The Sword of the South - eARC (46 page)

“Well, Bahzell?” Wencit asked quietly.

“No, it’s not after being ‘well’ at all, at all,” Bahzell said bleakly. He held out his right hand, and his thick leather gauntlet smoked in the cold air. Kenhodan sniffed and then coughed on the caustic fumes.

“So,” Wencit said softly.

“Aye, it’s after being a dragon,” Bahzell said, still cold-voiced. “A
black
dragon, from the acid and the fact that it was stupid enough to chew a wooden wagon. And there’s never a way in all the world as a black dragon’s after coming here of its own.”

Chernion’s head jerked as she stared upward. That eagle had been no eagle…and it had been much higher than she’d thought.

“It was Wulfra,” Wencit said. “It had to be. But how? Even assuming she had the courage to violate the treaty between dragonkind and Ottovar, she shouldn’t have the
power
to do it in the first place. And that’s the least of it.”

“I’d think that was pretty much the
most
of it,” Kenhodan said tartly, his eyes—like Chernion’s—sweeping the sky visible above them.

“No,” Wencit said impatiently. “For her to send the dragon here means she knew approximately when
we’d
get here. The caravan was attacked two days ago, but Bostik says they’ve been seeing a caravan a week in South Keep, which means the dragon got here at most seven or eight days ago. Which means Wulfra knew we’d have been here by then, but for the snow. And
that
means she’s found a way to pierce my glamour.”

“Is she too dangerous to attack, then?” Chernion asked softly.

“No,” Wencit replied shortly, “but we’re going to have to be more circumspect. To break my glamour without warning me, she must’ve used a trap link somewhere along the way—” only Chernion saw his eyes rest momentarily on her “—but I’m going to see to it that
nothing
can get through for the rest of this journey. If we avoid her attention, she can’t do anything until she and I are face-to-face. Once that happens, Border Warden,” he finished grimly, “I don’t think she’s going to be sending any more dragons anywhere.”

“I see.” Chernion looked away, her mind like ice and no longer uncertain at all. Clearly the baroness must be seen to.

“Well and good,” Bahzell rumbled, “but in the meantime, we’ve a wee bit of a problem here, Wencit. One that’ll be running forty feet in length and not so very fond of us.”

“True, but we don’t have any choice to deal with it, either. Apparently, Wulfra’s simply posted it here to attack anything that passes. We can’t allow that to continue, and even if we could tempt it into attacking South Keep—which I doubt her control spells would allow for a moment—it might do terrible damage before it died. No, we have to hunt it down.”

“I’ve no quarrel with the notion,” Bahzell replied, touching the mace and sword of his surcoat. “Truth to tell, it’s in my mind as how that’s after being the least of our worries. Like as not, it’ll be hunting
us
down.”

“Then you should be happy, shouldn’t you? Aren’t you the fellow who once told me you can’t kill something if you can’t find it?”

“As to that, aye. That’s not to be saying as I’ve always found it what you might be calling a
pleasant
experience, though.”

“Well, if a wild wizard and two champions of Tomanāk can’t deal with it, I’m a bit at a loss to think of who else we might send,” Wencit pointed out a touch caustically, and a deep chuckle rumbled around somewhere in Bahzell’s mighty chest.

“And how do we kill it if we do find it?” Kenhodan asked. “Mind you, I’m sure Elrytha and I would be happy to hold your coats while you three
deal with it, but it would be nice if we had some small notion about your battle plan. I’m assuming you
do
have a battle plan, of course, which I realize might be a little over optimistic on my part.”

“A point,” Chernion agreed. “Can you kill it with sorcery, Wizard?”

“Not in time. Dragons are virtually personifications of the wild magic, so just controlling them is hard enough.
Slaying
them with the art requires preparations I’ve had no time to make. The good news—such as it is, and what there is of it—is that wild magic or not, they’re creatures of this world, not something like a demon or a devil only Bahzell and Walsharno could hope to stand up to. And they
are
mortal. The trick is killing one of them
quickly
enough. Even mortally wounded dragons have been known to go on fighting far longer than almost anything else could have.”

“Wait a minute. You mean
we
have to kill it?” Kenhodan waved at the wrecked wagons. “We have to kill something that can do
that?
”

“Aye, that we must,” Bahzell said, “and best be glad it’s black, for black dragons are after being stupid.”

“And that helps us exactly how?”

“Bahzell’s right,” Wencit said. “Black dragons are little more than appetites with legs and wings, so this fellow’s likely to be a lot less tricky than his smarter cousins. Of course, even that has its downside, I suppose. The fact that it’s stupid—and that it’s obviously being held here by a spell of compulsion—means it’s unlikely to just run away from a fight even if it’s losing.”

“Wonderful.” Kenhodan rolled his eyes. “Does it at least have a vulnerable point?”

“Well, as to that, not so very many.” Bahzell smiled grimly. “I’m thinking Walsharno and I might be after getting a lance point into its chest, but that’s no certain thing, given dragon scale. There’s no scale as guards its eyes or its gullet, though. Mind, I’ve no ambition to be going for its palette—like enough I’d only see it as I slid past!—but a black dragon’s not after being smart enough to guard its eyes. If the two of us are after drawing its attention, I’m thinking as it’s likely enough to be turning its face toward your bow.”

“You want me to put an arrow in its
eye?
Just how big is the bloody thing?!”

“As to that, it’ll be as much as nine or ten inches across!” Bahzell said bracingly. “It’s confident I am you can hit a target that big if you must.”

“Are you listening to yourself here, Bahzell?” Kenhodan demanded. “You’re going to ‘draw its attention’ while I shoot.…What if I
miss?
”

“Then I’m thinking you’d best have another arrow handy,” Bahzell said simply.

* * *

<
I’m impressed by your tactical forethought
,> Walsharno said dryly as Bahzell climbed back into the saddle and the two of them circled around the wagons’ wreckage to head back down the pass once more. <
Thought that up all on your own, did you?
>

“If it’s a better notion you have, best be speaking up now,” Bahzell replied.

<
Oh, no! Far be it from
me
to improve on sheer genius when I hear it!
>

“Sure, and you’re after being in a fine mood this morning.”

<
Actually
,> Walsharno said more soberly, <
I can’t claim that I have any better plan under the circumstances. You
are
putting a lot of pressure on Kenhodan, though. ‘Might be after getting a lance point into its chest,’ indeed. Unless this is a really young dragon, you know how much of a realistic chance there is of that!
>

“There’s no point at all, at all, in nattering the lad with details as he can’t do anything about, anyway. Come to that, though, I’m thinking we’ve never met anyone less likely to be letting us down in a case like this. Mind, it’s better I’d feel with a few score more Vonderland archers at his back, but we’ve too many other things on our plate to be worrying over might-have-beens.”’

<
Well, that’s certainly true enough! I do find myself wishing we’d brought along my barding, though. I’m much too handsome a fellow to go around with bare patches just because some stupid black dragon spat on me!
>

“And you’re after being so modest about it, too,” Bahzell marveled, and Walsharno snorted a laugh.

<
You’re right about one thing, Bahzell
,> a far deeper voice rumbled like an earthquake through their minds. <
You
haven’t
ever met anyone less likely to let you down than Kenhodan. I can’t promise that things will work out for the best in this case, but I will promise you that if they don’t it won’t be because he failed you
.>

<
Can you tell us if there’s more than just the dragon waiting for us?
> Walsharno asked.

<
At the moment, that’s all you face, although I imagine it’s enough to be going on with
,> Tomanāk Orfro said dryly.

“And a great relief to my mind it is, too,” Bahzell said politely, and a deep laugh echoed through them both.

<
I’m sure it is
,> Tomanāk told him. <
And now I’ll stop distracting the two of you. Call upon me when the time comes
.>

The deep voice faded into silence, and the two champions moved steadily into the morning with every sense alert.

* * *

They moved off slowly, for now Kenhodan went on foot with Glamhandro at his shoulder. He would have preferred for the stallion to stay back with Wencit, but the horse was unwilling to be separated from him and minced along beside him. He clearly sensed danger, and—equally clearly—he would have preferred to have Kenhodan on his back, where he belonged. Kenhodan would have preferred that, too, but he had to be in a position to use his bow. So he concentrated on breathing evenly and wishing his palms were less damp.

Chernion rode grimly down her side of the pass, her expression set as she contemplated the unhappy reality that her only possible role was as bait. If the Bloody Hand couldn’t kill the monster,
she
certainly couldn’t. And though she was a competent archer, she was far from Kenhodan’s equal and couldn’t hope for a killing shot under the circumstances. No, all she could do was help attract the dragon’s attention, and every assassin’s bone in her body revolted at the thought. She found herself hoping that Wencit, at least, survived…and that whatever he had planned for Wulfra was both slow and lingering.

She stopped suddenly, and Walsharno drew up on the far side of the pass as she dismounted at the side of the road and gazed down at the bits and pieces which had once been men and horses scattered in a deep hollow beside the roadbed. The hollow would have been very difficult to see from the road before the dragon went rampaging through it and shredded the scraggly brush which once had screened it, and it lay in deep shadow, even now. Its sides were heavy with frost the sun’s heat had yet to melt and the lighting was poor, yet she could see the details all too clearly.

She drew a deep breath and slithered down into the hollow, her boots crunching in a red crust of frozen blood. She was no stranger to ugly death, but this sickened her as she stood amidst the carnage, gazing down upon it. Then she turned a body with her toe, and her face tightened—in anger, not surprise—as Umaro’s dead eyes glared up at her.

She drew another breath and straightened slowly. That tall, narrow body with the sword in its hand might be Ashwan, she thought through the layer of ice which had encased her brain, but it was so seared by acid she couldn’t be sure. She moved closer, looking down, trying to positively identify the body, and her anger was a cold and burning fury when she couldn’t.

A sister should recognize her mother’s only son.

She looked away and tried to at least count the bodies, but they were in too many pieces. She couldn’t match arms and legs with torsos, and their gear had been thrashed and scattered by the dragon. She looked down one more time at the body she thought was Ashwan’s, then turned away dry eyed.

She climbed back up to the roadbed and found Bahzell and Walsharno waiting for her.

“No survivors down there, Bloody Hand,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know who they were, but they never had a chance.”

“Aye,” Bahzell said grimly, “and if we’ve no better luck than they, there’s more than us’ll pay for it. Come, Border Warden.”

The courser turned, moving off once more, and Chernion remounted. Her dark eyes were colder and more pitiless than any ice as she rode away from that place of death, and she never looked back.

* * *

Cold wind fingered Kenhodan’s hair as Bahzell bent over the acid-burned bodies of a dozen Brothers of the Axe. The hradani straightened grimly, something black in his hand, and sunlight flashed as he extended it.

“Dragon scale,” he said flatly.

Kenhodan took it, marveling at its lightness. One side was glossy, shining in the sun, but the other was dull and slick. It was larger than his hand and half an inch thick, yet curiously light.

“They scored a few hits,” he said quietly.

“And you see what it was after bringing them. A few bits of scale and—see here where the axe scored it?” Bahzell touched a thin scar across the burnished side. “That was after being a powerful blow, and precious little damage it did. A dragon’s three or four thicknesses of these, overlapped like mail, and from the thickness of it, this one’s after being older than most. There’s never an axeman born as’ll get steel through such as that.”

“Then I’ll have to hit the mark,” Kenhodan murmured, dropping the scale. He shivered in the cold and looked around the pass, narrow and gloomy at this point.

“Why didn’t they report back before they got this far?” he wondered.

“I’m thinking as they did. From the looks of things, these lads were come on from behind, not the front. If it happens Wulfra’s pet’s after ranging the pass, I’m thinking as he came up with their messengers first and then trailed them down pass. It’s likely enough we’d’ve been after missing what little a hungry dragon’s like to leave.”

“I suppose so,” Kenhodan agreed. “But there’s barely a platoon here. Where’s the rest of the patrol?”

“Down below,” Bahzell said grimly. “Like as not we’ll be finding them stretched out like these lads, unless they were after having Norfram’s own luck.”

“Then let’s go find them,” Kenhodan said, gazing at the bodies. His nervousness had vanished, replaced by an anger that pulsed with the battle rage he’d assimilated in the Forest of Hev, and he welcomed it.

“Aye, let’s be doing that little thing,” Bahzell murmured, and mounted once more.