The White Dragon (79 page)

"
Am
I trying to trap them?"

"—they'll shift their attention to killing her."

"Where will you be?" Mirabar asked, trying to smother the terror that filled her upon hearing his words.

"I'll be trying to capture one of
them
."

"Why?"

Najdan said, "It's our only chance of finding out why they're trying to capture Guardians instead of just killing them."

"That's it?" Pyron demanded. "That's your plan?"

"As long as you don't let them kill the
sirana
, we can disrupt
their
plan and end the battle before they've killed or captured everyone. Under the circumstances, we can hope for little more." Najdan paused and then added in a voice gone cold with menace, "I am leaving the
sirana
in your care. If you want to live past dawn, I strongly suggest that you don't let them kill her."

After the assassin left them to carry out his own plans, Pyron asked no one in particular, "Are you
sure
he's on our side?"

Tansen waited until he was sure the plan had worked, until he was sure both brothers had lost control of the narrow river which ran between their homes. Then he gave the signal for the next wave of men to attack, and he finally joined the battle himself.

Hanging back until now was hard. Fighting was what he did best; but he had to stay alive to implement his alternative plans if the first one didn't work.

Fortunately, though, Abidan and Liadon had fallen into his trap like bridegrooms falling into their marriage beds. The brothers needed each other, yet they had never learned to think and act as one. This was the weakness Tansen had discerned from the information gathered by the tireless Guardians in Zilar. If Abidan and Liadon could be separated by the attack, unable to communicate, they could be taken. Tansen had further played upon this weakness by giving them different problems, counting on each of them to fail to consider what the other might be dealing with until it was too late. Counting on them to struggle, lose focus, and make uncoordinated decisions, until one or both of them weakened enough for the Guardians to come between them and their water.

Without mastery over water, a waterlord was just a man. His assassins were still formidable fighters with unusually dangerous weapons; but other good fighters—not to mention fire sorcerers—could challenge them and win.

Tansen swept through the inferno which had once been Liadon's garden, slaughtering assassins who stood between him and his target. The roaring Guardian fire consumed Liadon's stone house, blasting Tansen with its fiery heat. The dark-moon night glowed golden with sorcery, making Liadon easy to spot. He was the unarmed man ignoring the battle raging all around him as he desperately tried to regain the power he had just lost.

"
Siran!
Watch out!"

An assassin leaped between Tansen and Liadon, defending his master with his life. Tansen knocked aside his
yahr
, parried the thrust of his
shir
, whirled once, and cut off his head. Blood shot up like a geyser for an ugly moment before the body keeled over.

Liadon, as spattered with blood as Tansen was, stared at him in open-mouthed shock. "It's you."

"It's me," he agreed.

"Kiloran warned us about you. He said—"

Tansen killed him. "I don't care what he said."

Ronall, whose brandy-fueled blood was pounding loudly in his ears, let the girl drag him through the trees until they reached a spot where he could see for himself.
 

He thought his heart would stop. Instead, it started thundering painfully in his tight chest. Elelar's gelding was dancing uneasily, tugging at the reins by which Ronall led it. He didn't blame the beast a bit.

Toren
Porsall's elegant house was ablaze beneath the dark-moon sky. It was slightly smaller than Elelar's country villa, and modest compared to Ronall's father's rural residence... The one which Ronall suddenly realized was now his, since his parents were dead. Porsall didn't appear to be filthy rich by the standards of Valdani
toreni
, but this was a substantial family estate.

It would be ashes by morning.

Dozens of
shallaheen
surrounded the place. The blazing torches in their hands made it quite unnecessary for the girl to scream right in Ronall's ear, "They're burning it down! They're burning the house!"

"Dar have mercy." She was right, he realized. They were killing the
toreni
. The local
shallaheen
were after the lifeblood of the Valdani in their community.

"Please help us," the girl cried. "Help us,
toren!
Those people are your kind!"

He glanced sharply at her, but he couldn't make out her expression in the dark.

She insisted, "The
shallaheen
will listen to you!"

So she took him for a full-blooded Silerian? Maybe the murderous crowd would, too, in that case.

Or maybe not. Fear flooded Ronall's thoughts. These were exactly the kind of bloodthirsty Silerian peasants who had murdered his own parents not long ago.

"I know they are Valdani," the girl said, weeping copiously, "but the
toren
has never been unkind to me, and the
torena
is very good! She took me in when I was driven out of my village in disgrace! When she saw that I worked well, she made me her personal maid and... gave me... many things... And was always... Please! Please, help!"

Watching the frenzied mob circling the burning villa, Ronall's throat was tight with fear. His stomach churned sickeningly. He was pretty sure he was shaking. "What makes you think the
toreni
are even still alive?"

"Can't you see?" She pointed. "The fire has driven them to the roof!"

He lifted his gaze and studied the red-tiled roof. Sure enough, a man and a woman were cowering up there, visible in the bright light of the raging fire.

"Where's a waterlord when you need one?" Ronall muttered.

"A waterlord will not help them! They are
toreni,
" she snapped.
 

"A waterlord won't help them because it's too late to save whatever they owned of value," he corrected absently, concentrating on his terror.
 

"
You
must help them!"

Ronall suddenly didn't want to die quite as much as he'd thought he did. His palms were sweating so badly that the reins were becoming slippery.
 

"Stop crying!" he snapped at the girl, afraid he'd start weeping, too.

"Please,
toren
," she cried. "Even a Valdan is a human being!"

He stared at her, grief sweeping through him.
 

They're killing them because they're Valdani. They're killing them because they're not real Silerians
.

"Dar curse them all," he said on a half-sob.

The girl flinched, then wailed, "If you won't help him, then please,
please
, at least help her! She is half-Silerian! Help her!
Help her!
"

He wasn't sure if it was the victims' Valdani blood or the girl's shrill hysteria which drove him into the fray, but suddenly he was mounted on Elelar's unhappy horse and galloping straight toward the reeling, raging, murderous crowd of
shallaheen
.

What in the Fires am I doing?

"Stop!" he screamed in common Silerian, his command of
shallah
being almost non-existent. "Stop! Stop this
now!
"

The wiry bodies of mountain-born peasants careened into his horse as he reined it to a prancing halt among them.

Guttural cries assailed his ears.

"Kill the Valdani! Kill the Valdani!"

"Take back what is ours!"

"Kill the
roshaheen!
"

Three have mercy, Ronall knew his time had come. He would die like his parents. He would die like every last Dar-cursed Valdan in Sileria.

"Stop this!" he shouted.

"What's it to you,
toren?
" demanded an old, scarred
shallah
who had finally deigned to notice him. "Who are you?"

He ignored the question and took a wild stab at reason. "The war is over! The Valdani have surrendered!"

"Then why are they still here?" someone screamed.

"This is their home!" he insisted, remembering what the old innkeeper had said earlier. "This family has been here for generations."

"They stole it! They took it from Silerian
toreni
like you! Where is your manhood? Where is your pride,
toren
?"

"Then let's talk to the family they took it from," he shouted. "Let's ask them what—"

"They are long since dead and gone!"

"So now
you're
stealing," he challenged, waiting for someone to haul him off his horse and beat him to death.

"This is Sileria. It is
ours.
They have no place here! The Valdani must leave!"

"Kill the
roshaheen!
Kill the
roshaheen!
"

"They were born here!" Ronall's heart thudded so hard it hurt. "Please, let's all talk. Let's act like men, not animals."

"They have made us animals!" the old
shallah
snarled. "And now we will make them pay!"

Someone cried, "They're coming down!"

Ronall looked up. Sure enough, even the roof was flaming now, and the terrified couple up there had no choice but to descend into the violent crowd and meet their end.

I'm going to die here. I'm going to die...

Elelar would probably never know what had happened to her wayward husband, how or when or where he had died. Nor would she care, since she could declare abandonment after three years and finally be free of him.
 

She would miss the horse, though.

Tell them who you are. Tell them you're half-Valdan. Finish it. Let it be done at last. Let them finish it.

Or... he could just turn around and run away. He looked longingly over his shoulder, knowing no one would follow him. With one quick jerk of the reins, he could be free of this disaster. Safe. Gone.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

He would never know why he did it, or how he found the guts to do it, but he reached down to grab the old
shallah
by the shoulder and said insistently, "Please. They are unarmed. You've destroyed their home. You're taking their estate." Taking it until someone more powerful put these
shallaheen
in their place, anyhow. "There is no government left to support any of theirs to reclaim this place. No Outlookers to protect them." When the old man tried to pull away, Ronall tightened his grip. "
Please.
Let them come with me. You don't need to kill them. Not now."