by Dave Freer
The dragon was black, and its eyes were wicked with mischief.
Meb got up and left, her eyes blind with tears again. Neve and Vivien led her to her room.
“When I saw the stitchery . . . I thought you were making a fool of me, getting me to show you the basics. That you knew far more than I could ever learn. But that was magic, wasn’t it?” said Vivien. “Magic here, in Dun Tagoll.”
Meb nodded.
Vivien shook her head, eyes wide and worried. “I thought that maybe Cardun and the others were right. I thought maybe you were just here by accident. But Anghared . . . that is magic, and straight out of the prophecy. Now I think you are the Defender, whether you know it or not. I think you have come to save us, even though you didn’t know it, and don’t want to do it.” The woman paced a little. “Anghared. I know . . . I can see you are heartsore. I remember my own heartbreak when they told me Cormac had joined the fallen. But, please . . . there are so many of us. Others who see their men ride off to a war we can’t escape and can’t win. Can you not . . . try to spare them the heartbreak too? We need you.”
“She’s right, m’lady,” Neve said quietly. “The boy I was, um, sparking with. The Vanar killed him when they burned our ships. Lyonesse is . . .”
“Dying slowly from a thousand cuts,” finished Vivien. “Every time there is a little break, people try and plant crops, messengers go to the outer marches. Life starts. And then the next invasion comes.”
Meb sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“By washing your face,” said Lady Vivien, practically. I don’t think you need to know. I think this is a sign. You will defend us against the black dragon.”
Meb started to laugh, maybe a little hysterically, but laugh, all the same. Eventually she stopped. Smiled a little at Vivien’s worried face. “Whatever I don’t know, I know I won’t be defending you against that dragon. And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” She got up from her bed. “Let me wash my face. And then let’s see if we have dry bread and sour wine again.”
“We eat well here, Anghared. Not quite siege rations yet.”
Meb pulled a wry face. Well, maybe this was not the right time to tell them. They needed her, or something. And she needed something. Anything. This would do.
Chapter 7
“I had not,” said the knight, Sir Bertran, “been aware of the usefulness of dragon fire in kindling a fire in these wet woods.” He was eyeing the dragon with a little more respect.
That was a good thing, probably, Fionn thought. He was a nice enough lad in a society where the nobility had to prove themselves with deeds of courage. Ignorance of dragons—and some might leave Tasmarin now—could be rapidly fatal. It was small repayment for the fact that Bertran was sharing a hind he’d shot earlier with them. Besides, the dog approved of him. Of course, Fionn admitted to himself, Díleas was a shameless beggar from anyone who had food, but he had gone trotting over to the knight before he’d known about the knight’s nearby camp and the deer carcass strung in the tree next to it.
“I had hoped,” said Sir Bertran, “that it might serve as bait and bring the fearsome beasts to me. They are more numerous in the woods than in my father’s time, but still, they are wary of an armored knight. But if not bait, then food, if I can get a fire to kindle.” Fionn had been happy to oblige. Díleas had been perfectly content to eat it raw, and had been provided with a few slices of meat to keep him going while it cooked. If Fionn understood soulful doggy looks, a little drool, and the occasional hrrm noises, it had been wholly insufficient, at least in Díleas’s opinion, and “cooked” should be a relative term.
And then, of course, something scented the bait. The knight’s horse gave first warning, before the distracted dog. But even without that whicker of fear, they would have known soon enough.
The giant broke trees and shook the earth with his tread. The forest life fled before him—birds, deer, a unicorn, foxes, a cockatrice, squirrels and an ogre.
The giant wasn’t interested in them. It was hunting, in Fionn’s opinion, a dog and a dragon.
In Sir Bertran’s opinion, it was hunting him, and thus the company he was in.
There was nothing wrong with the young knight’s courage, or the agility of his horse. He did manage to place his lance tip in the bellowing giant’s eye, and the horse danced aside from the giant’s club—a ripped-up tree—as the lance tip snapped. Unfortunately it had five other eyes—as it had three tusky heads.
Fionn had yelled at Díleas, “Run!” before taking to the wing himself. Dragon fire singed the giant—as he kicked over their fire and sent the partly cooked hind flying.
Dragon fire carbonized the club, but the giant itself merely bellowed in anger and lunged at him. It didn’t burn. It was a siliceous giant . . . A rock giant, as opposed to the frost and fire ones Fionn knew for their bad temper. Normally the rock giants were slow to anger, and slow of reactions. This one was neither. In fact, thought Fionn, as his wings bit air and pushed him higher, this one was a rock giant in its resistance to dragon fire, but looked fire-giantish, with its three heads and brutish nature. And it smelled . . . odd. Like something had died and it had stood in it. That was always possible.
The fool dog, however, was not running. He was standing and barking. And the fool knight wasn’t running either. He’d drawn his sword—which was not going to be a lot of use against the giant. Fionn swooped down and slapped the left outer head with his tail. It might be a rock creature, but a blow from a dragon tail was enough to make it stagger. And bellow again, and plunge towards him.
The dog and the knight, instead of running, followed.
So Fionn had to taunt the giant again, because it narrowly missed seizing the teasing dog. Spiraling up again, Fionn looked for answers. He could lead it off and lose it—if the knight and dog would back off. The dog might . . . possibly. The knight wasn’t going to. Which meant that he had to deal somewhat more permanently with the giant. One could poison them—the silicate organic chemistry was quite susceptible to arsenates, and to some of the powerful acids. Heat would not work. One could bog them down, sink them in a lake, but they’d just keep walking, or toss them over a cliff. Or he could smash the giant apart with a hammer bigger and heavier than itself. Or bespell them. Looking at the energy flows, Fionn thought he saw another answer. This was Brocéliande, and this young knight was, after all, the son of the guardian of the fountain of Escalados. Escalados, the red fountain that drew the storms . . . and the stone giant dragged his feet as he blundered through the trees.
Fionn swooped down. “We must lead him to Escalados. To the fountain.”
“I must defend that! And my mother, the Lady Laudine, is within the manor there. There are no tall walls . . .”
“He’s a stone giant. It is the only way to kill him. He wants us, not the manor or anything else.” The giant proved that by ignoring a small herd of deer that bolted from in front of it, and by plunging after the three of them.
The knight nodded. “It is the better part of half a league!”
Brocéliande’s ancient, ferny, mossy forests, full of vast trees and twisted branches, were no place to play catch-as-catch-can with an angry, hunting giant. The giant was capable of going straight, rather than around. Still, the trees slowed him, as they might a man pushing through thick brush.
The giant had by now decided that the knight, sheepdog, and the dragon were all part of its target. And it had three tusky-mouthed heads to feed. It must want one each, Fionn decided. The knight was at most risk, as Fionn had the open sky and Díleas could dart through gaps that were too narrow for a horseman. Perhaps it was the color, but the giant was fixated on the dog . . . who in turn was determined to prove that he was as capable of herding giants as he should be of herding sheep, darting behind it—even between the tree-trunk legs, to snap at the giant’s heels. Of course his teeth could not make any impression on the giant’s flesh, but the giant itself seemed far more interested in trying to reach the dog. O
n several occasions when the knight was trapped, the dog drew off the giant before Fionn could flame its eyes or bat its heads.
Then they broke from the woods into what was obviously the home farm of the knight. They’d cleared a bit of land since Fionn was last here. You could see the thatch of the walled manor house, low down along the shallow swale that ran from the standing stone against the ridge. There was a good reason for the house being low down and far from the standing stone, Fionn knew.
The magic fountain was at the base of the standing stone, some half a mile across the fields. The knight’s tenants were in the fields—or at least running from the fields. Someone had the ability and courage to flight an arrow so Fionn took to the ground, making it very obvious—with shouts and cooperation—that the dog and dragon were working with their overlord, dealing with—or at least taunting—the three-headed giant. It would seem to Fionn that the giant had no understanding of human speech, which was odd, as most other giants did. It was either that, or it was very stupid, because they kept it away from the mill and away from the barns and away from the cattle, leading it on—on towards the bleeding fountain. The bleeding fountain was once nothing more than iron in the rock the water oozed through—but superstition and magic often built on each other, and Fionn wouldn’t be surprised if it really was some kind of blood now, with all the belief in it being that.
It was a numinous spot, with the squat misshapen monolith and its altar stone above the old stone-carved basin into which the ruddy water seeped. It was surrounded by blackened and dead oaks. That, Fionn knew, had nothing to do with mysterious powers, but everything to do with the energies channeled here.
“It’s your fountain, Sir Bertran,” he yelled. “You’d better scatter the water.”
The knight leapt from the saddle of his steaming, tired horse as Díleas and Fionn teased and taunted the giant. It was, Fionn knew, a dangerous game. They were still faster than the giant, but they were both tiring.
The siliceous creature was not. He would pursue them relentlessly. Fionn was willing to bet he now had the scent of their essences, and would follow, no matter how fast or far they fled. Eventually it would catch them.
This smelled, and not just faintly of dead things.
Sir Bertran scooped a handful of the red water and poured it out on the altar rock, respectfully. He ignored the giant as he did this.
And then he mounted again and charged back towards the fray.
Above, already, the thunderheads built, as with a magical speed the sky darkened. The air seemed to thicken.
“We need that idiot in the iron suit off the horse and further away from the giant,” said Fionn, sotto voce, to Díleas. “Because any minute now . . .”
Then lightning, blue-white and so close there seemed no pause between it and the terrible rattling boom of thunder, carved a ragged, jagged line to the tallest point.
The giant.
Sheeting rain began to fall.
But that was of no concern to Fionn because he was under a shivering dog, and he had to pick up a knight who had fallen from his horse, as more lightning hissed down, hitting the giant again and again.
Nothing, not even siliceous proteins, could survive the lightning bolts. Dragons had found out the hard way that lightning could be survived in the air . . . but not when they landed.
Now Fionn just had to deal with minor problems—an unconscious knight and a dog that really, really didn’t like thunderstorms. And he had torrential rain to cope with, of course.
That was still a better deal than the three-headed giant had gotten. Fionn was fairly sure it was now dead, the neural circuits fried. It was probably a large lump of glassy rock now, for people in later years to laugh at the superstitions of their ancestors.
The rain began to ease off, and Sir Bertran sat up. “What happened?” he asked muzzily.
“I think I’d tell your adherents that you struck it a thunderous blow. Some of the braver ones are approaching now, and I’d appreciate it if you told them that there is no need to pinprick this particular dragon with arrows and that the quivering sheepdog is no threat. It’s all right, Díleas, the storm is over.”
Sir Bertran stood up. “My mother,” he said resignedly, looking at the palanquin approaching. “Sir Fionn, you and your dog strove bravely with me today. I give you thanks. I am in your debt, as I am aware the giant could have caught me on several occasions had the two of you not drawn him off.” He patted Díleas. “Seldom has the world seen a braver, cleverer dog, Sir Fionn.”
“As long as there are no thunderstorms,” said Fionn. “Anyway. One of your grazing paddocks now has a new rock formation, I think. Let’s go and inspect it before they come and fuss about you. You took a quite a toss there. Got something of a shock, too, I shouldn’t wonder.” Fionn didn’t point out that he thought the knight had got off quite lightly, all things considered.
They walked across to the late three-headed giant, now a vast tor of blackened glass, with the evil tusky faces distorted and twisted into something even uglier. The giant glass statue was somewhat the worse for having suffered multiple lightning strikes, but that didn’t stop the peasants and men-at-arms approaching cheering their lord, or Díleas lifting his leg on its foot. He was still rather new to this lifting of a leg instead of squatting puppy- or girl-dog fashion, and nearly fell over in the process. That could have been awkward, as the foot was still cracking with internal heat.
Maybe the loyal retainers might have been approaching a little less fast than they might . . . if their lord was not being supported by a dragon. And even from here Fionn could hear the hero’s mother. He was a brave lad, this Bertran. Best to leave him to be brave alone, decided Fionn, but it appeared he was not going to be that lucky.
Chapter 8
Alois, the Earl of Carfon, had been riding south by night, hiding by day for more than a week now. He was exhausted and hungry and he was in a better state than his horse. He knew he should be grateful for the horse. Grateful for the magical intervention that had plucked him from the cell, while waiting for the torture chamber, and dropped him next to the horse in a half-ruined stable, a good fifteen miles from Dun Tagoll, where months of planning had all gone so wrong.
And he was glad. Glad that he would see his son and wife again. Glad, in the last few miles, to see signs that he was returning to farmed lands and not anarchy and banditry. Only Dun Tagoll had wholly abandoned any effort to farm the lands. Only they could. All of the Duns tried to keep at least some agriculture and livestock farming going. It was usually limited to fields just outside the walls. Too few fields, feeding too many mouths. Only in the South had they managed to keep a reasonable amount of land under cultivation, and that by building a great many more forts and having as nearly as many men-at-arms as neyfs working the land. And as he’d said to Branwen when he’d rode out on this venture, the Gods above and below alone knew how much longer they could survive. That was why he’d taken up the offer from the plotters. They’d be dead for their pains, he had no doubt.
So close. So very close to seeing Medraut dead.
And then . . . He mulled it all in his mind, as he had a thousand times since.
He rode slowly along the lane. It was muddy, but at least not overgrown too. And bandits were rarer here.
“Halt. Who rides after the curfew bell?” demanded a voice.
“Earl Alois. And I am truly glad to see my own land and my own men!”
Six hours later, after a sequence of fresh horses, and with a troop around him, he rode into the gates of Dun Carfon—he’d never thought to see it again—and then into the arms of his wife, and to gaze on the sleeping form of his son. “We’ll have to wake him,” said Branwen. “I’m afraid . . . like most of us, he believed you were dead, Alois. It’s . . . its been hard for him.”
She was a jewel. A mere local chieftain’s daughter, not even of the House of Lyon. He’d married her against the politics and calls for alliance. Married her just because he was a headstrong yo
ung lord and he’d looked at her and known what he wanted. In earlier years it would never have been permitted. But if one good thing had come out of this chaos of endless war, it was her. “Yes. Hopefully he’ll see a better Lyonesse before he grows up.”
She blinked, holding him, as if to reassure herself he was real. “I thought Medraut still sat on the throne?”
“He does. But the Defender Aberinn forecast in his prophecy has come. I was there. I saw it. She made the sea-window reappear.”
“Really?”
Earl Alois sighed. “Yes. I saw her appear from nowhere, I saw the sea-window reappear. And I heard her name herself as Anghared. I believe it is her. That was magic of no low order. She has come to set things to rights. She even looks like the old queen in the tapestry hanging in the banquet hall. But the bad part, Branwen, is that she will want my head. And if that is what it takes to put Lyonesse back together again, I will go to the headsman.”
“No!” she said, clinging to him. Clinging as to someone whom she’d loved, thought dead, and now had to face the fear and uncertainty again. Which was true, of course. “Why would she do that? It’s Medraut who has brought Lyonesse to ruin. Not you, Alois!”
The boy woke up and stared at his parents, and rubbed his unbelieving eyes, as his father said: “Because I tried to kill her.”
* * *
Meb wondered how long the state of tense waiting would continue in the halls of Dun Tagoll. Wars could go on for years. This one had, it appeared. But the answer this time was: not too long. The prince seemed to have developed a hit-and-run strategy, simply designed to hurt the foe, irritate them and make them plunge after the army, toward Dun Tagoll, rather than ravaging the countryside.
That might be good for the countryside, but right now it meant that the attackers were setting up siege engines on the headland. “Last time they threw everything from dead horses to rocks at the castle,” said Neve. “It looks like they’re making bigger ones this time.”