Today had begun warm, and was soon sweltering; muggy, without a hint of breeze. Heat shimmered the air above the grasses, and sweat did not dry, it only trickled down the body without cooling anything. The tents had collected so much heat that not even the Iron People could bear to remain within them; even Diric had agreed to Shana’s suggestion that they conduct their business outside for a change. After all, Jamal and every warrior in the Clan were supposed to be engaging in contests today, to determine their fitness—though fitness for what, Jamal was not yet ready to reveal. Not to the majority of the Clan, anyway. It seemed safe enough for them all to meet in the open.
Yet Keman could not escape the feeling that they were all somehow following a plan of Jamal’s devising.
“If we could arrange for the roof of the tent to part, as if we had all grown claws to rend it, then wings to fly away,” Shana suggested, as Keman returned his attention to the group. “Or would it be better to look as if we had escaped into the earth instead?”
“That would be my preference,” Kalamadea began. “Perhaps by—”
“Oh, what a touching little gathering,” a slow, drawling voice interrupted loudly.
Kalamadea, Shana, and Keman all jerked upright as if their heads had been on strings pulled by a puppet-dancer, for the language of the speaker was not the Iron People’s tongue.
It was that of the dragons, and the voice was someone Keman recognized only too well—
Myre?
A tall woman of the Iron People, lean and muscular and dressed as a warrior, leaned indolently against the side of a wagon. It was no form that Keman recognized, and yet the woman had all of the arrogant stance that he associated with his sister. And she had a dragon-shadow.
“You see, Lord Jamal,” the woman continued in the tongue of their captors, a sly smile on her face, “it is as I told you. The Priest confers with the demons to aid in their escape, and as I claimed, the two Com People are not Corn People at all, but yet more demons.”
Even Lorryn’s illusions were something the Iron People were able to see through, if they simply stopped believing in them. Jamal’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Lorryn and his sister, and he nodded, slowly.
Keman’s heart stopped.
“So I see.” Jamal stepped forward a pace, and stood with his arms crossed over his chest, an angry smile on his face. “I see six enemies, and one traitor. Or—perhaps not. I shall give you a chance to save yourself, Diric. Perhaps you have grown senile with age, Diric, and these demons have deluded you. Perhaps it is time for the powers of the Priest to pass into the hands of the War Chief. Should you decide to come to your senses and grant me those powers, I might forget this meeting.”
This all had the sound of something carefully rehearsed, as if Jamal was reciting words he knew by heart. But—why?
Diric stood up, slowly, his face as still as the iron of his forges. “You will have those powers only if you dare to challenge me for them, young fool,” he replied, his own voice as cold as the snows in the mountains. “And remember, I can name a champion.”
Diric had been “courting” the Man-Hearted Women, who were angry with Jamal’s treatment of them—and who composed some of the best fighters in the Clan. He could name one of them as a champion, and not only would the fight likely go to her, since Jamal was somewhat out of practice, but Jamal’s defeat would mean disgrace in his own eyes.
“As can I,” came the lazy reply. “And I choose—her.”
And, unexpectedly, he pointed to Myre.
“I think you have no champion her like,” the War Chief continued gleefully, openly reveling in the shock of Diric’s face. “If I were you, I should surrender your authority now. It will go easier on all of you.”
And Myre smiled, the smile of someone who knows that the dice are loaded, that the game is already decided.
Of all of them. Keman was the swiftest to realize what the sly smile on Myre’s face meant, and the smug one on Jamal’s. She’s told him! Or she showed him! He knows that she’s a dragon!
And before Diric could make the fatal error that Jamal was probably expecting, of naming one of the other Man-Hearted Women as his own champion, Keman acted.
He pulled open his collar, threw the collar to the ground, and shifted as quickly as he had ever done in his life, forcing the others to spring to their feet and back away as his rapidly increasing bulk filled the space between the tents. He shifted so quickly that it made him dizzy, but he fought back his dizziness, as he towered over them all.
The surprise—but utter lack of shock on Jamal’s face—told him that he had guessed right. Jamal knew that Myre was a dragon, and he had seen the shift from human to dragon before.
But maybe Myre had not told him there were two other dragons among the prisoners. Or else both of them had assumed that the collars were still functional.
“Diric chooses me!” he roared, as Myre belatedly followed suit, shock still visible on her rapidly changing face. “I am the First Priest’s champion!”
Then, before Myre could end her shift, leap upon him, and end the conflict before it could begin, he took to the sky with a thunder of wings that half-collapsed the tent nearest him. A cloud of dust and dead grass billowed up around the place where he had stood, and those closest to him threw up their arms to protect their faces from a pelting.
Then the tents dwindled below him as he pumped his wings, rapidly gaining altitude, going from tents to toys to the merest mushrooms on the green-gold plain beneath him. Altitude was his friend and ally. Myre had defeated him before in a straight combat; she was bigger and heavier than he was even now. He dared not allow her to close with him, to take the fight to a point at which that weight and length could make a difference.
He would have to defeat her with brain, not brawn.
:Running away, little brother?: came the sneering voice in his mind. :Running so soon?:
:Leading the race, little sister,: he taunted back. .-Having trouble keeping up with me? Been eating a bit too well lately, haven’t you? I thought that might be a bit of a paunch I saw. Perhaps a layer of fat around your hips?:
He’d seen no such thing, of course, but if he was going to force her to do what he wanted, he was going to have to enrage her until she wasn’t thinking anymore.
-His best weapons were agility and speed; he had to keep her in the air. For that, he had to keep her following him.
:Better give in to me before it’s too late, brat,: she answered back furiously. :Or else keep running and leave your pets behind. I might let you go crawling back to those two-legger friends of yours while there’s still something left to crawl back to.:
Something to crawl back to? Had she information that he didn’t have about the wizards? It certainly sounded like it. He didn’t reply; no point in it. If she wanted him to know something, she’d tell him; she couldn’t help herself. And if it was bad news, she would definitely want to tell him, to demoralize him and make him stop thinking.
She was sending her voice out to every mind capable of picking it up, too, and he knew why. She wanted Shana and Kalamadea to hear. The trouble was, she didn’t know that Dora was out there as well. Dora was his hidden ally, the unknown factor that could defeat Myre’s ultimate purposes even if Keman lost this fight; if the very worst happened, and he was defeated, even if Myre managed to destroy or imprison all of them, Dora would know what it was that Myre wanted to taunt Keman with. If it was information vital to the wizards, Dora would surely see that it got to them before it was too late.
Wouldn’t she? He didn’t want to call to her; Myre might overhear. He had to keep all of his attention on what he was doing.
He could only hope, and wait for anger to force the words out of his sister.
:Your wizards are in revolt against each other, little brother,: she spat, as below him, she pumped her wings furiously to try and catch up to him. :The old ones want the old ways back again, the younger are refusing to serve them, and they are all so busy with their little internal grievances that they are not bothering to keep a watch on the elves. And they really should. Lorryn’s escape has sent them all into a panic, and they are already planning to unite their magics for the first time in centuries to track you all down and destroy you! The Council is moving to reconcile every feud and grievance that has ever erupted. They are moving slowly, but they are moving. Soon, within a few moons, by spring at the latest, the third Wizard War will begin—and it will be the last Wizard War: