She was over the north of Zandour. She would turn now and come low onto the Kubalese troops, bring the power of the stones down on them. She spoke to the mare in silence, laid a hand on her neck, urging her into a low sweep over Zandour.
But the mare would not turn or lower her wings to sweep down, would not speak or acknowledge her command. She simply continued north, ignoring Meatha’s bidding. Meatha glanced back at Anchorstar. This was his doing! How could he! She brought her power strong against Michennann, against Anchorstar, and was ignored by both. Michennann would not turn aside, would not speak to her, the mare was caught in a mindless pull northward. How could Anchorstar not understand? She wanted to scream at him and make him draw away.
She tried again to make Michennann turn, but felt only a dull, blank fixedness of mind quite unlike the mare, unlike any winged one. She slapped Michennann’s neck, jerked her mane; all uselessly. Michennann kept on, caught in a web, now, beyond her will, beyond her ability to destroy.
It was then Anchorstar gave her the vision. It seemed to have nothing to do with her plight, with the dilemma engulfing her. She saw five people, all white-haired, one of them a child. One was Anchorstar. One was Tra. Hoppa. Another woman. A young man. They stood in a meadow greener than the jade itself. Behind them rose a strange, clear dome. It looked as if it were made of glass, though that would be impossible; glass was made only in very small pieces. It might have been formed of crystal out of the mountains, so strange it was. There was a sense of power and warmth, of lightness; a sense of other things gone too quickly to grasp.
When the vision left her, her mind seemed to clear from a confusion she had hardly been aware of. The warmth and tightness of that place, the sense of power, remained with her; but part of the vision escaped too quickly, was gone. Now she felt clear-headed, as if she had awakened from a nightmare where all her senses had been awry. She knew suddenly and completely, with a shock that chilled her, that she had never been meant to reach the Kubalese troops. That she had never been meant to destroy those troops. She knew, as sharply as if her face had been slapped, that she and Michennann were being led toward a different destination. Toward a destination filled with terror. She turned to stare back at Anchorstar, crying out to him now for help, knowing he meant only to show her the truth. . . .
And he was gone from the sky. Gone as if he had never been there.
She was alone with a truth she did not want, fighting Michennann to turn aside—fighting too late to alter her own dark course; and Michennann caught and held utterly now, to some stronger will. Michennann, left too long to battle alone, had lost that battle. Meatha’s fear turned to terror. She clung, stricken, to the silent, fast-flying mare. She saw now that the very stealing of the runestones had been willed by the dark she had meant to defeat. Now she saw, and now it was too late. Now she battled a mare caught herself in forces beyond her will. Meatha tried, but could not reach the mare’s spirit. She strained to bring power through the stones and seemed weak and inept. She tried to make the mare end their flight in a fast spiraling downward, but Michennann did not heed her, was led on like a bird snared in flight. Why had Anchorstar turned away? Why hadn’t he helped her? She was sick and trembling. She could smell the mare’s nervous sweat. Something urged them to greater speed still, and neither she nor Michennann could resist.
And Lobon woke shouting into empty blackness, “Fight him! Fight Dracvadrig! The power of the bell is with you!” He turned and saw the wolves sitting erect in their chains and felt their power steadily rising with his own to strengthen the girl and drive the firemaster back. He tried with all his power to give her the strength she sought. Dracvadrig must not have the runestones she carried. He did not think about why he cared, why this was important to him.
And his power was not enough, the mare was buffeted until she faltered in the sky; and then suddenly the dragon launched himself from the peak of Scar Mountain and swept toward them, black against the stars, driving winds aside. He came at them, slashed at the mare and pale rider forcing them on not only with mind-power but with teeth like steel, with claws that were knives, with a frenzy of beating wings. The mare fought to keep airborne. Meatha lashed out with her sword again and again, but the mare was forced down at last toward the abyss by the dragon’s leathery wings beating across her wings. Lobon Saw blood smeared across the dragon’s face, and he did not know he was shouting again, sending power like a tide from the wolf bell. He tore in rage at the bolt that held Feldyn, and the wolf leaped and leaped in frustration, then suddenly came free, the bolt clanging to the floor as the mare and girl were swept down the side of the abyss. The dragon dove, snatched the girl up in its claws, and beat skyward carrying her like a cloth doll. Lobon felt her quick decision to drop the stones and cried out to her. He made her pause and close her fist over them, perplexed.
Then he saw, not in vision but against the night sky beyond the cell, the dragon’s dark shape come out of the wind swooping down past the cell dangling the girl. He saw her face for an instant, pale with fear, her cheek torn and bloody. She lashed out again with the sword, then the dragon was gone with her. Lobon sensed it entering a red-washed cave, Saw fire ogres moving inside. One snatched a cloth bag from the girl and pushed her against the wall; she screamed with the pain of the burns it left on her wrist and shoulder; Lobon could feel that pain. The cloth sack where she had carried the two runestones was aflame. The fire ogre picked the two stones out and laid them on top a flat boulder. Lobon saw then that his own two shards, and the starfires, lay there gleaming red with reflected fire. He watched the dragon inspect the stones, then watched as a fire ogre swept them up in its thick, flaming hand and tumbled them into the golden casket that dangled at the dragon’s throat.
The dragon left the cave carrying six shards of the milestone of Eresu. Lobon could hear it scraping across loose stone, then heard boulders dislodged, and was engulfed in the sense of it close by. The night turned red as ogres approached. They fumbled with the lock, and the dragon’s heavy blackness covered the stars beyond the cell. The gate was pulled open.
The dragon pushed through the cell door. Its claws reached for him. He lashed out with the bell down the side of its head, and it hissed and pulled back, coughing flame at him.
Again it reached. Again. As it turned, he saw the left eye swollen closed and covered with dried blood. Each time he struck with Seer’s powers and the bell, it retreated, then attacked anew. He could feel the wolves’ powers with him, strong. Its jaws opened above him, flame belching to burn him. Its teeth grazed his shoulder. He pressed deeper into the cave; it pushed in after him, pressed so close—but then it drew back. He tried to find a way clear of its coils and was trapped by it.
But it did not attack. It was only toying with him.
Why? Surely it wanted the wolf bell. He stood facing it. It was utterly still, watching him, and the sense of the man Dracvadrig was there, alert and evil. It did not move. It had only to kill him and take the wolf bell, but it did not move. Did it want him alive? But why would it? It seemed to draw back to keep from killing him. Why? It wanted the wolf bell, though. It stared at it greedily. He reached out desperately to any power that could help him. The creature remained utterly still. He felt the wolves with him, felt more than these three wolves; knew suddenly that wolves in a great band pushed their power like a heavy tide to buoy him; and he felt the girl where she stood captive, fighting beside him. Then suddenly Feldyn and Shorren leaped and slashed at it, their chains dragging, Shorren on one side, Feldyn on the other, ducking flame; the dragon moved now, swept this way and that trying to see them, to get at them. Its eye seemed to pain it. Its coils lashed the walls, the golden pouch at its throat swung and gleamed. Lobon tried to turn the power of the stones it carried against it. Could such a thing be done? Did the dark hold that power utterly? He felt the wolves’ power strong, so strong. He brought his skills, his knowledge to bear as perhaps he never had before; the sense of those other wolves somewhere, somewhere, reaching out to give him strength twisted something in Lobon, brought the sense of Ramad around him sharply. He forced and drove down on the dragon with the power that rose in him married to those other powers. The dragon took a step back, slowed in its battling, and swung its head. Lobon exalted in his power and in the fellowship of wolves. He leaped suddenly with the wolf bell at the dragon’s head, slashed the bell across its cheek, then leaped and struck the damaged eye; the dragon bellowed out with pain, with fury. It writhed, blood gushed from the eye; and then, writhing, its body began to grow unclear.