A Sword for a Dragon (4 page)

Hatlin exchanged salutes with Bazil and directed them to a stall.

Dragonboys wore clogs in the Dragon House, and now clogs thundered on the cobbles as a mob of boys in blue jackets and red wool caps swarmed about the entrance of their stall.

Relkin pulled the curtain shut, took a deep breath, and then slipped outside for a moment where he announced to the throng that the broketail dragon would meet them all, but one at a time, later in the day, when they’d all had some breakfast. Then Relkin introduced himself to each in turn, and shook hands. There were a lot of new faces and names to remember.

Among them was one familiar face, Mono, old Chektor’s dragonboy and the only other active survivor from the old 109th fighting dragons.

With a cry of joy, Relkin and Mono embraced.

“It is incredible that you survived!” said Mono, a tall dark-haired fellow with the looks of the South, where the sun shone on olive groves and vineyards. “When we saw you march off into the Gan from the river, we were sure we’d never see any of you again.”

“Well, you almost didn’t. It was a damned close thing. How is Chektor?”

“Good, his feet are healed from the summer campaign. We had a quiet time here all winter. How was Fort Kenor?”

“Bitter! By the old gods those winds off the Gan can freeze you to the bone!”

“Well, we’re in for a warm summer. Have you heard?”

“Heard what? I just got here, I haven’t heard anything.”

“The civil war in Ourdh is going badly for their emperor, so an expeditionary force of two legions is being sent to help prop him up on his throne.”

“And?”

“And the Eighth Regiment is going.”

Relkin let out a whoop and tossed his black Kenor rain hat into the air.

His visions of Tuala province and its good limestone soils faded away, and were replaced by vistas of ancient Ourdh and its sly, sophisticated people in their huge cities.

You could buy anything you wanted in Ourdh, it was said, as long as you had the silver.

“Then we’ll be going to the great city?”

“Why not?” Mono wore a slow smile.

“By the gods, there are women in Ourdh! Such women as we can scarcely dream of.”

Relkin suddenly became aware of an audience of intent young faces, junior dragonboys all around. He clamped his mouth shut. He’d already said too much, and his words would be spread around in no time. He didn’t want Hatlin coming down on him for affecting the morals of the young ones.

He clapped Mono on the shoulder.

“To Ourdh. Who would have imagined?”

In truth, Relkin did not mind in the least exchanging farmsteads for folly. It seemed a heaven-sent opportunity.

Had his luck changed when he invoked the old gods? Was that a sin? Would the Great Mother be frowning at him? And what if she was, if the old gods were on his side? Relkin had always had a hard time sorting out the gods and the goddess.

To Ourdh! Anyone could get what he wanted in Ourdh, everyone knew that. The place was the flesh-pot of the continent.

He wanted to jump in the air and kick his heels but dared not in the presence of all these young junior dragonboys, fresh out of the cities and not yet blooded in battle. He was a veteran and expected to set a sober, mature example.

A sudden heavy grunt turned his head, and he saw a huge brasshide dragon standing there on all fours.

With a glad cry, he hugged the monster’s thick neck. “Old Chek, I’m so glad to see you.”

“Ha, you so lucky to see me. Very lucky. By all rights your bones should lie in Tummuz Orgmeen. Where is the broketail one?”

The curtain was pulled back, and Bazil emerged at the sound of a familiar dragon voice. The boys stared up in awe.

“Broketail, good to see you again. We the only ones left.”

“Chektor.”

The two dragons shook forehands together for a moment.

“I heard about Nesessitas, very sad. I very angry.”

“I killed the one that did it. He did not live long to enjoy his triumph. Troll with sword, a new thing, much quicker than the older kinds. It surprised her, cut her knee. She could not move.”

Chektor snapped his big jaws shut.

“They say we kill trolls again soon. I will kill many for her.” The great beasts clasped forehands again and slipped into dragon speech as they entered Brazil’s stall and drew the curtain once more.

Mono continued to introduce Relkin to the new dragonboys in the unit.

“Shim of Seant, he tends the brasshide, Likim.” Shim was a slim, pale youth with silver hair and strange, almost colorless eyes.

“This is Tomas Black Eye, who has Cham, a leatherback from Blue Stone.” Tomas wore a patch where he was missing an eye. “Solly here has Rold, a brass-hide from Troat.” Relkin shook hands and slapped palms.

A tall, sullen-faced youth was next. Mono grew quieter.

“And this is Swane of Revenant, he tends Vlok, another leatherback, a veteran from the 122nd, who’ve been broken up.”

A veteran? From a disbanded unit? Questions filled Relkin’s thoughts.

“Glad to meet you,” said Relkin.

“Likewise I’m sure,” said Swane with a surly expression.

“Your unit was broken up?”

“Three drags down with foot disease, the white rot. One lost to a fall on a patrol on the Argo, and one retired with incurably bad knees. Then they broke us up, never gave us another chance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You had it rough, too, I hear,” said Swane of Revenant. Relkin looked up at the taller boy.

“Something like that,” he said.

“Incredible stories they told about it all. I expect you’ll fill us in on what it was really like.”

Relkin watched Swane’s departing back and felt sure he was going to have trouble with that one. He wondered what Vlok himself would be like.

The next day dawned wild and windy, with grey clouds hurrying southwards. A chill north wind whistled around the timber buildings and flapped the tent walls. Inside, men stayed close to the braziers and put on the thick winter clothing of Kenor.

After breakfast, just as he was settling into a full inspection of all their weapons, Relkin received a summons from no less a personage than General Paxion, the commanding officer of the fort. With a groan, Relkin abandoned the spread of swords, knives, maces, crossbow and arrows, and searched out his uniform.

Once he had on his Marneri blue coat and his red wool cap with the badge of the 109th polished bright, he made his way to the general’s office in the Rivergate Tower.

The interior of the tower was warm, smoky, and crowded with civilians who had business with the military supply. On the third floor were guards who let Relkin pass after a cursory inspection of the summons.

Shortly, he found himself in a big room with a long table down the middle and a thick Kenor shag rug on the floor. A fireplace dominated one side of the room, and the fire was well stoked up.

The general rose from behind a pile of scrolls and gestured with a pen for him to take a seat close by.

“So you know how to salute, a rare art for a dragonboy in my experience.”

Paxion was a gingerish, red-haired man of large form and vigorous disposition. A formidable fighter, he’d served ten years in the line with the Second Regiment of the First Marneri Legion.

“Welcome back to Dalhousie, young Dragoneer Relkin. From all accounts you acquitted yourself well enough to win a dozen decorations in the affair at Tummuz Orgmeen.”

Relkin kept as still as possible.

“In fact, I happen to know we’ll be pinning a Legion Star on you in a day or so. I had the order back from Marneri the other day. There’s been some debate over the matter apparently.”

The general smiled, not unkindly. “There are those who believe a Legion Star should not be given to a dragonboy. But I am reliably informed that your case was taken up by some powerful people, and that in the end this made the difference.”

Relkin tried not to smile, or nod, nor anything. A Legion Star was a higher honor, rarely given, and then only for extreme acts of personal bravery.

The Lady Lessis had remembered him as well. First the sword Ecator and now this. His heart swelled with pride, but Paxion was watching him closely, so he struggled not to show any emotion.

The general nodded after a moment, and smiled.

“A cool customer, that’s what they told me.” He pushed back from the table.

“A dragonboy with a Legion Star, the first in history and he doesn’t utter so much as a peep. Well, that’s not why I wanted to see you. We have a problem.”

“Sir?”

“The wild dragon, the great one that came back with you from Tummuz Orgmeen.”

“The Purple Green of Hook Mountain.”

“The very one, he was billeted here for the winter. I don’t know why, it was pretty unsuitable. Just about ate us out of house and home.”

“We never would have survived without him at Tummuz Orgmeen, sir.”

“Yes I know, a formidable ally but an enormously hungry one.”

Paxion rubbed his chin. “By the breath of the mother, it was a beeve a day to satisfy him sometimes.”

Relkin nodded. Dragons had prodigious appetites, especially when they were active.

“Well,” Paxion spread his hands and laid down his pen. “The long and the short of it is that the dragon found it too confining here, and he wandered away about two months ago. He was said to be hunting in the mountains. Then we had a lot of complaints from the elves of Tunina. They said he was frightening the game in the forest and making ordinary hunting impossible.”

“Then we had a panic up around Argo Landing, some sheep went missing and a shepherd claimed he was chased through the woods by a monster. A week or so later, we heard that he was in the woods along the Dally.”

Paxion sighed. “And two days ago, a farmer came in and reported that half his dairy cows are missing, and that something is moving around in the woods south of here.”

Paxion’s face settled into a grim expression.

“We can’t have that. It has to stop at once. But I don’t want to confront the dragon. I understand he is wild, unused to the ways of men. I also know he must be a fearsome foe, but he can be killed and if we have to we will.”

Relkin waited for the other sandal to drop.

“I want you and your dragon to go to him. Persuade him that he cannot remain in Kenor.”

Relkin nodded. Bazil knew the wild one better than anyone. It was best that he take this message.

Paxion stood up and pointed to a globe.

“He must go north, boy, and soon. Already I hear rumors that free-lance hunters are chasing silver bounty to bring in his head. We have to stop that, too.”

“Yes, sir, I agree completely. We will go at once.”

“Good luck, young man, and report to me immediately upon your return.”

Two days later, they tracked down the great beast to his lair in a cave on a farm on the west side of the river Dally.

The farm buildings had been battered, and the fanner and his wife had only just escaped with their lives after the farmer jabbed a pitchfork into the Purple Green while it was sleeping. The angry farmer and his terrified family were down in the town of Dalhousie crying their woe to all and sundry.

When they came upon him, the great Purple Green was sleeping. Awoken by the sound of Relkin’s whistle, he emerged from the cave ready to kill anything that stood in his way.

But the fury died in the enormous eyes as they beheld Bazil and Relkin. The neck spines deflated and the huge muscles of thew and shoulder relaxed. The forked tongue tasted the air.

“Hail!” he bellowed.

The Purple Green had learned a little of the human speech since the fighting at Tummuz Orgmeen, but he did not care to use it much. Now he addressed Bazil in archaic dragon speech.

“Hail to thee, broken-tailed one. Welcome to my hunt! Together we shall course far and wide, and take only the very best for our sustenance.”

Bazil stepped up and clasped forearms with the Purple Green. The wild dragon was still much larger than the wyvern, but the marks of starvation were on him. Relkin could see the ribs showing.

“Hunting not so good, especially around here,” said Bazil.

“Hah! And how would you know, you who eats noodles.”

Relkin looked up at the word “noodle,” for which there was no equivalent in archaic dragon speech and which cropped up quite clearly in the midst of the general sibilance and guttural growling.

Bazil hissed lightly.

“There is no game here,” he said, “except animals that belong to the humans. If you eat those, you will force the humans to kill you.”

“They would not dare! I will kill them! And how is it that they dare to claim ownership of any animal?”

Bazil shrugged. “I know no answer to that, but I do know that they will kill you. They will come with clever traps and snares and poisons. Perhaps they will simply shoot you with so many poison arrows that you lose control of your limbs. Then they will cut your throat and take your head.”

The Purple Green shook his head in denial, but there was a desperation there that told Baz that the wild one understood how hopeless his position was.

“You must be honest with yourself,” said Bazil. “I know that your wings did not regain their strength, despite the magic of the lady.”

“They regrew, the wounds are gone, but you are right, they have no strength, I cannot fly.”

Baz held the other’s gaze.

“Then you can barely hunt at all. You are a great dragon, you cannot hunt like a cat, you are no lion, all creeping and hiding and sudden pouncing. You must fly and then swoop down, that is the way you hunt.”

The Purple Green’s facade collapsed.

“It’s true, I have eaten nothing but bears and one sick old elk. I am not fast enough.”

And that was it, as a four-ton carnosaur with a top speed of fifteen miles an hour, he was outclassed in an age of swift-moving mammals.

“That is not all you have eaten.”

“Ach.” The Purple Green hung his huge head. For a long half minute he looked away hissing to himself, then spoke wearily.

“It is true. But I do not understand how one animal can own another and declare it to be only his. All animals belong to the hunter that can overpower them and devour them, and to no one else excepting their mothers.”