Authors: Margaret Weis
Ven sank onto the floor of the cage. The straw underneath him soaked up the
blood.
Glimmershanks had been riding at the front of the troupe. Hearing the
shouts, he galloped back to the rear to find out what all the commotion was
about. At his side, riding a small gray palfrey, was Evelina. She was dressed
in fine clothes (stolen from the aforesaid patron). Evelina looked sleek and
smooth and sleepy. Her night had been a long one.
“What’s the trouble?” Glimmershanks demanded.
“Your beast-man tried to get out,” reported one of his bullyboys.
The man inside the cage jerked Ven’s arms behind him and bound the wrists
tight with rope. He tied his feet at the ankles, above the manacles, which were
still attached to the chain. The guards were taking no chances. They had
carried off their friend half-dead.
The man cast Ven a surly glance. “The beast’s strong, I’ll say that for him.
Tore apart those chains like they was made of bread dough.”
“He’s a marvel, isn’t he,” said Glimmershanks, enthused. “Why, look at him.
Near beaten to a pulp and he’s still awake. You’d like to get at me and rip out
my throat, wouldn’t you, monster,” he called, rallying. “Puts me in mind of
that lion we had a few years back.”
“That cage won’t hold him,” his man stated. He continued to eye Ven warily. “He’s
safe for a bit, now, I reckon, but we should stop at the next town and have
stronger chains made for him and repair those bars.”
“Good idea,” said Glimmershanks. “Well, all seems to be under control now.
Let’s get this caravan moving. We’ve wasted enough time, as it is. Are you
coming, Evelina, my dove?”
“In a minute,” she said coolly.
Evelina gazed through the bars at Ven. He saw himself in her brown eyes, saw
his naked body. He remembered everything then—her lips, her touch, their
lovemaking, and he stared at her dumbly, wanting to believe her innocent.
Evelina smiled at him. “Monster.” She hissed the word. “Be a good monster or
you will get no supper.”
She cast Ven a last, taunting glance; then she reached out her hand to take
hold of Glimmershanks’s hand and the two of them rode off together. They took
the place of honor at the head of the column of Glimmershanks’s Traveling Troupe,
which lacked a patron, but which had a real-life,
honest-to-god-touch-him-my-noble-lords-and-ladies-if-you-don’t-believe-it
monster. Their fortunes were made.
Shame and despair roiled inside Ven, the bile so strong that it sickened
him. His stomach muscles spasmed. Chill sweat covered his body and he began to
shake. His bowels gripped. He retched and then was too weak and dizzy to be
able to roll out of his own vomit, so that he retched again.
The drover started the horses moving. The iron-banded wheels bumped over the
rough surface of the dirt road. The cage shook and swayed, but it was strongly
built (its former occupant had been that same lion, whose moth-eaten remains
were now exhibited to the wonder of small children).
Ven lay on the floor of the rocking cage, his eyes closed tight shut to blot
out the sight of the iron bars. Darkness started to drag him away again and
this time he let it. He hoped it would take him and keep him.
“Help me,” his soul cried.
A voice answered.
Ven roused. He had never before listened to that voice. He had always hated
the sound of it, but now it soothed him.
He had long avoided the cavern of his mind. He knew how to find it, however,
and he sought it out.
As he entered, he found the dragon—his
father—waiting there, waiting patiently.
FEW EARS HEARD YEN’S ANGUISHED PLEA FOR HELP, FOR most are not attuned to
the voice that comes from the soul. His cry echoed among the caravans of
Dragonkind, however, and there Grald heard it and recognized the voice of his
son and exulted. Draconas heard the cry and he likewise recognized Yen’s voice.
Draconas did not exult. He cursed.
His vile words, spoken in their own language, startled and offended the
three elderly men who sat near him. Clad in richly embroidered tunics worn over
loose trousers, their heads covered with expertly wound turbans, the elderly
men and Draconas, who was dressed much as they were and looked very much like
them, sat at their ease among cushions spread over the floor of a large tent.
The three men and the disguised dragon held small cups of thick, sweet, black
coffee, from which they would each take a delicate sip.
The old men were discussing magic, as it was practiced by their
desert-dwelling people. Draconas did not participate in the discussion, though
he had led the way to it. He listened carefully, hoping to find out if any of
Grald’s people with their dragon magic had appeared among these desert nomads,
infected them.
Draconas heard tales of djinn and giants and enchanted lamps, clever
princesses and charming thieves, evil sultans and wise sheiks, and carpets that
flew like dragons. Nothing about dragons or dragon magic, however, much to his
relief.
It was in the midst of one of these tales that Draconas heard Yen’s cry and
he cursed aloud. His rude interruption brought the speaker to a startled and
offended halt.
Bowing, Draconas rose to his feet. Bowing again and gesturing, he begged the
storyteller’s pardon many times. He claimed that a sudden indisposition had
seized hold of him and he must leave immediately, lest he offend them further.
Draconas could tell that the old men were still indignant, though they murmured
the proper words and pretended not to be, for a guest in the tent is always
accorded hospitality, no matter how strange his behavior. Draconas would not be
welcomed into their midst again, but that was the least of his worries.
The dragon’s son was in danger—they were all in danger— and Draconas was
half a world away.
His excuses made, Draconas flung open the tent flap. His unexpected and
unannounced exit caused the guards to think he had committed murder at the very
least. Two clapped their hands to the hilts of their curved-bladed swords,
while a third seized Draconas and held his knife to his throat. Draconas kept
perfectly still, made no move to defend himself. At a sharp command from the
sheik, the guard released him.
The old man politely tried to dissuade Draconas from roaming the desert in
the heat of the day. Draconas thanked him, but was adamant. The old man
shrugged and went back inside the tent.
“Sunstruck,” he muttered to his friends, who shrugged and soon forgot the
bizarre behavior of their guest. Only the guards watched Draconas walk away.
They kept their suspicious eyes fixed on him until he vanished behind the
dunes.
Heat rose in shimmering, suffocating waves from the windswept sand, a vast
change from the dark, cool interior of the tent. The wind whipped Draconas’s
enveloping robes around his ankles, hampering his movement. He walked until he
could no longer see the caravan and the oasis around which it camped among the
undulating dunes. He hoped they could no longer see him. He looked searchingly
about, fearing one of the guards might have been sent to follow him. He saw no
one. Probably they thought him mad, and were just as pleased to be rid of him.
Like his shadow, the dragon’s body was always with
him. Draconas summoned the magic and his human body flowed into the dragon’s
and now it was the human body that was the shadow, insubstantial and wavering
in the glaring sunlight. Draconas took wing and flew swiftly westward.
Draconas skimmed high above the world that turned beneath him, slipped past
him into minutes and hours that were here and gone too soon. The dragon’s
massive wings beat the air. Stroking down to catch and hold the wind beneath
him. Swooping up to free the trapped air and fling himself forward into heaven.
Stretching out his neck and reaching upward for the stars, then the downbeat
again. He drew air into his lungs with the upward stroke, exhaled with the down,
maintaining the rhythm so that his body would perform without his being
conscious of it, achieving maximum efficiency.
And all the time, the waves of the vast wind-rippled ocean seemed frozen
beneath him. He knew with every upstroke and downbeat that he would be too
late.
“Anora!” His urgency was blaze-orange, flaring red. “What we feared has
occurred. The dragon has found his son.”
“Then deal with it, Draconas,” Anora returned, gray and sharp-edged.
“I am half a world away. I cannot reach him in time.”
“Whose fault is that?” Anora was cold.
“I cannot be in two places at once!” Draconas fumed, frustrated. “It was you
who sent me on this mission.”
“True.” Anora sighed. Her thoughts splintered, became disorganized, hard to
follow. “I suppose we must take some responsibility. It’s just... so much is
happening in the world . . . Now this . . .”
Draconas was alarmed. He’d never known Anora to be indecisive, distracted.
She is showing her age,
he thought, and immediately, guiltily, he
buried that thought deep where she would not see it.
“By law we dragons cannot intervene,” she said at last. “Not directly. You
know that, Draconas. That is why you are the walker.”
“Damn the law!” His answer was blue-black as thunder. “For once in your
life, damn the blasted law!”
“The law is our life, Draconas,” Anora returned sternly, rebuking. “And the
lives of those under our care.”
Of course it is. Of course.
He knew that.
She was gone, and he was left to continue his
solitary flight across the vast ocean.
GLIMMERSHANKS’S TRAVELING TROUPE, NOW BOASTING A monster, rolled along the
King’s Highway, heading for the nearest major city with all possible speed.
Glimmershanks was in haste not only to exhibit his monster and recoup some of
the money he’d laid out on him, but also to have a blacksmith forge chains that
would hold Ven securely. Glimmershanks would never admit it, but he’d been more
than a bit shaken to see the broken chains and the bent bars, not to mention
his guard’s broken face.
Still, the monster—even comatose—attracted so much attention that
Glimmershanks could afford a little danger. Travelers they met on the road
stared, open mouthed, at the Snake Man (as Glimmershanks was thinking of
billing his prize). Many ran after the caravan, shouting and calling out to others
along the way, until such a crowd gathered around the cage that they were
starting to impede the troupe’s progress.
“To say nothing of the fact,” Evelina pointed out caustically, “that they
are getting to see the monster for free.”
Struck by this, Glimmershanks ordered a halt for the night. His bullyboys
drove away the gawkers, while other members of the troupe, under Evelina’s
direction, draped the cage in canvas.
As twilight smeared the sky with orange, Glimmershanks contacted the local
lord to offer a private showing. The lord was laughingly skeptical, but he and
his friends had nothing better to do, and so they rode over to view the
monster. Glimmershanks drew aside the canvas. His Lordship was impressed. He
tweaked and gouged Yen’s scales, to make certain they were real and not affixed
by spirit gum. Convinced of the monster’s validity, the lord handed over a sack
of coins, stating that the show was well worth it. He then led his noble lady
forth to see.
She and her ladies gasped in pleased horror at the monster, tittered over
his nakedness, and afterward teased each other with titillating references to
snakes and asps.
Fortunately Ven was spared knowledge of this, for he had not yet regained
consciousness. He had been unconscious for so long that Glimmershanks began to
fear for his investment and he persuaded the troupe’s leech—on pain of a
beating—to enter the cage. The leech examined the monster. He gingerly felt the
skull and pronounced it intact. Emerging from the cage, the leech stated that
in his opinion, the monster was suffering from melancholia and would likely die
of it.
Glimmershanks was sick with gloom, until Evelina pointed out that he could
make money off the stuffed corpse of the Snake Man, with less trouble and
expense.
Thinking this over, Glimmershanks concluded she was right. After all, His
Lordship had paid handsomely to see a slumbering monster. A dead one would do
just as well. Glimmershanks was enchanted with Evelina. He’d never met a woman
with so much sense.
After the lord and ladies departed, Glimmershanks shut himself in his wagon
to stash away his money and take some pleasure with Evelina.
The deepening night was warm and pleasant. Laughter came from Glimmershanks’s
wagon. The other members of the troupe passed around jugs of raw wine and made
bawdy guesses as to what was happening in the master’s bed.
Around midnight, the wine jugs were empty and those who had not passed out
were thinking groggily of their own beds. Glimmershanks emerged from his wagon,
wearing only his breeches, and went to check on his investment. He found the
monster unconscious, but still breathing. Yawning, Glimmer-shanks was traipsing
back to his wagon when he caught sight of a halo of bright light moving in his
direction.
Glimmershanks had been born on the road. He’d visited every major city and
most of the villages and towns in this part of the world. He’d seen plague,
fire, famine, flood, and war, and he’d lived through it all. His instinct for
trouble was finely honed, and that blaze of light approaching his caravan
raised his hackles and pricked his fingers.
“What is it, Boss?” asked one of the drovers.
“A mob,” said Glimmershanks shortly.
“Headed this way,” the drover opined.
Glimmershanks glanced around. “How long will it take to hitch up the wagons?”
“Too long,” said the drover. “They’ll be on us by then.”
“I’ll go alert everyone,” said Glimmershanks. “You stay here and keep an eye
on them.”