Dragons of the Valley (21 page)

He turned on his heel and hiked along the faint trail beside the smaller river. “Very good, very good. Let’s get moving now. Princess Tipper is getting impatient with us, I’m sure.”

The Grawl sat a little higher on the bank of the river than before. He’d moved away from the emerlindian girl. Her smell unsettled him. He found the sweetness of her base odor unpleasant, and the thin overlay of acrid fear irritated him further. Ironic, since his main purpose in staying was to watch her squirm.

He’d left Kulson and his crew to do this work on the River Hannit. Groddenmitersay had given him another assignment, one that suited his solitary nature. Fourteen days ago, he’d helped a unit headed by Bosk overtake the boat stop. Since then, he’d removed freighters from their vessels on the river, dispatching the men and allowing their boats to float away.

He chortled when he thought of the consternation developing as more and more barges arrived at the town of Flat Morgan with no people on board. Expressions of puzzlement and unease on the faces of the high races amused him. He knew they conjured up all sorts of scenarios to explain what they saw.

Most of the outrageous speculation outdid the truth in every way. No quiss swam the River Hannit. No bands of wild grawligs raided travelers. Just him. One Grawl, perfectly capable of creating chaos without the help of any of the low races. He didn’t need assistance from Kulson and his boorish soldiers either.

And he didn’t covet any position of power among the high races. Totally self-sufficient he was. His indifference to both high and low races gave him the kind of power no one but The Grawl could acquire. He paused a
moment to contemplate how perfectly in control he was at this moment. The feeling gave him much pleasure.

Two tumanhofers and two kimens traveled with the girl. He’d watched during the night as the bumbling swordsman and the nimble kimen foiled the efforts of three mariones and two bisonbecks. Where five men failed, one Grawl would succeed.

The sword interested The Grawl. He would wait until the emerlindian’s company arrived. Then he would take the measure of these strange companions and perhaps take the sword.

Tipper held Rayn close to her heart and prayed for him to wake up. She glanced up at The Grawl. He didn’t seem to be watching her at the moment.

His presence unnerved her. He just sat, but even that was unnatural. He’d only moved once in the hours since she’d opened her eyes. She’d had to get up, stretch, pace a bit, then sit down again. Her foot hurt, but not as much as her aching heart. Rayn might die.

She’d rearranged the blankets, washed her hands and face, combed her hair, and a hundred other things to make the time pass. Or at least it seemed so. Perhaps she’d done only a half a dozen things and only minutes had passed. No, the sun was almost straight overhead. Most of the morning had been spent under the eye of The Grawl.

She tucked Rayn into her pocket, then took him out again. She smoothed a piece of cloth in the sunshine and put him there to rest when she thought he felt cold. She wiped him with a damp rag when she thought he felt hot. His little chest rose and fell. Occasionally his tail twitched. She wondered if Wulder cared as much as she did about the life of a minor dragon. Would He do something to help?

Her anxiety over Rayn compounded her lack of patience. She wanted Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit here because they had helped so much when her father was ill and when Beccaroon was injured. She wanted Paladin because she always wanted Paladin. She even wanted the two men from the Insect Emporium because they knew so much about healing.

All she had was a beastly man called The Grawl.

Bealomondore trudged in front of the others. He’d taken the lead to set the pace. The others weren’t exactly eager to keep up, but he felt an urgency to find Tipper. Surely they would catch up with the raft soon. This lower part of the River Hannit narrowed progressively. Soon the banks would be too close together for a craft to squeeze through. The shores had never been leveled for traffic, and rich vegetation made it hard to proceed.

With his eyes always searching through the leaves ahead, he finally caught glimpses of color that did not match the foliage. He quickened his step and called, “Tipper!”

The streak of grayish blue material shifted, and he heard her voice. “Bealomondore! Here! I’m here.”

Tipper stood, hopped to the ground, and tramped through the underbrush. She held Rayn to her shoulder, his ghastly gray color like old porridge.

Tipper waved with her other hand. “Are the others with you?”

“Behind me. Taeda Bel is supposed to be here with you.”

“I am!” The kimen dropped out of branches overhanging the bank.

Bealomondore stopped and stared at her. “What were you doing up in a tree?”

She pointed ahead, close to where the raft had run aground. “Because I didn’t want him to know I was here until more of us arrived to deal with him.”

Bealomondore squinted, trying to see the person who’d scared Taeda Bel. He spotted the outline of the creature and heard the swish of metal leaving leather at the same time. The weapon in his hand surprised him. The Sword of Valor pulled him beyond Tipper so that he stood between the two ladies and the beast rising from the shade.

Bealomondore heartily wished that Fenworth, Maxon, and Librettowit would appear behind him. But he’d outdistanced them. He’d stand his ground until reinforcements came. Hopefully they wouldn’t stop for another slice of tangonut crème pie.

He lifted his sword to salute the brute that stood before him. “The Grawl, I presume.”

He nodded. “I am The Grawl.”

“I’m Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore of Greeston.”

The Grawl bent his head in acknowledgment, as smoothly as any nobleman of the king’s court. Bealomondore shook off the feeling of being boorish in comparison to the huntsman. The cultured tumanhofer rarely greeted gentlemen by brandishing a sword. In fact, he’d never before worn a sword to brandish. If he had to defend his lack of etiquette in this situation, he’d claim the sword took the initiative and brandished itself.

My mind is babbling. Where are the others? If I could mindspeak, I’d holler for help
.

“I’m interested in your sword,” said The Grawl. “I have a fine collection of unique weapons.”

“It was given to me by a friend.”

The Grawl took a step closer. “Then you wouldn’t be willing to sell it?”

“Stay where you are.” Bealomondore heard Tipper move behind
him. “Tipper, you go on upstream. Our friends are only a little behind me.”

One moment The Grawl stood next to the raft. The next he loomed in front of Bealomondore. The girls behind him squealed. The Grawl’s long arm reached the remaining distance, and his large hand grasped the top of Bealomondore’s head, lifting him off his feet. The sword swung once, slashing through the underside of The Grawl’s sleeve. The beast jerked from the pain but held on. His other hand captured Bealomondore’s sword arm above the elbow.

The fingers squeezing his arm felt like they would meet around the bone. Bealomondore couldn’t feel his own hand, but he heard the sword drop to the ground. The Grawl released his arm and lifted him higher by the grip on his head. Bealomondore heard a crack, and the intense pain in his head convinced him his skull would collapse. He ground his teeth. He couldn’t stand much more. With a flick of his wrist, The Grawl sent him flying through the air. He sailed into darkness, knowing he’d land in the river.

The splash of her friend’s body hitting the water galvanized Tipper. She rushed to pick up Bealomondore’s sword, but The Grawl snatched it first. Seeing the rage on his face, she halted and scrambled back. The beast dropped the sword and roared. Clasping the hand that had gripped the hilt with the other, he dropped to his knees beside the river. Plunging his hand into the water, The Grawl let out a sigh of relief. Then he stood, towering over Tipper, his eyes bulging.

“The sword burned me.” Fury boomed in his voice. “What type of metal is this?”

“I don’t know.” She scanned the river. She couldn’t see the tumanhofer. Her voice quivered. “It’s never hurt Bealomondore.”

“There he is, Tipper.” Taeda Bel jumped in the water and looked like a skipping stone as she sped to his side.

Tipper clutched Rayn’s limp form against her shoulder. She had to follow. Stepping into the shallow water, she kept her eye on Bealomondore. She had to follow, had to reach him in time.

Her long skirt clung to her legs, constraining her stride, tripping her with every other step. Anger brought tears to her eyes but gave her the strength to forge on.

He needed help. She would get there.

Taeda Bel struggled to turn Bealomondore over where he floated facedown. Tipper arrived at last. Tucking Rayn in a pocket, she managed to flip her friend’s body.

She jerked around at the sound of splashing. It wasn’t The Grawl but Librettowit and Maxon. And Hollee!

“He’s hurt,” she called. “The Grawl threw him.”

Librettowit, Hollee, and Maxon passed her. They surrounded Bealomondore and helped her support his body with their hands.

Tipper looked to the shore and saw The Grawl standing erect and glaring at Wizard Fenworth. As she watched, Fenworth grew taller, until his height matched the huntsman’s. The Grawl withdrew a step, not as if he would flee but as if readying himself to spring.

The sword left the ground and landed solidly in the old wizard’s hand.

“Go,” said Fenworth, pointing the Sword of Valor. “I don’t have the time to deal with you now. Go!”

The Grawl sprang sideways, landing among the foliage above the embankment. Tipper heard a crash of splintering branches and tearing limbs, then nothing. She knew he had gone, but she heard no further noise announcing his retreat. Still, the heavy presence that had terrified her all morning no longer permeated the forest.

Librettowit and the kimens pulled Bealomondore’s body across the
river, toward the raft. Fenworth strode through the underbrush to reach the flatboat. His size diminished with each step. Tipper put Rayn on the pile of blankets and helped hoist Bealomondore onto the wooden barge. Fenworth knelt behind him and touched his neck.

The wizard leaned back, sighed, and shook his head. “This is no way for an artist to die.”

Tipper wailed, “No-oo!”

Reaching for the wizard’s arm, she searched the tumanhofer for some sign of life. Bealomondore couldn’t be dead. She clutched Fenworth’s sleeve and shook it. “Isn’t he alive? Fenworth? Fenworth, do something.”

“He’s not breathing, but he’s still alive. Don’t have one of your excitable fits, Tipper. You’ve been doing so well.” The wizard went back to wagging his head. “Tut, tut. Oh dear, oh dear.”

Fenworth carefully straightened Bealomondore’s arms and legs. “The Grawl has not treated our friend as a decent tumanhofer should be treated.” He sat down, cross-legged, at the unconscious man’s head. “Could use some help from that dragon of yours, Tipper.”

“He can’t.” Tipper bent over, dripping water onto the blankets and splashing the minor dragon as well. “He’s unconscious. That Grawl grabbed him.”