Quag Keep

by Andre Norton

  So they came into a space where the dust dunes had been leveled through some freak of the wind. This miniature plain formed the arena of battle.

  The dragon, its wings strangely small as if shriveled to a size that could not raise the bloated body from the earth, beat the air—raising a murk through which its own brazen scales shone with the menace of a raging fire. This creature was smaller than Lichis, but that was no measurement to promise victory. As its head snapped aloft and it opened its fanged jaws for another of those screams, its rolling red eyes caught sight of their party.

  With a speed its bulk should have made impossible, that double-horned head darted at them, striking snakelike. Milo could smell the strong acid stench of the pointed tongue which dripped with venom, a poison to fire-eat the flesh from a man’s bones in the space of five breaths, for which no sorcery could supply a remedy.

  His battered shield had been lifted only a finger’s breadth and he had no chance, he knew, against such a lightning swift attack. For it seemed to Milo those blazing red eyes were centered on him. Then, out of the air, there came a darting thing, small enough in size to ride upon the spear point of that dripping tongue. But it was not to ride so that the thing made a blurr of attack. Rather she spread small claws to gash and tear at the tongue, fearless of the venom gathered and dripping from the lash of yellow-red flesh.

  The tongue whipped and struck from side to side, curling to seize its small attacker and draw into the dragon’s maw the glittering body of Afreeta, even as a frog of the marshes strikes and takes into its gaping mouth an unwary fly.

  Now the pseudo-dragon twisted and turned in the murk, sometimes hidden, now visible again. Afreeta could not come at the tongue again to strike, but neither did she retreat. Her maneuvers meant that the dragon might not carry forward its attack on the party below.

  Out of the dust cloud, which the dragon’s fanning wings kept alive, came the boar-shape Milo had seen in action before. But this time Naile Fangtooth was hampered. His were-shape vanished and he was a man for three strides, then a boar, and then a man, a constant change of shape that it seemed, the berserker could not control. The man-body held for longer and longer moments, until, at last, Naile gave up his struggle to go were. Instead, axe in both fists, he fronted the dragon as a man.

  The fitful strikes and twists of the scaled body made a blur in cloudy battle. But it was Afreeta’s determined assault on the creature’s head and tongue that prevailed, though the pseudodragon was twice nearly caught in looping coils snapped whipfast through the air.

  Something else pierced the cloud of dust. Milo saw an arrow thud against the heavy brow-ridge of the embattled dragon, fall to the ground. Ingrge was methodically aiming at the most vulnerable part of the creature, its slightly bulbous eyes—only so fast were the dartings of the dragon head that it would seem even one with the fabled skill of the ranger folk could not hope to strike such a target.

  The constant fanning of those wings was a distraction, and the grit they brought into the air stung in the eyes, was like to blind those the creature fronted. It screamed and bellowed, striving to use its tongue, the forked barb on the end of that, more deadly than any arrow human or elfkind could fashion.

  Milo moved in, discovering that fear and a kind of anger, which the sight of that body awoke in him, made him a battlefield of their own. The emotions remained equally matched, so he did not run from the encounter as half of him wanted, but humped forward, hampered by the dust shoes.

  There were other shadows in the deepening rise of the dusk the wings created. He was not alone, still he was—walled in by that fear he could not yet raise enough anger to master. His sword was heavy in his hand as he caught enough sight of that pendulous, scaled belly to give him a target of sorts.

  Milo struck with all the speed and skill he could muster. Unlike the fight on the ship, nothing gave or broke under that blow: Rather it was as if he had brought the point of his blade against immovable stone. The hilt was nearly jarred from his hold. Then, close enough so that the stench of it made his head swim for an instant, the looping tongue, with behind it that armory of great, discolored fangs, swept toward him.

  There was a speeding dart through the air. Perhaps more from an unusual turn of fortune than an inherent skill, the down-turned spike of that tongue was pierced through by an arrow. The shaft gravitated in a wild dance as the dragon lashed back and forth its most cunning weapon, striving to free its tongue end.

  Out of the dust cloud arose a clawed foot, each talon on it being a quarter of Milo’s own body length. The foot expanded and contracted those claws, striving to catch at the arrow. In so doing the movements exposed, for instants only, a small, scaled pocket of noisome flesh existing between limb and body. The swordsman threw himself forward, nigh losing his balance because he had forgotten the dust shoes. Though Milo went to one knee, he thrust again with his sword into that crevice between limb and body.

  Then he was hurled aside, skidding face downward into the dust, where his fight changed to one for breath alone. He waited for a second slash of that foot to rip him into bloody rags. But the blow did not come. Desperately he squirmed deeper into the dust, one arm protecting his face, hoping in some way to use the stuff that had defeated him to protect him a little now.

  One breath-length of time, perhaps a little more, passed. Then there sounded a cry that deafened him. The sound went on, ringing through his head, until the whole world held nothing else but that bellow of fury and agony.

  A hand caught at his shoulder, pulled at him. Milo squirmed in the direction that clutch would draw him. Why he had not been seized already by the claws of the dragon he did not know. Each second of freedom he still had he determined to put to escape, vain though any hope of that might be.

  Now a second set of fingers was on his other shoulder, and they bit as deep as his mail would allow, new strength in them drawing him on. Behind sounded another screech, and through it the roaring of another voice, human in timber, mouthing words Milo could not understand.

  When he was again on his feet, aided by those holds upon him, he saw that it was Deav Dyne and Gulth who had come to his aid. Breathless, his mouth and throat choked with dust until he was near to the point of retching, he swung around.

  Naile in human form fronted the dragon. From the right eye of the maddened beast bobbed the feathered end of an arrow, proving that the famed skill of the elfkind was not distorted by report. The axe of the berserker moved with skill—and speed—to strike at the maimed head that darted down at him. Near enough to evoke attack in turn was a slender figure with shield raised as a protection against the venom-dripping tongue, sword held with the readiness and cool skill of a veteran.

  Steel arose and held steady. The creature had shaken free of the arrow that had pinned its tongue, but the tonguetip was now split raggedly asunder. Perhaps in its pain the dragon lost what wits it carried into combat, for the tongue flicked at that steadily held sword as if to enmesh the steel and tear it from the warrior’s hand. Instead the now ragged flesh came with force against the cutting edge of the blade. There was a shower of venom and dark blood—a length of tongue, wriggling like a serpent, flew through the dusty murk.

  Now jaws gaped over the warrior, the head came down—Naile struck, his axe meeting the descending head with a force that the dragon’s attack must have added to. The creature gave another cry—spewing forth blood—and jerked its head aloft. So it dragged from Naile’s hands the axe that was embedded in its skull between the eyes. It reared high and Milo cried out—though his warning might be useless even as he gave it.

  Naile’s arm swept Yevele from her feet, sending her rolling into the embrace of the dust, into which she sank as into a sea of water. Even as the berserker had sent her as well out of danger as he could, Naile himself threw his own body backward, striving to avoid the second descent of that fearsome head.

  So loudly did the dragon cry, Milo heard no twang of bowstring. Yet he saw a feathered shaft appear i
n the left eye, sink into it for most of its length. The creature crashed forward. Though its stumpy wings still fluttered, the force of its fall sent it deep into the dust, just missing Naile who fought his way through it as if he swam.

  Up from the embrace of the dust the blinded head of the dragon heaved once, curving back upon the wings, snout and evil mask of the foreface pointing to the sky above them. The roar from the fanged jaws was such that Milo’s hands covered his ears, endeavoring to shut out that scream of pain and fruitless rage. Twice more did the creature give voice—and then its head sank, jerked up a little, sank again. The ensuing silence held them all as might a spell.

  Milo dropped his hands, stared at the bulk now sinking deeper into the hold of the dust. A dragon—and it was slain! He found his heart beating faster, his breath coming quicker. Fortune indeed had stood at their backs this day!

  Naile floundered to his feet, fought the dust to get back to the creature’s side. His hands closed upon the haft of his axe and his body tensed with effort as he strove to loosen the blade from the skull. Milo looked to Ingrge.

  “Never shall I doubt what is said of the arrow mastery of your people,” he said through the dust which still clogged his throat.

  “Nor sword and axe skill of yours,” returned the elf. “Your own stroke, swordsman, was not one to be despised.”

  “My stroke?” Milo glanced down at his hands. They were empty. For the first time he thought of shield and sword.

  “If you would regain your steel,” Deav Dyne said, “you needs must burrow for it before the scaled one is utterly lost in the dust.” He gestured to the body of the dragon, now indeed some three-quarters buried—though the wings still twitched feebly now and then, perhaps so keeping clear the scaled back that they could still see through the dispersing fog.

  Two forms, so clothed in dust as to seem a part of that same fog, came blundering away from where Naile still fought to free his axe. The larger brushed the clinging grit from the smaller, the hump of harp between his shoulders identifying the bard.

  At the cleric’s words, he raised his head, his face so masked in dust that he might have walked by blood kin and not been hailed.

  “This was such a battle as can make song fodder.” He spat dust. “Yes, swordsman, that was a lucky stroke of yours beneath the leg. Even as this valiant battlemaid did sever the poison tongue. Dragon-slayers, all of you! For it took the skill of more than one to bring down Rockna of the Brass.”

  “Ha!” Naile had his axe free. Now he looked over his shoulder. “Dig it will be for your steel, swordsman.” Even as Milo pushed forward, trying vainly to remember the feel of scaled skin parting from his own blow and finding that that second or two of realization eluded him, the berserker began to dig furiously along the body of the dragon, using, as they had on the ship, his dust shoe for a scooping shovel.

  Milo hastened to join. The fetid smell of the creature’s body was near to overpowering as they worked shoulder to shoulder. Now Wymarc and Deav Dyne came to aid them. A lost sword was enough to threaten them all in this place and time.

  Milo coughed, spat, and kept to his scooping. Their combined efforts laid bare the shoulder of the creature and the top of the foreleg. Naile put hand to the leg and heaved, striving to draw it aside, leaving a crevice between body and leg free from the slither of the ever-moving dust. Milo leaned far over, gagging at the stench. There indeed was his sword. He could sight the hilt protruding at an angle from the softer-scaled leg. Lying across the limb of the dragon, he put both hands to the hilt, as Naile had done with the axe, and exerted his full strength.

  Though he could not remember planting that steel so, he must have done it with energy enough to bury it deeply. At first there was solid resistance to his struggle, then the length buried within the body of Rockna gave. He sprawled back, the bloodstained blade snapping up and out into the open.

  “Hola!”

  That cry drew all their attention. Ingrge had, unseen, climbed one of the dunes that ringed this arena in which they had fought. He was looking north and now his arm arose in a gesture Milo could not read. But Deav Dyne started a step or so forward, then came to halt. The dusty face he turned toward the others was grave.

  “We go from peril to peril.” He fumbled with his beads again.

  Naile’s head lifted, he growled, his rumble sounding more like the irritated grunt of a bear than either man or boar.

  “What hunts us now, priest? Dragon, liche . . .?”

  Wymarc watched the elf who was coming down the dune, setting one foot below the other with careful precision and more speed than Milo knew he himself could give to such action.

  “The wind.” The elf came up to them. “There is a storm raising the dust and coming toward us.”

  Dust! Milo’s thoughts moved fearfully. A sea of dust—just as a desert was a sea of sand. And he had heard only too much of what happened to those caught in the wild whirl of sandstorms. This dust was finer, would be more easily swept up and carried to bury a man.

  Wymarc swung around, looking to the dragon their efforts had partly unburied.

  “What was our bane may be our fortune,” he observed with some vigor. “The storm is from the north?”

  Ingrge gave a single swift nod. He, too, was looking to the dragon’s body.

  “You mean . . . Yes, a perilous chance indeed, but perhaps our only one now!” Deav Dyne dropped his beads into the front of his robe. “It is such a chance as the Oszarmen take in desert lands when caught in storms.” He stooped and loosed one of his dust shoes—then made his way around the half-uncovered dragon and started to dig with the same vigor that Milo and Naile had used moments earlier.

  That they could use the body for a barrier against clouds of whirling dust Milo doubted. But perilous though such a chance might be, to find any better escape was now out of the question. So they dug with a will, heaping the dust they dredged out on the far side of the scaled body. Suddenly Yevele spoke.

  “If that were set down”—she pointed to the stuff they raised and tossed beyond—“would it not cake into a greater barrier? See, here the dragon’s blood has stiffened this dust into a solid surface. We fight against dust not sand. What we deal with is far lighter and less abrasive.”

  “It is a thought worth the following.” Milo looked to where those skins filled with the ship’s wine lay. If one balanced drinkers’ needs against such a suggestion—which would give them the best chance for survival?

  “A good one!” Wymarc started for the skins. “As you say we do not face sand—for which may the abiding aid of Faltforth the Suncrown be praised!”

  They decided that two of the skins might be sacrificed to their scheme. It was Deav Dyne and the bard who, between them, dribbled the wine across the heaped dust beyond the dragon’s bulk. Milo took heart at their efforts when he saw that indeed the blood that had seeped from the slain creature had puddled and hardened the fine grit into flat plates which could be lifted and used to reinforce the wine-stiffened dust.

  They worked feverishly, moving as fast as they could. Now one could see the dust cloud darkening the sky. Moments later they crouched, their cloaks drawn over their heads to provide pockets of breathable air—air that was air whether it be tainted with the stench of the dragon’s body or not. The rough edges of the dead beast’s scales bit into their own flesh as they strove to settle themselves to endure attack from this subtle and perhaps more dangerous foe.

  15

  Singing Shadow

  MILO STIRRED. A WEIGHT PINNED HIM TO THE GROUND. SOMEtime during the force of the storm he had lost consciousness. Even now his thoughts were sluggish, blurred. Storm? There had been a storm. His shoulder rasped against something solid and his nose was clogged not only with the ever-present dust, but also with a stench so evil that he gagged, spat, and gagged again. To get away from that—yes, that was what he must do.

  It was dark, as dark as if the dust had sealed his eyes. He forced his hands into the soft powder under him,
strove to find some firm purchase there to enable him to heave himself up, to shake the burden from his back. There was no such solid surface. None but the wall scraping at his shoulder. Now he flung out an arm and used it to push himself up and away.

  Dust showered down as he wavered to his feet, steadying himself by holding onto the rough barrier he had found. At least he was upright, looking up and out into night. Night—?

  Milo shook his head, sending more powdery stuff flying outward in a mist. It was difficult to marshal coherent thought. Some stealthy wizardry had claimed him—freezing, not his clumsy body, but his mind into immobility.

  But. . . .

  Milo’s head turned. He had heard that! He edged around so that, though the barrier against which he had sheltered still half-supported him, it was now at his back. On his wrist there was movement. Still deep in the daze which nullified even his basic sense of danger, he saw the dice flicker alive, begin to turn.

  There was something—something he must do when that happened. Only he could not think straight. Not now—for from the waste of dunes came that other sound, sweet, low, utterly beguiling. The song of a harp in the hands of a master? No, rather a voice that shaped no words, only trilled, called, promised.

  Milo frowned down at the bracelet. If he could only think what it was he should do here and now! Then his arm fell to his side, for that trilling sound soothed all his wakening anxieties, pulled him. . . .

  The swordsman moved forward toward the hidden source of that call. He sank nearly to his knees in the dust drifts, floundered and fought, dust shoes near forgotten until he strove impatiently to lash them on. The need to find this singer who used no words moved him onward as if he were drawn by a chain of bondage.