by J. C. Staudt
“You’re rather jovial for someone who’s likely to be roast mutton by dawn. Are the horses coming?”
“Not likely,” said Darion as they started down the stairs.
“How many dragons do you expect will come?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. Could be one. Could be half a dozen, for all I know. In the latter case, it will be very hard to convince them all I can give them something worth doing us a favor for. The same is true if we summon a young dragon who hasn’t yet learned to speak.”
“So our chances of success are small.”
They exited the keep and started across the inner ward toward the stables. The yard was dark and empty, the torches burning low, the soldiers Darion had dispatched earlier now resting—not too uncomfortably, he hoped—in the barracks. “Sir Jalleth taught me many things in my youth. Perhaps the most important was that heroes are those do what must be done… even against impossible odds.”
“I’ve always preferred to take the odds in my favor.”
“Nothing wrong with that, my friend. A simple life is a boon to many.”
“I have lived simply for long enough. Lady Alynor needs us, and for that I will gladly lay down my life.”
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Darion said.
They met with no resistance as they saddled their horses and left the keep. When they reached the edge of the Breezewood, the Galyrians were there waiting for them.
“What was it you done in there?” asked Engrod.
“Prepared a way for you,” Darion said. “Speak to the castellan. His name is Appleby, and he has promised to take you all into his service.”
“Thank you, Enon,” said Nara. “Thank you so much.”
“Where will you go from here?” Tanigar asked.
“We must press on. West and north. We’ve a ways to go yet.”
“What’s that horn hanging at your side?”
Darion smiled. “A memento, of sorts.”
After saying their goodbyes and wishing the Galyrians well, Darion and Jeebo left the shade of the Breezewood and headed west into the open plains of Orothwain. Darion wanted to put some distance between them and the keep before he blew the Dragon Horn, so as not to endanger anyone. He decided to take Jeebo’s advice and wait until morning to blow the first note. It was late, so they staked the horses to the ground and supped on jerky instead of building a fire.
In the morning, Darion woke first. He considered waking Jeebo with a blast from the horn, but chuckled to himself and thought better of it. After breaking their fast, they traveled further from the keep just to be safe. Then they dismounted and walked a distance from the horses so as not to spook them.
“Are you ready?” Darion asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Good. Then we are both prepared to face a realistic outcome.” Darion raised the horn to his lips.
“Wait a moment—” Jeebo’s words fell off beneath the sound of the blast.
Birds rose from the brush in a frantic flapping of wings. Beneath her hood, Hyrana cocked her head to listen.
Darion let the note ring long and loud, waiting until the last of it died on the distant mountains before he replied. “What? What is it?”
“I was only going to ask… how are you planning to convince a dragon to help us?”
“We won’t know whether it worked for a little while,” Darion said. “That will give me time to think.”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Come on, Jeebo. We must keep moving west and north.”
“Shouldn’t we stay here? Won’t the dragons come toward the sound?”
“They’ll come to the horn. It isn’t the sound that brings them.”
Jeebo wrinkled his mouth, but followed Darion back to the horses and did not press him further. The falconer was far from his usual easygoing, good-natured self that day. He kept looking skyward, turning about in his saddle and feeding Hyrana compulsively. The bird would become too heavy to hunt if it wasn’t flown more and fed less; Darion had seen his own falcons go off weight at Keep Ulther. But Jeebo was too anxious for a hunt now, and he was making the bird anxious too.
For most of that day they made northwest through a changeless landscape of gently rolling grassland. By early afternoon Darion was resigned to the possibility that the horn’s power had waned in the intervening years since he’d summoned Taerbalkonnyn, and that it no longer possessed the ability to attract dragons. The ascetics of Kriia would’ve questioned his convictions for thinking such things.
“Will they ever come?” Jeebo asked that afternoon.
“Perhaps not,” Darion said. “Perhaps we’ve succeeded only in calling a few birds from the brush.”
“I must be honest. I would not be disappointed if that were true.”
“You needn’t be honest about that. I would’ve guessed it regardless.”
“Where will we go if no dragons come?”
“To Linderton first. Travel will be faster on the Hightrade Road than out here in the tall grass. Though if we’re forced to ride all the way to Briarcrest, our finding her seems hopeless.”
“Don’t say that. We will find her.”
In the westering sun, a shadow flickered across the fields. Darion and Jeebo looked up at once, shielding their eyes against the daylight. They heard a rough gust, like wind on canvas sails. Darion knew that sound. He knew also the shape of the thick-bellied creature on barbed wings sailing in their direction. It banked left, catching the sun on its underbelly in a shimmer of pearly green scales.
“This is not good,” Darion said.
“A dragon is here,” said Jeebo. “I thought that was what we wanted.”
“I know this dragon.”
Jeebo looked at him strangely. “How many dragons do you know?”
“Enough to have made enemies among their kind.”
“I hope you’re good at making friends. It’s coming this way.”
“I can see that.”
Jeebo put his hand to the scimitar at his back.
“Don’t,” Darion warned. “The worst thing you could do is show aggression.”
Jeebo lowered his hand. “What was it that made you enemies?”
“You’ll soon find out. I only hope he’s in a good mood.”
The dragon flung forward on its rear legs like a falcon on the strike, landing with a force that shook the ground and made the horses strain against their bridles. A rush of wind blew the hair back from their faces. The beast’s sudden stop brought its head within an armspan of Darion’s. Posey toiled under the reins, her eyes rolling in terror. Hyrana, sightless and scared, left Jeebo’s shoulder and lit on the ground a short distance behind him.
“Caidrannothar,” Darion said.
Jeebo leaned over and whispered, “Are you casting a spell?”
“That is his name.”
The dragon huffed steam through its nostrils. “What is this madness you’ve wrought in me? You’ve awakened some vile sorcery as if in my very bowels. Why am I here under this compulsion?”
“You know you have been summoned, then,” said Darion.
“I know I have traveled far of a will not my own. I’ve a hunger and a thirst, and a mind to quench both with the blood and flesh of your body. Explain yourself, and I shall repay you for the offense you offered me when last we met.”
Rescuing a band of elf-kind who’d found themselves trapped inside Caidrannothar’s lair was not the sort of offense Darion was willing to apologize for. When it came to the slaying of dragons, he had learned long ago it was best left to those who did not value their homes, families, livestock, or kingdoms. While dragons tended to keep their familial relations distant save that between wyrmlings and their mothers, most rarely hesitated to avenge their own.
“I have an offer for you,” Darion said. “One you may find… odd.”
“You are an odd sort of creature, Sir Darion,” said the dragon. “One I shall very much enjoy eating. And I see you’ve
brought a friend and some horses for a second helping.”
“No helpings today, I’m afraid. Of men or horses. The thing I wish to offer you is much greater than mere sustenance.”
“Do elaborate upon what, in my time of hunger, I could possibly find to be of greater value than food.”
“This.” Darion held up the horn.
“A trumpet? What use have I for so crude an implement?”
“This is the implement I used to summon you here. For thousands of years, it has called your brethren against their will. This device is wrought from the horn of a dragon. A dragon not much different than yourself, though ages older. You were enslaved by the magic held within it. I will give it to you.”
“You called me here only for this?”
“Do you not wish to own it?” Darion asked. “Or will you instead allow me—and whomever its future owners may be—to rule over you from this day forth? To call you from your den; to wake you from slumber, or deter you from the feed? That is what will happen if you leave it with me. Generations of would-be dragon slayers will find their ambitions lightened by the weight of an ivory token. There are many who would pay a hefty price for such an item. Think how many heads are yet to be mounted over the hearths of brave knights everywhere, were dragon-slaying to become less a hunt and more a trap to be baited. This horn calls to you. Ever will it call to you until the day it lies safely in your possession as part of your treasure hoard.”
Caidrannothar hummed from deep in his gullet, the long, smooth sound of one deliberating. “Your words ring true. Your intentions are twisted.”
Darion nodded. “You have the right of it. There is something I want in return.”
“Name it.”
“Distance,” said Darion. “I’ve a great one to cross, and too short a time in which to cross it.”
“Is that it? You would trade this trumpet, with the power to summon dragons, for a ride in my claws?”
Darion waggled his head. “Or… on your back.”
The dragon chuckled, smoke spilling from its teeth. “On my back. Do you truly suppose I would be so easily tricked, to hear you speak of dragon hunters and trophy slayers, and then to expose my neck to you like a calf at the culling block? No, Sir Darion Ulther. You shall have to try harder than that if you wish to escape me with your life. What’s to stop me roasting you alive and taking your trumpet for myself?”
“Take your breath,” Darion said. “Stoke your fires. I would sooner fly with you than murder you, but if you force me to do so, I will bargain with the next dragon who heeds the horn’s call. I have neither the time nor the humor for games of deceit. Accept my offer, or go back to the hole you crawled out of.”
Caidrannothar sucked in a long, full breath.
Darion began to cast.
When the dragon exhaled, Darion grasped the mage-song and flung it in the beast’s direction. Jeebo wheeled his horse and made to run.
Fire shot from the dragon’s jaws.
The stream split in two and spread like water pouring over the belly of a glass pitcher. Jeebo winced, astonished when he opened his eyes to find himself still alive. He turned back to see what was happening to the flame, then looked to Darion for direction.
Darion was still casting. “Hold your ground,” he shouted, taking another completed spell in hand.
Jeebo did. He turned to face the dragon once more, shuddering as the fire broke over Darion’s invisible barrier to make the sweat stand up on his brow.
Darion cast a third spell, letting the mage-song hover before him while he waited for the first to run its course. A new wave of flame broke over the barrier, which dissipated at the final second. As the dragon inhaled to stoke another gout, Darion heaved his spell toward its open jaws.
The dragon’s inhalation halted abruptly, as if a stone had suddenly lodged itself in its throat. It gave a choking cough, followed by a long wheeze. Steam billowed from its mouth, plentiful as burning coals dropped in cold water. The beast stumbled backward, rearing on its hind legs and flailing its head like the crown of a morningstar. It came forward, eyes bulging, and made a desperate lunge for Darion, jaws open wide.
Darion was ready with his third spell.
Dark smog swirled from either end of his closed fist, solidifying into a spear of gnarled black wood, pointed on both ends, which caught the dragon’s jaws and held them open. Caidrannothar wrenched its head sideways, attempting to throw Darion from his horse. All Darion had to do was let go. The staff held for a few more seconds before the dragon’s jaws snapped shut around it in a cloud of smoke. Its body went limp, its head thudding to the ground so close to Darion it made Posey falter backward a few steps.
Caidrannothar lay still.
Birds fluttered from their nests in the tall grasses, and the day went silent.
Jeebo looked from Darion to the dragon, then back again. “Is it… dead?”
“Not dead. Only sleeping.”
“What do we do now?”
Darion made a visor of his hand and scanned the skies. “Wait until he wakes up. And hope no other dragons arrive in the meantime.”
Chapter 17
The sky was gray, the late afternoon cool beneath a heady west wind.
“Throw him here, will you?” said Marsh Drelving, motioning. He lifted an arm enfolded in thick rawhide and waited for his younger brother to toss the falcon back to him.
Bosco leaned back, balancing Ristocule on his own leather glove, curling his tongue beside his lip with the effort. He made to take a balancing step, but his shoe held in sucking mud and he toppled over backwards. Ristocule flapped away and disappeared among the tall grasses of the rain-damp field. From his dark hiding place, Ristocule heard Marsh give an aggravated groan.
“Gods help me if you ain’t the most clumsiest lout I ever know’d. Now we’ve got to fetch the buggering bird from the rushes. Stop playing in the mud and help me look for it.”
Ristocule heard them rustling through the grass in search of him, hands parting the reeds, boots stomping in the mud. He fled, but the undergrowth was too thick to let him get far. The bells on his jesses jingled when he took to the air, and for a moment he felt the rush of escape.
Then the leash, which the bird’s captors had lengthened little by little with each training session, reached its end. The sky spun away from him, and he crashed down in the blinding yellow stalks. He hopped to his feet and flapped the mud from his wings, then lowered his head to bite and nip at the thick leather braid attached to his ankle straps. The leather was tough and tightly wound. He’d never get through it; not before they found him.
For a time Ristocule evaded Marsh and his bumbling brother Bosco, slipping away through the grass whenever he heard them come near. Soon all the grass within the leash’s range was trampled, leaving him to scramble for cover where there was none to be found. That was when Marsh cuffed him around the chest, pinning his wings to his body, and lifted him off the ground.
Beside the spot where the leash was staked into the mud on a long iron tent spike lay a cage barely large enough to hold Ristocule without forcing him to crouch. The boys had used this cage to transport the bird to and from the rickety mews they’d built to house him. Had they been seasoned falconers, they might’ve known a cage wasn’t necessary, and a loop or hook attached to the glove was a better anchor point for the leash than a stake in the ground or a noose round the waist. Alas, Ristocule had been forced to deal with not only their inept handling, but also their sporadic feeding schedule and their poor excuse for a shelter, which let the rain in and left the bird without a windbreak from the gusts which came in across the fields day and night.
“Bad bird,” Marsh said, slapping Ristocule on the chest with a set of pudgy knuckles. He brought his face in close. “Bad. Bad bird, flying off like that. You don’t fly unless I tell you to fly. Understand?”
Marsh’s breath was sour, and the pink flush in his plump cherry nose made Ristocule wonder how a scrap of that flesh might taste on an empt
y stomach. The bird was seeing less through Sir Jalleth’s eyes and more through his own these days. The torment of captivity in unseasoned hands had stressed the bird more than the man, but Sir Jalleth was too exhausted to take the brunt of it. Neither bird nor man had many years left, and it was beginning to show.
“Now, let’s try this again, you clubfooted oaf,” Marsh said, calling across the distance to his brother.
Bosco was painted half in mud, but no less enthusiastic. “I had him, I just lose’d my footing is all. This time I’ll do it right. You’ll see. Send him here.”
“Not while you’re all dirty like that. You’ll get mud on my bird.”
“He’s got mud on him already.”
“Right, and he don’t need more of it. Go have yourself a soak in the stream.”
“But it’s cold,” Bosco complained.
“I’ll train him myself then.”
“Oh, alright.” Bosco stormed off to dip himself in the village brook, which was in most places no more than a foot deep and a few fathoms across, but which in all seasons ran with icy spring water from the Laerlocke and the northern Breakspires beyond. Ristocule heard him squeal when he splashed himself with his cupped hands, a piteous sound that would’ve made him laugh if he’d been able.
“Hurry up. It’s getting dark,” Marsh called to him.
When Bosco returned, he’d only scrubbed the mud off his face from forehead to chin, leaving a brown landslide to run down his neck and through his collar. His clothes were soaked, but stained brown and far from clean. “I’m ready,” he said. “Here, Master Whitefeather. Come here.”
“I’m not tossing him to you like that,” Marsh said. “You’re dirtier than before.”
Bosco shivered, his arm outstretched in expectation.
“See? Now you’re dirty and cold. Serves you well for being the dullard you are.”
“I’m clean,” Bosco insisted.
“No you ain’t. Even the stupid bird can see that. I don’t want your help no more.”
“But you promised I could.”
“I done nothing of the kind. Even if I had, I’d unpromise now. You’re too stupid and fat to stand on your own two legs. Go home and play with the girls.”