The Fire Dragon

by Katharine Kerr

“She's not back yet. She may not have been heading for Cerr Cawnen when we saw her. What if she's bolted? If she's off among the Meradan, we'll never be able to fetch her back.”

  “True, but if she has to live among them for the rest of her life I'll count her well punished. It creeped my flesh, seeing Dalla talking with that wretched Mera woman.”

  “Well, here, now!” Rhodry made his voice sound as quietly reasonable as he could. “You remember Meer, don't you? He was a man like any other. It behooves us to treat his mother—”

  “I never trusted that hairy bastard. How do you know he wasn't sending messages to the Meradan sieging Cengarn?”

  “Why would they have killed him if he was their spy?”

  “Well, maybe they didn't trust him either. By the Dark Sun! How can you expect me to tolerate these people? Don't you remember that they wanted to kill my Carra and the baby both?”

  “Well, that's true, isn't it? But those were Horsekin, not Gel da'Thae.”

  “I don't care about fine distinctions.”

  “Only the Horsekin worship Alshandra. She's the one who wanted Carra dead. Well, in truth it was the baby she wanted slain. I doubt if Carra mattered to her one way or the other.”

  “I don't find that particularly comforting.”

  “Well, try! The Gel da'Thae wish no harm to you or yours.”

  Dar set his mouth in a tight line and looked away, glaring at the lake. At his temple one vein throbbed, and he laid a hand on his tunic, rubbing the pendant through the cloth. He was, Rhodry supposed, thinking about the deaths of his royal ancestors.

  “Ah well,” Rhodry said at last. “Promise me one thing? Don't do anything rash.”

  “Anything murderous, you mean?”

  “Just that.”

  For a moment Dar scowled down at the grass, then he shrugged and looked up.

  “Very well,” Dar said. “You have my word on it.”

  “That's good enough for me.”

  And yet Rhodry felt trouble gathering. Dar had, after all, been raised for a revenge that had seemed impossible to gain, out on the grasslands. Now here the ancient enemies were, close at hand.

  It was late in the day when Raena finally did return, though not in any way that Verrarc might have expected. The councilman had gone down to the walls to discuss with Sergeant Gart the matter of raising and arming a larger militia. Together they climbed a wooden ladder to the catwalks that ran just below the top of the stonework. On folded arms Verrarc leaned onto the stone and looked west across farmland, pale green with new-sprouted grain.

  “One good thing about this town,” Gart said. “We'll never lack for water no matter how long they besiege us.”

  “True spoken. With enough food stored up, I think me we could hold off an army. If of course our men have the weaponry.”

  “Just so. That does trouble my heart. We'd best be taking a good hard look at what we've got in the armory.”

  Verrarc nodded his agreement. Distantly he heard shouting, and as the sound grew louder he and Gart turned toward the source: the south gate. A sudden horn rang out.

  “That be the alarum!” Gart said abruptly. “We'd best hurry.”

  They set off around the wall as fast as the rickety catwalk would allow—a little less than a brisk walk.

  “We'd best get this shored up,” Verrarc said.

  “Cursed right!” Gart said. “There'll be a need on us to move the men round quickly. Well, if the worst happens.”

  The news met them halfway when Kiel came striding along from the south gate.

  “Horsekin, Sergeant,” Kiel blurted. “They do claim they come in peace, but we did shut the gates nonetheless, for there be about a score of them. Uh, Councilman, I ken not how to say this graciously. Your wife be with them, riding at their head bold as brass.”

  For a moment Verrarc could neither think nor speak. He felt so cold that he was sure his face must have blanched, right there for his men to see. In his mind he could hear Zatcheka's voice, sharp with anger: a human woman at that, come to preach the false goddess. With a shake of his head he forced himself under control.

  “It be time I did give her a good talking to,” Verrarc said as briskly as he could manage. “Let's go see what silliness she has in hand.”

  Gart and Kiel were looking at him—oddly, though he couldn't quite read their expressions. He pushed past Kiel and led the way along the catwalks to the gate. Other militiamen met him there, all talking at once. He yelled at them to hold their tongues, then leaned over the wall.

  Sure enough, down below, drawn up in tidy pairs, a full score of tall Horsekin warriors stood beside their massive bay or chestnut horses, eighteen hands, some of them, with heavy legs and shaggy fetlocks. At the rear of their line a high-sided mule cart waited, loaded with sacks of supplies and driven by a human man.

  At the head stood Raena, dressed in men's clothing and holding the reins of a beautiful grey palfrey, and beside her, with no horse, the strangest Horsekin Verrarc had ever seen. He wore nothing but rags, though a lot of those: three or four tunics of different colors, all ripped and threadbare, piled one on top the other but barely keeping him decent even so. His feet were misshapen masses of calluses and swollen flesh, for he wore no boots. His huge mane of grey hair had not been washed or combed for entirely too long, and his weather-beaten face sported patterns of scars instead of tattoos. While he waited he leaned on a heavy, long staff of some dark wood, decorated with little metal disks and feathers.

  “Verro,” Raena called out. “Why will they not let us in?”

  At that the wild man raised his staff and grunted a few words, not that Verrarc could understand them.

  “Rae!” He heard himself stammering. “What be you doing there?”

  “Let us in, and I'll tell you!”

  Verrarc turned around and called down to his men to open the gates. None of them moved. He looked at Gart and Kiel and saw mutiny in their eyes.

  “Now here!” Verrarc snapped. “Think you we be so weak as all that? Cannot our men fend off a mere score of enemies? If not, we'd best surrender straightaway, but I never thought you both such cowards.”

  Kiel blushed scarlet. Gart turned away fast and yelled down, “Open the gates, lads! There be naught here that we can't best.”

  Verrarc went to the ladder and climbed down just as the gates finished squeaking open. He was about to step forward to greet Raena when he saw Dallandra, standing nearby on the green with her arms crossed over her chest and watching him, simply watching with no expression at all, but suddenly he felt like a thief caught with his hand in someone else's money box. For a moment he could neither move nor think, but Raena and the wild man came walking through the gates with their men and horses close behind. Dallandra turned on her heel and strode off, losing herself in a gathering crowd of townsfolk. Men came running with curious children close behind; dogs barked at the newcomers; women strolled up as well and began pulling children back out of the way.

  “Come here, my love!” Raena called to Verrarc. She was smirking, her jaw tight with triumph. “I did bring you a peaceable emissary, Lord Kral of the White Bear tribe.”

  At this one of the warriors stepped forward, a beefy tall man with his waist-length dark hair held back from his face by an arrangement of gold combs. He wore a dirty cloth-of-gold surcoat over his tunic and leather trousers, and at his side hung a sword so long that he had to keep one hand on the hilt to tip it up and prevent it from dragging on the ground.

  “Rakzan Kral,” Raena said, “this be Councilman Verrarc.”

  “Honored,” Kral grunted.

  “Uh, my thanks.”

  Verrarc was painfully aware of the crowd around them. Some of the militiamen had joined the townsfolk. He felt as if their stares were so many knives, stabbing him and Raena both. The wild man, leaning on his staff, drew his share of ugly looks. This close Verrarc could smell his unwashed flesh and another stink as well—resinous woodsmoke, so pungent it seemed to emanate from his very
being.

  “We come,” Kral went on, “to offer a treaty.”

  “Indeed? Well, this be interesting news, but truly, there's a need on you to deliver it to the whole council. I be but one of five, and on my own I may say naught.”

  “Fair enough. My men and I will wait. The priestess did tell us that there be ground where we may pitch our tents.”

  “The priestess?”

  With another grunt Kral gestured at Raena. She caught Verrarc's expression and looked hastily away.

  “Just so.” Verrarc glanced around. The crowd had swelled and blocked the road. “If you'll follow me, there's a need on us to go that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction from that in which Zatcheka's tents stood. “Round the lake a way here.”

  Kral turned away to give orders to his men. Verrarc was studying Raena, wondering just how furious she would have to make him before—before what? he asked himself. You know too well you'll not cast her off. A sudden yell caught him completely off guard—a child shrieked, dogs started barking, a man screamed. Verrarc and Kral both spun around in time to see the wild man grab a little girl by the arm and haul her into the air one-handed. With the other he shook his staff at a pair of big tan hounds who rushed barking to the rescue.

  Kral yelled two words in the Horsekin language, but too late. Blue fire sprang from the staff and streamed through the air. The lead dog yelped and flipped over backwards to fall howling and convulsing onto the ground. The other charged, the fire exploded again, and both dogs dropped dead with blood gushing from their mouths and eyes. The child was screaming and kicking. Her mother kept rushing forward, and her husband kept grabbing her back. Yelling at the top of his lungs Kral ran for the wild man. Just as the rakzan reached him, the wild man threw the child at the ground. Kral caught her barely in time.

  When the sobbing mother rushed forward, Kral handed her the child while he stammered an apology. The crowd began muttering and pushing closer. Off to one side, the wild man stood laughing softly, a mutter under his breath. Verrarc looked round and saw that Kiel and Gart had drawn their swords.

  “Stop!” Verrarc strode forward. “There be no need for steel! Get the crowd to move back, Sergeant! Do it now!”

  A white-faced Gart followed orders, and Kiel followed him. Other militiamen stepped out of the crowd and helped form a protective ring around their unwelcome guests. Kral bowed to Verrarc.

  “A thousand apologies! We will camp outside your walls.”

  “That would be best, truly,” Verrarc said. “What—why did he seize that child?”

  “She insulted him, or so he tells me.” In between the lines of tattooing, Kral's face had gone pale, bringing the pattern into high relief. “There be naught I can do to control him, Councilman. He be one of Alshandra's Elect.”

  Verrarc had no time to ask him to explain. Even though the rest of the town watch had come to help Gart and Kiel, the crowd was refusing to move. Angry faces, bitter voices— some of the men had sticks, others had picked up stones. They had seen too much today; too many terrors had come to them: first the dragon, then the mysterious Westfolk, and finally this dangerous madman and the Horsekin.

  “Get your people out, Rakzan,” Verrarc said. “For their sake.”

  Waving his arms and yelling, Kral strode back to the warriors, who began backing and turning their horses. The cart, mercifully, still stood outside on the road. As soon as it became clear that the Horsekin were moving outside the gates, the crowd of citizens began to calm. Gart kept urging, Kiel kept talking, the militiamen slowly moved forward, and at last the citizens began to disperse, walking away slowly, muttering to themselves or shaking the occasional fist in the wild man's general direction. Through all of this Raena had stood off to one side and smirked. Verrarc crossed to her and grabbed her by both arms.

  “What be all this?” he snarled. “Ye gods, woman! Who is that filthy warlock?”

  “Just that, a warlock indeed. His name be Nag-arshad.”

  “He may call himself Lord Filth for all I care. You do owe me many a truth, Rae. And I'm taking you home where you may tell them.”

  She started to speak, then shrugged and pulled her arms free of his lax grasp.

  “Move, woman!”

  She shrugged again but turned and began walking toward the lakeshore. Verrarc followed close behind, and as they hurried through the scattering crowd, he noticed how all the townsfolk stopped to stare at her with hatred in their eyes.

  When she'd left Verrarc at the gates, Dallandra had not gone far. She found a quiet spot near the wall, turned her face to the stone to shut out distractions, and called to Evandar. In her mind she pictured his country, gone dead and brown; she imagined an image of herself there, walking by the leaden river, and she imagined that image calling his name. When she felt an answering touch of his mind, she banished the images and came fully back to the grass and stone of Cerr Cawnen just in time to hear the child shrieking in terror.

  Caught at the back of the crowd as she was, she could barely see what was happening, much less reach the scene in time to stop it. Once the crowd began to break up and clear off, she could finally make her way back to the gates. By then the rakzan had managed to get all his men back onto the road outside and the mazrak with them. She only caught a glimpse of him, striding along barefooted and waving his staff above his head as if in celebration. Two young townsmen were carrying the dead dogs away. One of them was weeping.

  Verrarc and Raena stood arguing a few paces off. Dallandra was shocked by the change in her. During last summer's siege she'd managed to get a few glimpses of a plump, sleek Raena. Now she'd turned gaunt. Her face and neck showed every tendon and muscle, it seemed, just because her skin was stretched so tight over the bone. Before Dallandra could make up her mind to confront them, Verrarc had grabbed Raena by the arm and hauled her off, heading for the lakeshore.

  “Let them be,” Evandar murmured.

  With a yelp Dallandra spun around. He had either materialized right there or appeared elsewhere and walked up so quietly she hadn't heard him—the latter, she supposed, since none of the townsfolk were paying him any attention.

  “This is a bad omen and a worse outcome,” Evandar said. “I'm tempted to blast that nasty-looking fellow into ashes and his Horsekin entourage with him.”

  “Please don't! The Horsekin would only send a bigger and nastier lot here to look for them.”

  “You speak the truth, so I shan't. But I fear for you, my love. Be on your guard, will you? Better yet, can you and the prince and the rest of you all move onto Citadel and camp near the dragon?”

  “I doubt that. We'd have to bring Zatcheka and her people with us, and there's no grass for the horses and suchlike. I wish you could stay with us.”

  “So do I, but the iron aches my bones, or what would be my bones if I had any. At least there isn't iron binding the walls, but the weapons and such are bad enough.”

  “They must be, truly.”

  “And then there's the lake.” Evandar sighed, suddenly melancholy. “It's not a running river, my love, but the water veils hang thick above it nonetheless. Should you scry in your body of light, please: Watch every move you make. The springs that feed it run deep, I suppose, and there's more raw power here than you'd think.”

  “Oh, don't worry about that! I'll stay on my guard. And truly, I might need to scry on the etheric. Those Horse-kin—why are they here, do you know?”

  “I don't. No doubt we'll find out soon enough.”

  “Sooner than we wanted, most like. That mazrak— Shaetano's not the power behind his magicks, is he?”

  “Alas, no. I know not how, but our prophet of filth has true dweomer, my love. That was etheric fire he brought down with his staff. I do know that he's one of the wandering preachers who spread the story of the new goddess.”

  “I'll talk with Zatcheka. She might know more about these magicks.”

  “A good thought, that. And I'll be close by, never fear. The iron-touch isn't too bad
up on the plaza, so I'll stay close to Rhodry and the dragon.”

  “Good. I think we're all going to need you.”

  “So do I.” He laughed, a bitter little sound. “And now I've got to get out of here.”

  Evandar walked a few steps toward the gates. He seemed to melt first into glass, then a man-shaped puff of smoke, and finally, he was gone.

  “Tell me, Rae! Tell me the truth and do so now!” Verrarc caught her by both wrists and hauled her close to face him. “That be where you did learn your magicks, bain't? From the Horsekin wizard and his filthy kind!”

  “So what if I did?” Her voice wavered, and he could feel her body trembling against his. “Magicks be magicks, bain't? And who else might I find to teach me?”

  They were standing in their bedchamber, an imperfect refuge with the servants just on the other side of the door and doubtless trying to hear every word of this quarrel. Verrarc made an effort to keep his voice down.

  “Well, true spoken,” he went on. “But Horsekin, Rae? I like not this talk of a treaty with such as them. What will it amount to? If we become their slaves now all peaceable-like, they won't burn our city? I'll wager it's no better terms than that.”

  “You do sound like that shrew Zatcheka!”

  “Mayhap because she has the right of this thing.” He gave her a little shake. “You do know as well as I that the Horsekin, they be dangerous enemies and not much better allies.”

  “Well, they did become my allies, and always have they been fair to me!” With a sudden wrench she pulled her arms free of his grasp. “Without them, what would I be? Naught! They did save me from a drudge life and did call forth the magicks in my soul.”

  “So! I'm right, am I? And just where did you meet these ever-so-generous witchmen of yours?”

  “There be much you know not.” Raena smiled, but her cold eyes studied him. “And there's a need on me to hold my tongue on much.”

  Verrarc took two quick steps forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, and slammed her against the wall.

  “The truth, Rae! I'll have the truth out of you and I'll have it now.”