Wyvern
Grace Draven
Wyvern
by Grace Draven
Wyvern - Copyright © 2007 by Grace Draven
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover designed by Grace Draven.
Contents
1. Wyvern
About the Author
1
Wyvern
Elsbeth calmly nocked an arrow into her grandfather’s crossbow and contemplated which of the villagers she’d have to shoot first.
“Come out, Angus Weaver! ‘Tis your doing that the beast is attacking and eating our livestock!”
Wood planks shivered beneath hard blows as the mob outside beat their fists against her door and shouted their anger.
“Aye, Angus, come out! You ain’t welcome here no more!”
She waited until there was a pause in the battering and jerked the door open to face her adversaries. A cluster of startled villagers greeted her with glassy-eyed stares and spirit fumes strong enough to ignite a torch at six paces. As one, the crowd swayed back at the sight of the crossbow she pointed at them. Elsbeth was no marksman, but she could hit what she aimed for at close range. She leveled the sights on the mob’s ringleader, Malcolm Miller.
Big, muscled, with a head of shaggy hair and unkempt beard, he reminded her of a bear—brutish and quick to use force to get his way.
Torchlight danced across the crowd, enhancing their drunken swaying—an eerie effect that transformed men into a single, viperous creature ready to strike the moment she moved. Malcolm’s features were especially cruel in the flickering light, reminding Elspeth of a Fool’s Day mask that had once frightened her as a small child. She suspected the light revealed much about Malcolm—the beast lurking behind the façade.
“Move aside, Elsbeth.” He lurched closer, hesitating when she raised the crossbow a little higher.
“Or what, Malcolm?” Her finger tightened against the bow’s trigger at the mob’s restless movements. Rivulets of sweat tickled her ribcage. The lump of fear wedged in her throat made it difficult to breathe, but she refused to move from the doorway. “Why have you brought these good people out into the night to beat my door down and disturb my grandfather’s rest?”
Malcolm sneered, his small eyes glittering with a combination of malice and lust that made Elsbeth’s skin crawl. “You know why, woman. We want Angus.” Spittle flew from his mouth in a noxious spray. “He’s the reason the dragon is destroying this village and wiping out our herds.” He turned from her to face the crowd. “Is it not so, friends?” he trumpeted to his followers. “We had no trouble with dragon-kind until Weaver settled here, telling his tales of slaughtering such a beast and showing his dragon armor to all and sundry.”
A chorus of ayes answered him, and the men surged forward once more, driven by Malcolm’s words, to punish the man they believed the harbinger of their misery. Again, they hesitated at the sight of Elsbeth’s ready crossbow.
The ringleader jeered at his companions. “It’s just one woman with a single bolt! She can’t stop all of us!”
Elsbeth raised her voice to match his. “Aye, just one bolt to kill one man. Which of you lads is willing to die so the rest of your brave friends can drag a crippled old man out into the cold and hang him?” Her upper lip curled when Malcolm himself made no move to rush her. “You Malcolm?” she sneered. “Give me an excuse. You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my ass since we came to live at Byderside.”
Her grip on the bow firmed when Malcolm growled and took a threatening step forward. So be it. The miller’s son would go down first. Elsbeth had never killed anyone before, and her stomach churned with both terror and horror, but she didn’t hesitate and took aim.
A commanding voice rang out. “Stop this! Hold, I say!”
The crowd parted, opening a path for a diminutive, white-haired figure dressed in a night rail and tattered robe. Irena the Elder strode to the front, almost glowing with an aura of power. She leveled a glare on Malcolm so withering, he flinched away from her, shame-faced. Elsbeth wondered how such a small woman managed to quell an angry mob more effectively than a loaded crossbow. Whatever worked, she thought, heartily grateful for Irena’s sudden appearance.
The elder came to stand next to her. “How are you, girl?” Her voice was low, for Elsbeth’s ears alone.
“Terrified,” she whispered. “Thank all that’s sacred you came when you did. I thought I’d have to shoot Malcolm.”
“No great loss there, and it might shut him up for once.” A twinkle of amusement lit Irena’s faded blue eyes, and Elsbeth smiled, despite her grim circumstances.
Irena turned her damning glare on the rest of the crowd. Like Malcolm, many bowed their heads and shuffled their feet. A few, however, refused to be shamed and shouted their grievances.
“That dragon is killing our livestock and burning our fields!”
“It’s vengeance for its kindred. Angus killed one of its own!”
The old woman gave a disdainful snort. “And ye thought to stop it by swinging a dying old man on a gallows tree?” She crossed her thin arms. “Come straight from Will’s tavern, didn’t you, lads?” A few mutters confirmed her assumption, but none spoke up to argue, not even Malcolm who alternately glared at Elsbeth and undressed her with a lascivious gaze.
“Go home,” Irena ordered. “If you wish, we’ll hold council tomorrow to discuss this problem, but we won’t be doing here in the cold night while a frightened woman holds off a pack of drunkards far gone into their cups.”
Elsbeth held her breath. Please, she prayed. Let the elder’s words be enough. She swallowed back a relieved exhalation when the men slowly wandered away, a few leaning on each other in stuporous camaraderie as they stumbled home.
Malcolm left last. Unlike the others, drink hadn’t made him pliable, only more vicious, and he bared his teeth in a feral smile, gaze icy and sober. “This isn’t over between us, woman.”
Fear burned a cold fire in her belly, but she met his gaze, hiding that fear behind a shield of disdain. “We’ve yet to start anything, Malcolm.” She kept the bow trained on his midriff. “And we never will.”
He glowered at her, then spat at her feet before turning to walk away. His hulking body cast a misshapen black shadow on the ground, as if a beast, instead of a man, crossed the village square. The two women watched him leave.
“Watch yourself, girl,” Irena said. Worry lines added more wrinkles to her forehead. “Malcolm has coveted you since you first came to Byderside. His interest grows dangerous.”
The bow suddenly felt heavier than a cart shaft in Elsbeth’s hands. Her shoulders sagged as she lowered the weapon to her side. Tears stung her eyes. “May the gods bless you all your days, Elder. “I think you saved my grandfather and me this night.”
Irena gave another of her signature snorts and patted Elsbeth’s arm with a wrinkled hand. “Bah. You did fine on your own. I thought for sure Abelard would piss his trousers when you swung that bow his way.”
Elsbeth’s laugh sounded weak to her ears. “Then he wasn’t alone. I nearly pissed my skirts when Malcolm decided to test my resolve.”
&nbs
p; The humor eased some of her tension, soothed the fear scraping along her nerves. She pushed open the cottage door wider. Firelight from the small hearth spilled into the darkness. “Please come in and get warm. I’ve plum tea from the south. A barter good from a merchant in Durnsdale.”
Irena accepted and strode into the house. Though small, the home Elsbeth shared with her grandfather Angus offered comfort and sanctuary, and never had she been so glad for the sturdiness of their door.
The hearth fire warmed a main room redolent with the scent of dried herbs draped from the rafters. A cauldron hung suspended over the flames. Steam spiraled upward in lazy revenants from the cauldron’s contents, venting through the chimney Angus insisted they have built to keep the house clear of smoke haze. A scuffed table and pair of benches took up most of the room, sharing space with a loom tucked into a corner and surrounded by baskets full of brightly colored wool skeins and thread reels. The loom held a half-finished rug sporting a celestial design woven in colors of blue, black, and deepest burgundy.
Elsbeth unloaded the bow and returned it to its place near the door. She checked the door’s crossbar, making certain it was wedged well into place. For the first time since their move to Byderside, the barred door did not feel so invulnerable. She doubted she’d see the back of her eyelids tonight. Despite Irena’s edict and the villagers’ obedience, she didn’t trust they wouldn’t congregate again and pay her another visit before dawn’s break.
Irena made her way to the loom for a closer look at the rug. The woman’s wizened face crinkled into a map of care-worn roads as she peered closely at Elsbeth’s latest creation. “This is lovely, girl. One of your finest, I think.” She traced a path across the rug, fingers just above the bias without touching. “What city merchant with a fat purse and a spoiled wife commissioned this one?”
The heat from the fire felt good on Elsbeth’s chilled arms. She stirred the coals and lowered the cauldron closer to the fire to boil the water for tea. “A spice trader ready to spend a good profit from a loaded ship. That’s my second one for him. He’s commissioned three.” She straightened and sighed. “Who knows if I’ll finish the third now.”
Irena met her gaze with a troubled one of her own. “The village will want a solution to the dragon problem by end of the council session tomorrow.” She left the loom and settled onto the bench Elsbeth prepared by the fire. Her aged bones creaked as she sat.
Elsbeth pulled two cups from her small chest of dishware, keepsakes from a mother she didn’t remember. Anger seeped into her voice, along with indignation. “Angus and I have broken bread with these people for five years gone, Elder. Before he took to his bed, he was always welcomed at the Hound and Hollow for an ale and a smoke. I’ve quilted with the women and taught some of their children how to weave. I’ve played my fiddle at their handfastings.” She prepared the tea, pausing every few moments to wipe away the tears that spilled from her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. “And yet they turn on us like a pack of dogs scenting the sick or the weak in their midst.” The cups rattled together. “I almost had to shoot someone tonight.” Her voice shook as much as her hands.
The old woman’s touch, soothing and soft, halted her frenetic movements. “‘Tis a natural thing to be frightened, Elsbeth, and angry. Malcolm and his lads were lucky you didn’t kill one of them. I never saw that bow waver in your hand.” She squeezed Elsbeth’s forearm. “They’re not all bad folk, girl. They’re just afraid, and fear can turn civilized men savage.”
“I know, but it still feels like the worst betrayal.” Elsbeth sniffed back more tears, poured their tea and took a seat next to Irena. “Do you believe the dragon is doing this as revenge like they say? Punishment for my grandfather killing one of its own?”
“I believe it’s a pile of horseshit.”
Elsbeth almost spit out a mouthful of tea. Irena muttered another string of oaths and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “If this were about vengeance, every other town and dale would have been reduced to an ash heap years ago.” She paused and delicately sipped her tea. “I know a little of dragonkind. It seems to me if they were all flying about exacting blood vengeance for a dead relative, there wouldn’t be many of us humans left.”
Elsbeth’s eyebrows rose. “Their strength is legendary, as is their magic and wisdom. But their numbers seem few. “Wouldn’t they seek retribution for men killing them off?”
Irena shook her head. “I don’t think so. You never hear of dragon towns or communities. Their lairs and caves house only a single dragon. They’re solitary creatures, little concerned with a brethren’s welfare.” She patted Elsbeth’s arm once more. “To my way of thinking, the dragon troubling this area is here for an easy meal or two. How hard can it be for a beastie like that to make off with a ewe or a cow, eh?”
“True, but it doesn’t solve my problem. The villagers are sure Angus is responsible, and I doubt they’ll listen to reason now.” Elsbeth rose to refill both cups. “We can’t leave, Elder.” She cleared her throat of its betraying warble. “My grandfather is too weak to move. He wouldn’t survive a journey to another town, not even to one as close as Durnsdale. If the men will only wait a fortnight, they won’t have to bother with lynching him.” Grief made the words bitter on her tongue.
A hacking cough sounding from the single bedchamber punctuated her remark. Elsbeth stood and set her cup down on the table. “Excuse me for a moment, Elder.
The room lay shrouded in semi-darkness, its only illumination a half-burned candle set on a chest against the wall. Angus Weaver reclined in his bed, huddled beneath a mound of blankets. Candlelight sallowed his shrunken features and dulled the wisps of white hair sticking out from his scalp.
Elsbeth sank to her knees by the bed. She took his hand, clasping the fingers gnarled and twisted by the bone sickness. “It’s late. You should sleep, Atuk,” she said, using the the informal, affectionate term for “grandfather.”
He peered at her with rheumy eyes. “I heard someone knock. Who comes?” His voice, once strong and filled with ready laughter, was nothing more than a reedy whisper.
She kissed his palm, grateful his hearing was as poor as his eyesight these days. That had been more than a knock at the door. “It’s only Irena, Atuk. She came to visit.”
“At this late hour?”
“Yes. She knows of a nobleman, newly married, who is building another home for his bride. His factor is seeking craftsmen to furnish the home. He might be interested in a rug.” A lie, and one she told with ease. Angus would never know of this night’s sad work if she could help it.
Angus sighed and stroked Elsbeth’s hair with his free hand. “Give her my regards, will you? I’d greet her, but I’m afraid I…” He trailed off, his hands falling to the covers, his eyes closing in an exhausted slumber.
She kissed his palm again and tucked it under the blankets. His breathing was harsh, stuttered—the rattle of bones in a soothsayer’s cup. She pinched the candle before leaving, plunging the chamber into darkness. He’d sleep well enough until morning when she’d brew a medicinal draught to ease his chest and give him nourishment.
Irena had abandoned her place on the bench to stand in front of the hearth and warm herself. Her voice held a quiet sympathy. “How is he?”
Elsbeth shrugged. “Well enough, all things considered. He wanted to know who knocked at the door.”
The elder eyed her closely. “It’s times such as these when it helps to have a man in the house. A young, healthy man,” she qualified when Elsbeth opened her mouth to argue that there was a man in the house. “Don’t be daft, girl. You know what I mean.”
Of course she knew what Irena meant; she just didn’t agree with her. “A man like Malcolm?”
Irena blew out an indignant huff. “Of course not. You’d kill that lumbering tarse within a month.” She grinned, and Elsbeth couldn’t help but grin back at the ridiculous image of her felling the hulking Malcolm Miller with a skillet on her wedding day.
&nbs
p; Irena’s expression turned earnest, questioning. “I’m old, Elsbeth. I’ve earned the right to meddle and ask indelicate questions. Why haven’t you taken a husband? We’ve had no wars for decades. There are many men to choose from here in Byderside and Durnsdale, and you’re a handsome woman. Do you want to reach my years with no companion or children? Do you want to face a village mob on your own?”
Elsbeth resumed her place on the bench and stared into the fire. Bright memories, always skating the surface of her mind, bloomed before her in the flames. A solstice celebration, the eve of her twenty-second birthday, a dark-haired man with a silver tongue and eyes that caught the moonlight and reflected back lightning. Caressing hands and the heat of a mating fever.
For two miraculous days, she had loved and been loved by the wanderer Alaric. When he packed his belongings and set out for the road, he’d offered his hand. “I cannot stay, Beth,” he said. “Come with me.”
Elsbeth had stared at that hand with a terrible longing. She wanted to reach out, grasp his fingers and walk beside him on his journey, sleep next to him beneath the flicker of stars and a waxing moon. But another man waited in her village, one who had loved and cared for her since she was a child, one who needed her in his illness. “I cannot leave,” she replied.
He’d kissed her then, a hard possessive kiss that branded and claimed her as his, though he would leave her and not return.
The memory had left its mark—a scar never faded, a pain never dulled with time. She shrugged. “There was a man once, one I’d have gladly shared my life with then. But circumstance isn’t always kind.” Her short laugh held sorrow as well as amusement. “No mob would have dared visit this house had he lived here.”
Irena’s face was grave. “But there is no such man, and the mob waits for council. The old dragonslayer cannot remain if the dragon does.”