Ren drew a hiss in through his teeth.
Sirvon stalled. He stared at them for a couple of seconds, the top half of his face visible in the weak light.
He smiled, and his teeth shone in the darkness beneath his face. “I’d rather you prepare that compound, Tyber. I assure you that there will be no escape. You or your friends might slip out of here. I would say nothing is impossible. But slipping out of here with your dragons is highly unlikely. And if you do, I assure you that you will be hunted down.”
“It was a joke,” Ander said, his voice a mix of strain and disdain.
“A dragon’s life is on the line. This is no time for jokes. I don’t feel funny in the least.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Tyber muttered as he turned back to his goods. He loosened the string and peered into the sack. This was kind of pointless. The best thing he could hope for was to not make matters worse. If he just mixed all this junk up and slathered it on Pendro, then hopefully, at best, nothing would happen. And while Sirvon and the others waited for something to happen, that would be when Tyber, Ren, and Ander slipped out of here. With their dragons.
The door opened and sunlight spread across the barn floor again. Halton entered, water sloshing over the rims of two metal pails, one in each hand. He placed the pails before Tyber. “Anything else?”
Ren shifted where he stood, looking like he wanted to say something, and then he held his tongue.
“I’m still waiting on the mortar and pestle,” Tyber said as he peered inside the bag. He turned it in his palm and watched the collection of dried leaves and bits of hide from some kind of salamander tumble about inside.
“You’ll have it in a minute,” Sirvon said. “You, Ander. I heard Tyber’s story. How is it that you ended up with an alpha?”
Ander glanced at Sirvon over his shoulder, then returned his attention to Tyber. “My father was a hordesman. A royal hordesman. When I was born, I was handed over to the Order. There was an uprising in the city one day. Famine swept the streets and the people stormed the academy, looking to raid the larders of the students and the dragons. My father did what he thought was best. He started to hand out the dragons’ food to the people.”
He turned to Sirvon. “He believed that the people shouldn’t starve. He knew the dragons could hunt. They could feed themselves. And for his trouble, he was attacked all the same by a commoner. Lost his eye. He was no longer fit for the saddle. He was disowned by my grandfather, a merchant who did not want his customers to see him as the father of a traitor.”
“But you remained in the academy?” Sirvon asked.
The story sounded similar to the bits and pieces Tyber had heard about Ren’s father. He glanced back at his friend, who stared hard at the sack in Tyber’s hand, his face blank, jaw tight. An artery throbbed at his temple.
“I left the Order when I was young. I didn’t want to serve those who would abandon both my father and the people he was sworn to protect. I left the city, content to wander and find my fortune. I came across a group of freeriders. I tagged along, played weyrboy to them until one of them was killed in an attack. I took his dragon. A few years later, the dragoneer fell.”
Ander stopped, and the silence in the barn stood out.
“And that’s when you became a dragoneer yourself?” Sirvon asked.
“I suppose those rituals rubbed off on me more than I had expected,” Ander said. “I led the others, but they were fools who could barely sit upright in their saddles for all the drink they carried around in their bellies. Hordesmen got them all. Months later, I found these two.”
Ander pointed at Tyber and Ren.
“They’re not allowed to drink. Dragoneer’s orders.”
Sirvon smiled. “Ah. Wise. That’s a policy I might have to adopt myself. I can’t tell you how many dragons I’ve lost to a rider’s penchant for drink. How about that, Brath?”
Brath made no response.
“And you,” Sirvon said, nodding at Ren. “What’s your story?”
Ren glanced at Ander, a hard glare. He looked back to Sirvon and shrugged. “Same as Tyber. Got caught stealing food. Dungeon or dragons. Which would you have chosen?”
Sirvon shook his head slowly. “I would not have been caught.”
“That was the plan all along,” Ren said.
Sirvon smiled. “And now what? You’ve been freed from the academy, paroled by fortune. What will you do now?”
The door opened again. A man entered with a tray of clayware bowls and a few tin pots. He set the tray at the end of the table with a clatter, then stepped back.
“I don’t know,” Ren said. “What can I do? I don’t want to give up on Maybelle. I don’t think I could. She’d probably just follow me around, looking at me like I was stupid for walking instead of flying.”
Sirvon’s smile broadened as he rocked back on his feet. “That is probably more true than you would believe. The loyalty that dragonkind give to their riders is certainly never earned. It is a gift. One that we should each cherish and appreciate.”
Tyber began to divide up the ingredients among the bowls, taking care to look like he had a plan.
“We’ve been looking for work,” Ander said. “A dragon’s loyalty may be a gift, but its feed must be earned.”
“That is true, my friend,” Sirvon said. “What kind of work did you have in mind?”
“Have in mind? We have three dragons in defiance of the King’s orders. Our employment opportunities are a bit limited. Especially considering that we’re forced to stay out on the northern and southern edges of the kingdom, where the hordesmen are fewer.”
“You own those goats?” Ren said with a nod to the barn door.
Sirvon didn’t respond right away. “They are my responsibility, yes. But if your friend here can deliver on his promise, then I will—”
“I never made a promise,” Tyber said to Sirvon. “I just said I’d—”
“You made a promise when you told me you’d try,” Sirvon said. “You make a promise whenever you toy with a man’s hopes. If you even doubt that you can deliver, then you keep your mouth shut and your hands in your pocket. And it’s too late for you to back out now.”
Sirvon’s palm graced the hilt of a long knife at his side, the iron knob polished and gleaming a dull gray in the lantern’s light.
Tyber turned back to his work.
“What kind of man puts his trust in a boy who couldn’t complete his studies at the academy?” Ander asked.
Sirvon looked at him. “You are questioning me?”
“Am I?” Ander asked. “Would you put such trust in a boy who has done nothing more than sit up straight in a lecture hall? Have you not been able to get a proper dragon healer out here?”
Sirvon’s face twitched as if straining to not erupt in a sneer. His attention swung to Tyber and fixed itself into a hard glare. “Work.”
Tyber turned back to his collection of herbs and powders. With a spoon, he scooped some of the fatty, viscous contents into a pan, then quickly pulled the chimney cover off a lantern and sat the pan atop it.
“How many dragon healers do you know who work outside of the King’s weyrs?” Sirvon asked.
Ander didn’t respond right away. “None.”
“They are a hard lot. There are few who leave the King’s service. Those that do are in such high demand that they cannot be bothered to look at the dragons for a man like me, one who works for a living.”
“Ugh,” Ren said. He wrinkled his face, waved at the air before him, and stepped back away from the pan atop the lantern.
“Still,” Ander said, and then took half a step back from the lantern himself, “have you really put your fate and that of your horde in the hands of this boy? Would you really do that?”
Tyber kept his eyes on his work. He took up a ladle and poured water into a bowl.
“What would you do?” Sirvon asked. “If it was your dragon covered in boils, her scales rotting off and her wings as tattered as an
old, moth-eaten quilt?”
The odor of the pan hit Tyber. It burned the back of his throat and caused his eyes to water. He blinked hard, then tipped some of the powders into the bowl. He exhaled slowly when nothing happened.
“To be honest,” Ander said, “I don’t know what I would do. I guess I would put my last hope in a boy who said he paid attention in lecture.”
“Then we understand each other,” Sirvon said.
“I understand what drives each of us,” Ander said, “but I don’t understand why you’re threatening a boy who is trying to help you.”
“I’m not threatening the boy,” Sirvon said. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m threatening all of you. Make no mistake, I will do whatever I must to save Pendro’s life. She is more than just the heart in my chest and the iron in my will. She is the queen of this domain. She is the reason I am able to care for each person and dragon on this estate. Without her, our lives are over. If she dies, so do all of our hopes. That is what this boy has involved himself in.”
“Tyber,” Ander said.
Tyber straightened up, but continued to stare at the ingredients before him. At least Ander had given him a few seconds to think about what in the wilds to do with the box full of dried nymlin.
“Have you been listening to this?”
“I’ve heard, but my concentration is on…” Tyber waved his hand at the growing mess before himself.
“By all the sky,” Sirvon spat. “What is that smell?”
Tyber gestured at the pan. “Essence of fuller.”
“Anything that smells that bad has to be a medicine,” Ren offered from a short distance off.
“There is a lot riding on this compound, Tyber,” Ander continued. “But I will not be threatened, and I will not make a deal with a man who I cannot trust. Stop your work now.”
Sirvon stepped forward and grasped Tyber, his fingers digging painfully into the tendons on the bottom of his wrist. “You will continue your work.”
“What incentive do you give him?” Ander asked.
Sirvon let out a laugh that sounded forced and exasperated. “I offer you nothing more than the next sunrise. If you cannot heal my dragon—”
“That was never the deal!” Ander said, inserting himself between Tyber and Sirvon. “Brath told Tyber to get what he needed for a drawing compound. That’s what he got. A drawing compound is not a cure.”
“Then what is the point!” Sirvon shouted. “If you cannot heal…” His words trailed off, and the barn sounded much larger in the silence, except for the sizzle of the gelatinous essence of fuller as it melted in the pan.
“You want our help, we’ll give it to you. We’ll give it to you freely,” Ander said. “One dragon rider to another. But in return, you drop these threats. The price you are asking is too high. And we will not pay it.”
“Then you will die.”
“And so will Pendro.”
Sirvon’s hand went to the hilt of his knife. “You threaten her?”
“I will not do the killing,” Ander said with a shake of his head. “You will. You’ve said as much. A man who tosses around such threats is not a man who is willing to work and earn the trust of others. So as far as I’m concerned, we were dead men the second Brath showed us the location of your weyr. If you want Tyber’s help, you will start asking for it.”
“Asking?” Sirvon asked.
“Ren,” Ander said. “You will take Maybelle and fly back to our camp. You will wait for me there. If anyone else approaches you, you will fly immediately in the direction of the mother city. You will flag down the first royal horde you see, and you will lead them straight here.”
“What? You think he would turn over his life and his dragon to avenge the deaths of the two of you?”
“I will,” Ren said. “This is my horde.”
Sirvon smiled and shook his head. “You are mad. The lot of you. I will agree to no such thing! You!”
Sirvon grabbed Tyber by the shoulder. “Get back to work!”
“Tyber,” Ander said, “start dumping your ingredients on the floor.”
Sirvon stepped back and drew his knife. “Get back to work!”
“Tyber,” Ander said, his voice flat and level.
Tyber held his breath. He grabbed a bowl, his hand trembling slightly. He lifted it, pulling it toward himself and the edge of the table.
“Stop!” Sirvon grasped Tyber about the wrist again. “All right. All right. Get back to work. But that one doesn’t have to leave. I give you my word. Finish the compound, and then be off. If the compound works, if it does what you say it does, then I will hire the three of you and pay you like princes.”
Sirvon stepped up to Tyber, his face hovering inches away. “But you tell me this, and you tell it to me now. Can you do it? Or are you simply trying to deceive me?”
“Why…” Tyber began, then licked his dry lips to get the saliva going. “Why would I do that?”
Sirvon’s grip tightened on his wrist. “That’s not an answer.”
Tyber nodded. “I can do this.”
“Look me in the eye. Look me in the eye and say that.”
Tyber met Sirvon’s gaze, noting the tiny red veins that ran beneath the gleaming white of his eyes.
“I can do this.”
Sirvon stepped back. He released Tyber, and the air around Tyber’s wrist felt suddenly cool.
Sirvon looked over his shoulder to Pendro’s stall. He stared a second, then turned back to Ander. “He’s lying. He thinks he’s going to try, but the boy is lying. He doesn’t know for sure he can do it.”
Ander crossed his arms over his chest. “And you have a better option?”
Sirvon held up a palm as he slipped his knife back into his belt. “All right. All right. I agree. I’ll stop threatening you. Give it your best.”
“Ren,” Ander said, “leave.”
Ren took a step backwards, but continued to look from Ander to Sirvon.
“Not necessary,” Sirvon said with a shake of his head. “He can stay. I promise I won’t hurt him. I give you my word.”
“Go. That’s an order. Dragoneer to rider.”
Ren stood a second longer, looked at Tyber, then turned away and started for the silhouettes of the dragons by the opening of the barn.
Sirvon took a deep breath, then turned to Brath. “Let him go.”
“Tyber,” Ander said. “Put the bowl down before you spill it.”
Tyber dropped the bowl to the table top with a clatter. The powders and flecks of dried nymlin inside danced briefly, then settled down. He wiped his sweaty palm down the leg of his trousers.
“You may begin work again,” Ander said.
Tyber took a deep breath and waited for his heart to slow, but it seemed to have no plans to do so ever again.
A few minutes later, wings parted the air. Tension grew across Tyber’s shoulders as Maybelle rose into the sky behind him.
Chapter 14
Sirvon held his hand over the contents of the pail, his fingers spread wide. He gingerly extended a finger to the milky, fatty substance flecked with black. He touched it, drew his hand back, then touched it lightly again.
“It’s cool enough,” he said. “Get on with it.”
Tyber glanced at Ander. Ander nodded once.
Tyber lifted the pail from the table. As he carried it to Pendro’s stall, he glanced out the open door. The sky to the north had grown darker, the blue deeper. The shadows had shifted farther to the east. A woman stood to the left side of the doorway, just inside the sun, and her shadow reached halfway across the wide opening.
“How long will this take to work?” Sirvon asked from Tyber’s side.
He shrugged. “A couple days. I hope we’ll see some results by tomorrow.”
Sirvon opened the stall gate. “And what is it that we are looking for?”
Pendro didn’t bother to open her eyes or move her head as Tyber entered. The buzz of a fly hummed in the air.
Tyber swallowe
d. He crouched before the dragon, settling the pail on the straw-strewn ground. It wasn’t much of a contest. The compound smelled worse than the dragon, but not by much.
“The humors should be drawn out. The swelling should go down in a day or two. It’ll look less red.”
Tyber patted Pendro’s neck then scooped up a handful of the fatty, greasy compound. If this didn’t go well, at least Ren had gotten away. At least Ren would be able to tell his family what had happened to him. That he had died in service to the King. And the absolute absurdity of the thought made him want to laugh, but he held it in.
“Well,” Sirvon said, “go on. What are you waiting for?”
Tyber took a deep breath, held it against the stench of both the medicine and the dragon’s flesh, then tipped the cup of his palm onto the boil and pressed slightly, starting to move his hand in a circular motion to spread the ointment.
Pendro’s eyes flew open. She lifted her head and hissed. Sirvon stepped back, his hand to the hilt of his knife.
Tyber yanked his hand away and stood, stumbling back a step.
Pendro whipped her head around and hissed at him, and then her head wavered, her eyelids growing heavy as if with dizziness. She took in a rattling breath, then looked to her shoulder.
Tyber gasped. The boil had burst. A thick, black, viscous fluid pushed its way out from beneath the fatty ointment and rolled down the pink flesh and pale green scales.
The odor hit him next. He turned his head away and wretched, staggered and grasped the stall gate, his greasy hand held to his belly.
“Pendro,” Sirvon gasped. The knife slipped from his hand. He stepped forward, dropping to his knees before the dragon. She looked at him once, and then her head fell and crashed into Sirvon’s chest, knocking him back onto his heels. He collapsed to his side as if struggling to protect the dragon’s head as she fell unconscious to the floor.
“Pendro!”
Tyber’s gaze flicked to the knife in the straw.
“Pendro!”
The dragon expelled a long breath. Her chest drooped as if she had been deflated. The stench of sulfur lingered under the wretched rot as if she’d released firebreath.
Dragonjacks: Book 1 - The Shepherd: A Dragons of Cadwaller Novel Page 11