Dragon's Ring (27 page)

'Brys did as he was bade, although the heat was fierce. "So . . . Finn. What kind are you that would not be feeling the cold? Or," he looked at the fire, "the heat."

Finn shrugged. "You're burning them. Turn them. Here, let me put some salt on first. I am what I am, for me to know and you to keep your mouth shut about if you do work it out." He jerked a thumb at the sleeping woman. "Scrap has delusions. I'd prefer for her to keep them for now."

"Consider me silent," said Hrodenynbrys. "Is this meat done? I have never cooked meat before."

"That's obvious," said Finn examining the sizzling meat with its one blackened side, critically. "Let me wake the Scrap and we can eat this lot before we try and do better with the next attempt. It's all supposed to be more-or-less this color,"—he prodded a part of the meat—"not alternating black and red."

Meb awoke to Finn's idea of a gentle shake—and sat up before her head came off her shoulders. "We have some wonderfully burned mutton ready. Or as ready as it'll ever be."

Meb was far less of an experienced epicure than her master. All she knew was that her stomach was sure that her throat had been cut. She ate ravenously. So did the merrow. "It's not that bad," he said. "Indeed, the texture is rather like abalone. Gives one something to chew on."

"Fine exercise for the jaw," agreed Finn. "And the burned bits add something special to it."

"You can be cooking the next lot yourself," said the merrow. "I'm still not sure that it's natural to be eating something that has no fish in it."

"I will," said Finn. "You can cut me some more pieces and thread them."

Meb, warm, rested, with some good chewing on the food she'd been offered, finally had some time to think.

She'd seen death before, of course. A poor fishing village had more than its share. But it wasn't a violent place, any more than it was a place where literacy blossomed. But she'd seen two living things die today. Die strangely, full of passion and fear. She'd almost been willing to kill the second one herself when Finn had come to her rescue. Still, there was a difference between being willing and actually having it happen. The spell that Finn must have used frightened her. Magic was the stuff of fear to that increasingly distant person, Meb the fishing village girl. But even sensible Meb and the fanciful daydreamer Meb had trouble with a beautiful-but-terrible sprite turning into stone. That was powerful magic, moreover, typical earth magic, that for which human mages were once supposed to be famous. So: her master was a human mage. No wonder he had so little love for dragons.

"Master. Um. Finn. That handsome man . . . the one that shriveled and vanished away when he got close to me. What did you do to him?"

"Nothing, Scrap. He did it to himself trying to reach you while you were wearing the Angmarad. It was seeming he wore—trust me, he really was not a man at all. I've changed my mind about you again, Hrodenynbrys. I'd prefer to take the Angmarad to the cauldron of the waters myself, but if things fall apart, and there is water near, well, Scrap, give him that cloak of his. He can turn back to his water-form self and take the Angmarad. I'm beginning to think he'd honor a bargain."

Meb nodded earnestly. "He would. But he drives hard bargains. And you have to watch him." She suddenly realized that the merrow was listening too, and colored. "Not that I think you're dishonest . . ."

"Just a little sharp," said Hrodenynbrys, grinning. "I'll be glad to have my cloak of red sealskin back though."

"It matches your nose." said Finn. "Now let us cook up the rest of that sheep. We may as well eat as much as we can and take a few cooked joints with us, because I don't think we're going to go from hamlet to hamlet, village to village, entertaining on our way to the sea. And we must have a good ten leagues to travel."

"There's nothing good about a league if it is on the land," said the merrow, taking his cloak from Meb, bowing his head at her and smiling.

"And this is steep, folded country, to make it even sweeter for you," said Finn cheerfully. "Not to mention the snow as an extra reason for enjoying the countryside. I've no idea why people don't just leave it and move into the water like lemmings do."

"Ach. They do," said the merrow waving a hand majestically. "Everything comes to the sea in time."

"Even sheep droppings," said Finn. "Now, what do you think will be the best way to roast this without it turning out like your earlier cooking?"

* * *

It was still dark when they got on the trail the next day. However, the snow had turned to rain, turning the snow to slush and mud. "At least it is wet," said the merrow.

"If it was any wetter, you'd sprout fins on us," said Finn. "Now there is, by my reckoning, a nasty deep gorge over there, with a bridge over it in that notch in the hill." He pointed.

"Why aren't we going that way then?" asked Meb, as he'd promptly turned from the muddy track onto a ghost of a trail overhung by wet, dripping bushes.

He shook his head sadly. "They always put up checkpoints at bridges, Scrap. You have so much to learn about the life of a rogue."

She had feeling she was being teased. "I think they should make rogue-masters tell those who want to be apprentices just how much time they will spend being cold and wet," she said.

"And the number of hours they may spend being hunted by those who want, at best, just to kill them," said Finn. "Most of the stream in the gorge's catchment is higher up, full of snow, not rain, so with luck it won't be in flood yet."

They made their way down steep snowy banks and eventually to the stream. It was knee-high, brown with earth and ribbed with drifting rafts of sticks and fallen leaves.

"Coming up fast," observed Finn with some satisfaction after they'd crossed. "Let's give it some help." He took out a handful of the rubies they'd taken from the alvar treasure-house and dropped them into the rushing, dirty water, one by one. "That should do nicely," he said, as Meb gaped.

They made their laborious, slippery, muddy way out of the gorge, keeping under the dripping trees. "It's a bad day for a dragon to be doing aerial reconnaissance, but there is no sense in tempting fate just to keep our necks dry, especially as they're already wet. Besides, it is cheering Hrodenynbrys up as much as it is making you miserable," said Finn, when she suggested they might walk in the mountain meadow up slope from them. So they soldiered on. And then Finn stopped. Sniffed.

Meb did too, trying to smell anything but wet woods. There might have been a hint of smoke on the air.

"Dragonfire," said Finn, grimly. "We need to go back and find another way."

They did. A little later they came to a stony knoll where the trees were a little more scattered. Off to the right, through the trees Meb could see a burning hamlet amid a patchwork of stone walls and winter fields.

"It was a good little spot, said Finn, crossly. "Well aligned."

Meb was not sure what aligned meant, but it scraped raw memories of her own village and the huts burning. "Can we do anything to help?"

"Right now, probably not," said Finn. "But we can go and see what we can do. Zuamar is not likely to come back. It's not in his mind set."

The practical part of Meb wondered how anyone knew what dragons thought. On the other hand he did seem to know nearly everything, especially about trouble and how to get out of it.

They walked to the handful of burning crofts. And Meb realized very soon that there was going to be no one to help. It had been a cold, wet, raw day with, by the looks of it, everyone indoors when the dragon had struck. And Zuamar had been brutally efficient about it. As they'd fled the burning houses—he'd burned or disemboweled the peasants. Even the babes in arms had been roasted, skin-split and dead. The little village turned into a horror of a reeking charnel house in which nothing lived. Even the milk cows had been killed in their stalls.

"Why?!" Meb, tears streaming down her face shook her fist in rage.

"He doesn't need a reason," said Finn, his tone carefully detached. "Power needs limits, and here he has none. He could also be looking for us. Let's go. The best we can do now is to frustrate that ambition of his. He'll be dealt with in time."

The merrow too was subdued by the slaughter. "I've seen fish go kill crazy. Orca too. But not like this. This is a kind of senseless brutality that took a great deal of intelligence. It's a dangerous thing."

"I think we should go," said Finn, firmly, turning Meb by the shoulder. They walked away, not looking back . . . and then something touched Meb's calf. She jumped and turned.

The black-and-white pup backed away, nervously. Looked at her with frightened eyes—one blue, one ale-brown. It gave a quiet little whimper.

Meb fell to her knees and gathered it up into her arms. It shivered slightly. Then sniffed at her neck and snuggled into her.

"I have to take her. I can't just leave her here, master. She'll starve. It's . . . it's like when you took me in. My village was burned too."

Finn shrugged. "Black dog with white ears. Good demon dog in those colors. But I suspect that he's a sheepdog rather than one of the pack of the wild hunt. Well, we'll find people for him. It's a him, Scrap, not a lady-dog. Scrap of a dog for a scrap of an apprentice," he said with a wry smile. "Dogs don't like me much, I am afraid. Let's get away from this place. There doesn't seem to be another living thing here."

They walked, Meb carrying the puppy. It seemed, at this stage, utterly content to be carried, to be warm and with a human. There wasn't much to it but loose skin, fur and bony elbows, and it didn't weigh that much. Besides, no matter what it weighed, she'd have managed to carry it, somehow.

They walked for some hours, taking cover from patrolling troops of mounted alvar, and the dragon a mile or two away off to the south. Meb had to marvel how Finn knew just where the searchers were. He was plainly keener of hearing and, it would seem, smell. Maybe, thought Meb, sniffing, she still had to learn. Perhaps she could teach her dog. Dogs had keen noses.

When they sat down to rest, the pup got a mutton bone, and if it had been traumatized earlier, it forgot all the day's disasters in this vast treat. He lay with his back against her and chewed to the limits of those white sharp puppy teeth. He was not in the least worried by the quality of the cooking. He was keen to lick her face to show appreciation though. He put up with having to drink water from a tiny brook, even if it was not mother's milk.

He was slightly heavier when she had to pick him up and carry him later—but even more content. He was warm and soft and smelled of puppy-fur and mutton-bone. And he radiated complete adoration and trust. Meb was already trying to think of good reasons not to leave him with the people at the next settlement they came to. After all, if the dragon was marauding, far away from here was the best place for him. And her, for that matter. When he awoke from his little nap in her arms he showed that he was keen on nibbling things too. She removed her cloak's toggle from his mouth and gave him a finger. He preferred to lick that.

They found shelter in a half-tumbled down barn that night. 'Brys was all for pressing on. "I can smell the sea," he said, his voice full of longing.

"You're also tripping over your own feet from tiredness," said Finn. "We stop now."

When he gave orders, it was hard to even consider arguing. Besides, Meb's feet were desperate for a rest. It was still cold for sleeping rough, and the barn barely kept the rain off them. The pup was keen to play. And to eat. But at least he was warming, snuggled inside her cloak that night.

Fionn waited until they were both asleep to slip out. He'd done his best to ward the place against scrying or prying eyes. But he needed to fly upwards. He needed to be in the presence of lots of gold for a few hours.

Soon he was above the cloaking cloud that hung over Yenfar, and beating his way upwards to the moon that hung so close. It was a total conceit and a waste of magic to have it there—to say nothing of an ever-present danger to the people below. Of course it wasn't the size of a moon obeying the more natural laws of physics, but it was still enough to destroy life on Tasmarin if it were to fall. And it would destroy his gold too. One had to consider the seriousness of things like this when dealing with such folly, even if it was amusing.

After spending some time being bathed in the revitalizing effect of lying on gold—something Fionn realized only a dragon could consider remotely endurable, let alone comfortable and soothing—Fionn took himself to the conclave.

Things were noisy in there. No one seemed particularly interested in talking to him, so Fionn set about his usual information-gleaning. It was mostly the younger and smaller ones in here tonight, and a frightened lot they were. Rumor was having a field day.

". . . traces of dragonfire on it . . ."

". . . the alvar are arming . . ."

They would be, thought Fionn. He wondered where the great ones were. Zuamar was probably still angrily scouring and burning. Or sleeping off having done so, most likely. Vorlian, Chandagar, Jennar, even that tail-vent Myrcupa, to name a few, were all out and about. That should be worrying too.