Dragonheart

The Old Code has been betrayed.
The new law is tyranny.

The only hope for justice lies in the heart of a dragon . . .

Long ago, fate brought them together—
Bowen
, a Knight of the Old Code who trained a young prince to one day rule with honor . . .
Kara
, a peasant girl who mortally wounded the prince in the revolt that killed his father . . .
Draco
, a noble dragon who took pity on the dying boy-king and healed him through a heartfelt sacrifice.

The most uncommon of allies, they now join forces to defeat a king who has matured into a ruthless tyrant. But only one among them knows the terrible price which must be paid to achieve victory . . .

DRAGONHEART
A novel by Charles Pogue.
Based on a screenplay by Charles Pogue.

A Boulevard Book / published by arrangement with MCA Publishing Rights, a Division of MCA, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY
Boulevard edition / June 1996

All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996 by MCA Publishing Rights, a Division of MCA. Inc. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 1-57297-130-4

BOULEVARD
Boulevard Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue. New York, New York 10016. BOULEVARD and its logo are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Julieanne,

My Muse, My Champion, and My Lady Fair.

And in memory of Hotspur, who was Draco,

And my father, who taught me the Old Code.

This is the tale of a Knight who slew
a Dragon and vanquished evil.

The Chronicles of Glockenspur,
Detailing the Historie of King
Einon and the Rebellion Under
His Reign as Set Down by One
Gilbert, a Friar.

Part I

THE KNIGHT

Inside the table’s circle,
Under the sacred sword.
A knight must vow to follow
The code that is unending,
Unending as the table—
A ring by honor bound.

—The Old Code

One

THE FALL OF KINGS

“. . . No one will take arms against my crown.”

Bowen caught the sword against his own, a slice away from his smile. Sunlight and sparks slashed along the blades as they shrieked down each other in a skittering slide, locking at their hilts. From behind their wedged embrace, Bowen’s gray eyes gleamed like the sunlit steel.

“Not bad.” He grinned, then disengaged with a swift flare and a blurred sally that drove his visored adversary into the dirt.

“But not good enough to live, Prince.” Bowen emphasized the taunt by poking his sword tip against the royal coat of arms emblazoned on the downed man’s surcoat . . . a dragon’s head impaled on a sword.

An oath lurched out of the helmet and the prince’s boot lurched against Bowen’s thigh, shoving the knight back. The prince spun from under Bowen’s jarred blade and sprang to his feet in one swift swirl of motion.

But even as he lunged, Bowen’s sword was there to meet his, deflecting it away from his broad, bare chest by inches.

“Better!” Again, Bowen smiled through their crossed blades. Pleased.

So was the prince. More by the compliment, thought Bowen, than by the skill of the maneuver. Bowen could make out the toothy, lopsided grin behind the visor grate. He could also take advantage of it. For basking in the praise, the prince had let down his guard. Just slightly. But enough. Bowen’s blade arced down and struck him . . .

. . . with the flat of his sword.

“But you’d still be dead, Einon!”

Prince Einon reeled from the blow. Snarling another oath, he wildly charged Bowen, who, laughing, effortlessly parried the violent but awkward assault.

“Purpose, not passion, princeling! Fight with your head, not your heart!” Bowen mocked the prince, punctuating each maxim with a slap of his sword flat against Einon’s body.

Even so, Einon was good. He’d learned the mechanics well. It was only hotheadedness that made him sloppy and predictable. And made Bowen’s mastery of him easier than it should have been.

Bowen allowed the prince to drive him back through the ruins of the old Roman castle to a crumbling stone wall. He perched on it, fending off Einon’s frenzied blows.

“Mind if I sit? Your exertion exhausts me.”

Another indecipherable mutter shot out from behind the helmet. Bowen easily caught the blade that shot out and, with the force of his own blade, sent Einon sprawling through the tall, uncut grass to the ground. The helmet clanked against a stone.

“Nobody ever found victory in the dirt,” Bowen barked at him, and bracing his sword against the wall, reached for the waterskin laid there.

He took a healthy swig, the water running down his tanned chest and mingling with the glistening sweat. He stared into the afternoon sun as it started its descent behind the mountains. Its waning rays crept down the rocky bluffs below where King Freyne’s wooden stronghold nestled and kidnapped it from the sheltering shadows. But even the sun’s shimmering gold could not brighten the grimness of the fortress. It seemed to shun the light, preferring the dark caresses of the cliffs. Crude and primitive, it suited its master well.

Freyne would never be a builder like the mighty legions who had crafted the fine stone upon which Bowen sat. Even in its disrepair, the remnants of the old castle bespoke the glories of the conquerors who raised it. In victory, they left a legacy of their greatness on the land . . . broad roads and mighty walls and proud blood. From this last had come a king whose legacy was even more far-reaching than the empire of his ancestors. A legacy that once bound all Britain by a dream. A dream of the heart and of the spirit.

But that king, those days, were now a faded ruin—like this castle and like Imperial Rome itself. A memory. No more. And in their place had risen overlords like Freyne, whose conquests extended no further than their bloodlust or their greed. No, Freyne was no builder like the Romans. It was fitting that his dark fortress—Bowen could not call it a castle—hung among the lurking hills below, like a bird of prey perched and waiting to rake its talons across a shuddering land.

Bowen gulped at the waterskin to wash away the bad taste in his mouth. He heard Einon rise and whirl and charge once more. He didn’t even stop drinking; he merely snatched up his sword in his left hand and smote Einon back to his knees. The prince was getting careless; toying with him had ceased to be amusing.

“Kneel in battle and you’ll never kneel at your coronation.” Bowen slapped his sword rapidly against both sides of the helmet, making it ring. Einon shook his head wildly and roared. From where he knelt, he took a weaving swipe at Bowen’s legs. Bowen leapt onto the wall and the blade scraped along the stone. Einon twisted back with a vicious uppercut. Glowering at the prince’s pathetic show, Bowen caught the blow on the waterskin. The bag shredded on the blade, spraying its contents into Einon’s visor-veiled face. Bowen threw the sopping sack at him too.

“Cool off, princeling. Remember! Nerve cold blue; blade blood red.”

But the dousing cooled neither Einon nor his nerve. And his blade, though deadly, was desperate and clumsy. Bowen sidestepped another lunge with a dismissive laugh.

Then the wall crumbled beneath his boot heel.

The fall was neither far nor hard. The tall grass on the other side of the wall had cushioned his landing, but it scratched against his bare torso. He heard Einon clamber over the stone, then his plaintive, “Sir Bowen?”

And in that cry of anxious curiosity, Bowen knew the advantage was his. He lay utterly still. His eyes closed. Waiting for Einon to come to him.

Einon swallowed the bait. Down off the wall. Through the overgrown grass. Bowen heard it rustle against the prince’s body. Closer. Closer. Utterly guileless. Unususpecting. It was almost too easy. Bowen peered through slit lids and the mud-blond mop of hair that had fallen in his face. Einon leaned down over him. The visor was up. The fighting demeanor of his pimpled fifteen-year-old face had surrendered to worried gravity. His fair skin was splotchy red, flushed with exertion and sunlight. The boy had none of his mother’s beauty. He was all broad angles and rough curve, with a feral aspect that he shared with his father. Physically, there was no doubting that he was Freyne’s son. Bowen was determined that he would not turn out to be Freyne’s son in other respects as well.

Again: “Sir Bowen?” Bowen could scarce repress his smile. A moment ago that timid, tentative voice had been snarling curses at him.

Einon knelt to examine the knight. But a noise distracted him. Bowen heard it too. Hoofbeats. Coming from behind. Coming fast.

As the boy whirled to the sound Bowen whirled up behind him, his sword glinting at Einon’s throat.

“Dead again, Prince!” Bowen leered over the lad’s shoulder. “How many times must I tell you?”

Einon mechanically recited it with him. “Only expose your back to a corpse!”

But the fencing lesson was over. Einon pointed at the riders as they galloped through a weather-wasted arch into the ruin of what had once been a tiled courtyard. “It’s happened.”

Einon took off his training helmet and ran his fingers through a thick whitish-yellow shock of hair, damp with sweat. Bowen scowled as three men rode up. Two soldiers led by a massive brute of a knight: Sir Brok. All dressed in battle regalia. Bowen knew why they had come. So did Einon.

“The peasants are revolting.”

Brok grinned sourly.

“They’ve always been
revolting
, Prince. Smell one sometime. But now they’re
rebelling
.”

Brok’s men laughed at the jest, Bowen still scowled. Brok still grinned. At Bowen. It was still a sour grin. He disliked Bowen. Bowen didn’t care. He disliked Brok.

“King Freyne would have his son witness his noble victory.”