The Dragon Queen (3 page)

“Maybe I will insult you after dinner,” the Saxon said, “and treat you like a woman, too.” He laughed at his own sally and elbowed his other seat mate, another of Merlin’s big Saxons.

Maeniel, who wanted no fight at a king’s table, looked over at the Saxon, a long, slow, considering sort of look.

“You have eyes like a wolf,” the Saxon said. The smile dropped from his face. “I have killed wolves.”

“And I,” Maeniel said, “have killed men.”

He felt the weight of the Saxon’s hand on his leg. Maeniel’s hand dropped, and a second later the hand that had been on his thigh was twisted up between the Saxon’s shoulder blades. The Saxon’s other hand was groping for his table knife.

“Put it down,” Maeniel said. “I can, and will, break your wrist.”

The Saxon was quiet. No one else seemed to be taking any notice. The servants were passing out cups and the women were following with downcast eyes, filling them. Vortigen was looking straight ahead, a small smile on his lips; next to him Merlin was watching Maeniel from the corner of his eye.

“You will respect the king’s peace or I will slit your throat with your own table knife,” Maeniel said softly.

The Saxon made no answer.

Maeniel brought the man’s shoulder almost to the point of dislocation. Perspiration broke out all over the Saxon’s face.

“You will do as he says.” The voice was Merlin’s, speaking from the other side of the king.

“Yes-s’s‘s’s.” The word hissed out, like steam escaping from a kettle.

Maeniel released the Saxon’s arm. The Saxon let out a low groan of relief.

Vortigen murmured softly, “And left handed, too.”

Maeniel was silent, but something about Merlin’s face bothered him. It was almost as if the man—priest, druid, or whatever he was—seemed satisfied, and Maeniel didn’t like that. No, he didn’t like that at all.

A cup was placed in front of him by Vareen. The girl following him was collared like the rest but either she didn’t mind her status or wasn’t afraid, because she smelled to Maeniel of the clean, fresh breeze coming from the water and of something less universal, rosemary perhaps. She smiled at Maeniel when she filled his cup, and he knew when he met her eyes that she was something unusual.

Ah, he thought. I
am ever susceptible. Many things
I
dislike about humans , but their women
—
never.
She had a smile for him in her eyes. The bishop had warned him about women. He hadn’t heeded the warning, but then he never did. But
for them, the fair ones, 1 had rather been a wolf. The gray people are far less complicated to deal with,
was his thought.

“I don’t recognize her,” the Saxon muttered. “She wasn’t one of the ones I rounded up.”

He was speaking to his friend seated beside him. The anger Maeniel felt when the Saxon had touched him without his permission had extended his senses full stretch.

“Damn,” the other whispered back. “She might be one of Vareen’s people. The old fox is a sly one. I wonder how many he managed to plant among the dinner guests?”

“I don’t know,” the Saxon said, and shuddered.

“Someone walk over your grave, Crook Nose?” the other warrior said. “Surely the British pig eater didn’t twist your arm that hard.”

Maeniel realized they were speaking in low voices and in their own language, and he was sure they felt secure. Not only did they think their whispers wouldn’t be heard, but even if overheard, they would not be understood. He reached for the wine before him, lifted the cup to his lips, and drank.

Very good
, he thought. “From one of the Roman villas in Gaul.”

“He shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Crook Nose said. “He’s not that big or strong.”

“You see magic everywhere.”

“That’s because it is. Those drui—”

“Be quiet.”

Maeniel felt Crook Nose jump as his companion kicked his ankle.

“Don’t even speak of that.”

Maeniel took half a cup of wine, then he stopped because he was beginning to feel it; but he noticed no one else did. They all drained their cups with a right good will. The women made the rounds again with the wine. Merlin rose. He was holding a cup in his hand. It was large, bound at the edges with expensive filigree work, and set with rubies. Something about the rubies bothered Maeniel’s eyes. They seemed to stand out from the cup in a strange way.

“Let us drink to our king and the hard won peace we now have all over this island.” Merlin stretched out the cup toward Vareen and commanded, “Top this off.”

As Vareen came forward, Maeniel saw it before anyone else. It was not a cup Merlin held in his hand but a glowing golden serpent with ruby eyes. Vareen screamed as the serpent lashed out, embedding its fangs in his wrist. At the same moment, Maeniel felt the steel in his own body. He turned. Crook Nose had driven a long knife, the sort the Saxons were named for—a sax—into his belly below his ribs. Maeniel slammed one hand into the Saxon’s shoulder and the other into the side of his jaw, twisting the Saxon’s body one way and his head the other, snapping his neck.

All over the room screams rang out as men died. As the first Saxon fell away, Maeniel saw another driving a sax into Vortigen’s back. Maeniel pulled the sax out of his own side and eviscerated the king’s assassin.

The wolf reared and leaped out of his brain’s darkness, slamming Maeniel into the change to save his life. A second later, the gray wolf cleared the table and landed on the floor in front of the king’s chair. The wolf’s mind was a whirl of confusion. He knew no one here other than Vortigen and he was dead. Before Maeniel killed him, the assassin had done his work. This was Merlin’s doing. He was sure. The wolf lunged for the druid’s throat.

Something like a club slammed into Maeniel’s body, sending him reeling. The snake was on him, its coils wrapped twice around his body. The head drew back and two glowing red eyes looked into his. It struck, burying its fangs to the hilt in the wolf’s shoulder.

If Maeniel could have screamed, he would have. Instead, he became human. Even Merlin was stunned by the sight. A powerful, naked warrior stood between him and the fire, his skin gleaming with the ripple and play of iron muscles under it.

Vareen’s dying brain took in the sight. Vengeance! The gods themselves would demand vengeance for the British druid’s actions this day. Merlin had thrown his lot with the Saxons and the chiefs who would sell out their own people and laid vile hands on a high king. He used the last of his energy to reach out and drive a message like a sliver of light into the gray wolf’s mind. Throw
it into the fire.

Vareen lay in the arms of the slave girl who had served Maeniel’s wine. She smelled of the sea.

They both heard Merlin scream, “No!” He threw up his arms and crossed them over his face, as Maeniel ripped the golden serpent free, taking a lot of his own flesh and blood with it, and hurled the serpent into the heart of the fire. The fire seemed to explode, sending logs and parts of the serpent flying up toward the roof. It went splintering into shards of glass, coming down like smoke colored knives on the guilty and innocent alike.

The falling glass sheared away part of Merlin’s arm and sliced into his face.

The wizard screamed and fell, as did dozens of his men, some dead, some yet living, in their own blood and guts, dying among their victims.

The girl, cradling Vareen’s body in her arms, smiled and made a strange gesture toward Maeniel.

The wind took Maeniel. Feeling as if he were caught in the rapids of a wild river, he hurtled into nothingness as the venom of the magical creature burned out of his body—and then he was in the wind above the clouds, for seconds looking down on a sea surging, moving, foaming by moonlight. He was so high he couldn’t tell if he were flying or falling.

He yielded up everything—will, memory, and, finally, at last, consciousness itself—into nothingness.

She was, Maeniel thought, a beautiful thing, to a somewhat battered wolf stretched out in a thick copse of rowan. He had landed here sometime in the night. At least that was his first thought when he awakened among the trees.

Thirst had brought him up from the primal sea of darkness. The events in Vortigen’s feasting hall seemed like a dim memory or the shadow of an unhappy dream. Dreaming is a thing men have in common with all other warm blooded creatures, and even as a wolf, Maeniel had been familiar with nightmares. He staggered to his feet, his shoulder still terribly painful, and went to look for water.

He found it at the foot of the hill, a spring that emptied out of the rock into a stone basin.

He drank. Thirst was a burning torture, but at first he drank too much and his stomach shot it back into a patch of bracken on the stream bank. He lay down for a few moments while raw terror flooded his brain. He remembered the golden snake with its glowing red eyes. Had it killed him? It had killed Vareen. And, indeed, Merlin had been at pains to kill Vareen, believing him more a threat than Vortigen.

Oh, god, suppose he couldn’t eat or drink and simply vomited until he died. Died in torment. Thirst was a glowing coal in his mouth. What if he could never assuage it? But he was a solid creature. Most canines are, and he did not easily give way to panic. Rest
now and let your stomach rest.
He did so, and in a little time he drank again, this time exercising more moderation, and the water stayed down.

He lay there for the remainder of the night, alternately sleeping and drinking until he felt stronger. He was awakened by first light stealing across the downlands below. He had heard of Hadrian’s great wall; it marched from sea to sea across the neck of Britain. It took Maeniel a few moments to realize he was looking at it—or what remained of it—built across open country. Wall, bank, and ditch, with a mile castle overgrown by weeds and small trees on a hill nearby.

He worried for a few minutes about how he could have gotten so far from Tintigal, almost at the other end of the country. Then he was distracted by a serpent that came to drink. Every hair on Maeniel’s body stood up, and he let fly with a savagely menacing growl. The serpent, a normal green striped individual, was profoundly intimidated and drew back into the grass. But it remained, peering at him through the red stems. He remembered his own overpowering thirst the night before and felt sorry for the creature, so he lay still and made no more threatening noises. At length the serpent, emboldened, returned, slid out of the sedges where it was hiding, lowered its head into the water, and drank.

Maeniel was further disturbed when the serpent turned, faced him, and said, “Be quiet. Wait here.”

Fine
, Maeniel thought.
Now
I’m hearing
things
.

No,
you are not,
the wolf half of his divided nature told him. Shut
up and obey.
He was so injured and so weary that all he could do was obey, and he drifted off into a light sleep.

He was aware the moment a doe and her fawn stopped to drink and when one of the wild stallions that roamed the downs showed up accompanied by three mares. But he didn’t move and remained near the wild rose thicket where he was resting. He was too weak and weary to go after any of them for food. Especially not the horses, who were in a dither about something. They reeked of fear.

Then she came and was a beautiful sight to his eyes. A young she wolf, her teats swollen with milk and a load of meat in her belly for her pups. She drank and her eyes met his over the pool. She gave a slight start, then walked around the well to look down on him.

“Mother,” he said, “give me some of what you have in your belly. I am in great need.”

“I have my young to think of,” she replied.

“I will repay you when I regain my strength.”

She made her decision. “It is not every day I find a strong stranger lying under a bush. Will you remain with me or return to your kin?”

“My kin are far away and I cannot think I will be able to find them.” “You temporize like…” She didn’t quite know what to compare him to.

He lifted his head. She was life. “I will remain.”

She lowered her muzzle and he licked it. She regurgitated all the meat in her belly for him. He ate and felt the life returning to his body the way longed for rain soaks into the dry earth. When he stood, he was lean but whole and hungry.

She had sat and watched him gulp the meat down. “Well,” she said.

He remembered the four horses that had been so afraid. He was pretty sure he knew why. The wind told him a number of things.

“Bear?” he said to the she wolf. (Wolf is laconic.)

“Yes.” (Translation, yes we have bear here.)

“Come.”

She hesitated.

“I will protect you.”

“You look as though you might be able to.” And she followed.

Not far from the spring the hillside had fallen away, leaving a low bluff. The bear had killed by driving the horses over the bluff.

One had not survived.

The bear fed on the haunch, then left to seek his cave. There was plenty of meat on the carcass. The she wolf sat, then lifted her muzzle to the sky—a notification song.

She and Maeniel began to feed. He chose the haunch where the bear fed, leaving the shoulder to her. By wolf law, she was entitled to as much as she could consume for herself and her pups.

Her two brothers arrived somewhat later. By then Maeniel was finished. He was full and grooming himself.

They looked at him.

The she wolf lifted her head and spoke to the two of them. “Don’t even think about it. Besides,” she continued, “I need a husband. He will do.”

The brothers studied Maeniel. He studied them. At best, at the very best, they were yearlings. So was she; in a well realized, prosperous pack she wouldn’t even be thinking of motherhood, but something had happened here.

“Men?” Maeniel asked.

The brothers looked at each other. “Yes.”

“I will join you. I can provide some wisdom.”

“You know men and can predict their strange ways?” one of the brothers asked.

“Yes. I am very good at it.” Maeniel was patient as they sniffed him nose to tail. Afterward, they joined their sister at her meal.