After the Dragon

by Wendy Palmer

  Trick glanced back out the door. More people gathered, gawping at the DarkElf while she stared over their heads, unconcerned. The shock wouldn't last long. He was sweating and his hands trembled with the need for haste. He snatched a bag of grain out of one aisle, and went down the back of store where clothes were kept. He grabbed plain brown leathers and a thick cloak for himself and, guessing at size, a grey tunic and loose trousers for Mizzle. He was on his way to the counter when a glint of light on glass caught his eye.

  Livanian brandy. He turned as if dragged by a magnet and picked up the tiny bottle, tucking the clothes under one arm and dropping the grain. The best liquor this side of anywhere and so very rare to find it in Bourchia. Fully half the cost came from the glass, because the stuff wouldn't keep in the leather skins usually used for wines. For a moment he could taste it but he placed it back on the shelf. He could not possibly afford it and the old man behind the counter was watching him too closely for his other option.

  A loud bang from outside made him jump even though he had been expecting something like it since coming into the town. The old man ran outside. Trick grabbed up the bottle again, dropped it into to the sack of grain and ran out after him. He clutched the sack and the clothes to his chest but the old man, standing like stone just outside, never noticed him slip past.

  Mizzle was still on Skye, and Faustus had ridden Coal between her and a mob of townspeople. The bang had been a stone hitting the wooden front of the store. Only thirty or so people had gathered so far but more streamed from the houses along the main street and came in from side streets. The word was flying around this town.

  'Murderer,’ shouted a woman, and more stones flew. Faustus flung a hand up to protect himself but Mizzle didn't flinch. None of the stones touched her.

  Trick shoved through a cluster of men towards the horses and counted himself Lucky they hadn't worked out he was with the DarkElf yet. He tucked his prizes into one of the sacks of food hanging from Bet's saddle. It bulged conspicuously but he didn't think the old man would notice it.

  He swung up and started to ride Bet forward. The horse was big and he doubted the crowd would stay in front of her. Still his shoulders were rigid, waiting for the blow, until they began to part.

  As he went past Faustus, he saw his cousin was bleeding. One of the stones had struck above his eye. ‘We're going through,’ he told Faustus. He said it louder for the crowd. ‘We're going through. We don't mean any harm here.'

  Mizzle followed close behind, leaving Faustus to bring up the rear. Trick began to think they might escape with dignity and skins intact.

  'How dare you?’ he heard Faustus cry at the townspeople. ‘I am an Ullwyn of the Port Told Ullwyns.'

  Port Told. Never touched by DarkElf raids. Not sending soldiers to help, either, never mind that Bourchia had been under Livanian rule then and disallowed from muster. Ullwyns had had their own private army in flout of the law, and still did, and never gave it over to public-spirited enterprises. These people had long memories and DarkElves weren't the only ones they blamed.

  A flurry of stones flew at Faustus, who threw up his arms to cover his face. His stallion, edgy at the best of times, reared and kicked out at the people crowding too close. They fell away from those dangerous hooves and Faustus half-fell from the saddle. Trick kicked Bet forward, forcing her to lead the other two horses in flight. Either Faustus would hold on to the saddle or he wouldn't.

  He did. They came out of the town on the south side at a full gallop, Faustus hanging mostly off his horse. When they slowed, he slewed off, covered with horse sweat and hair.

  'You tried to leave me there.’ The Ullwyn stalked up to Trick's horse, his hands balled as if he thought he was going to pull him out of his saddle and hit him.

  'To a mob you provoked,’ said Trick. ‘Yes, that's right. And I should have tried harder.'

  Faustus launched himself at Trick.

  Trick landed a solid kick in the chest that knocked him right over. Faustus made a tempting target for trampling, lying on the ground, but Mizzle rode Trick off even as he thought it, pushing Skye up into Bet until the bigger horse gave way.

  'And don't you start with me,’ he said. He had the feeling she was about to give him a lecture about not deserting comrades and other ignoble things. And she had been their target and yet the stones had flown at the wall and at Faustus. He did not think that was accidental. ‘As if a DarkElf could give lessons on morality.'

  She looked at him obliquely. ‘They have DarkElf blood and yet do not look Elvish,’ she said. ‘Why is that?'

  Trick froze. It was a set-up question. He didn't bother lying because she already knew the answer. He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Any newborn which looked too much like its father was smothered.'

  Mizzle smiled, a tiny, grim smile. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Human morality. You have so much to teach us.'

  He had nothing to say. He turned Bet and went on down the road.

  Chapter Two

  Kintore groans. ‘I die,’ he mutters in LightElvish, and pulls the pillow over his head.

  'Humans calls this a hangover,’ Jacoby speaks precise Bourchian as ever.

  The effect is startling. Kintore leaps from the bed and stands facing the DarkElf. He is naked except for the eye patch. ‘Fiend, what have you done?’ He has switched to Bourchian without seeming to realise it.

  Jacoby smiles, victorious. She has taken off her cloak and wears the simple red-and-black of the DarkElves, and her swords. ‘You do not remember?'

  LightElves do not blush. ‘Leave my room.'

  'We are in my room.'

  Kintore risks looking away long enough to find his clothes. As he dresses, Jacoby says, ‘You will find your sword under the bed, hiruko. I would appreciate it if you did not use the thing on me.'

  He crouches, watching her, and gropes under the bed, eventually pulling out the sword in its sheathe. For some time he stands very still, the sheathed sword in his hands, looking at her.

  'What happened?’ he says at last. ‘Did you poison me?'

  'You live, do you not?'

  He ignores this, frowning at the floor. ‘I drank water,’ he says. ‘You drank—brandy?'

  Jacoby tilts her head and Kintore looks indignant. ‘You—somehow—got me drunk.'

  The DarkElf laughs, an attractive sound singing into the close air of the small room. She seems to be genuinely amused. ‘You did enjoy it.'

  Kintore looks pale. ‘Did I—sleep—with you, DarkElf?'

  'How human of you.’ Jacoby eyes him. ‘Why not just ask it, faerie?'

  Kintore lets the sword drop until the point rests on the ground. ‘We copulated last night?'

  Jacoby nods once.

  The LightElf gasps for air. ‘Why did you do this thing to me?'

  'Are you speaking of the hangover or the seduction? The one was necessary for the other, and the other—well, I am a DarkElf, OneEyed.'

  'So you take to your bed your mortal enemy?'

  'I should think,’ the DarkElf says, ‘it causes more shame to you than it does to me.'

  'I should kill you right now.’ He sounds more resigned than angry.

  Jacoby straightens, a cruel light in her eyes. She has obviously been waiting for this. ‘And murder your unborn child?'

  Kintore sits on the bed like his bones have turned to water.

  Jacoby, smiling, walks from her room.

  * * * *

  Trick, Faustus and Mizzle reached the band of hills shielding the forest a few hours after leaving Dester. The sky had been clear, but great black clouds tumbled over the horizon as they rode south, the temperature dropping rapidly. Trick thought they would make the forest before it started snowing.

  His breath ghosted out as he wrapped himself in his new wool cloak. The bottle of brandy clinked but he took a moment to divide up the food evenly between the two sacks, handing one to Mizzle without a word. Let her believe it a peace offering or let her take it as his clear intent to escape. She and
Faustus would not starve should the impending storm give him his chance.

  His first mouthful of brandy warmed him as thoroughly as the cloak could not. He emptied his small metal flask, letting the rotgut trickle down into the old snow off the side of the trail, watching the droplets taken and flung up by the wind. Then, carefully, he filled the flask with the pure clear brandy. It only filled halfway. He wished he had taken two bottles and tucked the flask back into his belt.

  The trail wound its way between and over hills here. Trick drew back his hand to toss the empty bottle at a wall of exposed rock. He craved the destructive sound of shattering glass. But he paused, caught by the glint of red thrown back by sunlight dancing on the bottle. It was an exquisite design of ruby glass, made by Livanian artisans solely to hold Livanian brandy, as valuable as any jewel. Once he would have given three fingers to present a perfume bottle half so pretty to Linnet. His heart clenched down hard enough to fit inside the bottle. With shaking hands, he tucked it into the leather pouch he kept hidden under his clothes, hanging from a cord around his neck.

  'Is it hot?’ asked Faustus, from behind him.

  Trick had almost forgotten him. And in realising that, he realised he had not even come close to forgetting Mizzle's presence. The thought made him begin to snap an answer, but he bit his tongue. The cloak and sip of brandy had warmed his body, but the points on his face, nose and cheekbones and chin, had been cold. Now he felt a current of warmth and, around the next hill, could see the waver of heated air rising into the chill wind.

  Faustus was right. Trick turned towards Mizzle for instructions, and she flicked her fingers.—Go forward—was the intent. Go first to face whatever waited for them just out of sight.

  Trick could not pretend to be surprised. He felt no alarm, just a chill as Linnet's ghost enveloped him. Maybe this time he would join her. He didn't bother to take out his sword, just rode Bet on.

  Then he was surprised, for Mizzle came up on the near side, riding with him as they went round. She had her swords out, he saw, returned to their full size.

  A wall of fire spooked the horses around the curve of the hill. Mizzle stopped Skye with a touch to the neck but Trick struggled to steady Bet. Faustus almost lost control of Coal as he came after them.

  Trick saw now that it was not a wild fire burning impossibly in the snow, but a campfire, flaming far above his head and scalding his face. Still some thirty feet from them, the fire made every breath hurt with smothered air and sparks.

  'What, in the name of Fortuna, is it?’ Faustus circled Coal as the horse tried to panic.

  They both looked to Mizzle. ‘A Giant's fire.’ She made the swords disappear again, fluid movement of the fingers and that muttered word.

  Trick watched her tuck them under her cloak again, tiny and deadly.

  'And no Giant,’ Mizzle added.

  Of course. For what else would build such as this, no matter that no human had ever laid eyes on one? And Mizzle thought no danger, to shrink her swords away as she had. His own hand played with the hilt of his soldier's sword and let it go.

  'Let's go past,’ he said. ‘And be glad it isn't here.'

  'And why is it not here?’ asked Mizzle. She slid off Skye and walked towards the fire, where neither he nor his cousin could hope to follow. She became no more than a shadow against the orange light.

  Trick began to believe the old saying about the cat and curiosity. Surely that drove her now and perhaps had driven her into Dester as well. ‘She is a fool,’ he told his cousin, ‘and will be the death of us.'

  'I will not have you speak ill of her.’ In the firelight, shadow and flame chased each other across Faustus's face. He looked half-mad.

  Trick felt a pang then. However much he disliked Ullwyns, he could not wish this fate on his cousin.

  Mizzle came back out of the shadow of the fire, not a hair singed, no flush in her pale face.

  'There is a man,’ she said. ‘He tends the fire for the Giant so it will not go out—has done so for more years than he could recount. He does not know where the Giant goes or why.'

  Her curiosity infected him but he could not go closer. And another thought struck him. ‘I have passed this way before,’ he said. ‘Others use this road and never a rumour of this has reached Port Told.'

  She understood. ‘You see it because I am with you.’ She swung back onto Skye, again catching his eye with her smooth grace. ‘We Elves stand between worlds, the Here and the There.'

  Trick thought on this—breathing in blessedly cold air again, feeling sweat turn to ice on his brow—as they rode away from the Giant's fire and the man who apparently sat safely in its heat and tended it. With the exception of a few silent secret Dryads, Elves were the only race of Ancients to stay in the world. Dwarves were long vanished. Giants, Goblins and Trolls were legends only, all disappeared from the world. Humans were naive enough to think vanished meant gone, while Mizzle spoke blithely of worlds and a between.

  'Is that likely to happen often?’ he asked at last, in the late afternoon with the forest finally in sight and snow only just beginning to fall.

  She shrugged.

  They were under the trees before Trick realised why that had so upset him.

  Strange to see so human a gesture on so alien a creature.

  * * * *

  Faustus insisted on a fire and Mizzle did not demur, so Trick built up the fire by a half-frozen stream and took himself off to tend to the horses without even a glance from her, so as not to talk to either of them. He rationed grain for the animals, broke the rim of ice on the stream for drinking water, and tethered them on the forest edge where they could scrape through snow for grass, should they be so inclined—he did not know that he would be.

  He remembered the clothes he had stolen, and the brandy, and took a few sips of the one while he pulled out the other from the bag. Here under the trees at the edge of the forest, few flakes got through but the wind cut to the bone and the warmth of the brandy was welcome.

  He gave Mizzle the soft greys he had taken. ‘You can't go round like that,’ he told her, with a gesture to the black-and-red.

  Maybe she knew that, after Dester. She took the clothes and went into the trees, sop to human sensibilities.

  Trick went the other way, not without a sharp glance from Faustus. But he had no thought for escape tonight, on foot and in the snow. He worked his way through the growth on the edge between trees and fields, looking out between sips of brandy. He stared out at the red glow to the north while he changed into the leathers, shivering despite the fire inside. He would have to burn his uniform, so as to not be branded traitor or spy if caught by Bourchia or Livania. No great loss. He gathered up the discarded clothing, bundled the new cloak around him, and headed back to camp.

  He was most of the way back before he realised the red glow on the horizon was too big to be the Giant's fire where it nestled snug in the hills. No matter how it had blazed when they rode past it, it could not be such a beacon in this snowfall. The blaze could be only one thing.

  Dester was burning. What the town had feared when they had seen Mizzle was visited upon them. He could only hope they had set a stronger guard because of her. He ran for camp.

  Mizzle was unsurprised and impassive when he told her, confirming his worst suspicions. ‘You went in there on purpose,’ he said. ‘So you would see it burn and know where they are.'

  Mizzle, now in the grey and no sign of the red-and-black, stared out at the great fire, letting flakes settle on her face and hair. She stared out and had no answer.

  'What are you talking about, cousin?’ said Faustus, huddled by their own fire and unconcerned.

  Trick turned on him as he could not turn on Mizzle. ‘Fool, and thrice fool. Her people are behind us and she set Dester as a target for her own warning.’ He stalked past and threw his uniform on the fire, keeping the plain cloak, thin and worn but still useful, if only for bandages. The flames flared up like his temper.

  'She wouldn't d
o that,’ Faustus said.

  Mizzle still had no word for her own defence.

  'And besides,’ Faustus continued, ‘those people attacked us. They deserve what they get.'

  Trick wanted to hit him, even while a part of him agreed. His thought was worse than his cousin's because he knew what a DarkElf raid was. He had heard it from Fingers—Jarrett—all too pleased to frighten a child, and from the grown grandchildren and great-grandchildren of victims, terror still vivid in third- and fourth-hand accounts. He knew what it was and thought Dester deserved it anyway. Human morality, indeed.

  Mizzle finally turned from the edge of the forest and looked at him, blank silver eyes. ‘I by no means did such deliberately.'

  'Curiosity,’ Trick said back. ‘I had thought, and was wrong.'

  She shrugged, that disconcertingly human gesture. Had she then been among humans for more time than he had guessed? Or had all DarkElves picked up some such mannerisms, like the few words of their language that had slipped into common use in Port Told?

  'I do not care for your opinion.’ She went past him and trampled on the fire, scattering scraps of surviving cloth. ‘But fair warning it is. They are a scant half day behind us and we must move.'

  Trick seethed and took a firmer hold of his temper. Both men and horses were on the edge of exhaustion and the snow came down as if to make up for the last quarter-moon of fair weather. It turned his anger for the town into selfish anger for himself.

  'Shall we hope your curiosity at the Giant's fire calls the Giant itself down on them?’ He forced flippancy to his voice, and got a look back that said he'd edged on truth.

  Trick decided, blessed of Fortune or not, that he was pushing his luck. He went to the horses and brought them in for saddling. Placid Bet took it well, as did Skye after some unwonted fidgeting, but Coal tried to bite him.

  He flung the reins at Faustus with ill grace. ‘Well-trained beast, Faustie.’ And turned to Mizzle. ‘We should go on foot.’ Better they go slow and sore then kill their horses.

  Mizzle considered and considered, heartbeats too long, and nodded. He led them along the forest edge, putting Bet to the windward side and feeling ice in her coat before they reached the trail he looked for.