A Sword for a Dragon (10 page)

General Dausar intimated that he thought General Paxion was very lucky and that he, General Dausar, wished he were going with Paxion and the fighting Second. Paxion smiled and endured the handclasps and wished inwardly that Dausar was going in his place.

With heavy heart, Paxion reembarked and caught up with the rest of the fleet, which had sailed past Fort Kenor.

By midday, the Argo was merging into the mighty Oon. The river had broadened now until it was half a mile wide. A great flat stream flowing sluggishly through complex channels braided by islets with beds of rushes and sheets of waterweed.

Eventually they left the rushes behind and entered the Oon itself, a mighty stream, surprisingly shallow in places and running clear with snow melt from the High Gan. In contrast, the water of the Argo was dark, thick with material brought down from the forests. The water of the Argo was visible within the greater volume of the Oon for a long time after the confluence.

The great volcanic cone of Mt. Kenor began to recede. Far away in the uttermost west, they glimpsed the sparkle of the snow atop the mighty White Bones Mountains. And before them in the west was the empty Gan, a sea of grass that stretched away in all directions.

The river broadened, and they encountered contrary winds and their progress was slowed for a while to almost nothing. As the afternoon wore on, they saw a line of dark clouds appear on the northern horizon. The wind died, then shifted to the north and quite soon there came a chilly blast, a final lick of wintry air coming down from the uttermost north. The winds rose and became quite gusty within minutes, and Paxion ordered the fleet to make for shore at a desolate fishing hamlet in northern Teot.

There they spent the night. The next day was grey and cold, clouds hurried past overhead, driven by the north winds. The fleet reembarked and made good speed, surging ahead down the river with the winds from the rear.

All day the wind strengthened and grew colder. Black clouds appeared in the far north and hurried to catch up with them. In late afternoon there were cold showers, and then at dusk it began to sleet and it became intolerable to sit out on the decks of the barges. On the rafts the men huddled around braziers inside the tents and rough-hewn cabins.

The rafts were pitching and threatening to break up when at last General Paxion ordered the fleet to seek safety on the eastern shore, where the lights of a good-sized Teetol village could be seen.

Two scouts with good knowledge of Teot-Doshak and the other north Teetol languages went ashore. They made contact and presented gifts of ax heads and anvils to the village elders, the Teetol welcomed the fleet to enter the protected inlet that served the village as safe harbor for its fishing boats.

The men scrambled ashore and worked to square away the rafts and barges under the driving sleet. But with dragons to help, the heavy work was soon done, and they quickly pitched tents and lashed things tight. The Teetol womenfolk were rousted out and put to fetching firewood and water for the legion.

Paxion dug into his own purse for the gold to buy hot food. Teetol stews and goulash were famous, and the women of the village boiled up an enormous hot bully goulash that was eaten with the evening’s noodles. The men used their own silver to buy mead from the Teetol brewer women.

Some Teetol men with daughters of the right age appeared and tried to sell them to the legionaries. General Paxion had been forewarned of the practice, which he forbade, and sent all officers around the tents to ensure that none of his men indulged in this shameful trade.

Some of the men grumbled at this prohibition, but after a while even they found contentment in the hot food and the generously flowing mead. They sang their songs and played mouth organs and mouth harps. The “Kenor Song” was sung over and over, along with “Longlilly La Loo” and “Over the Mountains.”

General Paxion himself took a turn around the tents, pausing to sip a little mead with the men and to exchange some banter with the sergeants. Paxion called on everyone to remember that the Teetol were prone to a sense of having been wronged. When wronged, the Teetol fought duels. Their method of dueling was ancient and quite unlike that of the Argonath civilization. Each opponent took up a long pole, weighted at one end. Then, taking turns, they would strike each other as hard as possible. It was considered cowardly to even flinch from the blow when it came to one’s turn to receive. The challenger was struck first, of course, but the Teetol were inured to it, and it was rare that the challenger could be incapacitated by the first blow. Then it would be their turn to strike.

Paxion painted a vivid picture of this, aided by his memories of a time many years before when he’d seen a legionary embroiled in a dispute over the payment for the use of a Teetol daughter.

Paxion’s words were taken to heart. The Teetol had a well-deserved reputation for fighting and ill-temperedness. They were excessively proud and fractious. The men stayed in their tents.

Meanwhile Commander Glaves of the Eighth Regiment sat in his tent shivering against the night chill despite the thick rug pulled around his middle. Glumly, he counted his sorrows until Dandrax returned with a pannier full of hot bully goulash. Glaves fell on the stew with little mews of ecstasy. It was spicy and rich and full of vegetables and chunks of elk. It was the first good thing to happen in days.

So far, Glaves had found the traveling conditions far from ideal. On the barge, he was confined to a humiliatingly tiny cabin, in which he could scarcely lie down let alone turn around. The food was boring, and the sound of the men singing, “moaning like useless milk cows,” as he put it, set his teeth on edge every evening. Again and again, he felt the pain of deep regret that he had ever joined the legions.

His spoon scraped on metal. He looked up. Wearily, Dandrax responded to the call. When he returned with another pannier of the stew, Glaves ate it immediately. At length he was stuffed.

He lay back on his cot and groaned. He suddenly felt nauseated. It was an old problem for him, overeating followed by feeling ill. There came a sudden spasm, and he lurched to his feet, staggered out of the tent, and made his way down to the riverside, where he vomited, making a mess of a pair of white wool knee stockings.

He stood there gasping and heaving.

The sleet had turned to snow, and the air was quite cold. The ground was starting to get a coat of white. The cold air felt refreshing, and Glaves took several breaths and began to feel a mite better.

He turned around and found a few Teetol men watching him, wearing nothing except breechclouts and their weapons belts. Some of them wore short-sleeves vests made of beadwork, but nothing that might serve to keep out the chill north wind. They stood barefoot in the snow, smiling.

“Damned savages!” he muttered, envenomed at the sight. “Don’t have the sense to put their clothes on!” He turned to head back to his tent, but found a burly Teetol, two inches taller than himself and sculpted from ridged muscle, standing squarely in his path.

The Teetol man put a hand on Glaves’s chest and stopped his progress. The fellow had piercing black eyes and skin bronzed copper from the summer sun while his skull was shaved except for a top knot that was stiffened with bear grease and stood up in a spike nine inches tall. He smelled of bear grease and leather.

“You call the men of Teut-a-Dok village ‘savages’?” he asked in good, though accented Verio.

Glaves sucked in a breath. He’d never dreamed the damned Teetol could understand Verio.

“Out of my way,” he blustered. “How dare you impede an officer of the legion!”

The massively built Teetol brave stayed where he was. Worse, he stabbed Glaves on the sternum with a stiff forefinger.

“I call you a dog-faced cur with the courage of a woman,” he snarled.

Glaves stared at the fellow, astounded by this turn of events and quite appalled. The insult to his dignity was mortifying. He exploded in rage.

“Why you!” He felt the hot bully goulash rising thickly in his gorge for a moment.

Weakly he signaled to Dandrax to appear from the shadows.

The tall, hard-faced mercenary came forward.

“Slay that man,” snarled Glaves thickly.

Dandrax hesitated, though his hand strayed to his sword hilt. There were a dozen more Teetol men, some with tomahawks in their belts, standing behind the one that had attacked his master. If he drew his sword, there would be a melee and he might well die here. Dandrax had promised himself that he would never die for Porteous Glaves.

“No, master,” he said. “There are too many.”

The warrior laughed in a loud braying tone and pointed to Glaves.

“Not only are you dog-faced but you have the heart of a chicken. You would have someone else to fight your battles for you. Chicken dog, I call you.”

There were legionaries watching by now and more were coming. Glaves began to feel trapped in a particularly unpleasant nightmare. The huge savage was persistent.

“I challenge you chicken dog, you must fight me in the traditional way.”

Glaves demurred. Dozens of Teetol men and youths had gathered by now. As the word of what was happening spread so the entire village began to boil with activity.

Alerted by a concerned lieutenant that had witnessed the scene, General Paxion himself arrived on the run. He was none too pleased with what he now discovered.

Paxion had already realized that in Glaves he had a vindictive oaf commanding an entire regiment. He cursed the new system that allowed wealthy men to buy into regiments. Men like Porteous Glaves did not belong on the battlefield. But the cities were desperate for revenue, and they would take it however they could raise it now.

“What is this all about?”

Glaves saw Paxion and his heart sank, but he grasped at the general as if at a straw.

“This fellow came up to me and struck me. My man Dandrax has been helping me hold them off.”

Dandrax heard the sarcastic tone in Glaves’s voice and ignored it. He only took Glaves’s gold because there was so much of it. Someday he would ignore the fat fool.

The brave stood forward.

“He lies. I challenge him because he is a chicken-hearted dog, a cur that should be whipped. He insult the men of Teetol. He think no Teetol speak the tongue of the city peoples.”

Paxion looked back to Glaves for a moment.

“What do you mean he insulted the men of Teetol?”

“He think that no one in Teuta village speak Verio. But I Fish Eye, I speak Verio good. Yes?”

“Umm, yes, you do. And what did you hear my officer say?”

“He say Teetol are witless savages to go in bare feet in snow.”

“I see.” Paxion turned back to Glaves. His anger mellowing into a warm anticipation.

“Is this true, Commander?”

Glaves frothed. “Absolutely not, sir, I am heedful of our orders to befriend the Teetol.”

Fish Eye was laughing again. He bellowed out a stream of Teetol to his friends, and the crowd of men and youths erupted into widespread laughter.

“Well-done, Commander,” murmured Paxion with heavy-handed irony. “You’ve convinced them that Argonath men have souls of craven curs, hearts of chickens, and heads of dogs. I don’t know what you said, but I am certain that you said something. Fish Eye is a man of honor, he may be a little proud, but looking at him I’d say he has reason to be.” Paxion shrugged. “You’ll have to meet the man face-to-face unless you can think of something clever.”

“Preposterous,” expostulated Glaves. “My dignity as a commander…”

“Will be gone completely if your men think you are afraid to face this man. So will the honor of your regiment.”

“I refuse.”

“Then you will be publicly branded a coward.”

Glaves swallowed. Total disaster; a taint of cowardice would doom his political ambitions. There was no way out.

As if in a horrid dream, Porteous Glaves found himself stripped to the waist in the driving snow while a six-foot-long pole was thrust into his hands.

Fish Eye stood a few feet away, surrounded by friends and supporters who were placing bets on how many blows it would take to knock down the fat fool from the city.

Fish Eye handled the six-foot pole with a cheerful informality that bespoke long use and much experience. It seemed to slice through the air like a live thing. Glaves was sure this was going to be one of the worst days of his life.

Now the troops were coming out of the tents to watch. It wasn’t often they got the chance to see a senior officer get beaten to a pulp.

There was an air of barely restrained hilarity among the men of the Eighth Regiment. Since Glaves had introduced the leather neck cuffs, they had hated him passionately. He had also had two men flogged for having a sip of whiskey in their tent. It was a legal punishment, but unnecessary since neither of the men were drunkards. Their eyes shone with a peculiar luster now as they watched the preparations.

Dandrax gave him a swallow of whiskey. He coughed as it burned its way down, but it left him feeling a tiny bit better.

“You strike first, sir,” said Dandrax.

Glaves took a deep breath. Of course, that was it, the way out. This simple savage had miscalculated.

“Exactly, exactly, good point. Hit the fellow hard enough, and he won’t come back for more.” Glaves practiced a few swings with the pole. It was dreadfully solid yet flexible, a terrible thing to strike a man with.

Fish Eye stood forth. “It is time, come out to face me dog-faced chicken heart.” Fish Eye thrust out his chest and stood there waiting.

Glaves swung the rod a few more times then stepped up, gathered all his strength and lashed out. The thing whistled through the air and then with a solid smack it struck Fish Eye on the chest.

It was as if he’d struck a tree. Fish Eye barely blinked for a moment, then gave him a huge smile, raised a finger at him, and wagged it back and forth.

The Teetol erupted into roars of approval and laughter. Now they would see Fish Eye strike his blow. Fish Eye was famous in the entire region for his strength with the pole.

Fish Eye began taking a few trial swings with his own rod. Glaves’s throat went dry.