“It was good yesterday, though,’’ he muttered. Even the memory would carry him through the day. And if he couldn’t stomach another piece of hardtack or another bowl of beans, he could go rooting in the woods when the caravan paused to water the horses.
“Wouldn’t mind a couple of aspirins right now.”
He padded to the window and nudged the shade aside, looked out onto the street and heard the sounds of battle.
“A fight? In the village?” For a moment he thought that he might be dreaming. Then he thought he might be hearing sounds from the mine. He stuck his head out the window and saw a boy running by on the street. “You there! ”
The boy slowed, but didn’t stop.
“What’s going on?”
“Bandits,” the boy shouted. “Thieves! They’re after the merchants.” Naile didn't bother with his clothes. He ran from the room naked, taking the stairs two at a time and willing the transformation to begin. His bones were snapping, popping, growing longer and thicker before he touched the last step. A massive boar thundered out of the inn’s front doors and raced down the main street. The beast paused only for an instant, then dashed between the blacksmith’s and the tack shop so he could come upon the caravan from outside the village. He sped up, his hooves slicing into the hard earth and throwing clumps of dirt up in his wake.
Milo saw what was causing the ruckus—a huge boar had skewered one of the brigands on his tusks, shook him loose, and went after another one. The brigands near the wagons dropped their sacks and drew their swords. But the boar had gored three of them before the first man had his weapon out.
“It’s the big man!" Fisk yelled. “The animal is the big guard!” He was waving to the archers who’d been keeping watch on the town. “Shoot him! Kill the beast!” He whirled to the handful of brigands watching the captives. “Kill them all, but save that one.” He pointed to Milo. “That one must know where the elf and the war-woman is. He’ll tell us.” Then Fisk was running toward Naile, a wavy-bladed dagger appearing in each hand. “Kill the merchants!”
Milo knocked Ludlow Jade to the ground, saving the merchant from a brigand’s arrow. “All of you, down!” Then he vaulted over a few prone forms and started untying one of the Glothorio priests. The man dropped to his knees, tugged free his gag and started reciting a spell, while at the same time he untied his fellow’s hands. Both priests were working magic now, the arcane words flying furiously, tattoos breaking away from their heads and arms to streak toward the archers. In midair as they flew, the tattoos enlarged then shattered, dozens of black darts striking down archers and splintering bows.
Milo dove into a brigand who was about to kill the cheesemaker. He pounded his fists into the man's head until blood gushed from a broken nose and the brigand stopped moving. Other guards were fighting with their fists, too, as well as some ol the merchants. The priests continued to chant, more tattoos arcing toward the brigands, one of the tattoos lancing into Fisk.
Milo grabbed a downed brigand’s sword. It was one of the heavy curved-blade weapons, and it felt awkward in his grip. He dropped it and scooped up a dagger instead.
“False brother!” one of the priests cried. “Glothorio will send you to the dark nether-realm! Fisk Lockwood, you are not one of ours!”
Fisk’s face proved the priest true. The tattoos on his head had become smudged. Paint or ink, Milo guessed, as he raced toward Fisk, shoulder down and striking Fisk. The false priest fell, and Milo pulled back an arm, slamming his fist into Fisk’s jaw. The bone cracked and Fisk’s eyes rolled up. Then, with a rattled groan, the slight man went limp.
Milo jumped off him and ran toward one of the brigands who was aiming at the merchants.
Some of the villagers joined the battle, most of them miners, and they were wielding picks and shovels as weapons. A farmer was using a pitchfork with quite a degree of success, having speared one of the youngest brigands on the twines. Two old women were helping, throwing rocks from behind the cover of one of the village wells.
Naile continued to wreak the most havoc, hooves pounding over the grass, lowering his broad head to get under a brigand, then tossing him into the air. Once the brigand fell to the ground, Naile trampled him, and moved on to the next. An arrow protruded from the wereboar’s side, and a broken shaft stuck out of his back right leg. But the wounds didn’t slow the beast down.
“Run!” This came from the eldest surviving bandit. He was near Ludlow Jade’s wagon and was unhitching a large horse. “Run, you all!” Then he was on the horse and kicking it in the sides, urging it to gallop away from the village.
Another brigand, a canvas sack of loot over his shoulder, grabbed one of the horses and joined him. None of the other men were able to get to the horses. Milo saw to that. His breath was coming in ragged gulps from the exertion of the fight. A few of the wounds on his legs, the ones where the finger bones went in the deepest, had opened up and were bleeding. He kept his weight on his left leg, as it was the strongest, and he shifted the borrowed dagger to his left hand, picking up part of a crate with his right to use as a shield.
Two brigands were rushing him, one of them limping badly from a gash on his leg. Blood had soaked the man’s gray leggings, turning them black, and he gasped with each step.
“Drop the swords, the both of you,” Milo offered. “I’m tired of killing.”
The wounded man complied, but his companion only moved faster, leading with the sword and reaching behind his back. Milo suspected he was going for a dagger, or something else to throw. He wasn’t going to give him the chance. Milo darted forward, makeshift shield out and bashing the man’s face, sweeping the dagger under the shield and slicing through the tight tunic. The brigand fell, dead.
“I yield.” The wounded man was on his knees, hands pressed to the gash in his thigh.
Milo grabbed up the man’s sword, a long thin-blade that felt balanced. He pulled the bow and quiver from the wounded man’s back and tossed them away. A quick glance at the field to make sure the brigands were being routed, then he pressed the tip of the sword to the man’s throat.
“Who sent you?”
The man continued to press at his wound, the blood pooling up between his fingers. Milo sucked in his lower lip, guessing that an artery had been cut. The man’s skin was white, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on his face.
“I said, who sent you?” Milo pulled back the sword as if he was an executioner readying a swing. He needed the man to talk quickly.
"Fisk.” He sat now, tugging off his tunic and wrapping this around his leg. His hands were shaking, and he looked to Milo for help. It didn't come.
"Are you going to keep talking?” Milo persisted. "Or do I have to help you bleed out a little faster.”
The man didn’t look up. He tied the sleeves of his tunic tighter around his leg. It seemed to help only a little. "We go after merchants using the trail, usually not after caravans so big as this one. Too many guards this trip. But Fisk came to us, brought some men with him. All the young ones.”
Milo raised an eyebrow.
"The young men must be from another band. Didn’t matter to us. Fisk was paying well enough.” He paused. “At the time it seemed like good coin.”
“Go on.”
“Fisk said on top of the coins whatever was in the wagons was ours. Said all he wanted was the fat merchant’s guards.”
"Why did he want the guards? What did he tell you?”
The man shrugged and looked up. His skin was shiny white, his lips tinged blue. “Didn’t ask. Didn’t — ” He fell back, breathing faintly. Milo stepped over him and ran to where he’d left Fisk.
The false priest wasn’t there. But the earth was churned up all around where he fell, from the hooves of a large horse. And there was a trace of brimstone in the air.
The wereboar was charging away from the caravan, pursuing a trio of brigands running east. He overtook the first, rearing up, tusks raking against the man’s back. Then he trampled him and went afte
r another.
Milo leaned over, hands on his knees, steadying himself, catching his breath. Dead brigands and caravan guards littered the ground near the pond. Dead merchants, too. Zechial, the shoemaker, three Glothorio priests, and Korey the elixir brewer.
"So much death,” Milo said. "And for what? Why?”
Steadied, he retrieved his own sword, then went to Ludlow Jade's wagon and found his tunic and chainmail shirt. He put these on, watching the merchant hover over his dead son.
“I’m sorry,” Milo said. He stepped toward the merchant, but Ludlow Jade waved him away. So Milo started prowling the field. It was something his characters had done in the game — take the coin purses of the fallen. Dead men didn't need money, and Milo figured if he didn’t take it, the merchants or villagers would. He stuffed his treasures in a brigand’s pack and slung it over his shoulder.
Milo didn’t touch the bodies of the guards, just the brigands, tugging loose a coin pouch here and there, taking a couple of exceptionally fine-looking daggers and sticking them in his weapons belt. One of the archers had a cloak, the only brigand who had one. This, too, he took, guessing it might come in handy.
Several of the men had small brands on the backs of their hands. He made a mental note to ask Ludlow Jade about this later.
When he was finished with the bodies, he stood by the pond, listening to the ducks softly quacking, as if nothing untoward had happened here. A fish splashed in the middle, and the songs of birds began to intrude. The voices were growing, villagers coming out of the town, chattering amongst themselves and asking questions of the remaining guards and merchants. The merchants were talking, too, crying over the losses of their friends and guards, the losses of their merchandise. The guards had organized themselves into a clean-up detail and were wrapping bodies in Ludlow Jade’s blankets, giving preferential treatment to Zechial, the shoemaker, and Korey.
Ludlow Jade draped the new blue tunic Zechial had bought in town over the top. The two Glothorio priests prayed with him, then they moved on to tend to their dead brethren. Some of the villagers were helping with the dead merchants and guards were offering water and bandages to the wounded. A local healer moved among the caravan, separating the most seriously injured and nursing them first.
It looked like a war had been fought here, Milo thought. And all because Fisk Lockwood wanted him and Naile, Ingrge and Yevele dead. “Why?” And what of Deav Dyne, Wymarc, and the lizard-man Gulth? Were they safe because they were elsewhere? “Wymarc.” Milo pictured the bard’s face, recalled that Fisk Lockwood was singing a tune that had sounded somewhat familiar, something that certainly didn't belong in this world. “ ‘Danny Boy.’ He was singing ‘Danny Boy.’” Milo’s heart sank. He recalled Wymarc singing that tune, and several others, when they were camping at night in the Hollow Woods. “Fisk got Wymarc.” He was certain the false priest had slain Wymarc first, maybe before the caravan had even left the city.
He remembered seeing Fisk in the Golden Tankard, and not liking the looks of him then. He wondered if Fisk had intended to go after him and Naile that very night. Maybe the city watch had thwarted any such plans by throwing Milo and Naile in the jail.
“So he arranged for Ludlow Jade to bail us out. So he could get us that way. And take us away from the city. Safer for him.” Milo clenched and unclenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. He continued to watch the guards, merchants, and villagers pick up the pieces. The dead brigands would be dealt with last, he knew. “Why does someone want us dead?”
"1 don’t know. But I’d like to find out.”
Milo whirled. On the far side of the pond, Naile was sitting in the dead grass, working the broken arrow out of his thigh.
“Damn, that hurt.” Naile saw Milo watching him and motioned him over. “I saw Fisk hightail it out of here on a black horse that moved like the wind and was as quiet as a whisper. Beautiful animal, hut I could’ve sworn I saw flames coming out of its mouth. Ouch!” He started working on the arrow in his side.
"Stop. Let me help you with that.” Milo handed the bandit’s cloak to Naile.
"Thanks. My clothes are in my room. Ouch!”
Milo had the arrow free and started dabbing at the wound. "Doesn’t look serious.”
“It’s not. It just hurts is all.”
“Good thing you were in that room, 1 suppose. The cavalry to the rescue and all that."
Naile snorted and got to his feet, wrapped the cloak around him like it was a bath towel. “1 better go get my clothes and axes.”
“And I better go get some answers about all of this.” Milo headed straight toward the Glothorio priests, who were administering rites to their fallen brethren. He waited until they were done with the ceremony and offered his sympathy.
Then he fumbled about in the borrowed satchel and pulled out two coin purses, dropping them at the tall priest’s feet. “You said your divine magic costs. Well, now I can pay you.”
Sand and Scales
“Here, Bert." The sand dragon crooked its talon, beckoning to the thief. “Here. Here. Here.” The words became a rumble that chased through the cavern floor, causing more sand to sift down from the hole.
Berthold of the Green shook his head and backed up a step. “Now, that wouldn’t be a prudent idea on my part, would it? Might as well just march right into your ugly toothy mouth and — ’’
Under him the ground heaved and Berthold fell. Yevele might have joined him, but Ingrge was there to steady her. The elf seemed to have no trouble keeping his balance.
“I hope that's not its stomach growling,” Yevele whispered.
Ingrge shook his head and tugged Yevele back toward the hole in the cavern’s ceiling. “No,” he said, his voice so soft she barely heard him. “It’s something much worse. Now, I’m going to boost you up.” “I’ll not leave you or the thief,” she said, no longer bothering to keep her voice down.
“If you don’t get out of here right now,” the elf cautioned. “There’ll be no one to rescue this supposed wizard.”
“He’s right, you know,” Berthold said. “Much as I agree with you, he’s speaking some sense. I think we should — ”
The rumbling deepened. This time Yevele was pitched to the ground. The three dragons, heads swinging, looked to the darkest part of the cavern, where the shadows were thickest and where the rumbling was the loudest. Then one crept forward and lowered its snout, sniffing at Yevele and Ingrge.
“Here, Bert,” it purred. “Here. Here. Here.”
“I’m Bert!" the thief called, trying to lure the dragon toward him, as he moved toward a far side of the cave. “I’m Bert. Berthold of the Green.”
“Here, Bert,” the second dragon persisted. It flicked a tongue out and touched the elf’s face.
“Get behind me," Ingrge told Yevele.
Despite the closeness ol the dragon, she bristled. “You should stay behind me, elf." She had sword in hand now as she got to her feet, bending at the knees and keeping her balance, though the floor continued to tremble. “I don’t need your chivalry." Then she swept her blade up, intending to bring it down on the dragon’s snout.
“Stop!” The word was like a clap of thunder, deafening in the cavern and bouncing of! the stone walls.
Yevele staggered again, but she kept her grip on her weapon.
“You will not threaten my children!” One tremor after another raced through the cavern, and spiderweb cracks danced along the walls. Stone dust drifted down. A massive head followed the voice out of the darkest part ol the chamber.
They couldn’t see all of this dragon, but its head alone was as large as the three other dragons in the cavern put together. The eyes were wide and slitted like a cat’s, and they cast a hellish yellow glow across the stone floor. From its open maw the stench of something burning escaped. Brutal and overpowering, Yevele, Berthold, and Ingrge choked and fought against a rising aura of fear which pulsed from the beast.
More of the dragon snaked out, the neck thicker
than the biggest of trees and covered with dull brown fire-edged scales the size of shields. It stretched a muscular leg forward, talons screeching across the stone, the noise painful and blotting out all other sounds. Then it raised a talon to the head of the dragon near Yevele and Ingrge, deadly sharp looking and shaped like a scimitar. With an extraordinary gentleness, it brushed at the side of the young dragon’s snout. The smaller creature sighed happily.
‘You will not hurt my children,” the dragon repeated. “I will slay you first.”
“N-n-no. You don’t need to do that.” Berthold crawled forward, not attempting to get to his feet, as the cavern still rumbled in response to the great dragon’s breathing. The thief was sweating profusely and sand had stuck to his face and the backs of his hands. He trembled all over, even though he told himself to be brave. A glance at Ingrge and Yevele revealed that they were likewise affected by being in the presence of the creature. “Y-y-you don’t need to kill us.”
“Here, Bert,” the young dragon purred again. “Here. Here. Here.”
“W-w-we weren’t going to hurt your children. We just fell in here. An accident.”
“Were pulled in here,” Ingrge added. “Just walking across the desert, and — ”
“Here, Bert.”
. . and something grabbed my leg. One of your children pulled me in here. My friends came down trying to help me.”
“Here, Bert.”
“Heeeeeere, " one of the other young dragons said. “Berrrrrrt.”
“We meant no harm,” Yevele said. She sheathed her sword and stood.
The rumbling lessened, but it did not stop.
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