Last Dragon 7: The Fire Ascending

by Chris d'Lacey

  “Not me! Not Murgo!”

  “Then you have no need to fear us,” said Rune. He picked a hair off one of the rabbit skins. “Tell us what we want and we’ll leave you in peace.” He looked Murgo hard in the eye. “The man we are hunting has left a trail of tapestries in other dwellings. Two of your countrymen were kind enough to … donate his wares to us, but not his likely whereabouts. I’m sure you won’t be as unhelpful as they were.” He held up another tapestry cloth, but I could only see the reverse of it. “Do you recognize the hills in the background of this picture?”

  The prisoner’s eyebrows pinched together. “Graybacks.”

  Rune nodded and held up another cloth. “The same shack, from a different angle. The Graybacks are shown both here and here. You could save our horses a lot of effort by telling us the best way to reach this ridge, the one with the moon above it.” He gestured Truve to pull the sword back.

  The eremitt doubled up, coughing spittle. He put a hand to his neck and looked at the red smears greasing his fingers. “Murgo dunnee no wrong.”

  “The ridge,” said Truve. “Or I’ll chop off your ears.”

  “I showee on the morn,” Murgo said defiantly. He threw up a hand. “Too murked now, even fer stars.”

  Rune and Truve exchanged a glance. “Sunrise it is, then,” Rune said firmly. “Now, all that remains are the sleeping arrangements.” He grabbed Murgo and threw him to Truve. “Tie him to a tree. If he’s struck by lightning, that’s too bad.”

  Murgo’s protest was startlingly loud. “No, Taan! No.” He did his best to scrabble free.

  A slap to the back of his head stopped him wriggling. “Shut up,” said Truve. “Or I’ll bind you feet upward and watch your tiny brains dribble out of your ears.”

  Rune unclasped his knife belt and threw it down. “We’ve paid for your hospitality, eremitt. We’ll be taking the shack. There’s no room for three. A drop of rain might freshen your memory.”

  Thunder rattled the shack once more, making all the rabbit skins swing.

  “T’ain’t the rain,” said Murgo. “Rain be nowt.”

  That was clear from the drips falling through the ceiling. Carpentry was not a skill the Nomaad were known for.

  “What then?” Rune asked, mildly intrigued.

  “Rummers. There be rummers knockin’ in the woods.”

  I saw Truve scowl.

  Rune walked to the window. “Rumors of what?” He looked out, as if checking for the first flowers of spring.

  “A villhund, roamin’.”

  Stygg. My heart leaped. The shock of it made the katt give a hiss. He flicked his tail, rattling the traps. Rune flicked a glance at my hiding place but probably assumed it was just a mouse; their black pellet droppings were everywhere.

  “Villhund?” Truve gave a scornful snort. The dogs, though vicious, rarely attacked men. He pressed the eremitt against the door frame, forcing his hands behind his back.

  “Thissun ain’t nat’rul,” Murgo spluttered. “Large, they say. Big as a man. Cursed. Not proper. Not dog-like, no. Beast wi’ the fire o’ dragons in its eyes.”

  Truve and Rune exchanged another glance. Though neither of them seemed quite ready to believe it, neither could they disbelieve the story fully. But the shack was small. And the eremitt stank. And the two Taan men were tired and soaked. “You say you’ve heard talk of this beast?” asked Rune.

  Murgo gave a fretful nod.

  “So you were lying when you said you keep your own company?”

  Lines of guilt swept across the eremitt’s face.

  “Take him out,” said Rune. “The night air should straighten his tongue by morning.”

  “No!” cried Murgo. “It be on the wind. I’ve ’eard its ’owl. I be truthin’! I be truthin’!”

  But it was done and the eremitt was dragged outside. I watched Rune for a moment, knocking his fist on the window frame. Then, taking a chance that he didn’t mind katts, I slipped out of hiding and leaped onto a box so I could see outside. He heard me and whipped around, reaching for his knife. I made the katt meow. Rune relaxed and caressed my fur. How strange it felt, being stroked by the father of the girl whose fate I was here to follow.

  He was rubbing my ears when Truve came back. “It seems we are threefold after all.”

  “Let’s hope it keeps the pests from our rations,” Truve grunted, aiming his boot at a skinny mouse scuttling through the shadows. He was clearly not fond of katts (or mice), but not so averse that he wanted to toss me into the storm. “I tied him to a dead tree. He’s sheltered well enough. I gagged him to stop his pathetic whining. You won’t be hearing screams if his villhund comes. At least we should get some sleep tonight, even in this miserable, stinking dump.”

  Rune frowned and said, “I will never truly rest until I know about Grella.” He stretched out Murgo’s tapestry again.

  “Leave it till the morning light,” said Truve. “I’ll persuade this Nomaad to talk.”

  If he was still alive by morning. Beyond the horses, through the rain, I could see Murgo pulling against his ties. His eyes were as big as two gray pebbles.

  Another thunderclap drew my gaze into the room. “This is our man. I’m sure of it,” said Rune. He tapped a finger on the image of Stygg. “This is the villain who murdered your family. What do you make of this line of silver stitches running from the shack toward the barn at the back?”

  “A chain, perhaps?”

  Rune nodded grimly. “They’re holding her here. They’re holding my daughter, chained, like a dog.” He rolled the cloths and put them away.

  “Get some rest,” Truve said kindly. He was younger than Rune by a good five years. A swatch of dark hair above his top lip could not disguise his youthfulness. “When we find this rogue I’ll cut out his heart. But what of your heart, brave elder? You rode with me intent on punishing Grella for not upholding your bargain of trust. Surely these messages have turned your head? Every new tapestry shows her plight. All of them a plea for her father’s help. Who in Taan would reprimand you now for saving your daughter from a Nomaad captor?”

  Rune took off his boots and tossed them aside. “Let us not forget that she pledged her allegiance to a child born with darkness in its soul. I still fear Voss’s hand in this.”

  Truve sighed. He also removed his boots. One of his socks was soaked through, and stank. It left its print on the grubby floor as he shuffled around, looking for a place to settle. “We are doomed, Rune, if we stare into our souls and find no hint of forgiveness there. Promise you will talk with me before you strike.”

  Rune lay down, closing his eyes. “My sword won’t be making any rash decisions. On this, you have my word.”

  And so they slept. When I returned to the katt the next morning, daylight was just about to drive away their snores. Rune was first to open his eyes. He knocked a mouse off his chest and sat up wearily, loosening a pocket of wind from his gut. He nudged Truve. The younger man woke with a start. “Still raining,” Truve groaned, hearing it drumming. He sank his head against the pillow of his coat, stretching and flexing his barely dried toes.

  Rune grunted in the affirmative. “The storm has settled. The clouds are emptying their last. Riding conditions will be poor today. I’ll check the horses.”

  He pulled on his boots and went to the door. My katt was on the box where it had been the night before, now with a mouse tail by its paws.

  Smiling at me, Rune opened the door. The smell of drenched earth crawled into the shack, mixed with the clammy permanence of rain. I dropped to the floor and followed him out, settling myself just under the porch. I could see the whole clearing easily from here. The horses blinked and nuzzled Rune’s hand. He patted their necks and looked across the puddled earth toward the dead tree. Murgo had his head slumped into his chest.

  Rune walked over and slapped him awake.

  “Uh?” The Nomaad jerked himself upright. He’d spent a trail of urine down his legs. Even from where I was sitting he now stank worse tha
n he had before.

  “Breakfast,” Rune said, ignoring the stench. He tore the gag free and pushed the bread into the eremitt’s mouth. “Eat. Far fresher than yours, I think.”

  Murgo chewed on it a couple of times and swallowed the rest in a slobbering lump. “Lemme go, Taan.”

  Rune shook his head. “Tell me what you know about this trader first.”

  “I knows nuthin’.”

  “I want a name, Murgo.”

  “Not knowin’ a name.”

  “I think you do. Tell me his name and the way to the ridge, then you can go back to snaring rabbits.”

  “Why shud I trustee?”

  Rune pursed his lips. He looked over at the shack. “We are honorable men.”

  “Pah!” said the eremitt and spat in his face.

  Rune Haakunen sighed. He took a rag from his pocket and cleaned his cheek, taking more time than he needed to. Without making any overt threat, he pulled out a knife and polished the blade using Murgo’s spit. He folded the rag and put it away. Then, in a sudden flash of fury, he drove the knife toward the Nomaad’s belly, pressing his body up behind the thrust. Murgo squealed and exploded breadcrumbs, but the knife was in the flesh of the tree, not him.

  “His name,” Rune Haakunen growled. He pulled the knife out and held it close to Murgo’s nose. “I might not be so careful next time.”

  “N-no,” said Murgo, shaking his head. He appeared distracted by something in the clearing.

  “Look at me,” said Rune. He gripped Murgo’s chin and held it fast. “I will kill you if you don’t speak true.”

  “No. Cut uz free,” the eremitt gabbled. His gaze was anywhere but on the knife. “Lemme go. Lemme go!” He tugged at his ties. In a desperate eruption he suddenly cried, “He be named Stygg and he shacks wi’ a crone. Don’t let it ’ave me! Don’t let it near!”

  Rune stepped back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Rune, look out!”

  From the doorway of the shack, Truve called a warning. I had seen the danger, too, but couldn’t have meowed if I’d wanted to.

  The half-dog, Stygg, leaped through the air. A shadow must have flickered in Murgo’s eyes, for Rune, despite his roundness of age, was quick enough to spot it and roll his body aside. Stygg missed the man of Taan and sank his claws into the Nomaad prisoner. Murgo’s screams nearly stopped the rain. Eight jets of hot red blood spouted from the points that had punctured his chest. His body spasmed. His eyes froze open. He looked into the slavering face of hell and his life-force washed away into the mud.

  Truve by now was eating up the ground, both hands clamped to the hilt of his sword. He was a big man, a farmer, as Rune had said. He did not care for subtlety in swordplay. As the man-dog ripped itself free of Murgo, Truve roared like thunder and lunged at the beast, intent on putting an end to its life with one unstoppable swing of steel. The blade sang heavy in the rain, its angle savage, its purpose true. Stygg’s gruesome head looked sure to be parted from its mutant body. But fortune favored the ugly villhund. Truve, in his haste, had run into the rain in his stockinged feet. One piece of grit, one treacherous nub of Nomaad stone, bit into his sole and made him tilt. The blade fell awkwardly, its target missed. Stygg’s ear popped off in a crown of blood. A portion of the flesh underneath went, too. So neat was the cut that the villhund did no more than yelp. The rain lashed down. The horses panicked. A dead eremitt hung from a long-dead tree. Then the water and the mud and the weight of the swing all conspired to take Truve down. As he lost his footing and fell to the ground, Stygg was on him, tearing and thrashing and making all the damage he needed to make to hasten the closure of a brave man’s life.

  The sodden fields of Nomaad were wetted bright red before Rune could land a blow with his knife. His blade sank firmly into Stygg’s flesh. Stygg howled at the sky and danced away sideways. But this time he did not fight back. Still yelping with pain, he loped into the trees, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

  Rune fell to his knees and gathered up his friend, pressing Truve’s collar against the wounds. It was hopeless. There was a hole in the farmer’s throat that was already sucking in air and rain. “I’m so sorry,” Rune said, perhaps for a multitude of reasons, but right then, as he knelt in the bloodstained dirt, it was surely because he knew he could do nothing to save the life of a dear companion.

  “Did you see it …?” Truve croaked. “The robe … did you …?”

  “Don’t talk,” said Rune, rocking him gently. A tear ran out of his craggy eye.

  Truve gripped Rune’s arm with all the strength a dying man could muster. “Taan,” he said. “Grella’s mark on it …” He gurgled and started to cough. A surge of loose tissue bubbled over his lip. “Follow it, Rune. Dog … take you … to … her. Follow, avenge my …”

  And that was it. That was all there was. Truve’s head fell sideways and he breathed no more. Rune gathered him tighter and held him close, speaking a quiet, angry prayer. After a suitable time he laid Truve down, setting the farmer’s fist across his heart. “Rest, I will come back for you.” He made the Taan salute, then picked up the sword and strode to the horses. He took the saddle and a hunting bow off Truve’s horse and sent the horse running into the woods. Taking what he needed of Truve’s possessions, he hid the saddle inside the shack. He saw me trembling on the porch. All the katt’s fur was standing on end. Strangely he said, “Look after him for me.” Then he went out and mounted his horse. He looked at the eremitt and shuddered over Truve. Then he kicked the horse once and galloped after Stygg.

  In his altered state, and despite his injury, Stygg must have traveled as fast as the horse, for he appeared at his own shack several minutes before Rune did. By now, the fire stars had lessened in number and we were coming to the end of Grella’s story. I was in the body of the squirrel again, watching from a tree where I could see it all. Stygg dragged himself to the edge of the porch, yowling like a katt that had brought home a mouse. Some tone in his voice must have spoken to his mother, for Griss opened the door and stepped out.

  She was holding an ax behind her back.

  “Gettee gone!” she snapped. “You ain’t no son o’ mine.”

  Stygg could not speak. A bloodstain covered his entire shoulder. His feet were bathed in a puddle of red. He flopped onto the steps and bayed at his ma.

  “Gettee gone!” She showed him the ax.

  Somewhere in the background Gwilanna cried.

  Rain swept hard across the clearing.

  The shack roof creaked. The treetops bowed.

  Stygg raised a paw and crawled up a step.

  “I’ll cut ’ee. I’ll trim yer,” his mother threatened.

  Stygg bayed for help.

  Griss chewed her tongue.

  “Ma …,” he croaked.

  And she swung the ax.

  One chop sent the end of his dog’s paw spinning.

  The need in his wild eyes turned to horror.

  The storm rapped the shack front, blowing the door inward.

  Then he was on her, like he’d gone for Truve.

  Suddenly, an arrow scythed through the air and sank its point between Stygg’s shoulders. He jerked upright and spat out a gobbet of blood. He swayed for a second not making a sound. Then a second arrow hit him, closer to the neck. Only then did he fall back, heavy and stiff, breaking the bottom step in two. His mother fell the other way, into the shack. Half her face had been shredded into strips by his claws.

  Rune came running out of the trees. He threw the bow aside and drew his sword. “Grella!” he shouted. “Your father is here!”

  From within the shack he heard her voice. Feeble as a sparrow, but alive. Alive.

  Whispering a prayer, Rune ran to Stygg. With the flat of his foot he kicked him once to be sure he was dead. The man-dog rolled off the broken step. As his useless life washed into the rain, he shrank back into his Nomaad form. He had one hand missing and his back was split by a diagonal wound. His face was violently contorted, two askew eyeba
lls in a crumpled bag of flesh. Rune made the sign of the dragon over him, then bolted up the steps and into the shack.

  I was down the tree in a flash, and there.

  On the floor of the shack lay a slender woman, dressed in a fine Taan robe. Her face was in shadow but there was no mistaking her strong yellow hair, spreading out across the sagging boards. On her knees, bending over the woman on the floor, was another woman clothed in filthy rags. She had very little hair and she smelled of pig muck. A knife was clamped in her wounded hands. Its quivering point was aiming downward.

  “No!” Rune Haakunen shouted.

  In error, he thrust his sword.

  The figure in rags gasped. Slowly, she turned her head. She had swollen eyes and broken skin. Sores on her scalp. Teeth chipped and missing. A yellow lesion had eaten one side of her nose. But the shape of the mouth, the fall of the ears, the glint of recognition in her tormented eyes were all Rune needed to know his daughter.

  Grella dropped the knife and let it clatter to the floor. She put her hands instead around the point of the sword, which had passed through her back and out through her belly.

  Rune let go of it. He staggered back, knocking over the chair where Griss liked to sit and pour scorn on the world. “What have I done?” he wailed. “What have I done?” Seeing Grella about to fall, he rushed to her and caught her and held her up. As tenderly as he could, he withdrew the sword and flung it aside. “In the name of Godith, forgive me,” he said. And he wept openly, and vividly, and strong.

  Somewhere in her mazy consciousness, Grella heard his sobs and found the energy to raise a hand. She touched her father’s fatty cheek. Her lips parted and she tried to speak. Rune tipped his head and begged her not to. But she managed two words. “Thank you,” she whispered.