Authors: Angus Wells
“But you are not beasts,” I cried. “Don’t name yourself an animal!”
“I don’t,” he said gently. “But neither do I claim the same affection for kin and hearth as Truemen.”
I nodded, accepting. I thought perhaps I grew so ardent in my feelings for the Changed that I began to think them mirrors to my image. But they were not—as Lan pointed out, they were descended from animals, and though they were now (of this I should not be dissuaded) become far
more than their progenitors, still they lived their lives to a different rhythm than I and my kind. It did not render them inferior, only different.
“But dreams,” I said. “Surely you have dreams?”
“Yes,” he allowed me, “but they are
our
dreams, and not like yours, I think.”
“Tell me,” I asked. “What are they?”
He shook his head, his expression veiled. “We hold our dreams private, Daviot.”
His voice was quiet, but in it I heard steel. I thought a moment to press him, and then that such as he had little enough privacy I should presume to intrude on those small areas that were his alone; not if I thought to name myself his friend. I said, “As you wish,” and he smiled again, nodding his gratitude.
“Perhaps one day you shall know them,” he said.
I said, “That should be an honor, Lan.”
He looked at me awhile, as if I puzzled him, and then he said softly, “You are a strange man, Daviot.”
The snowfall continued fourteen days, and then the sky cleared. It was good to see the blue again and the sun, for all the temperature dropped so low Mhorvyn now lay beneath a covering of white frozen hard as stone. There was no wind; the air was a knife. Water froze in the wells and cisterns, and the smoke of bonfires hung thick as folk sought to melt a way to the precious liquid. Streets that had previously resounded to the scrape of shovels now rang with the clang of pickaxes. To touch metal with ungloved fingers was to lose flesh. Yanydd opened his warehouses to distribute food stored against the possibility of siege. Ice sheeted in the harbor and the coves. The fishermen, though now able to put out, reported a dearth of fish. From the mainland, the farmers reported the ground iron hard, defying plow or harrow.
It was the same, so Laena advised me, throughout Dharbek, worse in the north. Both the Slammerkin and Treppanek were frozen over, and folk already spoke of famine. I had no great eagerness to travel in such conditions, but I had my orders and so I prepared to leave.
My last meal in Mhorvyn Keep was a solemn affair, for whilst the aeldor and the commur-mage still held their belief of Sky Lords’ magic private, it was quite impossible to quell
suspicion. I had heard talk in the town, and the warband openly mooted the likelihood of occult manipulation. Also, these honest folk had grown fond of me, and I of them; I had not felt so grieved by departure since leaving Krystin in Tryrsbry.
Still, I put on as cheerful a face as I could muster and thanked them for their hospitality, urging they remain in the warmth of the hall when I at last rose to gather up my packs. I had sooner it be that way, I told them, and in deference to my wishes they came only so far as the great door.
Yanydd saw me well provisioned, my saddlebags bulked out with food and extra clothing (what little was not already on my back), and I went to the stables swathed like some mummer. My gray mare was shaggy under her winter coat and plumped by grain and leisure. She objected to the saddle, and it took some time and some adroit maneuvering to get her readied. She sensed departure and welcomed it not at all. As I led her out, I found Lan watching me. We had already said our farewells, and I was surprised to find him there. Obviously, he had slipped away from the keep, for he wore only tunic and breeks and shivered despite the braziers that warmed the stable.
“This weather suits me ill,” he said, “but there’s a thing I’d give you.”
I clutched the mare’s bridle as she stamped and gnashed her teeth, wondering what this thing could be. The Changed had few enough possessions they could afford to donate parting gifts. Thinking to be kind, I said, “Your company’s been gift enough, my friend, and all you’ve told me—your trust. There’s no need for more.”
He smiled and brought something from under his tunic, holding it toward me. It was a length of plaited hair, red and white and black, woven in alternating strands. I tethered my irritable horse and took it from him. I was not sure what it was, save a trinket given in token of burgeoning friendship, of trust between us.
I said, “My thanks,” and Lan raised a hand, silencing me.
“I’ll likely be missed ere long,” he said, “and you must go. But I wanted you to have this. There are Changed who will know its meaning and give you help, should you need it.”
There was an urgency in his voice that told me this bangle
was far more than some simple token. I nodded, and he gestured that I hold out my wrist so that he might tie the thing in place.
Again I said, “My thanks,” and was about to ask elucidation, but he smiled and clasped my hand and said, “It may prove useful, Daviot. Ward it well, and do Truemen ask what it is, say no more than a trinket.”
Then, before I could say more, he moved away, swift into the shadows at the stable’s farther end. I heard a door thud closed. I looked at the bracelet, touched it, wondering at his enigmatic words as I pulled on the gloves that were another gift of this keep. The gray mare kicked a stall, reminding me that folk looked to see me emerge: I loosed her tether and led her out into the icy air.
Yanydd and his kinfolk saluted from the door, and I raised a hand in answer, then I mounted and turned my horse to the gates, on through them into the streets of the town. There were few folk abroad, save the Changed working to clear the terrible weight of snow, and to them I nodded as I passed.
I continued downhill to the barbican, where the guardsmen huddling around their brazier bade me ride careful over the causeway. I saw no sign of hazard from the sea, which lay as calm as any ocean in winter, but as I ventured out onto the neck I (or more precisely, my mare) found it slick with treacherous ice. She shrilled a protest as her hooves slithered on the sleek black surface, fighting the reins so that after a while spent in useless argument I dismounted and walked her across. We both of us were thankful to reach the farther side, for all it seemed even colder, and I paused, calming her.
The village here was all but lost under the snow, the cottages white mounds marked by their chimneys and the dark shapes of cleared doorways. All down the beach the boats lay drawn up from the water, their nets and rigging ice-rimed, glittering under the cold sun. It was a sight both beautiful and terrible. I wound my scarf closer about my face and turned my back on Yanydd’s holding, climbing the gently sloping land in a northeasterly direction.
I could not afford to delay. With luck I should reach shelter by nightfall; without the blessing of fortune I must sleep out, and I was by no means certain either my mare or I
could survive a night in such awful cold. I put heels to her flanks and urged her to a canter. She responded eagerly. I think she hoped to outrun the chill.
We climbed away from the village, up through the blighted orchards and the plantations. That far the way was cleared; then we faced the unhidden effects of the blizzard.
The road disappeared. Before us lay a seemingly unending snowfield, barely interrupted by rocks that would normally have stood tall as a mounted man, and snow-drowned trees. I slowed the mare, not wishing to founder in some drift, and wondered how we should survive: it seemed impossible that we could cross such a depth of snow.
That night I found the steading Yanydd had promised and took shelter there, repaying hospitality with a story and the answering of many questions. The farm folk were not much heartened by what I told them, but I urged them to a faith I could not quite share, and in the morning they saw me well fed, vowing themselves ready for whatever might come.
They had no better idea than I what that should be.
I went on, eastward now, around the southern edge of Kellambek. It was a longer route than the trade road across the massif, but I’d no desire to chance the mountains in such weather. I’d lay no odds on surviving that and thought none could argue my choice. Did Durbrecht wish me hasten, I’d make poor speed dead.
Even so, it was no easy path I chose. Indeed, for most of the way there was no path visible, and I must go by instinct, guided by instructions received and what few signs of the marked road remained. There were but three keeps between Morvyn and Whitefish village and few enough settlements. The land rose up to meet the tumbling flanks of the massif, where the great central mountains fell down into the southern sea, and those slopes were the domain of shepherds, empty of much other habitation. There was no natural shelter, and as the day aged I grew worried.
The sun westered fast and a wind got up, edged as a razor, skirling snow in ghostly clouds. As dusk fell, worry became fear. My mare needed rest and warm stabling; I no less a fire and walls about me. Here there was nothing: the landscape was smooth as a clean-scraped plate. I pressed on
for want of alternative. Then, past a huddling ridge of snow, in the slope’s lee, I saw what I took to be a shepherd’s hut. I saw a chimney but no smoke nor light. I wondered why no dogs gave warning of my approach. I felt uneasy: the sun was lost behind the ridge and twilight shrouded the lee, shadow vying with the sparkle of starlight and moonglow. I reined in and hallooed the place. When only silence answered, I shouldered the door open and went inside.
I found a single room, sizable and neat. It was sparsely furnished, the hearth cold. It was eerie.
My gray mare nickered impatiently, urging me to haste in search of stable and fodder. There was an outbuilding, but it was mired so deep in snow, I saw no way to clear an entrance and elected to grant my horse the hospitality of the cottage. I took her reins and brought her inside. She promptly kicked a chair. I bade her show some better manners, which she answered with a snort and snapping teeth, and so I stripped her down and rubbed her off, then doled her a measure of oats. That soothed her, and as she ate I set logs in the hearth and got a fire started. I was somewhat guilty at rendering this tidy home a stable, but I saw no other choice. I thought I should restore it on the morrow.
I ate. I even found a jar of distilled wine and helped myself to a cup or two. Then, with murmured thanks to my unwitting hosts, I stretched myself on the larger of the three beds and went to sleep.
That night I had a strange dream. I recall it as clearly as those others I have told. Indeed, it was linked to those others, as if some spirit of that oak grove beyond Cambar had touched me and set the dream in my head; save it now seemed to unfold like a story I could not quite understand. This is what I dreamed:
I stood again in the hurst, again enveloped in swirling gray mist, but now a brume cold as the night outside. Icicles hung from the oaks, and the ground was thick with snow. I looked about, once more finding the spectral figures of warriors locked in battle. Not of my own volition, I shouted and they ceased their fighting, all lowering their blades and axes as they turned toward me. I felt very afraid, for all they offered me no harm but only stood, a silent circle, watching me or waiting on me to shout again. I felt they expected something from me, but did not know what.
Then all were gone, and in their place stood a great throng of Changed, and they, too, were silent. Unthinking, I took my left hand from my staff and held it up, that all might see the bracelet I wore. The Changed murmured at that, but their voices were like the wash of waves and I could not discern precise words, nor gauge the import of what they said. I raised my hand higher, and it was as if my ears were unstoppered. What they said was “Urt’s Friend,” and the mist and the snow were gone, the wood lit by warm sunlight.
I raised my head. For a moment I was blinded by the sun, then my vision cleared and I saw the sky cloudless, and then abruptly filled with shadow. I heard a sound like distant thunder or the rumble of water over rocks. I felt something immense approached, something awesome and terrible in its grandeur. I raised both amulet and staff, not knowing why they should protect me or if they would. The branches of the oaks trembled; leaves fell. I was suddenly aware I stood alone. I wanted to run and could not. I wanted to cower and could not. I could only stare as the darkness coalesced.
I cried out then; I did not know whether in fear or triumph. Perhaps both, for what I saw was confirmation of a dream, a merging of hope and wonder, and very terrible.
I saw a dragon.
It was vast. Great wings, leathery and clawed like a bat’s, beat rhythmically, holding the massive bulk of the body stationary above me. I felt the beating of its wings as must a ship’s sail bellied by a storm. I felt its breath hot on my face, dry and arid as sun-baked stone. I saw such jaws as might easily encompass a horse and its rider, set with fangs akin to sword blades. A serpentine neck extended from huge shoulders, the body hided in smooth glossy blue, sleek as armor. The limbs were heavy with muscle, the forequarters shorter than the hind, all ended in articulated paws that were tipped with sharp, curved talons, all large enough to grasp a man. A tail limber as an octopus’s tentacle lashed behind. I should have been smashed down by the wind of its hovering, but I was not. I stood staring, my gaze met by great yellow eyes that observed me with an alien intelligence. I felt myself judged.
What conclusions this oneiric beast reached, I did not know. I was trapped by its yellow orbs as surely as any rabbit was ever held by an eagle’s implacable stare. I was lost. I felt
no longer myself but a husk, as if the dragon leached out my spirit, as if it looked not at me but into me, into those secret places I kept hidden.
Then the beast craned back its great craggy head and screamed. It was the howl of a hunter, the shriek of a storm wind, the grinding of rocks in the bowels of the world. All of those: it dinned inside my head and drove me at last to my knees. And when I rose, the dragon was gone.