Dragon's Teeth

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Well then, let us see what we can do to make them unattractive.”

  Within the half-hour the Rom horses, mules and donkeys little resembled the sleek beasts that had come to the call of their two-legged allies. Coats were dirty, with patches that looked suspiciously like mange; hocks were poulticed, and looked swollen; several of the wise old mares were ostentatiously practicing their limps, and there wasn’t a hide of an attractive color among them.

  And anyone touching them would be kicked at, or nearly bitten—the horses were not minded to have their two-legged brothers punished for their actions. Narrowed eyes and laid-back ears gave the lie to the hilarity within. No one really knowledgeable about horses would want to come near this lot.

  And just in time, for Howard Thomson rode into the camp on an oversized, dun-colored dullard of a gelding only a few moments after the tools of their deceptions had been cleaned up and put away. Chali briefly touched the beast’s mind to see if it was being mistreated, only to find it nearly as stupid as one of the mongrels that infested the village.

  He surveyed the copper trinkets with scorn, and the sorry herd of horses with disdain. Then his eye lit upon the king stallion.

  “You there—trader—” he waved his hand at the proud bay stallion, who looked back at this arrogant two-legs with the same disdain. “How much for that beast there?”

  “The noble prince must forgive us,” Petro fawned, while Chali was glad, for once, of her muteness; she did not have to choke on her giggles as some of the others were doing. “But that one is none of ours. He is a wild one; he follows our mares, which we permit in hopes of foals like him.”

  “Out of nags like those? You hope for a miracle, man!” Howard laughed, as close to being in good humor as Petro had yet seen him. “Well, since he’s none of yours, you won’t mind if my men take him—”

  Hours later, their beasts were ready to founder, the king stallion was still frisking like a colt, and none of them had come any closer to roping him than they had been when they started. The Rom were nearly bursting, trying to contain their laughter, and Howard was purple again.

  Finally he called off the futile hunt, wrenched at the head of his foolish gelding, and spurred it back down the road to town . . .

  And the suppressed laughter died, as little Ami’s youngest brother toddled into the path of the lumbering monster—and Howard grinned and spurred the gelding at him—hard.

  Kevin was nearly to the trader’s camp when he saw the baby wander into the path of Howard’s horse—and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the look on the Heir’s face as he dug his spurs savagely into his gelding’s flanks.

  The smith didn’t even think—he just moved. He frequently fooled folk into thinking he was slow and clumsy because of his size; now he threw himself at the child with every bit of speed and agility he possessed.

  He snatched the toddler, curled protectively around it, and turned his dive into a frantic roll. As if everything had been slowed by a magic spell, he saw the horse charging at him and every move horse and rider made. Howard sawed savagely at the gelding’s mouth, trying to keep it on the path. But the gelding shied despite the bite of the bit; foam-flecks showered from its lips, and the foam was spotted with blood at the corners of its mouth. It half-reared, and managed to avoid the smith and his precious burden by a hair—one hoof barely scraped Kevin’s leg—then the beast was past, thundering wildly toward town.

  ****

  Kevin didn’t get back home until after dark—and he was not entirely steady on his feet. The stuff the Rom drank was a bit more potent than the beer and wine from the tavern, or even his own home-brew. Pacing along beside him, lending a supporting shoulder and triumphantly groomed to within an inch of his life and adorned with red ribbons, was the pony, Pika.

  Pika was a gift—Romano wouldn’t accept a single clipped coin for him. Kevin was on a first-name basis with all of the Rom now, even had a mastered a bit of their tongue. Not surprising, that—seeing as they’d sworn brotherhood with him.

  He’d eaten and drunk with them, heard their tales, listened to their wild, blood-stirring music—felt as if he’d come home for the first time. Rom, that was what they called themselves, not “jippos”—and “o phral,” which meant “the people,” sort of. They danced for him—and he didn’t wonder that they wouldn’t sing or dance before outsiders. It would be far too easy for dullard gajo to get the wrong idea from some of those dances—the women and girls danced with the freedom of the wind and the wildness of the storm—and to too many men, “wild” and “free” meant “loose.” Kevin had just been entranced by a way of life he’d never dreamed existed.

  Pika rolled a not-unsympathetic eye at him as he stumbled, and leaned in a little closer to him. Funny about the Rom and their horses—you’d swear they could read each other’s minds. They had an affinity that was bordering on witchcraft—

  Like that poor little mute child, Chali. Kevin had seen with his own eyes how wild the maverick stallion had been—at least when Howard and his men had been chasing it. But he’d also seen Chali walk up to him, pull his forelock, and hop aboard his bare back as if he were no more than a gentle, middle-aged pony like Pika. And then watched the two of them pull some trick riding stunts that damn near pulled the eyes out of his sockets. It was riding he’d remember for a long time, and he was right glad he’d seen it. But he devoutly hoped Howard hadn’t.

  Howard hadn’t but one of his men had.

  ****

  Daiv and Dahnah rode up to the trader’s camp in the early morning, leaving Brighttooth and Stubtail behind them as eyes to the rear. The camp appeared little different from any other they’d seen—at first glance. Then you noticed that the wagons were small, shaped almost like little houses on wheels, and painted like rainbows. They were almost distracting enough to keep you from noticing that there wasn’t a beast around the encampment, not donkey nor horse, that was hobbled or picketed.

  I almost didn’t believe you, Daivie, his sister said into his mind, wonderingly.

  His mare snorted; so did he. Huh. Thanks a lot, sis. You catch any broad-beaming?

  She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, as her mount shifted a little. Not so much as a stray thought—her own thought faded for a moment, and she bit her lip. Now that I think of it, that’s damned odd. These people are buttoned up as tight as a yurt in a windstorm.

  Which means what? He signaled Windstorm to move up beside Snowdancer.

  Either they’re naturally shielded as well as the best mindspeaker I ever met, or they do have the gift. And the first is about as likely as Brighttooth sitting down to dinner with an Ehleenee priest.

  Only if the priest was my dinner, sister, came the mischievous reply from the grassland behind them. With the reply came the mock disgust and nausea from Stubtail that his littermate would even contemplate such a notion as eating vile-tasting Ehleenee flesh.

  So where does that leave us? Daiv asked.

  We go in, do a little dickering, and see if we can eavesdrop. And I’ll see if I can get any more out of the horses that you did.

  Fat chance! he replied scornfully, but followed in the wake of her mare as she urged her into the camp itself.

  The fire on the hearth that was the only source of light in Howard’s room crackled. Howard lounged in his thronelike chair in the room’s center. His back was to the fire, which made him little more than a dark blot to a petitioner, and cast all the available light on a petitioner’s face.

  Howard eyed the lanky tavernkeeper who was now kneeling before him with intense speculation. “You say the smith’s been consorting with the heathen traders?”

  “More than traders, m’lord,” Willum replied humbly. “For the past two days there’s been a brace of horse barbarians with the traders as well. I fear this means no good for the town.”

  “I knew about the barbarians,” Howard replied, leaning back in his padded chair and staring at the flickering shadows on the wall behind Willum thoughtfully. Inde
ed he did know about the barbarians—twins they were, with hair like a summer sun; he’d spotted the girl riding her beast with careless grace, and his loins had ached ever since.

  “I fear he grows far too friendly with them, m’lord. His wife and child spend much of the day at the trader’s camp. I think that, unlike those of us who are loyal, he has forgotten where his duties lie.”

  “And you haven’t, I take it?” Howard almost smiled.

  “M’lord knows I am but an honest tavernkeeper—”

  “And has the honest tavernkeeper informed my father of this possibly treacherous behavior?”

  “I tried,” Willum replied, his eyes not quite concealing his bitterness. “I have been trying for some time now. King Robert will not hear a word against the man.”

  “King Robert is a senile old fool!” Howard snapped viciously, jerking upright where he sat so that the chair rocked and Willum sat back on his heels in startlement. “King Robert is far too readily distracted by pretty toys and pliant wenches.” His own mouth turned down with a bitterness to equal Willum’s—for the talented flame-haired local lovely that had been gracing his bed had deserted it last night for his father’s. Willum’s eyes narrowed, and he crept forward on his knees until he almost touched Howard’s leg. “Perhaps,” he whispered, so softly that Howard could barely hear him, “it is time for a change of rulers—”

  Chali had been banished to the forest as soon as the bright golden heads of the Horseclan twins had been spotted in the grasslands beyond the camp. She was not altogether unhappy with her banishment—she had caught an unwary thought from one of them, and had shivered at the strength of it. Now she did not doubt the rom baro’s wisdom in hiding her. Dook that strong would surely ferret out her own, and she had rather not betray the secret gifts of her people until they knew more about the intent of these two. So into the forest she had gone, with cloak and firestarter and sack of food and necessaries.

  Nor was she alone in her exile; Petro had deemed it wiser not to leave temptation within Howard’s reach, and sent Bakro, the king stallion, with her. They had decided to explore the woods—and had wandered far from the encampment. To their delight and surprise, they had discovered the remains of an apple orchard deep in the heart of the forest—the place had gone wild and reseeded itself several times over, and the apples themselves were far smaller than those from a cultivated orchard, hardly larger than crabapples. But they were still sweet—and most of them were ripe. They both gorged themselves as much as they dared on the crisp, succulent fruits, until night had fallen. Now both were drowsing beneath a tree in Chali’s camp, sharing the warmth of her fire, and thinking of nothing in particular—

  —when the attack on the Rom tsera came.

  Chali was awake on the instant, her head ringing with the mental anguish of the injured—and God, oh God, the dying! Bakro wasn’t much behind her in picking up the waves of torment. He screamed, a trumpeting of defiance and rage. She grabbed a handful of mane and pulled herself up onto his back without being consciously aware she had done so, and they crashed off into the darkness to the source of that agony.

  But the underbrush they had threaded by day was a series of maddening tangles by night; Bakro’s headlong dash ended ignominiously in a tangle of vine, and when they extricated themselves from the clawing branches, they found their pace slowed to a fumbling crawl. The slower they went, the more frantic they felt, for it was obvious from what they were being bombarded with that the Rom were fighting a losing battle. And one by one the voices in their heads lost strength. Then faded.

  Until finally there was nothing.

  They stopped fighting their way through the brush, then, and stood, lost in shock, in the blackness of the midnight forest—utterly, completely alone.

  Dawn found Chali on her knees, exhausted, face tear-streaked, hands bruised from where she’d been pounding them on the ground, over and over. Bakro stood over her, trembling; not from fear or sorrow, but from raw, red hatred. His herd had survived, though most had been captured by the enemy two-legs. But his two-leg herd—Chali was all he had left.

  He wanted vengeance—and he wanted it now.

  Slowly the hot rage of the stallion penetrated Chali’s grief.

  I hear you, prala, I do hear you, she sent slowly, fumbling her way out of the haze of loss that had fogged her mind. Kill! the stallion trumpeted with mind and voice. Kill them all!

  She clutched her hands at her throat, and encountered the thong that held the little iron cross. She pulled it over her head, and stared at it, dully. What good was a God of forgiveness in the light of this slaughter? She cast the cross—and all it implied—from her, violently.

  She rose slowly to her feet, and put a restraining hand on the stallion’s neck. He ceased his fidgeting and stood absolutely still, a great bay statue.

  We will have revenge, prala, I swear it, she told him, her own hatred burning as high as his, but we shall have it wisely.

  Kevin was shoved and kicked down the darkened corridor of the King’s manorhouse with brutal indifference, smashing up against the hard stone of the walls only to be shoved onward again. His head was near to splitting, and he’d had at least one tooth knocked out, the flat, sweet taste of blood in his mouth seemed somehow unreal.

  He was angry, frightened—and bewildered. He’d awakened to distant shouts and screams, run outside to see a red glow in the direction of the Rom camp—then he’d been set upon from behind. Whoever it was that had attacked him clubbed him into apparent submission. Then he had his hands bound behind him—and his control broke; he began fighting again, and was dragged, kicking and struggling, up to the manorhouse. He’d seen, when his vision had cleared, that his attackers were some of King Robert’s own mercs. He’d stumbled and nearly fallen on his face from the shock—he’d figured that the town had been taken by Ehleenee or some marauding band—

  The door to King Robert’s quarters opened and Kevin was shoved through it, skidding on the flagstone floor to land sprawling on his face at someone’s feet.

  “And here is the last of the suspects, my lord,” he heard Willum say unctuously. He wrenched himself up onto his knees by brute force. Lounging at his ease in King Robert’s favorite chair was Howard, sumptuously clad and playing with his father’s new sword. Beside, him, in the blue and red of Howard’s livery, was Willum.

  “What the hell is that shit supposed to mean, asshole?” Kevin was too angry to mind his tongue, and a blow from one of the mercs behind him threw him onto his face again, made his brains rattle in his head and jarred his teeth to their sockets. His vision swam and he saw double for a long moment.

  He pulled himself back into a semi-kneeling posture with aching difficulty.

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of your King, boy,” Willum told him, with a faint smile. “You’re suspected of conspiring with those false traders—”

  “To what? Invade the town? Don’t make me laugh!” Kevin snorted. “Take over with a handful of men when—what the hell do you mean, King?”

  “My father has met with an accident,” Howard purred, polishing the blade of the sword he held with a soft cloth. The steel glinted redly in the firelight. “He went mad, it seems. I was forced to defend myself. I have witnesses—”

  Willum nodded, and it seemed to Kevin that there was a glint of balefire in the back of the man’s eyes.

  “So I am King now—by right of arms. I have declared that those so-called traders were no such thing at all—and I have eliminated their threat.”

  Slowly Kevin began to understand what it was he was saying. “You—good God—that camp was mostly women, children—”

  “The spawn of vipers will grow to be vipers.”

  “You broke trade-peace! You murdered innocent people, babies in their beds!”

  “That hardly sounds like the words of a loyal subject—”

  “Loyal my ass! They deserved my loyalty—all you should get is the contempt of every honest man in this town!
We’re the ones who’re gonna suffer because of what you just did! You broke your sworn word, you bastard!” Bound hands or not, Kevin lunged for the two of them—

  His arms were caught and blows rained down on his head and shoulders. Still he fought, screaming obscenities, and only being clubbed half-unconscious kept him from getting to the oathbreakers and tearing their throats out with his teeth.

  When he stopped fighting, he was thrown back at Howard’s feet. He lay only half-conscious on the cold stone floor, and through a mist of dancing sparks could see that Howard was purple again.

  “Take him out and make an example of him,” the patricide howled. “Burn him—hang him—tear his guts out!”

  “No—” Willum laid a restraining hand on his ruler’s arm. “Not a good idea—you might make him a martyr for those who would doubt you. No, I have a better idea. Did we get the horse barbarians as well? I seem to remember that you ordered them to be taken.”

  The new King regained his normal coloring. “Only the boy,” Howard pouted, calming. “The girl managed to get herself killed. Damn! I wanted that little bitch! I thought about having the boy gelded and sold—”

  “Good, do that. We’ll put it out that it was the horse barbarians that killed the traders—and that the smith conspired with them to raid both the traders and the town. We’ll have it that the boy confessed. I’ll have my men start passing the word. Then, by afternoon when the story is spreading, we’ll put this fool and his family out of the gates—banish them. The barbarians aren’t likely to let him live long, and they certainly aren’t likely to give an ear to any tales he might tell.”

  Howard nodded, slowly. “Yes—yes, indeed! Willum, you are going to go far in my service.”

  Willum smiled, his eyes cast humbly down. From his vantage point on the floor, Kevin saw the balefire he thought he’d glimpsed leap into a blaze before being quenched. “I always intended to, my lord.”