by Dave Freer
* * *
It was still dark when they got on the trail the next day. However, the snow had turned to rain, turning the snow to slush and mud. "At least it is wet," said the merrow.
"If it was any wetter, you'd sprout fins on us," said Finn. "Now there is, by my reckoning, a nasty deep gorge over there, with a bridge over it in that notch in the hill." He pointed.
"Why aren't we going that way then?" asked Meb, as he'd promptly turned from the muddy track onto a ghost of a trail overhung by wet, dripping bushes.
He shook his head sadly. "They always put up checkpoints at bridges, Scrap. You have so much to learn about the life of a rogue."
She had feeling she was being teased. "I think they should make rogue-masters tell those who want to be apprentices just how much time they will spend being cold and wet," she said.
"And the number of hours they may spend being hunted by those who want, at best, just to kill them," said Finn. "Most of the stream in the gorge's catchment is higher up, full of snow, not rain, so with luck it won't be in flood yet."
They made their way down steep snowy banks and eventually to the stream. It was knee-high, brown with earth and ribbed with drifting rafts of sticks and fallen leaves.
"Coming up fast," observed Finn with some satisfaction after they'd crossed. "Let's give it some help." He took out a handful of the rubies they'd taken from the alvar treasure-house and dropped them into the rushing, dirty water, one by one. "That should do nicely," he said, as Meb gaped.
They made their laborious, slippery, muddy way out of the gorge, keeping under the dripping trees. "It's a bad day for a dragon to be doing aerial reconnaissance, but there is no sense in tempting fate just to keep our necks dry, especially as they're already wet. Besides, it is cheering Hrodenynbrys up as much as it is making you miserable," said Finn, when she suggested they might walk in the mountain meadow up slope from them. So they soldiered on. And then Finn stopped. Sniffed.
Meb did too, trying to smell anything but wet woods. There might have been a hint of smoke on the air.
"Dragonfire," said Finn, grimly. "We need to go back and find another way."
They did. A little later they came to a stony knoll where the trees were a little more scattered. Off to the right, through the trees Meb could see a burning hamlet amid a patchwork of stone walls and winter fields.
"It was a good little spot, said Finn, crossly. "Well aligned."
Meb was not sure what aligned meant, but it scraped raw memories of her own village and the huts burning. "Can we do anything to help?"
"Right now, probably not," said Finn. "But we can go and see what we can do. Zuamar is not likely to come back. It's not in his mind set."
The practical part of Meb wondered how anyone knew what dragons thought. On the other hand he did seem to know nearly everything, especially about trouble and how to get out of it.
They walked to the handful of burning crofts. And Meb realized very soon that there was going to be no one to help. It had been a cold, wet, raw day with, by the looks of it, everyone indoors when the dragon had struck. And Zuamar had been brutally efficient about it. As they'd fled the burning houses—he'd burned or disemboweled the peasants. Even the babes in arms had been roasted, skin-split and dead. The little village turned into a horror of a reeking charnel house in which nothing lived. Even the milk cows had been killed in their stalls.
"Why?!" Meb, tears streaming down her face shook her fist in rage.
"He doesn't need a reason," said Finn, his tone carefully detached. "Power needs limits, and here he has none. He could also be looking for us. Let's go. The best we can do now is to frustrate that ambition of his. He'll be dealt with in time."
The merrow too was subdued by the slaughter. "I've seen fish go kill crazy. Orca too. But not like this. This is a kind of senseless brutality that took a great deal of intelligence. It's a dangerous thing."
"I think we should go," said Finn, firmly, turning Meb by the shoulder. They walked away, not looking back . . . and then something touched Meb's calf. She jumped and turned.
The black-and-white pup backed away, nervously. Looked at her with frightened eyes—one blue, one ale-brown. It gave a quiet little whimper.
Meb fell to her knees and gathered it up into her arms. It shivered slightly. Then sniffed at her neck and snuggled into her.
"I have to take her. I can't just leave her here, master. She'll starve. It's . . . it's like when you took me in. My village was burned too."
Finn shrugged. "Black dog with white ears. Good demon dog in those colors. But I suspect that he's a sheepdog rather than one of the pack of the wild hunt. Well, we'll find people for him. It's a him, Scrap, not a lady-dog. Scrap of a dog for a scrap of an apprentice," he said with a wry smile. "Dogs don't like me much, I am afraid. Let's get away from this place. There doesn't seem to be another living thing here."
They walked, Meb carrying the puppy. It seemed, at this stage, utterly content to be carried, to be warm and with a human. There wasn't much to it but loose skin, fur and bony elbows, and it didn't weigh that much. Besides, no matter what it weighed, she'd have managed to carry it, somehow.
They walked for some hours, taking cover from patrolling troops of mounted alvar, and the dragon a mile or two away off to the south. Meb had to marvel how Finn knew just where the searchers were. He was plainly keener of hearing and, it would seem, smell. Maybe, thought Meb, sniffing, she still had to learn. Perhaps she could teach her dog. Dogs had keen noses.
When they sat down to rest, the pup got a mutton bone, and if it had been traumatized earlier, it forgot all the day's disasters in this vast treat. He lay with his back against her and chewed to the limits of those white sharp puppy teeth. He was not in the least worried by the quality of the cooking. He was keen to lick her face to show appreciation though. He put up with having to drink water from a tiny brook, even if it was not mother's milk.
He was slightly heavier when she had to pick him up and carry him later—but even more content. He was warm and soft and smelled of puppy-fur and mutton-bone. And he radiated complete adoration and trust. Meb was already trying to think of good reasons not to leave him with the people at the next settlement they came to. After all, if the dragon was marauding, far away from here was the best place for him. And her, for that matter. When he awoke from his little nap in her arms he showed that he was keen on nibbling things too. She removed her cloak's toggle from his mouth and gave him a finger. He preferred to lick that.
They found shelter in a half-tumbled down barn that night. 'Brys was all for pressing on. "I can smell the sea," he said, his voice full of longing.
"You're also tripping over your own feet from tiredness," said Finn. "We stop now."
When he gave orders, it was hard to even consider arguing. Besides, Meb's feet were desperate for a rest. It was still cold for sleeping rough, and the barn barely kept the rain off them. The pup was keen to play. And to eat. But at least he was warming, snuggled inside her cloak that night.
Fionn waited until they were both asleep to slip out. He'd done his best to ward the place against scrying or prying eyes. But he needed to fly upwards. He needed to be in the presence of lots of gold for a few hours.
Soon he was above the cloaking cloud that hung over Yenfar, and beating his way upwards to the moon that hung so close. It was a total conceit and a waste of magic to have it there—to say nothing of an ever-present danger to the people below. Of course it wasn't the size of a moon obeying the more natural laws of physics, but it was still enough to destroy life on Tasmarin if it were to fall. And it would destroy his gold too. One had to consider the seriousness of things like this when dealing with such folly, even if it was amusing.
After spending some time being bathed in the revitalizing effect of lying on gold—something Fionn realized only a dragon could consider remotely endurable, let alone comfortable and soothing—Fionn took himself to the conclave.
Things were noisy in there. No one seem
ed particularly interested in talking to him, so Fionn set about his usual information-gleaning. It was mostly the younger and smaller ones in here tonight, and a frightened lot they were. Rumor was having a field day.
". . . traces of dragonfire on it . . ."
". . . the alvar are arming . . ."
They would be, thought Fionn. He wondered where the great ones were. Zuamar was probably still angrily scouring and burning. Or sleeping off having done so, most likely. Vorlian, Chandagar, Jennar, even that tail-vent Myrcupa, to name a few, were all out and about. That should be worrying too.
* * *
Vorlian contemplated his gold. There was a lot of it. His island was a rich one, fertile, if not as large as, say, Lord Zuamar's holding. The big old dragons had originally taken the largest territories, with no thought as to the nature of those territories. Ones with cliffs and mountains were good for eyries and take-offs. They were often less than agriculturally ideal, Vorlian had concluded. Agriculture hadn't been a factor dragons considered . . . but here on Tasmarin it had become fairly apparent that growth among dragonkind related to hoard-size.
And that, Vorlian had come to realize, related to the other species. Someone had to dig the gold up, and that one wasn't a dragon. Fertile fields and trade brought gold, even if no human or dvergar miners did.
And for that, Vorlian knew he needed humans. They were annoying, smelly, prolific creatures. But dragons needed them. There was a difference between eating one, once in a while, and embarking on a wholesale slaughter—as Zuamar was now calling on all of dragonkind to do.
Vorlian had the feeling that it was at least in part his fault. His island, Starsey, was far too geographically close to Yenfar. Vorlian had already made up his mind that he would defend its population.
But could he, if Zuamar came with the sort of support he seemed to be gathering? One-on-one they were not too unevenly matched. But no dragon could stand even against three. That was how the conclave kept the peace.
Meb awoke to a throbbing growl in her ear. There was a dark shape over at the rotting arch that was all that was left of the doorway. And the pup was letting her know that he found it alarming. Meb stuck out a hand to wake Finn—only he wasn't there.
"I see we have a guard dog," said Finn's voice from the dark shape. "More use than a chewer of mutton bones, even if it still has to learn who its enemies are."
"I think he thought you were the dragon again. He's shivering."
"The Scrap should tell her scrap that it's only me. We want to get moving before dawn. We've got an hour or two's walk to the cliffs, and there is not much cover close to the sea."
They got up and left. Meb felt that cold mutton was less of a breakfast than she'd hoped for, but it was food, and they could both eat and walk.
It was predawn gray when she first heard the distant rhythmic sound of the waves carried on a salt-laden breeze. She hadn't realized just how much that sound and smell were part of her, or how much she'd missed it, until that moment.
"Will the two of you stop standing stock still and get a move on," said Finn. "You'll hear it better from closer."
So they walked on. It was an effort to keep up with the merrow. They made their way down a section of crumbly, broken cliff and to a small bay of shifting grumbling cobbles. The sun was just coming up. The merrow rushed down to meet the foam-line of the wave. He grabbed water and splashed himself. He thrust his arms out and stretched, as they watched. The pup, put down on the stones, looked warily at the water. The foam rushed up at them, sending cobbles clacking. The pup pressed against Meb's leg and barked at it.
"I didn't realize what a lot I had in common with your brave hound, Scrap," said Finn, grinning. "There should be some caves for us to rest up in. We'll need to find a boat, unlike you, Hrodenynbrys. I can see no reason why you can't swim away and tell Margetha that Fionn is coming to collect the hammer."
The merrow looked torn. "I should stay and guard the Angmarad."
Finn shrugged. "If the worst comes to the worst we'll just toss it in the water. We're not going to be more than a few feet away from the sea until we get there, with luck. We'll go hunting a fishing boat after dark."
'Brys bit a long fore-finger, and then nodded. "I'll find someone to take word, and will be back. But . . . could I ask you to do one thing for it? Let the water touch it. It needs the sea and the sea needs it. Please."
He seemed as earnest as the merrow ever got. Meb looked at Finn. He nodded. "Just hold onto it."
Chapter 32
Meb lifted the twisted circlet of bladder-wrack off her head and stepped down the sloping beach to the foam-laced top of the surge. The sea was still gray in the new light of morning. The sun, still a half red orb on the eastern horizon, hazed by the wind-whipped sea-spray that trailed the breakers, gave everything curiously sharp outlines, even the flight of curlews moving in a ragged vee above the water. A wave came rushing up the stones, sending the cobbles hissing and clattering. Meb put the circlet into the water, and realized that she'd misjudged the strength of the wave. The water came half way up her boots. From being icy cold when she touched it, it was suddenly as warm as blood, and tingling. Meb was aware of a curious whistling and ringing in her ears, like the sound of the sea being somehow echoed through a thousand distant bells. Just for a moment she felt the race of the tide, the swirl of the water and the heartbeat of the waves, as if the sea were part of her and she, part of it.
"Groblek said to say he misses you," said Meb, feeling mildly foolish.
Beside her the pup sneezed. Snorted salt water. That didn't stop him biting the wave that was attacking her feet again. A dog couldn't be tolerating this stuff even if it was excessively salty! He'd teach it a lesson!
It did make her laugh and break the spell. The sun had risen just a fraction more, and the sea was bright with it. Or bright with something. It seemed bigger and wilder somehow.
The merrow did too. He was changing back into the blue-skinned tassel-finned creature she'd first met. He bowed respectfully. "For that, the thanks of all of the waters and all that live in them. I'll bid you farewell, for now."
And he slipped effortlessly away beneath the tumble of foam of an incoming wave.
Meb looked at the circlet of dried seaweed. It wasn't so well-dried any more. But it still looked pretty much like any other piece of seaweed that might have been washed up after a winter storm.
"Well," said Finn. "Unless you want to keep getting your feet wet and make your scrap of a dog even wetter, and swallow half the sea, maybe you'd better come back up to the caves. There is bit of driftwood there and what with the spray blowing up the cliff the smoke will be lost. And after that," he pointed at the dripping loop of seaweed, "there are going to be magic workers from here to far Prettisy Island wondering what is going on, anyway."
So Meb came away from the sea, away from the oneness and the power and deep currents of it, and was showered by the pup, who celebrated her return to common sense by dancing around her and shaking.
Finn was a wizard when it came to getting even an unpromising damp salt-encrusted pile of debris and flotsam to burn. He yawned. It was the first time Meb had seen him so obviously tired. "Tide's coming in, and this beach will be covered. But the top end of the cave stays dry, or not more than spray-damp. Sorry, Scrap. I need a rest. Then we need a boat."
Meb had noticed that there was not a sail to be seen. That was unusual unless it was stormy. Yet it seemed a good brisk fishing day to her.
The Lyr had been aware, at some basic level, that something had happened to one of itself. When news came, via the shocked priest of the Hamarbarit grove, that not only was the sister-Lyr that he had been with destroyed, but that Haborym had been destroyed too, Lyr knew fear. And, as near a plant-lifeform could rage—a sort of cold, bitter anger. They needed the human mage. But the plant-lifeform feared humans as well. She had every intent of seeing the human destroyed the moment that their work was done. Humans were near defenseless against the fire-bei
ng kind, and this had been part of the great agreement reached between them.
Still, human reportage could not be trusted. A Lyr was dispatched from her grove to go and see how much of the story was mere human exaggeration. They were very prone to that.
What came back frightened the Lyr even more.
Emissaries were hastily sent out.
"The alvar ships certainly always made other vessels look clumsy and slow," said Cyllarus to Ixion, his companion of the day, as they paced the low dock of Port Lapith.
"They're elegant enough." Even in today's light breeze the long hulled alvar vessel glided across the water. It was not by chance, naturally, that two of the centaurs-folk's leading generals were on the quay-side. Yesterday had been wind-still. They knew what the swan-ship carried.