Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 25

"May I touch you?"

She considered, then nodded reluctantly. "You may."

He knelt before her and held up his hands as though she were a fire at which he warmed himself. Then, slowly, he pa.s.sed his hands over her face, tracing the curve of her cheekbones, her jaw, running a thumb along her brow. He examined her hands, flexing them at finger and wrist, pressing them between his own.

After a time, he sat back on his heels and sighed. His eyes were tired, his cheeks more hollow than usual. "My thanks, captain."

"Can you heal, Marrget?" said the king.

"Heal?" said the magician vaguely. "Heal? There is nothing wrong with Marrget, no hint of sickness, no taint of malady."

Marrget looked at her hands, her face pale.

"You . . . must forgive me," said Mernyl. "I have not seen anything like this before. Always, in an enchantment of shape-changing, the new semblance is but an illusion, as though a wall were daubed with mud that might run with the first rain. But there is no illusion here.

Marrget's body has been remade from its very core. She is as she appears."

Marrget stiffened at the p.r.o.nouns, then flared. "Perhaps you are not completely certain that it is Marrget of Crownhark who sits here in this robe. Perhaps I am a Dremord spy, a maiden done up in Marrget's armor and sent to bring you a laughsome tale."

Mernyl rose. "I have no doubt that it is to Marrget of Crownhark that I speak.'' He took her by the shoulders as though to convince her of her own ident.i.ty. "I regret that I cannot aid you in the fashion you wish. Will you still accept me as an ally and a friend?''

She shuddered. "Do not press me, Mernyl."

"I shall not." He released her, turned to Vorya. "Perhaps you do not appreciate what I have said, my king. If the Corrinians have this power, no one can oppose them."

"Indeed," said Vorya, "no one wants to oppose them. Since early evening, my army has shrunk by half. The men have made their way off to their homes."

"The cowards!" cried Marrget. "Desertion is a deadly crime, and now-" She broke off, looked down at herself. "And . . . who am I to say?"

Outside, there was a shout which, after a moment, was echoed and re-echoed. Alouzon finally made it out.

' 'Dythragor comes!''

* CHAPTER 15 +.

As Silbakor's wingbeats pulsed at the tent walls, Marrget looked to Alouzon, her face white. The Dragonmaster shook her head and straightened up. She tried to appear confident for the benefit of Marrget, but she knew well what was likely to happen.

Outside, there were several more shouts, Dythragor's booming answer, then the sound of a sword being sheathed and the heavy tramp of boots. The tent flap was shoved back and Dythragor stepped into the room.

Soot and ashes covered him, and grime was caked in the lines on his face and forehead, giving the semblance of added years. For a moment, Alouzon thought she caught a glimpse of Solomon Braithwaite as an old man laid out in a coffin, the burden of age upon him. But Dythragor spoke, and the illusion evaporated.

"They've slaughtered our men, and they've gained some land, but they've paid for it." His voice rasped as though with a thirst of many days, and he strode to the center of the room without noticing Marrget or Mernyl. "Three of their towns are burned-they'll get no levies there-and their crops in the southern parts of their territory are destroyed. They'll have no food this winter. They'll have to turn back."

Vorya looked at him soberly.

"Well?" said Dythragor.

"What of the battle, Dragonmaster?" said the king. "Our losses were heavy, and you have been loud in your promises of help. What of the battle?"

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Dythragor seemed to grow impatient. "The wind out of the blackness pushed me far to the south and east. I did what I could."

Silence. Alouzon saw his temper building.

"I admit that burning fields is not the most n.o.ble of actions," he said. "But then, neither is the use of magic."

Mernyl had moved protectively to one side of Marrget's chair, and Alouzon now stepped to the other. The captain's hands had tightened on her robe, and the muscles of her arms, strong even in womanhood, were taut and tense as she watched and listened. Her eyes said that she was frightened, but there was something else there, too, as though, under the influence of her change, she were suddenly seeing Dythragor in a new light, examining him with a head uncluttered by questions of honor and bravado. In spite of her fear and shock, she seemed almost startled by what she saw.

"You don't seem to understand," Dythragor was saying. "Because of what I did, we've got time to regroup. The Dremords will starve this winter. We can defeat them easily. We can get rid of them once and for all."

"Perhaps," said Vorya. "Yet . . . perhaps not."

There was a distinct pall over the company, one compounded equally of past death and present uncertainty. Examining the faces about him, Dythragor slowly became aware of it. Then he turned around and saw Marrget and Mernyl.

"Another woman?" he said. "And a trickster? What the h.e.l.l are we coming to?" His tone had been steadily hardening, and now he whirled on the king and exploded. "Are these the counsels you're listening to? What brothel did you drag this wh.o.r.e out of so that you could elevate her to a position of state?"

Marrget's face was full of stunned disbelief. If Alouzon had, in the past, ever wished that the captain could be treated to a taste of a Gryylthan woman's lot, she deeply regretted it now.

"Is this your doing, Mernyl?" said Dythragor. "Not 222.

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satisfied with one woman under your control, you've got to have two?"

But Mernyl stood calmly, his hand resting on Marrget's shoulder, even as Dythragor advanced on him. "My lord Dragonmaster, I have cast no spells. This is a victim of Dremord magic. It is Marrget of Crownhark who sits before you."

Marrget was shaking visibly with the strain. Dythragor stared as though he had been struck. He took a few paces toward the chair and peered incredulously at the woman in it, then suddenly leaped for Mernyl.

"Liar!"

Mernyl fell back as the Dragonsword flicked out and missed him by a ringer's width. With the effortless grace of a seasoned warrior, Dythragor swept in again. "You dare to insult the name of Marrget of Crownhark?''

Alouzon pulled herself out of her shock and grabbed his arm. "Dammit, Braithwaite," she yelled, "he's telling the truth."

"I've had it with your interference, b.i.t.c.h." He turned on her and his stroke was aimed at her skull. Jerking out her own sword, she parried with a clang, then dropped back a step to gain room and stood between Dythragor and Mernyl.

"Backoff," she said.

"The h.e.l.l I will. You've been getting mighty uppity since you tore out that Dremord's throat the first night here. You think you can beat me?"

"I'm a Dragonmaster too. Stay away from Mernyl. He's telling the truth."

Vorya's guards made a motion as though to interpose, but Dythragor glared at the king. "Keep your goons off, old man."

Alouzon was already stepping in. She did not want to kill Dythragor: she was gambling that she could disarm him. His arrogance had allowed several openings to creep into his fighting technique, and the hot power of the Dragonsword, blasting through her nerves, allowed her to see them clearly.

Dragonsword met Dragonsword, and locked. Alouzon ducked to the side, snaked a leg behind Dythragor and leaned into his chest. He tripped, dropped onto his back, and she was on him instantly, pinning him. "Mernyl's telling the truth, a.s.shole," she shouted as he flailed at her. "He was right about the Tree of Creation. The Cor-rinians got it out of the Heath. They can do anything. "

Dythragor continued to struggle, his smoke-blackened face inches from her own. ' 'Just let me up for one second, girl. I'll tan your little a.s.s."

His words were designed to anger her and make her careless, but she was not playing. "Just listen for a rucking change, will you?" Lifting her head, she called to Vorya. "Have us pulled apart, my lord. I think I've got him."

Vorya signed to his guards, and the men seized the two Dragonmasters and lifted them up and apart. Dythragor's sword came out of his grip, spun flashing in the torchlight for a moment, then fell to the carpeted floor with a soft thump.

"You doubt Alouzon," said Vorya calmly. "I trust you will not doubt me. It is the truth."

"You'll be telling me soon that cherries grow on thorns," he returned. Vorya flushed, but the guard still held Dythragor.

"Enough," said Marrget. "I know who I am." Holding her robe closed, she rose from her chair, stood a few feet from Dythragor. "I am defeated," she said evenly. "I have been wounded grievously. I deserve no less than my present disgrace, but I am, and will remain, Marrget of Crownhark. I will not evade my dishonor with name trickery." Her eyes flashed. "Nor will I listen without protest to your insults to my king."

"Go back to your kitchen, wench. You may have bamboozled everyone here; but you can't fool me."

Marrget stood her ground. "I give you a memory: In the Heath, I stopped you from throwing your life away in battle with the beast that arose. You challenged my manhood then, and I told you that, were you not Dythragor Dragonmaster, I would have your life for that. Do you remember?"

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He stared at her.

She took a step forward, her eyes bright, "I will give you another memory: Do you recall, at the Battle of Ben-ardis, how you and I rode well behind the Dremord army and caught two maidens doing their washing at the side of the Long River? One, I recall, was as blond as Santhe, the other was dark, her hair the color of yours, Dythra-gor. I was never easy about our actions that day." She tossed her head, met his stare without flinching. "Perhaps I now know why.''

Dythragor was pale beneath the soot when she finished. His mouth fought to form words. "M-Marrget?" His voice was dry, like the rustle of long-dead leaves.

"Aye, Dragonmaster. The entire First Wartroop is similarly afflicted."

His breathing was labored, as though only with an effort could he force the air in and out of his lungs. Pulling himself up straight, he wavered in the grip of his guard, then, with a weak shrug, pushed the man away.

Marrget watchedjwithout visible emotion as Dythragor bent, retrieved his sword, and slipped it into its sheath. He faced the captain again, searched her face, then averted his gaze as though he had found what he had sought. "Marrget?"

She stood proudly, like a patriot facing a firing squad. "It is I."

Horror grew on Dythragor quickly, and, with a sudden cry, he turned away and plunged out of the tent. They heard a horse whinny, and a moment later there were hoof beats.

Alouzon started after him, but Marrget held her back. "Do not, friend Alouzon," she whispered. She faced Vorya again. "My king, is there anything further you wish to ask me?''

"Nay, Marrget." His voice was almost inaudible.

"Then I will return to my wartroop." She hesitated, gave a bow that held not a shred of subservience, and left.

She was walking quickly, as though she did not want company, but Alouzon followed her. Hard by the en- .

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trance to Vorya's pavilion, the Dragon waited, wings folded, head down. Marrget gave it a brief glance and went directly to her horse. Alouzon stopped for a moment, fixed it with a pointing finger. "You, I want to talk to. Later."

Silbakor sighed. "As you wish."

Marrget was already halfway up the slope by the time Alouzon was mounted. The guards let her pa.s.s as she galloped after the captain, but she managed to close the distance only at the crest.

"Marrget!"

She did not stop, but she slowed, riding stonily onward and down. Alouzon kept pace. The wartroop's guard did not challenge her. There did not seem to be a guard anymore. Something glistened on the rocks where the woman had stood, and Aiouzon's belly, twisted though it was, twisted some more.

At the fire, Marrget whirled around. "Why do you follow me?" she cried. "How much do you wish to torment me? I will admit my defeat, but I will not be tormented.''

"Dammit, Marrget, I'm not trying to torment you. I'm trying to help."

"And how will you help, pray?" Her eyes were cold, and her voice held a hundredweight of irony. "Can you remake us?"

Alouzon hung her head. Of course she could not. At least not physically. If there were to be any remaking, it would have to be internal: a change of belief, of att.i.tude, an opening of the heart to other ways.

She was not sure she could do it. But she had to.

One of the women approached, touched Marrget's knee. "My captain."

"What do you wish?" Marrget did not take her eyes off Alouzon.

"My captain, seven of the wartroop are dead."

"What? More sorcery?" Marrget at last looked at the woman, searched her face. "Which are you?"

"Relys."

"Speak, Relys. How did they die? Where are they?"

"They took their own lives. Singly, they went out of 226.

range of the firelight and fell on their swords." She pointed into the darkness. "Their bodies are over there."

Marrget had kept her face carefully set in an expression of hardened fort.i.tude, but at the news it went slack with shock. Slowly, her eyes shut tightly, and she put her fists to her head as though to shield herself from the horror. She trembled. She might have been weeping.

But when at last she lowered her hands, her eyes were dry. "Who?"

Relys named them. Alouzon had known them and their faces: the full beard of one, the scars of another. But that, she reminded herself, that was all gone now. Everything familiar, everything that they could call themselves had been stripped away, to be replaced with . . .

She resolved that she would not look at the bodies. She would remember them as they themselves would have wished her to. It was all she could do for them now.

Marrget slid from her horse carefully, as though her legs might not support her, pushed herself away from the animal as though, by strength of will, she could make them. "I will go and look." She stood for a moment, staring blankly, then caught herself as though she shook a disobedient child, and went oif.