Rhiana

Though it did not bear his mark on the pommel, Paul would know to whom this sword belonged. A small flared rooster crest be his mark, taken from his great-grandfather’s coat of arms. ’Twas Paul Tassot’s proof mark, a sign the armor he’d made had been tested by arrows and was impenetrable at a distance of twenty paces.

Sword in hand, Rhiana set out for the armory. The noon sky brightened her mood. A flash of brilliant white glanced off the bronze roof topping the bath house. Not a single cloud this day. The only thing that could make the day better would be a bit of rain to drench the crops on the south side of the curtain walls.

“I’ve killed it!”

That declaration sounded too ominous to be a good thing. Rhiana dashed for the bailey where a small crowd had gathered. They surrounded something that moved and struggled about on the dirt courtyard. Was it a fallen horse? She could but see a flailing dark limb.

“Stomp its head!”

“Have you another arrow?” someone cried. “Get me a dagger!”

Rhiana pushed between two teenage boys and spied what had caused the commotion. A shout burst from her mouth before she could even summon sense. “Back! All of you! What have you…”

Plunging to her knees, she splayed out her palms before the struggling beast. Gawky and thin, it resembled a gargoyle nesting the castle tower come to life. It had taken an arrow in the pellicle fabric of one of its supple black wings.

“Rhiana?” Paul’s voice, as he pushed through the crowd. “What is it? Oh…”

“It is a newling,” Rhiana said to all, hoping an explanation would cool their lust for its life. “A baby dragon.” The crowd gasped in utter horror. “It will harm no one. Why, it is no larger than a dog. Who shot it?”

Protests against self-protection and thinking it was a big bird shuffled out in nervous mutters.

“It is a dragon!” Christophe de Ver snapped. He’d sought to join the garrison, but his awful eyesight kept him from earning his spurs, and resulted in more than a few tumbles and visits to Odette for stitching. “You killed one this very morn, my lady. Why are you so keen to keep this one alive?”

So word of her kill this morning had already breached the masses? Couldn’t have been Guiscard’s doing.

“It is but a babe,” she said. “Can you not see it is helpless? Was it you who shot it?”

Christophe nodded proudly. Rhiana must, for once, be thankful that the man’s myopia had altered his aim.

The newling mewled. It struggled to sit its hind legs. Its wounded wing shivered and stretched. It was completely black, the scales shimmery, yet supple. Easily pierced with an arrow.

“Bring it to the armory,” she heard Paul say. “We mustn’t keep it overlong.”

“We must kill it!”

“No!” Rhiana stood and bent over the newling. “We will remove the arrow and tend its wound. Then we must release it, or its mother will come looking for it.”

“Its mother?” Someone spat. “There are more dragons?”

“She will come anon!”

“And whose fault is that?” She could not argue with the idiocy of these people. And their cruelty. To bring down one so small? “Paul, can you lift it?”

Her stepfather knelt before the newling, and sweeping his arms around the thing, managed to cradle it into his embrace. Vision blocked by the spread of a good wing, Paul hoofed it quickly to his shop. Mewls scratched the sky, and the circle of villagers followed their steps to the armory. Rhiana closed the door on the curious faces and followed Paul into the warmth of the shop.

He set the newling on the wood floor before the brazier where solid ingots of iron waited his coaxing. “It may like the heat,” he suggested, and stepped back to stand beside Rhiana. The twosome shook their heads as the creature stood, and then stretched out its good wing. It squeaked loudly as its attempts to stretch the wounded wing resulted in it wobbling and stumbling to land on its tail. Then, with wide black eyes that seemed to beg for tenderness, it scanned its surroundings.

“This is not good.”

The newling rubbed its hind legs together. The horny projections on the backs of its legs created a piercing stridulation.

“Immensely not good,” Rhiana agreed. “Let’s get the arrow from its wing and send it on its way. That sound it makes… I think it is calling for its mother.”

Rhiana tried to hold it carefully without embracing overmuch, or making it feel captured, while Paul cut the wooden arrow with a clipper and carefully drew it from the wing.

The newling continued to stridulate. And Rhiana kept a keen eye to the open window. She looked beyond the horrified stares of the villagers and to the sky. Clear. For now.

“There.” Paul stood back, holding the two pieces of arrow. “Set it free.”

“Should we not cauterize the wound? It could become infected.”

“Rhiana, I want that thing out of here.”

“Very well, but what if it cannot fly?”

The newling stretched out its wing and shrieked.

“Then it can walk home. Take it to the parapet and release it. Or shall I do it?”

“No,” she said. “I can.”

The newling dropped to the ground like a rock.

Leaning out over the crenel between two merlons, Rhiana cried out. She should not have expected the small dragon to be able to fly with a hole in its wing. Yet, it wobbled off, away from the battlements, stridulating occasionally.

“Be quiet,” she said, but knew the hope was fruitless. “I should have carried you home. Oh, what—”

A cloud soared overhead, streaking the parapet Rhiana stood upon in a fast-moving shadow. Much too quick for rain—

Tensing at the shiver shimmying up the back of her neck, Rhiana did give no more time to wonder at the weather. ’Twas no cloud. Nothing could move so swiftly. Save, a dragon. And not a small, wounded newling, but mayhap…its mother.

CHAPTER FIVE

Steps picking up to a run, and skirt clutched to allow for longer strides, Rhiana headed down the spiraling stairs to the bailey. As she ran, yet another dark shadow crept across her path. A violet-winged creature dove toward the ground. Inside the castle walls.

Shrieks filled the air, both of the dragon kind and from humans.

Rhiana cursed her lack of crossbow and the cumbersome skirts. A glance to the shadows of the tower where they’d found the fallen newling spied the sword she’d found in the chapel. Lunging, Rhiana grabbed it. Drawing the sword from its sheath, she abandoned the leather slip in her wake.

The rampant’s wings flapped, swirling a gush of wind throughout the bailey. Dry, dusty earth coiled up in small tornadoes. Its cry was as a thousand eagles. Looking for her newling? Had it not seen the small creature wobbling along the battlements?

Likely, it had, and now it sought revenge for the injury done to her offspring. Stupid Christophe, to have shot at the newling!

Landing briefly, the rampant filled the bailey with a wingspan that stretched from the outer steps of the castle to the cooper’s shop that sat across the way. The violet beast lifted up from the ground and flew away as quickly as it had landed. The struggling limbs of a man dangled from its maw.

“Inside!” Rhiana yelled to all those foolish enough to yet be out in the streets. “Close your doors and hide under your beds. Grab the children. Run!”

She passed Myridia Vatel who cradled her newborn son to her bosom. Her house stood around the corner; she would make it.