by Chris Bunch
The work wasn't that hard, and there was the night to look forward to, when torches flared, friendships were renewed, and scandals and marriages made in the soft meadow grass.
This was Hal's first festival. He'd been talked into staying on for the hop picking after the peach season ended. The farm owner had vaguely spoke of hiring him full-time, having noted Hal's hard work.
Kailas didn't know if he'd accept, thought not. He'd been offered other steady work in the two years since he'd left the stony mining village, but had never accepted, not sure of the reason.
He'd done just about any job offered that paid quickly, in cash, and didn't try to change him, from road laborer to clerk to wagoneer. The only one that had drawn him, and that for a moment, was being a taleteller, carrying whatever stories and news heard from village to village, performing in a square or tavern for peasants who mostly couldn't read or write. But he realized he had no talent for the dramatics required to wring the last handclap and copper from his audience.
He'd roamed Deraine from north to south, and the road had taught its lessons—never turn down a meal or a warm place to sleep; those who're kindly to passing strangers generally have their own reason for charity; never beg, but offer work and mean it; the first one to make friends with you is most always the last person you want for a companion; it's better to look shabby and clean than rich and filthy, and other messages neither the village tutor nor his father's books had offered.
So he could, possibly, linger on this hopfarm for the winter, although autumn hadn't come yet.
But he could also be far to the south when the first snow came. Perhaps he'd go into one of the coastal cities, as he had a year ago. There, able to read and write, unlike most of his fellow wanderers, he could find work as a clerk or shipper's assistant, out of the tempests.
Last year he'd made the mistake of signing on to a fishing boat, and his bones were still frozen and his fingers prickered from the hooks that ended in his hand.
As Hal thought of the future, his hands worked swiftly, stripping the cones from the stems on the trellis overhead and dropping them into the sack around his neck, then stepping forward, stilt legs striking puffs of dust in the ground ten feet below.
He grinned at himself. When would he learn to let tomorrow take care of itself, and concentrate on the moment?
Such as Dolni, with her waist-length black hair, her smiling red lips, the simple frocks she wore, with nothing beneath. She was sixteen, the daughter of one of the farmer's cooks, with a merry laugh and eyes that promised much.
Late the night before, her arms had fulfilled the promise of her eyes, and it had been close to dawn before she pulled her dress on, pushed Hal away, saying she must be back in her bed before dawn, and perhaps tomorrow night—tonight! -there would be more.
Hal felt like puffing his chest, for hadn't she chosen him over the others she'd gone walking with on other nights of the harvest? Dolni vowed the others had done nothing with her, although they'd begged her for her favors.
Dolni may not have been the first Hal had bedded, but she was far and away the prettiest and the most passionate.
Hal stumbled, taken by his heated lust, almost fell, and brought himself back to work, just as the dragon, on the jutting crag at the far end of the field, snorted, and dove from its perch.
There were yelps of alarm, a scream, from other pickers. But the dragon was merely picking up speed—or, perhaps, harassing the spindly two-legs below, as its great wings caught the afternoon wind, and lifted it high into the air.
Hal stared up at it, banking, gliding.
Now there was where he longed to be, somehow aloft with that fabulous beast, caring nothing for what was below.
Except, perhaps, for Dolni, riding behind him, the sweet tinkle of her laughter ringing through the skies.
Perhaps they would fly north, toward the rumored Black Island, or, more logically, south, beyond Deraine, across the Chicor Straits to the walled city of Paestum, or beyond that small free city, over Sagene and its baronies.
That was too much even for his imagination, and he pulled himself back, and concentrated on his picking, vowing he'd have more full sacks by dusk than any other picker, no matter how experienced, how agile, and shine in Dolni's eyes.
It was hard telling what there was more of: food, or varieties of the various beers the district boasted.
There were barreled oysters, river crayfish, ham, chicken with hot peppers, spiced beef in pasties, kidney pie, cold cuts, breads, pickles, potato cakes, a dozen varieties of barely-steamed vegetables, corn relish, a dozen cheeses, desserts and more.
There was heavily-hopped pale beer, dark porter, heavy stout, lager, wheat beer, even strawberry beer.
All was set on long tables, and everyone was welcome to take as much as he wanted, unlike the meanness of the city.
Some pickers had brought instruments with them, and there were half a dozen guitars playing, a couple of lutes, some woodwinds, three or four small drums, wooden whistles, men and women singers, a chorus that couldn't quite decide whose song to join in.
Children bounced through the throng, intent on their own games. Dogs chased cats, and sometimes were sent howling when they caught them.
Hal Kailas pushed through the crowd, looking for only one thing: Dolni.
He finally saw her, just as she ran, hand in hand with a local farmer's son, notable only for his muscles and blond hair, up a hill and disappeared into a clump of brush.
Her laughter rang behind her.
Hal thought of going after her, but what would he say? He had no rights at all, he realized, just as he also realized those boys who'd gone before him had no rights.
He thought of swearing, knew that wouldn't do any good. If he had any brains, he thought forlornly, he would laugh at his own stupidity for thinking he was more than just one more conquest for the little roundheels. He tried, but the sound was most hollow.
Very well, then, he thought. I shall get drunk. Why that idea came he had no idea. He'd been taken by drink three times, and disliked not only how it made him feel the next morning, but the dizziness, foolishness and sickness it brought that night.
Nevertheless, he found a heavy wooden mug, and went to the barrels of beer. Dark would be the strongest, he guessed, and the most potent, and grimly ladled his mug full.
Maybe he'd hoped for unconsciousness, but after two and a half mugs, it hadn't come. In fact, the brew had made him feel more alert, more alive. He felt strength run through him, had a flashed thought of what vitality Dolni had missed, almost burst into tears.
He looked around for something to do, someone to impress, heard the faint honk of the dragon, saw it settling on to the jutting rock, folding its wings for the night.
An idea came.
If Dolni would not fly with him, he would fly by himself.
Both moons were up, as befitted a harvest, but the higher Hal climbed, even though he could easily make out handholds in the rock, the more he wished it was just a bit darker, for the light showed him entirely too much.
He could see, perhaps two hundred distant feet below, the fires of the festival, heard the sounds of laughter and music, could even pick out a couple of stumbling drunks who couldn't decide whether to fight or to hug each other.
Also, he could see, and now hear, very well, the rumbling snores—he hoped it was snores—of the dragon just around the outcropping and a bit below him.
The effects of the beer had worn off somewhat, and he thought, if he was anything other than a cursed fool, he'd go back the way he came. No one, after all, had seen him begin this stupid climb, or heard him boast of his intent, so he had no foolish pride to sustain.
But he climbed on, another ten feet, thinking that would surely be enough. He slipped across the crag, using an all too convenient crack, and came out in the full flood of the moonlight.
About thirty feet below him was the motionless dragon. He could see its sides heave in sleep, had a sudden wonder what dragon
s dreamed, or if they dreamed at all.
Meanwhile, without bidding or thought, his hands and legs were finding new holds, and he was moving down toward the monster. Closer, ever closer, and he was within ten feet of its broad back.
Well, he thought, this is as stupid a way to die as ever a man, let alone a boy, ever thought of, and jumped, legs reaching, just for that flat area behind the carapace that guarded the creature's shoulder blades.
He landed fair, and the dragon woke with a screech, wings flailing, trying to reach back with its talons, with its fangs, to tear away the interloper.
But Hal was out of its reach, and the nightmare launched itself out, into empty air.
Hal Kailas was truly flying as the dragon dove for speed, then climbed high, banking, rolling, and he was holding on to the back of the plate, rough scales perfect for handholds, the warmth of the beast beneath him, and he could look up— seeing down—at the fires below him, people looking up, hearing the dragon scream rage and fear, and faintly he heard shouts as men and women saw him, saw him riding the dragon, flying.
The dragon tucked a wing, and the world was rightside up. Above him were the moons, and all the stars, and below him the world he had little use for.
He tried a kick, a tap really, against the left side of the dragon's neck, and the beast turned as bidden. He kicked with his right foot, and another turn came.
He was not just flying, but he was in command of this wonderful monster, this beast of dreams.
"To the stars," he shouted to the dragon, but the creature tucked its head, and dove, shaking like a horse trying to rid itself of a rider.
The ground was rushing up at him, and Hal could do nothing but hold on, hoping the dragon wasn't about to kill himself just for revenge against this petty creature with the foolhardiness to try to ride him.
The dragon shook himself, the membrane of his wings rattling like great drums, and Hal lost his grip, and fell.
Now the ground, the dark ground, swirled up at him, and the torch fires wound about him as he spun. He kept his eyes open, took, for his last sight before death, that peaceful moon, far above.
Then he landed.
Landed easily in one of the huge wagons filled with bundled hops, and the air was driven out of him, and all was black for an instant.
Then he saw light, fires, heard people running toward him, and he fought his way to his feet, feeling every muscle in his body protest.
A bearded face came over the cart top.
"Whut th' hells—"
"Someone said," Hal said, in as careless a voice as he could manage, "dragons couldn't be ridden."
"Boy, you are the godsdamnedest fool I ever heard of!" a woman said as she pulled herself up beside the beard.
"Maybe," Hal said. He looked out, saw the pickers running toward him, heard more shouts, thought he saw Dolni, though, now, for some strange reason, it mattered not at all to him.
"Maybe I am," he said thoughtfully. "But I rode the dragon."
Chapter Three
Autumn had arrived, but only on the calendar. It was hot and dry, the rains promised by the sages and tradition still absent. Dust swirled about Hal's feet as he tramped on, ever south toward the cities along the Chicor Straits.
His purse was full, if of more copper than silver, he had a new cloak rolled on his shoulders, and his pack held bread, cheese, and a flask of beer.
Kailas should have been content, for a wandering worker. But he felt aimless, with nothing north or south to particularly draw him, nor did any of the jobs he considered much interest him.
He heard the clatter of hooves, jumped out of the way as a fast coach drawn by eight thundered past.
Hal coughed his way through the dust cloud it left, the driver of course not bothering to slow for one more shabby wanderer, his unseen master hidden behind drawn curtains.
Such it would always be, Kailas thought, with only a bit of resentment. There would always be those who rode in coaches, like the Tregonys of the village he'd left, and those who walked in the dust or mud.
Like Hal.
He didn't really mind being a poor nomad—at his age, almost everything was an adventure. But he'd seen the older vagrants, tottering along, joints screaming, able to eat only mush, drunkenness their only solace, without kith or kin to care about them until the day they finally died in some roadside ditch.
That was not what he wanted.
But he was damned if he knew what he did want.
A shrilling came, and he looked up, saw a large dragon, all shades of green, following the road, about a hundred feet up. He was ready to duck for cover—other travelers had told him dragons haunted this lonely road, ready to swoop, kill and carry off any solitary vagabond.
But then he forgot his caution as he saw, on the dragon's back, a rider.
The dragon soared closer, and Hal could make out more of the man on its back. He was tall, very thin, long-faced, and had a well-trimmed gray beard. He wore brown leather boots, breeches and vest, a tan shirt under the vest, and a slouch hat crammed down on his head.
He held reins in one hand that ran to ringbolts mounted through spikes behind the dragon's mouth, and was sitting comfortably on some sort of pad on its shoulder blades.
He saw Hal, boomed laughter that seemed to ring across the land below.
Hal gaped like a ninny. He'd heard of men who had learned to ride dragons, didn't quite believe the tales even though he'd briefly been on one of the monsters a month gone.
But here was proof—the man appeared in complete control of the beast, touching reins, and the dragon pirouetted through the air.
The man reached in a bag, and scattered a handful of dust.
The dust sparkled in the air, then shimmered, and letters came, floating in the middle of nowhere:
!MAGICK!
!SORCERY!
!ATHELNY Of THE DRAGONS!
SEE THE
WONDROUS DISPLAY OF
ATHELNY'S ART AND SKILL!
RIDE A
DRAGON YOURSELF
NO DANGER BUT ONLY FOR THE BOLDEST
Hal barely noted that the warning was in quite small letters.
Ride a dragon?
He tore off his cap, waved, shouted, danced in the dusty road.
Again the dragon swooped back, and its rider cupped his hands, and shouted:
"Two villages away, boy! We'll see you there… if you've got the silver!"
The dragon banked.
Hal shouted back: "You will! I'll be there!"
But, if Athelny—that must be him—heard, he neither flew nor looked back.
Hal ran after him, then caught himself, slowing to a trot and then a fast walk. Yes. He surely would be there. He wondered what it cost for a ride.
* * *
It was one silver coin too much. Hal counted his purse for the fourth time, wasn't able to improve his pelf. The sign implacably read:
RIDE THE DRAGON
10 SILVER BARONS
An outrageous sum—but there were people lining up to pay it. Most were young bravos from the village, or merchants' children. Hal noticed half a dozen giggling girls in the line.
He tried to remember where that silver coin he needed so desperately had strayed. A night's lodging and a long, luxuriant bath after leaving the hopfields? That steak with half a bottle of Sagene wine he'd treated himself to? That damned cloak he'd thought a wonderful present to himself, when the weather suggested he wouldn't be needing it for awhile?
It was no use.
Even with his coppers, he was still short… and if he managed to find a spare coin in his delvings, what would he do for food on the morrow?
Glumly, he considered Athelny's show.
To someone from a big city, it might have appeared somewhat unimpressive: three wagons, one for sleeping, the other two heavy freight wagons with flat tops and ties to keep the dragons secure. Athelny had three wagoneers, plus two cunning-looking young men, not much older than Hal, obviously city sharpsters. Th
ey took tickets, made sure the passengers were securely tied in behind Athelny, jollied the crowd and joked with each other, just a little too loudly, about the rustics around them.
But none of this mattered to Hal, because Athelny had two real dragons, the green one he'd seen on the road, and a slightly younger one, in various dark reds.
The red dragon was sprightlier, constantly trying to take off with the other, the one Athelny was giving rides with. Earlier, the red one had shown his tricks in aerial acrobats, which Hal had seen the last of.
Both monsters were well-tended, scales brushed and oiled so they gleamed, wings shining, talons polished.
Hal had already noted Athelny's riding-pad, a flat saddle tied to two ringbolts drilled through the dragon's neck carapace. Now he saw a second saddle mounted behind the rider's, this one fitted with leather shoulder straps.
If these dragons were his, Hal thought, he wouldn't demean them by giving bumpkins rides for silver.
He would be the bold explorer, finding lands no one from Deraine would know, perhaps even visiting Black Island that the boastful Roche claimed as their own, reputedly the home of the biggest, most dangerous black dragons, a breed unto themselves.
His practical side jeered—and what would he use to feed his dragons, let alone himself?
There were two bullocks, lowing as if knowing their fate, tied behind the wagons, and one of the teamsters had said they would serve as dinner for man and beast.
"Pity they don't breath fire, like tavern talk would have it," one of the teamsters had told him. "That way, we could get 'em cooked in th' bargain."
Perhaps, his dream ran on, he could find a rich lord to sponsor his explorations.
If not, and he must make his way giving jaunts for his wages, he would cater to the rich, and charge accordingly, giving long flights to lords and their ladies. He'd learn about the country around him, and lecture and be thought wise.
And wasn't it you, not long ago, thinking of how much you despised those rich? I do, Hal thought. It's only their gold I lust for.
