The Fire Dragon (9 page)

“I do, my liege,” Daeryc said. “Once we reach the lake, and that'll be in about two more days, we'll have arrived at the edge of the Boar clan's holdings. If I remember rightly, Glasloc marks half the distance twixt the Holy City and Cantrae town.”

“I see,” Maryn said with a nod. “I'll wager Braemys will meet us before we start trampling on his lands.” He glanced at Nevyn. “Do you know the lay of the land twixt here and Glasloc? Is it flat?”

“Mostly, my liege.” Nevyn turned to Daeryc to explain. “When I was younger, Your Grace, I lived near Cantrae.”

“Good, good,” the gwerbret said. “I haven't been there since I was but a little lad, and we'll need someone who knows the lie of things better than I do.” He rose with a bow Maryn's way. “If you'll forgive me, Your Highness, I'll be leaving you. I'm hungry enough to eat a wolf, pelt and all.”

Provisions for the silver daggers travelled in their own cart, tended by a stout carter and his skinny son. That particular night, Maddyn was sitting with Owaen when the son, young Garro, brought the two captains a chunk of salt pork impaled on a stick. Green mold marbled the fat.

“My da,” Garro announced, “says it been in the barrel too long. Weren't salted enough, either, Da says.”

“Your da's no doubt right.” Maddyn took the stick from the boy. “Owaen, what do you think?”

“We've had worse,” Owaen said. “Any maggots?”

Maddyn twirled the stick this way and that to catch the sunset light. “None that I can see.”

“Weren't none in the barrel, neither,” Garro said.

“Then it should do. Let's see.” Maddyn drew his dagger. He cut off the green streaks and took a few bites of the rest. “It's not bad but it's not good, either. It wouldn't be worth fretting about, except I'll wager this is Oggyn's doing.”

Owaen swore so furiously that Garro cringed.

“I'm not angry with you,” Owaen snapped. “Go thank your da for us. Now. Give me that, Maddo. Let's go shove it up the bald bastard's arse.”

Unfortunately for Owaen's plans, they found Oggyn attending upon the prince in front of the royal tent. Since not even Owaen could get away with violence there, the two silver daggers knelt not far from the prince's chair and waited. Oggyn was congratulating Maryn for the birth of the new son in all sorts of long words and fulsome metaphors—as if, Maddyn thought bitterly, Bellyra had naught to do with it. Exposed to the open air, the pork began to announce that truly, it was rotten. Once Oggyn paused for breath, the two silver daggers, or their complaint, caught Maryn's attention.

“What's that stench?” Maryn glanced around. “Ye gods, Owaen! What have you brought me, a dead rat?”

“I've not, my liege,” Owaen said. “The rat is kneeling there beside you.”

In the firelight Maddyn could see Oggyn's face blanch.

“Spoiled rations, my liege,” Owaen went on, waving the bit of pork. “Your councillor there assigns the provisions, and I think me he gave the silver daggers the last of the winter's stores.”

“What?” Oggyn squeaked. “No such thing! If you received spoiled food, then one of the servants made a mistake.” He glanced at Maryn. “Your Highness, if you'll release me, I'd best go have a look at the barrel that meat came from. I'll wager it doesn't have my mark upon it.”

“I'll do better than that,” Maryn said, grinning. “I'll come with you. Lead on, captains.”

Maddyn received a sudden portent of futility. No doubt Oggyn had been too clever to leave evidence lying about. The two silver daggers led the prince and his councillor back to their camp and the provision cart, where Garro and his da hauled down the offending barrel. By the light of a lantern Oggyn examined the lid with Maryn looking on.

“Not a mark on it,” Oggyn said triumphantly. “This
barrel should have been emptied for the dun's dogs, not carted for the army.”

“Well, make sure it's dumped now,” Maryn said. “But a fair bit away. I don't like the smell of it.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Oggyn said. “I'll have a replacement sent round from my personal stores.”

All at once Maddyn wondered if he should have sampled the pork. Too late now, he thought, and truly, we've eaten worse over the years. He put the matter out of his mind, but it remained, alas, in his stomach. He woke well before dawn, rolled out of his blankets, and rushed for the latrine ditch just beyond the encampment. He managed to reach it before the flux overwhelmed his self-control.

“Nevyn, my lord Nevyn!” The voice sounded both loud and urgent. “Your aid!”

Through the tent wall a dim light shone.

“What's all this?” Nevyn sat up and yawned. “Who is it?”

“Branoic, my lord. Maddyn's been poisoned.”

Nevyn found himself both wide-awake and standing. He pulled on his brigga, grabbed his sack of medicinals in one hand and a shirt in the other, and ducked through the tent flap. Branoic stood outside with a lantern raised in one hand.

“He ate a bit of spoiled pork, Owaen told me,” Branoic said. “But it came from a barrel that Oggyn gave us.”

Branoic led Nevyn to the bard's tent. Just outside, his clothes lay stinking in a soiled heap. Inside Nevyn found Maddyn lying naked on a blanket. The tent smelled of vomit and diarrhea. Owaen knelt beside him with a wet rag in one hand.

“I've been wiping his face off,” Owaen said. “I don't think he's going to heave anymore.”

“Naught left,” Maddyn whispered.

“How do you feel?” Nevyn said.

“Wrung out. My guts are cramping.”

The effort of talking was making him shiver. Nevyn grabbed a clean blanket and laid it over him. In the
lantern light his white face, marked with dark circles under his eyes, shone with cold sweat. Nevyn sent Owaen off to wake a servant to heat some water, then knelt beside his patient. Branoic hung the lantern from the tent pole and retreated.

“Gods,” Maddyn mumbled. “I stink.”

“Good,” Nevyn said. “Your body's flushing the contagion out. I'm going to make you drink herbwater, though, to ensure that every last bit's gone. It won't be pleasant, I'm afraid.”

“Better than dying.”

“Exactly.”

Maddyn sighed and turned his face away. The stench hanging in the tent was free of the taint of poison, or at least, Nevyn thought, free of any poison he'd recognize. While he waited for the hot water to arrive, Nevyn sat back on his heels and opened his dweomer sight. Maddyn's aura curled tight around him, all shrunken and flabby, a pale brownish color shot with sickly green. Yet it pulsed, as if it fought to regain its normal size, and brightened close to the skin. Nevyn closed his sight.

“You'll live,” Nevyn announced.

“Good.” All at once Maddyn tried to sit up. “The rose pin.”

“What?” Nevyn pushed him down again. “Lie still!”

“I've got to find the rose pin. On my shirt.”

All at once Nevyn remembered. “The token the princess gave you, you mean?”

“It was on my shirt.”

“All your clothes are right outside. It can wait.”

Maddyn shook his head and tried to sit up again. Fortunately, a servant provided a distraction when he came in, carrying in one hand a black kettle filled with steaming water.

“My thanks,” Nevyn said. “Put that down over there by the big cloth sack. I've got another errand for you. On the bard's shirt outside—”

“The rose pin, my lord?” The servant held out his other hand. “Branoic told me to bring it to him.”

On his palm lay the token. Nevyn plucked it off and showed it to Maddyn, who lay back down.

“I'll pin this on my own shirt,” Nevyn said, “so it won't get lost.”

Maddyn smiled, his eyes closed. Nevyn set a packet of emetics to steeping, then called in Branoic. Together they carried Maddyn and the kettle outside, where the herbwa-ter could do its work while sparing the tent. The rest of the night passed unpleasantly, but toward dawn Nevyn realized that Maddyn was on the mend when the bard managed to drink some well-watered ale and keep it down. He sent young Garro off to wash Maddyn's clothes and told Branoic to try feeding Maddyn a little bread soaked in ale the next time he woke.

“I've got an errand to run,” Nevyn said. “I wonder where Oggyn's had his servant pitch his tent?”

“Just back of the prince's own,” Branoic said. “He's put a red pennant upon it.”

“Just like the lord he wants to be, eh? Very well then.”

In the silver light of approaching dawn the tent proved easy enough to find. Nevyn lifted the flap and spoke Oggyn's name.

“I'm awake, my lord,” Oggyn said, and he sounded exhausted. “Come in.”

Nevyn ducked through the tent flap and found Oggyn fully dressed, sitting on a little stool in the semidarkness. Nevyn called upon the spirits of Aethyr and set a ball of dweomer light glowing. When he stuck it to the canvas Oggyn barely seemed to notice.

“I've been expecting you,” Oggyn said. “I heard what happened to Maddyn. The gossip's all over the camp. I suppose you think I made that wretched bard ill on purpose.”

“I had thoughts that way, truly,” Nevyn said. “Was it only the spoiled pork, or did you use a bit of Lady Merodda's poisons?”

“Neither, I swear it!” Oggyn began to tremble, and by the dweomer light Nevyn could see that his face had gone pasty white around the eyes. “Even if I had given them that barrel, how could I ensure that only Maddyn would eat the
stuff? Nevyn, do you truly think I'd poison the entire troop to get at him?”

“Shame is a bitter thing,” Nevyn said, “and you had a score or two to settle with Owaen and Branoic as well.”

Oggyn slid off the stool and dropped to his knees. “Ah ye gods! Do you think I'd do anything that would harm our prince?”

“What? Of course not!”

“He depends upon the silver daggers.” Oggyn looked up. Big drops of sweat ran down his face. “Think you I'd poison his guards?”

“Well.” Nevyn considered for a long moment. “Truly, I have to give you that. And there's no doubt that spoiled meat will give a man the flux as surely as Merodda's poisons would.”

Oggyn nodded repeatedly, as if urging him along this line of thought. Nevyn opened his dweomer sight and considered Oggyn's aura, dancing a pale sickly grey in terror but free of guile.

“Will you swear to me again?” Nevyn said.

“I will,” Oggyn said. “May Great Bel strike me dead if I lie. I did not try to poison Maddyn or anyone else. That salt pork should have been left at the dun for the dogs.”

The aura pulsated with fear but fear alone.

“Very well,” Nevyn said at last. “You have my apology.”

Oggyn got up and ran a shaking hand over his face. “I can see why you'd suspect me,” he whispered. “But I swear to you, I did no such thing. I'm just cursed glad you came to me in private and didn't just blurt this in front of the prince.”

“I did have my doubts.”

“Ah ye gods! I'll never be safe again. Anytime the least little harm befalls that wretched bard, I'll be blamed.”

“Truly, you might devote some time to thinking up ways to keep him safe.”

Oggyn gave him a sickly smile. Without another word, Nevyn left him to recover his composure.

There remained the problem of what to do with Maddyn. He was too weak to ride with the army; jouncing
around in a cart would only weaken him further. This deep into enemy territory leaving him behind would be a death sentence. The morning's council of war, however, solved the problem. Gwerbret Ammerwdd pointed out that Braemys was most likely laying a trap or, at the least, leading them into some weak position.

“He knows this country well,” Ammerwdd said. “I've no doubt he's got some trick in mind, or some battlefield that will be to his liking but not to ours.”

“I agree,” Maryn said. “I suggest we camp here today and send out scouts. They can cover a good deal of territory once they're free of the army.”

After a great deal of discussion, the rest of the lords went along with the plan. All that morning the army waited as horsemen came and went, fanning out into the countryside in the hopes of getting a glimpse of Braemys's position.

Nevyn spent much of the wait with Maddyn in his tent. Although the herbs had purged the worst of the contagion, the bard still lay ill, so exhausted he was cold and shivering despite the afternoon warmth. From the vomiting, his lips and the skin around them were cracking. When Nevyn rubbed herbed lard into them, he noticed that his skin had no resilience. Nevyn pinched a bit twixt thumb and forefinger so gently that Maddyn never noticed, but the little ridge of skin persisted rather than smoothing itself out.

Fortunately, near to camp some of the men had found a spring of pure water; Nevyn sent Branoic off with a clean bucket to fetch some back.

“The contagion has depleted his watery humors,” Nevyn told him. “We've got to replenish them.”

Sometimes Maddyn could keep the pure water down, and sometimes it came back up again, but eventually he did manage to drink enough to allay the worst of Nevyn's fears. Through all of this Branoic hovered miserably outside, glad for every little errand that Nevyn found for him to do.

“He's been my friend from the day I joined the daggers,” Branoic said. “I'll do anything I can, my lord.”

“Good,” Nevyn said. “He needs water and food both, but he won't be able to keep down more than a bite or swallow at a time.”

“If all that arse-ugly pork's gone, why is he still so sick?”

“I wish I knew. Men who've eaten spoiled food often stay ill for a long time after, but I've no idea why.”

Branoic stared wide-eyed.

“There's a cursed lot of things I don't know,” Nevyn went on. “No other herbman I've ever met knows them either. Why contagion lingers is one of them, and how it spreads is another.”

“I see.” Branoic rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “That's not what I'd call reassuring, my lord.”

“Honesty rarely is. Now, go tend Maddyn. I've got to make myself presentable for the prince's council of war.”

In a darkening twilight two of Daeryc's men galloped in with news. A herald led them to the prince, who was sitting in front of his tent with Nevyn and some of his vassals around him. In the firelight they knelt to him and told their tale. They'd ridden directly east—or so they'd reckoned from the position of the sun. Their shadows were stretching long in front of them by the time they topped a low rise and saw, some miles farther off, a huge cloud of dust drifting at the horizon.