The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection
- Автор: Датлоу Эллен, Виндлинг Терри
- Год: 1992
- Язык: английский
- Год: St.Martin’s Press
- Жанр: Ужасы
Электронная книга - «The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection». Краткое содержание книги:
Owain said, “What shall I ask him?”
She said, “I’ve already asked.”
Owain asked then, “And the answers, lady?”
“First that the dragon’s life and soul lies in his right eye. And second that no man can kill him.”
Owain understood the answer then. He scratched Mili’s neck beneath the collar. He said, “Mili’s a loyal dog. And if flying tires you, lady, I’ve got a shoulder you can ride on.”
Glasog said, “Better you go straightaway back to your king. Only lend me your bow, your dog, and your horse. That is my wish, ap Llodri.”
Owain shook his head, and got up, patting Mili on the head. “All that you’ll have by your wish,” Owain said, “but I go with them.”
“Be warned,” she said.
“I am that,” said Owain, and held out his hand. “My lady?”
The raven fluttered up and settled on his arm, bating as he rose into the saddle. Owain set Swallow on her way, among the charred, cinder-black hills, to a cave the raven showed him.
Swallow had no liking for this place. Owain patted her neck, coaxed her forward. Mili bristled up and growled as they climbed. Owain took up his bow and drew out an arrow, yelled, “Mili! Look out!” as fire billowed out and Swallow shied.
A second gust followed. Mili yelped and ran from the roiling smoke, racing ahead of a great serpent shape that surged out of the cave; but Mili began to cross the hill then, leading it.
The raven launched itself from Owain’s shoulder, straighter than Owain’s arrow sped.
A clamor rose in the keep, somewhere deep in the halls. It was dawn above the hills, and a glow still lit the south, as Gwydion watched from the window.
He was watching when a strange rider came down the road, shining gold in the sun, in scaled armor.
“The dragon!” he heard shouted from the wall. Gwydion’s heart sank. It sank further when the scale-armored rider reached the gate and Madog’s men opened to it. It was Swallow the dragon-knight rode, Swallow with her mane all singed; and it was Mili who limped after, with her coat all soot-blackened and with great sores showing on her hide. Mili’s head hung and her tail drooped and the dragon led her by a rope, while a raven sat perched on his shoulder.
Of Owain there was no sign.
There came a clattering in the hall. Chain rattled, the bar lifted and thumped and armed men were in the doorway.
“King Madog wants you,” one said. And Gwydion—
“Madog will have to send twice,” Gwydion said, with his sword in hand.
The dragon rode to the steps and the raven fluttered to the ground as waiting women rushed to it, to bring Princess Glasog her cloak—black as her hair and stitched with spells. The waiting women and the servants had seen this sight before—the same as the men at arms at the gate, who had had their orders should it have been Owain returning.
“Daughter,” Madog said, descending those same steps as Glasog rose up, wrapped in black and silver. Mili growled and bristled, suddenly strained at her leash—
The dragon loosed it and Mili sprang for Madog’s throat. Madog fell under the hound and Madog’s blood was on the steps—but his neck was already broken.
Servants ran screaming. Men at arms stood confused, as if they had quite forgotten what they were doing or where they were or what had brought them there, the men of the fallen kingdoms all looking at one another and wondering what terrible thing had held them here.
And on all of this Glasog turned her back, walking up the steps.
“My lady!” Owain cried—for it was Owain wore the armor; but it was not Owain’s voice she longed to hear.
Glasog let fall the cloak and leaped from the wall. The raven glided away, with one harsh cry against the wind.
In time after—often in that bitter winter, when snows lay deep and wind skirled drifts about the door—Owain told how Glasog had pierced the dragon’s eye; and how they had found the armor, and how Glasog had told him the last secret, that with the dragon dead, Madog’s sorcery would leave him.
That winter, too, Gwydion found a raven in the courtyard, a crippled bird, missing feathers on one wing. It seemed greatly confused, so far gone with hunger and with cold that no one thought it would live. But Gwydion tended it until spring and set it free again.
It turned up thereafter on the wall of Gwydion’s keep—King Gwydion, he was Gwydion and the Dragon now—lord of all Dyfed. “You’ve one wish left,” he said to it. “One wish left of me.
“I give it to you,” the raven said. “Whatever you wish, King Gwydion.”
“Be what you wish to be,” Gwydion said.
And thereafter men told of the wisdom of King Gwydion as often as of the beauty of his wife.
A STORY MUST BE HELD
Jane Yolen
In addition to writing fiction for children and adults, Jane Yolen is a poet, fairy tale scholar, anthologist, and the editor of Jane Yolen Books, an imprint of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Yolen’s lyrical, mythical poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and collections. The following poem, “A Story Must Be Held,” draws on Yolen’s experiences both as a writer of stories and as an oral storyteller. It comes from Colors of a New Day: Writing for South Africa, a benefit collection featuring the works of a number of English and American writers compiled by Sarah Lefanu and Stephen Hayward.