Dragon Weather (10 page)

“Climb…?” Arlian grabbed the rope, a sudden rush of hope rising in his breast.

“There's a guard at the top, but he's my brother, Linnas—he's ‘accidentally' lowered the rope, and in a moment he'll throw down a bundle of rags I'll say is your dead body and throw in the hopper at the end of the shift. When you slip past him he'll be away from his post, relieving himself. After that, Arlian, you're on your own, and we'll be even—I'm paying for my life with your freedom, and just as you might have been killed if the ore fell sooner, if I'm discovered at it I'll be killed or enslaved.”

“I don't … I mean, thank you…” Arlian began.

Bloody Hand cut him off. “You said there's no justice unless we make it. I'm making my bit. Climb!”

He cracked the whip against the rag pile, and Arlian, with sudden inspiration, screamed. He flung himself up the rope, clinging desperately with hands and knees—he had never climbed a rope before, although he had seen it done often enough.

He managed to haul himself upward, little by little, as Bloody Hand flogged the heap of rags. A louder thump sounded from one side that Arlian guessed was the promised imitation corpse—and then Arlian felt the lash across his own legs, and shrieked.

“Good,” Bloody Hand said. “Yell if you want, you poxy fool!” Then he stepped closer and whispered, “I need blood on the whip and rags if I'm to be believed. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Arlian whispered back, though the pain in his legs was intense. “Thank you, Hand.”

“My name is Enir,” the overseer whispered back. “Go!”

Arlian went. He panted with the effort of pulling himself up the rope toward the light, trying to match his gasps for air with the beating of the whip on the rags. Every so often he moaned or wailed.

Then his hand struck stone, and a moment later he was scrambling up onto the ledge at the mouth of the entry tunnel, a tunnel lit by two bright lamps.

A man was standing there, a man not in the rags of a miner or the leather apron of an overseer, but in a bright tunic, green worked with gold, over black velvet breeches. He wore a sword on his belt, and after a few seconds of confusion Arlian recognized him as the swordsman who had come down into the pit when the hopper lines broke.

“I'm Linnas,” he said, holding out a hand and smiling. “You understand that we never saw each other, that if anyone asks I'd had a bit too much beer and stepped away from my post?”

Arlian nodded warily, and took the proffered hand.

“I wanted to thank you for saving Enir,” the swordsman said, as he grasped Arlian's hand. Then he released it, stepped back, and lifted one of the lamps down from its place on the wall. He handed it to Arlian and said, “You'll need this. Now, go on! Get out of here!”

“Thank you,” Arlian gasped as he accepted the lamp. Then he staggered past Linnas and headed up the passage, limping on his sore, bleeding legs.

When he had been brought down, years ago, the passage had been lined with lamps and torches, but he knew now that that had been in preparation for a shift change—the mules that pulled the wagons didn't like the dark. He didn't know just what time it was now, but it was clearly the middle of a shift, when no one would normally be in this tunnel.

His legs ached, and he wished that Hand … no, Enir … that Enir hadn't insisted on real blood. He had had plenty of practice in working while sick, exhausted, or injured, though, and trotted on despite the pain.

His lone lamp cast huge, flaring shadows as he made his way up the tunnel. Now he could see, as he had not as a boy, that the passage was an old part of the mine itself, that it followed the course and shape of a great seam of ore that had been dug out; he could see the marks of picks on the walls, the traces of galena too thin to be worth removing, the thick layers of smoke on the ceiling above niches where lamps had been placed over and over.

Seeing it thus was strange, almost dreamlike—he had lived for so long in the same slowly expanding network of deep, branching tunnels that a new, unfamiliar place didn't seem entirely real.

If it were a dream, he told himself, he didn't want it to end; he wanted to be out of the mine, out in the sun and open air, free again, to lead his own life, make his own way, and in time find his revenge upon Lord Dragon and his looters, and upon the dragons themselves.

There were places the passage narrowed enough that Arlian wondered how the ore wagons ever fit through, but even so, it was always wider than most of the mine tunnels, and he already felt as if the world were opening out around him.

And then he was at the top, at the end of the passage, and a heavy wooden door blocked his way. He hesitated. What if there were another guard on the other side? He had no weapon of any kind, not even a rock. What if that horrible fat old man who had carried him down the mine so long ago was out there?

His mouth tightened. If that fat old man was there, Arlian would wring his neck bare-handed. He was no scared child anymore.

He had to stop and think for a moment to remember how to work the latch—he hadn't used one in so long! There were no doors in the lower mine. It was simple enough, though, and he swung the door open.

Blinding light poured in; he fell back, momentarily terrified. The brightness was so intense he thought he might go mad. He flung an arm across his eyes and squeezed them shut, and still the world was flooded in bright red light.

He was seeing the inside of his own eyelids, he realized; the light outside the door, whatever it was, was so bright that it was shining right through his flesh.

But his eyes were adjusting, and after a moment he dared to open one a crack.

The light was the sun. He knew that. He had been down in the darkness of the mines for so long that his eyes were far too sensitive to handle the ordinary light of day.

If he wanted to escape, though, he would have to face it, to venture out into that glare and find his way safely away from the mine before anyone realized he was gone. He stepped forward, his arm still up.

The air moved about him, and felt somehow
wrong.
His skin crawled, and he shivered.

That was
wind,
he realized—just the cool wind blowing. That wrongness was
cold
—he had been so long in the mine, where the temperature was constant year-round save for where the lamps heated the air, that he had forgotten the sensation.

He moved forward, and tried to look around, while still shielding his eyes from the sun's glare.

Everything looked washed out, almost white, the colors faded and thin, but he could see the great yellow cliff towering above him, and wagon tracks in the dirt at his feet, and ahead the slope of a hill covered in lush green grass, falling away into a valley. Sunlight blazed down from almost directly overhead, so there were few shadows.

To his left was a small cluster of buildings, low structures of stone and thatch—the mine headquarters, surely, where Lord Dragon had sold him to the mine's owners. If someone were to look out one of the half dozen visible windows he would be spotted instantly, and could hardly be mistaken, given his ragged condition and pale skin, for anything but what he was, an escaped miner.

He had to get away from those windows as quickly as possible. The wagon tracks led to the left, past the buildings, then down a dirt road cut into the slope, down and away from the cliff.

That meant he didn't want to go left, nor straight ahead. He turned right and began walking—he did not want to tire himself out too soon, so he didn't run. He stayed close to the cliff, hoping to blend in with the stone, and found himself climbing slowly.

Before long he had reached the end of the cliff, and stood shivering on a steep slope amid scattered young trees; he paused and turned around, his arms clutched around himself in a futile attempt to keep warm.

He had not been sure whether it was early spring or late fall until he had noticed freshly fallen leaves scattered here and there, but now he knew it was autumn. He also knew it was definitely colder than he liked.

And the world was so strange, so
intense
—the wind on his skin was a constant rippling of alien sensation, the light was so painfully bright, the colors so glaring and vivid; unfamiliar smells were filling his head, bringing back odd bits of childhood memory he hadn't known still remained anywhere within him.

It was harsh and bright and cold and uncomfortable, the world almost
hurt,
but he never wanted to give any of it up, ever again. He thought he would rather die than go back down into the mine.

And he intended to do everything he could to ensure that he never went back. That meant thinking, planning, not just wandering on aimlessly. He had to see where he was and decide where to go.

To his left, as he stood there, was the forested top of the cliff, rising up to a peak and showing no signs of human habitation; to the right the land fell away from the cliff's base in open fields, and he could see thatched rooftops in the distance. The sun had moved slightly, and appeared to have descended somewhat from the zenith, which meant it was in the west—and he had, he judged, been walking northwest.

Although there was no sign of pursuit, he wanted to put as much distance as possible, and as many other barriers as possible, between himself and the mine. He thought that if he now turned due north, that would provide the ideal balance—no one would find him among the trees, and the cliff itself would be in the way of any search. Since the forest to the north appeared uninhabited, there would be less chance that he might be seen by anyone who would report a runaway slave. It would also be easier on his still-suffering eyes—the trees had lost most of their leaves, but they would still provide some shade, and shelter from the biting chill of the wind.

Accordingly, he headed north.

Hours later, when his eyes had adjusted and he barely had to squint even when looking west into the setting sun, he paused and looked around. He had put several miles behind him, across completely unfamiliar terrain; he had stayed clear of roads, houses, barns, and cultivated fields as much as he possibly could, and had seen other human beings only from afar. The outside world was still wonderful, but already beginning to lose some of its intensity and strangeness.

Now he was on a rocky hilltop, and it was time to stop and plan again. He had to do more than flee aimlessly. He was free of the mine, well clear of it, and it was time to choose a place to go
to,
rather than one to flee
from.

He scanned his surroundings, and saw little but bare trees and empty sky—the day was cloudless, the sky brilliantly blue, a color brighter than anything he had ever seen in the mine.

He had crossed streams and taken a drink or two, but he was thirsty again, and hungry, and cold; winter was coming, and he had no coat, not even a shirt. He had no food, no shoes—his feet had been toughened by years of walking on stone, but the sharp twigs and pebbles had still been hard on him as he fled.

And he knew he must look terrible. His hair had not been cut or combed in years; his beard had
never
been trimmed. His skin was either woefully pale or starting to redden from the sun, but certainly unhealthy.

He needed things only other people could provide—but he also feared that anyone who saw him would instantly recognize him as a fugitive. He had no money, no family, his only possessions a crude bag of worthless mementos.

And he had no idea where he was.

His mouth quirked into a smile. By any practical measure he had been better off down in the mine, where he always knew exactly where he was and where his next meal would come from—but he would not have given up his freedom for anything. He would rather die of exposure this very night, he told himself, than live to be a hundred as a slave.

But he had no intention of dying, in any case. He intended to live, to make a life for himself, and to somehow avenge his family.

Water was not a problem, as these hills produced plentiful fast-running little streams; the summer did not appear to have been dry. Food—he could go for days without food if he had to, he was sure, and had heard tales of people surviving on tree bark and insects.

Clothing and shelter, though—he needed to find those before the weather turned any colder. Perhaps he could take shelter in a barn somewhere, steal a jacket …

But where would he find a barn, or any other human habitation? He turned around slowly, taking in the endless parade of gray, leafless trees.

And saw smoke. A thin line of distant gray smoke was rising in the east.

For a moment he thought it might be the smoking crater of his own native peak; then he thought it was more likely to be just a hearthfire in some nearby home.

Either way, though, that smoke meant people, and perhaps shelter.

Well, then, he told himself, that was where he must go. He would, he promised himself, walk until he found what he sought, or until he could walk no more.

And he set out to prove it.

9

Sanctuary

The night was moonless, and after he had walked into branches half a dozen times and stumbled a score, Arlian admitted that he could walk no more—painful as the bright light of day had been, he needed it to see where he was going. Even his dark-adapted eyes could not deal with the forest at night, so he dug himself into a pile of dead leaves for warmth and huddled there until morning.

He did not sleep well in the cold and unfamiliar surroundings, and awoke before dawn had turned the eastern sky from gray to pink. He wasted no time in getting himself moving once again, and was pleased to see that the line of smoke he had followed the previous evening, until darkness had made it impossible, was still present—though it seemed no closer than before.

Around midmorning he came upon a homestead, a house and three small barns set upon a few acres of fields; watching and listening carefully for any sign of the occupants, he crept into one of the barns and used the sharp end of an old hoe he found there, struck against a whetstone, to hack his beard down to a more reasonable length. It was still ragged and unkempt, but he had been working his fingers through beard and hair almost constantly as he walked, and he thought he might now look merely disheveled, rather than completely wild. He used a discarded bit of leather to tie his hair back—it wasn't a proper braid, by any means, but it was better than nothing.