Dragon Wing

21

The journey across Pitrin’s Exile was easier than Hugh had anticipated. Bane kept up gamely, and when he did tire, he tried very hard not to show it. Alfred watched the boy anxiously, and when the prince began to show signs of being footsore, it was the chamberlain who announced that he himself could not proceed another step. Alfred was, in fact, having a much more difficult time of it than his small charge. The man’s feet seemed possessed of a will of their own and were continually going off on some divergent path, stumbling into nonexistent holes or tripping over twigs invisible to the eye. Consequently, they did not make very good time. Hugh did not push them, did not push himself. They were not far from the wooded inlet on the isle’s edge, where he kept his ship moored, and he felt a reluctance to reach it—a reluctance that angered him, but one for which he refused to account. The walking was pleasant, for Bane and Hugh, at least. The air was cold, but the sun shone and kept the chill from being bitter. There was little wind. They met more than the usual number of travelers on the road, taking advantage of this brief spell of good weather to make whatever pressing journeys had to be made during the winter. The weather was also fine for raiding, and Hugh noted that everyone kept one eye on the road and one on the sky, as the saying went.

They saw three of the dragon-headed, sail-winged elven ships, but they were far distant, traveling to some unknown destination on the kiratrack side. That same day, a flight of fifty dragons passed directly overhead. They could see the dragonknights in their saddles, the bright winter sun gleaming off helm and breastplate, javelin and arrow tips. This detail had a wizardess with them, flying in the center, surrounded by knights. She carried no visible weapons, only her magic, and that was in her mind. The dragonknights were headed toward the kiratrack as well. The elves weren’t the only ones who would take advantage of clear, windless days.

Bane watched the elven ships with wide-eyed, openmouthed, boyish awe. He had never seen one, he said, and was bitterly disappointed that they didn’t come closer. A scandalized Alfred had, in fact, been forced to restrain His Highness from pulling off his hood and using it as a flag to wave them this direction. Travelers along the road had not been at all amused by this stunt. Hugh took grim delight in watching the peasants scatter for cover before Alfred managed to put a damper on His Highness’s enthusiasm. That night, as they gathered around the fire after their frugal meal, Bane went over to sit beside Hugh, instead of his usual place near the chamberlain. Squatting down, he made himself comfortable.

“Will you tell me about the elves, Sir Hugh?”

“How do you know I have anything to tell?” Hugh fished his pipe and the pouch of sterego out of his pack. Leaning back against a tree, his feet stretched out to the flames, he shook the dried fungus out of the leather pouch and into the round, smooth bowl.

Bane gazed not at the assassin but at a point somewhere to Hugh’s right, over his shoulder. His blue eyes lost their focus. Hugh thrust a stick into the fire and used it to light his pipe. Puffing on it, he watched the boy with idle curiosity.

“I see a great battle,” said Bane dreamily. “I see elves and men fighting and dying. I see defeat and despair, and then I hear men singing and there is joy.”

Hugh sat still for so long that his pipe went out. Alfred shifted position uncomfortably and put his palm on a hot coal. Stifling a cry of pain, he wrung his injured hand.

“Your Highness,” he said miserably, “I have told you—”

“No, never mind.” Casually Hugh knocked the ash out of his pipe, filled it, and lit it again. He puffed on it slowly, his gaze fixed on the boy. “You just described the Battle of Seven Fields.”

“You were there,” said Bane.

Hugh blew a thin trail of smoke into the air. “Yes, and so was nearly every other human male near my age, including your father, the king.” Hugh took a long drag on the pipe. “If this is what you’re calling clairvoyance, Alfred, I’ve seen better acts in a third-rate inn. The boy must have heard the story from his father a hundred times.”

Bane’s face underwent a swift and startling change—the happiness dissolved into stark, searing pain. Biting his lips, he lowered his head and brushed his hand across his eyes.

Alfred fixed Hugh with an odd look—one that was almost pleading. “I assure you, Sir Hugh, that this gift of His Highness’s is quite real and should not be taken lightly. Bane, Sir Hugh does not understand magic, that is all. He is sorry. Now, why don’t you get yourself a sweetmelt from the pack.” Bane left Hugh’s side, going over to the chamberlain’s pack to find his treat. Alfred pitched his voice for Hugh’s ears alone. “It’s just . . . You see, sir, the king never really talked that much to the boy. King Stephen was never quite ... uh ... comfortable in Bane’s presence.”

No, Hugh mused, Stephen must not have found it pleasant to look into the face of his shame. Perhaps, in the boy’s features, the king saw a man he—and his queen—knew all too well.

The glow of the pipe died. Knocking out the ashes, Hugh found a small twig and, splitting the end with his dagger, thrust it into the bowl and attempted to clean out the blockage. He cast a glance at the boy and saw Bane still rummaging through the pack.

“You really believe this kid can do what he claims—sees pictures in the air—don’t you?”

“He can!” Alfred assured him earnestly. “I have seen him do it too many times to doubt. And you must believe it too, sir, or else ...” Hugh, pausing in his work, looked up at Alfred.

“Or else? That sounds very much like a threat.”

Alfred cast his eyes down. His hurt hand nervously plucked the leaves off a cupplant. “I ... I didn’t mean it—”

“Yes, you did.” Hugh knocked the pipe on a rock. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that feather he wears, would it? The one given him by a mysteriarch?” Alfred went livid, becoming so pale Hugh was half-afraid he might faint again. The chamberlain swallowed several times before he found his voice. “I don’t—” A snapping branch interrupted him. Bane was returning to the fire. Hugh saw Alfred cast the boy the grateful glance of a drowning man who has been tossed a rope.

The prince, absorbed in enjoying his sweetmelt, didn’t notice. He threw himself on the ground and, picking up a stick, began to poke at the fire.

“Would you like to hear the story of the Battle of Seven Fields, Your Highness?” Hugh asked quietly.

The prince looked up, eyes shining. “I’ll bet you were a hero, weren’t you, Sir Hugh!”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” interrupted Alfred meekly, “but I don’t take you for a patriot. How did you chance to be at the battle to free our homeland?” Hugh was about to reply when the chamberlain winced and hurriedly jumped up. Reaching down on the ground where he’d been sitting, Alfred picked up a large piece of broken coralite. Its knife-sharp edges sparkled in the firelight. Fortunately, the leather breeches he wore, which they had purchased from a cobbler, had protected him from serious harm.

“You’re right. Politics mean nothing to me.” A thin trickle of smoke curled up from Hugh’s lips. “Let’s just say that I was there on business. . . .”

... A man entered the inn and stood blinking in the dim light. It was early morning, and the common room was empty except for a slovenly woman scrubbing the floor and a traveler seated at a table in deep shadow.

“Are you Hugh, called the Hand?” the man who had entered asked the traveler.

“I am.”

“I want to hire you.” The man plunked a bag down in front of Hugh. Opening it and sorting through it, Hugh saw coins, jewelry, and even a few silver spoons. Pausing, he lifted out what was obviously a woman’s wedding ring and looked at the man narrowly.

“That comes from a number of us, for none was rich enough to hire you himself. We gave what valuables we had.”

“Who’s the mark?”

“A certain captain who hires himself out to the gentry to train and lead foot soldiers in battle. He’s a bully and a coward and he’s sent more than one squad to its doom while he’s stayed safe behind and collected his fee. You’ll find him with Warren of Kurinandistai, marching with the army of King Stephen. I’ve heard they’re headed for a place called Seven Fields, on the continent.”

“And what’s the special service you require of me? You and”—Hugh patted the money sack—“all these.”

“Widows and kinsmen of those he last led, sir,” said the man. His eyes glinted. “We ask this for our money: that he be killed in such a manner that it will be obvious no enemy hand touched him, that he knows who has bought his death, and” —the man carefully held out to Hugh a small scroll—“that this be left on the body. ...”

“Sir Hugh?” said Bane impatiently. “Go on. Tell me about Seven Fields.”

“It was back when the elves ruled us. Over the years, the elves had grown soft in their occupation of our land.” Hugh gazed at the smoke curling upward into the darkness. “Elves consider humans to be little better than animals, and so they underrate us. In many ways, of course, they’re right, and so you can hardly blame them for continuing to make what seems to be the same mistake over and over.

“The Uylandia Cluster, at the time they ruled it, was divided into bits and pieces, each small bit ruled nominally by a human lord and in actuality by an elven overlord. The elves never had to work to keep the clans from uniting—the clans did that quite well themselves,”

“I’ve often wondered why the elves didn’t demand that we destroy our weapons, as was done in centuries past?” interjected Alfred.

Hugh, puffing on the pipe, grinned. “Why bother? It was to their advantage to keep us armed. We used our weapons on each other, saving the elves a lot of trouble.

“The plan worked, so well, in fact, that the elves shut themselves up in their fine castles, never bothering to open a window and take a good look at what was really transpiring around them. I know, for I used to hear their talk.”

“You did!” Bane sat forward, blue eyes glittering. “How? How did you come to know so much about elves?”

The ash glowed red in the pipe, then dimmed and faded. Hugh ignored the question.

“When Stephen and Anne managed to unite the clans, the elves finally opened their windows. In flew arrows and spears, and humans with swords scaled their walls. The uprising was swift and well-planned. By the time word reached the Tribus Empire, most of the elven overlords had been killed or driven from their homes. The elves retaliated. They assembled their fleet—the greatest ever seen in this world—and sailed for Uylandia. Hundreds of thousands of trained elven warriors and their sorcerers faced a few thousand humans—without our most powerful wizards, for by then the mysteriarchs had fled. Our people never stood a chance. Hundreds were slaughtered. More taken prisoner. King Stephen was captured alive—”

“It was not his wish!” cried Alfred, stung by the sardonic tone in Hugh’s voice.

The pipe gleamed and dimmed. The Hand said nothing; Alfred was goaded by the silence into continuing talking, when he had never meant to speak. “The elven prince Reesh’ahn had marked Stephen out and ordered his men to take the king unharmed. Stephen’s lords fell at his side, defending him. And even when he stood alone, he fought on. They say there was a ring of dead around him, for the elves dared not disobey their ruler, and yet none could get close enough to take him without being killed. Finally they rushed him en masse, bore him to the ground, and disarmed him. Stephen fought bravely, as bravely as any of them.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said the Hand. “All I know is that the army surrendered—”

Shocked, Bane turned to face him. “You must be mistaken, Sir Hugh! Our army won the Battle of Seven Fields!”

“Our army won?” Hugh raised an eyebrow. “No, it wasn’t the army who won. It was one woman who beat the elves—a minstrel called Ravenlark, for, they said, her skin was black as a raven’s feathers and her voice was like that of a lark singing to welcome the dawn. Her lord had brought her to sing his victory, I suppose, but she ended up chanting his death song. She was captured and taken prisoner like the rest of the humans. They were herded together on a road that ran through the Seven Fields, a road littered with the bodies of the dead, wet with their blood. They were a pitiful lot, for they knew the fate that awaited them—slavery. Envying those who had died, they stood with heads bowed and shoulders slumped.

“And then the minstrel began to sing. It was an old song, one everyone remembers from childhood.”

“I know it!” Bane cried eagerly. “I’ve heard this part.”

“Sing it, then,” said Alfred, smiling at the boy, pleased to see him happy again.

“It’s called ‘Hand of Flame.’” The boy’s voice rose shrill and slightly off-key but enthusiastic:

“My nurse taught it to me when I was little. But she couldn’t tell me what the words meant. Do you know, Sir Hugh?”

“I doubt if anyone does now. The tune stirs the heart. Ravenlark began to sing it, and soon the prisoners lifted their heads proudly, their backs stiffened. They lined up into formation, determined to walk to slavery or death with dignity.”

“I’ve heard it said the song is elvish in origin,” murmured Alfred. “And dates back to before the Sundering.”

Hugh shrugged, uninterested. “Who knows? All anyone cares about is that it has an effect on elves. From the sound of the first few notes, the elves stood transfixed, staring straight ahead. They looked like men in a dream, except that their eyes moved. Some claimed they were ‘seeing pictures.’” Bane flushed, his hand tightly grasping the feather.

“The prisoners, noticing this, kept on singing. The minstrel knew the words to all the verses. Most of the prisoners were lost after the first, but they kept up the tune and joined in strong on the chorus. The elves’ weapons fell from their hands. Prince Reesh’ahn sank to his knees and began to weep. And, at Stephen’s command, the prisoners marched away as fast as their feet could carry them.”

“It was to His Majesty’s credit that he didn’t order a helpless enemy slaughtered,” said Alfred.

The Hand snorted. “For all the king knew, a sword in the throat might have broken the spell. Our men were beaten. They wanted only to get out of there. The king had it in his mind, so I’ve been told, to fall back on one of the nearby castles and regroup and strike again. But it wasn’t necessary. When the elves came to their senses, the king’s spies reported that they were like men awakened from a beautiful dream who long to go back to sleep. They left their weapons and their dead where they lay and returned to their ships. Once there, they freed their human slaves and limped home.”

“The beginning of the elven revolution.”

“Supposedly so.” Hugh dragged slowly on the pipe. “The elf king proclaimed his son, Prince Reesh’ahn, a disgrace and an outlaw and drove him into exile. Reesh’ahn’s now stirring up trouble throughout Aristagon. There’ve been attempts made to capture him, but each time he’s slipped through their fingers.”

“And with him, they say, travels the minstrel woman, who—according to legend—was so moved by the prince’s sorrow that she chose to follow him,” added Alfred softly. “Together they sing the song, and wherever they go, they find more followers.” Leaning back, he misjudged the distance between himself and the tree trunk and whanged himself on the head.

Bane giggled, then clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, Alfred,” he said contritely. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Are you hurt?”

“No, Your Highness,” Alfred said with a sigh. “Thank you for asking. Now, Your Highness, you should be going to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Yes, Alfred.” Bane ran to get his blanket from his pack. “If it’s all right, I’m going to sleep here tonight,” he said. Looking up at Hugh shyly, he spread his blanket out next to the assassin’s.

Hugh rose abruptly to his feet and walked over to the fire. Knocking the bowl of the pipe against his hand, he scattered the ashes. “Rebellion.” He stared into the flames, keeping his eyes averted from the child. “Ten years have passed and the Tribus Empire is as strong as ever. Their prince lives like a hunted wolf in the caves of the Kirikai Outlands.”

“The rebellion has at least kept them from crushing us beneath their boot heels,” stated Alfred, wrapping himself in blankets. “Are you certain you’ll be warm enough that far from the fire, Your Highness?”

“Oh, yes,” the boy said happily, “I’ll be next to Sir Hugh.” Sitting up, clasping his small arms around his knees, he looked up at the Hand questioningly. “What did you do at the battle? . . .”

“. . . Where are you off to, captain? It seems to me the battle’s being fought behind you.”

“Eh?” The captain started in fear at the sound of a voice when he had figured himself to be alone. Drawing his sword, he whirled around, and peered into the brush.

Hugh, his weapon in hand, stepped out from behind a tree. The assassin’s sword was red with elven blood; Hugh himself had taken several wounds in the vicious fighting. But he had never for one moment lost sight of his goal. The captain, seeing a human and not an elf warrior, relaxed and, grinning, lowered his sword, which was still clean and bright. “My lads are back there.” He gestured with his thumb. “They’ll take care of the bastards.” Hugh, eyes narrowed, stared ahead.

“Your ‘lads’ are getting cut to ribbons.”

The captain shrugged and turned to continue on his way. Hugh caught hold of the man’s sword arm, jerked the weapon from his hand, and spun him around. Astounded, the captain swore an oath and lashed out at Hugh with a meaty fist. The captain ceased to fight when he felt the tip of Hugh’s dagger at his throat.

“What?” he gabbled, sweating and panting, his eyes bulging from his head.

“My name is Hugh the Hand. And this”—he held up the dagger—“is from Tom Hales, and Henry Goodfellow, and Ned Carpenter, and the Widow Tanner, and the Widow Giles . . .” Hugh recited the names. An elven arrow thudded into a tree nearby. The assassin didn’t flinch. The dagger didn’t move. The captain whined and squirmed and shouted for help. But there were many humans who were shouting for help that day, and no one answered. His deathscream mingled with many others.

Work completed, Hugh left. Behind him, he could hear voices raised in song, but he paid scant attention. He was imagining the puzzlement of the Kir monks, who would find the body of the captain far from the field of battle, a dagger in his chest, and in his hand the missive, “No more shall I send brave men to their deaths.” . . .

“Sir Hugh!” The small hand was tugging at his sleeve. “What did you do in the battle?”

“I was sent to deliver a message.”