Heart of Light (36 page)

As Kitwana stood there, Emily opened her tent flap and slipped out, sliding through the night toward Peter Farewell's tent.

His heart leapt into his mouth. She was going to the dragon.

He'd heard before that such creatures held an irresistible appeal to female humans, which explained how they managed to keep reproducing. It also explained all the legends about virgins being sacrificed to strange, eldritch creatures throughout the centuries. But how could Emily Oldhall do that? Kitwana could feel within her a soul he understood and respected more than that of any other female. The way she listened to him, her excitement in adventure, the way she bore the perils of a strange land with neither defiance nor swooning. He had started to feel within her a soul he could love. How could she be so gullible, so foolish, so inexpressibly
English
as to go running into the dragon's lair?

He shot a rancorous look at Nigel Oldhall's tent. It was all
his
fault for not taking care of his wife as a man should. It was all his fault for being bland as milk and weak as water. And then Kitwana heard a sound. A whimper, from the direction in which Emily had disappeared, and it reminded him of what he'd intended to do.

He must go to the dragon, not stand here musing on the shortcomings of the Oldhalls' marriage.

Dragons had uses for beautiful women other than siring their offspring. Dragons ate people as well as animals. Dragons—

Kitwana ran, his bare feet slapping the ground, gripping his bespelled weapon. It would wound the dragon like a thousand normal lances. Though his father disapproved of the weapon—and of all weapons in general—Kitwana knew it was the most efficient form of lance yet invented. It allowed a warrior, in a smooth movement, to get beneath his enemy's shield and pierce his heart.

And Kitwana
would
pierce the dragon's heart.

He dove into the tent of the creature who called himself Peter Farewell, just in time. Emily Oldhall stood before him, a look of sheer terror in her face and seemingly paralyzed by the creature's power, while the were-dragon opened his mouth wide, fangs glistening.

Kitwana jumped between the creature and Mrs. Oldhall, his assegai raised high.

“You creature of evil, you man-eating monster,” he yelled, surprised to find himself speaking in English, his own words echoing alien to his ears. “You will die now, and in that way pay for the death of all my friends.”

The creature—now fully a dragon, long muzzle and glimmering green eyes slanted long and reptilian—turned toward Kitwana, its expression still somehow holding that civilized irony that was Peter Farewell's trademark. Kitwana even thought that it smiled, its green eyes roiling with cynical amusement. The look disconcerted Kitwana for just a second, but a second was enough. The dragon snapped its jaws playfully in Kitwana's direction, then jumped, tearing the canvas cloth of the tent as though it was old newsprint. The tent's frame splintered and broke, like matchsticks, and the dragon shook itself free of it and then unfolded. Or at least that was how it looked to Kitwana—as if Peter were unfolding in waves of gold and green, of flickering lights and shimmering golden sinew and muscle.

For just a moment, the dragon looked as much a thing of natural beauty as the butterfly that flew shimmering through the dark forests near Kitwana's homeland.

Kitwana gasped, and his grip on his assegai loosened as the dragon spread its wings, blocking out the starry night sky. It roared with outraged pride and looked down at Kitwana, as though asking how he dared think he could face this mightiest of beasts armed only with an assegai. His huge, multifanged mouth opened and let out a burst of flame. Kitwana screamed and ran, grabbing Emily's arm and dragging her with him.

All those years with the Zulus, all the fearful battles in which he'd taken part, and he'd never run. But now he thought only of himself and Emily Oldhall, of saving both of them from the fearsome, strange beast.

Once he had given her the initial impulse, Mrs. Oldhall ran as easily, as forcefully, as a maiden of his own homeland. They ran side by side, and the dragon hopped after them, shaking remaining shreds of tent from its body and wings. Seemingly careful to avoid stepping on the sleeping bundles on the ground, the great beast leapt after them.

The bundles of sleeping people woke with the noise of the dragon's roars and the Earth trembling from its heavy hops. Men rose in shock, eyes rounded, mouths opened, ready to scream. Some reached for lances, some screamed in rage, others just ran in terror as the camp boiled with chaos.

Kitwana stopped running near the pile of weapons and let go of Emily. He found his Zulu shield—a rectangle of leather that protected most of his body. He slipped his arm into the straps at the back and turned to face his foe. Hyena Men rallied around Kitwana, holding their shields and brandishing their spears menacingly. But Kitwana knew better than to wait for their support. He'd learned that lesson from the boys in his village, in the long ago days of his childhood. He was the only one blamed, the only one exiled, the only one sent to live with his mother's family.

He felt his shoulders singe as another burst of flame played, too closely. He jumped in front of Emily Oldhall and raised his shield to deflect the flame. The cowhide would not withstand the fire too long without bursting into flame, but for now, it would work.

The dragon was toying with Kitwana. Toying with him and Emily, like a cat with a mouse. Kitwana would kill the dragon or die trying. Now, as in the dim days of his adolescence, he would protect those he loved.

Keeping his body between the dragon and Emily, Kitwana stood firm and aimed with his assegai, using his shield to deflect a burst of flame. The shield, magically spelled by his mother's brother, repelled the flame as oil repels water. Though assegais were not usually throwing weapons, Kitwana had always made them fly true.

The dragon hopped backward and flapped its immense wings to gain altitude. So it could be frighted. And Kitwana would kill it. A hand closed on his arm at the last second. Turning around, Kitwana looked into a pair of earnest eyes as blue as the sky of Zululand.

Emily Oldhall.

FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT

Nassira turned on her hard bed of rock and branches.
She tugged at the cotton cloth she used for a blanket. She kicked, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing would do.

She thought of her erstwhile lover and of Nigel, who had been looking particularly exasperated of late. And what was it to her if he did something stupid again? If he went into the jungle and disappeared, a victim of a wild beast or his own stupid folly?

They had the compass stone and the woman who would operate it. It would function well enough without Nigel. Why should she care what happened?

Nassira could not give a rational answer. She knew she did not care for Nigel—not as a woman cares for a man. In fact, if there were any man she cared for that way, it would be Kitwana. Her attraction for him disturbed her. He was not Masai. And his lack of response disturbed her more. What could be wrong with him?

He told her his secrets. He confided in her. He treated her as his right hand, his fighting comrade. Why didn't he realize they were a perfect couple? Nassira turned again and, wide awake, stared at the stars overhead, glowing pinpoints of light in the inky sky.

She threw her cotton blanket aside—much too hot anyway. It was the sort of night when she expected a volcano to erupt. She remembered other nights in Masai land with the smell of gas and ash in the air. Minor eruptions and yet strong enough to cause the cattle to sicken and the men to cough in their sleep. She now had the same sense of foreboding she'd had as a child, before those catastrophic eruptions.

Something was going to happen.

Kitwana screamed. In the still night, she recognized his voice, though she could not discern the string of words that escaped his lips. Fear and rage.

Something like a bugling scream answered him.

Nassira stood. Around her, the camp boiled in chaos. Men ran and screamed, seemingly in all directions. And above—

She held her breath, then exhaled it in a sound half exasperation and half awe.

She'd seen the dragon before, but then it had looked more like a natural creature, made of flesh and blood. Now, between sky and ground, wings spread, it looked like a beast woven of stars and spun from the fears of men. A thing of terrible beauty and cold splendor. Lights ran along its outspread wings, its fangs glimmered like silver in the moonlight and its green eyes shone, bright and hard as emeralds.

Kitwana stood at the foot of the dragon, looking like a toy figure, his arm raised and his lethal assegai held at the end of it. And around him, leaping and reaching like a child seeking an adult's attention, the European girl begged for something. She guessed that it was for the dragon's life, which would be what a fool such as she would beg for, never knowing what was good for her. And around Kitwana, in a circle, the Hyena Men screamed and implored, in many languages, for him to kill the dragon.

Nassira ran toward the weapon pile and grabbed a lance. She ran toward Kitwana and the dragon, and stood beside him, her lance raised.

Kitwana, the Englishwoman danging from his right arm, glanced at Nassira as she came up beside him. He lifted his left arm, the one that carried his body shield, and pushed Nassira out of the way, standing between her and the dragon. Nassira made a sound of inarticulate annoyance. What did he think he was doing? Then she struggled to get past his shield, to fling her lance at the dragon.

Kitwana looked over his shoulder, his face contorted in anger. “Go away, you fool,” he said. “Make yourself safe.”

“No one will be safe while
that
lives,” Nassira shouted back.

“Killing the dragon is my duty,” Kitwana said, while pushing Nassira away with his shield. “I'll protect the women.” He shook the arm Emily Oldhall held with both hands. “Women do not belong here.”

Other Hyena Men were leaping, screaming, throwing their ineffective weapons at the beast—all of them far enough away that it could not reach them with its fiery breath.

Kitwana would allow these men here, Nassira thought, who were too cowardly or too stupid to get closer. And yet he wanted to protect her. He'd called her a woman, lumping her with the hapless Mrs. Oldhall, who could be frightened in a crowded carpetport.

For once in her life, Nassira had allowed herself to feel attracted to a man who did not need her help, and he had proven himself a fool, like all the rest of them. To Nassira it was as though years had passed and the people around her were no more than shadowy memories from her misguided past.

Above, the dragon stretched, between sky and earth, a creature of both and of neither, a supernatural creature and yet one fleshed, full of the urges and tempers of its strange body, ready to kill and die to satisfy urges it could no more explain than could any man.

Kitwana stood, his lance raised, protecting the Englishwoman who, of course, was taught to be soft and weak and not very good at protecting herself.

Nassira took a deep breath. For the Hyena Men, this was all about revenge. It wasn't about Africa, nor freeing Africa for Africa's children. It wasn't about bringing Africa up to the level of Europe, nor making anyone's life easier. It was about murdered women and enslaved children; about tongues silenced and tribes destroyed; about hunting lands put to the European plows and warriors left dead, by the power of the strange, alien powersticks. Oh, it was about that, all right. But only as revenge, nothing more.

And to Kitwana, it was—what?—a desire to be a hero? A wish to become one of those demigods forever sung about in legend and myth? Whatever his motive was, Nassira would wager it had nothing to do with anything beyond Kitwana. When she'd been in London, the housekeeper at the club had insisted that she attend the Christian church every Sunday with the other servants. She'd gone along with it, fascinated by the strange ritual, the unfamiliar songs, the interesting and sometimes bewildering tales. On one of those occasions, she'd heard a story of a blind man commanded by the demigod the whites worshiped to wash his eyes in a sacred pool. All of which made much sense to her, for it was exactly what one of the Masai holy men might recommend as a cure for blindness. She remembered the preacher had told how scales had fallen from the man's eyes and he'd seen. The preacher seemed to think this meant more than physical sight.