Michael A. Stackpole - Dragon Crown Saga 4 - The Grand Crusade

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: Michael A. Stackpole

Name: The Grand Crusade

Series: Dragon Crown Saga 4 (the conclusion)

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The Grand Crusade

“The Stunning Conclusion of the Dragon Crown Saga”

By Michael A. Stackpole

PROLOGUE

The crisp winter cold penetrated the walls of the villa that King Scrainwood of Oriosa had taken in Narriz.

A chill radiated through the varied stones used in the building’s construction. But he felt no draft and,

indeed, no winter winds howled outside. Darkness had come with preternatural silence, and Scrainwood

could feel portent and power gathering.

Something had happened out there, something at once terrible and yet wonderful. The possibilities raced

through his mind, each to be sorted, weighed, then used as a lever to move other bits and pieces of what

was the world. All would be to his advantage. Eventually. Although, he ruefully admitted to himself, he and

his nation were in a difficult position.

The leaders of the world’s key nations had been summoned to Narriz, the capital of Saporicia, to deal with

the threat of conquest by Chytrine’s Aurolani hordes. While the Northern Empress’ troops had been

thoroughly routed in far Okrannel, their assault south through Sebcia and Muroso had been relentless and

powerful. Sebcia had fallen quickly, Muroso was in the process of falling. Sarengul, the urZrethi stronghold

north of Oriosa, had likewise been invaded.

His nation looked to be the next in line for conquest, and King Augustus of Alcida had threatened to invade

Oriosa from the south, so any battle against Chytrine would be fought well away from his own lands. He’d

done that to force Scrainwood’s hand, and Oriosa’s king hated it.

But he had acquiesced for two reasons. The first was that he had long danced on the edge of a knife.

Oriosa had been covertly neutral, providing a haven to Aurolani troops to stage raids in the south.

Scrainwood could justify his actions a dozen different ways and never let himself think about the underlying

one: he was terrified that Chytrine would have him murdered as she did his mother.

As bad as some might find me on the throne, my death would be worse.

Scrainwood reached up and adjusted the green leather half mask he wore. At one time he’d had high hopes for his

eldest son, Erlestoke. He’d been strong— far stronger than his father, Scrainwood openly acknowledged—and a

brilliant military tactician. If he were going to allow Oriosan troops to oppose Chytrine, he would have wanted

Erlestoke to lead them.

Erlestoke, however, had long since had a falling-out with his father and had instead traveled north to Fortress

Draconis. There he had risen to be the second-in-command. Fortress Draconis, unfortunately, had been the first victim

of Chytrine’s renewed assault on the south, and Erlestoke had been slain in the fortress’ defense.

That left Scrainwood with his other son, Linchmere. His younger heir had been fat, soft, weak-willed, and infantile

when it came to dealing with the realities of the world. Linchmere wanted to lead Oriosa’s troops against Chytrine—

his first and last display of spine. When his father had denied that request, the prince had run off. Rumors abounded

as to his whereabouts. Scrainwood hoped the most common was true: that his son had run off to fight in Muroso.

There he will die and another problem will be solved.

His cold-blooded dismissal of his son surprised him, but only for a moment. He toyed with the signet ring on his right

hand and with the merest of whispers invoked the magick on it. After his mother’s death he’d had it made to warn him

of hostile intent in anyone near him, and in Yslin some of the sorcerers from Vilwan had refined and strengthened the

magick.

He felt something akin to the prick of a pin as the spell sparked to life. He braced himself for the first hint of anger, for

he had felt it often, especially in the councils of his peers. They hated him because they knew his nation would be the

last to fall to Chytrine and yet, if they gave vent to their hatred, he would go over to Chytrine fully. And if he did that,

then the might of Oriosa would just make their nations fall the faster.

But this time no warning of animosity came, and its absence pleased him. He knew his peers saw him as crafty and

treacherous—they fully expected him to betray them to Chytrine because they did not think he could possibly oppose

her. He was not strong enough to do so. They were not aware, however, that he could defy her and she could do

nothing about it.

The second reason he had given in to King Augustus in the matter of Tarrant Hawkins—an ancient enemy now calling

himself Kedyn’s Crow—was that Augustus had ceded to him the possession of a fragment of the DragonCrown. He’d

quickly secreted it away, then had those who had done the hiding killed, so only he knew where it could be found.

Without that portion of the Crown, Chytrine could never complete its reconstruction, denying her ultimate power.

His ring began to burn. Scrainwood’s gaze flicked left and right, then settled on the room’s far corner. Shadows had

thickened there, and something moved within them. The movement frightened him more than the mild hostility he

sensed through the ring because it was wholly unnatural.

“Who are you?” Scrainwood kept his voice even and tried to infuse it with a commanding tone. But he failed and knew

it. The only thing that pleased him was that he and his visitor were the sole witnesses to that failure. “Show yourself.”

A smallish humanoid shambled from the shadow, and that it could move at all surprised Scrainwood. The amount of

damage that had been done to it fascinated him. Despite the cold, the man wore no shirt, allowing an easy study of the

ghastly wounds on chest and hip, as if something had stabbed clean through him. The left arm hung limply and the

shoulder, which had been mangled, showed signs of a hideous bite wound. Lastly the creature’s head lolled as if its

neck had been broken.

But there should be no way it could move with those wounds. Fire ignited in dark eye sockets and revealed to

Scrainwood a face he’d known from decades before. That face grinned, then the voice—the unmistakable voice—filled

the room with scorn. “Scrainwood, Scrainwood, king on high, Oriosa’s liege, yet afraid to die.”

Gelid tendrils squeezed the king’s bowels, but he did not allow himself to double over. “Bosleigh Norrington.”

“Once, but now no more.” The sullanciri sketched a bow. His head flopped forward with a wet click of bone

fragments. “ ‘Tis now Nefrai-laysh at your

door.“

Scrainwood let his nostrils flare. “Is your mistress so bold that she sends her

herald here to the Council of Kings?“

Nefrai-laysh grabbed a handful of his own blond hair and pulled his head up so he could look at Scrainwood. “Bolder

is she, as you shall see.” He whirled and his limp left hand swept past the corner from where he had appeared. “She

desires to be presented to thee.”

A golden light started as a spark in that dark corner, then expanded into an oval that grew as if fire had been applied to

a parchment sheet. Scrainwood raised a hand to shade his eyes from the brightness, but a heartbeat later the

light had died.

Striding from the corner came a striking woman, tall and strong, with a cascade of golden hair that fell in ringlets well

past her shoulders. She wore white clothes and furred boots—very much the sort of attire Scrainwood would have

supposed to be utilitarian in her realm, up to and including the cloak, furred hat, and soft white scarf covering the

lower half of her face.

It occurred to Scrainwood that Chytrine was powerful enough, and possessed of such charisma, that she might be

what Princess Alexia of Okrannel would become in her later years. But he knew, almost instantly, that this judgment

was wrong because the swirls of blue-green color in Chytrine’s eyes bespoke a malevolence that he did not think

Alexia could contain.

Alexia could hate hotly, but never coldly and inhumanly like this.

Chytrine paused a half-dozen paces before him and the ring spiked pain up his arm. Scrainwood staggered at the

sensation. His knees buckled and a quick

kick in the ass by Nefrai-laysh drove him onto the floor. Scrainwood snarled, but refused to cry out.

Chytrine glanced past him at her herald. “Do not treat so valuable an ally thus.” She gestured casually and something

behind Scrainwood crashed to the floor. Given the clatter that followed, he assumed the sullanciri had been cast into

the small side table that held a silver platter with bread and cheese—a late repast Scrainwood had not touched.

The Northern Empress smiled down at him as she drew off kid gloves as white as the delicate flesh they had sheathed.

“Finally we meet, King Scrainwood. You have been a valuable ally, though your continued worth is in question.”

Her words came coolly, but with an edge, and Scrainwood would have been moved to terror, save that his ring did not

convey a corresponding sense of hostility. “I do not know what I have done to anger you.”

A rustle and clatter behind him suggested that Nefrai-laysh had crawled to his feet. “I have come from Vael, on a

mission I did fail. But there, I did hear, a Crown fragment you have near.”

“Lies.”

Before his denial echoed from the walls, Chytrine lashed him with her gloves. The blow stung a bit, but not as much as

it could have, for his mask took the brunt of it. “There is no need for you to lie, King Scrainwood. I am not a stupid

woman. You sought the stone, you have it safe, and I am grateful you managed to wrest it from the thieves who

removed it from Fortress Draconis. You have saved me much time in this endeavor. Moreover, you can and will claim

that you had no way to let me know you had it, since I have always communicated with you and have never given you

a means to reach me. You would hold yourself blameless, and I cannot easily refute that claim.”

Scrainwood’s left hand rose to his cheek. “Why did you strike me?” She peeled the scarf back to grace him with a

frigid smile. “Because I can. Because you are powerless to stop me, and because you need to acknowledge the

hopelessness of your situation. Though my aide is broken, it would be nothing for him to pop your head from your

body as if it were a grape from a stem.”

The king started to protest, but Nefrai-laysh’s right hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and squeezed. Not too

hard, but none too gently, either—and it was enough to choke Scrainwood’s words into a squawk. He began to shake

and his bladder let loose, flooding warmth down his thighs.

Chytrine watched him for a moment, then wrinkled her nose. “Despite your treachery, Scrainwood, I have chosen not

to punish you. I shall instead reward you beyond your wildest dreams.”

He glanced up at her. “And how will you do that?”

“Very simply, Highness. I shall make you one of my sullanciri” The shiver that shook him almost let him slip from

Nefrai-laysh’s grasp. “You would do that in exchange for the fragment?”

“No, no, you mistake me. I said I am going to reward you. I am going to make

you into a sullanciri. If you desire the change, you will be rewarded handsomely. If you do not, the process and

results will be more painful.“

“You can change me against my will?”

She laughed, and he did not find the sound completely without warmth. “I am able to control dragons against their will.

The Vilwanese and other mages may make much of needing a person’s consent to perform magick, but this is a matter

of convenience. Overcoming the will is not simple, but less complex than reanimating and motivating something which

is dead. I could deal with you that way as well, but you would not be nearly as useful.”

Chytrine’s smile grew as she returned to his side and squatted. “Besides, you have known all along I want only one

thing: domination. And since you did not oppose me, I have been able to get this far. In my world, you shall be even

greater than you are now. Indeed, the king of my sullanciri is from your nation. I am grateful to you, so the power I

give you will be incredible.”

Something rang false to Scrainwood. “The Norrington of prophecy is also of my nation. He who will be your doom.”

Chytrine snorted a laugh, then stood again. “The vaunted Norrington is no longer a problem. Now, you do wish to be

on the winning side, don’t you? You wish to see those who hold you in contempt brought low? As my agent, you will

be crucial in making that happen, King Scrainwood. The power I will give you— the information I will give you—will

turn them all on each other and shatter their alliance. My victory will be your victory.”

The Oriosan monarch thought for a heartbeat, then another. He had no heirs. He had a realm that would always be

hated whether Chytrine won or lost. Without the Norrington, she would not lose, and power would flow to him, power

that would allow him to punish all those who hated him.

Scrainwood shifted his shoulders, slipping his neck from Nefrai-laysh’s grip. He sat upright. “I am, as always I have

been, your creature, Most High Empress. Work your will on me, so I may best serve our cause.”

“Very well, Scrainwood of Oriosa.” The Aurolani Empress nodded solemnly and reached out to caress his cheek with

cold fingers. “It shall be done.”

At the touch of her flesh to his, Scrainwood knew again every agony he had forgotten and those he would suffer in

the future. He burned and froze, felt the devouring nibbles of maggots, the razored stabs of swords and withering

glances, and the soul-wrenching torsion of knowing that, in the end, he would be betrayed and everything would be

for naught.

But even as all that swirled through him, he did feel a pleasure. The fear that had balanced him, that had kept him

playing Chytrine off against the rest of the world—the fear of the fate that had taken his mother—slipped through his

fingers as fluidly as her blood had. And, in its absence, he was reborn a Dark Lancer.

Sephi, a dark-haired, slender woman—more than a child, though barely seeming so in form—hid in the shadowed

doorway of the room housing the king and his visitors. She was part of the royal household and had been elevated to

that position as a reward for her help in identifying Crow as Tarrant Hawkins. It was a reward the king had approved

of, though it had come at the suggestion of his aide, Cabot Marsham. The odious sycophant wanted Sephi as his

bedmate, and having her assigned to the household brought them in closer proximity than Sephi had any desire to be.

She had accepted that role, however, because of her devotion to Will Norrington—the Norrington of prophecy who

would destroy Chytrine. After she had betrayed Crow to Oriosan authorities, she took the skills at espionage that she

used to employ for Oriosa and used them in the service to the Norrington. She did it in part to make amends for having

caused trouble for Crow, but more so because she believed Will was the only means by which Chytrine would be

defeated.

In Will’s service she watched the king and learned secrets she could send to him in letters. She had no idea how many

of her missives had actually reached him in Muroso, but she had faithfully sent them with riders and soldiers bound

for the war. And she continued to spy, remaining in the royal household despite the chances of discovery.

This, however, was too important a bit of news to be entrusted to a letter. Sephi hunched forward, with her hands flat

on the cold stone floor. What she had seen through the keyhole had kept her riveted, for a sullanciri appeared, and

then Chytrine herself. Already Sephi began to berate herself for not running off and alerting the Saporician authorities.

Part of her knew that was foolishness, since they would never believe such a wild tale. King Augustus would,

however, and he is here in Narriz. She knew she had to get to him so he could act, but she needed a moment more to

collect herself because Chytrine had said one thing that left her breathless.

The vaunted Norrington is no longer a problem. The words echoed through Sephi’s skull. She thought of Will’s

smiling face. She could hear his voice and could not imagine him, like his father and grandfather, ever having gone

over to Chytrine’s service. And she said it with such finality, he must be dead.

She screwed her eyes shut against that possibility, because his death meant the end of the world. Tears gathered in

her eyes and splashed down, spattering coldly against her hands. She pressed her body into a small ball and fought to

gain control. Finally, she reached up and wiped the tears away.

He’s not dead, she just thinks he is. Wouldn’t be the first time she was wrong.

That thought brought a smile to her face. Her tears stopped, but then her smile froze as she continued to hear a drip

drip sound. She knew it wasn’t tears, but had no idea what it was.

Then she opened her eyes.

A man stood towering over her. Dark in mien and cold, he looked down at

her through a bestial mask she almost thought she recognized. The eyes regarding her had no warmth or kindness, but

instead were filled with an elemental curiosity. The blue orbs had white moving through them, much as slender ribbons

of cloud move through a summer’s sky. The movement gained in speed and, for a moment, was the figure’s only

motion.

Then came another drip.

The mask was more than just a mask, flowing up into a cowl that ran down into a cloak. It had been fastened to the

figure’s neck by the knotted arms of the creature that had once worn the skin. In the dim light Sephi saw enough bony

plates to know it was the flesh of a Panqui.

From there it was but a shudder for her to realize it was Lombo’s skin. And if they have killed Lombo, then the

Norrington could be dead as well.

She straightened up and met the sullanciri % cool gaze. “Your grandson, Will,

is dead?“

Nefrai-kesh nodded solemnly. “He died more of a hero than any of us will

ever be.“

Sephi hung her head and raised her hands to cover her face. She let herself sob once, then darted into the corridor and

would have gotten free, save that Nefrai-kesh flicked his cloak, and the flaccid flesh that had covered Lombo’s tail

swept her legs from beneath her. She crashed down hard, striking her forehead on the ground, then rolled to the far

wall.

Nefrai-kesh crossed to her and dropped to one knee. His hand caressed her cheek, then tucked an errant lock of dark

hair behind her ear. “You, too, shall die well. Had you not been so curious, you might have lived.”

Sephi narrowed her eyes. “I was spying for your grandson.”

The sullanciri smiled. “He commanded loyalty. He was a Norrington truly.”

“He still is. The greatest of them.”

Nefrai-kesh paused for a moment, then said solemnly, “You are a fool if you believe that, child.” His hand slipped into

her hair and closed on her neck right below her skull. His fingers tightened and her neck snapped. “And yet there are

parts of me that hope you were right.”

CHAPTER

Princess Alexia of Okrannel raised a gloved hand to shade her eyes as the green dragon upon which she

rode dipped his right wing and began a lazy circle. Below lay Narriz, dusted in snow and spread out in

several concentric semicircles emanating from the crescent harbor to the west. King Fidelius’ castle stood

on the highest hill, with a clutch of cylindrical white towers that soared toward the sky. The brightly colored

flags and pennants flapping away added an element of reality that banished any hope that she was

dreaming.

Beneath her the dragon’s flesh undulated as powerful muscles drove its wings. Though the air so high was

quite frigid, the heat from the green dragon’s body made the space beneath a long red cloak quite warm,

and she gladly shared that warmth with Crow. She pressed herself against his side, then turned and kissed

his scarred right cheek.

He smiled and his brown eyes sparkled. “What was that for?”

“To make sure you don’t forget that I love you. And that I support you, no matter what happens below.”

He tightened his arm around her shoulder. “Thank you.”

The dragon turned his head back toward them. “Perrine is circling the castle’s courtyard. We are

welcome.”

Resolute, a Vorquelf with sharpened elven features, pointed ears, and eyes of pure silver, curled his lip in a

sneer. “Hardly welcome, Dravothrak. We will be tolerated until we deliver our news, then we will be

reviled. We bring them word that hope has died, and few will have the heart to continue on past that.”

Prince Erlestoke of Oriosa adjusted the black mask he wore. “They know they cannot stop you from

landing, Dravothrak, so they accept with feigned grace what they cannot prevent.”

The prince’s words came in grim tones that nearly matched those Alyx had

gotten accustomed to hearing from Resolute. The Vorquelf had been fighting over a century and a quarter

to free his homeland from Chytrine, with no success. Will Norrington had been the key to her defeat and his

death at Vael seemed to seal the fate of the Southlands’ free nations. Arriving at the gathering of world

leaders to tell them hope was indeed dead was something she had never anticipated.

She looked again at Crow. “I do wish you would let me be the one to address the council.”

Erlestoke nodded in agreement. “Or me. They will accept it better from either of us.”

Crow shook his head and his beard brushed against Alyx’s cheek. “First and foremost, Will was my charge.

I should have kept him safe. And while I agree with everyone that he chose his time of passing, and chose

nobly and well, the burden of his death bears most heavily on me. Second, and you all know this is true,

King Scrainwood would blame me even if Will’s ghost appeared, absolved me of responsibility, and cursed

Scrainwood for an idiot. Short of you throttling your father and replacing him, there is nothing that can be

done to prevent the blame from falling on me.”

The prince’s hazel eyes blazed. “Who says throttling him is not an option?”

Crow’s chin came up. “I do. The third reason I have to deliver the message is simply that we know that

whoever delivers it will be reviled and never trusted again. None of the rest of you can afford to be moved

out of the way given the discussions that must take place. Alexia and you, Highness, have the military

expertise that will stop Chytrine’s troops.”

Resolute’s sneer melted into a mirthless smile. “You make no case as to why I should not address their

august majesties, my friend.”

“You mean, aside from the fact that you openly hold them and their councils in contempt?” Crow laughed

quickly. “This is a council of humans, Resolute, and they will not take well to being lectured to by one old

enough to have known their great-grandparents. Moreover, you will need their help if you are to retake

Vorquellyn. For you to speak to them would be to jeopardize that goal. This will need to be handled

diplomatically.”

Dravothrak opened his mouth in a serpentine grin. “I will not lecture, but you will permit me to emphasize

the gravity of the situation, yes?”

Alyx nodded. “As we discussed.”

The dragon bobbed his head twice, then folded his wings and they plummeted from the sky. Their cloaks,

scarves, and blankets snapped in the rush of air. Frost nibbled at Alexia’s cheeks and her eyes watered.

She held on tightly to the leather riding harness and watched the tear-blurred castle grow ever larger.

Then, suddenly, Dravothrak spread his wings again and beat hard with them. His head came up, his tail

went down, and his mighty legs absorbed the impact of his landing. Snow billowed up around them, as if

they were caught in the

heart of a blizzard, then Dravothrak breathed a fiery plume that reduced the snow to steam.

Alyx and the others slid from the dragon’s back in the fog, to the accompaniment of screams and harsh

curses. Then, Perrine descended down through the mist. The female Gyrkyme, who had been Alexia’s

lifelong companion, landed lightly, furling her raptor’s wings. Tall and slender like an elf, but covered with

down and feathers after the pattern of a falcon, she smiled and hugged her sister.

“King Augustus called the crowns together when I told him you were coming. They were grumbling, but

this display silenced the lot of them. Well done, Dranae.”

Dravothrak, now having assumed the form of a tall, powerfully built man with dark hair and a full thick

beard, bowed his head. “I am glad it was effective.” He fastened the red cloak at his throat and gathered it

about him to cover his nudity.

Alexia peered into the thinning fog, seeing dim forms moving through it. “Which way?”

Before Peri could answer, a small, green, humanoid creature, with four arms, four glassy wings, two legs,

and two antennae above compound eyes, buzzed in through the fog and circled the group. “This way. Qwc

knows. Come, come, hurry, hurry.” In the blink of an eye he was off again with a ghostly vapor vortex

curling in his wake.

Alyx slipped her right hand through the crook of Crow’s elbow and followed the Spritha. Dranae and

Erlestoke came next, with Resolute and Peri bringing up the rear. Dressed for winter—and most armed for

war—the company struck a sharp contrast with those assembled for the council. The guards stationed on

the walls and along the passages were outfitted for combat, but Saporicia had clearly sent its best troops

northeast to the Murosan border. These soldiers were old or very young—and some were still pale from

having seen a dragon land in the courtyard, then vanish in flame and fog.

The royal retainers for the various leaders wore finery that mocked the state of the world. Alyx suppressed

a shiver as she imagined whole households planning how they could array their wardrobes to best

advantage. While the kings and queens would deliberate, their staffs would battle each other, pressing

advantages and wresting concessions. Politics necessitated they look ahead, past Chytrine, to position

themselves to take best advantage—even if that positioning might be exactly what allowed Chytrine to take

over the world.

Ahead, Qwc hung in the air at each intersection, making the courtiers sent to escort them shrink back.

Some did so at a buzzed word, but at least one clawed at his face. The Spritha had spat a smothering wad

of webbing at that man, and Alyx’s horror was transformed into wicked delight as she recognized the

purple face as that of Cabot Marsham, King Scrainwood’s aide.

Marsham, his face still sticky with white tendrils, started to snarl, but

Erlestoke cut him off with a sharp command. “Back away, dog. You should feel blessed he deigned to notice someone

as insignificant as you.”

Marsham’s chubby face drained immediately of color. He gagged, then turned and darted away, heading up the stairs

to which Qwc pointed. The chamberlain slipped twice in his haste, crying out as he barked his shins once, but

scrambled on quickly.

Erlestoke laughed. “He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.”

Alyx graced him with a raised eyebrow. “You are believed dead, you know.”

“Indeed. Shouldn’t he have been happier to see me?”

Resolute just growled.

They mounted the broad stone stairs and ascended to the second landing. The short corridor leading east opened into

a large room with vaulted ceilings and fanciful murals depicting spring revels. Three large windows at the room’s far

end admitted a flood of morning light that silhouetted many of the functionaries in the back rows of benches. Toward

the front, however, where rulers and their most important advisors gathered behind tables and banners proclaiming

their nations, Alexia had no difficulty recognizing faces.

She likewise recognized the expressions which, at first, as they caught sight of Erlestoke, went from shock to guarded

delight. Then some, rather quickly, darkened. Others followed, heads turning to confer with companions. Necks

craned, heads bobbed, then whispers began to filter back and forth, filling the chamber.

King Fidelius, a small man of middle years with thin grey hair and a withered left arm, opened his strong hand in

greeting. “Princess Alexia, it is good to see you. Had we known you were coming sooner, we would have prepared a

proper welcome. Your friends I recall from Yslin, save the man in the cloak and this one, who, if my eyes do not deceive

me, is Prince Erlestoke of Oriosa.”

Alyx nodded, drawing off her cloak and scarf. “Your welcome is appreciated, Highness, as is the speed with which you

all assembled. We bring you news of great import. This is Kedyn’s Crow, and he has accepted the responsibility to

make our report.”

Crow stepped forward. He’d spent a quarter century traveling with Resolute and waging a private war against

Chytrine. Scars crisscrossed his body and old injuries made him ache, but even though the pain of Will’s death

weighed heavily on him, his shoulders did not slump and his head did not sag wearily. He moved with the strength of

a younger man—strength born of a conviction that Chytrine had to be stopped no matter the cost—and seeing that

strength brought a smile to Alexia’s face.

He made her proud, and that made her love him even more.

Crow slowly drew the mittens from his hands and unbuttoned the sheepskin coat he wore. “My lords and ladies, I bear

grave news. In Yslin you were presented with a lad, Will Norrington. He was the fulfillment of the Norrington

Prophecy. He was in my care and under my protection. With me and my com-

panions, Will did much good, from Vilwan and Port Gold to Fortress Draconis, Meredo, and Muroso. His courage and

spirit can be attested to by thousands.

“Yesterday Will spoke for humanity at the Congress of Dragons on Vael. He spoke eloquently, arguing that the

dragons alone should be custodians of the DragonCrown fragments. He argued one of Chytrine’s sullanciri to a

standstill and when the dragons agreed with him, the sullanciri attempted to murder one of them. Will prevented that

murder, but could only do so at the cost of his own life.”

Crow’s words tightened into a croak as his hands balled. Alexia reached out, closing her hand on his shoulder. She felt

the tremor running through him and squeezed.

King Scrainwood slowly rose from behind Oriosa’s table. He unfolded himself and straightened in a manner that

somehow struck Alexia as wrong, but she could not place why. He moved as a man might, but there was something

else there. Something evil, which came through in the venom saturating his words.

“The Norrington is dead?. What further proof is needed that you are indeed the traitor, that you are Chytrine’s agent?

You betrayed heroes an age ago, and you betrayed Will Norrington now.” Scrainwood pointed a quivering finger at

Alexia. “Come away from him, Princess. To be near him is to be in jeopardy, and to call him friend is to hold a viper to

your breast.”

Alexia started to mouth a protest, but Crow unballed a scarred fist and laid it on her hand. He gave her a glance full of

love and confidence, then hardened his expression and turned to face the crowned heads.

“This ends now, King Scrainwood.”

Scrainwood’s eyes widened as he opened his arms. “You dare threaten me, here and now? You are evil’s agent.”

Crow snorted. “And how do I threaten you, King Scrainwood? I have no sword. Is it that you still feel the sting of my

slaps on your cheeks? Is it your shame that wounds you, and your memory of it that makes you fear me? Fear rules

you, and it infects all of you here. I have never liked you, nor have you ever liked me, and that is the way of the thing.

It cannot be allowed, however, to doom the world.”

He looked past and around Scrainwood. “For a quarter century there have been two strategies for dealing with

Chytrine and her threat to the Southlands. One has been defensive, as exemplified by Fortress Draconis, and perverted

by Oriosa’s covert acquiescence to Aurolani pressure. Do not be smug. All of you have adopted this strategy to a

greater or lesser extent. The fact that you are here, not at the head of armies pushing into Muroso, is further proof that

you think this strategy can win.

“Resolute and I, on the other hand, have waged a war against her. We have cost her troops and leaders. We have

thwarted plans. We have slowed her advances. We may not have stopped her, but we are only two. As part of our war

we

sought the Norrington. We plucked him from the slums of Yslin, trained him for his role, watched him assume it and

acquit himself well.“

Crow’s voice tightened a bit, but deepened as well. “One of you dismissed him as gutterkin and a whoreget, yet he

won his place in history. While still a youth, he inspired men with a willingness to fight and even die for him, and many

did—all in opposition to Chytrine. His death won for us a neutrality among dragons. As a nation they will not fight for

Chytrine.”

Scrainwood sniffed. “A better man would have won them to our side.”

“Silence!” Crow’s shout produced astonished expressions on faces long unaccustomed to taking orders. “You are all

playing at games. You need to make serious decisions, and you can’t do it with posturing, nor with a lack of

information, and it is information I bring.”

He turned and pointed to Dranae. “This companion of ours is Dravothrak, a dragon in manform. He is our ally, as

Chytrine has allies. In the mountains of Sarengul he slew one of her dragons. There are others among dragonkind

willing to help us.”

King Fidelius stroked his chin. “What do they desire for their help?”

Dranae nodded slowly. “What you do. The destruction of the Dragon-Crown.”

A woman in a black robe stood at the Vilwanese table. “What of Adept Reese? Was he slain, too?”

Crow shook his head. “No, he has remained on Vael to receive instruction in the ways of dracomagick.”

Her eyes widened. “On whose authority?”

“His. Mine. Does it matter?” Crow’s hands again became fists. “Have none of you been listening? You ask after

authority, after allies, assuming that you can look past to the time after Chytrine. But the job before you is to deal with

Chytrine. You failed twenty-five years ago to end this threat, and for all that time I accepted the burden of your blame.

Well, no more. If the world is to survive, you will have to do something other than plot and scheme.”

He stabbed a finger off to the northeast. “You have a horde pouring in this direction. It has devoured Sebcia. It is

consuming Muroso. It has invaded Sarengul and struck at Bokagul. Oriosa will not stop it. You must.”

Crow’s shoulders slumped a little. “Will Norrington accepted the responsibility for saving the world. The actions he

took have hurt Chytrine and made her vulnerable. If you give her time to recover, you will have betrayed him, your

people, and yourselves. Because every second you fail to act is a second in which she grows stronger, and a second

in which the chance to stop her slips further away.”

He straightened his shoulders and raised his head, then turned and strode from the room. The guards at the door made

no attempt to stop him, despite Scrainwood’s hissed orders. Alyx fell in behind him, and Resolute beside her.

Beyond the door, in the small corridor, Crow hammered a fist against a stone wall.

Resolute smiled and rested a hand on the back of Crow’s neck. “I thought you said this needed to be handled

diplomatically?”

Crow growled, then pressed his forehead to the cold stone and smiled. “Well, that was my intention, but I assumed

that if they were going to hate me, they might as well have plenty of reason. After the last war against Chytrine I told

them this would happen. It was gratifying to remind them of it. But I don’t know that it will do any good.”

Alyx stroked his arm. “I watched them. Augustus smiled and my great-grandaunt did not, so I consider those both

solid points. Queen Carus of Jerana and King Fidelius listened, and they are key players. You reminded them all that

Scrainwood could not be trusted, and he did little to reassure them on that point. They liked seeing Erlestoke there.”

Crow turned and slumped back against the wall. “There is hope, then, slender though it might be. This is good.” He

raised a hand and caressed her cheek. “You and Erlestoke will have to carry on the political battle, since I am useless.”

Alexia frowned. “You’re never useless, and I will be needing your help.”

“Oh, I’ll help as much as I can.” The corner of Crow’s mouth twitched in a grin. “I’ll distract Scrainwood. While you

are rallying the crowned heads, I’ll write my memoirs, with all the details of the last campaign against Chytrine. Trying

to get at the manuscript will keep him preoccupied, I hope.”

Resolute nodded and the upright stripe of white hair shifted as if kissed by a breeze. “No matter what they think of

you, Crow, the assembled leaders know that to do nothing is to die. It is a spur that will drive them to action. With

luck, the princess and Erlestoke can unite them, and we will put an end to this scourge for once and all time.”

Kerrigan Reese sat cross-legged on the stone floor and studied the seamless silver globe in his hands. He

could see himself easily in its polished surface, his face all piled up around a fat nose and diminishing until

his ears became little more than buds. He looked singularly unappealing, but though possessed of a normal

amount of vanity, concerns about his looks shrank to insignificance. He was less worried about the globe’s

visual distortion because another aspect of its nature held his full attention.

As the globe distorted reflected light, so it seemed to distort magick. The first spell the portly mage had cast

on the globe had confirmed that it was enchanted, but the energy he had put into a simple diagnostic spell

was quickly drawn and shredded. It seemed to him as if it had been a thin cloud stretched and dissipated by

an unfelt wind.

His mind raced, both in puzzling out the globe and because of other recent events. Will Norrington’s death

still hurt. Not only had Kerrigan lost a friend— the only friend he’d had his own age—but he should have

been able to prevent Will’s death. He had failed to act and while he acknowledged that Will knew what he

was doing when he sacrificed himself, Kerrigan’s failure gnawed at him. Will’s dying act, however, had

saved the life of Kerrigan’s new master, a dragon named Rymramoch. Rymramoch’s physical body lay in

the Congress Chamber, deep in the fastness of Vael, though the dragon traveled and observed through

means of an elaborate wooden manikin. Until a confrontation with a sullanciri in the chamber, Kerrigan

had no inkling that Rymramoch was anything but a powerful mage.

The dragon had traveled with the help of Bok, a hirsute urZrethi male with malachite flesh. He had turned

out to be quite a surprise. As with all of his race, Bok could shift shape, but Kerrigan had labored under the

impression that he

was little more than a beast. Part of that mistake had been because 01 common legend that said male

urZrethi driven from the mountains slowly went insane without the company of their own kind. The urZrethi

matriarchy portrayed males as feebleminded, and during his time in Bokagul, Kerrigan had seen little

to contradict this depiction.

Bok, or more correctly Loktu-bok Jex, turned out to be centuries old, very well educated and traveled, and

quite capable of working formidable magick. His spells had animated the puppet in which Rymramoch’s

consciousness had resided and Kerrigan had never detected a thing. And as if Bok’s going from beast to

civilized savant was not enough of a shock, Bok had told Kerrigan that

he was Chytrine’s father.

“Your mind is wandering, Adept Reese.” Rymramoch, resplendent in a crimson robe embroidered in golden

serpentine designs, nodded. The puppet pointed a gloved hand at the globe. “Focus on the globe. Divine its

Michael A. Stackpole - Dragon Crown Saga 4 - The Grand Crusade

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