not exactly cold—the innkeeper presumably stored it in a deep cellar, so it was reasonably cool, but it was clear no magic was used, nor even a proper icehouse. It was not cold. It was good enough ale, but it would have been better were it somewhat colder.

Arlian remembered wryly that less than three years ago he had never tasted ale, yet here he was casually passing judgment on the stuff. He thumped the mug down on the table and looked around.

The dining room, which had been mostly empty moments before, was suddenly almost full. Most of the available chairs were occupied. Toribor and Stonehand were side by side at one table; Shamble was at the next. The inn’s entire staff—the innkeeper, his wife, and three young people who might have been either his children or hired help—was busily serving out mugs of beer and plates of gravy-soaked ham.

Black belched contentedly, as if the sight of all that ham reminded him of the portion he had eaten himself. He leaned over and said quietly, “I count eleven.”

“Not all fighters, though,” Arlian muttered in reply—he could see a young boy among the others, and two women who looked too frail to be warriors of any sort. “Where’s Drisheen?”

“I don’t see him,” Rime said.

“Blast it!” Arlian replied. “Where is he, then?”

Just then the door opened again and a guardsman entered, followed by an elaborately dressed lord, a feathered hat in his hand.

“There he is,” Rime said.

Drisheen paused in the doorway, nose in the air, and surveyed the room. Then he flourished his hat as if waving away an unpleasant odor and stepped inside.

A faint scent reached Arlian, a sweet, cloying scent that was oddly familiar. He frowned, trying to place it.

Then it came back to him, in a sudden wave of memory—falling in through Sweet’s window, tumbling onto the floor of a room that stank of perfume, where he had abruptly gone from the cold and empty outside world to the comforting warmth of a woman’s arms.

Sweet had opened the window to air out the room, to get rid of the stench of Lord Drisheen’s perfume—and Lord Drisheen.

He had smelled it again in Manfort, once or twice— most recently, very faintly, when he had seen Sparkle and Ferret hanging in Drisheen’s library.

And that same smell was present now. In Westguard it had been diluted by the scent of powder and cloth and oil and of course Sweet herself, while here it was mixed with beer and bread and smoke and meat and sweat, but it was unmistakably the same smell.

The memory of Sweet’s smiling face and cheerful giggle hung there for a moment, then gave way to the sight of her lying pale and still in the bed beside him, eyes closed but mouth slack and open.

He felt his teeth clench, a growl rising in his throat as his eyes followed Drisheen’s progress across the room.

“Hush!” Rime hissed.

Arlian caught himself. “Sorry,” he said.

Drisheen had reached the table where Toribor and Stonehand sat, and was standing there as they turned to look up at him. Arlian strained to hear what was said.

Thirif, across the table, crushed a tiny blue vial in his hand, and suddenly Arlian’s hearing sharpened.

“I have placed wards on the road, on the trees, and on the entire town,” Drisheen said. “If any dragonheart enters this place, we will know it.”

Arlian glanced at Rime, who mouthed, “We’re already here.”

“Good,” Toribor said. “Have a seat, my lord, and eat something.” He gestured at an empty chair.

“In good time. I would hear, first, whether you have any explanation for the failure of our trap. Do you think your men were so clumsy that he saw us before we saw him, and turned aside therefore?”

Toribor shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think he’s just cagy. He guessed that we might have set traps upon the high road, and found another route.”

Drisheen frowned as he tucked his hat under his arm. “And what do you propose to do about this?”

“I don’t know what we can do,” Toribor said with a shrug. “If you have suggestions I will be delighted to hear and consider them, but left to my own devices I’d say we’ve missed him, that he chose to bypass us and he’s now Enziet’s problem.”

“And this doesn’t trouble you? We were put here to stop him. We have a dozen soldiers; Enziet is alone.”

“Alone or not, do you really think he can’t handle a stripling like Lanair?” Toribor gestured at the table. “Sit down and have a drink!”

“You sound almost pleased to have avoided a fight,” Drisheen said, still standing.

“I am—almost. I’d rather have it over with, but that boy has the luck of a dragon. Remember, he killed Iron and Kuruvan. Mishaps can happen anywhere, and even facing a dozen men he might have found a way to do you or me harm before he died.”

“Yet you aren’t troubled about letting him find Enziet?”

“Enziet has the luck of a dozen dragons,” Toribor answered.

“Or the skill,” Drisheen said.

“Or the skill,” Toribor agreed. “Now, I beg you, my lord, do sit down!”

Drisheen reluctantly yielded; he circled around, tossed his hat on the table, and seated himself.

“Do you have any suggestions, my lord?” Toribor asked, as Drisheen beckoned to a serving maid.

“Only that we wait here, and send our best men to trail Enziet and warn him, or aid him against Lanair.”

Stonehand glanced at Toribor, a motion that Drisheen noticed. “Yes, our best man would be you,” he said.

Arlian considered that. It probably meant that Stonehand would be alone on the road…

“Send him alone?” Toribor asked. “And what if Stonehand here happens upon Lord Lanair?”

Drisheen shrugged. “Why would Lanair wish an ordinary soldier ill? I assume Stonehand is capable of discretion and stealth, and can defend himself if pressed.”

“We could send another man with him…”

“And another, and another, and before you know it we’ll all be on the road, chasing after our murderous lordling, and probably missing him entirely. A man travels fastest when he travels alone.”

Toribor frowned. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I can handle him,” Stonehand said.

“That’s what Lord Iron thought,” Drisheen said. “And Kuruvan before him. No, while you can take your chance if you see it, your first duty is simply to warn Enziet, then return and tell us what, if anything, you saw along the road. We missed the boy in one direction, but perhaps we’ll catch him going the other.”

“As you say, my lord,” Stonehand said, bowing his head in obedience.

“You don’t suppose Lanair could have been hidden in that wagon, do you?” Toribor asked.

Drisheen held up his hand and pointed at Arlian, who tried hard to look as if he hadn’t been listening; Toribor glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Drisheen and shrugged.

Drisheen leaned forward and whispered to Toribor, and even with his magically enhanced hearing Arlian could not make out what was said. He turned his attention back to his own party.

“Thank you,” he said to Thirif, who nodded a polite acknowledgment.

Arlian resisted the temptation to turn and watch the others as they whispered; it would only draw suspicion.

“What are you planning?” Rime asked quietly.

“Stonehand will be alone on the road for a few days,” Arlian said. “I can catch him then, taik things over, and deal with him as seems appropriate. As for Drisheen and Toribor, well, as lords, they won’t be sleeping with the others; they’ll either have one room apiece, or one room between the two of them, and we’ll probably be able to tell which because they’ll post a guard at the door. I think I’d like to settle matters with them right here—for Sparkle and Ferret. And Brook and Cricket may be here—if they are, I’d like to free them.”

“So you intend to break into Drisheen’s room?” Black asked.

Arlian nodded.

“And you’ll know which room it is by the guard at the door.”

“That’s right.”

Black nodded. “And how do you plan to get past that guard?” he asked.

“I’m working on that,” Arlian said wryly. “If you have any suggestions, I’d be pleased to hear them.”

“Not a one,” Black said.

“You wanted Shamble, too, didn’t you?” Rime asked.

Arlian shrugged. “He’ll have to wait—which scarcely troubles me, as his crimes are already old, and he holds no hostages. I’d assume he’ll be sharing a room with the other henchmen, and we don’t want to fight them all.”

“Ah, we don’t?” Black said. “I’m glad to hear that. And about getting past that guard?”

“Could you find another way into the room?” Rime asked. “A window, perhaps? Or through the roof?”

“The roof’s good, sound tile,” Arlian said. “I noticed that earlier. How could I get through that? And how would I get to an upstairs window without being seen? How would I get in when it’s shuttered?”

“Excellent questions, all of them,” Black agreed.

Arlian turned to Thirif. “Do you have any suggestions for getting past the guard? Could you put him to sleep, or muffle his cries if he raises an alarm?”

Thirif thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not with what I’ve brought.”

“Maybe if Thirif got Drisheen involved in a discussion of the finer points of sorcery, you could creep up behind him and stab him in the back,” Black suggested sardonically.

“I’m not a mere sorcerer,” Thirif said. “I am a true magician.”

“And how much of a difference is there, really?” Black asked. “You both do your little tricks and petty miracles, waving your jeweled wands about.”

Thirif did not deign to respond to that; he simply turned away in disgust.

Arlian, however, looked at Black thoughtfully. “I don’t know much about sorcery,” he said, “but I suppose most people know even less.”

“Probably,” Black agreed, startled. “What of it?”

“Well, I think I have a way past Drisheen’s guard,” Arlian said.

“Drisheen’s? What about Belly’s?”

“Let’s take care of the one first, shall we?”

Black shrugged.

Three hours later most of the inn’s inhabitants had drifted off to bed. The innkeeper dozed in a chair by the hearth. Arlian and his party had retired to their wagon-—but now he reentered the dining room, with Black at his heels.

The innkeeper started awake and stared at him.

Arlian held up a small object that glittered gold in the firelight. “We found this in the stableyard,” he said. “I think that lord must have dropped it. The one with the fancy hat.”

The innkeeper squinted. “I’ll take it,” he said.

Arlian clutched the object to his chest. “I don’t think so,” he said. “We found it, and we’re honest enough to return it—the reward’s ours.”

The innkeeper snorted. “Fine, then.” He waved at the stairs. “Find your own way.” He leaned back.

“I will,” Arlian said.

Together, he and Black crossed the room and started up the stairs.

“I saw Thirif give you that,” Black whispered, “but what is it?”

“I have no idea,” Arlian said, “but it looks magical, doesn’t it?” He held it up so that it shone in the lamplight on the stairs.

The object was a golden cylinder worked with runes and with a ring of small red stones set around one end; Arlian had chosen it from half a dozen implements in Thirif’s collection as looking appropriately sorcerous.

“So you’ll tell the guard you want to return Drisheen’s trinket, and he’ll let you in—but what if he insists we leave our swords outside?”

“Then we’ll find other weapons,” Arlian said. “Shut up and come on.”

They arrived at the top of the stairs and found themselves facing a corridor with three doors on either side, and a door at the far end—and a big man in a guard’s uniform was leaning against the frame of that farthest door, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest.

Arlian felt an odd twinge, and the thing in his hand felt suddenly warm, but he dismissed it as imagination brought on by the excitement of approaching danger.

“That’s their room,” he said. “It must be.”

Black didn’t bother to answer. The two men advanced down the passageway. At the halfway point Arlian felt another twinge, stronger this time, as if his heart had momentarily twisted in his chest. He stopped, but before he could do anything the guard, presumably alerted by the sound of their footsteps, roused himself and dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want here?”

Arlian held up his talisman. “We found this,” he said. “We think one of your lords must have dropped it.”

That twinge troubled him. He had been nervous any number of times—when he was preparing to fight Kuruvan, for one—and he had never felt anything exactly like that before. Usually his hands trembled when he was nervous, but now they were as steady as he might ask. “Let me see it,” the guard demanded. Arlian snatched his hand away. “We found it! And we’ll be the ones who collect the reward!”

“You want me to wake Lord Drisheen at this hour of the night?”

“No,” Arlian said meekly. “You’re right; we’ll come back in the morning.”

Black looked at him in open astonishment. “We will?”

“Yes,” Arlian said. “Run!” He spun on his heel and ran for the stairs.

The door at the end of the corridor slammed open, and Arlian ducked as a bow twanged, sending an arrow over his left shoulder.

He and Black tumbled down the stairs, half running, half falling; behind them Arlian heard several voices shouting, doors slamming, and the clatter of boots, bare feet, and armor.

“What the hell…” Black gasped as they dashed across the dining room.

“Wards,” Arlian said. “On the stair and in the hallway. Drisheen knew I was there.”

The innkeeper started up from his chair, shouting, “What? What is it?” They ignored him and ran out the front door; Arlian could hear boots coming down the stairs behind them.

When they were outside Arlian turned toward the yard where the wagon waited. The oxen were not hitched up, he remembered—keeping them yoked would have been too suspicious, should anyone happen to look out a window and see them. And of course, no one could seriously attempt escape in an ox-drawn wagon in any case; men or horses could easily catch up with the fastest oxen.

Still, he had to warn Rime and the Aritheians.

Once that was done, though, he intended to make life interesting for his pursuers. Simple escape on foot was impossible—he didn’t know the countryside, and he couldn’t realistically expect to outrun all his foes—but there were other things he could do.

“See what you can do to protect the others,” Arlian gasped as they rounded the corner. He shouted, “Look out!” then ran past the wagon to the stables.

He opened a stall door at random and grabbed at the mane of the horse inside. He was no horseman, but he had learned a few basics to suit his role as Lord Obsidian; he was able to swing himself up on the animal’s bare back before the beast was entirely awake.

Startled, the horse bolted out of the stall into the yard, then slowed, confused. Arlian sat up and drew his sword; he hung onto his mount’s mane with his left hand.

People were milling about the yard, their faces invisible in the darkness—the inn’s two stablehands were probably there somewhere, and Black, and Arlian’s other companions might be, as well, but there were others who were undoubtedly some of Enziet’s men.

“Light!” someone bellowed. “We need a light!”

“Who’s that?” someone else called.

Arlian dug in his heels, and the horse jerked forward, breaking into a canter; shadowy figures scattered out of his way as Arlian rode out of the stableyard onto the high road.

Someone had relit the lanterns by the inn’s signboard, and a man stood near the door holding a torch; Arlian was plainly visible to the knot of people there as he rode past, and several voices added cries of, “There he is!” and “Get the horses!” to the mounting din. Lights were beginning to appear in the windows of neighboring houses now, as well.

He prodded the horse into a gallop—which meant clinging desperately with both hands, the blade of his sword waving wildly in front of his face—and glanced back over his shoulder.

People were pouring out of both the inn and the stableyard, shouting and running; some were chasing the fleeing horse while others seemed to be running around totally at random.

Arlian hoped this would be enough distraction for Black and the others to find safety somehow. Then he turned his face forward again and buried his nose in the horse’s mane, hanging on for dear life.

The animal slowed to a trot after perhaps two hundred yards, and Arlian raised his eyes. He saw only darkness ahead—a deeper darkness to either side, paler above. As the horse fell into a walk he looked back.

The road had curved; he could see a glow that he knew must be the mob around the inn, but trees and houses hid everything else.

They would undoubtedly be coming after him, though— he could still hear shouting, and it seemed to be coming closer.

Besides, he wasn’t interested in mere escape. They might expect him simply to flee, but it was not what he had planned.

He was heading in the right direction to go after Enziet— but that was exactly the course of action Drisheen probably anticipated from him. Arlian was not ready to go after Enziet; he had unfinished-business here in Cork Tree.

He slid from the horse’s back to the ground, landing awkwardly but scrambling quickly to his feet. He slapped the horse’s side, startling it back into a trot; as it continued southward down the high road he turned aside, into the brush beside the road, and once safely out of sight he began working his way back toward the inn.

54

The Sword of Vengeance

Arlian wished he knew enough sorcery to alter his appearance anew, so that he would have neither his own face nor the one his foes had seen in the wagon and the inn. Unfortunately, he had no prepared spells with him, nor any idea how a glamour was cast, and Thirif and Shibiel were not there to help.

As he walked through gardens and yards, climbing over fences and leaping ditches, he did rearrange his hair—in the wagon he had worn it loose, brushed forward at the sides, after the fashion of the local farmers. Now he combed it back with his fingers, and used his swordbreaker to cut away locks on either side, shaping it into something marginally more like a traditional Manfort style—not that he could see what he was doing, in the dark with no mirror. He removed his homespun tunic, revealing the good linen blouse he had worn underneath—not so much because he anticipated a need to change his appearance as because he preferred the feel of the smoother fabric on his skin, the warmth of an additional layer had been welcome, and in his rushed preparations he hadn’t brought any silk undershirts.

He was uncomfortably aware that he did not understand how a glamour worked, and that others might well see him completely differently from how he saw himself, so that these changes might be hidden; still, it was the best he could manage under the circumstances. He hadn’t even thought to learn how to remove the glamour.

He stayed well away from the high road, taking cover when hooves drammed past, and again when a knot of yelling men marched by. In one yard a chained watchdog yapped at him, just once, and he froze for a long moment, but the bark was not repeated, no one responded to it, and he finally moved on.

And eventually he arrived in the kitchen garden behind the inn. He had expected to find a guard he would have to circumvent, but the little yard was empty—his enemies had been too disorganized, too unprepared, to post anyone here.

He made his way up the flagstone path to the little wooden stoop, where he pounded on the inn’s back door with the hilt of his sword.

The innkeeper’s wife, looking puzzled, opened the door and peered out at him. “Yes?”

“There’s no one out here,” Arlian said brusquely. “Is Lord Drisheen still inside, or has he gone off with the rest of them?”

“Is Drisheen the thin one?” the woman asked uncertainly.

“That’s him,” Arlian said.

“He’s in the dining room. The one-eyed fat one went out after the assassin.”

“I need to speak to him,” Arlian said, not commenting on her descriptions—he wouldn’t have called Lord Toribor fat, exactly, though the name “Belly” did suit him well enough. There was a lot of muscle there.

And Drisheen was not really excessively thin, either. Still it was one of several easy ways of distinguishing the two.

The woman hesitated, then stepped aside and let Arlian in. “You go straight through, and don’t touch anything,” she said.

“Thank you,” Arlian said. He obeyed her injunction, marching directly through the generous and cluttered kitchen and out through the swinging door.

Sure enough, Drisheen sat at one of the tables, a boy and a woman occupying two of the other chairs. A single guardsman stood at the front door.

The boy looked up when Arlian entered; the guard at the door was leaning out and peering down the street, while Drisheen and the woman were deep in conversation. The boy clearly had no idea who Arlian was, but the sight of the bare blade in his hand; and the mere fact that he wasn’t anyone from Enziet’s party, was enough to alarm the child. “My lord,” he said, tugging at Drisheen’s sleeve.

Arlian wasted no more time; he bellowed, “Get away from him, both of you!” and charged at Drisheen, his sword arm at full extension.

The boy leaped up; the woman turned, startled. Drisheen started to rise, reaching for his sword.

Then Arlian’s blade plunged into Drisheen’s chest. Because of the furniture in the way, it was not the clean thrust through the heart that Arlian had hoped for, but it was almost certainly a fatal blow.

The woman screamed, and the man at the door finally reacted, turning to see what was happening.

Drisheen looked down at the sword in shock.

“I thought you…” he began, but he was unable to complete the sentence as his mouth filled with bright blood— Arlian’s sword had pierced a lung. Red streamed from Drisheen’s mouth and nose as he fell back in his chair, eyes wide, right hand tugging at’the hilt of his own weapon.

“Fought fair, as I did against Kuruvan and Horim?” Arlian finished for him. “When I can—but against you, after what you did to Ferret and Sparkle purely to spite me, I’ll settle for butchery.” He yanked his blade free.

Drisheen’s chest seemed to ripple unnaturally as blood gushed from the wound—Arlian blinked, unsure whether he was really seeing what he thought he was.

Then Drisheen fell forward across the table, into a spreading pool of his own blood, and a thin wisp of smoke spilled from his gaping mouth.

“Sorcery,” Arlian muttered. Then he looked up from his dead foe.

The guard at the door was staring, pulling his own sword from its scabbard but making no move to attack. The woman and the boy were unarmed and seemed interested only in getting away.

Behind him, the innkeeper’s wife had emerged from the kitchen; now she started screaming. Arlian whirled.

“Shut up, or I’ll gut you like a fish,” he snarled.

The screams died into a whimper.

The guard took an uncertain step into the room. Arlian spun again, his sword spattering drops of Drisheen’s blood across the floor, drops that seemed to glow in the lamplight.

“You want to fight me?” Arlian asked, drawing his swordbreaker. “Drisheen’s already dead, and I’m the man who killed Lord Iron—are you sure you want to take me on all by yourself?”

The guardsman dropped his sword, turned, and ran out the door.

“Idiot,” Arlian said. Then he looked at the woman and the boy. “Get out of here,” he said. “Both of you. Right now.”

The two of them staggered to their feet and obeyed, following the guard out into the street.

That left the innkeeper’s wife. He turned and bowed to her.

“My apologies, madam, for the mess I’ve made, but this man murdered two friends of mine back in Manfort.”

The woman made a strangled noise.

Arlian decided she didn’t pose any immediate threat. He could hear shouting in the street, though; at any moment he expected several armed men to burst in, intent on avenging Lord Drisheen.

He didn’t want to be here when they arrived.

He could go back out through the kitchen, of course, but if the people out there had any wits at all they would surround the building before making their move—there might already be men moving around to block that exit.

Besides, Cricket and Brook were presumably here somewhere—probably upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. And Black and the others were somewhere, too—if they were still alive. Arlian had too much unfinished business to simply run off into the night.

He sheathed his swordbreaker and picked up the sword the guard had dropped—while he didn’t know how to fight with two swords, someone else might need a weapon. He glanced at Drisheen’s body.

That hideous, unnatural movement of his chest had stopped, and the flow of blood subsided to a trickle; no more smoke had appeared. He was clearly dead. All the same, Arlian decided not to take his sword; the blood on the table and floor had a peculiar, inhuman sheen to it as a reminder that Drisheen had not been an ordinary man. His weapon might be enchanted.

Arlian hefted his two swords and headed for the stairs, clattering up swiftly and swinging around at the landing, noticing as he did that the arrow he had dodged perhaps half an hour before was still stuck in the plaster above his head.

He had hardly reached the top step—encountering no wards this time—when he heard the clamor of armed men entering below. He paused for a fraction of a second, listening and looking.

He could hear the people downstairs shouting about the discovery of Drisheen’s death, and boots stamping—men were heading for the stairs after him.

The corridor was unlit—the oil lamp that had illuminated it before had gone out—but Arlian could see that of the seven doorways before him, six stood open—presumably no one had bothered to close them in their rush to pursue him. The seventh—the second on the right—was another matter; it was shut tight.

That was obviously the room he wanted, as his pursuers would know it was occupied and expect him to hide elsewhere. He stepped up and hammered on the door. “Open up!” he called.

“Why? What’s going on?” a deep, harsh voice replied— Shamble’s voice; Arlian had heard it that afternoon, and recognized it readily.

“Lanair’s got an army out here! We need everyone!” Arlian shouted.

“Oh, blood and death,” Shamble muttered, barely audible through the wood.

“Hurry!” The first guardsman had turned on the landing and was scarcely twenty feet away, peering up into the darkness.

The door opened, and Arlian charged it, pushing past a startled Shamble before the big man could brace himself. Then he turned and kicked hard, knocking the door out of Shamble’s hand and slamming it shut.

Shamble growled and reached for his sword, but Arlian’s blade was at his throat.

“Don’t try it,” Arlian said. “Lock the door.” Shamble snorted. “Not likely,” he said. Arlian pushed, and the tip of his sword drew blood. Shamble growled.

“Lock it or get out of the way,” Arlian said. Shamble backed along the wall, away from the door. Arlian could hear voices in the hallway, but could not make out the words, as he threw the bolt with the tip of his other sword. He stole a quick glance around the room.

There were four beds, two on either side of a fair-sized room; a shuttered dormer window broke the sloping ceiling opposite the single door. Bundles of baggage were scattered about, sheets and blankets in disarray. An oil lamp burned on a small table.

Two of the beds were occupied—one by Cricket, one by Brook, both women clad in simple nightgowns. They were staring at him, clearly unsure what was going on. Arlian smiled.

“Cricket,” he called, “catch!” Then he tossed his extra sword to her and drew his swordbreaker. That felt better, having the proper weapons in both hands again.

She shied away, missing the catch; the sword tumbled off the bed.

Someone was pounding on the door. “Shamble! Open up!”

Shamble growled, but stayed where he was, back against the wall and safely out of reach of the latch. “Move or speak and you’re a dead man,” Arlian told him conversationally. Then he looked around.

Cricket was scrambling for the sword; Brook was still staring.

“Brook,” Arlian said, hoping she would hear but the men outside would not, “tell them Shamble’s asleep, dead drunk.”

“Shamble! Damn you, man!” the voice called.

“What?” Brook asked.

“Call out! Tell them he’s passed out drunk!” Arlian insisted quietly.

Cricket had finally got her hands on the sword; now she held it up triumphantly and shouted, “Shamble’s asleep! He drank up all the wine and fell right over!”

Brook looked at her, startled, then smiled and added, “And he stinks! I think he pissed himself!”

Cricket giggled; Shamble started to protest, but Arlian applied warning pressure on the sword.

Arlian could hear a mumbled conference on the other side of the door. He couldn’t make out all of it, but it was plain that his pursuers were arguing about whether to believe the women.

“Let us in,” someone called.

Cricket and Brook exchanged glances. Brook called, “Do we have to? I hate crawling that far.”

“And Shamble’s leaning against the door,” Cricket added. “We’d have to move him, and he’s heavy!”

“And there’s a puddle—don’t make me crawl through that!” Brook said.

Arlian smiled broadly at them, admiring their quick wit. In a sudden inspiration he sheathed his swordbreaker and undid his trousers. A moment later a malordorous seepage under the door provided added verisimilitude for Brook’s tale.

Shamble stared at him with hate-filled eyes, but did not dare move or speak.

That provoked disgusted exclamations from outside, and the pursuit moved on, searching the other rooms vigorously.

“Are you going to kill me?” Shamble asked quietly.

“Should I?” Arlian responded. “Do you deserve to die?”

Shamble growled.

Arlian did not take his eyes off his foe, but called to the others, “Cricket, what do you think? Should I kill him?”

“Please yourself,” Cricket said. “I won’t weep for him.”

“Brook?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Who are you?”

“That’s a good question,” Arlian said. “Do you know, Shamble?”

“Lord Lanair, I suppose,” Shamble said.

“And do you know who Lord Lanair is?”

“A lunatic who’s decided to destroy Lord Enziet and his friends, and cast Manfort into chaos.”

Arlian nodded. “That’s one way of describing the situation,” he agreed. “It’s not my only one.” He shifted the tip of his blade upward an inch, drawing a bloody line on Shamble’s throat. “Do you remember looting a village ten years ago, Shamble? Do you remember finding a boy in a cellar there, the lone survivor?”

Shamble’s eyes narrowed. “That was you?”

Arlian smiled a nasty smile. “Good guess,” he said. “Yes, it was. And what happened to that boy?”

“We sold him to the mines at Deep Delving. So you’re an escaped slave, dressed up in a lord’s shirt.”

“Again,” Arlian said, “that’s one way of looking at it. In fact, I am a lord, as I’m sure you know.”

“Lord Lanair. That’s not your real name.”

“Lord Obsidian. Which is as much my name as yours is Shamble. I haven’t called myself Lanair since I fled Westguard more than two years ago, and even there it was merely a temporary ruse.”

“Lord Dragon calls you Lanair.”

“He finds it convenient to do so,” Arlian agreed. “He knows my real name, I believe, but chooses not to use it.”

Shamble had no answer to that.

Arlian gestured at the women. “They knew me as Triv,” he said. “It’s short for ‘trivial,’ because I said my name was unimportant. They don’t recognize rne because I’ve used sorcery to change my face temporarily, but they know me.”

“We do?” Brook asked.

“Triv?” Cricket said, staring. “It’s you?”

“So,” Arlian said, not looking at them, “now that we’ve established who I am, shall we establish who you are, and use that to determine whether you live or die?”

Shamble stared angrily back, but did not reply.

“Now,” Arlian said, “you helped loot my village when dragons destroyed it. You stood by without protest while I, a freeborn child and heir to much of that ruined village, was sold into slavery. Do those crimes deserve death?”

“No!” Shamble protested. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“You let me be sold.”

“It’s not the same!”

“Cricket? Brook?”

The women looked at one another.

“I still don’t know,” Brook said.

Arlian nodded. “I do intend to kill Lord Enziet,” he said, “as I’ve killed Kuruvan, Horim, and Drisheen. That’s because they were all participants in the ownership of the House of Carnal Society, responsible for maiming the sixteen women who lived there and for the deaths of most of them. Your Lord Dragon ordered the deaths of Rose and three others when that establishment was put to the torch, and later he tortured Dove to death, forcing Sweet to watch.” Brook gasped. “He poisoned Sweet, as well—she died in my arms. And he ordered the murder of Seek, who you’d known as Hide. Now, were you involved in any of that? I didn’t think to ask Sweet before she perished.”

“I did as he told me!” Shamble protested.

“Why?” Arlian demanded.

“Because he paid me!” Shamble said.

“And because you enjoyed it?” He had to struggle not to raise his voice to where it would be heard in the corridor.

“Sometimes,” Shamble admitted. “But I wouldn’t have hurt Hide if he hadn’t betrayed Lord Dragon!”

Arlian gritted his teeth. “But Lord Dragon wanted him dead, so you killed him?”

“I had to!”

“Did it ever occur to you to leave Lord Dragon’s employ, as Cover and Hide did?”

“No. He paid well.”

“You never once considered it?”

“No!”

That was enough; Arlian thrust forward, then slashed. Shamble’s hands flew to his ruined throat as he collapsed against the wall and slowly slid to the floor, but he could not cry out.

He fell back and went limp, the light fading from his eyes, hands still clutching his throat as blood poured freely down his chest.

Arlian yanked his sword free.

“You should have,” he growled.

55

Out The Window

Brook gasped shudderingly at the sight of Shamble’s death; Cricket just nodded, as if she had expected it and was satisfied with what she had seen. “Now what?” she asked, as Arlian wiped his sword clean.

“Now we need a way out of here,” Arlian said. He didn’t look at the women as he headed for the room’s single window; he slid his sword into its sheath as he went.

“But we can’t walk,” Brook said.

“I know that,” Arlian said. “I have a wagon—though getting you to it, and getting it out of here in one piece, won’t be easy.” He reached for the shutters, then hesitated.

He could see light through the crack between the two shutters—red light. He frowned; it was much too early for dawn, and he had thought this window faced north. Was something burning, perhaps?

He wouldn’t find out staring at closed shutters. He lifted the latch.

Red light poured into the room as the shutters swung in—a baleful colored glow like nothing Arlian remembered seeing before. He peered out through the glass cautiously, staying far enough back that he would not be readily visible to an observer on the street.

Something was swirling in the air before him, not down on the ground nor high above, but directly before him, level with the second floor—something red and glowing. For a moment Arlian glimpsed a hideous, inhuman face, and there were definitely claws in the rotating mass. Without conscious decision he found he had drawn his sword again; that thing out there resembled a demon—an oddly familiar one.

He heard both women draw in their breath; they did not have the straight line of sight he enjoyed, but both could obviously see something of the monstrosity outside.

Whatever it was came no closer—it was not advancing to attack. Arlian stepped up to the glass, the better to study what he could see.

The window looked out over the stableyard; below the glowing, whirling cloud-thing he could make out the stalls, the mangers and troughs, the tack shed, and his own wagon—and oxen; his draft animals were out of their pen and in front of the wagon.

And standing on the driver’s seat of the wagon was a robed figure, waving one hand in the air—Thirif. A lantern hung above the driver’s seat, and Arlian could see the magician’s face clearly; the glamour was gone and his own features revealed.

Arlian looked at the way the hand moved, and the way the demonic images above it moved, and grinned. He knew now why the “demon” resembled one of the nightmares he had had repeatedly in the Dreaming Mountains on the way north from Arithei. He hoped that none of his enemies down there knew that Aritheian magic could not truly summon demons, but only create illusions.

Arlian had not known that Thirif had brought an illusion like this, but he was very glad to see it. It ought to put a good scare into their enemies.

The rest of the stableyard was almost deserted—almost; it was hard to see clearly, what with the darkness around and below and that seething red vapor in the way, but he was fairly certain he could see Black, still wearing his magical disguise, yoking the oxen. The wagon would be ready to roll in a few minutes, and Thirif’s illusion appeared to have frightened away all opposition.

Drisheen wouldn’t have been fooled for a moment—but Drisheen was dead.

Arlian frowned. Lord Toribor ought to be enough of a sorcerer to know that the thing was a harmless illusion; where was he?

Well, wherever he was, he didn’t appear to be in the yard below. Arlian swung the shutters wide, then unlatched the casement and opened that, as well. He eyed the resulting space critically.

Shamble would never have fit through it, and Arlian wasn’t entirely sure he could squeeze himself out that way, but Brook and Cricket were small enough. If he could lower them down…

He turned and began stripping the linens from Cricket’s bed. It had worked getting Sweet out of Enziet’s house; it ought to work just as well here.

“What are you doing?” Cricket asked. “Can we help?”

“I’m making a rope,” Arlian explained. “I have friends down there with a wagon, and I plan to lower you down to them.”

Cricket stretched up and tried to peer out the window.

“But… but there’s that monster!” she said.

“It’s just an illusion,” Arlian said. “Two of my friends are magicians.”

Cricket hesitated—but then she saw that Brook was already pulling the sheets from her bed and knotting them together.

A moment later the rope was ready; Brook went first.

“I don’t want to call from up here and let everyone hear me,” Arlian told her, as he looped a sheet around her back and under her arms, “so when you’re near the ground, call out for Black. That’s the man in charge down there.”

Brook nodded, and looked back over her shoulder. “The man on the wagon?” she asked.

“No, that’s Thirif the magician—don’t disturb him! Black’s on foot, by the oxen.”

“I see him,” Brook said. Then she pushed herself over the sill and slid out the window as smoothly as an eel.

Arlian leaned out, watching and listening as he let the rope down, hand over hand; Brook was almost out of sight below him when she called. Arlian could barely hear her, but Black looked up, startled. He spotted the half-clad woman and hurried over to her.

Arlian heard none of their whispered conversation, but he saw Black untie Brook and carry her to the wagon. By the time Arlian had pulled the line of bedclothes back up and hoisted Cricket onto the windowsill Black was waiting at the foot of the wall.

After Cricket was safely down it was his own turn; with the line securely tied in place he turned and began squirming, feet-first, through the window.

He didn’t fit as neatly as the women had; the casement flammed back against the dormer, cracking the glass, as he tried to wiggle past it. He had to twist his shoulders up at a steep diagonal to squeeze through.

At last, though, his head emerged from the warm, stuffy air of the inn into the cool crispness of the night, and he half climbed, half slid to the ground.

“Ari!” Black said, slapping him on the back the instant his feet struck the hard-packed earth of the stableyard. “You’re safe!”

“Not yet,” Arlian replied. “Not until we’re out of this town and away from these people.”

“Oh, Thirif’s put a scare into them,” Black said. “We were getting ready to go. They’ve promised us safe passage.” He grimaced, his expression visible even in the eerie red glow. “Only northward, though.”

“I’m not going north,” Arlian said, as they began walking toward the wagon.

“We could go a few miles, then double back, and go around the town,” Black said, “it’s only a minor delay.”

“There’s no decent road around Cork Tree,” Arlian pointed out. “An ox could break a leg trying to drag us all across underbrush or furrowed fields.”

“Well, Lord Belly thinks you’re headed south, and he doesn’t want us to rejoin you,” Black said, as he turned aside toward the stableyard gate. “He agreed to let us go north, but not south.”

“You spoke with him?” Arlian asked, following.

Black nodded. “He was commanding the party that went after that horse you stole,” he said. “After they found the horse, with you not on it, he sent one group on to the south, while he came back here. He went inside the inn for a little while, and then came out here. When most of them went galloping after you just four men stayed here, keeping an eye on us and blocking the gates so we couldn’t get the wagon out; we held them off readily enough while Thirif summoned our friend up there.” He pointed at the glowing illusion overhead, then pushed the gate open; the street beyond was dark and mostly quiet, though Arlian could hear shouting somewhere in the distance. “Then Belly and his group got back, just about the time Lord Demon appeared, and he came to discuss matters with us. Some fool came running out of the inn shouting about a madman attacking Lord Drisheen, and Belly said we could go, and everyone went running inside. I hitched up the oxen, but I took my time about it, in hopes you’d be able to join us.” He turned back toward the wagon.

Arlian nodded. “Good,” he said.

“So you killed Drisheen?” Black asked, as he pulled himself up onto the wagon, forcing Thirif to step aside. Cricket and Brook were inside the boxy body of the wagon but leaning out the door, watching and listening.

“And Shamble,” Arlian said. “They’d left him guarding these two.” He gestured at the women.

Black glanced at them; Cricket smiled back at him.

“Ah, that’s a good night’s work, then,” he said. “At least, if we can get out of here alive!”

“It’ll do,” Arlian agreed, “but Lord Toribor still lives, and I wouldn’t mind a few words with old Stonehand.”

“Oh, you hot-blooded young idiots are never satis… ”

“Your pardon,” Thirif interrupted, “but I cannot keep this illusion much longer.”

“I think it’s done its job,” Arlian said. “Let it go.”

“Thank you,” Thirif said, lowering his arm. The demon-image dissipated into fading red smoke, and the lantern over the driver’s bench seemed to brighten. Black seated himself comfortably and shook out the reins, signaling the oxen to move. Thirif leaned past him, ducked, and stepped inside the wagon, pushing past the two women, who squeezed aside to make room for him but did not relinquish their place in the door.

“You’re heading north?” Arlian asked.

“At least at first,” Black said.

“That’s fine,” Arlian said. “Take the women back to Manfort, where they’ll be safe.” He jumped down from the seat as the wagon began to roll. “I’m going south,” he said. “Toribor won’t expect me to be behind him.”

“Ari, you’re mad!” Black said, tugging the reins to halt the oxen before they had gone more than a couple of yards.

“Quite probably,” Arlian agreed. “But mad or not, I’ve sworn to kill Lord Enziet, and he’s to the south, not the north.”

“How will you find him, without the magicians?” Black demanded.

“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted, “but I’ll manage it somehow.”

Just then a loud, crash sounded above them; Black, Arlian, and the others looked up, startled, as an angry, bearded face appeared in the open window of the inn whence Arlian had escaped.

“Obsidian!” Lord Toribor’s voice bellowed. “By the dead gods!”

“Block the gate,” Arlian said to Black without looking back. Then he called, “Yes, Lord Toribor—I’m here.”

“Hiding behind sorcery,” Toribor called back. “Too afraid to show your own face?”

“And you’re hiding behind a dozen guards,” Arlian shouted back. “Afraid to meet me honorably?”

“So you can butcher me as you did Drisheen and Shamble? Ha!”

“So I can fight you fairly, as I did Iron and Kuruvan,” Arlian retorted.

“Fair? You crippled Iron before you killed him!”

“I did nothing of the kind—he was already crippled. I merely removed the brace that hid it. And I remind you, he challenged me, and made no offer to yield!”

“Lie’s and half-truths!”

“No more than your own!”

Lord Toribor’s one good eye glowered down at Arlian for a moment; then he turned and spoke to someone behind him. Arlian took the opportunity to see that Black had started the wagon forward, toward the stableyard gate. There were lights in the street beyond; Toribor’s men were on their way.

“I don’t suppose Thirif has any more of those spells…” Arlian said.

“He told me that was the only one he’d brought,” Black called back.

Then Toribor was back in the window.

“I’ll give you a chance to surrender,” he called.

Arlian found himself smiling at that, though he was not entirely sure why. “And I’ll return the favor, and allow you to surrender,” Arlian called. “You tell me your terms, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Give yourself up into my custody, disavow your oath to slay me and Lord Enziet, and I’ll take you back to Manfort to stand trial before the Duke for Drisheen’s murder, and make no further claim on you,” Toribor called. “Your friends would be free to go.”

Arlian almost laughed. “And the two women? Cricket and Brook?”

Toribor made a disgusted noise. “Oh, fine!” he said, exasperated. “Take them as part of the bargain, if that’s what it takes to get you to give yourself up!”

“It’s not enough,” Arlian called back. “Listen, Lord Belly, to my terms. You give me a horse, and your oath not to harm or molest in any way anyone in that wagon until they’re safely back to the Old Palace in Manfort, and I’ll forestall my vengeance on you—not forgo it entirely, but merely put it off. I’ll give you a year before I seek you out to kill you, and you’ll be free to try to make your peace with me in that time. I’ll be busy hunting Lord Enziet for part of that time— and who knows, maybe he’ll kill me and you’ll be safe!”

“Are you mad?” Toribor roared. “Do you expect me to agree to that?”

“No more than you really expect me to agree to your terms!” Arlian shouted back cheerfully.

“Listen, you little fool, you have no idea what you’re doing! I can’t take any risk that you might kill Enziet!”

“Ari!” Black called, before Arlian could respond.

Arlian turned to find guardsmen with drawn swords standing in the stableyard gate, blocking the oxen. “Thirif! Stand ready!” he called, as he drew his own weapons. Then he bellowed, “Do you men want us to summon the demon anew?”

“There is no demon!” Toribor shouted. “It’s all just illusion! Sorcerers can’t summon demons!”

“Thirif is no mere sorcerer, Belly!” Arlian retorted. “He’s an Arithein mage, from beyond the Dreaming Mountains.”

The swordsmen looked at one another uncertainly.

Just then Rime thrust her head out of the door; like Thirif, and unlike Black and Arlian, her glamour was gone.

She clambered out and stood on the seat beside Black, unsteady on her woodenjeg.

Toribor stopped shouting to stare at her, and Arlian turned to look.

“You there!” she said, pointing her trademark bone at the nearest guardsman. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

The guardsman lowered his sword. “Lady Rime?” he asked, baffled.

“Yes, Lady Rime!” she shouted. “Who told you to block my wagon?”

“Ah… he did,” the soldier replied, pointing up at Toribor.

“And who gave him that authority?”

“Lord Enziet, my lady. He said we were to obey Lord Drisheen and Lord Belly until his return.”

“And do you think Lord Enziet meant you to interfere with me?”

“No, my lady.”

“Then get out of the way!”

“No!” Toribor shouted. “Don’t listen to her!”

Rime turned and glared up at him. “And why not?” she demanded. “I am an adviser to the Duke of Manfort, my Lord Toribor, as you are not!”

“But you’re a traitor!” Toribor shouted. “You’ve been helping Obsidian!”

Rime put her hands on her hips. “You dare to call me a traitor? You fled here and went through all this—setting up ambushes, chasing people about in the middle of the night—because you’re too much of a coward to face Lord Obsidian in an honest duel!” She turned back to the soldier. “Did Lord Enziet tell you anything about setting up ambushes? Did he say you were to trap Lord Obsidian?”

“No, my lady; he just said to obey the other lords.”

“So you’ll just blindly obey any order young Belly gives you?”

“My lady,” the guardsman said desperately, pointing at Arlian, “that man, whether he’s Lord Obsidian or not, did murder Lord Drisheen.”

“And what happened before that? Might he have had cause to kill Drisheen in his own defense?”

“I… I don’t really know,” the soldier admitted.

“He meant to murder us both in our beds!” Toribor shouted.

“I came to speak to you, and someone shot an arrow at me!” Arlian shouted back. He turned to the guard. “See for yourself—it’s probably still stuck in the stairway wall!”

The guardsman looked helplessly from Rime to Toribor, saying nothing.

Toribor called, “Rime, stop this! You don’t know what’s at stake here!”

Rime stared up at him in disbelief. “I don’t? Besides your miserable life, you mean?”

“No! It’s far more than that!”

“What is at stake, then, that’s so precious?”

“I… I can’t tell you here!”

“And where could you tell me? And why haven’t you done so before? I seem to recall an agreement to share secrets, Lord Belly.”

“I didn’t know!”

“And did Lord Enziet? Is this some new lie he’s told you, or some secret he’s withheld?”

“Rime, you don’t understand! Enziet had reasons…”

“I understand enough,” she retorted, turning away.

Arlian called up to Toribor, “Listen, Belly—once again, before witnesses, I challenge you to meet me in an honorable duel, to settle all matters between us!”

For a moment Toribor stared down at him in speechless fury; then words exploded from him. “Blast you, Obsidian!” he shouted. “Fine, then! I’ll fight you, here and now!”

“In the street in front of the inn!” Arlian called back.

“Done!” Toribor’s head vanished from the window.

Arlian smiled, and turned back toward the wagon.

“Good,” he said.

“I hope so,” Rime said. She looked up at the empty window thoughtfully. “I do hope so.”

56

Crossed Swords

The two opponents faced each other warily, about a dozen feet apart, swords and swordbreakers held ready. The sky was still overcast, the moon and stars hidden, so the only light came from a few windows and the lanterns hung to either side of the inn’s signboard; the fighters’ shadows stretched out across the street in an elongated tangle of gray and black, arms and blades crisscrossing. Despite the chill in the air Arlian saw sweat gleaming on Lord Toribor’s bald head.

The audience consisted of two distinct groups—Toribor’s party, clustered in and around the inn’s front door or peering from the inn’s windows, and Arlian’s party, seated in the wagon fifty feet to the north, ready to move out on a moment’s notice. The few townspeople who were awake, including all of the inn’s staff, had joined Toribor’s group, swelling its ranks to perhaps three dozen people.

Black had extinguished the lantern above the driver’s seat of the wagon, and Arlian supposed that was to make it easier to slip away into the darkness unnoticed.

“Kill him!” the innkeeper shouted. “I’m never going to get all those bloodstains out, and that door upstairs is ruined!”

“We’ll pay for the damages,” Lady Rime called in reply.

The innkeeper snorted in disbelief.

Arlian watched Toribor closely, looking for some hint of an impending attack, but could see none—perhaps Lord Belly thought that time was on his side, and he intended to wait Arlian out, fight defensively until his opponent tired.

Or perhaps he fought conservatively because of his missing eye—he was blind on his left side, and kept his head cocked at an odd angle to compensate, his right eye angled forward and focused on Arlian’s blade.

Arlian tried a quick feint, just to see what would happen; Toribor’s blade flashed up to parry, but he made no counter.

Arlian grinned; that suited him fine. He circled to the left, stepped in, feinted, then dodged right and attacked in earnest.

Missing eye or no, Toribor was ready for him and warded off the assault easily—but he still made no riposte, no attack of his own. After a few seconds of clashing steel, Arlian stepped back.

All the light came from the same direction, from the inn; it wasn’t bright enough to blind anyone who looked directly at the lanterns, though, so the old sun-in-the-eye trick was no real use. Getting in front of the light might make it harder for his one-eyed foe to see what he was doing, however, so Arlian moved in that direction.

Toribor didn’t cooperate; he moved back and to the side, keeping Arlian and the light at an angle.

Arlian considered that. If Toribor kept that up he could be maneuvered pretty much wherever Arlian wanted him; all Arlian had to do was decide where that would be. He looked at Toribor’s tilted face, at how he was concentrating on Arlian, staring at him, and he thought he knew.

Toribor had adjusted to his missing eye, but he wasn’t comfortable with the darkness; he had probably spent almost his entire waking life in daylight or firelight, and he could not close one eye to keep it adapted for darkness, while the other adjusted to light, as Arlian could. Arlian had both his eyes, and had spent seven years in the mines, with limited supplies of lamp oil; darkness did not trouble him, and he knew a dozen tricks to compensate for low light.

If Toribor would not allow Arlian to block the light, perhaps Arlian could still drive him away from the light entirely. He charged, and in a flurry of steel Toribor retreated.

They were moving away from the inn—and from the observers. As their blades slashed and clanged Toribor said urgently, “Listen, Obsidian—Arlian, Lanair, whatever your name is. You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“Really?” Arlian laughed. “I thought I was trying to kill you.”

“Beyond that!” Toribor said angrily, as he knocked aside another blow and stabbed his swordbreaker blindly at Arlian’s midsection.

“I’m trying to kill Enziet, too,” Arlian said, as his own swordbreaker blocked the thrust. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, blast you!” Toribor said, breaking free. “You can’t kill him! You mustn’t!”

“Because he’s the Duke’s chief adviser and the real ruler of Manfort?” Arlian asked, as he waved his sword threateningly. “Because the whole city will be plunged into chaos by his death?” He laughed again. “I think not. The city will survive without him, as it would without any man.” He lunged.

Toribor parried and sidestepped and made a tidy riposte, which Arlian turned scarcely an inch from his own sleeve. For a moment the two fought without words, the clash of steel and the mutter of the now-distant crowd the only sound.

“It’s not that,” Toribor said, as the two men separated and he caught his breath. “You’re right, that’s nothing; the Duke could have a hundred advisers anytime he called for them, and the Dragon Society has a dozen members who might rival Enziet’s abilities. But my lord, none of them know—if Enziet dies, the dragons will return.”

Arlian had been preparing a fresh attack, but he paused, astonished. “What?” he demanded.

Toribor attacked, and Arlian turned it and countered; it had not been a particularly skillful attack, and that, more than anything else, convinced him that Toribor was serious. Had he meant his outrageous claim as a mere distraction he would have followed it with his best, not a halfhearted overhand lunge.

“It’s true,” Toribor said. “Or at least Enziet swears it is, and showed me evidence. Have you never wondered why the dragons gave up their hegemony seven hundred years ago, when all the fighting to that point only demonstrated that we could not harm them?”

“Of course I’ve wondered,” Arlian said, with a quick little feint.

“It was a bargain they made,” Toribor said, barely even bothering to parry. “Humans learned a great secret, and threatened to reveal it, and use it, if the dragons did not depart.”

“What secret?” Arlian said, listening.

“I don’t know,” Toribor admitted. “But Enziet does— and he says he’s the last man alive who does. When he dies, the pact will be worthless, the secret will be lost, and the dragons will be free to return!”

“And you believe him?” Arlian made a thrust at Toribor’s side; he dodged.

“Yes, I do,” Toribor said. “He swore to me, by all the gods and by the dragons themselves, that he and he alone knows the secret that drove the dragons into their caverns.”

Arlian considered that.

It might even be true, he supposed; Enziet was perfectly capable of lying and breaking his word, Arlian was certain of that, but all the same, it might be true. Enziet was one of the oldest living beings in the world—perhaps the oldest, save the dragons themselves—and had certainly been around when the dragons still ruled. If there were such a secret, Enziet might well be its sole holder.

But what could such a secret be? And would the dragons truly return when it was lost?

Could the dragons actually return?

And if they did, could a way be found to kill them? Might that perhaps even provide a route to vengeance for Arlian’s family and neighbors? If the dragons came to him, rather than if he went searching through endless caverns for them, he might actually accomplish his goal.

That assumed, of course, that he could find a way to kill dragons.

Perhaps that was the secret Enziet held, and perhaps he could be convinced to give it up before he died.

“I swore to kill him,” Arlian said. “He murdered my friends, looted my home, and sold me into slavery.”

“He’s done all that and more,” Toribor agreed, “but he keeps the dragons away. Isn’t that more important than vengeance, or justice?”

“He swore to share his secrets with the Society,” Arlian said.

“He broke his oath; he admits it. But he had sworn to the dragons themselves not to reveal it.”

Their duel had slowed as they spoke; now they still stood with weapons ready, but the fight had become a conversation. Arlian risked a quick glance back at the inn.

No one had followed them; the audience still huddled under the lanterns, safe in the light, watching from afar.

“Why hasn’t he told anyone else, then?” Arlian asked. “Why take the risk? What if he were killed by thieves, or in a fall from his horse? He’d let the dragons return?”

“I never said Enziet isn’t a selfish bastard,” Toribor said.

“He deserves to die,” Arlian growled.

“He probably does,” Toribor agreed. “But we can’t afford his death, I tell you!”

“So what do you propose I do about it?”

“Just… just leave him alone, that’s all. And me. I don’t want to die; I don’t even want to kill you. If you’ll swear not to kill Enziet, I’ll let you escape into the darkness, and I won’t pursue.”

“I can’t swear that,” Arlian said. “I will not break my vow, nor forgo my vengeance. Enziet poisoned the woman I love, and she died in the bed beside me, and he will pay for that, dragons or no!” He launched a ferocious attack, catching Toribor off guard—but not so off guard he didn’t manage to parry at the last instant as he retreated before Arlian’s assault.

“You’d rather plunge all humanity back into slavery?” Toribor shouted as he backed away.

“Yes!” Arlian shouted back. “If that’s what it takes! I’ve been a slave, and I survived! We drove the dragons away once, and we can do it again, with or without Enziet!”

“You’re insane!” Toribor yelped.

“I’ll promise you this much, Lord Belly,” Arlian said as he lunged again. “I’ll try to learn Enziet’s secret before I kill him. I’ll try. And if there is a secret, and I learn it, I’ll use it.”

Toribor did not answer. They were well away from the inn now, and Arlian had begun to force Toribor back into the utter darkness of a side street; he was too busy trying to see Arlian’s moves in the dark to speak any more.

Arlian, on the other hand, could still see quite well enough to suit him. He had dug and hauled ore in no more light than this any number of times. A sword was nothing like a pick, but both could be used well enough in the dark if one knew how.

He lunged, turned, and jabbed low with his sword-breaker; Toribor started back, and Arlian brought his sword across and down.

It was a glancing blow, but he heard fabric tear and heard Toribor gasp in pain, and Arlian knew he had drawn first blood, cutting a gash in his opponent’s leg.

“Blast you!” Toribor said, as he made a wild swing; Arlian ducked under it easily, and took the opportunity to strike again, this time plunging his sword deep into Toribor’s thigh.

As he snapped back into position and withdrew the blade Arlian heard the hiss of indrawn breath. “Listen, Obsidian,” Toribor said, “listen to Enziet when you find him! It’s more important than your dead friends, or my life—listen to him!”

Arjian paused, and stepped back. Toribor seemed to be conceding the duel; Arlian had not expected that.

And he seemed more concerned with Enziet’s life than his own; Arlian had certainly not expected that! He moved his sword into a guard position, considering.

Toribor staggered forward, attempting an attack, but his injured leg buckled under him, and he fell sideways in the dirt.

In an instant Arlian had stepped forward and kicked the sword from his hand. He stood over the defenseless Toribor, his own blade at his vanquished foe’s throat.

There he hesitated.

“Do you want to live?” he asked.

“Of course I do, you bloody-handed fool!” Toribor said, through gritted teeth—his wound was obviously painful.

It wasn’t fatal, though—Toribor had the heart of the dragon, and if he didn’t bleed to death here and now he could recover and heal.

“You’re serious about Enziet and the dragons, then?”

“Yes!” Toribor gasped; he had abandoned any pretense and was clutching at his leg with both hands, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

“Then you listen to me, Lord Toribor,” Arlian said. “You have a choice. You can swear to take your men and go back to Manfort and trouble me no more until I return there, and I’ll let you live—though it’s not over between us, any more than it is between Lord Nail and myself. You both must still make amends for your crimes in Westguard; I’m just delaying the day of reckoning.

“That’s one option. The other is that you refuse this oath, in which case I’ll kill you here and now, regardless of the dishonor in slaying a defenseless foe. You saw what I did to Lord Drisheen; you know I can be ruthless.” An afterthought struck him. “Oh, and in either case, I want Drisheen’s horse and harness. I’ll buy it, or just take it, as you please.”

“I’ll swear,” Toribor said, his voice weakening, “if you’ll swear an oath in return.”

“I’m not going to let Enziet go,” Arlian said.

“Just… swear you’ll listen to him, and consider carefully, before you decide whether or not to kill him,” Toribor said.

“If he gives me the chance, I’ll do it,” Arlian said. “I’ll swear to listen, if it’s not at the risk of my own life.”

Toribor nodded. “Then I swear, by the dead gods,” he said. “I’ll take my men back to Manfort, and you can go on after Enziet, or wherever you please, unhindered.”

“And Cricket and Brook stay with me.”

Toribor nodded. Then he held up a hand. “I’ve sworn, and I will keep my word,” he said, “but three of Enziet’s men are on their way to Stonebreak. I have no way to recall them.”

Arlian frowned, then shrugged. “A fair warning, and honorable of you to give it,” he said. Then he backed away, out of the alley and into the street, where he turned back toward the inn and bellowed, “You there! Bring bandages! Lord Toribor is bleeding like a fountain!”

57

Stonebreak

Arlian was wearing an entirely new face, courtesy of a fresh glamour of Shibiel’s making, when he walked into the inn at Stonebreak. He therefore did not worry about being recognized as he took a seat at an adjoining table just behind the three soldiers from Manfort.

He had known they were here by the horses in the stable; no one else in this miserable little town would have had such fine mounts. Arlian had been riding Drisheen’s mare hard for days, leaving the wagon and his companions far behind, trying to catch up to these three; obviously the soldiers had not been dawdling themselves.

What puzzled Arlian slightly was the presence of four fine northern horses in the stable, not counting his own; Toribor had been specific about saying he had only sent three men ahead. Arlian shrugged it aside; he supposed they had brought an extra mount, or perhaps a pack horse.

Certainly, there were only three men in the Duke’s livery at the table. One of them was Stonehand—Arlian had suspected as much when he failed to spot his old enemy in Cork Tree after the duel. The other two soldiers he could not recall ever having seen before.

Arlian beckoned to the innkeeper for an ale as he listened, trying to overhear, unnoticed, what the three were saying as they ate.

“I’d heard that the winds blow away tracks in the Desolation in just minutes,” one man said, “and that’s if the ground isn’t too rocky to show tracks in the first place. We’ll probably never find him up there.”

“Well, if we lose the trail, we’ll turn back,” Stonehand said. He drank deeply from his tankard.

“We could just wait here,” the third man said.

“Or go back to Cork Tree and tell the lords we missed him,” the first said.

“We were sent to find Lord Enziet and warn him that Lanair is on his trail,” Stonehand said, thumping his emptied tankard to the table. “We knew he was in the Desolation. We need to at least take a look at the top of the cliffs. He can’t have gone far yet.”

The innkeeper set a mug before Arlian, who accepted it with a nod; the innkeeper frowned, and Arlian fished a half-ducat from his pocket. Clearly, his credit was not good here—but then, he wasn’t dressed as a lord, but as a merchant, and that at a time when no caravan was in town.

He had missed part of the conversation at the other table; now, as he drank, he heard the third soldier saying,“… see the point of it. We know Lanair doubled back, he’s probably either long dead, or running back to Manfort with his tail between his legs.”

“Maybe we should wait here a day or two, in case they sent a messenger to call us back,” the first soldier suggested.

“No. We’re going up that ravine tomorrow,” Stonehand said, brooking no argument. “We are going up to the Desolation, and once we reach it we are going to see whether we can find Lord Enziet’s trail.”

The other two grumbled, but did not make any further protests.

Arlian drank his ale and studied them, thinking.

They did not know exactly where Enziet had gone; if he simply stayed out of their way they would presumably lose the trail and turn back. Arlian well remembered how barren the Desolation was; did these three even know which route Enziet had taken, east, west, or center? Did they know how the routes were marked?

The Low Road was an actual road for at least part of its length, with markers along the way; perhaps they would follow that, thinking it was Enziet’s route, all the way to the Borderlands.

Arlian was fairly sure Enziet would have taken the unmarked Eastern Road.

If these three turned back, or if they took the Low Road, then Arlian could simply let them go on about their business, while he followed Enziet—though he would probably have his own problems in locating Lord Dragon. He would need the magicians’ help.

And the magicians were in the wagon, somewhere to the north, and if these three turned back they would meet the wagon on the road, and how would that turn out? Arlian frowned.

Did these three know that “Lord Lanair” was associated with the wagon and its occupants?

Whether they did or not, they might well ask to search the wagon, and if they did they would find Brook and Cricket, who they would recognize—even if Thirif and Shibiel had cast yet another glamour, it would not disguise the lack of feet. That might be hidden, if the women were careful, but still…

There were only three of them, and Black would probably be a match for any of them. If the women and magicians could handle the other two…

But they probably couldn’t, if it came to an actual fight. Cricket had that sword Arlian had given her, but how could she use it, even if she knew how, crippled as she was?

And Thirif and Shibiel were running short of magic. They couldn’t prepare more in the Lands of Man, where magic was thin and weak, and they didn’t know sorcery.

Rime knew a little sorcery, but no sorcery Arlian knew of would be much help.

And besides, Stonehand owed a debt, one ten years old, that Arlian did not want to leave unpaid when he had the man so close at hand.

He couldn’t fight all three by himself, though. He knew he was a good swordsman, but he wasn’t that good. That was probably exactly why Lord Toribor had sent three men, instead of the one Lord Drisheen had spoken of—just in case Arlian managed to come after them.

And he had nothing against the other two. Oh, they might well be murderers a dozen times over, they might beat their women and torture kittens, but Arlian didn’t know it. They might just as well be good sons, faithful husbands, and loving fathers who had taken up the guardsman’s trade for lack of a better alternative. His only grudge was against Stonehand.

Perhaps he could make the other two see that. After all, did they know the entire story of just why “Lord Lanair” was pursuing Lord Enziet? Surely they did not—Enziet was a secretive man. In fact, this entire expedition was the result of his desire to keep too many secrets. He certainly wouldn’t have told the entire party just who their enemy really was.

Shamble had not appeared to know that Lord Lanair was the boy who Lord Dragon had sold into slavery ten years before. Why, then, would Stonehand, or these others?

And Arlian was wearing a new face, courtesy of Shibiel’s glamour.

He stood, suddenly inspired, and tapped Stonehand on the shoulder.

Stonehand turned, startled. “Yes?”

“You’re called Stonehand, aren’t you?” Arlian asked.

Stonehand was suddenly wary. He pushed away from the table and put his hand on his sword-hilt. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I thought I recognized you,” Arlian said. He unobtrusively eyed the arrangement of table, chair, and sword, and then, moving as suddenly as he could, punched Stonehand on the jaw.

The guardsman’s chair rocked back but did not quite topple over; astonished, his two companions leaped to their feet, as Stonehand clapped a hand to his injured chin and stared up at Arlian.

“You stinking heap of bloody offal,” Arlian bellowed. “You sold me as a slave!”

“Hey! Hey! Not in my house!” the innkeeper shouted, waving his hands but standing well clear.

“You stay out of this,” Arlian said. “This is just between him and me.”

“You have the advantage of me,” Stonehand said, still rubbing his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Ten years ago, on Smoking Mountain?”

Stonehand frowned. “I was on Smoking Mountain once,” he admitted. “I don’t remember just when.”

“Do you remember finding a survivor in the ruins? And what you did with him?”

“I didn’t do anything with him,” Stonehand protested. “He was Lord Dragon’s property.”

“I was no one’s property!” Arlian roared. “I was a free-born child!”

“Well, I didn’t sell you!” Stonehand roared back. “It was nothing to do with me!”

“You didn’t say a word to protest,” Arlian said. “You took your share of the loot—my mother’s jewels, the neighbors’ things, whatever you could find!”

“They were dead!”

“I wasn’t!”

“And you still aren’t! You’re free now, aren’t you?”

“After seven years in the mines,” Arlian said. “You owe me for that seven years!”

“Oh, fine,” Stonehand said. “What is it you want of me, then?”

“Satisfaction,” Arlian said, grabbing the hilt of his sword—but not drawing it.

“A duel?” Stonehand’s mouth quirked into a smile. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’re the worthless piece of offal I called you, not a man fit to wear a lord’s uniform.”

“Oh, now there’s a fearsome threat!” Stonehand grinned broadly. “A merchant calls me names, and I’m supposed to cower in shame?”

“A man tells you you’re worth less than a dung heap, and you can take it, and let everyone here see you for the coward you are, or you can fight me to show them I’m wrong.”

“I don’t want to fight you,” Stonehand said. He studied Arlian’s face. “You know, I don’t remember you very clearly, but your face isn’t familiar at all.”

“Seven years in the mines will change a man,” Arlian said. “Then you’re admitting cowardice?”

Stonehand sighed. “I am not admitting anything of the sort,” he said. “I am merely reluctant to perforate a mad fool who may have some slight grounds for feeling I may once have inadvertently wronged him.”

“ ‘May’ ? ‘Inadvertently’ ? ”

“People are sold into slavery every day, boy. Fate plays with us, and is none too gentle about it.”

“And Fate has brought you here, to me, and I demand you fight me!”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Stonehand warned. “I’m a soldier; you’re a merchant. What do you know about swordplay?”

“Enough,” Arlian said. “Then you’ll fight me?”

Stonehand glanced at his companions; one shrugged silently, and the other said, “Go ahead. Teach him to mind his own business.”

“Fine,” Stonehand said. “Outside.”

“Of course.” Arlian made a formal bow—one suited to a lord, not a mere merchant. Stonehand’s smile vanished, and he eyed his foe suspiciously.

He did not say anything, though, and the two men made their way out into the street. They took up guard positions, swords ready, facing each other, Arlian to the north, Stonehand to the south. The sun was below the western rooftops but not yet completely gone.

Arlian drew his swordbreaker; Stonehand was obviously startled by its presence. He had none, but pulled a dagger from his boot for his left hand.

“It’s a trick, isn’t it?” Stonehand said, gesturing at the swordbreaker. “You’re no mere tradesman. You’re probably not even that boy from Smoking Mountain.”

“I am who I said I was,” Arlian said. “But yes, it’s a trick—I’ve studied the sword since I escaped the mines.”

“Obsessed with revenge, I suppose?” He smiled. “As I said, Fate plays with us all.”

Then he lunged; Arlian parried, made a simple overhand riposte—and skewered Stonehand neatly, running the blade of his sword through Stonehand’s chest. Stonehand looked down and said, “I never did get the hang of all those fancy tricks. I always did…”

Then he gasped for breath and crumpled to the ground, pulling free of Arlian’s blade, his own sword and dagger falling from his hands, his collapse leaving Arlian staring down at him, astonished with the ease of his victory. The duel had been so brief that the crowd had not even finished forming.

Arlian had expected a much longer contest—but a man called Stonehand would have been named for his fists, not his skill with a blade.

“I wasn’t even sure I meant to kill him,” Arlian said, as much to himself as anyone else.

“Oh, for…” one of the other soldiers said. His companion was kneeling at Stonehand’s side. “Now what do we do?”

The kneeling man looked up. “Do you want to fight him?” he asked, jerking a thumb in Arlian’s direction.

“No,” the standing soldier said. “I want to go home.”

“That sounds like a fine idea to me,” the other replied. “We should take his body, I suppose.”

“Is he really dead?” Arlian asked.

“No,” the kneeling man admitted, “but he will be soon, I’d say. He’s unconscious.”

“We’ll need to wait here, then, until he dies,” the other soldier said.

“He’ll be dead by morning, I’d say.”

“I’m sorry,” Arlian said.

It was the truth, oddly enough. He had sought Lord Dragon’s looters for years, with every intention of killing them all, and he had forced this duel knowing perfectly well that he would probably kill Stonehand, but all the same, now that he had done it, he regretted it. There had been little satisfaction in so brief a fight, and while Stone-hand had participated in the looting of Obsidian and had served Lord Enziet, he had not been so outrageously cruel as Drisheen, nor so callous as Enziet or the other lords. In the brief conversation leading up to the duel he had shown himself to be a man, not a monster—perhaps under other circumstances, he and Arlian might have been friends. He had done wrong, yes, but he had not been proud of it; he had done as he was told.

And now Arlian had taken something he could never give back. Lord Dragon had taken seven years of Arlian’s life, all the years when he should have been growing and learning and finding his path in the world, and Arlian could never get those.back, but taking the rest of Stonehand’s life did not make up for that. It was simply another theft, not a restoration.

But if he had to do it over again, he could not say he would do anything any differently. And he still had every intention of hunting down and killing Lord Enziet. He was no longer eager to hunt down any of the others, but Enziet, yes—Lord Dragon was a monster, as Stonehand had not been, and must die.

There was nothing more he could do for Stonehand; he wiped his sword, sheathed it, and reentered the inn.

“I don’t think I should stay here after all,” he told the innkeeper. “I’ll find somewhere to camp.”

“Please yourself,” the man said. “That was quick, I must say.”

Arlian ignored the comment. “Before I go, though—I’m looking for a man, Lord Enziet. He would have come through here several days ago, and gone on southward, up the ravine to the Desolation. Do you know who I mean?”

“Oh, the lord with the lamed horse?” The innkeeper nodded. “Those three asked about him, too. He got tired of looking for a new mount and left about three days ago, on foot.”

Arlian stared at the innkeeper.

Lamed horse? On foot?

And only three days ago?

His vengeance against Lord Enziet was closer than ever.

“Thank you,” he said.

58

The End of the Pursuit

The wind on the Desolation was almost cold, not the searing hot blast Arlian remembered, but it blew just as constantly and fiercely as he recalled, and just as dry, sucking the moisture from their mouths and skin.

They left the Eastern Road behind on the fourth day, veering eastward across bare stone, away from the drifting sands, following the glow of Thirif ‘s enchanted crystal. The Aritheian was quite sure that this was the path Lord Enziet had followed.

“He’s very close,” Thirif assured Arlian. “I think we’ve gained significantly.”

“Why would we be gaining?” Arlian asked. “A man on foot is faster than an ox-drawn wagon.”

“If he’s hurrying,” Black said. “Why would he hurry? He needs to stop for water, just as we do.”

Arlian frowned, then shrugged. “I’m going to scout ahead,” he said.

This was hardly new; Arlian had been using Drisheen’s horse to scout ahead of the wagon regularly. As usual, he found nothing but bare stone.

On the sixth day, while scouting ahead yet again, Arlian thought he could smell salt in the air, and that it was significantly more moist than it had been. His breath no longer dried out his throat every time he inhaled through his mouth. He saw birds in the distance—seabirds, he thought.

He stared at them intently, but could not make out enough detail to be sure—after all, he had never seen the sea or seabirds, except in pictures.

In pictures they usually seemed to have long, oddly shaped wings, though, and these black specks swooping in the distance fit that description.

He was at the point where he would ordinarily have turned back to rejoin the others, but the birds drew his interest; he urged his horse forward, up a slope of broken stone. At the top he paused again, watching.

Then he lowered his gaze and saw the man standing atop a boulder, perhaps two hundred yards away across a broad expanse of water-worn rock—a tall man, dressed in black, with a plumed, broad-brimmed hat on his head and a sword on his belt.

Lord Enziet.

And Enziet had paused as well, and had glanced back, and was staring directly at Arlian.

“At last!” Arlian muttered, spurring his mount.

The horse jerked forward and broke into a canter, scattering stones in all directions as it stumbled across the rocky ground. Arlian felt himself losing his seat—he was still far from an expert horseman—and reined the beast in. For a moment he concentrated his attention on not being thrown headlong onto the rocks.

When he had the horse slowed to a comfortable walk he looked up, and Lord Enziet was gone.

“Blood and death,” Arlian growled. He rode on, staring ahead, looking for any sign of his quarry.

He saw none.

A few moments later he was alongside the boulder where Enziet had stood; he dismounted, weighted the horse’s reins to the ground with a good-sized rock, and looked around.

Enziet was nowhere to be seen; a rough expanse of bare, jagged stone stretched in all directions, hard and cold and alien. Several openings were visible—sinkholes, perhaps, or caves, or just gaps between fallen chunks of rock; Arlian had no way of telling which were which.

He stared at the ground, looking for a trail—and found one; a stone had been turned, exposing a damp underside that had not yet dried in the chill winter wind. He drew a line with his gaze from the boulder to that stone, then extended it straight on—east by southeast, almost the direction they had been heading for the past two days. He drew his sword, patted the horse reassuringly, then began walking that line, slowly and carefully.

A few feet past the turned stone he paused; just to his right was a dark opening between two slabs of stone. He knelt and peered into it.

Something black and powdery clung to the underside of one of the slabs—dead plant life, Arlian supposed, either moss or lichen that had managed to grow there briefly before succumbing to the ghastly conditions of the Desolation.

There were two smears in the black powder—two smears, as if someone’s fingers had brushed against it. “Lord Enziet!” he called into the darkness. No one replied—but the sound of his voice echoing into the depths told him that this opening was clearly the mouth of a cave, no mere sinkhole.

And it was a cave that Enziet surely knew better than he did, but Arlian had hardly come so far to give up now. There might be another entrance; if he didn’t pursue, Enziet might reemerge anywhere, at any time.

Cautiously, his sword ready, he stooped and made his way into the darkness.

The ground sloped down steeply but did not drop out from under him; in fact, after he had gone a dozen feet he found himself on uneven stone steps—whether natural or man-made he could not tell. They wound downward into darkness, the curves shutting out the sun’s light.

He paused some thirty feet from the entrance, perhaps ten feet below ground, just before he left the daylight behind entirely. Here he let his eyes adjust and wished he had brought a lantern or lamp, or even just something he could use as a torch. Surely, Enziet could not see down here without some such device!

Of course, if he knew this cave well enough, he wouldn’t need to see. He could be waiting at the bottom of the steps, planning to skewer Arlian by sound and feel.

Arlian held his breath and listened intently.

He could hear the wind blowing through the rocks, far behind him—and he could hear something very, very faint ahead, something that might be a person breathing.

“Lord Enziet!” he called. “I know you’re there—strike a light, and we’ll talk.”

“Talk?” Enziet laughed bitterly—and the sound was closer than Arlian had expected. “You want to talk, Obsidian? Isn’t it too late for that?”

“I’m not sure,” Arlian replied, speaking more quietly— and moving as he spoke, sidling to his left, so as not to invite a sword-thrust by sound alone. “Toribor told me I must speak to you before trying to kill you, that there were secrets I should know before I strike you dead, and I swore I would listen if the opportunity arose.”

For a long moment Enziet made no reply, and Arlian moved cautiously farther down the steps, as silently as he could. Then that cold voice spoke again.

“Belly got that out of you? I suppose it was his dying wish.” He sounded almost regretful—the first time Arlian had heard anything like honest emotion in his enemy’s voice.

“I didn’t kill him,” Arlian said. “Not yet. Drisheen is dead, though, and Shamble, and Stonehand.”

“You’re a thorough son of a poxy whore, aren’t you? Why did you let Belly live?”

“Because with my sword at his throat, he was still more concerned with your life than his own,” Arlian replied. He was fairly sure, now, of where Enziet stood—the stairs widened out just a foot or two below his own position, and Enziet was to his right at that level.

A sword-thrust at full extension should reach him, but the chance of hitting anything vital was still small—and there were still things to be said.

“You admired his loyalty?”

“Not loyalty,” Arlian said. “Shamble was loyal to you with his dying breath, and I cut his throat without a qualm. Belly, though—he was concerned. It was compassion, not loyalty, and I couldn’t find it in me to kill a man so concerned with the well-being of others.”

“Even when I, the man you’re sworn to kill, am the other?”

“But you aren’t,” Arlian said. “That’s why I’m talking to you, instead of trying to kill you right now. Toribor said you hold secrets, and that when you die the effects will be far more than I could ever guess.”

And then Arlian ducked. He was not sure exactly what he had sensed—whether he had heard cloth rustle, or felt the air move, or seen something in the lingering trace of light that reached this far into the earth, but he had somehow known that Enziet was about to strike.

Perhaps it was sorcery, but he knew, and he ducked, and therefore he lived; Enziet’s blade swished over his head and rapped against the stone wall behind him. He slashed with his own sword, not seriously trying to hit Enziet, but only to force him back.

It worked; he heard the crunch of retreating footsteps, and when Enziet spoke again his voice came from farther away, and a different angle. He had moved deeper into the cave.

“Very good,” Enziet said. “You move well, even in the dark.”

“So do you, unfortunately,” Arlian replied.

“So Belly told you my death will have consequences,” Enziet said. “Did he say any more than that?”

“Somewhat,” Arlian said. “I prefer not to go into detail, though; I would rather hear your account first, so that I might compare the two.”

For a moment Enziet didn’t answer; then he said, “Come down here, off the stair.”

“Why?”

“Because if I am to tell you my secrets, then only one of us will leave this place alive—at most. I promise you that, my eager young enemy—if I reveal the truth, then at least one of us must die. I would much prefer that it be you, but if I speak, and you escape up the stairs before I can slay you, then my own life is forfeit.”

“Why?” Arlian demanded.

“Step down away from there, and I’ll tell you. And then you’ll see why I say one of us must perish, and it’s possible you’ll choose to die yourself, rather than slay me.”

“And what if I come down there, and you flee up the passage?”

“Then the pursuit will continue—but you’re young and strong, and I’m a thousand years old, and right now I feel every day of it. And have you no companions aboveground who might apprehend me?”

Arlian considered that.

His companions were probably still miles away, and although they were following him, guided by Thirif’s magic, they might never find this place. But why should he tell Enziet any of that? And he had caught up to Enziet this time; he could do it again, if he had to.

“Move away, then, and I’ll come down,” he said.

He heard the scuffing of boots on stone; Enziet was, indeed, moving back. Arlian stepped down into the chamber and felt his way along the wall.

When he had gone seven or eight feet he stopped.

“Tell me, then, what this dread secret is that you hold, that makes you so important.”

“It’s simple enough,” Enziet said. “I know how the dragons reproduce.”

For a moment Arlian stared uncomprehendingly into the featureless darkness. Then he asked, “What?”

“I know how dragons reproduce—and how to stop them from doing so.”

“But… but don’t they… I mean, the dragons are still animals, are they not?”

“No, they are not,” Enziet said calmly. “They are the magic of the Lands of Man made flesh, a primal force drained from the earth and given shape; they only appear to us as beasts, as the reptiles we see. That is not what they are.”

Arlian took a moment to consider this. He remembered the terrifying image of the dragons above the Smoking Mountain, the sight of that immense face peering into the ruined pantry, all the tales he had ever heard about the dragons.

He remembered Black asking him, long ago, if he knew male from female, or whether dragons laid eggs. He remembered seeing the belly of one dragon as it flew over Obsidian—it had been bare and sexless.

Creatures of sheer magic, like those things in the Dreaming Mountains, but vastly larger and more powerful—it all fit.

“And that’s why they can’t be killed, then?” he asked.

Enziet snorted. “I don’t know whether they can be killed in their mature form,” he said. “I think it’s possible. I was working on that—for more than six hundred years I’ve worked on finding a way, and I believe I was very, very near when you came to Manfort and cast my life into chaos. But yes, their true nature is why we have no record that any man has ever killed one.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Arlian asked. “Why did you conceal this from the Dragon Society? It’s so basic, so essential, yet you hid it for all these years!”

“I had sworn that I would,” Enziet said.

“And you swore to the Society that you would reveal what you knew about dragons! What oath did you swear that took precedence over that?”

“Haven’t you guessed?” Enziet’s voice dripped sarcasm. “I thought you were such a clever boy!”

“No, blast you, I haven’t guessed! Some ancient duke? Your father or mother?”

Enziet laughed. “You’re a fool. Why would I care about an oath to someone long dead? No, I swore my oath to a power greater and older than the Dragon Society or anyone else.”

“Some sorcerer, then?”

“Don’t be a fool, Arlian,” Enziet spat. “I swore to the dragons themselves.”

59

The Sword of Lord Enziet

For a moment Arlian stared silently into the gloom, wishing he could see Enziet’s face—that he could see anything other than black emptiness. Then he said, “You mean you swore by the dragons.”

“No,” Enziet said. “I swore an oath to the dragons themselves, when I drove them from the Lands of Man and bound them, by their oath, into the caverns.”

“You bound them? You, yourself?”

“I have that honor, yes.”

“But they come out sometimes,” Arlian said.

“In dragon weather, yes. They’re dragons, boy—they can’t be bound entirely by anything human, not even an oath. But they would speak to me, when the temptation grew strong, and we would agree on what would be permitted them.”

“Such as my home and family,” Arlian said bitterly.

“Such as that, yes,” Enziet agreed. “I chose your village for reasons of my own. I had not intended that anyone would survive, and that error has cost me. I should have known better—dragons are not to be trusted.”

“What, you think they left me alive deliberately?”

“Yes, boy, I do. I know more about dragons than anyone alive, and yes, I believe they knew you were there, and that they let you live intentionally.”

“Why? I’ve sworn to destroy them!”

For a moment Enziet didn’t reply; when he did speak Arlian could hear genuine mirth in his voice. “Have you? As you swore to destroy me?”

“Yes! They killed my mother, my father, my grandfather, my brother—if a mortal man can destroy a dragon, I will!”

“No dragon would fear your vengeance, Arlian,” Enziet said. “They fear no one but me. A boy of ten or twelve, as you were—pah! They’d consider you no more threat than a kitten!” He laughed. “They don’t know you as I’ve come to.”

“Can they be killed, then?” Arlian asked eagerly.

“The black dragons? The elders? I don’t know. I believe it’s possible.”

“You said they fear you.”

“They do. I know how they reproduce—and I know how to prevent it. Dragons don’t live forever, any more than we who they’ve polluted do. We live centuries, and they live millennia, but we all die in the end, and they want their kind to live after them, as we do. I may not be able to kill a grown dragon, but I can kill their unborn young, and they know it, and fear me in consequence.”

“How did you learn this?” Arlian asked. “Did you stumble on it by chance?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. If you learned it, might others not be aware of it as well, without your knowledge?”

“And then you’d have no compunctions about killing me, eh?” Enziet laughed again. “No dragon has been born in a thousand years, Arlian. How could anyone else have learned what I know?”

“Then you’ve prevented births?” Arlian asked. “And the dragons permit it?”

“No, Arlian,” Enziet said—and Arlian realized his foe’s voice had moved closer; he had become so caught up in the conversation he had let his enemy creep closer unnoticed. Now he slashed at empty air and took three quick paces to the side. “It was not I who prevented the creation of new dragons for all those years. The gestation of a dragon takes a millennium, and the first new ones should be arriving within the next century, I would say. Only a very few of them will be born in the next thousand years— but there have been none in the thousand just ended.”

“Why?” Arlian demanded. “If you’re the only one who knows…”

“I was not always the only one who knew the secret,” Enziet interrupted. “The Man-Dragon Wars were fought not simply because humans dared to resist draconic rule, but because humanity had discovered the hope of destroying the dragons entirely. The true nature of that knowledge was kept hidden by a secret society, and I was just one member of that original Order of the Dragon. The Dragon Society you know is a sick parody of the Order, Arlian—a parody I created after I betrayed the Order to save my own life. And when the Order was gone, I alone was left in possession of the Order’s secret, and was able to do what the Order had not—free humanity of the dragons, not by warfare, but by an exchange of oaths.”

“And if you die, the dragons are free of their oath?”

“Of course.”

“And they’ll emerge and reassert their rule over all the Lands of Man?”

“I don’t know what they’ll do, Obsidian,” Enziet said wearily. “I don’t understand them so completely as that. I only know they’ll be free of constraint when I’m gone, when the secret of their origins is lost.”

“You’ve told no one? Never written it down?”

“You are a naive young fool,” Enziet said. “I don’t want to die, and I don’t care very much what becomes of all the rest of you once I’m dead. There are other reasons, as well—but no, I have told no one, nor have I written down my deepest secrets. There is no one I would trust with this knowledge, and documents can be stolen, or copies, or simply read by the wrong people. So, do you still want to kill me, knowing what you might unleash?”

“You’ll die someday in any case,” Arlian said.

“Indeed I will,” Enziet agreed. “As will you. I might have an hour left to me—less, if you manage to slay me— or I might have a century. Is not the chance of a century’s delay in the return of the dragons worth forgoing your revenge?”

“No,” Arlian said. “Not when it might be only an hour, and not when you’ve said we won’t both leave this place alive. I don’t know that any of what you’ve told me is true—you could be making it all up to trick me!”

“I swear, by all gods living and dead, that what I have told you is true.”

“And I cannot accept your word,” Arlian said unhappily. “If it’s the truth, you are already forsworn in your oath to the Society.”

“The Dragon Society is a sham!” Enziet shouted.

“Yet you swore,” Arlian insisted.

“Then you don’t believe me,” Enziet said.

“No,” Arlian said. “If it’s true, then tell me your secret, if you want it to survive—because you won’t survive, if I can prevent it.”

“I might kill you, instead.”

“You’re welcome to try. Tell me the secret, then—if you kill me, it won’t leave this cave.”

There was a long pause before Enziet replied thoughtfully, “I don’t think I want to do that. The time may come when you learn for yourself, but I won’t tell you.”

“Then I won’t spare you.”

“And I’ll do my best to kill you. No quarter asked nor given.”

And suddenly Arlian felt a rush of air and sidestepped. He brushed against cloth and swung his own sword, but hit nothing. He turned toward the sound of Enziet’s breath, both his blades ready.

“I lived seven years in the mines of Deep Delving,” he said. “You won’t find me frightened by the dark.”

“And I spent two years in the caverns with the dragons, long ago,” Enziet replied. “The darkness holds no terrors for me, either.”

“Why did you come here?” Arlian asked. “Did you think you could escape me?”

Enziet snorted. “I thought I could bribe Wither,” he said. “Bribe Wither, trust Drisheen, talk Nail around, terrify Belly into obedience, and keep my hold on the Dragon Society. I thought you would die on the way here—but I should have known better. Fate clearly has plans for you. I realized that long ago.”

“Bribe Wither with what?” Arlian, thinking he sensed movement, thrust even as he spoke, but struck only air. He knew what Wither had demanded of Enziet, but he wanted to keep his opponent talking.

“With venom, of course,” Enziet said. “This cave is an entrance to one of the dragons’ lairs—five or six of them sleep in a chamber not far below us. Collecting venom that drips from their jaws as they sleep is simple enough; I’ve done it before, long, long ago.” His voice moved as he spoke; he was circling around. Arlian turned, tracking his opponent’s movement.

“Wither’s been seeking venom for years,” Arlian said. “Why are you only doing this now?”

“Because I didn’t need Wither’s support before, and did not care to see more clean blood tainted by the filth the dragons spew. You should appreciate that—you must have seen what happened to that whore you stole from me.”

Arlian leaped and slashed at that, and heard cloth tear, but again he failed to strike flesh, and again he heard footsteps retreating.

He pursued, but after a dozen paces the sound of his own steps and the clattering of the stones he dislodged had drowned out Enziet’s, and he lost the trail. He paused, trying to locate Enziet, but once the stones had stopped sliding the cave went utterly silent.

“You dare speak of her?” Arlian bellowed.

“Of course,” Enziet replied, from somewhere far off to Arlian’s left. “I dare anything. I am Lord Dragon, after all; I am he who makes the puppets dance. Human or dragon, free or slave, duke or whore, you all dance when I pull the strings.” He laughed bitterly. “Or so I thought; perhaps Fate is pulling my strings now. Or perhaps the dragons have all along played a deeper game than I knew.”

Light suddenly flared up; Enziet had struck sparks onto tinder. Arlian turned toward the light and hurried toward it, sword raised to strike, but Enziet stepped back and snatched up his own sword.

The tinder smoldered dimly, and clearly would not last long.

“I thought the time had come to get on with it, and settle matters between us,” Enziet said. “Let me light a lamp, and we’ll have it out properly.”

Arlian stopped, and took a step back.

“Do it, then,” he said.

Enziet nodded, stepping forward into the fading orange glow. He reached for a pouch on his belt as he knelt.

A moment later Enziet stood, a brass lamp burning in his hand. He placed it upon a ledge on the wall of the cave, then turned to Arlian.

For the first time since climbing down into the cave Arlian could see his surroundings. He could see where he had stood, and where he had run blindly across the cave floor, and he realized how lucky he had been—he had run right by a huge stalactite, and narrowly missed slamming his head into it.

Enziet had undoubtedly known the stalactite was there—but however familiar he might be with this place, he could not have been here for long, and had not been here in years before this visit, so his knowledge of the cave would not be complete.

That was why he had made a light—the cave was almost as dangerous to him as to Arlian. Not only were there stalactites to hit, stalagmites to trip over, and loose stones to stumble on, but there was a black pit to one side that they might have fallen in. The ceiling varied from too low to stand under to too high to see.

“That leads down to the dragons,” Enziet said, pointing to the pit. “If you kill me, you might want to go down there to see if you can kill them.” He smiled unpleasantly, twisting his scarred cheek.

“Are the three that destroyed my home down there?” Arlian asked.

“I don’t know,” Enziet said. “Quite possibly.”

“You know so many secrets—do you know why they chose my village?”

Enziet laughed. “They didn’t choose it,” he said. “I did. I had an interest in obtaining a supply of obsidian, and the dragons were eager for a little entertainment—you must remember that summer. The weather had their blood boiling. They told me they were going to strike, but allowed me to name the place, and I thought I would save myself a little expense.” He laughed again. “I cost myself far more than I expected. Had I known you were there, and what would come of it; I’d have directed them elsewhere and paid for my obsidian in gold.” He raised his sword and stepped forward, between Arlian and the lamp, casting an immense shadow across the cave.

Arlian dodged sideways, then ran and lunged; Enziet dodged, and counter-thrust. Arlian parried, riposted, then broke away.

Enziet stepped down, away from the light, into the shadow of a stone pillar. Arlian circled to the other side of the pillar.

For several minutes the two men maneuvered about the cave, stalking one another, looking for advantageous positions, occasionally exchanging a flurry of blows. Their shadows surged and shrank, twisted and dodged as they moved.

At one point Arlian slipped on a loose sloping stone and went down on one side; before Enziet could take advantage of this Arlian snatched up a handful of dust and pebbles and flung it at his foe’s eyes. As Arlian regained his feet Enziet stepped back, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, knocking his hat off and recovering just in time to meet Arlian’s attack.

Swords clashed, and Arlian tried to snag Enziet’s blade with his swordbreaker. Enziet dodged, and slashed, drawing a bloody line across Arlian’s left forearm.

Arlian gasped and fell back—and Enziet fell into his trap, stepping forward to take advantage of a feigned weakness. Arlian’s sword flashed orange in the lamplight as he struck; Enziet parried at the last moment, swinging his swordbreaker up, but the tip of Arlian’s blade punched through Enziet’s left shoulder, a far more serious wound than the scratch Enziet had inflicted.

Both men retreated, pulling apart; they stood facing one another, swords gleaming. Arlian’s blade was tipped with red; Enziet’s had a smear of blood diagonally across it.

“The dragons down below,” Arlian said, hoping to disrupt Enziet’s concentration. “Are they black? Or green?”

“Black,” Enziet said. “All the surviving dragons are black.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because they’re old, Arlian. A newborn dragon is red as blood, but by the time it’s a year old that fades to gold. A few decades and it’s green as grass, and a few centuries darken that to a black as black as their hearts.”

“And are their hearts any blacker than yours, Lord Dragon? Is that why you called yourself that?”

Arlian had expected Enziet to laugh and make some sardonic reply at that, but instead he looked as if he had been struck.

“I have the heart of a dragon,” he said bitterly, “as do you, and all the rest of that foolish little society. Yours may still be red, or at least gold, but mine is old and weary and black, just as you say—and as yours will be, one day, if you live that long.”

“Never,” Arlian said, lowering his sword and launching a fresh assault.

60

The Final Duel

The fight dragged on; the lamp burned low, and the two men called a brief truce to refill it before resuming their combat. Arlian received a gash across his ribs and another just above one hip, while Enziet’s left shoulder was pierced again, and a long gouge cut into his right leg. Blood was smeared across the rocks, on the stalagmites and along the walls. Both men grew tired, but fought on. Neither wasted breath on further speech; the time for talk was past, and both men knew it.

Arlian had no idea how long the fight lasted; in the cave there was no sun moving across the sky to tell him how much time had passed. He could only judge by how tired he was, by how heavy his sword had become.

Finally, though, as they maneuvered around a pillar, Enziet made a thrust, Arlian’s parry slammed both swords against the pillar, and Enziet’s blade snapped, no more than five inches from the guard.

Enziet reacted quickly, flinging the broken, useless stump at Arlian and running backward, away from his foe, before Arlian could strike him down.

Arlian recovered quickly from his surprise; the hilt of Enziet’s sword glanced harmlessly from one ear as he dodged, and then he was in pursuit.

As he fled, Enziet had transferred his swordbreaker from his left hand to his right; now he turned, standing just below the ledge where the lamp sat, and faced Arlian.

Arlian paused. “No quarter, you said,” he reminded Lord Dragon breathlessly.

“And I expect none,” Enziet replied, gasping. “But on another point, I’ve reconsidered.”

“Oh?”

“You wanted to know the secret of how the dragons reproduce,” Enziet said. “I’ve decided to show you.”

“What, you’d play for more time? Lead me down into a trap?” Arlian shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’ll die right here.”

“Indeed I will,” Enziet said, “and it’s here that you’ll see a dragon born.” He turned the point of his swordbreaker toward his own chest. “I’ve felt it coming for months,” he said. “I knew it would come in time, however I fought, but I’ve denied just how close it was.”

“What are you talking about?” Arlian asked.

Enziet smiled crookedly. “You thought that when we spoke of dragons in our hearts, we were speaking figuratively. You’re about to see just how literal we were.”

With that, he plunged the swordbreaker into his own heart, and cut downward convulsively with his dying breath.

Arlian gasped and stepped back in shock.

Blood gushed from Enziet’s chest—but it did not spill to the ground as it should have. Instead it expanded and writhed like a snake, curling upward in a solidifying stream. Enziet’s chest rippled as Drisheen’s had, but the movement did not subside; instead it burst Enziet apart, and a creature, born of Enziet’s heart’s blood, stepped forth from the ruined corpse and stood upon four crooked, unsteady legs. It raised its blood-red head, opened golden eyes, and glared at Arlian; a mouth appeared and opened, and Arlian saw needle-sharp, gleaming-white teeth spring forth from its jaw. Wings unfolded from the monster’s back, and it was a dragon, a bright red dragon, standing man-high, with a twelve-foot wingspan and extending perhaps fifteen feet from its newly formed nose to the tip of the soft red tail it had uncoiled from Enziet’s belly.

Arlian stared at it open-mouthed, the sword drooping, forgotten, in his hand.

The dragon stepped toward him, and he scrambled backward, bumping heedlessly against rocks and stalagmites. He dared not take his eyes off the dragon for even an instant. He raised the sword to high guard.

He was suddenly struck by a thought that sent terror through him—what if that thing that had emerged from Enziet’s body were to knock the lamp from the ledge, and plunge the cave into darkness? He doubted it needed the light; it could probably smell him. Even the slight chance of survival he had would be gone if the light died—unless he could get out, into daylight, before it caught him.

Could it fit up the stairs? Would it pursue him?

It had somehow fit inside Enziet, like a chick in an egg; he had to assume that yes, it could fit anywhere it chose to. As Enziet had told him, dragons were magic made flesh.

And there were at least five more dragons asleep in the cavern below, if Enziet had told the truth—and Enziet had certainly proven part of his story to be accurate. What if this newborn monster were to tumble down the pit and wake them?

Enziet had also said that while a mature dragon might be indestructible, he knew how to kill the dragons’ unborn young. It was clear to Arlian that he had meant by killing their hosts—and Arlian suddenly realized that in his quest for vengeance he had already slain unborn dragons in Drisheen and Horim—but perhaps a newborn, like this one, was also vulnerable.

If he could kill this dragon he might yet be saved. And every second he waited might be making the thing harder to kill.

With a yell, he raised his sword and charged the thing.

The dragon lowered its head and spat venom at him, but it was a feeble gesture; the spray of venom was thin and weak, falling harmlessly to the stone, and it utterly failed to ignite. A faint wisp of smoke appeared, no more.

Then Arlian jabbed at the dragon’s chest, striking as hard as he could—and the sword slipped off, wrenching sideways in his hands. The blood-red hide still looked soft and smooth, but he might as well have tried to pierce an anvil. Cold iron might have power against magic in the Borderlands, but good steel could not cut a dragon’s hide.

Before he could recover his balance the dragon struck out with a foreclaw, swatting Arlian aside as if he were a mouse; he slammed against the cave wall, the breath knocked out of him, his back severely bruised.

The dragon stepped away from Enziet’s corpse, shaking torn bits of flesh and cloth from its claws; it shook itself out, like a dog shaking off water, then stretched like a cat.

Its claws gouged into solid stone.

Arlian scrambled to his feet, his useless sword still in his hand, and the dragon turned to look at him.

He met its gaze, and a flood of memories came back—of how he had looked into a black dragon’s face there in his parents’ pantry, ten years before, and had known he would know that face instantly if he ever saw it again; of how he had seen Lord Dragon on horseback, looking down at him as if he were no more than an insect; of how both Black and Wither had looked at his face and told him he had the heart of a dragon; of how the members of the Dragon Society knew one another on sight.

Arlian knew this dragon. He knew those eyes. He had seen them before, in another color and another body. They were different now, larger and inhuman, but they were still, unmistakably, Lord Enziet’s eyes.

The dragon smiled at him, a fierce, hungry smile.

Enziet had sworn that only one of them would leave this cave alive—and while he might have cast aside his humanity and his old body, Arlian was quite sure that this dragon was somehow still Enziet.

And it still meant to kill him.

Arlian tried to think what he could do, how he might find a weakness. His sword could not cut that sleek red hide—but what about the black inside the monster’s mouth? What of its golden eyes? The thin red membranes of its wings?

He charged it, sword raised, and though it made no sound he thought he could hear Enziet’s laughter. It made no move to dodge or counter, but simply stood there as he plunged his sword into its mouth, down its black throat.

Then it bit down.

He barely snatched his hand free as the dragon’s teeth shattered his sword; he stepped back, horrified, as it swallowed the fragments and then smiled at him again, Enziet’s crooked, sardonic smile.

Arlian dropped the hilt and switched his swordbreaker to his right hand, as Enziet had done. He circled to one side.

The dragon stood where it was, but turned its head, watching him.

Then Arlian suddenly sped up, running wildly across the rough stone floor, scattering shards of stone as he ran; he turned, and ran right up to the monster. He grabbed its serpentine neck to steady himself, and with all his strength plunged the swordbreaker down on one of those great golden eyes.

The blade snapped off with a sudden twang, sending the broken chunk of steel spinning off to the side, and the shock of the impact knocked the hilt from his grip, bruising his fingers; his wrist went numb, and pain shot up his arm.

The dragon shook itself, sending Arlian flying, and he slammed back against the cave wall again, this time hitting sideways. Pain blazed. He heard something crack—probably one of his ribs.

He was injured, perhaps serious, and unarmed, both his blades broken, and all he had done was amuse the dragon. It wasn’t even annoyed, judging by its expression—and a dragon’s face, though not as mobile, somehow managed to be at least as expressive as a man’s.

Enziet’s silent laughter filled Arlian’s thoughts as he struggled to his feet.

Even though he knew a steel blade couldn’t pierce the dragon’s hide, Arlian still wanted one—he felt naked facing an enemy unarmed. Both his own weapons were broken, as was Enziet’s sword—but Enziet’s swordbreaker was intact.

And, Arlian remembered, that was the blade that had given birth to this abomination; perhaps that would endow it with special potency.

Half running, half staggering, Arlian hurried to Enziet’s corpse, behind the dragon. The dragon started to turn, but found itself awkwardly positioned, confined by a stone pillar and a low section of stalactite-encrusted ceiling; Arlian was able to reach the body unhindered.

The swordbreaker was still clutched in Enziet’s dead fingers; Arlian started to pry it loose, looking up to see what the dragon was doing.

The monster had disentangled itself and turned, and was advancing, jaws agape.

Arlian, anticipating a spray of venom, ducked—and the venom missed him by inches.

As he moved, Arlian saw something, tangled in Enziet’s ruined clothing—the hilt of another knife, a dagger.

That would not have the unique puissance of the swordbreaker, but he snatched for it anyway, and came away with the swordbreaker in one hand, the dagger in the other—just in time to make a rolling dive sideways as the dragon lunged for him.

He rolled away—a painful operation, with his bruises and cracked rib, but he forced himself to ignore the pain, as he had often done in the mines. When he was clear of the dragon’s attack he tried to spring to his feet, but instead found himself crouched on one knee as agony laced his side where he had just pulled a muscle right where Enziet’s sword had cut him. His eyes closed involuntarily; when he could force them open again he saw the dragon glaring at him.

Now it was annoyed.

He took that as a hopeful sign, and raised the swordbreaker, ready to strike if the dragon lunged.

The monster obliged, raising its head up as its long neck curved into an S, then striking at him like a snake.

Arlian dodged and made a strike of his own, plunging the swordbreaker at the dragon’s throat. It glanced off harmlessly.

“Blood and death,” Arlian muttered, as he fell back. He lifted the dagger in a meaningless defensive gesture.

For the first time he saw the dagger’s blade, and realized that it was black—not the black of iron or enamel, but the gleaming, glassy black of obsidian.

Enziet had said he had a use for obsidian. Enziet had thought there might be a way to kill a dragon, or at least so he had said, and he had been researching it.

Enziet had been on his way to steal a dragon’s venom— might he have brought something he thought might protect him?

Obsidian had power against fire and darkness, Rime had told him.

Arlian plunged the dagger into the dragon’s throat.

The black blade sliced into that impervious red flesh as if the dragon’s hide were cheese.

The dragon screamed, an ear-wracking sound like nothing Arlian had ever heard before; it reared back wildly, smashing stalactites to powder with its wings and head, and slashed at Arlian with its foreclaws.

He dodged one, but the other tore strips of flesh from his shoulder; he gasped at the surge of fresh pain, and struck again with the obsidian dagger.

He cut clean through one foreleg, crippling the dragon; the severed claw turned to blood as it fell, and splashed across Arlian’s leg.

The dragon screamed again, and Arlian felt something pop in one ear.

The thing was hobbling, not sure how to move on three legs, but its head reared back, then struck at him again.

He met it with the point of the dagger, jamming his hand directly into the dragon’s mouth and driving the blade up into its brain—or trying to.

It choked, and spat his arm out in a gush of blood, but it still lived, and was still on the attack.

Just then a faint light appeared where no light had been. The dragon turned to look.

Arlian hacked at its neck, hoping he could do to its head what he had done to its claw, but the blade would not penetrate that far—the obsidian wasn’t long enough, and the wound closed once the blade had passed through, leaving an ugly scar but not doing any obvious real damage.

“By the dead gods!” someone called. “Arlian!”

The dragon roared in anger and started toward the steps, trying to separate Arlian from this intruder—but that meant turning its back to Arlian, who seized his opportunity. He rammed the obsidian knife into the dragon’s side over and over, his hand rising and falling as quickly as his tired, strained muscles could drive it.

The dragon screamed and writhed, twisting to strike at him, and he felt a spray of venom across one cheek, venom that burned like fire, but he did not stop. Each new blow cut deep, but each cut closed, and no blood flowed.

And then he struck again, one last time, and it was as if a dam had burst—blood was everywhere, and the dragon seemed to dissolve around him.

Then he was lying in a pool of glistening blood, and impaled upon his stolen stone dagger was a human heart.

Enziet’s heart.

He stared at it for a long moment, then let go of the dagger’s hilt and let his head fall back. Pain and exhaustion boiled up in him, burning the strength from his limbs, and the world vanished in a red and black haze as he lost consciousness.

After a time he had no way to measure Arlian was vaguely aware of being carried somewhere, and of impossibly bright light; then he was laid upon his back on something hard, the light all around him. He heard voices, but could not be troubled to distinguish words.

Simply breathing was all the effort he could handle.

After, what seemed years he realized that the light was daylight, that he was outside the cave. He observed two shadows, and came to see that they were people leaning over him, blocking out that blinding sky. They were speaking to him, saying his name.

“I’m alive,” he said, as much to himself as to them, but they understood. One of them fell away, out of his field of vision, and was gone.

The other fell silent, but remained there, looking down at him. Black against the sky, the face was not recognizable.

“Sleep, Ari,” the face said at last, and Arlian recognized Black’s voice.

“Yes,” he said. And he slept.

When he awoke again he was on his cot in the wagon; the sky outside the windows was dark, but a lantern shone comfortingly over the door. He started to sit up, then thought better of it when pain shot through his side.

“He’s moving!” a woman’s voice called, and he turned his head to see Brook sitting on a trunk at his side.

“Give him water,” Rime’s voice replied, which struck Arlian as a very fine idea. A moment later Brook held a waterskin to his mouth and he sucked greedily.

He was only awake for a few minutes before dozing off again, but it was enough to assure everyone that he was still alive and intended to stay that way.

After that he recovered quickly. His wounds were painful, but not critical; most of the cuts and gouges were already scabbed over, the bruises already making the transition from purple to golden-yellow. He had not lost any limbs. His right wrist was broken, and at least three ribs were cracked, rather than the one he had thought, but his injuries would heal—except, perhaps, a burn on one cheek that he knew, but did not say, had been left by the newborn dragon’s venom.

He would live, and he would heal. He was, as Rime pointed out, a dragonheart.

That reminder sobered Arlian. He lay in silent thought for a long time—by this point he was capable of sitting up, and even walking, but still found it painful.

“Who found me?” he asked. “Who was it who came down into that cave?”

“Black,” Rime told him. “I couldn’t get down the stairs in time, with my leg. The others stayed in the wagon.”

“Just Black?”

“Just Black.”

“Bring him here.”

“He’s driving. We’re heading back for Stonebreak, and we need to keep moving if we don’t want to run out of water. You can talk to him later.”

Arlian accepted that.

“Thirif and Shibiel aren’t going on to the south?” he asked, changing the subject.

“No,” Rime said. “They decided not to risk it.”

Arlian nodded.

That night, when they had made camp, Arlian asked Black, “What did you see down there?”

“In the cave?”

Arlian nodded.

“You were fighting something,” Black said. “Something big and red, but I couldn’t see it clearly. You were hitting it, or stabbing it, and it was thrashing around, and then all at once it seemed to vanish, and you collapsed. Then I came down and found you lying in a pool of blood, and a few feet away…” He frowned. “What happened to Enziet? You didn’t cut him up like that, did you?”

Arlian had had time to anticipate that question. “It was sorcery,” he said. “Or maybe some other sort of magic. I’m not sure what it was. Enziet made it, but it turned on him, and then when he was dead it attacked me.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know,” Arlian lied. “It had claws and teeth, but it wasn’t solid, and when I had cut it enough it vanished.”

Black nodded. “Sorcery and illusion,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure you’d seen it at all,” Arlian said. “I’m glad you did, so you can confirm that I’m not mad, and that Enziet is truly dead.”

“I saw it. And he’s definitely dead.”

Arlian smiled grimly at that.

He didn’t say anything about dragons, didn’t mention Enziet’s heart or any ancient secrets. He was not ready to reveal the truth. He was not sure he would ever be ready.

After all, he was the one man in all the world who knew the secret of the dragons, the secret Enziet had kept for a thousand years.

And he was a dragonheart, and some day, some far-off day, if he lived long enough, the dragon in his heart would burst forth.

And he hadn’t yet decided how he felt about that, or what he intended to do about it.

Three days later he felt well enough to ride up front, in the fresh air, at Black’s side as Black drove. Rime sat just inside the door. They had found the edge of the sands and were back on the Eastern Road, headed north, toward Manfort and home.

“So Enziet is absolutely, unquestionably dead?” Rime asked.

“Absolutely and unquestionably,” Arlian agreed.

Black snorted. “His heart was ripped out of his chest,” he said. “He’s dead.”

“His heart was ripped out?” Arlian asked.

“You didn’t see? It was lying there on the stone, next to a broken dagger.”

Arlian nodded. “I wasn’t sure what I saw,” he said.

He wondered whether the dagger had really been broken, or whether Black had not seen its black blade in the darkness. In any case, it had been left behind and was lost forever.

But he knew now that obsidian could be used against dragons, at least sometimes, in some circumstances, against some dragons. That might be very precious knowledge.

He was bound by oath to reveal it to the Dragon Society—but he was unsure just how and when he would inform the Society, or even whether he would keep his word at all in this case. With Enziet dead the entire purpose of the Dragon Society might well be about to change. The dragons might be returning—if they learned that Enziet was dead, and if no one took his place as the keeper of the secret of draconic reproduction. If he could learn how Enziet had communicated with the dragons, Arlian might take that place. He might need to keep that secret, as Enziet had—and if he kept that, why not another?

And the dragons’ secret also meant that Arlian saw the Society in a new light—as the dragons’ breeding ground, rather than their foes. That changed everything. The Dragon Society was not what it believed itself to be.

But he was not yet ready to deal with such weighty matters. He would need to take time to think them through carefully. There would be time enough for his final decisions when he was back in Manfort.

“So you’ve almost finished your campaign of revenge,” Rime said, interrupting his thoughts and providing a welcome distraction. “Just Belly and Nail remain, I believe.”

“If I bother with them, yes. And Dagger and Tooth, if I can find them, and perhaps a fellow called Lampspiller,” Arlian said. “They’re even less important than the lords, though. But even when I’ve dealt with all of those, my lady, the campaign is just starting.”

“Oh? It seems to me you don’t have much more to do. You’ve beaten Belly once, and Nail’s an old man, and you don’t seem very determined to track down the other three.”

“The other three humans,” Arlian corrected her. “There are still the dragons—the three that destroyed my village, and the rest of them on general principles.”

“The dragons?” Rime asked.

Arlian nodded. “The dragons are my true foes,” he said. “I intend to destroy them all.” And that almost certainly meant, he realized, that he would have to destroy the Dragon Society itself in time.

And perhaps himself, since he had a dragon growing in his heart.

“That’s a lifetime’s work, at least,” Rime said. “You do know that no man has ever killed a dragon, don’t you?”

Arlian smiled.

“I’ll find a way,” he said.

The End