Then he realized that in all probability, the old king hadn’t been able to find the escape tunnel. It wasn't exactly well marked or easy to travel. Just like Old Hydrangeans to make things hard on themselves, he thought.
He stepped out into the courtyard and started for the small door.
As he walked, he realized that the sounds he was hearing were probably not the sounds of the city going about its everyday business; at least, he had never before noticed that the city’s everyday business involved that much screaming and shouting. Something was clearly going on. He quickened his pace.
The narrow door was locked; annoyed, he worked the opening spell again, and stepped quickly through, without looking to see what lay beyond.
He found himself in a great square, where people were seething in various directions, veiling,.at each other. In the center of the square was a platform, and on the platform stood a post, and chained to the post . . .
"Arbol!" the lad shouted. "Is that you?"
Arbol paid no attention, probably didn’t even hear him over all the other noise and confusion, and Wulfrith suddenly realized what Arbol was staring at. At first he had taken it for some sort of green backdrop; now he looked up, and saw that it was a dragon, a dragon with someone clinging to its throat, clearly in a hopeless life-or-death struggle with the monster.
And Arbol was quite obviously there to serve as dragon-bait.
She was not, however, taking naturally to the role. “Cut me free, somebody, and I'll kill it!” she shrieked; Wulfrith noticed for the first time, despite the incredibly inappropriate timing, that Arbol’s voice had never really changed. Maybe she really had been a girl all along.
He lurched forward, Clootie’s limp hands thumping against his ribs, taking in more details.
The dragon was making noises, almost as if it were talking—did dragons talk? And the lad clutching its neck was saying something, as well; Wulfrith couldn’t make out a word of it.
There were Gorgorian soldiers over there, arguing about something.
There was another group of people behind the dragon, dressed in silly costumes with green tights and brown tunics and funny hats—or sometimes brown tights and green tunics, and one of them was all in black, but they all had the funny hats. They were arguing, too.
There was a group of Gorgorian women, with Lady Ubri at their head, marching up one of the streets into the square.
Queen Artemisia was off to one side, being restrained by Phrenk and Mungli and some other people Wulfrith didn’t recognize, including a very large Gorgorian.
Just about the entire population of the city, in fact, seemed to be gathered in the square, watching this young stranger battle the dragon.
There was a sword lying on the platform; the warrior who was trying to strangle the dragon must have dropped it, Wulfrith decided. He looked up, and decided there was no way to get the weapon back up to the young man.
Whoever he was, Wulfrith thought, he was very brave. He didn't deserve to be devoured.
“Get me out of these stupid things!” Arbol shouted.
Wulfrith frowned. Arbol didn't deserve to be devoured, either. He worked the opening spell.
The iron shackles sprang open and fell from Arbol’s wrists.
In an instant, the former prince had dived to the platform and come up with the sword. She stood, feet braced apart, and swung the blade over her head.
“Yo, Dragon!'' she shouted, puffing out her chest. “Put that idiot down and deal with me”
Chapter Thirty-Four
"Arbol, you put that sword down this instant!" Queen Artemisia yelled. She broke free of Phrenk and Mungli, but was intercepted by Lord Bulmuk, who had been instructed to keep an eye (and both hands) on the queen until the sacrifice could be accomplished. Angry and frustrated, Artemisia thrashed and kicked, but it was no use. She had to be satisfied with calling out imperiously to her daughter, "That's no way for a lady to behave!"
"In a minute, Mother," the princess hollered back, never taking her eyes off the dragon. "Just as soon as I kill this ugly beast."
Still clinging to Bernice's neck, Dunwin couldn’t help but overhear Arbol's words. "Does she mean me?" he asked his long-lost companion.
"Don't be an idiot," Bernice replied, taking a few steps backward. "She means me, and the little bitch is right: I am ugly."
"You'll always be beautiful to me, Bernice," Dunwin said fondly, stroking her scales. "It is kind of weird without all that wool, though."
"Tell me about it." Bernice sidestepped as Arbol took a swing at her. "But life's full of little changes. You get used to ’em."
"I don't think I'll ever get used to how big you've gotten."
"Size isn't everything."
“Is it my imagination, or did you always used to talk back to m—ulllp!” Dunwin almost lost his grip on the dragon's neck as Bernice made another jerky sideways hop to avoid Arbol's blade. “Don't do that, please," he said.
“No, I'll just stand still and get sliced," Bernice commented drily. “Sure I will."
“Let that sorry bastard go, you coward!" the princess bawled, turning red in the face. “Let's settle this like men!"
Bernice didn't respond to Arbol, but the look she gave her was sarcastic enough for a whole brigade of Gorgorian drill sergeants. “Dunwin," she said quietly, “I'm going to put you down now."
“But I just found you again!" Dunwin protested.
“I know, dear," Bernice said. “But another thing about life is you don't get anywhere until you establish your priorities."
“What's ‘priorities'?"
“It’s like making a list of what you've got to do first, second, third, and so on. You know, first you find a nice meadow, then you crop the grass, then you chew your cud, then you turn into a dragon." Arbol lunged at her with the blade and she slithered backward so fast Dunwin almost lost his grip again. “So right now, dear, my priorities are first to put you down, second to devour that foul-mouthed wench with the sword, and then we can snuggle."
“You're going to eat her?" Dunwin was aghast. “Bernice, you never used to eat people."
“No, I didn't, did I." It was not a question, but a realization. A dangerous note crept into Bernice's voice as a second realization crept in to keep the first one company. “As a matter of fact, as I recall, it used to be people who ate me. Not me personally, perhaps, but, there was the nasty affair of Cousin Veronica, and the unfortunate matter of Aunt Ingrid, and the tragic loss of Great-Aunt Fern, and the unspeakable shish-kebabbing of Cousin Kimberly, and—" Bernice's eyes got narrower and narrower with even’ name. A low growl rose in her throat that finally burst out in a roaring, “It’s payback time!’’
Before he could say “mint jelly," Dunwin was flung clean off the angry dragon's neck. He landed smack on top of the thickest part of the crowd. As he picked himself up off several flattened peasants-he said, “See? She gave me a nice, soft place to land. She does care!"
“Looks like the only thing that monster cares about is killing our prince," muttered the peasant at the bottom of the pile. “I mean, princess."
“If that's so," said the next man up, “ 'twon't be half the holiday the beast'd fancy. I never did see a girlie swing a sword like that!"
The peasant's remark was almost identical to something Lord Bulmuk the Gorgorian was saying at about the same time, which was, “She's good. You sure she don't have a man-thing under those skirts?"
“Certainly not!" one of the Hydrangean nobles huffed. “You were there for the Disaster of the Bath. What did you think then?”
Bulmuk pondered, then said, “I thought, Nice ones!"
Now the battle between former prince and former sheep joined in earnest. The crowd watched with a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and awe as Arbol gave a display of swordsmanship that was Hydrangean in elegance, Gorgorian in efficiency. Even Bernice was impressed.
“Not bad," she said, making another of those easy dodges of hers. “For lunch."
�
�Coward," Arbol repeated, breathing hard. “You'd be a pile of cutlets on my blade by now if I weren't wrapped up in this stupid dress."
“For the first time in my life, I'm sure I'll never be anybody's cutlets," the dragon responded. She spat a thin stream of fire at the princess's feet, deliberately letting it fall short. The hem of Arbol's skirt caught a spark, which the princess extinguished with some common spit of her own. Bernice whistled. “Right on target. Good shot."
“The Companions and I used to have spitting contests off the top of the Tower of Architectural Misgivings," Arbol replied, smiling grimly. “I could hawk a wet one onto the head of any of the courtyard workers you picked, better than nine out of ten."
Something odd and unsheepish stirred in Bernice’s armored bosom. As she'd told Dunwin, life was full of changes, but she wasn't prepared for this one. It went beyond mere shape and size, all the way to attitude. Sheep just wanted to eat, sleep, reproduce, and avoid milkmen with cold hands and butchers with sharp knives. They wanted to get on with their lives any way they could.
Dragons were different. Dragons seemed to be born with a natural appreciation of that fine old Hydrangean concept, style. Too much style and you got chivalry, too much chivalry and you got killed for stupid reasons, but dragons never reached that point.
All Bernice knew was that for the first time it mattered to her that this fight to the death be a fair one.
"Lose the skirt before you trip, clumsy," she directed the princess. "I'll wait."
Arbol gave her a suspicious look, but managed to slash the heavy skirt off with her sword. It was a rush job, leaving her wearing a ragged tunic that fell a little above the knee. With her legs clear, she kicked off her elaborately jeweled shoes as well, then sprang back into her fighting stance. She was too preoccupied to know or care where the flying shoes landed. She had a dragon to slay.
One shoe sailed over the heads of the crowd and clonged a scruffy old drunk who was holding up a nearby tavern wall. The effect was stimulating instead of stunning. Royal Hydrangean cobblers were justly famous, their work in demand among shoe fanciers and fetishists alike. When you got hit in the head with a work of Art, it was an eyeopening experience. ,
"Coo," Odo breathed, rubbing his head with one hand and using the other to retrieve the sparkling shoe. "How'd this get here?" The gems seemed to dance in the sunlight. "Worth a pretty, I'd say. A man tries to trade something like this for a drink somewhere, he won't get throwed out, I’ll be bound." He glowered at the closed tavern door. "Tell me ye don't take baubles," he growled. He dug into his pouch and pulled out a pair of old medallions decorated with miniature portraits. "Call 'em ‘objects dirt' to my face, would 'ee?” He hammered on'the door, but got no response. While he’d been stupefied, the tavernkeeper had locked up shop to go watch the dragon-doings. Grumbling, Odo wandered off until he tripped over a pile of peasants.
"What’re you doing there, blocking honest men's way?" he shouted, wanting to take out his ill humor on someone.
"Go sit on a clam, Grampa," one of the sprawled peasants replied. "We was just landed on by a hero. It ain’t something you get over in a hurry."
"A hero?" Odo echoed. "Such as takes up the righteous causes of poor, downtrodden scum o’ the earth who's been unfairly thrown out of taverns?"
“Could be. Tried to kill the dragon bare-handed, he did, so a tavernkeeper wouldn't be nowt to him, I fancy. That’s him over there, trying to get back at the dragon." The peasant jerked his thumb.
Odo shaded his eyes and looked in the direction the fellow pointed. There was a healthy slice of humanity standing in his way, but his quarry towered head and shoulders above most of them. Odo could hardly believe what he saw. He gave himself a few extra knocks in the head with the princess’s discarded shoe to make sure, then looked again.
“Dunwin!” he cried. He started fighting his way through the crowd to reach his boy.
Meanwhile, Arbol's second shoe had come in for a hard landing on Clootie’s head. The Old Hydrangean wizard moaned and stirred, opening his eyes slowly.
When he saw where he was and what was going on, he closed them again, fast. "By all the useless gods of my ancestors," he murmured, "did I lose my mind in that unspeakable dungeon?" He decided that he would be happier if he curled himself into a ball and stayed where he was.
He would have done so, too, if not for some inconsiderate lout who grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him unmercifully.
"Go away or I'll turn you into a porcupine," Clootie mumbled.
“Can you? Oh, that’s wonderful!"
Clootie had to open his eyes then, if only to see who this lunatic was who seemed so eager to spend the rest of his days as a living pincushion. "Wulfrith?"
"I didn’t know you'd learned how to control the shapechanging spell," Wulfie went on. "That's great! And wait until you see what I’ve learned. There's this library and this alcove and this Gorgorian woman and—" An ear-splitting roar shook several tiles loose from the surrounding rooftops. "—and I guess it’ll all have to wait until after the dragon," Wulfrith concluded. "Excuse me, I've got to go help Arbol." He scampered away before Clootie could even stand up.
"Ungrateful whelp!" the wizard yelled after his apprentice, waving the princess's cast-olf shoe.
"They’re all like that," came a sweet, though weary, voice. "Children! When they're little, they step on your toes; when they’re big, they step on your heart. Then they take their clothes off in public."
Clootie turned around and found himself facing the queen. For a wonder, she was unaccompanied.
"I know you!" the wizard exclaimed. "You're old Fumitory's daughter. You're the one who kept trying to talk some sense into everyone at my trial."
Artemisia gave the wizard her most charming smile. "Of course. Anyone with a grain of sense could tell you were innocent." The smile twisted slightly. "Unfortunately, that lets out the Gorgorians. I’m so pleased to see you’ve made a heroic escape. I expected no less from a wizard of your magnificent powers, to say nothing of your splendid good looks."
Clootie had spent enough time around the palace in the Good Old Pre-Gorgorian Days to know that Artemisia wanted something from him, which was why she was giving him this two-shovel snow job. Any stable in the realm would be happy to hire her on the spot.
Still, she was a fine figure of a woman, and just because a man had spent the best years of his life in a mountain cave didn't mean everything was petrified.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty,” he said. “I appreciate all you tried to do for me.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” the queen replied. She cast a nervous glance over one shoulder. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind doing me a small favor, in that case?”
Clootie bowed low, a gallant gesture which allowed him a long, slow look at Artemisia from neckline to knees. “Anything, Your Majesty. How may I serve?”
The crowd gasped as a huge gout of flame went up from the battleground. Women were shrieking and men were cheering, then men shrieked and women cheered for a change. The queen grabbed Clootie’s hand, her face pale.
“I managed to break free of my captor when Arbol cut off her skirt and showed all that leg,” she explained. “Bulmuk drooled on his hands and I was able to slip away. Even as we speak, the Gorgorian beast is wallowing through the crowd, looking for me. I can’t just stand idly by while my child is in danger of death and indecent exposure. I must go to her! I must make her put something on Use your powers to take me to her side, I implore you.”
Clootie did not hesitate. “At once, Your Majesty,” he announced, snapping to attention. Then he plunged into the mob, jerking Artemisia after him.
It was rough going, but they were determined. Most of the women moved aside when shoved, but the men were another story. With them, Artemisia bellowed, “Make way for your queen!”
If that didn't work, Clootie would tap the stubborn party on the shoulder and whisper, “Hello, I'm the wizard who turned your prince into a pr
incess. How would you like to spend the rest of your life singing soprano?”
That did it. Before long they were clear of the crowd, right out in the open with an excellent view of the battle.
The fight was winding down. Even with her skirts hacked off, Arbol was starting to tire. If Bernice wanted to escape the princess's sword, all she had to do was jump. One dragon-sized jump left a lot of open territory between the combatants, territory Arbol had to sprint across if she wanted to reach her foe. Sometimes Bernice would allow the princess to get into sword range, sometimes she would spit flame, forcing Arbol to race backward. The fight went run-swing-leap-run-flame-run away-run back-swing and so on. All that roadwork took it out of a person, especially when she was hauling a heavy sword.
“Stop it!" the queen cried out in anguish, pounding Clootie's back. “Use your magic to turn that dragon into something harmless!"
Clootie tried, but the spell fell flat. The scholar in him made a mental note that here was proof that living things, once transformed, did not resume their original shapes so easily, if at all. The man in him felt his heart go out to the poor, unhappy queen and mother. “I'm sorry," he said. “I tried."
Arbol leaned against the post where she had been so recently shackled and gathered her strength for one last lunge. The cheers of her Companions filled her ears. She could hear Pentstemon yelling something about who cared if the prince was a girl, what a follow-through!
Someone else shouted, “Yep, the lady sure is a spunky little vixen!" Arbol promised herself that if she survived this fight, she would hunt that person down and kill him.
Unfortunately it didn't look as if there would be much chance of that. The dragon had backed off, not out of fear but sportsmanship; it was allowing her time to catch her breath. Sweat streamed into her eyes, blurring her vision, as she took one last look around the square. There was that dumb hero, who'd tried strangling the beast; he was pushing his way to the front, hollering, “Don't hurt her! Don't hurt her!" Arbol didn't know if he meant her or the dragon.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Novel 06 Page 28