Dragon's Ring

by Dave Freer

  The "shelf" was narrow and rough with barnacles. The current plucked at her as she sat on it. But at least she was half above water, on something solid. She tried to dig her fingers into the very rock. The place reeked of drying sea-life: seaweed, dead crabs and a hint of fish.

  Then she saw a greenish-white spark glowing in the darkness. It grew into a globe of light of the same color, held in a webbed hand. The hand had rather more fingers than was normal. It was also blue and scaly, like the rest of the merrow it was attached to. He smiled at her. His smile revealed white teeth. They weren't square and blunt like human teeth. No, his teeth were pointed and sharp. He held the light up, looking her over thoughtfully.

  "Well, you don't appear to be bleeding too much," he said, sounding a little regretful. "Any other injuries besides those that I can see?"

  She stared at him. At his tasseled fins and the toothy smile.

  "Shark got your tongue, maybe?" he said, sardonically. "I asked you a question, human wench. Are you all right?"

  She coughed.

  "I'll take that as a yes, shall I?" said the merrow.

  "What are you doing to me?" asked Meb, weakly. She started to shiver.

  "Ah. Now that'd be a question," said the merrow, with yet another nasty toothy grin. "Saving you from drowning would be my guess. What do you think?"

  "I mean, why did you bring me here? Where is this?" she tried to keep the thin edge of hysteria out of her voice. As with stopping shivering, she failed.

  The merrow seemed amused. "Well, it was a question of staying where you were, or going elsewhere. You don't seem to be much of a swimmer, wench. You'd need to be doing much better than the floundering and flapping you were busy with, to not be dashed into the cliff. And there were a powerful number of large rocks falling down, too."

  His insouciant humor helped to quell her panic, anyway. "We fisher-people don't swim," she said defensively. "If we fall overboard, we would rather drown quickly. Anyway, women never go into the sea." Which was only partially true. The sea had spat her out originally, if Mamma Hallgerd was to be believed.

  He seemed to find this hilarious. "I can tow you back out there and you can get on with drowning, if you like. Or maybe I can take you down, down, to merrow lands, to dance among the fish, or even to be sucked away into one of the great cracks in the ocean floor? There are maelstroms down there that not even I can cope with, places where the very water streams away into the nothingness. I'd hate to stop you doing what you think you were supposed to do."

  "No! No, thank you very much," she said hastily. "I really don't want to drown. It's just . . . Where am I? I have to warn the village. There are raiders coming!"

  He shook his head. "To think of not even knowing where you are. Why, 'tis obvious. You're under the cliff. There are some caves here. It's to be hoped we can get out again after all the rock you brought down with you. It was a careless thing to do."

  Caves? Trapped? With this creature . . . with teeth like that? "Why did you bring me here?" she asked, suspiciously. "Why didn't you take me away from the cliff if you wanted to save me?"

  The merrow snorted. "It's grateful that you are! Were you wanting to go to those boats in the bay instead?"

  The rational part of mind had to admit that he was right. But it didn't stop her being cold, and very scared. Obviously she looked it, because the merrow relented a little. "There is a current under here. It has to go somewhere. The cliffs are riddled with these tunnels. I could have you out to those boats in the bay in no time, I daresay."

  Taking her courage in both hands she looked at the creature in the way Hallgerd said made her look like a shameless hussy . . . but it did seem to get her what she wanted sometimes. "Will you rather take me to the beach?" she begged. "Please? Please, please? I must warn my people."

  He seemed to find her look-of-helpless-appeal amusing. "They don't look much like you," he said, showing no sign of agreeing to help.

  It was true enough. The fisher-people who had taken her in were straight-haired and blond. Her hair was dark and naturally curly. But . . . they were all she'd known. All she could remember. And even if they laughed at her, and teased her because she was different, they were her people. "Please?"

  He scratched his chin with a webbed hand. "Ach. I suppose I could. For a price."

  Meb gasped. He . . . She got ready to fend him off. The boys in the village had taught her that much. Even if she didn't look attractive, and she knew they didn't think so, the boys were keen. It wasn't her face they were interested in.

  He laughed loudly enough to make the tunnel echo at her reaction. "You've a high opinion of yourself, wench. I'll admit you're bluer than you were when I brought you in, and it is somewhat of an improvement, but you're not a pretty sight. Not to me anyway."

  Innate honesty forced her to say, "But I have nothing else. Please."

  "Well, then you've got nothing," he said with a nasty grin. "I'll be going then."

  "But . . . you can't just leave me here!" she protested.

  "And why not?" he asked, pausing. "You're alive, thanks to me. And not a strand of hair's profit I'll have out of that."

  Hair. She remembered now. Drowned bodies washed up . . . without a hair on their heads. It was said that the mermen treasured human hair, used it to string sea jewels on. But it was supposed to be the worst of bad luck to let them have it. You were sure to drown.

  The inner voice said and if you don't give it to him, you're sure to drown.

  "I'll give you my hair," she said. There was a lot of it anyway. When it was loose she could nearly sit on it.

  He scratched his chin. "It's not very straight."

  She suddenly recognized the look in his eye. He'd said that it wasn't lust. Then it must be desire . . . to bargain. To think of this creature being just like the pack-pedlars! "That just means that it's longer," she said stretching out a piece.

  "True," he said nodding. "We have a deal then." By the speed that he agreed she knew that she'd offered too much, too soon. He abruptly produced a bronze knife. She started back and nearly fell off the rock-shelf. He laughed. "You want me to pull your hair out instead? Now, if you be wanting me to take you to the beach without the raiders seeing you, you'll have to raise the price. Say the dress too." With a sinuous flick he pushed himself up out of the water, onto the shelf, and found a place to balance his light on the rock wall. "Hold still, will you, unless you'd be wanting to be parting with more skin than hair."

  She did her best not to shiver. But it felt pretty close to having her hair pulled out anyway. He tucked the bundle of wet plaits into a pouch at his waist and put the knife away. "Now do we have a deal on the dress?"

  "I suppose so," she said, crossly. "But not my drawers. Or my breast-band." Everyone in the village had seen her in that little anyway.

  He flapped his fish-tail. "I've not much use for drawers," he said conversationally. "Off with it, then."

  Meb bit her lip. What if he'd lied? You heard stories about merwomen . . . sailors' tales. A merrow would not be that different.

  After a moment's panic, the voice inside her now coarsely shaven head said, he's bigger than you and he has a knife. Why should he bother to trick you into taking it off?

  So she did.

  He took it, rolled it up and tucked into another pouch. "I've not much use for it," he said cheerfully, "But I thought it'd be fitting punishment for thinking such things of me." And he disappeared into the water, with hardly a splash.

  For a moment Meb stared at the water in horror. And then she started to swear. The lying, cheating bastard. At least he'd left her his light.

  Then the merrow's head popped back out of the water, just has she was getting to her third breath and her foster-brothers' more choice vocabulary. The merrow looked impressed. "You've got a fine tongue on you, for a girl!" he said, clapping. "Now, it's as I thought," He reached for his light. "The way is still clear. Come." He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the current.

  There was
a reason that the villagers and their boats kept away from the cliff that sheltered the bay from the South wind: the current. The waves broke over the sandbar at the bay-mouth, and the water had to go out somewhere. The current sucked boats that came too close onto the rocks. Plainly it ran through these caves. But the merrow obviously was more than a match for the current. He pulled her along through it almost effortlessly.

  "Last bit." He said. "You'll have to hold your breath again."

  They went down. When she thought her lungs would burst, Meb saw the blessed gleam of sunlight through the water. And then they popped out into the open air again. They were in the middle of the still patch of weedy water where the cliff, the shingle and the sea intersected. The place was called "the perilous pool" and it wasn't even any good for throwing a line into. Village children were forbidden to play here. Meb knew why, now. The current still sucked at her feet.

  The merrow was, however, as good as his word. He pushed her across to a slab of rock on the edge of the pool. "Up and off with you," he said cheerfully, swatting her across the behind.

  She gasped—but grabbed at the leathery kelp fronds and hauled herself upwards, scraping her bare knees on the pink edged key-hole limpets. She was out! She scrambled higher up onto the rock, and then onto the crunching pebbles and broken shell of the beach. It was only then that she looked back, feeling she ought to wave, acknowledge he had been fair at least. And he had saved her.

  The merrow had vanished back into the depths as if he had never been there.

  Meb ran. Well, she did her best to run. The fear and cold water had sapped her strength. She could see smoke ahead. The common-sense part of her mind said that she was running the wrong way. That didn't stop her though, even if the shingle-beach was long, and very awkward to try and run on.

  The village was tucked in behind an overgrown dune that gave it some shelter from the East wind. The seaward slope was a mass of fish-drying racks, hung with salt-crusted, yellowed, flayed cod. Meb panted her way up it. Nearing the top of the dune the sensible part of her mind finally got the upper hand: running down into a fight, it said to her, a woman in her in underthings, unarmed, is not the cleverest thing she'd ever done, and she'd done a lot of stupid things before. So she grabbed a fish-rack pole. It wasn't much to soothe the inner voice, but it was something.

  Meb crested the dune—and realized that she was too late. Far too late.

  All the little reed-thatched crofts were burning. So were the boats, hauled up onto the little second curve of shingle on the edge of the estuary. And the raiders, in their black cloaks and steel mail shirts were the only people she could see, stalking among the burning crofts.

  It hadn't been a big village. A hundred or so people—when the boats were in. It hadn't taken at least twice that number of armed men long to over-run it. Looking down, Meb saw that some of them hadn't managed to flee, either. That was old Hallgerd's body sprawled down there, in front of Meb's croft. She couldn't mistake that dress.

  Meb sat down, dropping her pole. And then lay down and sobbed. The old woman had been a terrible scold, but she was also the nearest thing to a mother that Meb had ever had. Meb had expected a real telling off for slipping away to the cliff-top to idle this afternoon. She'd been faintly dreading it.

  Now she would have welcomed it.

  The raiders weren't searching for people to seaward. A few quested like dogs through the gorse slopes behind the village. The rest seemed to be kicking about the village. Looking up at the skyline, looking inland.

  Looking at the watching dragon.

  So this is why the winged creature had come here. To oversee his pack of sea-wolves. To destroy her home, her life.

  Sitting there among the fish-racks, looking down at the destruction of her life, Meb did the unthinkable. Dragonkind ruled here in Tasmarin, with an absolute power. Always had, and always would. Under them other creatures lived and died at their will. Someone had once said that humans were nothing more than kine to the Dragon Lords. Before this happened that had seemed like the natural order of things. Not something to be thought about, let alone defied. Now she raised her small fist and shook it at the sunset silhouetted dragon. A cold flame of bitter rage burned in her heart.

  "We are more than just your cattle," she said grimly, in voice far older than her seventeen years. "I'm going to destroy you."

  It was a ridiculous, futile gesture, and she knew it.

  Chapter 2

  The Lyr presiding over the grove had no idea where the celebrants had got the idea that the rites they performed should be done naked. Like so many of the things humans did it was something they had decided would please the lady of the trees—possibly because it would please them. The bodies of animal life had very little to interest her, except as fertilizer. They smelled vile—like the animals they were. They came, secretively, to the gatherings deep in the forest. At first the Lyr had struggled to grasp why they came. She had killed some of those who had infringed on her sleeping groves. That had made them respectful and yet more ardent. She had watched some of them rutting in the forest. There was some of the same heat about them when they came to worship. Their overlords had heard about it, and forbidden the gatherings. For those who came that seemed to make it more attractive.

  It had not taken the Lyr long to realize that that these foolish worshipers would do anything she ordered them to, in her service. The reward she gave . . . well, it was in their heads really. The Lyr gave them meaningless ritual, sacrifice and sex. It seemed faintly ridiculous to the Lyr. But like the alvar, these humans were somehow besotted with the Lyr. It was a simple thing to encourage, and very useful.

  For centuries now, in groves across the islands, the Lyr had allowed humans to recruit themselves by their own stupidity. They were more practical than slaves. A slave had to be bought and fed. These fed themselves, and gave their utmost to the tasks the Lyr set. Gave their heart and soul, they said—whatever that was.

  Right now the high priest of Yenfar grovelled, his little bare buttocks quivering. "Lady of the Trees. She wasn't there. Yes, some of the villagers fled. But the talismans you gave us led us to the sea. I swear it. And the dragon, Lady. We were afraid for our lives. The slavers wanted to flee immediately . . . We only stopped them with difficulty." He pointed to his bruised face. "Will you punish them, Lady?"

  "Wait."

  He remained on his hands and knees. Shivering. It may have been at her anger. Or it could have been the cold. They died, sometimes, if the Lyr forgot them.

  She talked to the trees. The trees talked to other trees. It was not fast communication—vegetative life lacked that nasty animal quickness. But it was sure. It was an unlikely alliance, between the Lyr and the creatures of smokeless flame, but the energy beings had access to magics that the Lyr could not use. They also shared a common goal, at least up to a point. And, unlike animals, the beings of energy did not devour plants. The fire-beings were unable to pass over on the soil of Yenfar, and thus the worshippers of the Lyr had a role to play. The Lyr knew they were normally actually quite effective.

  It took time, but she got word back from her contact, Haborym: The human with the gifts still lived.

  She went back to the high priest. "Find out where the people of this village went. Search among them."

  Chapter 3

  The gold of his hoard gleamed dully in the red light of the dragon's lair. He did, of course, remain between it and the others. He might tolerate, and indeed, conspire with lower life-forms, but there was a limit. Other creatures might want gold. Dragons needed it. Dragons were not builders. The lair had once been mere caverns. Some dragons had had slaves in to improve them before they moved in. This had cost them dear, and had not happened here. There were no secret passages or hidden doors. Just rock. The caverns—with exception of smoothing by passage of hard bodies over generations—were as they had always been. Not a place which something other than a dragon would have found comfortable. A dragon would have found it pleasant, because of t
hat hoard. Having them meet here, in his lair, this close to his gold was a gesture of faith. Almost unheard of faith. He wished that the sprite had not insisted on this place, as even talking to them here made him uncomfortable. But Lyr the sprite was a very necessary part of his plans. The tree-woman made no allowances for emotions. She didn't understand them in the same way that the warm-blooded species did—although the sprites could feel hate.

  "Let us call this meeting to order," said Lord Rennalinn. The alvar lord looked as uncomfortable to be here as the dragon was to have him. Alvar did not like caverns. And they liked to delude themselves that they, not the dragons of Tasmarin, were the greatest power in the plane. "We need explanations. How dared you attack a fellow Lord's demesne in force?"

  Haborym, an almost-face in the dancing flames, replied. "Our auguries suggested that we would have the best chance of success."

  "We knew that you would not consent," said the Lyr coolly. She always spoke like that. It was not a royal "we." All the sprites were part of the same tree.