“What happened?” Hugh demanded.
“Prince Bane has been extremely fortunate, sir. A terrible tragedy has been averted. The branch came crashing down, just barely missing His Highness.” Hugh, watching Bane closely, saw the puzzled glance the boy gave his chamberlain. Alfred did not notice—his eyes were on his injured hand. He had been attempting, without much success apparently, to wrap a strip of cloth around the wound.
“I heard the boy scream,” Hugh said.
“Out of fright, sir,” explained Alfred. “I ran—”
“Is he hurt?” Hugh glowered at Bane, pointed to the blood on the child’s chest and the front of his shirt.
Bane peered down at himself. “No, I—”
“My blood, sir,” interrupted Alfred. “I was running to help His Highness and I fell and cut my hand.”
Alfred exhibited the cut. It was deep. Blood was dropping onto the broken remnants of the tree limb. Hugh watched the prince to gauge his reaction to Alfred’s statement, saw the boy’s frowning gaze fixed intently on his chest. Hugh looked to see what had captured the boy’s attention, but saw only a smeared patch of blood.
Or was it? Hugh started to lean down, examine it closer, when Alfred, with a groan, toppled over and collapsed onto the ground. Hugh nudged the chamberlain with the toe of his boot, but got no response. Alfred had, once again, fainted.
Glancing up, Hugh saw Bane trying to wipe the blood off his skin with the tail of his shirt. Well, whatever was there was gone now. Ignoring the comatose Alfred, Hugh faced the prince.
“What really happened, Your Highness?”
Bane gazed up at him with dazzled eyes. “I don’t know, Sir Hugh. I remember a cracking sound, and then”—he shrugged—“that’s all.”
“The branch fell on top of you?”
“I don’t remember. Honest.”
Scrambling to his feet, moving carefully amidst the shards that were sharp as glass, Bane brushed off his clothes and started over to help Alfred. Hugh dragged the chamberlain’s limp body off the path and propped him up against a tree trunk. A few slaps on the cheeks and he began to come around, blinking up at Hugh dizzily.
“I’m . . . I’m most sorry, sir,” Alfred mumbled, attempting to stand and failing miserably. “It’s the sight of blood. I never could stomach—”
“Don’t look at it, then!” Hugh snapped, seeing Alfred’s horrified gaze go to his hand, his eyes start to roll back in his head.
“No, sir. I ... won’t!” The chamberlain squeezed his eyelids tightly shut. Kneeling down beside him, Hugh bandaged the hand, taking the opportunity to examine the wound. It was a clean, deep slice.
“What cut you?”
“A piece of bark, I think, sir.”
Like hell! That would have made a ragged cut. This was made by a sharp knife. There came another cracking sound and a crash.
“Blessed Sartan! What was that?” Alfred’s eyes flew open, and he shivered so that Hugh had to grasp his hand and hold it steady to wind the bandage around it.
“Nothing,” Hugh snapped. He was completely perplexed and he didn’t like the feeling, any more than he’d liked the feeling of relief over not having to kill the prince. He didn’t like any of this. That tree had fallen on Bane as surely as rain fell from the sky. The prince should be dead. What in hell was going on?
Hugh gave the cloth a sharp tug. The sooner he got rid of this kid, the better. Any feeling of reluctance he had once experienced at the thought of murdering a child was rapidly freezing over.
“Ouch!” Alfred yelped. “Thank you, sir,” he added meekly.
“On your feet. Head for the ship,” Hugh ordered.
Silently, none of the three looking at each other, they continued down the path.
23
“Is that it?” the prince grasped hold of Hugh’s arm and pointed at the dragon’s head that could be seen floating above the leaves. The main body of the ship was still hidden from their view by the tall hargast trees surrounding it.
“That’s it,” Hugh answered.
The boy stared, awed. It took a shove from Hugh’s hand to start him moving along the path.
It wasn’t a real dragon’s head, just a carved and painted facsimile. But elven artisans are skilled at their craft and the head looked more real and much more fierce than many live dragons flying the skies. It was about the size of a real dragon’s head, for Hugh’s was a small one-man ship meant for sailing between the isles and continents of Mid Realm. The figureheads of the gigantic airships the elves flew into battle or used to descend into the Maelstrom were so large that a seven-foot human could walk into one of the snarling mouths without bothering to duck.
The dragon’s head was painted black, with flaring red eyes and white teeth, bared in a fighting snarl. It hovered over them, glaring straight ahead with a baleful gaze, looking so threatening that both Alfred and Bane found it difficult to keep from staring at it as they drew nearer. (The third time Alfred stepped in a hole and stumbled to his knees, Hugh ordered him to keep his eyes on the ground.)
The small path they had been following through the woods took them into a natural cut made in a cliff. Emerging on the other side, they came out into a small canyon bowl. The wind could hardly be felt at all in here; the sheer sides of the cliff cut it off. In the center floated the dragonship, its head and tail jutting out over the canyon walls, its body held in place by many stout ropes tied to the trees beneath it. Bane gasped in delight, and Alfred, staring up at the airship, let the prince’s pack slip unnoticed from his fingers.
Sleek and graceful, the dragon’s neck, topped with a spiky mane that was both functional and decorative, curved back to meet the hull of the ship that was the dragon’s body. The sun of late afternoon sparkled off glittering black scales and glinted in the red eyes.
“It looks like a real dragon!” Bane sighed. “Only more powerful.”
“It should look like a real dragon, Your Highness,” said Alfred, an unusually stern note in his voice. “It is made from the skin of real dragons, and the wings are the wings of real dragons, slaughtered by the elves.”
“Wings? Where are the wings?” Bane craned his neck, nearly falling over backward.
“They’re folded back along the body. You can’t see them now. But you will when we take off.” Hugh hurried them forward. “Come on. I want to leave tonight, and there’s a lot of work to do first.”
“What makes it stay up there, if not the wings?” asked Bane.
“The magic,” Hugh grunted. “Now, keep moving!” The prince surged forward, stopping only once to try to jump up and grab hold of one of the guy ropes. Failing, he scampered down to stand beneath the belly of the ship, staring upward until he grew dizzy.
“So this, sir, is how you come to know so much about the elves,” said Alfred in a low voice.
Hugh flicked him a glance, but the chamberlain’s face was bland and only slightly troubled-looking.
“Yeah,” the assassin answered. “The ship needs its magic renewed once every cycle, plus there are always minor repairs. A torn wing, or sometimes the skin pulls away from the frame.”
“Where did you learn to fly one? I’ve heard it takes enormous skill.”
“I was a slave on a watership for three years.”
“Blessed Sartan!” Alfred stopped and stared at him. Hugh cast him an irritated glance, and the chamberlain, recalling himself, stumbled forward.
“Three years! I never heard of anyone surviving that long! And even after that, you can still do business with them? I would think you would hate them all!”
“How would hating benefit me? The elves did what they had to do, and so did I. I learned how to sail their ships. I learned to speak their language fluently. No, as I’ve discovered, hate generally costs a man more than he can afford.”
“And what about love?” Alfred asked softly.
Hugh didn’t even bother to reply.