Jo came and stood by him. She put her hand on his arm. “Your home, Flinn, your home. I wish Dayin and I had come back earlier. We might have been able to stop it, or at least salvage something.”
Flinn shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Jo,” he said quietly. “I have the crystals in my belt pouch, so they’re not lost. My breastplate’s in the barn, where I was going to fix it, so that’s at least a little armor. And as to food… well, there’s a bag of oats in the bam and some dried meat I had intended to feed Ariac-and all the berries you and Dayin picked.” Flinn’s eyes grew brighter, for he was very fond of the tart fruit.
“The, ah, redberries were part of our attack, Flinn,” Jo said apologetically and pointed to the smashed red fruit at their feet. “Dayin threw the berries while I splashed the water.” She shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Flinn laughed, albeit ruefully. “It was, Jo, it was.” He gave her a quick hug and turned to the barn. “Now, let’s see what we can do about making this place habitable for the night. We need to salvage what we can because tomorrow we have to go into Bywater. We need supplies, first and foremost. We won’t make it to the castle otherwise.” Flinn cocked an eyebrow. “It’s a good thing I hid my gold in the bam and not the cabin. I haven’t got much, but it’ll get us some things.” “And then, we go to the castle?” Jo asked, her voice and eyes expectant.
“And then we go to the Castle of the Three Suns-” he paused for wry effect “-and beat Sir Brisbois into smithereens before we become knight and squire. There are rules against knights fighting each other, you know.”
Jo laughed, a happy sound in an otherwise dark moment. Fernlover brayed then, and Brisbois’ horse nickered in response. Jo looked toward the corral. “It looks like we won’t have to ride double on Ariac.”
Chapter VII
Yvaughan pulled back the blanket and bit her Up. Her brutally deformed infant son lay there in the white- and-gold crib. Four nights ago, after a long and difficult delivery, Yvaughan had given birth to the child. She had screamed upon first seeing her son-one half of his head missing along with one eye, the hands twisted and corrupted with lesions, and the stump of a third leg forming out of his back, almost as if it were a tail. His bluish skin indicated he had stopped breathing, and for one hope-filled moment she thought the baby was stillborn. But Maldrake roared, pushed through the healers, and grabbed his infant boy. He shook the baby, screaming that he must live. The infant gasped and drew his first breath, and Yvaughan sank into a miasma of pain and horror.
Still recovering from her ordeal, Yvaughan stood now before the crib, clutching the rail for support. Her eyes fastened on the thing before her, the thing called her son. Even after four days he hadn’t died, though Teryl and the castle’s clerics had all sworn the child wouldn’t live, that he would die and be at peace.
These predictions brought curses from Lord Maldrake, who insisted that they give the infant the best care and magical healing possible. For three days and nights he haunted the nursery, making certain no one spoke of his son in any way that displeased him. Yvaughan meanwhile kept to her bed, unable and unwilling to see the creature called her son. Maldrake cursed her, too, and called in a wet nurse to feed the child. Only the direst threats to her family kept the woman with them after seeing the infant. But when Brisbois had returned earlier today, Maldrake had left immediately on an urgent matter. He’d commanded his son’s nurse to keep the boy alive.
Tonight, in the darkest hour, Yvaughan slipped from her bed, secure in the knowledge that Maldrake wasn’t at the castle. She faltered coming into the room, but then her resolve hardened, and she made her way to the beribboned bassinet.
It still hasn’t died, Yvaughan thought as she looked down on the baby, refusing to think of it as her son. It must die. I must kill it, for I gave it life. Weakly she picked up a tiny white pillow, one she had lovingly embroidered herself, and looked again at the hideously contorted mouth of her son. Give me strength, she prayed as a wave of wracking pain flowed through her. She steadied herself against the crib. Give me the strength to kill this monster. He’s evil, he’s evil. I know he’s evil. With one hand she held out the pillow and placed it on her son’s mouth. She pressed down. A tear formed on her cheek.
“My lady!” Teryl stood in the nursery’s doorway. “You are awake at this hour!” He advanced into the room, his eyes on Yvaughan, her hand holding the pillow over the child’s mouth. “Is there something wrong?”
Yvaughan stared uneasily at the aged mage. His withered form looked dark in the moonlight, like a living shadow. Suddenly she felt unsure of Teryl Auroch, the man whom she called friend. “Teryl,” she whispered, taking the pillow away from the baby. She covered her eyes with her hands, for she couldn’t bear to look at the infant anymore. “The child-he’s dead…”
“Let me check, lady. Sometimes infants breathe irregularly,” Teryl soothed. The mage came to the crib and looked down at the deformed baby.
Yvaughan could bear it no more, and she took a few faltering steps away, clutching at the little pillow. Teryl reached down into the crib with his right hand and said, “Poor, poor little baby.” His left hand fluttered convulsively, and he murmured words she didn’t understand. She thought she heard the child gasp and her own breath faltered. Fervently she hoped the mage wouldn’t cast a spell to keep the child alive.
The mage walked over to Yvaughan’s side and put his hand on her arm. The hand did not shake. Teryl looked at Yvaughan, his face swathed in dark shadows. His teeth flashed coldly, though his voice was warm with concern. “Lady, we knew it would happen sooner or later. Do not grieve. The child’s death was all for the better; he’s at peace now.” He put an arm around Yvaughan. “Come. Let me return you to your chamber.”
Stumbling out of the nursery, Yvaughan allowed herself to be led back to her room. She was numb with emotion. “How… how will I tell Maldrake?” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and unblinking.
“Leave that to me, my lady,” soothed Teryl. “When Lord Maldrake returns in the morning, I will tell him the tragic news. Now, he down and rest, lady. I will send someone to tend you.”
Yvaughan’s blue eyes were glazed. “Thank you, Teryl. A cup of warm tea would be delightful.” The white and green bird hopped to her pillow, rested its bill next to Yvaughan’s ear, and cooed.
As night settled on the little village of Bywater, a dark, menacing shape glided in broad circles above its single street. The creature’s wings of leather whispered on the evening breeze. He watched as townsfolk closed their shops and walked quietly to their houses. Not one of them looked to the sky. Even the lamplighters did not look beyond the glow of their lanterns.
But then a horse neighed shrilly, and others took up the cry. They tugged at their hitching rings. A few lucky ones pulled free. They raced toward the forest east of Bywater, leaving their mates behind. The remaining horses pulled fearfully against the reins, rearing to break free.
The dragon descended. He hovered above the struggling horses, his golden eyes malevolently studying their fear. Lower the dragon came, its massive talons sinking into view from the lamplight. One claw-tipped hand seized a piebald pony as a child might grasp a toy. The pony bucked and kicked to keep the fearsome claws at bay, but to no avail. The talon wrenched the pony from the ground, snapping its haltered neck. The dragon flung the limp body across the road, where it smashed through the window of the abandoned winery. The remaining horses screamed. Lunging into the pack, the great wyrm set both claws to the slaughter. In moments seven horses lay dying, their death rattles rising into the air as their blood sank to the ground.
Townspeople rushed out, a few with swords in hand, but most with bows or axes. Baildon threw open his mercantile, arming the farmers with his most powerful weapons and giving the bowyers all the arrows he possessed. The people had known the dragon was back in the Wulfholdes, but they never dreamed the wyrm would come so far south to their little village. They were not cowards, however, and they would defend what was rightly theirs.
The townspeople rushed from the mercantile, shouting angrily and brandishing picks and flails. As they approached the gruesome carnage, however, their courage melted. They halted, their angry words dying in the sounds of the horses’ screams. Dropping their makeshift weapons, some of the villagers turned and fled.
The dragon stomped past the scattered bodies of the horses. He turned to the townspeople, and his golden eyes positively glowed. The remaining folk fell back as sudden fear gripped their hearts. A lucky handful of villagers ran in stunned terror, leaving the doomed village behind. The others were too stricken to move. The dragon hissed,
