Wyvern Read online

  Elsbeth rubbed her hands over her eyes and sighed in frustration. “What should I do, Irena? March out and beard the beast in its lair? I’ve no warrior’s skill, and this creature is formidable. News is that it’s already killed five men and their horses for challenging him.”

  “Then face it with another weapon, girl.”

  Puzzled, Elsbeth waited for Irena to expound on her enigmatic remark.

  A smile of pure satisfaction curved the elder’s mouth. “Remember, I know a little about dragons. Those foolish boys set out to fight the beast and kill it. You, my girl, will play for it and bargain.”

  Elsbeth grimaced at the village elder. “I’m going to die.”

  “No you’re not.” Irena watched with an eagle eye as her grandson, Ewan, helped Elsbeth don Angus’s notorious dragon armor.

  “And then I’m going to be eaten.” Elsbeth grunted a protest when Ewan pulled the straps on the breastplate tight against her ribs.

  “No you’re not,” Irena repeated. She thumped Ewan on the arm. “Here, you’re working too fast and overlooking things, you nitwit. You missed a buckle there.” She pointed to a spot somewhere near Elsbeth’s thigh.

  They stood in Irena’s solar, fresh from a shouting match with the village council earlier that morning. Elsbeth peered down at herself, trussed up in layers of dull gray dragon scale, and groaned. “Irena, you and the council are sending me to my death. I’ll never survive this meeting—if I even find the dragon.”

  Irena shushed her. “Hush. You’ll live through this and come away with a bargain that ensures the villagers leave Angus in peace, and the dragon leaves us and our sheep and cows alone. I have every faith in you, girl.”

  She beamed as Elsbeth took a turn about the room. The dragon armor made only a faint whisper as the scales rubbed together with her movements. Angus’s boasts about the armor’s superior qualities weren’t empty ones. Stitched and laced with a combination of leather and chain mail, and lined in silk, the suit was lightweight, flexible and quiet—certainly compared to clanking plate armor. It resisted fire, spear point and broadhead, as well as a broadsword’s lethal slash. Elsbeth thought it a wonder anyone had ever killed a dragon with that kind of natural protection covering its body.

  She spread her arms. “How am I supposed to play my fiddle in this?”

  Irena rolled her eyes. “You’re a right good fiddler who can play wearing a fish barrel. Besides, if you reach such an accord that the dragon asks you to play, you can shed the armor.”

  “If?” Elsbeth never liked “ifs” and Irena’s plan, backed enthusiastically by her fellow council members who weren’t risking a hair on their heads, was full of “ifs.” This one promised a gruesome end for her if it didn’t turn into a “when.”

  Irena frowned. “There are no guarantees, girl, but it will work.” She patted Elsbeth’s back. “Trust me. Besides, you faced down an angry crowd last night. What’s different?”

  “I don’t think they planned to kill and eat me.”

  “Considering Malcolm was in that little party, I wouldn’t be so quick to make that assumption. Imagine if you had to face him alone with naught but your armor and fiddle?”

  The elder had a point. Elsbeth made a last adjustment to her pauldron. “I’d want the entire dragon with me, not just the armor.”

  By the time Ewan loaded the dragon scale shield and supplies into the waiting cart outside, a sizeable gathering had converged in Irena’s garden. Elsbeth tucked Angus’s helmet under arm, took a breath and marched out to greet her spectators.

  Raucous laughter broke out among the villagers but was quickly silenced when she asked, “Any of you brave souls care to accompany me to Maldoza?” She smirked at the sudden quiet and shifting gazes. “I thought not.”

  They cleared a path for her as she passed, a few offering wishes of good luck, most shaking their heads in disbelief at the foolishness of her endeavor. Irena stayed close beside her, vigilant and narrow-eyed, daring anyone to scoff.

  Elsbeth strode to her waiting cart and pony, pausing when Malcolm stepped forward and blocked her path. His blunt features were shiny in the morning heat, as if he’d bathed from an oil jar. Remnants of breakfast hung in his beard and decorated his teeth when he smiled at her. She shuddered but held her ground.

  “I trust you’ll charm the beast, Elsbeth, and when you come back, I’ll be waiting.”

  She skirted around him, ramming an elbow into his side for good measure as she passed. “Then you best be waiting with your sword buckled on, Malcolm.” He laughed at her warning and returned to the crowd.

  Elsbeth didn’t look back. She’d deal with him later. Malcolm Miller had been a nuisance since she’d known him. Even when his wife lived, he had always watched Elsbeth, made known his lust for her. Irena was right. She’d have to step carefully around him. Since his wife’s death, that lust had turned to a strange, malevolent obsession, spurred on by her cold rejection to his numerous advances. A dragon waited for her at the cliffs of Maldoza, and a wolf in a man’s skin waited here in the village. She wasn’t sure which of the two was more frightening.

  When she clambered up to the cart seat, Irena was there to hand her two water flasks and a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Angus, girl. Ewan and his friends will bring him here. We’ll take good care of him. Even Malcolm won’t cross my threshold without an invitation, and I’ll be cold in my grave for a decade before that ever happens.”

  Elsbeth took the other woman’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you, Irena. I still think this is a fool’s errand, but I’ll do whatever needs doing to keep Angus here and safe.”

  Irena gripped her fingers in return. “The gods shelter you, Elsbeth.”

  The villagers edged back when the elder turned and shooed them away with sharp words and flapping hands, looking like a goose girl herding a flock of stubborn geese from her door.

  Elsbeth clucked to the pony, and the cart rattled onto the road with a creak of wheels and jangle of harness, leaving behind the relative safety of Byderside.

  The smoother road soon gave way to rutted drover paths that set her bouncing on the cart seat and her teeth clacking together. She ignored the rolling pasture lands and fields of wheat and barley that stretched for leagues on either side of the path. Instead, she focused on the towering rise of pock-marked rock in the distance. It would take her most of the day to reach the cliffs of Maldoza, and truth be told, she wasn’t in any great rush to get there.

  Rising in steep ascent from the flat ground, the cliffs jutted into the morning blue in sharp, stygian spires. Elsbeth had always admired them most at late afternoon, when they sparkled in the slanted rays of the sun, giving the illusion of a jeweled veil on a grieving queen’s crown. The face of the cliffs was scarred with holes, lidless eyes that surveyed the fields with an unblinking stare.

  Many a tale had been told to scare children about those dark caverns—how haints and banshees roamed their shadows, screeching and howling with the fury of the early spring storms. Too practical to believe every story told around a campfire, Elsbeth still suffered a flutter of unease at the sight of the peaks rising like obsidian teeth filed to points.

  Ghosts didn’t scare her; dragons did, and somewhere in that honeycomb of caves one waited and possibly watched her approach. She shivered, despite the thick padding of dragon armor and the hot morning sun beating down on her.

  She finally stopped to rest just after midday, coaxing the pony to a grassy hillock overlooking Donal Grayson’s southern pasture. Below them, a small pond reflected rolling clouds and swathes of sky on its mirror surface. After watering the little mare at the pond, she unpacked and ate her lunch.

  It would likely be her only meal. Camping out alone on the winding paths that cut through the haunted cliffs guaranteed another sleepless night and little appetite. A faint inner voice urged her to abandon such a foolish journey, return to the village and pack their things. If she were careful and slow in the going, Angus might survive the trip to
Durnsdale. They had enough money saved to afford a decent inn for a few days until she found more permanent quarters.

  Another voice however, the one indignant at being forced out of their home because of a false charge leveled against Angus, insisted she make the trip, see the plan through. Not only to help her grandfather, but to show the Byderside villagers just how stupid they were acting.

  Contrary to her earlier protestations, Elsbeth thought Irena’s unusual idea might work. The gods knew that knights on horseback, with their spears and gleaming swords, had failed to rid the countryside of of the dragon. They had done nothing more than anger the beast and get themselves killed and eaten in the process. Or so everyone assumed. None of the men who rode off for Maldoza in search of glory and treasure ever returned. Whole or in pieces.

  Irena’s advice echoed in her mind. “Why not try something different?”

  Why not indeed? Elsbeth smiled and tipped back her water flask for a drink. A woman dressed in old dragon armor carrying nothing more than a crossbow and a fiddle was certainly different.

  The elder had sworn dragons liked music. “Trust me. I know a little about dragons,” she’d said.

  Her enigmatic statement puzzled Elsbeth as she finished her lunch. How the fragile elder of a rural village knew about dragons begged many questions, but in the frantic events and preparations of the past day, she hadn’t thought to ask. Fighting off drunken men wanting to kill Angus, plotting with Irena over how to save him and wondering how she might survive this mad scheme had left her head spinning. She sighed. It would be good to have Alaric at her side right now.

  As soon as the thought occurred, she squelched it. This was no time to indulge in such daydreaming. The fact was she hadn’t seen or heard from her erstwhile lover in eight long years, and he wasn’t here now. She could thank Irena for inciting such thoughts. Her question as to why Elsbeth wasn’t married had awakened a long-buried yearning for a man she had once loved and refused.

  The clear image of laughing gray eyes glittering with desire rose in her mind’s eye. Alaric had charmed every man, woman and child when he entered the village of Ney-by-the-Water. Elsbeth, mistrustful of the bard suddenly in their midst, had been no more immune than the others, though she tried her best to hide it. He had brought with him an amazing cache of stories, and the villagers fought with each other for the honor of having him sup with them and hear his tales told in a voice as rich and luxurious as priceless silk. He had taken her heart and left her with nothing more than memories.

  Her reticence to accept him amused him. “You’re a suspicious one, Elsbeth Weaver. What evil do you think I plan for your friends and neighbors?” His smile teased her, a gentle mockery of her wariness.

  He confronted her one day outside her home while she sat in the afternoon sun and wove a new rug on her loom. Elsbeth had almost run into the house when she spotted him approaching but refused to let him see how much he disturbed her.

  She answered his question with one of her own. “How long will you stay in Ney-by-the-Water, Master Alaric?” She raised an eyebrow when the storyteller folded his long legs and sat down next to her, uninvited.

  “Another fortnight, maybe. Why do you ask?”

  Her fingers paused on the loom’s shuttle. She didn’t want him this close. He’d surely notice her blush, the way her breathing sped up when he drew near—just like the other silly maids in the village who flirted and batted their eyelashes each time he got within spitting distance.

  His knowing smile made her bristle. A bard’s words were his trade, and more than a few village maidens had succumbed to such treacherous skill only to be left behind with a fatherless babe in their belly as a reminder of their folly. Elsbeth had no intention of falling into such a trap.

  “A fortnight?” The shuttle clacked back and forth on the loom with growing speed as she wove. “How fortunate for you that our village is so welcoming to strangers, and you’ve a skill for spinning tales. You’ll be well-fed by the time you leave.”

  Alaric draped his arms over his knees and bowed his head. Elsbeth admired his hair, the color of roasted chestnuts. Sunlight sheened his long locks with russet highlights. His wide shoulders rippled with muscle, and her fingers itched to draw swirling patterns over the smooth golden skin revealed by his sleeveless vest.

  She frowned and slammed the shuttle down against the loom, wrenching the rug’s weft and warp. Too handsome by far, and he knew it. Elsbeth hoped he’d caught her not so subtle barb about leeching off the generosity of others. It might be an unfair accusation. It was customary for villages to house traveling bards, but she wanted him gone. He was far too dangerous to her senses, and she refused to feed his vanity with her admiration.

  Alaric raised his head and gazed at her with storm-cloud eyes. His smile was not so easy this time. “Aye, the women in Ney-by-the-Water are fine cooks. Your men are lucky.” He reached out to touch her arm, halting when she scooted away from him. The smile disappeared. “Your people have been kind to this traveler, Beth. All save you.”

  Elsbeth flushed, ashamed. He didn’t exaggerate. She had purposefully avoided him and kept her replies short to the point of rudeness on those few occasions he tried talking to her. Not once had she invited him to a meal since his stay, despite Angus’s hints that it would be a fine thing having the storyteller at their table. She left any gathering he joined and did her best not to meet his gaze when it landed on her.

  It was the height of discourtesy, but she had counted on Alaric’s popularity with the other villagers not to be noticed. And honestly, she never imagined he would notice, though she often caught him watching her as she ran errands in the village or visited neighbors.

  “I’m a poor cook,” she said grudgingly. “You miss nothing but burnt stew and hard bread.”

  Alaric shook his head. “Untrue. I miss the company of a fine woman I’ve admired since I came here.” Her hand froze on the shuttle. “You may not reveal your true self to me, Beth, but I’ve watched you with others and heard you play your fiddle. You make magic with your music, and you’ve a smile like the sun after a gray rain.” His voice deepened, the words rolling off his tongue like a caress. “I want you to smile that way for me.” Again, that sun-browned hand reached out to touch her.

  Elsbeth stiffened but didn’t move away this time, too stunned by what he said to do anything more than stare at the long finger tracing a delicate line down her arm.

  “I’m not your enemy, Beth,” he said. “Invite me to your table.”

  She jerked out of his reach and scrambled to her feet. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “It’s not my name.”

  Alaric remained seated, eyes gone frosty. “My apologies, Mistress Weaver,” he said in a voice no longer warm, but distant and cool. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Elsbeth exhaled a long breath. She was usually good-natured, possessing a ready laugh and an appreciation for a well-told joke, but something about Alaric brought out the shrew in her.

  “You’ve a smile like the sun after a gray rain.”

  The man possessed a tongue coated in poisoned honey, and the sensible part of her mind warned her not to give in to such deadly charm. Still, his compliment freed the butterflies in her ribcage, and it was only fair that she and Angus feed him at least once.

  Elsbeth ignored that internal sensible voice. It was just supper after all. “I’m serving lentils and a bit of pork tonight. There’s always more than my grandfather and I can eat.” Alaric’s gaze thawed, and his delighted smile enhanced his prominent cheekbones.” She frowned. “I’ll serve at the sixth hour. If you’re not here, we won’t wait.”

  He rose gracefully. Elsbeth was a tall woman, but Alaric towered over her. She caught his scent, an intriguing combination of sunlight and cool sharpness—pine or cedar or some other evergreen that grew on the shadowed slopes of Findley’s Mountain. Her nostrils flared. He smelled as good as he looked.

  She moved away, warning him with a narrowed gaze that he stood too
close. Alaric raised his hands in surrender and stepped back a few paces. He grinned, his eyes alight with pleasure at her invitation. “I’ll be there,” he promised. “And lentils are my favorite.”

  Elsbeth snorted and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure they are, Master Alaric.”

  He laughed then, a low, vibrant sound that caressed her ears and sent a tingle down her back. If she didn’t escape into the house soon, he’d spot the blush fast crawling up her chest to her face. She hurried to the door.

  “Will you play your fiddle for me, Elsbeth?” he called out to her.

  She halted to cast him a disapproving look over her shoulder. “Supper and music, storyteller? You ask a lot for a tale or two.”

  The intensity of his gaze belied his casual smile. “Ah, sweet lass,” he said softly, “I’d ask for much more if I thought you were inclined to give it.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks the moment she shut the door behind her. She closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. If this kept up, they’d have to eat in the dark so Alaric couldn’t see her red face.

  The pony’s wuffling shook Elsbeth out of her nostalgic musings. Tater, so named because of her rotund belly and dull brown coat, wandered closer, grazing on a thick carpet of grass next to where Elsbeth sat. The pony nudged her none too gently out of the way.

  “Sorry, Tater,” she said and rose to dust the crumbs of her lunch off her hands and armor. She was being an idiot, wasting good daylight mooning over a man long gone or long dead.

  She repacked her supplies and was harnessing Tater to her traces when the little mare’s ears suddenly flattened against her head. Her eyes rolled, and she stamped her hooves. Only her mistress’s firm hold on the halter kept her from bolting, and the cart rattled with her struggles.

  The hairs on Elsbeth’s nape rose. A moment earlier, a chorus of birdsong and insect chittering had risen from the fields. They’d gone silent now. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the shadow of great wings passing over the pond’s glass surface. A concussion wave of air bowed the stalks of wheat and rippled the still waters. Tater squealed and lunged in her traces, nearly jerking Elsbeth off her feet. She held onto the halter with one hand and scrabbled for her crossbow on the cart seat with the other. It wouldn’t do her much good. She couldn’t nock a bolt and hold the pony at the same time, but it calmed her rising fears just to have the weapon in hand.