Aran Tallbow had nothing to say to this. He shifted from one foot to the other, his armor clanking softly.
Derek turned to face him. “You have news,” Derek said flatly. “Out with it!”
The red-haired knight shook his head. “Winfrid and I have assessed the damage. The walls are beyond repair. A well-ordered army could press through the breach within a day, whatever we did to block it.”
“Then it’s over,” Derek said, and sagged wearily against the bier. “Though the siege has not yet begun, Castle Crownguard has fallen.”
A knock fell on the chapel door. “Enter,” Derek called. The door swung open, revealing Sir Winfrid, looking haggard. Like most of the knights, he was ashamed to remember his flight before the dragon.
“They’ve found another one of the knights,” Winfrid said. “Not Edwin,” he added, seeing Derek’s eyes spark. “A Sir Rogan Whitemantle, Knight of the Crown.”
“Whitemantle,” echoed Derek. He tried to put a face to the name, but couldn’t. “Have him brought in here
with the others after they dig him out-” “But, my lord,” Sir Winfrid said, “he still lives.” Derek and Aran exchanged shocked glances, then ran for the door.
*****
Sir Rogan was still alive, but whether that was good fortune was open to debate. His legs were crushed. His back was broken. His face was burned, his hair and moustaches scorched off the skin by the dragon’s lightning breath. His head lolled weakly from one side to the other. Each breath came as a wet rattle, and blood welled on his seared lips.
“He asked to speak with you, my lord,” said one of the knights.
Derek and Aran picked their way through the rubble, joining the small circle of knights who had stopped trying to patch the sundered walls long enough to comfort their dying fellow. “Sir Rogan,” Derek said, crouching down. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of charred flesh. “I am here. What did you mean to tell me?”
“My lord,” Rogan wheezed. His wide, glazed eyes flicked toward Derek. His voice was no louder than a whisper, and Derek and Aran had to lean close to hear. “Your … brother …” He moaned. Aran quietly clasped the young knight’s hand, then looked at Derek.
Derek’s face was flat, emotionless. “What about him?”
“He stabbed the dragon . . . through . . . the neck,” Rogan gasped. “He didn’t let go… didn’t let go …” He sucked an agonized breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t open them again. “Just before the tower . . . fell, I saw the . . . dragon flying away. He . . . Edwin . . . was still . . . holding on to … his … sword …”
He let out a long, slow breath. His arm went limp, and his hand slipped from Aran’s grasp.
“Rest,” Aran whispered, laying a hand on the dead knight’s forehead. He looked up at Derek hopefully, but his friend’s expression had not changed. “What do you think?”
Derek shook his head. “Delirious.”
“Probably.” Aran stroked his red moustache thoughtfully. “You’re right, of course, Derek. Still . . .” He regarded Derek carefully.
“No,” Derek said, and there was no missing the finality in his tone. “My brother is dead, somewhere beneath this.” He waved his hand at the blasted stones piled around them. “This isn’t one of the old tales, Aran. Men don’t fly away, clinging to swords stuck in dragons’ throats. My brother believed those songs all his life, and they led to his death. I won’t have him become another tale, based on the ravings of a dying man.”
Aran pursed his lips as if he meant to argue, but then he saw the fierce look in Derek’s eyes, nodded, and lay Sir Rogan’s hand on his stilled breast. “We can waste no more time in a fruitless search. This will be my brother’s bier.”
Derek rose and brushed off his cloak. “Put this man in the chapel with the others,” he bade, nodding at Rogan’s body. “Then stop digging. Assemble the men.” Glowering, he turned his back on the dead knight and walked away.
*****