Swearing as he ran, Yaz raced to move far enough to clear his angle of attack.
The wolf leapt.
Brigid raised her crook and jammed it crossways between the beast’s jaws.
The wolf’s weight bore her to the ground. It tried to force her back enough to get its teeth in her face. Brigid held it back, but had little leverage.
Her sheep dog came rushing in. It slammed into the wolf’s side and sent it sprawling.
That was all the opening Yaz needed. He drew and loosed in one smooth motion.
His arrow drove through the wolf’s side, pinning it to the ground.
Brigid leapt to her feet and brought the curve of her crook down on the wolf’s head, crushing its skull. Yaz winced. Wolf skulls brought decent coin, but not smashed to pieces. Oh, well, two out of three wasn’t bad.
He ran down and skidded to a stop beside Brigid. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Dad warned me there were wolves in the area. Guess he was right. Thanks for the help. If it had just been me and Rum, we’d have been in a tough spot.”
“I don’t know.” Yaz grinned. “The way you handled that crook, I bet you could’ve given them a good fight. Did you take the women’s defense training?”
She nodded. “Last year and the year before. I wish they’d teach something besides the staff, but Master Hendal assured us that the staff was the best weapon for a woman.”
“I suspect he’s right,” Yaz said. “Given the average woman’s stature, the staff provides a valuable reach advantage as well as leverage for greater impact. I actually wanted to learn staff fighting, but Master Hendal refused, claiming he only taught it to women. He seemed uncomfortable when I pointed out that I’m smaller than many of the village women.”
Brigid laughed. “I bet.”
“Could you teach me?”
“I…I guess so. Since you’re teaching me to write it seems the least I could do to thank you.”
“Excellent.”
Yaz spent the next hour retrieving his arrows and processing the wolves. The meat and bones he saved for the dragons, the hide would go to the tanner and the surviving skulls he’d polish and sell to a merchant who specialized in such things. A fine morning’s work for sure.
When he finished he said, “I’ll bring you your share of the scales tomorrow. Two of the three hides are damaged, but I should still get eight or nine silver for everything. I’ll be interested to see how much your writing improves after some more practice.”
“About that.” Brigid refused to look at him. “I can’t take your gift home. If my father found it he’d smash the slate to pieces and probably beat me for disobeying. I’m grateful for your kindness, but it just isn’t possible.”
Yaz frowned. “I see. I’ll keep it in my saddlebags. When it’s just the two of us you can practice if you want to. Do you want me to bring something for you to try and read tomorrow?”
“You’re not upset?”
“I’m upset that your father doesn’t seem to treat you very well, but I have no intention of causing you trouble. So, reading material, yes or no?”
“Let’s just practice the letters some more.”
He nodded. That was probably for the best. Had to crawl before you walked after all.
Chapter 4
Three days in the swamp eating preserved food and getting his blood drained by mosquitos had done nothing for Rondo’s mood. His once-fine robe was fouled with all manner of horrible substances, the least offensive of which was mud. He’d been to some awful places in search of relics for the Dark Sages, but the Vast Swamp was a misery of a whole other order.
Koltin and the mercenaries seemed to be bearing the discomfort well. They were probably used to this sort of thing. And their guide, Cork, was right at home, happily pointing out this or that detail of the swamp as he poled his flat-bottomed skiff through the waist-deep water. Every once in a while, a ripple or splash appeared where one of the alligators that called the swamp home ducked out of sight. While Rondo had had his doubts about Moz’s recommendation, their youthful guide had proven capable, even finding them dry patches on which to bed down at night.
Locating the ruin he sought was proving another matter altogether. The landmarks were either not where his research indicated or were missing completely. Rondo’s pride wanted to blame Cork, but he knew the fault lay with him. The book detailing the ruin’s location was nearly three hundred years old. A lot could change in that length of time given storms and floods and the gods only knew what else.
Still, they’d found a few reference points, enough to convince Rondo that they weren’t chasing ghosts. He intended to keep searching until the week was up or they ran out of supplies. Hopefully they’d have something to show for his effort by then.
The skiff stopped and Rondo looked back at Cork. “What’s the problem?”
“Dry ground up ahead, sir. If you want to keep on this way, we’ll need to walk.”
The ground didn’t look especially dry to Rondo, but the water was shallower than any they’d seen up to now. A little ways further on, a wall of trees and vines blocked their path. “This is the correct bearing. My research indicates we need to go at least another half mile in this direction.”
Cork nodded. “On foot it is, sir. We’ll have to pack the supplies.”
Their guide got to work tying the boat up and distributing the laden packs among the mercenaries and himself. That done, he drew a blunt-nosed machete and set to making a trail. Rondo watched it all without comment. No one suggested he carry a pack, which was well since he was the one paying everybody.
If he’d thought poling through the water was slow, Rondo hadn’t seen anything yet. Hacking their way through the vines and branches made the skiff feel like it was flying. Half a mile must have taken them two hours, but at last the jungle opened up into what passed for a clearing. In the center of it stood a tower that had sunk into a pit big enough to swallow a modest town. Only the top twenty feet jutted aboveground. The top of the tower featured a dragon with a metal lightning bolt sticking out of its mouth.
“This is it,” Rondo whispered as though fearing the scene before him would vanish into smoke.
He hurried to the edge of the pit and looked down. There were a number of crushed buildings down there, but what forced him to scramble back from the edge like his life depended on it was the giant black dragon wrapped around the base of the tower. It had to be nearly three hundred feet long. The head alone was twice the size of Cork’s skiff.
How were they ever going to get past such a monster?
Koltin joined him by the pit’s edge and looked down. “Is it alive?”
Rondo shot him a look. “Why don’t you climb down there and see? If it doesn’t eat you, the rest of us will follow.”
“You aren’t paying me enough to fight a dragon, much less a dragon that size.”
An army wouldn’t be enough to fight a dragon that size.
Cork had joined them as well. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “What you guys need is the dragon singer. She could get that thing out of your way in no time.”
Rondo latched on to this fine thread of hope. “What are you talking about?”
Cork flinched. “I was just kidding, sir. See, there’s a story in the village about a girl that sings and the hummingbird dragons fly around her, like they’re dancing to her voice. It’s just a story. No one takes it seriously.”
“Where does this girl live?” Rondo asked.
“With her parents half a mile north of the village. They’re turtle farmers. Keep to themselves mostly.”
“Take me there.”
After taking bearings and measurements to exactly mark his find on the map, Rondo ordered everyone back to the skiff. Most of a day later they poled up to a newly built cypress dock. The dock jutted out from a white sand beach. A well-worn path led deeper inland where a collection of four buildings waited. The largest was a single-story octagonal barn with a thatch roof. The next largest Rondo assu
med was the family home, a modest log cabin with a single glass window looking out over the beach. The remaining shacks were no doubt storage of some sort.
“Wait here,” Rondo said to Cork.
The guide offered no argument, instead getting busy tying the skiff to the dock. When it was secure Rondo and his mercenaries jumped out and, ignoring everything else, marched straight to the house. He winced at the stink coming from the barn. Rondo had visited a pig farm once, but it had nothing on the turtle barn.
As they got closer, Koltin sent his men to circle the house using nothing but hand gestures. Hopefully the parents would be reasonable and hand the daughter over with minimal violence. Rondo held little optimism. In his experience, most parents were entirely unreasonable when it came to their children.
Koltin nodded when his men were in position. Rondo knocked on the door. Half a minute later an entirely average-looking woman in her forties opened the door. “Yes?”
“I’ve heard rumors that your daughter sings to dragons. I have need of her abilities. If you could bring her out I would be grateful. I will endeavor to return her unharmed.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Madam, it is not,” Rondo said. “I have need of your daughter and will have her. Hand her over and no harm will come to you. Delay me any further and…”
Rondo shrugged. In his mind there was nothing more to say. She would comply or Koltin would do what he did. Rondo wasn’t a fan of violence, but he understood its value, especially in circumstances like this.
The woman tried to slam the door.
Koltin stopped it with one hand and shoved hard, sending her sprawling. As Rondo had feared, you could never count on parents to do the reasonable thing. He shook his head at the appalling waste of time and effort.
The mother scrambled back, crawling on the floor. She screamed a man’s name. John, Don, her voice was so shrill he couldn’t make out exactly what she said. It was the husband, he assumed.
A second later a big, broad-shouldered man came running out of the barn, a curved blade on a pole grasped in his hands. His eyes were so focused on the house he never saw the mercenary coming from the side.
A professional soldier with a sword didn’t need long to dispatch a farmer with a pruning tool. With John or Don dealt with they returned to the mother.
“Where is she?” Rondo asked. “We’re going to find your daughter eventually. Saving us time will save you pain. Surely that’s the prudent thing.”
She backpedaled some more, her jaw clamped stubbornly shut.
“Take her outside. If the kid was in here, that scream would have brought her running.”
Koltin reached down and clamped a hand around her throat. She fought, but it was like a puppy trying to fight off a wolf. He jerked her off the floor and the three of them went outside.
“Convince her,” Rondo said.
Koltin bared his yellow teeth. He sunk his free fist into the woman’s stomach. She moaned and gagged, trying to curl up in a ball.
Koltin didn’t let her. A second blow split her lip.
“Not the head,” Rondo said. “She won’t be able to tell us anything if you scramble her brains.”
“Mom?” a high, distant voice said.
Rondo turned to see a little girl, maybe eleven, with long blond hair and wearing a white dress coming out of the woods. That had to be her.
“Ariel! Run!” the mom screamed.
“Get rid of her,” Rondo said. Louder he added, “Grab that girl!”
The two mercenaries on that side of the house took off after her. Ariel froze for a moment then darted into the woods.
With their longer legs, the mercenaries should catch her in a few strides. Halfway to the edge of the woods, the mercenaries stopped and waved their hands around. Little sparks filled the air around them.
What was happening out there? He turned to Koltin. The mom was dead, her throat cut from ear to ear. “Grab the others. She’s getting away.”
Koltin bellowed orders and the two mercenaries were soon rushing across the yard toward the woods. Rondo followed more slowly. Let the muscle handle whatever had attacked their comrades. The mercenaries were all stopped at the edge of the woods when Rondo joined them. The first two that went after the girl were covered in scratches and burn marks on their faces and arms.
“What happened to you two?” Koltin asked.
“Dragons, Boss,” one of them said. “Little ones with sharp claws, breathing fire. They were so fast we couldn’t hit ’em. They bought the kid time to escape then flew off.”
“Hummingbird dragons,” Rondo said. “So the stories were true. She can control dragons. Let’s get after her.”
“I’m no tracker,” Koltin said. “You lead the way.”
Rondo had never tracked anything in his life. But he bet Cork had. “Fetch our guide.”
One of the uninjured mercenaries jogged back toward the dock. He returned a minute later with Cork. The young man was pale and a little green around the gills.
“We need you to track the girl,” Rondo said.
“Her parents,” Cork said. “You killed them. Why?”
“They were uncooperative,” Rondo said. “You’re not going to be uncooperative, are you?”
What little blood remained drained out of Cork’s face. “No, sir. She went in here?”
“That’s right.”
Cork bent and studied the ground. “I’ve got her trail.”
“Then lead on.”
Chapter 5
Moz poled his skiff out toward his preferred hunting grounds. The air hadn’t grown oppressive yet, but it would. He set six traps yesterday and wanted to check them before the worst of the heat settled in. Probably wouldn’t get six gators, but six was the most his skiff would hold and Moz never set more traps than he had room for carcasses. Three would be a good result. Not that he needed the money, but his wholesaler was complaining about low inventory.
Hadn’t seen any sign of Cork since he sent that fella and his bully boys out for a visit. Probably shouldn’t have done that, but the kid was always crying that he needed coin and whatever else he was, Moz figured the man in black had plenty.
Just thinking about that bunch made his arm itch. He pulled his long sleeve back and glanced at the brand. Damn the man for making him remember. Moz had come out to the middle of nowhere to avoid thinking about those days. War was hell, but the Carttoom campaign was especially brutal. The rangers had done things to end the war they normally never would have done.
He hated it but Rend was losing and losing badly. Unless they all wanted to end up slaves, extreme measures were needed. At least that’s what they all told themselves. Moz hadn’t really believed it, but he went along and that was just as bad.
Where had the man in black, what was his name, Rondo something. Where had he come from? And how did he know the Alteran brand? They weren’t especially well known outside the military and no way was Rondo military.
“Damn the man,” Moz muttered and tried to put the encounter out of his mind. He had meat to bring in and that’s what mattered right now.
The channels through the swamp grew tighter as he approached his hunting grounds. Moz had to use all his skill to maneuver the skiff through while avoiding dangling creeper vines that tried to wrap around his neck like a noose. Plenty in Carttoom would say a noose was too easy an end for a ranger.
Enough of that. He ground his teeth and forced his disobedient thoughts down a different track. His first trap was just ahead. Thank the gods. Nothing like wrestling a thousand-pound alligator with one hand while trying to spear it with the other to focus your mind.
Unfortunately, his first bait line was still up and untouched. Oh well, five to go. He poled on another quarter mile to the next line. This one was down and tight.
Moz grinned, eager for a fight. He’d always been eager. Sometimes that got him in trouble, but not in this line of work.
With his left han
d he pulled on the taut line. Something pulled back and he was glad for the heavy leather gloves he always wore. Felt like a good one.
He hauled it up hand over hand until a scaly head appeared just under the water. He bent and grabbed his razor-tipped spear with his right hand and drew it back.
The gator thrashed and fought. Moz yanked it to the side of the skiff. The instant it stopped spinning he struck. The spear went right through the top of its skull, splitting its tiny brain in half. It shuddered and went still.
Moz yanked the spear free, tossed it in the skiff, and rolled the gator in over the side. It thunked into the bottom of the skiff. Twelve-footer, a good start to the day.
He re-baited the steel spike and left it dangling a few feet above the water. Four to go.
Three hours later Moz had checked all his traps and picked up another ten-footer. He’d hoped for more, but two big ones would bring a good price and please his wholesaler. He spun the skiff around and started poling back towards home.
Sweat plastered his face and his shoulders burned. Between working the pole and fighting the big gators, he’d gotten a good workout. It felt like he’d fought a real battle. Who was he kidding? The reason he chose this line of work after leaving the rangers was because it was the closest thing he could find to a war. At least he didn’t have to kill people to survive.
Halfway back, at the edge of the swamp, he caught a glimpse of something white. Moz pushed the skiff closer. From behind a big cypress a little blond girl peeked out. What was a kid that age doing out here all alone? She’d make a good snack for a big gator. What were her parents thinking?
“You okay, kiddo?” Moz asked.
She shook her head, sending blond hair flying everywhere.
“What’s wrong? Where are your mom and dad?”
“Dead,” she said in a small voice. “Bad men killed them. The little ones told me to run. They said you were a nice man and would help me.”
Moz blinked. He’d been called a lot of things, but “nice man” wasn’t one of them, not in a long time. “Who are the little ones?”
The Black Egg Page 4