Dragon Wing

25

Hugh crashed to the deck, dragging the cables attached to the harness ON his body with him. The ship listed sharply, slamming Bane backward into the bulkhead. The bowl of food fell from the child’s hand with a clatter. From the cabin below, there was a resounding crash, followed by a pained and panicked yell.

Staggering to his feet, clinging to the ship’s side, the prince looked around dazedly. The deck slanted at a precarious angle. Hugh lay on his back, entangled in the cables. Bane glanced hastily outside, saw the nose of the dragon pointing straight down, and realized what had happened. Hugh’s fall had pulled the wings in, the magic was not working, and now they were plunging out of control through the sky, plummeting down toward the Maelstrom. It had not occurred to Bane that this would happen. Nor had it, apparently, occurred to his father. That was not surprising. A human mysteriarch of the Seventh House, living in realms far above the strife and turmoil of the rest of the world, could have no knowledge of things mechanical. Sinistrad had probably never even seen an elven dragonship. And, after all, Hugh had assured the boy the ship could fly itself.

Bane scrambled among the tangle of cables. Reaching Hugh’s body, he pulled and tugged with all his might at the ropes. But he couldn’t move them. The wings would not budge.

“Alfred!” the prince yelled. “Alfred, come quickly!” There was another crash and a scuffling below; then Alfred’s face—deathly white—poked up through the hatch.

“Sir Hugh! What’s happening! We’re falling—” His gaze rested on the man’s body. “Blessed Sartan!” With a swiftness and ease unusual in such a clumsy, ungainly body, Alfred dashed in through the hatch, made his way over the coils of rope, and knelt beside Hugh.

“Oh, never mind him! He’s dead!” cried the prince. Grabbing hold of Alfred’s coat, he jerked him around to face the front of the ship. “Look! You’ve got to stop us! Take the harness off him and fly this thing!”

“Your Majesty!” Alfred was livid. “I can’t fly a ship! It takes skill, years of practice!” The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, he’s dead?” Bane glared at him defiantly, but his gaze dropped before Alfred’s. The chamberlain was no longer the buffoon; his eyes were suddenly strangely compelling and intense, and the boy found their penetrating stare highly uncomfortable.

“He got what he deserved,” Bane said sullenly. “He was an assassin, hired by King Stephen to kill me. I’ve killed him first, that’s all.”

“You?” Alfred’s gaze went to the feather. “Or your father?” Bane looked confused. His lips opened, then clamped shut. His hand clenched around the amulet as if to hide it, and he began to stammer.

“No need to lie,” Alfred said, sighing. “I’ve known for a long time. Longer than your father and mother, or should I say your adopted father and mother, although adoption implies a choice, and they never had one. What kind of poison did you give him, Bane?”

“Him? Why are you worried about him? Are you just going to let us crash?” the prince screeched shrilly.

“He’s the only one who can save us! What did you use on him?” Alfred demanded, reaching out his hand to grasp hold of the boy and shake the information out of him if need be.

The prince darted backward, slipping and sliding across the slanting deck until he was brought to a halt by the bulkhead. Turning, he stared through the window. The prince let out a whoop.

“The elven ships! We’re heading straight for them! We don’t need that filthy murderer. The elves will save us!”

“No! Wait! Bane! It was the berries, wasn’t it?”

The boy dashed out of the steerage way. Behind him, Bane heard Alfred shouting that elves were dangerous, but he paid no attention.

“I’m prince of Uylandia,” he said to himself, climbing the ladder to the top deck. There, clinging with his hands to the rails, he entwined his legs through them to hold on securely. “They won’t dare lay a hand on me. I’ve still got the enchantment. Trian thinks he broke it, but that’s only because it was what I wanted him to think. Father says we mustn’t take a chance, and so we had to kill the assassin to get his ship. But I know the enchantment’s still with me! Now I’ll have an elf ship. I’ll make them fly me to my father, and he and I will rule them. We’ll rule them all! Just as we planned.

“Hey!” Bane shouted. Holding on to the rail with his legs, he let loose long enough to wave his arms. “Hey, there! Help! Help us!” The elves were far below, too far away to hear the boy’s cry. Besides, they had other, more important things on their minds—such as staying alive. Looking down from his perch, Bane could see the rebel ship and the imperial warship locked together, and he wondered what was going on. He was too high to see the blood spilling over the deck. He could not hear the screams of the cable-haulers, trapped in their harnesses, being dragged through the splintered hulls, nor could he hear the song of the rebel elves who attempted, even as they defended themselves, to turn the hearts of their brothers. Bright-colored dragonwings beat the air frantically or swung, broken, from snapped cables. Long grappling hooks attached to ropes held one ship firmly to the other. Elven warriors swung, hand over hand, along the cables to board the ship or leapt through the air to land on the deck. Far beneath them, the Maelstrom swirled and boiled, its black clouds with frothy white fringes lit purple by the incessantly flaring lightning.

Bane stared down at the elves eagerly. He felt no fear, only a heady exhilaration caused by the rushing of the wind in his face, the novelty of his situation, and the excitement of his father’s plans coming to fulfillment. The dragonship’s fall had slowed somewhat. Alfred had managed to pull the wings out far enough so that the ship was no longer tumbling headfirst into the Maelstrom. But it was out of control and falling still, drifting downward in a lazy spiral.

Alfred’s voice came to him from below. It was indistinct, he couldn’t understand the man’s words, yet something about the tone or the rhythm brought back to his mind the hazy memory of when the tree had crashed down on top of him. Bane didn’t pay much attention to it. They were nearing the elves, coming closer by the moment. He could see faces upturned, looking at him and pointing. He started to shout again, when suddenly both the elven ships broke apart, disintegrating before his eyes.

Slender figures toppled into the nothingness around them, and Bane was close enough now to hear the screams that would end when they were swallowed up in the Maelstrom. Here and there fragments of the two ships, held aloft by their own enchantment, floated in the air, and he could see elves clinging to them or, on the larger pieces, some still battling.

And Bane and his small ship were plunging down right into the center of the chaos.

Kir monks do not laugh. They see nothing funny in life, and like to point out that when humans laugh, it is often at the misfortune of others. Laughing is not prohibited in a Kir monastery. It simply isn’t done. A child, when first taken into the halls of the black monks, may laugh for a day or two, but not longer.

The black monk holding Hugh by the hand did not smile, but Hugh saw laughter in the eyes. Furious, he fought and struggled more fiercely against this one opponent than he had fought against any in his life. This opponent was not flesh and blood. No wound left its mark on it. No jab slowed it down. It was eternal and it held him fast.

“You hated us,” said the black monk, laughing at him soundlessly, “yet you served us. All your life you served us.”

“I serve no man!” shouted Hugh. His struggles were lessening. He was growing weak, tired. He wanted to rest. Only shame and anger kept him from slipping into welcome oblivion. Shame because he knew the monk was right. Anger that he had so long been their dupe.

Bitter, frustrated, he summoned all his waning strength and made one final attempt to free himself. It was a weak and pitiful blow that wouldn’t have made tears come to the eyes of a child. But the monk let loose. Astounded, bereft of the support, Hugh fell. There was no terror in his heart, for he had the strangest impression that he was not falling down, but up. He was not plunging into darkness.

He was plunging into light.

“Sir Hugh?” Alfred’s face, fearful and anxious, floated above him. “Sir Hugh? Oh, praise the Sartan! You’re all right! How do you feel, sir?” With Alfred’s help, Hugh sat up. He glanced swiftly around him, searching for the monk. He saw no one other than the chamberlain, nothing except a tangle of ropes and his harness.

“What happened?” Hugh shook his head to clear it. He felt no pain, only a kind of grogginess. His brain seemed too large for his skull, his tongue too big for his mouth. He’d awakened in an inn, on occasion, with exactly this same feeling, an empty wineskin at his side.

“The boy drugged you. It’s wearing off now. I know you’re not feeling too well, Sir Hugh, but we’re in trouble. The ship is falling—”

“Drugged?” Hugh looked at Alfred, trying to bring him into focus through the fog. “He didn’t drug me! It was poison.” His eyes narrowed. “I was dying.”

“No, no, Sir Hugh. I know it might feel that way, but—” Hugh leaned forward. Catching hold of Alfred by the collar, he dragged the man near him, staring into the light-colored eyes in an effort to see into his very soul. “I was dead.” Hugh tightened his grip. “You brought me back to life!”

Alfred returned Hugh’s gaze calmly. He smiled, somewhat sadly, and shook his head. “You are mistaken. It was a drug. I have done nothing.” Bumbling, oafish, how could this man lie and Hugh not know it? More important, how could Alfred have saved his life? The face was guileless; the eyes looked at him with pity and sadness, nothing more. Alfred seemed incapable of hiding anything. Had Hugh been anyone else, he must have believed him. But the assassin knew that poison. He had given it to others. He had seen them die as he had. None of them had ever come back.

“Sir Hugh, the ship!” Alfred persisted. “We’re falling! The wings . . . pulled inward. I tried, but I couldn’t get them out again.”

Now that his attention was called to it, Hugh could feel the ship rolling. He stared at Alfred, then let loose his grip on the man. Another mystery, but it wouldn’t be solved by tumbling into the Maelstrom. Hugh staggered to his feet, his hands clutching his pounding head. It was too heavy. He had the dazed feeling that if he let go, his skull might snap loose and roll off his neck. A glance out the window showed him that they were in no immediate danger—at least not from falling. Alfred had managed to bring the ship into some semblance of control, and Hugh could regain it completely easily enough, despite the fact that some of the cables had snapped.

“Falling into the Maelstrom’s the least of our worries.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Alfred hurried to his side and looked out. Gazing up at them, so near that they could see every detail of their torn and bloodied clothing, were three elven warriors, grappling hooks in their hands.

“Here, toss them up! I’ll make them fast!” It was Bane’s voice, coming from the deck above.

Alfred gasped. “His Majesty said something about seeking help from the elves—”

“Help!” Hugh’s lips twisted into a mocking grin. It seemed he had come back to life only to die again.

The grappling hooks snaked through the air. He heard the thuds when they landed on the deck, the scraping sound of the iron claws sliding over the wood. There was a tug and a jerk that knocked him—unsteady as he was—off his feet. The hooks had caught hold. He put his hand to his side. His sword was gone.

“Where . . . ?”

Alfred had seen his gesture and was slipping and sliding across the unsteady deck. “Here, sir. I had to use it to cut you free.” Hugh grabbed hold of the weapon and nearly dropped it. If Alfred had handed him an anvil, it could have seemed no heavier than his sword in his weak and shaking hand. The hooks were dragging the ship to a stop, keeping it floating in the air next to the disabled elven vessel. There was a sharp pull and the ship sagged downward—the elves were scaling the ropes, coming aboard. Up above, Hugh could hear Bane chattering excitedly.

Gripping the sword, Hugh left the steerage way, padded soft-footed into the corridor to stand beneath the hatch. Alfred stumbled behind, the man’s loud, clumsy footfalls making Hugh cringe. He cast the chamberlain a baleful glance, warning him to be silent. Then, slipping his dagger from the top of his boot, the assassin held it out.

Alfred blenched, shook his head, and put his hands behind his back. “No,” he said through trembling lips. “I couldn’t! I can’t...take a life!” Hugh looked up above, where booted feet could be heard walking across the deck.

“Not even to save your own?” he hissed.

Alfred lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“If you’re not now, you’re soon going to be,” muttered Hugh, and began to silently climb the ladder.