King's Dragon
The Dragons cantered up and pulled in beside Wolfhere, who had ridden ahead to meet them. Liath came up behind him, Hathui and Hanna behind her, Manfred still away in the field, watchful.
“Eagles!” cried the lead rider. He did not remove his helmet; Liath could just make out blue eyes, blond beard, and a grim expression behind the nasal and cheek guards of the helmet. “That whistle will be a signal for reinforcements. We’ll escort you into the city.”
“There’s a deacon,” said Wolfhere, gesturing west. “She carries a holy relic and only left her church after all her people were safely gone. She and the relic must be protected.”
The Dragon nodded stiffly. “We will escort her west as far as we are able.” “What of Gent?” asked Wolfhere.
“Fifty-two of the Eika ships we have counted already, and more have come since we arrived here. They want Gent’s bridges thrown down so they may raid inland at their whim, along the Veser. This, the mayor of Gent refuses.”
“Will there be a siege?”
“There already is. Their earthworks line half the eastern shore.”
Wolfhere turned. “Hathui, take Hanna and ride with these Dragons. You will follow the good deacon as far as Steleshame and leave her there. Then you will ride south, to deliver this grievous news to King Henry.”
Blood wept from the wound on Hathui’s leg. Her lips were set thin against the pain, and her reply was curt. “Yes.”
That fast, she turned away, and Hanna, with a desperate glance toward Liath, turned after her. Across the field, in the shadow of the knoll, the Eika waited, standing like stone statues and staring toward their foes.
The Dragon lifted up his helmet and set a wood whistle, caught on a silver chain around his neck, to his lips. He blew, hard. Liath heard nothing. The Eika dogs barked wildly and were kicked into silence. The Dragon blew once more, though no sound issued, then tucked the whistle back under his mail and pulled his helmet down to cover his face.
“Ride for Gent,” he said to Wolfhere. “Ride hard. There will be more Eika, many more, and soon. And never forget: Their dogs are worse than they are.” He reined his horse past Wolfhere and Liath, and with his five comrades behind him headed west, following after Hathui and Hanna. More than half of the waiting Eika broke left, setting off at a comfortable lope, as if they meant to trail the two Eagles and their Dragon escort all the way to the Abyss. Hanna shifted one last time in her saddle, lifting a hand, dropping it when she saw the Eika who pursued them.
Wolfhere spoke gruffly. “Ride! Come, Manfred!”
Liath followed. She could not even risk looking back.
Her stomach had clenched into a knot and it felt as heavy as her heart. Not even a chance to say farewell! She blinked back tears.
“No sign,” said Manfred, who searched the fields and copses and straggle of burned and ruined outbuildings that separated them from the first distant bridge, the river’s edge with its low line of trees, and beyond it the walls of Gent.
They urged their horses into a canter. A hundred questions raced through Liath’s mind: Did the Eika have no weapons except spears? No armor? Was their skin their armor? If they were not human, and not of elvish kind, then what were they? And of what breed were their dogs, who looked more like four-legged devils than like dogs? Why did the Eika not pursue them? Ai, Lady, would they catch up with Hanna and the others? Would Hanna win free?
The rain started again. Her horse began to have trouble in the wet ground, and they had to slow down. They cut back toward the road, hoping to find better footing. Her back stayed dry, under the cloak, but already she felt trickles of cold rain dribbling down her neck and chest. Was Hanna also hampered by the rain? Would the Eika catch up to them? Or were the savages as reluctant to engage with the Dragons as they had appeared to be, back by the knoll?
Wolfhere cursed under his breath.
She looked, followed his gaze, and gasped aloud. Striding down from the north, the heavy gray clouds lowering behind them, came at least one hundred Eika, hair gleaming that strange, sickly white. They were armed with spears and axes and with round shields painted with fearsome red serpents coiled together over yellow or black or striped backgrounds. Their dogs massed, a restless, low hedge, before them.
Her horse needed no urging. It found the road, a firmer surface than the fields, and began to gallop toward the bridge. She looked back to see Manfred and Wolfhere just coming up onto the packed earth and rock of the road. Manfred lifted his spear upright and twisted it to unfurl the banner of the Eagles: an eagle with wings outspread carrying an arrow in its beak and a scroll in one talon. But the Eika were closer to the river. Already they ran at a steady lope that ate up the ground between them and their intended victims. Even Liath could see that the Eika would reach the bridge before the three Eagles could get there. She reined in her horse, wheeling around, but behind, back by the now distant knoll, another group of Eika had gathered, more than there had been before. Manfred passed her and kept riding, seeming oblivious to their inevitable fate.