The Dragon's Son (8 page)

The highway dipped down a steep hill, then dove into a thick woods. She
could not see the river that was off to her left, but she could hear it.

“We will camp beside the riverbank,” she announced to Ven.

“Excuse me,” came a woman’s voice, panting from exertion, quite close to
them. “But aren’t you the boy from the faire?”

Startled, Bellona whipped around, her hand on her sword’s hilt. She had kept
close watch on the road and she could have sworn that there had been no one
either ahead of them or behind them.

She faced a holy woman dressed in the clothing of her faith—plain black
robes, a black wimple that hugged her plump face. She had been running, which
perhaps explained why Bellona had not seen her.

Hand on her breast, gasping, the nun added, “You are swift walkers. I have
nearly run my legs off, catching up to you. I was concerned about the boy, you
see.”

Her face and her hands were all that were visible of her in the darkness, a
pale blur in the lambent light. She was a stout woman and her broad bosom
heaved from her exertions.

Bellona turned away. “No need. He is fine, as you see. Come along, Ven.”

Ven did as he was told, but he turned his head to stare at the holy sister
over his shoulder.

The sister did not take the hint. She hastened after them, her wimple
billowing out behind her in the freshening breeze.

“I saw that ill-favored man carry him off and I was very worried. I thank
God that the boy is safe, though I see he is limping. After the mauling he
took, I am surprised he can walk at all. I have some knowledge of the healing
arts. Why don’t you let me examine his wound? We don’t want it to putrefy.”

The sister did not say this all at once. After each sentence, she was forced
to catch breath enough for the next. Bellona quickened her pace. By the way she
was wheezing, the stout sister wouldn’t be able to keep up with them for long.

The sister proved dogged, persistent. She waddled on, prattling away. “There
is a shrine just ahead. A clear spring runs there. Its waters are in truth the
tears of the blessed Saint—”

Cloaked and muffled figures wielding cudgels sprung up out of a ditch.

The nun gasped then shrieked. “Help! Merciful saints defend us!”

A blow struck Bellona on the back of her head. Pain blazed yellow behind her
eyes. She staggered, her hand clutching at her sword.

Her blurred eyes found Ven. “Run!” she gasped. She started to draw her
blade. Another blow across her shoulders drove her to her knees. A blow on her
right arm cracked it and she cried out in pain and anger.

The men aimed first at Bellona’s head and her sword arm; then, when she was
dizzy and weak, they hit any part of her they could reach. They beat her even
after she was down, clubbing her about the head and shoulders and savagely
kicking her.

Ven heard the sister scream and Bellona curse and then darkness took shape
and form and the stench of sweat and filth. A man seized hold of him and flung
him out of the way to get at Bellona.

The holy sister caught Ven as he stumbled and dragged him across the road,
away from the battle. She held him fast, pressed against her ample form, and he
could feel her body tense and quivering. He watched them beat Bellona senseless,
beat her into the ground. They stopped only when she lay still and had ceased
to moan.

Another man emerged from the darkness. He was a huge man, with rounded,
hulking shoulders and an overhanging brow. He was the biggest man Ven had ever
seen, even counting the so-called giant posturing in the freak show at the
faire. The huge man had taken no part in the attack. He eyed Ven as he walked
over to Bellona’s limp and bloodied body. Only then did he wrench his gaze away
from Ven. The man poked at Bellona with the toe of his boot.

“Find the money,” he ordered his men.

A last kick, to make certain she wasn’t shamming, and two of the thieves
rolled Bellona over. One thrust his hand inside the breast of her wool tunic.

“You will burn in the fires of hell for this,” cried the holy sister, her
voice shrill. She kept fast hold of Ven.

The huge robber barely glanced at her. “I was hell-bound from birth, Sister.
This only greases my way.”

His cohort was still fumbling about beneath Bellona’s tunic.

“I can’t find it,” he muttered.

“He’s not looking. He’s having too much fun playing with her boobies,” said
another with a snigger.

“I don’t plan to stay here all night watching you getting your jollies,
Watt,” said the big man in acid tones. “Be quick, before someone comes.”

Clouds blotted out the starlight and thunder drowned their voices. Lightning
flared across the sky and Ven reached out with his mind and took hold of it.
The bolt crackled and sizzled in his grasp, blazed in his vision, so that he
was blind and dazzled. He flung the lightning at the man who was mauling
Bellona.

The bolt struck the man, sent him flying backward. He landed heavily on the
road, his body jerking and twitching. The smell of burnt flesh brought Ven
fierce joy.

“I was right, Grald,” said the holy sister. The nun’s
hands, resting on his shoulders, tightened. “He is the dragon’s son.”

Draconas crouched beneath the trees, the river at his back, the boy and the
nun before him, so close that Draconas could have reached out his hand to touch
them. Draconas remained hidden in the darkness, still and unmoving, barely
breathing, watching and waiting.

Having followed the trail of the cart, Draconas had ended up back at the
fairegrounds standing in front of the cart and its load of furs and swearing. By
the time he realized that he’d been an idiot, Bellona and Ven had a long head
start. Draconas set off along the southern road. He gave their descriptions to
travelers heading into the city, and received confirmation that the two were
ahead of him and not that far ahead, either. Although he had raced after them
with his dragon strength and speed, he had arrived too late to save Bellona. He
could try to save the boy.

Draconas had been about to make his move when Grald stepped out of the
darkness onto the highway. Draconas hunkered down, forced to rethink his plans.

Grald was a dragon in human form, much like Draconas. The two had met before
in a bone-crunching contest that had left Draconas half-dead. Draconas had been
looking forward to the day when they would meet again, for now that he knew
Grald for what he was, Draconas knew how to fight him. Unfortunately, this was
neither the time nor the place for two dragons to battle.

Draconas was still considering what to do when Ven unleashed his thunderbolt
and the holy sister made her pronouncement.

“The robbery was a ruse,” Draconas realized. “You had to be certain this
child was the right child and so, as a little experiment, you beat to death the
only mother he’s ever known right in front of his eyes. Well, you have your
answer.”

He glanced at the smoldering remains of the “thief.” The stink of burning
hair and flesh was strong in his nostrils.

Ven twisted his head to look up at the holy sister.

She carressed Ven’s shoulders and said in soft and urgent tones, “Come with
me, now, child. There is nothing more you can do for your mother except to pray
for the repose of her soul. Come away with me. I will take you to a place of
safety.”

“She’s
not
my mother,” Ven said harshly. He shook himself free of the
nun’s hands and backed away from her.

“G’away,” he ordered, his voice thick and half-choked. He waved his hand. “Leave
me alone.”

He limped over to where Bellona lay in the dirt. He stared down at her and
then awkwardly knelt beside her, and put his hand out to touch her.

“My child—” the holy sister began in dulcet tones.

“Someone’s coming,” warned Grald, his head jerking around to peer down the
starlit road. “I hear horses. We don’t have time to coddle the boy. Step aside.
All of you.”

Folding her hands in her habit, the holy sister moved a safe distance away,
as did the remainder of the “thieves.” Grald stretched out his hands. Thin
filaments of light sprang from his ten fingers and extended toward the boy.
Twining and twisting together, the filaments of light formed a web—a burning
and biting web meant to jangle the boy’s nerves, incapacitate and paralyze him.

Draconas moved. Bounding onto the road, he thrust his staff into the magical
net, caught hold of it, and jerked it out of Grald’s astonished grasp. Draconas
twirled the net in a flaming arc, then cast it back at Grald. Amazed by this
unexpected interference, the dragon had no time to evade it. The glowing,
entwined filaments settled over him, and Grald’s human form collapsed to the
ground, screaming and writhing.

The holy sister opened her mouth. Draconas had no idea what she was about to
say, but feared it must be some sort of magic. He brought the staff around and
gave her a clip on the side of the head. The holy sister toppled over in a heap
of black.

The last remaining attacker leapt on Draconas’s back, sought to throttle
him. Draconas flipped the man over his head. He landed heavily on the road,
groaning in pain. Draconas kicked him in the temple.

“That’s for Bellona,” he said grimly.

He could hear the approaching riders—men, laughing and talking. They were in
no hurry, riding along at a sedate clip, but coming nearer. He couldn’t be
caught here with a bloody body, an unconscious nun, a burnt thief, and a boy
that was half-dragon.

Ven had not moved from Bellona’s side. He had not even looked around.

“You have to come with me,” said Draconas. Reaching down, he took firm hold
of the boy’s hand. “Now.”

Ven looked up at him and recognition dawned.

“What about Bellona?” he said.

Draconas cast the body a glance. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I’ll stay with her,” said Ven, hunkering down in the dirt.

Draconas didn’t have time to argue. He scooped up what he thought was a
corpse in his arms, only to feel Bellona shudder in pain when he lifted her.

“Keep close,” he ordered Ven, “and don’t make a sound.”

The boy nodded. Draconas slipped back into the woods and hid in the brush.
Bellona began to moan and he spoke a whispered word of magic that sent her into
a deep slumber. Ven put one hand protectively on Bellona’s shoulder and took
his place alongside Draconas.

Two knights, well armed, and accompanied by well-armed retainers, cantered
along the road. One of the horses whinnied and shied at the body lying in the
road. Dismounting, their swords in hand, the knights went immediately to the
aid of the nun, exclaiming in angry tones at footpads who would dare harm a
holy sister.

“What do you make of it?” asked one, scratching his chin, as his servant
tried to revive the holy sister.

“Thieves fall out,” answered his friend. “They attacked the nun, robbed her,
then began fighting over the spoils.”

“But this one’s burnt to a cinder, my lord,” said the servant, awed.

“Witness God’s wrath,” intoned the knight sternly. “And let it be a lesson
to you.”

“This bastard’s still breathing, my lord,” reported one of the retainers,
bending over Grald.

“He’s a big brute,” commented the knight. “We’ll have to build an
extra-strong gallows to hold him. Bind him fast, Reynard, and keep your sword
at his throat.”

Hidden among the trees, Draconas made a slight gesture at a field that could
be seen from the road. One of the retainers turned his head, looked in that
direction.

Shadowy figures could be seen haring over the freshly plowed earth, running
for their lives.

“My lord! There, in the field! Some of the rascals, trying to escape!”

“By holy Saint Dunstan, this promises to be a more exciting evening than we
had planned,” cried one of the knights, leaping on his horse and galloping off
in pursuit of the will-o’-the-wisp of Draconas’s magic. The other knight
followed after him. The servants roused the groggy nun as the soldiers bound
Grald with bowstrings, and Draconas breathed an inward sigh of relief.

He would have liked to settle his score with Grald and maybe even unmask the
dragon. Another time, however, when there weren’t humans watching and a
half-dragon child on his hands. Draconas did gain some amusement out of the
thought of Grald waking to find himself in a dungeon, awaiting the hangman’s
noose. He’d find a way out, of course. With his magic, Grald could walk through
the walls, leaving the bewildered humans to scratch their heads, none the
wiser. Still, it would put the dragon to no small amount of trouble, Draconas
reflected with satisfaction. And by the time Grald finagled his way out of
jail, Bellona and Ven would be safely away.

The servants were preoccupied with the holy sister.
The soldiers laughingly discussed what to do with the thief’s remains,
suggested making him crow bait. Draconas nodded to the boy, who rose to his
feet. Quietly, stealthily, they left their hiding place and crept deeper into
the forest, heading for the river.

Draconas and Ven crossed over the river on a narrow bridge leading to a
sheep pasture. In the starlit distance, a grove of trees was a dark mass
against a paler background of grassland. Draconas headed for the grove and,
once sheltered beneath thick branches, he deemed it safe to stop. He eased
Bellona onto a bed of dead leaves.

“Will she be all right?” Ven asked.

“She’s not dead,” Draconas replied cautiously. “Which is more than I
expected. Her leather helm saved her from a cracked skull. I need water. Go
fill this.” He handed Ven his water skin. “We need to keep her warm. Can you
build a fire?”

Ven nodded, not wasting time with words. He fetched the water, then left to
search for dry wood. Draconas took advantage of the boy’s absence to examine
Bellona’s wounds. He was relieved to discover they were not as serious as they
had first appeared. Once a human has started down the road to death, not even
his dragon magic could save her. He could not fully mend her broken bones, but
he could splint the arm, ease her pain, stanch the bleeding, and alleviate
shock. He had Bellona resting comfortably by the time Ven returned with an
armload of wood. The boy tended to business before asking any more questions.
Only when the fire snapped and crackled, and Draconas could feel the warmth of
the blaze, did Ven come over to Bellona.