Bazil Broketail (32 page)

Normally Bazil would have felled anyone or anything that dared to say such a thing to his face, but in this case it was as if he could not feel the words. She was simply ignorant, he knew, and once she was acquainted with the facts she would stop saying these dreadful things and all would be well.

“I am battledragon. I fight so that all dragons can be free.”

“Bah, what care we for their endless wars? They cannot harm us!”

“You do not understand. The enemy can breed a million trolls if they want, and then they will exterminate all dragons and crush all humans beneath their heel. That is certain—I have heard much concerning the enemy and it is a terrible foe of all dragonkind. That is why the ancestors agreed to join with the humans of the Argonath in the first place.”

“All humans are beneath contempt, why be bothered with them? Crawling things, they infest all the warmer parts of the world, but we rarely see them in Dragon Home.”

“Ah, Dragon Home. Often I have heard it described but never have I seen it.”

She gave a small strangled shriek of amusement.

“Of course not, for it lies at the end of the North Mountains, and since you cannot fly it would take you a year just to walk there.”

“Someday I will. When we retire, Relkin and me, we will go there so that I can see Dragon Home.”

“Retire? Relkin? Who is Relkin and what kind of name is that, anyway?”

Baz made a small dismissive gesture with his forepaw, a gesture he had adopted from humans. The dragoness stared at him with incomprehension.

Baz spoke softly. “It does not matter, beautiful one. There is a wide world out there, I have seen some of it and you have seen some of it, and we could talk about these wonders and those marvels for many hours and still not exhaust our memories. But I have a better idea.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yes, tell me why you are building this great nest of boughs and leaves.”

“I am in my prime, and I await a mate. Is it not obvious?”

“Well, yes, but I wanted to hear it from your lips.”

“Well?” she said with half slitted eyes. “Now you have.”

“Do you already have a mate?” he said.

“Not yet, not yet, but I expect he’ll be along very soon.”

Bazil puffed up his chest.

“Might I suggest that he is already here, in the shape of one damn fine battledragon? ”

“Oh really! You propose yourself as a mate for me, do you?”

“I do!” said Baz happily.

She looked up at the sky. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, for a much more suitable mate for one such as I has just appeared. Look! It’s the purple-green from Hook Mountain—doesn’t he look wonderful?”

Bazil looked up and saw an immense winged dragon soaring above the slope of Mt. Ulmo, circling down into the clearing. An age-old eruption of emotions took place in his breast. With a swish of steel he drew Piocar from its scabbard and unlimbered his shield with a clang.

At the sight of Piocar the dragoness blinked in astonishment. Such a weapon was beyond any sword she had ever seen before.

“What do you do with that?” she said.

“I fight.”

She emitted another snort of amusement.

“You? Fight the purple-green? Think again, in fact run away while you still can. The purple-green rules the skies; he will smash you and trample your remains into the dust. Run away now and you might live to tell your tale to the other slaves in your village, wherever it is.”

“I stay and I fight.”

“Run while you can.”

But it was too late for running.

With a dozen huge wingbeats that bent the pines double, the purple-green landed.

He was a handsome sight, blazing purple scales covered his underside while green colored his top. His wings were like vast draperies of black velvet shot through with yellow veins. His eyes had black pupils and these now blazed with a peculiar intensity at the sight of Bazil.

“What are you?” he hissed in an enormous voice.

“Battledragon!” said Bazil, who flashed Piocar between them. The purple-green leapt forward in a great bound.

“Battledragon? You are human slave? What do you want?”

“This is my female, begone.”

The black pupils dilated.

“Your female! You dare to interpose yourself between this female and myself?”

“Go away.”

The wild drake roared with amusement.

“I will destroy you!”

Bazil made no reply except to gesture with Piocar once more. The purple-green roared again and raised himself to his full height. Bazil noted that the wild drake was several inches taller than himself and considerably heavier. Then he swung his shield into position while Piocar swung loose in his hand.

An astonishing sense of calm had come over him. This was not like fighting trolls with their axes and shields. Despite the presence of the female, Bazil felt no red rage descend over him. Nor did he feel any fear; he had the weapons, this wild drake was virtually defenseless in his terms. Such a combat could only end one way.

Then Bazil realized he could not slay the wild dragon, precisely because it was unarmed and did not know how to fight. It would dishonor Baz, his ancestors, even the village of Quosh to kill such a foe.

He chuckled to himself—what a pickle to be in! He could not bring himself to kill his foe while his foe could certainly kill him!

The drake pawed the ground in front of it while the dragoness watched them with wondering eyes. Indeed, she seemed quite excited by the thought of having a battle fought over her.

That shining blade in Bazil’s hand drew her gaze again. She knew how sharp these things could be. Once she had had a painful disagreement with a knight in a far-off land who had wielded one. She had eaten the knight and his horse, but only after a fierce battle. A tiny frisson of doubt passed through her.

With a roar the purple-green attacked, leaping at the hunched figure standing on its hind legs and cowering behind its shield.

The purple-green cannoned into the shield but did not bowl the wyvern over, and then he received a hefty whack from the flat of the sword which staggered him momentarily. He roared with renewed rage while stars flashed in front of his eyes.

The wings half opened, he sprang again and seized the shield in both forepaws and gave it a hard tug.

Bazil was pulled off his feet. As he crashed to the ground, he reflected that not even maroon trolls possessed this kind of brute strength.

He rolled over and over to get away, but the purple-green sprang on him like a lion on its prey. Bazil had just managed to get to one knee and bring the shield up when the purple-green slammed into him and both were knocked over onto their backs.

They lay there for a second, dazed by the clash of multiton bodies. Bazil was the first back on his feet, and he brought Piocar over in another flat-of-the-blade strike that rang on the purple-green’s heavy skull.

That slowed him up! Baz noted with a degree of satisfaction as the wild drake crawled away slowly on all fours.

But a moment later he was bowled over again as the purple-green drove in low and rammed his shoulder into Bazil’s knees.

Then the wild drake was on top of him, huge teeth snapping together just short of his throat. Baz gave a great heave with his upper limbs and thrust the growling drake away from himself. Then he cocked a fist and planted a straight right on the purple-green’s nose.

The drake gave out a huge bellow of woe and rolled away, clutching his wounded proboscis. Bazil regained his feet once more, and after a few deep breaths, advanced with Piocar in hand.

The purple-green scrambled back out of the reach of the gleaming length of steel.

“I would not kill you, dragon,” growled Bazil, “because you are at a disadvantage. But I will cut you if I have to.”

The purple-green roared with rage and defiance and sprang at him once more, but the sword sliced the space between them. He ducked back and circled, wary, just out of reach of the blade.

Bazil advanced. The purple-green stepped into the dark green female’s nest and fell over backwards. He emitted a wild roar and struggled to his feet. In the process a section of the nest was shredded. The female scrambled out in the other direction, hissing curses on the pair of them.

The purple-green launched himself once more in a huge athletic pounce that should have borne down the impertinent wingless dragon and pinned it to the ground, except that Bazil sidestepped smartly and swung the sword backhand and low to catch the purple-green across the legs and trip him.

The purple-green crashed to the ground with a snarl and slid across the meadow. He arose frothing in rage and charged again.

Baz sought to sidestep, but this time the wild drake was prepared and jinked at the last moment, then crashed into Bazil and bore him down.

His hind claws came up for the disemboweling stroke but caught on Bazil’s heavy leather joboquin and stuck. Baz twisted and dislodged him, and they disengaged momentarily.

Bazil spun around, unable to see the wild drake, and then with a thud he felt the wild one land on his back. The great forepaws fastened on his head and started twisting it backwards. It was hard to breathe, his neck felt as if it was going to snap and the drake was trying to get those terrible teeth on his throat.

“I didn’t want to do this,” grumbled the Broketail dragon, “but you leave me no choice.”

There was nothing for it; he wrenched himself backwards to bring up his right arm, and then hewed down hard upon the purple-green’s exposed flank.

Piocar bit deeply; he swung again and cut the shoulder muscles above. The purple-green lost the use of one arm, and Baz dislodged him and shoved him away with a final swat of the flat of the sword on the back of the head.

Baz staggered onto his feet. The heavy leather of his joboquin was shredded down the front. A few talons had gone through and cut his skin, dragon blood was pooling on his belt buckle.

But the purple-green was in much worse shape, stretched prone upon the meadow with dark blood welling from the shoulder wound in particular. After a moment it awoke and struggled upright.

It gazed up at him with expressionless eyes. It could not comprehend defeat. Such a thing was unimaginable. But the arm was useless and blood ran thickly upon the ground.

A sob behind him turned his head. The female dragon was there, staring in horror at the purple-green.

“He dies!” she said.

Bazil said nothing. There was little wrong with the wild one except for the bleeding in his shoulder—Piocar had gone in deep and severed a vein. The purple-green could bleed to death if he did not receive help.

If only there was a dragonboy!

The dragoness crouched beside the drake. “He is beyond any poultice I can make,” she wailed.

Indeed he was, only a tight bandage, drawing the severed flesh together, could hope to stem the loss of blood.

Then Bazil recalled the bandages wrapped around his own shield arm, where he’d been cut by a troll in the battle of Red Oak. His wound had hardened under a crust of dried blood, and it had not been as severe as this, anyway.

He peeled off the bandage. It was a little worn, sweaty and even stained with mud, but none of these things mattered so much as that with it he could bind the dragon’s shoulder tightly and press the sides of the wound together.

The purple-green hissed as he approached.

“Don’t struggle,” said Bazil. “I have a bandage, a thing of the humans to help heal wounds, even wounds as bad as this.”

The purple-green did not understand. Nor did the female. But the fight had gone out of the wild drake and he did not resist.

Still it was hard work for thick, clumsy dragon fingers, but Bazil worked the bandage around the purple-green’s shoulder and tightened it hard until the flow of blood was stopped to a trickle that gradually clotted. Finally he stepped back and admired his handiwork.

“I think it will do. You rest now, and do not use the arm for a few days.”

The dragoness moved closer. She was actually touching Bazil alongside. Her tail curved up around his own.

“I will come back and feed him,” she said. “The purple-green will live.”

She looked at Bazil, and there was a completely different expression in those huge eyes now.

“The nest I built is useless now. I will use it to cover the purple-green while he recovers. But first we will go away, you and I—we must find a high place where we can be together, alone.”

Her tail rubbed along his own.

“Alone, yes, that good.” Bazil had never felt like this before.

Her neck curved against his, entwined. She hissed something in his ears and then slid away.

He followed.

It was full night and the moon rode high above the western Gan. From Mount Ulmo a cool wind brought a hint of ice on its breath.

They stood outside the tumbled walls, the young captain and the two women. The broken towers were like so many ruined teeth in the moonlight, while the dead city before them was like some fossilized beast from antiquity, exposed by erosion on its mountain ridge.

Kesepton was uneasy. This place was haunted by cruel spirits. Even though the drawbridge had been thrown down long ago the ruins still glittered with a malign presence.

“Lady, I would prefer that you not enter this place. It is a pit of evil,” he said.

She wore that familiar grave smile, so maddeningly superior. “Thank you for your concern, Captain, but we have an important errand here. We shall not be long.”

“I will send guards with you, but it will not be popular duty.”

“No need, there is nothing here that would harm us. Unless there is a bear that I do not know about.”

He was shocked, despite everything.

“You have been here before?”

“Yes, but never on an errand like this.”

Kesepton found his mouth quite dry. He himself would much prefer not to go into that dreadful place, for this was Dugguth, city of the Demon Lord. Long dead, but still remembered, the builder of this place was Mach Ingbok, renegade Master from Padmasa. His vile memory still lingered here.