Dragon's Ring (21 page)

The merrow snorted. "Organizing is for those who can't to do it alone."

"Well, then you ought to learn," said Finn.

Meb's feet were completely numb when they came to a spit of rock that spiked out into the water, with a low cliff facing them. "This is as good a place as any. Right, up we climb."

It was not particularly difficult even with feet like lumps of wood. Meb scrambled to the top, easily enough. The merrow found it a lot more of a challenge. "Could I not go around?" he asked after the second try.

"No. Use your feet. Don't try and just pull yourself up."

The effort it took him would have had Meb over the white walls of the alvar city. "It's a little different to swimming," he said, panting.

"And there's worse to come," said Finn. "I'm going to wear those fin-feet of yours down to stubs running." At least, by his tone, her master appeared to have recovered his sense of humor, somewhat.

Finn led them along the ridge. In the dark it was a scary half-climb, half-scramble. Eventually they came to a narrow neck and something of a way down. Meb did not know how Finn saw where to go, but he did. Then they were off and into the pinewoods, walking.

And walking.

And walking. Meb was barely able to stagger when he finally let them stop at a small overhang, where water dripped down one edge. The sky was beginning to pale above the spiky, dark trees.

And if Meb thought she was tired, the poor merrow simply fell over when they stopped.

"Hmm. He won't be used to this sort of thing," said Finn. "Right. Let's get a fire going and a bit of food into us. We'll need it before the chase is done."

Lyr was at one with the grove of aspens on the slopes above the alvar city. She'd come in response to a message from her worshipers that the human they sought was in the slum outside the city, that they were just trying to locate her precisely. This sort of thing was why her kind had made an alliance with the flame-creatures. The sprite-gestalt did not deal well with humans or their values. She understood theft. Just not how to make humans do it. She tended toward a different style of attack—but it was a large, fortified city.

When the earth shook, it uprooted some trees. Shook her from her bed. The sprites were more attuned to growing things than the rock, but she felt the wave of force that reverberated along the white road.

She had not expected Haborym's gang of renegades to strike yet. But surely only moving the treasure of the water-people could cause such a thing? Haborym had suspected the treasure to be hedged in enchantments. Well, they knew that the alvar had protected against the fire-beings. But the alvar always had an arrangement with the sprites. They believed they had a special bond.

If they wished to believe that, the tree-people would not gainsay them.

She watched with cool green eyes. She disliked the fire they kindled, but it did look as if the merrow treasure had been successfully stolen, if not successfully replaced. Well, the latter didn't matter to her. Haborym was far better at sneaking and deception in his shallow sort of way. The sprites were not fooled. But now she could hand the hunt for the female human magic-conduit over to him.

She would check first, of course. Her kind were thorough.

At first light the patrols of alvar were pouring out of the white city like ants. Some—it would appear—had been dispatched last night to blockade the roads. Now more were marching or riding post haste in various directions. The theft had certainly disturbed them . . . well, that and the earthquake that it must have been the cause of. She hoped the thieves had got away with it. It would be much more difficult to do it twice, she thought.

She made her way down from the aspens to the checkpoint on the shattered road below. A part of the ridge had fallen across it, and a few travelers were being turned back already. The alvar were allowing foot-patrols to pick their way across the landslip. Horsemen were looking for another route. That was the problem with good roads, the sprite reflected. They'd become reliant on them. She could go wherever the trees grew. Her natural affinity was to the tall, slim birches or aspens. Others had different affinities. But not here. The others were lost and far away.

The alvar were all so susceptible. She smiled in the way that she knew would have the guards mesmerized. "And what has happened here?" she asked.

The alv guard bowed respectfully. "Lady of the forests, there has been a robbery. A terrible theft. It appears that the thieves took advantage of this disaster to loot the noble Prince Gywndar's treasure. That's humans for you. Always take advantage of someone else's misfortunes."

"It is to be hoped that you can catch them," she said, turning away.

"Oh, we will. If we have to scour every inch of Yenfar . . . The prince has sent word to the dragon Zuamar too," said the guard. "I hope you're happy for winter here, Lady. The road is not going to be passible for months, and once the snow comes . . ."

The dragon was as unwelcome news as the other had been good. Dragons were very sensitive to fire-beings, and not susceptible to the beauty of sprites. Actually, they had been known to set them alight.

Was nothing ever straightforward? That was why the sprites liked to avoid dealing with the other species. The disorganized creatures had their own desires which ran counter to the only right way. She sent word to her sisters. The news would pass from tree to tree all the way to the coast. There a Lyr would be obliged to take to a boat. The sisterhood disliked that. Firstly, boats were made of killed wood. And secondly the motion made sprites feel unwell. It was one of the reasons the sprites disliked the salt-sea. But Haborym would get the news and come to Yenfar, and capture the human. And the sprites could have their reward.

She did not think the fire-being understood what they were asking for as the price of their help. That was a good thing. Of course the creatures of smokeless flame were trying to deceive and cheat too. But that was expected of them.

Lyr was not worried by the damage to the road. She could, and would prefer to, move through the forests, and to be away before the snows fell, if she was not too late already.

Zuamar turned across the great bay, making the first of a series of turns that would take him back to his eyrie. In his fury at the loss of some of his gold, he had been forced off his mountain, away from his hoard and the contemplation of the beauty of it, and out onto the wing. Into conflict and conquest. It had, overall, been a good thing, he decided. Yes, there was talk of the end of the world. There always was, and always had been. He'd paid that little black wyrm no particular attention then, and had no intention of changing that. But the situation had become stratified, stuck in the pattern and balance they'd all assumed in the early days when there had been a need for that stability.

By the very nature of the places that Tasmarin had taken to be a part of itself, it was a world principally of seas and islands. The places at which the planes of existence had linked had often been either mountains, or wild coastlines. It had been something to do with the energy configuration of those places, he believed. There were islands beyond counting. In his flights he had become aware that while the dragons had taken roost on the great islands, with the size of the island being more or less proportionate to the size of the dragon, there were many islands out there. The alvar and the humans had generally clustered for protection under their dragon (to protect them from others), since anything without a protector was fair game. Yet . . . there were still a lot more islands out there. And as time had passed and dragons had done less raiding, more and more of the kine were living on those smaller islands . . . with no overlords. Yes, younger dragons had carved out holdings for themselves on some of them. The islands were technically subject to the nearest dragon-lord. They were relatively small and poor, these places. Yet, there were many of them. There was a profit there. And a danger. It was time they were thinned out. He had enjoyed starting that work.

Zuamar was somewhat surprised to see an alvar and his horse at his lower gate. He was, of course, instinctively suspicious as to why anyone would come this close. But the alvar was waiting in the open, a respectful distance from the cave. He had kindled a small fire . . . less respectful perhaps, but an indication that he'd been there a while. There was a doorbell of sorts, there. A messenger. Perhaps they'd caught some of the miscreants. That would be pleasing.

The alvar bowed low. "Lord Zuamar. My prince sends word that he has need of your aid."

That was not what he wanted to hear.

The alvar messenger continued. "The royal treasury of our great city has been robbed. Much treasure was taken, including a magical relic we had custody of. We are searching for raiders."

Zuamar's eyes narrowed. There was a pattern here. He just had to see what it was. Robbery and raiding were still commonplace things. But thieves did not raid the rich and powerful. They did not attack the tax halls of dragons. They avoided the treasure halls of princes. The weak and defenseless were the target . . . although to gain greater wealth the richer were more lucrative.

He was one of greatest of dragons. Yenfar one of the largest and most wealth-generating of islands, only rivaled, really, by the smaller fertile islands around the great sunken caldera to the South—but those had never been popular with the alvar. They loved the high mountains. Thus Prince Gywndar was one of the most powerful of princes among the alvar.

Only a very avaricious, brave thief . . . or possibly, a powerful foe would dare to raid here.

Or was someone tweaking their beards on purpose?

On a cold mountainside, entirely too close to the alabaster
city of the alvar and the lair of Zuamar, Fionn stared out from the ridge he'd gone up to, to scout from, and contemplated his next moves. Left to himself he would have transformed into a more useful shape for running, or even flying, and kept right on going. But the presence of the other two was an impediment. He was really not too sure what the merrow's game was. On deeper thought, he was sure that Scrap hadn't summonsed the merrow—he was less sure about the Nichor. He could, in all truth, simply be there by chance. The merrows had come as close as they could, any number of times, he believed . . . No, he couldn't believe! The soul-net proved the merrow was here, seeking the scrap of humanity in his care. He'd expected the sprites, demondim and alvar . . .  and definitely the dragons . . . and possibly the centaur-folk. The horse-people got up his nose and itched a bit. He knew them least well. The dvergar . . . well, they had declared themselves solidly on her side. He still was not entirely sure why. That was a thing of great power that they'd made for her. There was usually a price to dvergar gifts, but they were clever about it.

Events had come to a head entirely too fast back there. The alvar would all be seeking a human mage after her little accident with that princeling of theirs. Seeking her, if possible, more intently than they sought the merrows' precious treasure. He had a difficult balancing act here . . . He'd intended the alvar to think it was one of their own who had stolen the Angmarad. That would have had Prince Gywndar furious and angry—but unaware that the thing was back where it belonged. There were enough bitter factions and petty princelings to have made it possible that some other alvar had taken it for spite, merely to prove Gywndar an unworthy custodian.

But now . . . well, there was human . . . and, when they found the trail on the far side of the lake, dragon and merrow mage-sign. Fionn chewed his lip. He had planned to quietly secure the rest and ensure that they could be—as best as possible—used when he finished his work. The hell-flame he had already. And that gave him the alvar and the centaurs' treasure in trade with the creatures of smokeless fire. They prized and feared their ancient glowing ball of strange energy. A trade of the Angmarad would have given him the dvergar treasure. The merrows returned that faithfully to the land each year anyway . . . and he was really not sure the artificers had not just made another. They were inclined to do that.

Still, complications or not, he'd had a lot of entertainment out of it. Who would have thought shepherding a human around could be quite so fraught with disaster? Generally speaking, Fionn liked disasters. Chaos was his metier, after all. And right now, from here he could not see the pursuit. That didn't mean that they weren't coming. He walked back to the little camp. The merrow and his little Scrap were examining their feet. Hmm. He should have thought of that. Dragon-hide—even changed—was still a lot tougher than human skin, or merrow skin.

It put limits on how far and fast they could run today. Fionn tasted the air . . . looked at the shifting clouds with a slight brownish tinge to them, and then grinned to himself. It was not a safe refuge, but the three of them might get out of it alive, if they were lucky. Merrows loved to gamble, and so did he. Scrap would just have to go along with them. He didn't expect the untoward degree of cooperation he was getting from her to last indefinately, if he was any judge of human character—and he should be. He'd spent a lot of time with them. He liked humans, and not just roasted.