by CC Hogan
Chapter 7 – Taken
Fren-Eirol was a mighty dragon. All the greater dragons, the sea dragons and others like the red dragons were powerful, but the flight to Taken through the night was far beyond anything she had ever attempted with such a heavy load. She would admit later that but for the gentle, mysterious scimrafugol she would not have made it at all. They guided her higher and higher into the winds they used, past the point she would have risked taking the two humans on her back at any other time. But then, Weasel was different, and Farthing was near death, held in unconsciousness by the poisons flowing through his body. At this height, the air currents were stronger and colder and she needed to use far less energy, but still, every joint, every muscle screamed for rest. And each time she flagged and slowed, the scimra would call her on with their long, mournful cries, move into their arrow formation and drag her along in their wake. These were powerful birds, she noted many times on that journey. On her back, she could feel the magician protecting the dwindling life of the young man. It touched her too, and she seemed to lose energy less quickly and was strengthened by this annoying man. For a moment, an old memory of lost friendship brushed her heart and she was filled with regret.
Finally, the grey, shadowy spire of Taken Mountain, the vast and ancient peak that dwarfed the Isle, appeared through the dark below her. When Fren-Eirol slowed and started her decent, the scimra called out their wishes and hope for her and she bellowed her thanks in a long, primeval roar, an echo of an earlier beast far more feared than she. The birds lifted their wings and soared higher and faster and disappeared into the night. The dragon bowed her head for the strange creatures that had probably saved the life of the young man. As she gently glided towards the island, she felt the magician stir on her back. He said nothing immediately but checked on his charge first.
“He is deathly ill,” he called out. “But he is alive, for the moment.” The dragon nodded. “And you?” asked the magician. “How many hours?” He had lost track of time.
“I am not sure,” the dragon said honestly. “How did I do that? I have never flown so long carrying someone, let alone two of you.” They fell silent as they neared the island.
“Aneirin would have been proud,” Weasel said. It was the truth. Of all the humans, Weasel understood dragons the best and he knew how close to impossible this journey had been for the sea dragon carrying two others. Yet, as impossible as it was, they were here and as he stretched out his mind, on the very edges of his perception was the faint, distant echo from a long fading wake. He smiled.
The dragon more crashed than landed and Weasel had to hang onto the straps securing Farthing to stop himself being thrown off her back. He raised his eyes briefly at her quiet cursing, untied the young man and gently lowered him onto her wing. He jumped down and lifted the tall man onto the flagstones of the great concourse where they had landed.
“Can you watch him?” he asked the dragon, pushing away a powerful headache. “I must get help.”
“I could not go even a step, magician. I will watch him. Will you be alright in there?” She pointed to the huge stone building at the top of the square.
“I am sure they have forgotten me.”
“Dragons? It has only been a few hundred years.”
“Well, they can rip me apart later.” Weasel took his robe, wrapped it around himself, donned his hat and trotted off across the broad, stone slabs of the square.
Taken Isle and Taken Mountain were two distinct areas, even though one was stuck firmly on top of the other. The mountain sat on one end of the isle, its near vertical eastern back sloping straight down into the sea. It was a huge, dominant, tooth-like peak, steep and unforgiving for the climber, windswept and frequently wet. The other half of the island, the part known as Taken Isle, was a gentle, rural landscape running down from the low foothills of the mount. From the air, it appeared much like a bridal train sweeping out from the skirts of the mountain. Whereas the mountain was the home of dragons, the isle was the home of human traders. This small land marked the near halfway point between Bind and The Prelates, and though most traders took the slower but more profitable and safer routes around the coast of the Prelates Sea, there wwere enough who needed to make a speedier and perhaps less well-policed journey to keep the port and the small town of Taken busy and prosperous. When the traders talked about Taken, they always meant the coastal town with its tiny streets, alehouses and warehouses, and the small community of farmers who lived on the fertile, rolling plain. When the dragons spoke of Taken, they meant the mountain.
Weasel slowed to a walk. He had forgotten how big this stone plaza was, and following the flight and helping Farthing stay alive, he was feeling tired and ill. The Cartre Sarad, or The Place of Speech as it was known, was a vast plaza sat on an artificially excavated promontory a third of the way up between the lowlands and the peak. It extended from the thousand-foot-high cliffs that overlooked Taken Isle to the huge halls and other ancient buildings that were cut horseshoe-shaped into the mountainside. For a human, the sheer scale seemed beyond pointless, but when busy, it was crowded full of dragons and they generally took up a little more room than humans. Well, most did. What Weasel needed was a Draig Bach-Iachawr, a dragon people that often were healers, and some of those were no bigger than a horse. He headed to the large building at the top of the plaza, the Neuath, the central hall and the nearest the dragons had to some sort of common council. By nature, dragons were not territorial since it is difficult to have a fixed idea of territory when others of your kind can easily fly over the top of it. In consequence, though their society was mature and sophisticated, they did not recognise land boundaries or think of any area as belonging to any fixed group.
Without territory to protect, a central political system was meaningless, but some issues were unique to some dragons, in particular the large Draig Mynyth Coh, the Draig Morglas and the Draig yr Tirin, and when those needed to be discussed, the Neuath at Taken is where it happened. Some groups and species of dragons, however, ignored Taken altogether and dragonkind could be surprisingly ignorant of one another at times.
Many of those world-changing discussions were, of course, little more than a good gossip, something for which certain dragons would fly many leagues. With a twinge of annoyance, Weasel remembered that he had been the subject on the agenda several times over the centuries. Fren-Eirol was right; it was too much to hope they had forgotten it all. Unlike most places on Dirt, here was dragon dominated. Everything was dragon-sized and felt unfamiliar unless you knew dragon culture and history. Although dragons enjoyed their food and beer, they were not ones to eat or drink in a public place as human’s might, so there were no dragon-sized taverns. They did like to talk and read, however, and this need was filled by informal areas of low seating and steps laid out in large circular depressions in the paving. Dragons loved words and discourse, were often great artists and were unerringly intelligent. And, of course, they lived long lives and possessed good memories to go with them.
The entrance to the Neuath was a vast open arch, bordered with delicate and beautiful geometric patterns from an earlier era, big enough to accommodate several red dragons walking abreast. Weasel slipped in near the wall, not so much to avoid attracting attention, but to avoid being trodden on. Humans did come up to the hall, but it was not common and some of the visiting dragons from more isolated communities who were unused to looking out for the diminutive bipeds, could be a little dangerous, just by accident. The magician needed two things from the dragons. The most urgent was to find a healer and the second was to get permission to climb the peak. He realised he had forgotten to tell Farthing an important little fact about the tall spire of Taken Mountain, Meindir Gydaynis; it was sacred, at least to the dragons, and they would not go up there. Weasel and Farthing would have to climb it without the help of Fren-Eirol, but only with permission.
“Hell must be buried in ice if that magician has m
anaged to get here without being eaten!” Weasel turned at the sound of an old but still irritating voice from his past.
“Bren-Diath! And how is the wonderful Fren-Ainina?”
The ice dragon just glowered. “And why are you here, Weasel of Tepid Lakes?” Weasel was a little surprised at the turn of conversation. He and Bren-Diath had never had any love for each other and the large, old Draig yr Tirin, an ice dragon, would never miss an opportunity to confront and ridicule the little magician. He had always been against the more open relations with other species that Fren-Eirol’s Bren had espoused and Weasel had supported.
“I have a human here that has been stung by an onga.”
“Then you have brought a corpse. How did you get him here?”
“Fren-Eirol carried him.” Weasel waited for the explosion, but it did not come.
“Why Bren-Aneirin’s queen should have decided to forgive you a couple of centuries back is beyond me. I would have fed you to my sons.”
“Did she?”
“It was discussed here, of course. Your name is still remembered and you still have the ear of those who decided to go down Aneirin’s dangerous path.” The old dragon sounded tired. The fight had gone out of him sometime in the last couple of hundred years since Weasel had last been here. The magician found his annoyance with the grouchy ice dragon softening.
“I have had little to do with the affairs of dragons in recent times, to be honest. Just surviving has been hard enough.” Weasel looked carefully at the old dragon and something passed between them that took him aback. He spoke softly, regretting his earlier words. “I am sorry about your Fren, Bren-Diath. She was well loved.”
The old dragon sighed. “It has been over a hundred years now.” He looked sternly at the magician. “The dragon you want is currently trying to sneak out through the back door over there. He owes some people coin. A problem you will be familiar with. I would hurry if you want to catch him.” Weasel took that he had been dismissed and walked across the hall to the doors at the back of the chamber. “And stay out of my head, magician!”
The back door, as Bren-Diath had described it, was, in reality, three large arches that led into the inner workings of the Neuath, back corridors that led to meeting rooms and the large, round, main hall that served as a council chamber. There was no agenda for meetings, as most debates started informally and moved almost organically up the hierarchy of importance if it was merited. So, anything could happen anywhere at any time and dragons simply wandered in and out of the doorless chambers whether anything was going on or not. Weasel span around looking for the small dragon and just caught the flick of a tail as it followed its owner around a distant and obscure passage. Weasel trotted down the long corridor, keeping to the relative safety of the wall. It was much quieter in the evenings than the day, for which the magician was thankful since it meant less chance of awkward questions, though he hoped none of the dragons who overheard Bren-Diath’s parting shot would feel a need to clarify what was meant, with teeth.
He turned left down a much smaller corridor. He had forgotten these. Small corridors were a waste of time where large dragons were involved and there were no humans here other than the odd visitor or idiotic ambassador who had not grasped the essentials of dragon society. He had always assumed that these corridors and rooms were for some of the smaller species though he did not remember ever coming down this way himself. The corridor had only a few openings into small chambers, but these were all empty.
“Well, dead dragons never pay debts, so I am not interested in that argument!” It was a light, dry voice and it was coming from the very last room off the corridor. “Argue all you want, but I am pretty certain you cheated and I am sure that when I let that be known out on the Sarad, your source of income is going to dry up overnight. Oh, that got your attention! So, here is the choice; you settle for what I am offering and call it quits, or we let the community decide. Which way do you want to play this?”
Either whoever this dragon was talking to was refusing to answer or was speaking in whispers. Weasel poked his head around the corner. It was a large room with several, low, stone benches forming a square in the middle. Standing on one of these was the mottled, bright form of a Draig Bach-Iachawr. And the other possibility of why he could only hear one half of the conversation, observed Weasel, was that there was no one else there.
“Cyfar Draig,” Weasel said formally. The small dragon turned around in surprise and half slipped off the bench. “Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you!” The magician needed this dragon; he didn’t want to antagonise him.
“What do you want?” The dragon sounded most put out.
“I need a healer.”
“Why? You look well enough to me and I am busy.”
“So I noticed. Though the conversation seemed a bit one-sided.” Weasel walked into the room and sat on one of the benches. It was a dragon’s way of saying that he wished to talk and was how most meetings started. The small dragon sighed and sat opposite him.
“I need to be prepared. It is a complicated situation.”
“It sounded very simple to me,” Weasel said plainly. “You owe someone money and you are trying to get away with it. It never works.”
“How would you know?”
“Several hundred years of similar problems have taught me a lot.”
“Humans don’t live hundreds of years!” The dragon looked incredulous and then his brain caught up with his annoyance. “Oh, a magician, though they don’t live that long.” He studied the human sat in front of him carefully. “Ah, that magician,” he said finally. It was Weasel’s turn to sigh. Memories were an awkward thing.
“Whichever magician I may or may not be, I need a healer and I suspect you need the coin.”
The dragon straightened. “And who is so desperate for a healer that you would pay me?”
“A young man. He has been stung by an Onga.”
The dragon’s expression turned from suspicious to serious in a flash. “That is bad. Is he conscious? Is he in pain?”
“I have managed to keep him unconscious.” Weasel looked at the dragon hoping he had found a true healer; Farthing must be close to death, by his reckoning. “My name is Weasel.”
“I am Mab-Tok,” the small dragon said. “And your reputation precedes you, magician. You have some healing talent then?”
“I have, but this is not something I can cure.” Weasel did not have time to discuss his own abilities. “Can you help?”
“I cannot cure him; he has been poisoned, not contracted a disease. We need to purge him of the poison and then help whatever is left of him. When was he stung?”
“About twenty or more hours ago.”
“That is a long time, he may be too damaged.”
“He is a young, strong, human male. They can cope with a lot. More than young dragons can.” Dragons, despite their strength and size, did not always deal with things like poison very well. They lost their strength very quickly and could die easily when they did.
“Where is he?”
“In the Cartre Sarad, at the far side.”
“On his own?”
“No, he is with a Draig Morglas. She is watching him.”
The dragon looked sideways at Weasel. “A strange set of circumstances. Very well, I will see your human, for a fee.” Charity was a luxury most people could ill afford, Weasel reflected.
“We have funds. I will take you to him.” Geezen had given him a fair amount of coin quietly.
The two left the Neuath at a trot. They had to get to Farthing quickly and both of them had a growing list of good reasons not to loiter.
“He has worsened,” Fren-Eirol said as they approached. The small dragon did not waste time on courtesy but looked to the young man.
“The poison has filled nearly all of his body,” he said after touching Farthing for a moment. “But it has not reached his hear
t or his mind yet. There is a chance.” Mab-Tok noted the ties lying on the ground. “You carried him?”
“Both of them.” The small dragon looked surprised. “It was mutual and I am not diminished.” Fren-Eirol’s words were direct and formal, indicating that this was an arrangement she was happy with. These words had not been used in this context for several centuries by sea dragons or red dragons, to Mab-Tok’s knowledge. He huffed in bafflement at the constant idiocies of some of his kind.
“Can you carry him again? It would be better if he were taken from this place. Your magician seems to have attracted some attention.” Indeed, there were a couple of dragons walking towards them across the plaza. Fren-Eirol looked at Weasel and raised an eyebrow.
“I ran into Bren-Diath,” he said. “He decided to cause a little mischief.”
Fren-Eirol rolled her eyes; she knew the ice dragon of old. “Where should we go?”
“Follow me,” the small dragon said. “I have a house on the lower reaches.”
If Fren-Eirol was surprised, she did not show it. Taken might be full of dragons but none that she had known had ever lived here outside of the few permanent caretakers. Weasel lifted the unconscious Farthing onto the dragon’s back and they followed Mab-Tok who jumped off the cliff edge and headed in a dive down to the forest below. About halfway down he flew beneath a line of ancient fir trees and then turned south and headed around the mountain. Weasel noticed that their change of direction would have been impossible to observe from the Cartre Sarad. Ingenious, he thought, a little uncharitably perhaps. Within minutes, they had landed in a small, secluded glade only a short way from the rocky shore and the Draig Bach-Iachawr led them to a simple wooden house big enough for Fren-Eirol.
“I was not the original owner,” Mab-Tok said, answering the unspoken question. “This used to belong to a forest calliston when such still existed.” He entered and cleared a place on a table, and Weasel lowered Farthing carefully, aware that despite being unconscious, he might still be suffering. Mab-Tok turned to Fren-Eirol. “Welcome, Queen of Bren-Aneirin. It would seem that I am to be host to two of the most controversial characters of my schooling. Please, be seated.” With the formalities more or less covered, he turned with less grace to the magician. “I will need your talents, magician, however limited, as I need your knowledge.”
“My knowledge?”
“Of what it is to be him. In case you had not noticed, the patient is not a dragon and I am not a human.”
“Oh.”
“Take off your robe and that silly hat. This is going to be a long night.”
Fren-Eirol awoke at dawn to find a clear sky and a fresh light filtering through the trees and into the open archway of the dragon house. Calliston, she corrected herself, though it was close enough. Callistons, the wisest thought, were possibly cousins of dragons though the relationship was at the least extremely distant and tenuous. Sometimes larger than dragons, Callistons were flightless and their mid-limbs were legs and not wings. Their front arms, however, were very similar in size and shape to those of a sea dragon and were just as capable. They were gentle creatures but extremely powerful, and their intelligence, though sometimes slow to surface, was profound and intuitive.
Unlike dragons, some, like the much smaller forest calliston, were covered in thick fur, giving them a vaguely bearish appearance, though a bear four times the size of a horse was not something many would want to contemplate. This was where the arguments started because different wise ones could not imagine that a beast with smooth, completely hairless skin could have any connection to a beast with fur. Yet others pointed to the huge similarities in the skeletons of both creatures. The argument would no doubt rage for as long as the sun still gave warmth. It was a sad discussion in many ways since forest callistons were already believed to be extinct and their enormous cousins, the plains callistons, known for their farming, were not far behind.
Fren-Eirol ached from the flight and she suspected she would ache for several days more. The flight had been hard, she had admitted that, but only now that someone else had taken on her charge was she beginning to appreciate what the toll had been on her. She was amazed that she had managed to fly so far carrying two men, and wondered quietly a little more about Weasel. If he had helped her, and she was beginning to think he had, this was beyond the skill of any magician she had heard of, great or otherwise, and she was not certain she wanted to know the answer, at least not yet. She returned inside, trying to stretch out her fatigued muscles. Farthing was laid out on the table, covered with a rug. Weasel was asleep on the floor, but the small dragon, Mab-Tok, was awake and making up some sickly, sweet-smelling mixture. He glanced up at Fren-Eirol as she looked over the still body of Johnson Farthing.
“We have pushed back the poison, and now we must purge it. I will wake him shortly. I doubt he will thank me for it.”
Healers had tremendous empathy with a physical body and could almost become one with it while discovering what was wrong and sometimes slowing the progress of a disease or infection, but there the magic ended. After that, it was their knowledge of the most disgusting concoctions that did the real work, that and good sewing skills when needed. They did not pretend otherwise and this made their popularity rather mixed. But then, that was the story of what was considered magic in this old world of Dirt; people did not like it much or the people who practised it. There may have once been hero magicians in the depths of time, but no one was going to think of any magic as heroic now; at best, it was a necessary bad smell about the house. The extreme rarity of any that actually had any real talent probably made the situation worse. Weasel snored and turned over.
“What time did you finish,” Eirol asked.
“About an hour ago,” Mab-Tok told her. “I am sorry, but I think I might have used up your magician.”
“He will recover quickly.”
“Really? That is rare.”
“Yes, thankfully he is, but we put up with him.” Mab-Tok raised an eyebrow but declined to ask further. “How much will we owe you?” Fren-Eirol was aware that some deal had been made.
“What I would like and what you owe are two different things. So, I might have another proposition for you that may be better for both of us. First, we should get this young man on his feet.” He walked over and kicked the magician, startling him awake.
“Many people wake him like that,” Fren-Eirol commented. “It seems to cheer them up.”
“Not that anyone appears to be interested in cheering me up.” The groggy magician stretched and clambered to his feet to check on Farthing. He closed his eyes briefly and then nodded towards the Draig Bach-Iachawr. “You have a lot of talent, Mab-Tok,” Weasel noted. “The poison has lost much of its anger.”
“Thankfully, you knocking him out and probably the cold from the flight slowed everything down, otherwise I would have been trying to wake the dead.” The small dragon finished with his preparation. “Let’s wake him; he needs to drink this.”
“What is it?” Weasel sounded more intrigued than suspicious. The two must have talked a lot during their work, Fren-Eirol suspected, and were probably now bound loosely by a common interest.
“Something he will not forget in a hurry. For that matter, something he will be less keen to drink.” Weasel took an exploratory sniff at the mixture and pulled back hastily.
“I think I would rather be stung! That is foul!”
“I am famous for it,” Mab-Tok said dryly. He put a hand on Farthing’s neck and suddenly the young man awoke. He tried to sit up but nearly fell off the table. Weasel grabbed him. “Sit him up gently,” instructed the dragon. “When I shout, I want you to clamp your hand over his mouth and hang on, understand?” Weasel nodded. Farthing was trying to concentrate on what was being said, but it was obvious that he was still under the influence of the poison. Mab-Tok positioned himself behind the young man, put his arms around him and gent
ly opened his mouth. Then in one action he poured the entire contents of the cup straight down Farthing’s throat. “Now!” he shouted.
Weasel put one hand under Farthings chin and another across his mouth and clamped it tight shut. Farthing’s eyes nearly popped out of his sockets and he tried to fight the two healers off, but the dragon was considerably stronger than a human and gripped him tightly around his chest. Farthing was making choking sounds and his eyes went red.
“It’s drowning him!” Weasel stared at the small dragon.
“It has to go everywhere if it is going to work, not just his stomach! Keep hanging on; he will cough up the rubbish from his lungs and pass out in a moment.” Farthing did exactly that. He coughed and wheezed, the foul mixture pushing out between Weasel’s fingers, and the next minute he went limp. The dragon and the magician held on for a moment longer.
“What that necessary?” Fren-Eirol asked. She was not good at watching things suffer.
“We pushed the affects from the poison back last night,” Mab-Tok explained, laying the unconscious Farthing back down and covered him with the rug. “But we did not get rid of it and he would have still died in a day or two. What I have given him will finish the job and purge his body of the remaining evil.”
“Purge him how?”
“Oh, completely and messily,” the dragon said lightly. “That is why I wanted him here. He will want to spend time down on the rocks and in the sea.”
“How long does it take?” Weasel was rubbing his hand where Farthing had bitten him.
“Give it half an hour and then watch him run.”
It took less than that. Ten minutes later, Farthing suddenly sat up, held his stomach and said, “Oh, bugger …. Where?”
Mab-Tok pointed through the door. “Straight down the path. Run!”
Farthing staggered out of the large arch and disappeared down the path. Fren-Eirol started to follow him.
“Leave him, Fren-Eirol,” Weasel said. “Young men are like young male dragons. They embarrass easily. He’ll be fine.”
Farthing sat on a rock, soaking wet having climbed out of the sea. His clothes lay next to him where he had washed them out. He felt like death. He guessed this was Taken. It seemed to be a proper island and it wasn’t floating anywhere, so that narrowed down the possibilities as far as he could work out. He was reasonably sure that he had just been spoken to by a mini dragon, which was a new idea for him, and he thought someone had mentioned something about poison at some point. His memory of the last … how long had it been? Whatever, he couldn’t remember anything clearly. He vaguely recalled jumping down from the wreck in the Shallow Sea and something biting or grabbing his leg, and that was it. Nothing more. Fren-Eirol walked quietly from the glade and he grabbed at his clothes.
“Human males are of no interest to me, young man,” she said with a laugh, seeing his embarrassment. He pulled on his wet britches anyway.
“What’s going on, Fren-Eirol?” His mouth was sticky and the words were difficult. The dragon passed him an earthenware bottle and he drank from it greedily. Ale!
“Our host has an impressive selection of human beers.” She looked at the young man who was wiping his mouth and running his tongue over his teeth. “You were poisoned by an Onga. Look at your leg.” Around his calf was a thin, red line. It itched.
“Was that when I jumped off the boat?” His throat was sore from all the vomiting, but at least he could speak now.
“Yes, Weasel grabbed you.” He looked up at her questioningly. “I will explain it all later, but you owe him your life I think.”
“And you?” He was groggy, but not so much that he could not work out that they must have reached the island quicker than planned.
“Perhaps. I flew you here, but he kept you alive.”
Farthing sighed and frowned. “I don’t understand him. Or just don’t know him, I suppose.”
“Nobody really does,” the dragon said lightly. “I think he prefers it that way.”
Farthing’s head was beginning to clear and he remembered his sister. Fren-Eirol explained what needed to happen next.
“You and Weasel are going to have to climb to the top of Taken Mountain. Weasel felt faint echoes of the boat passing the island at some point, but nothing more. He will get a better idea from being high and still connected to the ground.”
“Why do we have to climb?” Farthing asked and then realised that sounded presumptuous. “I am sorry, I mean, I am not expecting you to carry me everywhere or anything, Fren-Eirol.”
“If I could, I would fly you up there,” the dragon said, flattered by his apology. “But the mountain is seen as sacred to many of my people and we are not allowed to go beyond the Neuath.”
“Where?” Farthing had been unconscious when they arrived so had seen nothing of the vast plaza or the hall.
“You will see tomorrow. Today you must rest and then you can climb.”
“How long will it take?” Farthing was trying to work out how high the mountain was, but they were right against its steep flank in an old forest and it was impossible to appreciate the true scale of the beast.
“It will take you a little over a day to climb it and a day back down. It is a steep climb, but there is a path. While you do that, I will go back to the Shallow Sea.”
“Back? But why?”
“All our belongings are back there, tied to a tree, and we will need them.” She looked down at the young man, still shaky, but recovering fast as young people often do. “Understand, I do not think we will catch up with the boat, Johnson Farthing, but if the magician can get a good sense of the direction and maybe if we ask the right questions, then we can find out where it is heading, and perhaps a little of its intent. Then we have a chance. This will not be a short trip, I fear. I said to Geezen before we left that if we could not catch the boat by Taken, then we would be hunting the continent of Bind for your sister and the Prelate’s daughter. I believe that is now the case.”
Although a part of him wanted to object and go blundering across the ocean in a mad search, Farthing knew that Fren-Eirol spoke the truth. He must trust the dragon, and even the magician. Suddenly, his stomach growled.
“I think I need to get back into the water,” Farthing said with urgency. Fren-Eirol hastily stood up.
“I will leave you to it, boy. The house is back up the path.” But Johnson Farthing was already down at the shore, puking his guts out.
“You two better wait here.” Fren-Eirol was not looking forward to this conversation. Permission for non-dragons to climb the mountain was given, but it was normally a courtesy handed to those humans who also believed it had religious significance. For dragons who still believed in such things, it was seen as a place of passing, the place that all dragon spirits passed through on their way to the halls of the dead, and so they would not touch Meindir Gydaynis while still alive. It was a little odd since the Neuath was built part-way up the side of the mountain, but it was generally accepted that it was the sharp spire that towered up for the remaining couple of thousand feet that was of true importance. Some human sects had a different belief. They said that this was the place where humans first arrived in this world many, many thousands of years before. At one time, a small monastery had been built close to the peak, but the ground was unstable and it had collapsed. One would have thought that these two different beliefs, clashing as they did, would be at least the cause of friction if not a full war between dragons and humans, but it had never happened. This was at least partly because of an old, common theory that humans did not originate on Dirt. The argument was that they were quadrupeds, though they walked on two legs, whereas some other fauna on Dirt were hexapods. It was odd, it was thought, that such diversity would exist since it was believed that all life had a single origin. Not that any proof was forthcoming for any of the theories. This being the case, it was felt the mountain could happily accommodate b
oth the beliefs of the natives and those of the new arrivals.
However, permission was still needed, if for no other reason that the dragons did not want a continuous procession of tourists tramping up and down their stairway to paradise. Fren-Eirol wasn’t about to lie, a trick that she had never mastered like most dragons, but her request was going to be a little strange. The massive general meeting area of the Neuath was very busy; obviously, some subject of urgency had excited the brethren, and tails were twitching and wings shaking all over the place. She sighed. Although dragon culture was not dominated by males, as was the case with human society, they were the most vociferous gossips and were much more likely to come to Taken. Females, possibly more appreciative that much of what was discussed was meaningless twaddle, tended to avoid the place.
“You have caused some excitement, I am afraid.” Bren-Diath walked up to her and spoke quietly. “What made you think that carrying a human was a good idea, let alone the very human that caused you problems in the first place?”
Fren-Eirol glared at him. “I remind you of your station and mine, Bren-Diath,” she snapped. “I expect courtesy.” The old dragon looked taken aback for the moment and then nodded formally.
“My apologies, Fren-Eirol,” he said. “But you have caused uproar where I was, until this day, enjoying my peace.”
Fren-Eirol remembered what Weasel had said about Bren-Diath’s pairing, as dragons often called their spouse.
“I am sorry, Diath. Weasel told me about Fren-Ainina. She was a gentle soul.” The old dragon nodded solemnly. His voice may be familiar, but he was a ghost of the political fighter that he once had been. “I would not have agreed to carry people again, believe me, but I was given reasons that I could not ignore. We are chasing the descendant of the last Cwendrina.”
“That is unexpected. Are you certain? Her existence is nothing more than a myth now.”
“I cannot risk it being not so and I trust the one who told me. I say this only because I must not be delayed by gossip, Diath. It is urgent we get away.”
“In which case, why did you not just leave? I know you were with that little annoying dragon at his house which he thinks no one knows about.”
Fren-Eirol chuckled. “Weasel needs to climb the mountain first. He is having difficulty finding the boat the girl was taken on.”
“This is confusing, Eirol.” Diath looked perplexed. “Dragons fly fast; you must have been some days behind the boat or the girl’s disappearance was not noticed.”
“The boat is moving at extraordinary speed. Weasel is worried.”
“Him? I did not think anything bothered his thick skull much.” Bren-Diath’s tone was derisory.
“All the same, he is concerned.” Fren-Eirol was aware that several dragons were looking her way. It would not be long till she was assaulted by questions. “I am sorry, but I really need to find the caretaker, Diath. I cannot tarry.”
“Well, in that one way I can help you. Since Ainina’s passing, I have had little to fill my time with my clan, so I am now living in these halls and have taken on the caretaker responsibilities.” Fren-Eirol blinked in surprise. The caretaker was important, but had nothing of the power that Diath would have been used to; it was only a clerical role. A dragon called out to the ice dragon that they should convene. There was no doubt the subject would be Fren-Eirol. “I suggest you get out of here as fast as you can,” Bren-Diath Prompted. “Permission is granted, but tell the little git to be careful with my mountain!” The old dragon broke into a rare grin.
“Thank you, Diath. My Bren always had a great respect for you, though you were on opposite sides of most arguments.”
“Go, Eirol, I will delay the wolves!”
As she headed to the entrance, Fren-Eirol heard the booming voice of Bren-Diath; a reminder of a formidable past.
“Convene? Why that would be a magnificent idea indeed. I am sure Fren-Eirol will join us shortly. If you would follow me to the chamber. No, I insist you follow me. No, Bren-Rian, I am definitely not smiling inside!”
Outside, the sea dragon jumped and glided to where Farthing and the magician waited.
“You have permission, and for once, Weasel, you can be thankful to Bren-Diath since he is currently the caretaker.”
“Him?” Weasel looked as surprised as Farthing looked puzzled. “Don’t worry boy, we will have plenty of time to educate you on the finer points of dragon politics on the way up.”
“In the meantime, our arrival has caused controversy,” Fren-Eirol said. “I should get off this rock quickly or they will question me for weeks. I will grab that little draig and fly back to the Shallow Sea. I’ll back in a few days. You will be down the mountain before I return.” Fren-Eirol bowed once to them both and dived off the cliff to the forests below.
“Come on, boy,” Weasel said to Farthing. “We have a lot of walking to do.”