The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (46 page)

“Milady?” Wender appears at the tent flap, then hurries in to help her support the old man’s lanky, sagging frame. He grabs up a soft and thickly woven blanket and drapes it over Hal’s stooped shoulders like a cloak.

Hal struggles within the enveloping folds. “No! Leave me! My work is not done! I’m so close, Kurt! Let me go!”

“Good, my lord,” Wender murmurs. “Behave yourself now.”

“Will you not come out and greet the dragon?” Erde asks brightly.

The fever-glaze in Hal’s eyes clears long enough to let a ray of his old joy and awe shine through. “The dragon! Yes! He will know! Wender! My sword!”

“No need for that, my lord.”

“My sword, I say! I must make my obeisance!”

Wender sighs. Balancing the knight on one arm, he reaches behind him for the sword hung by sheath and belt on a tent pole. Erde catches just a glimpse of the familiar dragon-shaped hilt before Wender presses it to Hal’s chest, then wraps sword, sheath, and knight up soundly in the
woolen blanket. “We’ve cleared as large a space as we’re likely to get, milady. I’m hoping it will do.”

“It will have to, Captain. Let us hurry! I’ll go outside and call the dragon now.” She stays a moment to stroke Hal’s bruised hand. “Soon, dear knight. Soon all will be well.”

“Soon all will be over,” Hal mutters.

“Not at all! You mustn’t say so. It’s only the fever bringing you to such madness and despair!”

“And a good thing, too,” he continues. “It’s the only way. The texts are very clear in that regard.” He begins to cough again, so racked by it this time that his mouth is stained with blood.

Wender gently wipes it away with a corner of the blanket, while Erde turns her glance away. “You go ahead, milady. Go call in your magic beast.”

Outside, Erde steals a moment to compose herself, to brush away the tears she’s allowed herself only once she’s turned her back, to breathe in air—no matter how icy cold—that’s free of smoke and the rank stink of infection. The wind has died, and the snow falls more gently, like a caress rather than a punishment.

Oh, dragon! Just when I think I’ve known every sadness possible!

DO NOT DESPAIR.

Never! Not while you are here. They’ve made room for you. Will you join us? You are sorely needed!

She gazes across the rutted stretch of field in front of the tent. Wender has ordered the supply wagons drawn aside, and several of the smaller tents and lean-tos moved farther down the line. Word of a happening has obviously been passed through the camp. A sullen throng of infantrymen and squires has gathered around the perimeter to speculate and stare. Erde does not feel particularly welcomed. She has never called the dragon into a crowd of strangers before, except at Erfurt, to snatch Margit from the stake. The men have brought their pikes and crossbows, she notes, but these are soldiers, after all, and they are at war. It is their duty to be armed. Swallowing her dread, Erde images the trampled field, the tents and all the onlookers, clearly and in precise detail.

Are you ready, dragon?

I AM . . . HERE.

And he is. Crouching neatly in the center of the space, with little room to spare. The ranks of the curious gasp and draw back. Prayers and blessings are mumbled. Weapons rattle as their owners’ fists tighten on them in terror. Horses neigh and the dogs bark or quickly slink away. The dragon looms over the camp, a bronzy mountain. The squared plates of his hide shine as the gloomy daylight picks out its concentric ridges, like the coffering in a cathedral ceiling. Erde’s heart warms to see him, so vast and magnificent, but her joy is not shared by those around her. She hears the words “witch” and “antichrist” muttered around the field. She’d like to scold them all for their foolishness and superstition, but men do not like to be told they’re wrong about something, especially by a girl.

The dragon, too, is nervous. He’s never liked crowds. Nonetheless, he is soothing the panicked animals, smothering the fright signals they’ve picked up from the humans with calming messages of his own. Soon, the dogs and horses are quiet, but the men have grown restless, ashamed of their fear and resentful of the dragon that caused it. Emboldened by his placidity, several of them step forward, halberds gleaming wickedly. Erde sees crossbows armed and cocked, and guesses herself to be the most likely target, though enough arrows shot at close range could do serious harm to the dragon as well, perhaps before he could stop them or remove himself from danger. His legend has followed him, she surmises. They’ve all heard he doesn’t fly or breathe fire.

Can’t they see we’re trying to help them?

THEY COULD . . . IF THEY LOOKED FAR ENOUGH.

Erde decides she might actually be in danger. She glances back at the silent pavilion. She tries to sound casual. “Captain Wender?”

The men with the halberds advance more boldly. One of them mimics her call to the captain in falsetto.

“That’s it!” calls another. “Bring the damned turncoat out here!”

Behind them, the crowd murmurs encouragement. Erde understands that her arrival has fanned the flames of an already existing animosity toward Wender and the man he
now serves. What has become of the king’s once noble army? She’d like to give them a piece of her mind about the nature of duty and loyalty, but recent months have taught her the value of discretion. Instead, she strides to the tent flap and draws it aside. “Captain?”

Wender stoops out from under the gathered canvas with the limp and shrouded knight cradled in his arms like a child. He looks anguished, and Erde sees no sign of life on Hal’s slack face.

“Oh! Is he . . . he isn’t . . .?”

“Collapsed. But there’s still a breath. It’s very close, milady.”

The emboldened soldiers are moving in to cut the pavilion off from the center of the field and the dragon.

Wender scowls at them. “What’s going on here? Out of my way! We have vital business to attend to!”

“The devil’s business!” snarls one, stepping forward and leveling the point of his halberd like a spear. “There’s no denying your witchcraft now!”

The crowd calls out its agreement with raucous threats and cheers.

“This man is dying!” says Wender angrily.

“Let him, then!”

“Then maybe our luck will change!”

Wender growls, “If you fought with more heart, you’d change your own luck! Out of my way, I say!”

Small wonder these men resent him, Erde muses. He’s brought with him some of his old master’s arrogance. She hears shouts in the distance, and the pounding of hooves. She prays it’s not more bad news. The crowd’s grumble rises like a nest of hornets. A string thunks and an arrow slams into the mud at Wender’s feet.

“I am unarmed!” Wender fumes, his arms sagging with the knight’s dead weight.

“So much the better,” calls the man with the halberd, advancing another step. The shouts and hoofbeats are nearing.

Dragon! We need your help!

He could transport the three of them to safety, but she needs to be touching him. And where would they go? Four more foot soldiers have moved to stand beside the man with the halberd, blocking the way.

I WILL COME FOR YOU.

Earth slews his giant horned head toward the pavilion and lumbers to his feet. Simultaneously, the approaching shouts resolve themselves into audible words. “Make way for the king! Stand aside for His Majesty!”

The king! The crowd parts hastily as two mounted knights trot into the open. Behind them, Erde sees another pair of knights, a flurry of banners and color, and a flash of gold warming the dull air. Then the entire throng is kneeling, herself included. Even Wender manages to sink to one knee while holding his unconscious burden well above the snow and icy mud. Erde is more than grateful for the interruption, which has probably saved their lives, but Sir Hal’s failing health is of equal concern. His Majesty has heard about the dragon, no doubt, and has come to see it for himself. She is glad that the ailing old monarch is well enough to travel on horseback, but she prays that he will not require too lengthy a show of ceremony. If Hal is to live, the dragon must get on with his healing.

Her head bowed with the proper respect, she hears horses approaching, murmured commands, then a single horse coming nearer. It halts and two pairs of muddy boots race up to catch its bridle. She hears the soft clink of mail and the creaking of harness. The rider dismounts, more easily than she’d expect from a sick old man.

“Well, little sister. We meet again at last.”

She forgets all the protocols drilled into her as a baron’s child. She looks up, gaping at the man standing in front of her, helmetless, a thin, bright band of gold embracing his brow. He looks older, less by the march of years than with the maturity gained from the weight of his royal responsibilities. He is still tall and thin, but his boyish beauty has sobered into something more august, as befits a king.

Dragon! It’s Rainer! Alive!

“You . . . Your Majesty?” she splutters.

Rainer grins down at her, enjoying her astonishment, then spreads his hands apologetically. “You see? I have regained my heritage. Are you surprised?”

“Yes . . . no . . . I . . .”
I’m just so glad to see you well!
A thousand memories come flooding back, not all of them comfortable. “So you are . . .?”

“I am. The lost prince.” His shoulders twitch in the faintest
of shrugs. He lowers his voice. “Or so they believe. In that case, what does it really matter?”

She stares at him. Why does he greet her with such ambiguity? Does he fear she’ll challenge his legitimacy? “It matters not at all . . . my liege.”

Rainer smiles, satisfied. “You’re looking well, little sister.”

Erde recalls her reasons for urgency. She must put her discomfiture and wonderment aside for later. She gazes up at the new king imploringly, gesturing behind to Wender and the man in his arms. “Please . . . it’s Hal . . . he . . .”

Rainer frowns. “Yes, I was in to see him yesterday when they brought him from the field. Is he worse?” He offers her his hand, not so that she might kiss the royal ring, but outstretched to help her up. “Is it true your dragon is a healer? Hal has told me some amazing tales. Can you help him?”

“Lord Earth will do what . . .” she begins weakly.

But Rainer has moved past her to Wender, waving him also to his feet. “How is he, Kurt?”

“It’s very bad, Sire.”

“We must hurry, then!” Erde blurts. “Oh, forgive my rudeness . . . Sire.”

“No, we must. You’re right.” For a moment, the king looks very young again, and at a loss. “What do we do?”

“Bring him here. Oh, Captain, hurry!” The way to the dragon is clear. Erde shows Wender where to place his burden, between Earth’s massive forelegs. Rainer paces along beside them, silencing the mutters of the crowd with a few well-placed scowls. But between the scowls are precautionary gestures to his men. A dozen or so of the king’s knights take up stations around the perimeter.

Dark times indeed, Erde mourns, when the people will not bow to the word of a strong, young king. And Rainer will be a strong king, and a good one. She is sure of it. No matter if he’s Otto’s true son or not. Even further in his favor is that he knows how to greet a dragon. He halts where he can comfortably look up at the huge jaw and golden eyes. He bows slightly, not a subservience but a paying of respects.

“Lord Earth,” he declares, in a voice he intends to carry into the surrounding throng of doubters and dragon haters.
“I never thanked you properly for saving my life back there in Erfurt. But for you, there’d be a priest on the throne today! Our gratitude is boundless!”

To further his point, he rests his hand easily on the curve of the dragon’s foreclaw. Wender watches apprehensively, still cradling the dying knight. He’s never stood this close to the dragon before. His jaw works as he masters his fear.

“You may set him down and step back, if you wish, Captain,” Erde tells him. “Lord Earth will keep him warm.”

“I’ll stay.” Wender kneels, eyeing the stout pickets of ivory enclosing him on either side, taller than his head. “He’s grown some, all right, milady.”

Erde allows herself the ghost of a smile. Perhaps even in the midst of horror and crisis, a touch of wonder will lighten the heart of this stalwart and deserving soldier. She kneels beside him to murmur, “You must expose the wound, Captain.”

Wender stretches Hal out on the frozen mud, with the blanket under him and the dragon-hilted sword clasped long-ways on his chest. Erde shudders because he so resembles the funerary statues of her ancestors in the crypt of Tor Alte. The dragon lowers his head.

Dragon, is it bad?

VERY BAD INDEED.

Oh, but not . . . you can help him, can’t you?

I CAN HEAL THE WOUND AND QUIET THE FEVER, BUT HE HAS DONE MUCH INNER DAMAGE WITH HIS GUILT AND WORRYING.

But he will live . . .?

HE WILL, I THINK. BUT HE MUST REST, AND TAKE BETTER CARE OF HIMSELF. HE IS NO LONGER YOUNG.

Just like you to be worrying about the long term, when all I can think of is, will he live now?

HE WILL.

Erde’s eyes squeeze shut against a threatened flood of grateful tears. If only this was to be the end of it, and the revived Sir Hal could ride off home to Deep Moor to rest and recover in the care of his loving lady Rose. Happily ever after in Deep Moor. A vision rises of Erde’s vanished paradise, so sweet that it pierces her heart like love, and the hot tears prick her eyes again.

Not to be, not to be. Not ever. Deep Moor is in ashes, and Fra Guill is cutting down the Grove!

And then she is dragged from her mournful reverie by Wender’s glad cry. “He wakes!”

The exclamation is repeated among the watching soldiers, passed around the circle like a prayer and a prophecy. Hal’s chest heaves as if drawing his first true breath in days. He coughs but the sound is functional rather than strangulated. He opens his eyes. He’s staring straight up into the dragon’s golden gaze. “My lord Earth! You’ve returned at last! Thank good Providence for that! There’s not a moment to be spared!”

He struggles to sit up, brushing the sword aside in his haste and confusion. Wender supports the elder knight with one arm, and snatches the sword up from the mud with the other. He cannot repress a quick accusing glance at Erde. “Is it the fever still?”