The Dragon Lord (3 page)

“As I said before,” and this time Dewan shaped the words on his mouth so that Gemmel, still looking at him, could at least read them, “where’s the boat? And how big is it?”

Gemmel grinned that toothy fox’s grin of his, and enhanced it with a gesture of the Dragonwand which covered a thirty-mile sweep of open ocean. “Big enough,” he replied. “And out there…”

It was not an answer with the sort of precision for which Dewan had hoped, but he chose not to argue. As he trudged after the old sorcerer, he was trying with little success to forget the many things he knew about the coastal citadels, uncomfortably aware of the truth in that old proverb about the dangers of too much knowledge. They were all matters of casual interest when read in the comfort of his quarters over a glass of red and some honeyed fruit, but became of pressing import here where their effectiveness was likely to be demonstrated in the most unequivocal manner.

Things like the powerful long-glasses installed—at his own suggestion!—to monitor the route of any potential invasion force; things like the awesome projectile batteries whose counterpoise petraries could launch flaming missiles which would cinder and sink any Imperial battlefleet long before shipboard catapults were close enough to make even ranging shots worth-while…

As if to add weight to his apprehension, the ghostly outline of a white painted tree trunk loomed out of the fog. Tall as the mast of a galion, it was identical to hundreds of others up and down the eastern coast of Alba: fall-of-shot markers for the shore batteries. Nor, guessed ar Korentin as he came close enough to see the grouped gouges scarring the wood, did it indicate extreme distance. He was entering the killing-ground, the area where a practised crew might hope to ignite their target with a single launch—and certainly to succeed in no more than three if they wanted to avoid a punishment detail. Once they were able to see what they were shooting at…

Dewan quickened his pace in an effort to draw level with Gemmel, who was striding out as though he was in very truth walking for the good of his health. Which, if he knew what Dewan knew, was an accurate enough assumption. Yet the old man seemed unconcerned—so unconcerned that perhaps he didn’t know after all.

Dewan considered that possibility, then dismissed it as unlikely. In his opinion, Gemmel might not know everything even though he often seemed to do so. But without doubt, the wizard invariably knew a damn sight too much.

He was drawing as much breath as the weight on his back would permit to tell Gemmel a few home truths about the beach where he was so idly strolling, when the sorcerer turned abruptly and held up his hand. “Silence,” he commanded. “Listen!”

Dewan could hear nothing at first but the hiss of wind and waves—and what was important about them? Then he heard something else and it was a sound made all the more immediate by nervous brooding:

The distant, dissonant clangor of alarm gongs.

Gemmel drove the Dragonwand butt-downwards into the sand with a spasm of irritation. Not anger, not fear; just irritation, such as a parent might feel at some child’s act of pettiness. “So,” he said.

“So… ?” echoed Dewan.

“So King Rynert has decided we are not to go our— my—own way after all. Despite all his assurances, of course.” There was a dreadful calm contentment in the way Gemmel spoke, the cold satisfaction of logic proved.

“You mean to say—” Dewan knew that it was crazy to begin a discussion or even talk unnecessarily until they were both clear of this mess, but the words came tumbling out anyway, “—that Rynert had the choice of yea-or-nay right up to where we are now?”

“His representative had.” Gemmel had already plucked the Dragonwand free and was walking rapidly towards the mist-wrapped sea, talking as he went. “The thin-faced gentleman I hoped was still asleep in the tavern.”

Dewan could think of nothing sensible to say about that and kept his mouth shut.

“I decided not to point him out to you,” the wizard continued, “because if you recognised him, you might do something regrettable, and if you didn’t then you might do something unnecessary. I thought we might shake him for long enough to reach the boat, but he must have marked our absence and made directly for the fortress. Probably didn’t like our destination—after all, from this coast there’s only one place we could be going…”

“But Rynert knew about that!”

“But did he tell his man? No. I doubt it.” Gemmel’s speech was growing staccato as his long legs raked over the ground, quick as a wading bird. He wasn’t running, there was no need for anything so undignified just yet, even though Dewan had been for the past dozen strides. “Credit him with that subtlety. He didn’t give instructions—not exact instructions. General, yes. But not exact. So he isn’t responsible. Regrettable mistake. Nervous troops. Suspected spies. Not identified until afterwards…”

“Afterwards?” repeated Dewan stupidly. And it was stupid; maybe it was the running, or the shock of what Gemmel was telling him, because later he felt sure that in normal circumstances he wouldn’t have uttered a word. But this time he did. And was flayed for it.

Gemmel stopped in his tracks with anger livid on his high-cheekboned face. “Compassion of God, must I draw diagrams?” That shrillness which Dewan had heard only once before was threading his voice again like poison in wine. “I had almost four years to kill the habit of idiot questions in my son!” His lips writhed back from his teeth in an expression which might have been many things but most definitely was not a smile. “My
foster-
son,” he corrected himself with ponderous irony. “You had best learn it in the next four minutes, Dewan ar Korentin, if you want to survive the next four hours. Know this: you have crossed Rynert of Alba—so you are a dead man.”

“But I have served him faithfully for—”

“Years… ?” Gemmel sneered. “And now you no longer serve him. Therefore you are no longer of use to him. So you are
dead
!”

That was a moment which Dewan knew would haunt[* *]his dreams, should he live long enough to have any—the moment when a sorcerer whose eyes blazed like phosphorescent emeralds told him in tones which defied doubt that he had been utterly betrayed. And betrayed, moreover, by the lord for whom he had shed blood, lost blood, suffered pain and gained his first-through-fiftieth gray hairs. That he had been cast aside like a torn cloak; that he was to be smashed into oblivion by “accident” and by the men he had trained himself, so that the embarrassment of a difference of opinion would be snuffed before it passed the bounds of simple gossip.

“If I live through this—” he began savagely.

“If any of us live through it, you’ll have to take your turn after my foster-son.” Again there was a hard gleam of teeth in the foggy light. “No. Call him my son. For he is. And more than I deserve to regain, even though I don’t yet deserve to be called his father. Now run, Dewan ar Korentin. Run as if your life depended on it—for it does!”

They ran, a slop of wet and salty sand flying up around their booted legs at each footfall. Somehow the mass of gear across Dewan’s back was lighter than it had been— still as bulky, still as awkward, but no longer the same crushing dead-weight. Gemmel’s work? Or just adrenalin?

He neither knew nor cared—but he was thankful all the same.

The wizard’s voice reached his ears again, piercing the sounds of wind and water, gasping breath and the thick wet splat of running feet; but this time the old man was not addressing him.

Gemmel was speaking to the fog!

Something—some
thing
—sighed over Dewan’s shoulder and for one heart-stopping instant he thought that Dunacre’s weapon batteries had opened up on them. Even shooting blind into the mist, those things were capable of setting the beach aflame from surf-line to shingle and in the process roasting any living creature on it. But whatever passed Dewan had nothing to do with human weapons. Or even with humanity at all…

The surge of energy which had passed him on the wings of a hot wind tore open a tunnel in the fog that was two men wide, one man high and ran straight as a spear-shaft out towards the sea. He could suddenly see parallel white bars of foam where waves curled in to break on the shores of Alba, and beyond them the small dark blot sliding swiftly closer which could only be the wizard’s promised boat. Boat, not ship, was right.

Cockleshell was more right still.

Had he possessed more breath than that required for running, Dewan might have made some biting remarks about the vessel’s size, speed and potential seaworthiness, not to mention passing comment on certain sorcerers who seemed to think that if something could float then that sufficed.

But all criticism was leached from his mind by the sound in the sky.

It was a huge rash of displaced air, as if something monstrous was falling from the clouds—and if Dewan’s wild guess was correct, then that was no more than the truth. He flung himself bodily at Gemmel and both men went headlong onto the sand… and into a tidal pool already ankle-deep with chill salt water.

“
What
!” There was outrage and real fury in Gemmel’s voice, so that if he had guessed wrongly Dewan didn’t like to consider the consequences of his hasty act; but before the wizard could say more, everything was justified.

They felt the thump of impact through the ground beneath them a split-second before the fog flared incandescent orange and washed their backs with heat. The vast tearing roar of detonation came a full two heartbeats later, flooding the air with ravening noise and with the naphtha stink of wildfire. Greasy smoke boiled through the mist and the blast of fire which gave it birth thinned the concealing vapor even as its creator straggled to his feet.

Gemmel brushed uselessly at the mess of sodden sand which caked his clothing, shrugged and extended one hand to Dewan as the Vreijek hauled himself and his burden from the mire. Their eyes met, and in the wizard’s there was true friendship for the first time that Dewan could remember. “Thank you, Commander,” was all that he said. It was enough.

Dewan nodded once, then looked from side to side, spitting to clear his mouth as he surveyed the beach. There was more of it to see now than before the missile landed—too much more. “They must know this isn’t a natural mist,” he muttered, not so much talking to Gemmel as thinking out loud. “The wind would tell them as much. And,” his gaze returned to the sorcerer, “I remember you told Rynert once how hard it was to stabilise such a charm.” There was no accusation in his voice. “It’s just the thing he would remember—and warn his dogs accordingly.”

“Enough heat would burn off even a real fog,” said Gemmel matter-of-factly. He was already jogging seaward again, moving more slowly now so that the noise of his own progress didn’t drown the sound of more incoming shots—or whatever else the fortress commander might decide to fling at them.

Twice more they flattened against the beach, cuddling the gritty wetness of the shingle as if it was the softest feather quilt whilst the world around them was torn by fire. Gemmel’s cunningly constructed shroud of mist was all but usurped by an acrid layer of black smoke which twisted in the wind and made them choke on its bitter reek—scoring throat and eyes and nostrils so that each lungful of air was an enemy.

Then there came another sound than that of airborne flame: the high, sweet scream of a cavalry trumpet. Gemmel bared his teeth and broke into a run again, aware that once more safety lay in speed. But ar Korentin did not move.

An instant later the wizard jolted to a splashing halt, shocked to a standstill as he heard a sword scrape from its sheath. “Dewan, no!” He was shouting the words even as he turned. “For God’s sweet sake, no!”

Dewan’s head jerked round and there was unconcealed scorn on his mustached face. “No? Then will they ride us down without a fight?” The eyes in that face were cold and flinty, an expression Gemmel had seen before. On Aldric’s face. In Aldric’s eyes. The eyes of his son… that were not the eyes of his son.

It was an expression that presaged violence.

“Don’t kill!” The sorcerer’s hand closed around Dewan’s thick wrist and forced his swordpoint down with an inexorable pressure that made the Vreijek’s thick brows lift in astonishment—forced it down until it grounded on the sand. “Don’t kill,” he repeated with a silky firmness brooking no questions. “They will be king’s-men. Maybe
your
men. To kill would be… unthinkable.”

“Then what will we—” Dewan hesitated, a wry smile twisting his tense mouth. “What will
you
do?”

“All that I must. Now get to the boat if you can. Move!”

Dewan shrugged his least-laden shoulder and returned the broadsword to its scabbard. “Your game, then,” he conceded reluctantly, backing towards the waves so that his eyes could remain fixed on the place where the trumpet had sounded. A place hidden by drifting smoke and the remnants of the mist. A place right behind them. “Play it your way if you must—but remember that the blade is still here if you need it.”

Gemmel glanced at Dewan and shook his head. “I hope not,” he said, and walked swiftly onward with more words trailing over his shoulder and down the wind to ar Korentin’s ears. “With any luck, I won’t even—”

“—but you will!” The interruption was harsh. “Because our luck has just run out… !”

They came out of the smoke at a parade walk: a column of eight riders in skirmish harness. Eight—no more than a patrol. That was very like an insult, thought Dewan. Maces, swords, axes—but no spears. And no bows. So it was close work, then; someone wanted to be sure.

Over the whistle of wind in his ears he could hear the sound if not the sense of the red-plumed officer’s commands as he waved his longsword overhead; it was a long-drawn, nasal singing such as cavalrymen use. And despite the threat, despite the menace, he felt something approaching a dark pleasure as the small formation swung from column to line of attack without the slightest ripple of excess movement. Perfect… He wondered if perhaps he had trained these men himself. Or some of them. Or none at all…

It was an idle thought, for what did it matter when they were about to try to kill him anyway?