A Sword for a Dragon (2 page)

It rained all night.

In the morning, it was still raining and colder than ever. Relkin awoke and found Bazil already up and working on the edge of his new sword, a military issue blade with no name, just the number six hundred and twenty-seven.

“It is over,” he said with a dragon finality that was absolute. “We go back today. I will come again next year. If she lives, then I know she will come then.”

Relkin shivered. “Next year? You want to come back here and do this again?”

“Boy not have to come! Dragon come alone!”

“It might come to that,” muttered Relkin, though both knew he would never let his charge out of his sight for so long.

Bazil finished with the sword and held it up, rain splattering off the blue steel.

“Bah, this sword is clumsy, stupid. I do not want to fight with it.”

Relkin had been hearing complaints about the sword, a straightforward military blade, almost eight feet long, ever since it had been presented to Brazil the previous summer.

For months, in fact, Relkin had been secretly saving silver to buy his dragon a new and better blade, but the cost was enormous. Such a weapon represented a year’s salary, and Relkin had a long way to go before he could approach one of the armorers at Fort Dal-housie and make a down payment on one of the lovely blades that hung at the rear of their shops.

Bazil stood up and swung the sword, the steel whistling through the air and slicing off the tops of a couple of unfortunate saplings. With a final grumble, he sheathed the blade and picked around in the remains of the oat sack for a handful of grain.

In a sullen mood, and with bellies rumbling from hunger, they descended the hemlock-clad slopes of Mt. Ulmo. At the river Argo, which had risen to a torrent because of the incessant rain, the only ferry was reluctant to cross to the small town of Sutsons Camp.

They had to wait on the north side of the river, where there was nothing except a few battered huts used by local fishermen. They were fortunate in one thing: there were some fishermen there who’d had a reasonable catch the day before. So while they spent another miserable night, Relkin inside one of the verminous, smoky huts and Bazil bivouacked under a fishing boat pulled up on the shore, they at least had several quarts of a hot fish stew in their bellies.

The following morning, the rain gave up at last and was replaced with a freezing wind from the northwest, “Hazog Breath” it was called up on the cold-stone ramparts of Fort Kenor. Relkin and Baz waited disconsolately, sitting in front of a small fire. At lunch, they bought more fish soup from the fishermen. It was considerably thinner than it had been and did little to appease their hunger. Relkin was so subdued by cold and hunger that he scarcely argued with the fishermen about the quality of the soup.

The afternoon wore on, cold and colder. An occasional dark cloud flew past. The river continued in spate.

Then at last, just before dusk, they spied a sail and soon afterward cheered the arrival of a large trading boat, the
Tench
, captained by one Polymus Karpone.

Dragon and boy signaled frantically to the trader, and she set her sails to come around and fight the current, cross the stream, and picks them up.

The
Tench
was a two-masted brig with a shallow draught and a mobile keel. She was purposely built for the river trade and able to get in close to almost any shore.

Her captain was a bald, full-bellied man who wore a weathered suit of black fusgeen. His ruddy face was creased, and he most often had his pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth.

“What accommodations have you for a dragon and a dragoneer?” asked Relkin when they’d been hauled aboard.

“You can have the front quarter of my forward hold. It’s a little tight, but it’s warm down there and it’s dry. Plenty of hay. We’ve taken dragons before this. Where are you headed?”

“Port Dalhousie.”

“Well, that’ll cost one silver groat apiece…”

“Two groats! To get from here to Dalhousie? That’s extortion! One groat will suffice.”

“One groat will buy only the cold collation, which is essentially bread.”

Relkin scowled. “What are the hot items on the menu?”

“There is a venison pie, we took on several of them at Argo Landing. And there is the fish chowder, our chef is an expert on the chowder.”

“Forget the chowder, we have eaten little but chowder for the last day or so.”

“Then it must be two groats. A dragon will eat one entire pie, not to mention dumplings.”

“Do you have akh?”

“We have the best akh from Jemins and Sveet, who are famous for all their bottled sauces. You must know the name.”

“The dragon is fond of akh, especially on the dumplings.”

“He can have all the dumplings he wants, but it must be two silver groats. One of those pies is a penny’s worth on its own.”

Relkin looked to Bazil who shrugged. The captain opened the hatch above the galley a crack, and a waft of hot air carried the delicious smells of venison pies baking in the oven. Bazil groaned.

Relkin heaved a vast sigh. “Very well. It is far too much, but we are too tired to argue. Two groats it is.”

The
Tench
pushed off and moved swiftly downriver. Bazil shed his mantle and cape, and Relkin got out of his wet clothes and put on slightly drier things from his pack, an undershirt of Marneri wool and some brown breeches. Then he went in search of hot food.

In the galley, Relkin found a little man with a monk’s tonsure and a suit of coarse brown wool sitting on a bench eating a plate of dumplings and sauce. His trousers ended above the ankle and his feet, protected only by skimpy sandals, seemed blue from the chill winds that whipped around the deck. He seemed oblivious to the chill, however, happily murmuring to himself as he ate.

When Relkin asked for more akh on Bazil’s pail of dumplings, the man with the tonsure looked up with immediate interest.

“Excuse me young fellow,” he said. “Is it customary for people to eat akh in this province?”

The man had a curious accent, Relkin could not place it at first. And it was an outlandish idea, akh was a compound made of the hottest peppers, the strongest garlic, and a brew of aged fish stock. In Relkin’s experience, it appealed only to dragons and wood rats.

“Not at all, sir monk. I take the akh for my dragon.”

The monk’s eyes grew round. “Dragon? You are a dragoneer then. I am very pleased to meet a dragoneer. I have heard much of their prowess.”

Relkin held out a hand. “Dragoneer First Class Relkin of Quosh, at your service sir monk.”

The little man had a firm grip and beady, blue eyes. “I am Ton Akalon, from the Isles of Cunfshon. I am working for the Soil Survey.”

Now it was Relkin’s turn to be surprised. The little man had come all the way from Cunfshon! That explained the odd accent. All the way from the fabled Isles of Cunfshon, with their witches and cities of ancient stone.

“And is there a dragon on this ship then?” asked the surveyor.

Relkin came out of revery. “There is Sir Ton. And I am his dragoneer.”

“Ton, please call me Ton. I would love to meet a dragon. Of course, one has read all about them, but I have never had the opportunity of actually seeing one in the flesh.”

By now, Relkin had collected a trencher of pie, plus the pail of dumplings and akh, and a shoulder sack full of hot bread.

“My dragon would be honored to meet you, too, Sir Ton.”

“No, just Ton. I am not a knight of the empire, and I doubt that I ever shall be. I am not a military man at all. My specialty is soil.”

“Soil?”

The little man’s eyes seemed to light up at the word.

“Yes, I am conducting a survey of the soils in Kenor. There are several highly fertile basins, over limestone, with good deep soils. The empire is considering making a considerable investment in these areas. Food is a great trade weapon you see. Once Kenor begins exporting grains in quantity, the empire will be able to vastly increase its effectiveness in the diplomatic arena.”

“Food is a weapon?” This idea was new to Relkin.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. And I see your dragon likes plenty of it.” Ton indicated the pail of dumplings, slathered in hot reeking akh that had been set out for Relkin.

“Here, I’ve finished my own. Allow me to help,” said Ton Akalon, who picked up the heavy pail of dumplings and waited for Relkin to show the way. Relkin could detect no malice in the man, and his garb was too humble to be that of an enemy. One problem the enemy always had was that their agents did not care to pass as poor simple folk. Relkin recalled the aura of menace that had surrounded the evil Magician Thrembode when he had come to disable Bazil at the Dragon House in Marneri. Ton Akalon had no such aura, in fact, he seemed utterly harmless.

Bazil as not in a good mood, but at the sight of dinner, his eyes lit up to something like their normal brilliance.

“Baz, this is Ton Akalon from Cunfshon. He’s never met a dragon before.”

Big black eyes examined the surveyor.

“I am Bazil of Quosh. This is my dragonboy, Relkin. I have few complaints with him.”

“The dragon is sulky at the moment,” Relkin whispered to the surveyor.

Bazil snorted with derision, and ate.

“I am honored to meet you Sir Bazil. I have heard much of the dragons of Argonath,” said Ton Akalon, “but of course we do not see them very much in Cunfshon.”

Bazil swallowed a loaf thickly slathered with akh. Cunfshon?

“And what brings a man of Cunfshon all way to Kenor?” He asked, helping himself to a “nibble” of the venison pie that was six inches to a side.

“I am assisting the agricultural effort in Kenor, Sir Brazil. In particular, I am searching for places that might suit intensive grain farming perhaps.”

“Aah. And have you found such places in Kenor?”

“Oh, indeed, Sir Dragon. However, I expect to find the best conditions in the South, in Monistol and Tuala.”

Relkin returned with a foaming pail of ale. He drew off a cup for himself and a cup for the surveyor, and then passed the pail to Baz who took a long, deep draught.

“I have been telling your dragon about my mission. I hope to confirm our suspicions concerning Tuala and western Monistol.”

Relkin’s ears pricked up. Like anyone else in the frontier, he was always interested in good land. One day, years in the future, he and Baz would be mustered out of the legion and given land to farm.

“Oh yes, and what do you suspect?”

The surveyor’s eyes lit up, the bony face became animated for a moment, and then he grew guarded.

“Well, all I can really tell you now is that Tuala will be a great place for the farmer. The survey’s a secret until it’s published of course, but I doubt there’s any harm in letting you know that much.”

“Around Lake Tua then. Well, it’s not easy to get there. There’s no direct river route.”

“The Tuala road from Fort Redor will be the selected pathway for trade,” said Ton Akalon with the assuredness of the high-level bureaucrat. “I believe it has been extended now to Lake Tua itself. In time, it will be upgraded to a plank road. The traffic will make fortunes for those who can supply good mules and wagons. Yes, there will be a bright future in the Tua basins.”

Relkin chewed and swallowed. The pie was devilishly good.

“I’ve heard great things about wheat farming in the Esk Valley.”

Ton Akalon frowned. “Ah yes, the Esk. Much have I read about the beauties of the Vale of Esk. But those soils are too light. My predecessor, Acultax, wrote extensively concerning the Esk Valley. In ancient times, before the fall of Veronath, it was a famous place of vineyards and orchards. Now I’m afraid they are exhausting the soils there. It will be wasteland, all gone back to scrub forest and broom sedge within twenty years if they continue this way. You mark my words.”

Relkin smiled, he most certainly would. On his internal ledger, the very name of Esk Valley was being erased, while that of Tuala was burning bright.

Relkin had many questions about the fabulous Isles of Cunfshon, and many misperceptions that Ton Akalon did his best to correct. Quite soon, however, the food and the ale on top of it worked its own magic. Brazil’s huge head dropped first, but Relkin soon yawned and slid down against the wall to a more comfortable position. It had suddenly become very hard to keep his eyes open. The surveyor noticed that his audience was asleep and jumped to his feet.

“Ah me, I’ve been running on again. I’m afraid it tends to happen. Get a lonely old surveyor drinking ale, and he can talk all night! I can see you’re ready to sleep, good sirs. Thank you so much, an honor to have met you.”

Snores were the only response. Ton Akalon finished his cup of ale, slipped out the door, and went back to his own cabin where he wrote down this first encounter with a battledragon team, in his travel journal. A journal that already covered sixty pages of close-written lettering in his immaculate hand.

The dragon was a great brown-green beast with occasional pale nodules on his underside and larger scales on his upper surfaces. His eyes were black, and most unquestionably filled with intelligence. The mouth, like a crocodile’s almost and just as capable of swallowing immense quantities of food. Ton Akalon thrilled as he relived the moment. And the dragonboy was almost as remarkable. A youth of sixteen or less, but with the manners of an adult and a certain hardness around the mouth that betrayed experience of war. He wore weapons, as casually as children in Cunfshon carried hoops and rubber balls.

Eventually Ton Akalon grew sleepy and slipped into the blankets on the bunk and slid into a comfortable, deep sleep.

The
Tench
moved swiftly downstream and within a couple of hours came into its next stop, the small town of Long Lake, which was visible in a straggle of yellow lights along the dockside.

No sooner was the
Tench
snugged alongside the dock, when a disturbance broke out on the loading platform. A large full-bellied man in the uniform of a regimental commander forced his way through the crowd with bellowed oaths and curses. Accompanying him was a hefty man in black fusgeen with the glint of chain mail at neck and wrist. The presence of this man produced an avenue for the fat man with the loud voice. A few moments later, he stood on Captain Karpone’s poop deck.