Dragon Wizard (8 page)

The horses half-reared and backed as a huge jet-black stallion stepped out into the path. A tall gentleman with a close-trimmed beard rode the beast, his hair—as much of it as was visible beneath his broad hat—as black as his horse, his leather as black as his hair. I didn't get the greatest look at the guy, as Lucille turned her head to look at the path behind us for an escape route. Of course, a pair of mounted highwaymen were already behind us, long swords drawn and at the ready. They had picked a good place for an ambush, where the trail hit a long blind curve between two steep hillsides covered in deadfalls impossible for a horse to navigate and dense enough to hide an archer or five.

“I am afraid this is a robbery.” Lucille turned back around as the black-clad man spoke. I felt an itching familiarity when she focused our attention on him. His skin was nearly translucently pale, in ghostlike contrast to a cascade of black that the Dark Lord Nâtlac would probably think was a bit much.

Lucille drew her horse up and straightened our spine. “You have the gall to prey on travelers on the king's highway in broad daylight?”

“My apologies, but my archers are not very good.
They need to see the target, or they have a habit of damaging things I want.” He dropped the reins and bent over to whisper something in his mount's ear. Then he vaulted off as if his horse was an ebony statue. His landing would have done Sir Forsythe proud, lightly on both feet, facing us so he didn't even need to turn his head to continue talking to Lucille. “But please, do not let my bowmen's incompetence prompt any of you to act rashly. A shower of arrows would end badly for you all, no matter how poorly they are placed.”

“What do you want?” Krys snapped.

He spread his hands. “What does anyone want? Good food, strong wine, hale companions, a warm place to lay my weary head, someone to comfort me through the long dark night. Alas I must satisfy myself with your gold, weapons, and jewelry. Please be so kind as to dismount.”

Why did he seem so familiar?

Lucille exchanged a glace with Krys.

“Oh dear, you aren't going to resist, are you? There's no reason for this to be unpleasant.”

“Do you know who I am?” Lucille asked.

Lucille, bad plan. Royalty won't intimidate him. He'll just see it as an opportunity for ransom.

She dismounted, and I caught a glimpse of Krys's face which showed the same reservations I had. When our feet touched the ground the height differential between us and the black-clad highwayman became very apparent. She only took a half step toward him, since any closer would require her to painfully bend her neck to look him in the eye.

“Will you care to enlighten me, fair lady?”

“My name is Frank Blackthorne,” she said.

Uh, what are you doing?

The highwayman arched an eyebrow. “You are?”

“You know me?”

“In my experience, very few women call themselves Frank.”

“Then you know that I carry the whole weight of the Lendowyn Crown behind me.”

“Are you trying to impress me, Your Highness?”

Steel crept into her voice, a tone of authority I had only managed to emulate once or twice myself. “Then maybe you know my history. I've stolen the rings off Grünwald's Dark Queen while her whole court looked on. I cast her into darkness while the armies of the Dark Lord Nâtlac were torn apart before me. I have
been
that Dark Queen. I've married dragons and have been kissed by gods. I have torn nations apart and reassembled them. The road I travel leads to war with the elf-king himself. Do you imagine you hold any terror for me?”

Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds a little impressive.

The highwayman clapped slowly, and suddenly the familiarity made sense. The subtle combination of boredom, arrogance, and bemusement must run in the family.

Lucille apparently didn't notice. “I suggest you allow us to go unmolested.”

He shook his head and said, “War with the elf-king, you say? That is very interesting. How is Uncle Timoras these days?”

“U-Uncle?” Krys sputtered.

“You're an elf?” Lucille said, only slightly less startled than Krys.

“Not by my uncle's account—and I would count him an expert on such matters.”

What was it about royal bastards that made them want to muscle in on my profession?

Lucille stared at him. I guess she was trying to see his elvish heritage. To me, it was obvious in his bearing, his posture, the body language and mannerisms, the pale skin—but I was used to looking through disguises. Most people, including Lucille, would focus on the externalities like the fact that no elf would be caught dead with facial hair or such a drab monochrome outfit.

He clapped his hands sharply. “Focus, My Lady!”

Lucille blinked. “Huh?”

“You mentioned war. That's no trivial statement. Timoras's kingdom has not borne arms against an enemy for over a thousand years. Were you inflating your own importance? Or has my dear demented uncle become bored enough to play general? Are there armies moving? Tell me!”

He kept edging forward until he towered over us.

“King Timoras has threatened war—” Lucile began.

“Against Lendowyn? To what end? This kingdom is less than irrelevant to him. You must be mistaken. Or lying.”

“Not Lendowyn.”

“Of course not. Against whom then? What great foe has moved my uncle to arms? Tell me! Who does he move against?”

“Everyone,” Krys said quietly.

Our highwayman paused, closed his mouth, and took a step back, looking in Krys's direction. “Everyone? What do you mean?
Everyone?
”

“In his own words,” Lucille said, “he intends to ‘declare war on the world of men.'”

He laughed.

“I fail to see the humor,” Lucille said.

He shook his head and wiped his eyes. “No. You obviously mistook some rhetorical flourish of his. He can be prone to hyperbole.”

“He seemed deadly earnest to me.”

“I know that humans can find elf humor somewhat dry. Even with my heritage, I often find some idioms inscrutable—”

“I think he was upset about Prince Daemonlas.”

“Did my cousin become involved with some mischief?” He glanced back at Lucille with a knowing grin. “Or . . .
a woman?
Of course! That is that what all of this is about. Daemonlas always had a weakness for mortal women. He's found yet another royal strumpet to seduce, hasn't he?”

“Prince Daemonlas is dead,” Lucille answered.

The grin froze on his face and he almost ceased to breathe. “What?”

“Prince Daemonlas is dead,” Lucille repeated.

“Dead? How?”

“He attacked our anniversary celebration and my . . . spouse . . . with hostile magic.”

He grabbed our shoulders. “
No!
Answer my question! How did the prince die?”

Krys said, “I think it was the broadsword through the chest that did it.”

That stopped our highwayman so sharply that you'd almost think the same broadsword had pierced him. He let our shoulders go, took a step back, and bowed slightly. “I apologize for my rudeness, but I am afraid I have become aware of a prior commitment that requires my immediate attention.”

He turned and started striding quickly back toward his mount. I heard a tramp of hooves behind us and suddenly Rabbit's horse was cutting off Mr. Highwayman's retreat. As he backed away from her, Lucille echoed my own thoughts, “What are you doing? Hello? Archers?”

Krys drew her sword and dismounted, taking a step to be in line with our man's retreat. “Check behind us, Your Highness.”

Lucille looked back to where our retreat had been cut off. The two mounted men were gone. “What?”

“You seem to be left on your own,” Krys said to the man. “Have anything to say now?”

He sighed and held up his hands. “Perhaps my choice of compatriots was unfortunate.”

Lucille faced him again. “Why did they leave you?”

“Struck by that same prior commitment I mentioned to you, I suspect. Without so much as a good-bye. I suppose I am at your mercy.”

“What prior commitment?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Does all wit escape you, Princess Frank? That is what is generally referred to as a joke. A small bit of levity to lighten a hasty exit.”

“Very small,” Krys said.

“You'll notice,” Lucille said, “I'm not laughing.”

“You should learn to. It makes inevitable doom much less depressing.”

Lucille drew a dagger from her belt. “You have not caught me on the best of days.”

He backed up a step, stopping when Krys's sword prodded his side.

Lucille approached him with the dagger. “Do you understand the gravity of your situation?”

“You just told me that the king of the Winter Court has lost his only heir to human hands. The fact that you are not fleeing for your lives tells me that it is you who underestimate the gravity of the situation.”

Lucille brought her dagger up between his legs to press against his inner thigh.

Given the height differential between us, it was the easiest vital spot for Lucille to threaten. Still I mentally winced a little in sympathy for our half-elven highwayman.

He sucked in a breath and said, “That isn't necessary.”

“Your answer is to run?”

“I doubt that my silver tongue and winning personality would sway the fury of an army of immortals who have not tasted blood in a thousand years.”

“You have not swayed me.” Lucille pressed upward with the blade and said through clenched teeth. “Shut. Up.”

For several moments the only sounds surrounding us were the wind through the branches, distant birds, and the horses shifting their weight. After an extended period, Lucille said, “I have dead. I have wounded. I have villages being attacked under the guise of royal authority.
I have a missing spouse and dragon. I have the elf-king threatening war. I have very little patience. Nod if you understand what I am saying.”

He nodded.

“Answer me in as few words as possible.”

He nodded again.

“Your people ran—”

“They weren't really my people you under—” His words ended with an intake of breath and a tensing of muscles as Lucille increased the pressure on the dagger. “Your Highness?” he said in a breathless whisper.

“Fewer. Words.” Her own words came out in a snarl. “Are they more elves?”

“What?”

“Was I unclear?” She leaned into him, the dagger's blade pressing into the gap between his groin and his inner thigh, our hand so close that I felt his pulse through her glove.

Lucille?

“No. Just a band of human brigands I—”

“Words.” Lucille snapped.

He stopped talking.

“
Uncle
Timoras?”

There was a long pause before he asked, “Was that a question?”

Lucille ground her teeth in a manner I found intensely uncomfortable. “He is your
uncle?
”

“Well, he—” He sucked in a sudden breath and said, “Yes! Yes! Please lower your hand, Your Highness.”

“Why are you in our path?”

“Robbery?” He sounded unsure of himself.

“
Why
are you in our path?”

“My deepest apologies. There's been a misunderstanding.”

“Yes?” Lucille's hissing voice came very close to that of the dragon. “Just a coincidence? One day after the elf-king makes his threats, his
nephew
shows up?”

“Just lucky, I guess?”

“Enough of this!” she snapped and moved her hand. The would-be highwayman jumped back and stumbled, barely avoiding impaling himself on Krys's sword as he fell backward against Rabbit's horse, knocking his broad hat askew as he landed flat on his back.

While he was prone, Lucille leaped on him, landing with her knees on his chest and her free hand on his throat. I felt the fury coursing through her. Not the emotion, but I felt the throbbing temples, the thudding pulse, and the burning copper taste of her breath in her throat. She raised the dagger and a shining long sword blade interposed itself between her dagger and the man's throat.

Lucille's head snapped to face Krys. “What are you doing?”

“Calm down. Please.”

Lucille may have been too furious to notice, but Krys's sword blade trembled and her skin was deathly pale.

“What?” Lucille snarled at her through clenched teeth.

“Please. Take a breath. Think.”

Beneath us a tentative voice spoke up, “Listen to the young lad.”

She stabbed the dagger down, stopping short just before cleaving the bridge of his nose. “You,
shut up.
”

To Krys, she asked, “Why in the wide world should I calm down? I've lost my . . . too much. I've lost too much. And this, this worm? He tries to take even more? And listening to him? Gods, it is like chewing on gravel.”