by Roland Green
He lay down until the buzzing in his head faded to a distant murmur, and by then he was falling asleep.
* * * * *
He awoke with Haimya sitting beside his bunk. She was good to look at, though fatigue and perhaps more had carved lines into her face that hadn’t been there before.
“Pirvan, I owe you an apology.”
“I’ll accept it, but I’m not sure you did anything you need to apologize for.”
“I’ve been-uneasy-Gerik … More uneasy than I should have been, perhaps. I keep telling myself that he’s a valuable hostage, so Synsaga isn’t likely to pull out his fingernails or put out his eyes. But likelihood isn’t certainty. I can’t be entirely easy until I see him again.”
Pirvan wanted to reach out and grip her hands, but he was afraid she’d flinch at his touch. He was more afraid that she’d read through his flesh the thought in his mind: It isn’t just harm to Gerik’s body that worries you. It’s what might happen to his honor. A mage who can wake a black dragon can often lead astray a man far from home and alone among strangers.
“In your situation, I might be harder to approach than a quillpig,” Pirvan said. “You don’t need to go around apologizing to everybody and his half-elven cousin.”
“I won’t. I do insist on apologizing to you. We need to work together, to … to …”
“To keep Eskaia from becoming infatuated with Jemar the Fair?”
“Is that what you call it? I would have called it wanting to lie down, lift her skirts, and raise her legs.”
Pirvan looked at the ceiling. “You have a family retainer’s privileges. I do not.”
“And I intend to use them, too,” Haimya said. “But, in all seriousness, I may be even more fearful for Gerik now if he’s within bowshot of a dragon’s lair. But I will try not to load those fears on you, and if I do, it will be by chance.”
And if you ever come out and tell the truth, it will be a miracle, Pirvan thought sourly.
Except that it might not be true that she was in love with him. He was not sure whether learning this would be a relief or a disappointment.
Chapter 11
“Twelve fathoms, brown mud,” the leadsman at Golden Cup’s bow called.
“Shoaling fast now,” the man beside Pirvan said. “If your captain doesn’t anchor soon, he’ll-”
Pirvan didn’t hear the rest of what would happen if the captain didn’t anchor. Jemar might have picked the twelve men he’d sent aboard for their fighting prowess; he certainly hadn’t picked them for their polished manners.
Or perhaps it was general to sea barbarians and not particular to these twelve men. It was said that the sea barbarians were elaborately polite to one another, to avoid fights aboardship. It was also said that against outsiders they competed with one another in the arts of provocation and insult.
Certainly Jemar’s men hadn’t been backward in those enterprises since they had come aboard a week ago. It was a minor miracle that there hadn’t been any duels or, even less formal, knifings. Or perhaps not; the word was out that anyone who killed one of Jemar’s men would himself die on the spot. Nobody except the leaders knew the full tale of why Golden Cup needed Jemar’s goodwill, but most men accepted that this was so, even if they grumbled where the mates couldn’t hear them.
Pirvan had done his share of making the alliance with Jemar acceptable, using Grimsoar One-Eye to spread rumors of shares of rich treasures. Everybody knew that sea barbarians had entire shiploads of gold hidden in remote anchorages. Everybody also knew that sea barbarians usually managed to cheat honest sailors in the end.
But everybody also dreamed that, just this once, the sea barbarians might be honorable or the honest sailors quicker to snatch. After all, wasn’t the man who’d swum ashore and saved them all a professional thief, shrewder and even more alert than the sea barbarians themselves?
Pirvan was willing to let the sailors believe that. He himself would be entirely happy if circumstances did not require him to match wits now or at any time with Jemar the Fair. The man so far hadn’t done anything to deserve it, and Pirvan also knew who was likely to come out ahead if the matter was put to the test.
He looked over the side. They were coming up to the head of a small bay, hardly more than an inlet. A bonfire on the shore illuminated calm, almost oily water dotted with dead trees and other debris. It also lit up a handful of ramshackle huts, and beyond them a more substantial log wall with guardhouses at the gates and corners.
“Ten fathoms, gravel,” the leadsman called.
Before the sea barbarian could say anything, Pirvan heard in rapid succession:
“Douse the foresail!”
“Back the mainsail!”
“Down the anchors!”
Sails flapped and anchors went away with a squeal of rope on wood and the splash of massive weights hitting water. The ship stopped almost as abruptly as if it had run aground. Then a different voice called:
“Prepare to lower boats.”
They’d bought (at an only moderately outrageous price) an old harbor guard barge for bringing the dragon out to the ship, if he couldn’t fly. They’d also towed it all the way across the gulf, since it was too big to hoist aboard. Pirvan had heard the mates and helmsmen cursing it for days.
It was also much too clumsy for a shoreboat. Lanterns aft showed sailors hefting the longboat out of its chocks and bending the hoisting lines to the mainmast. Pirvan grinned at the sea barbarian.
“I think our captain knows his business,” he said, then scrambled down the ladder. If they were hoisting out the boats already, anyone assigned to the landing party had best be down amidships before the mates started wondering where he was.
* * * * *
The water shoaled rapidly soon after the longboat left the ship. The boat actually ran aground far enough out that the landing party had to wade through soupy water to a beach hardly firmer than the water.
Tarothin was the last one ashore, stepping as if he were walking on eggs and almost daintily trying to keep a leather bag and staff out of the water. Sailors would gladly have carried both, except that he’d warned them not to touch either.
Tarothin otherwise had been leading an easy life for the last week, and without complaint from anyone. It was known that he might be the key to fulfilling whatever bargain had been made with the Karthayans. Nobody cared to think about what might happen if Tarothin failed.
The Karthayans could certainly make themselves memorably unpleasant, Pirvan knew. From the shore he could see the blue stern lights burning aboard the two harbor guard galleys at the mouth of the inlet. Those galleys had followed Golden Cup all the way from Karthay, their decks crowded with guardsmen and their rowing benches creaking under free weapons-trained rowers.
No galley afloat could successfully ram Golden Cup, but those two alone could pour a hundred fighting men onto its decks if it’s captain tried to escape without the dragon. More galleys were surely lurking offshore, and even if Jemar was with them he would hardly take on Karthay with only one ship and no support from his other captains.
Golden Cup’s captain was going to bring out the dragon if he wanted to come out at all.
The path up from the beach was wide enough for wagons and almost firm enough to walk on comfortably. Crawling and flying insects, drawn by the fires, buzzed and whined. Pirvan and Haimya soon looked as if they’d been in a battle, with the slime from swatted insects on their faces and arms.
They were obviously expected; no one challenged them. No one came forward to guide them either. Pirvan wondered if the dragon’s lair was halfway up Mount Frygol, the landing party was expected to find their own path up to it and then persuade the dragon to fly.
The landing party’s fate was not so harsh. A dozen soldiers appeared on the path, led by three officers and a priest of Mishakal. The cleric looked as if he needed some of his lady’s services; he was sallow, looked feverish, and kept wiping his face, making an even worse tangle of his scanty hair each ti
me he did it.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said. He was looking about as friendly as an innkeeper welcoming a party of nine, half of whom would flee in the night without paying. “When is the supply ship coming?”
“Supply ship?” Kurulus said. He was providing the rank on this party, while Tarothin provided the magic and Haimya, Pirvan, and the sailors provided the fighting power. Three of the men were Jemar’s. Eskaia had wanted to come; the captain and Haimya between them had persuaded her otherwise.
“Oh, yes. We handle the supplies for all the posts on this shore,” the cleric said. The officers threw him a look that could have cut down a tree, but said nothing.
Pirvan made mental notes on the whole matter. Karthay was allowed a few posts on the western shore of the gulf, for aiding shipwrecked sailors and keeping the wild folk of the forest from turning pirate. They were not supposed to be maintaining a string of garrisons.
There were those among the rulers of Istar who would pay well for such knowledge. Now, how was a thief to carry this knowledge to them in such a way that he would receive his payment without becoming known to the rulers?
Time enough to think about that later. The officers were beckoning them to one side, and in the shadows under the trees Pirvan saw a path leading uphill.
“Lanterns,” Kurulus called, then louder, “Boat guard, is all well?”
“Fair enough.”
“Good. We shouldn’t be long.” Pirvan thought he heard something added in a mutter, like “fools’ errands always take the longest,” before the mate took the lead.
* * * * *
The path was not endless. It didn’t even seem that way. It was steep, however, and the thick forest clinging to its flanks didn’t improve matters.
The insects retreated a bit, but there were ominous chitterings and squawkings from the trees. Once a snake thicker than Haimya’s leg crawled out onto the path, then crawled on across as if it had all the time in the world. In the lantern light it was dark green with red patches, and was at least twenty feet long.
As they climbed higher, Pirvan noticed that the Karthayans were looking about more intently. One officer quickened his pace until he was well ahead of the rest, then went on in that position, with his sword drawn.
Pirvan and Haimya exchanged glances and shifted position. He took the rear, she a place beside Tarothin-the two most vulnerable spots still unguarded. Her hair looked as if it had been used to scrub kitchen floors, and even Tarothin looked as if he wanted to lean on his staff more than wield it.
The Karthayans openly listened-for what, Pirvan had no idea. He also doubted anyone could hear anything over the night noises. He had heard that as long as the forest creatures kept up their din, no enemy was about.
Pirvan only hoped that bit of wisdom was the truth. He was beginning to be aware of just how much he preferred cities to jungles. About ships he would keep an open mind for now-there were things a man could do to avoid shipwreck, or even be comfortable at sea.
Someone coughed-no, something. It was not on the trail, maybe not even human. Then Pirvan heard a long, low-pitched warbling, like the world’s largest songbird with a bone stuck in its beak.
The Karthayans stiffened. “That’s it,” the cleric said. “But he doesn’t call like that unless he hears something.” Then, before the officers could stop the cleric, he called:
“Anybody hear anything?”
The cleric’s question and the replies lasted only a few moments before one of the officers shouted for silence. Pirvan considered that if anything had alarmed the dragon, it now knew exactly where the approaching men might be. He considered hitting the cleric with the pommel of his dagger, but decided that such an impropriety was best left to Tarothin.
This is not a trap. This is not a trap. This is not a trap. What I tell you three times is true.
That little chant seemed alone and lost in the jungle, like a child in a benighted temple crypt.
In the next moment, Pirvan knew there was a trap, but not by the Karthayans. The officer ahead shouted, and Pirvan heard a soggy sort of rumble. Then out of the shadows ahead came a massive stone, half a man high, rolling down the path.
“Jump!” the officer shouted. Some of the soldiers did so, and thick, hairy arms promptly thrust out of the bushes and gripped them. One soldier slashed frantically, drawing blood and a full-throated scream, breaking the grip. Two others, less lucky, vanished into the bushes.
“Stay on the path!” Pirvan shouted. “They’re waiting for us on either side.”
A stone flew from the bushes. Pirvan ducked and twisted so that it only grazed his shoulder. The next moment, the boulder was past-but another came rumbling out of the darkness.
This time the men were alert to the slowness of the stone and the menace on each side. They sought the edges of the path but faced outward, swords drawn, arrows nocked, ready to fight the whole world if it showed itself.
To Pirvan it seemed likely that the attackers were without magic and few civilized weapons, but they were shrewd enough to be formidable. Their most vulnerable point and perhaps their leader would be up ahead, where the rocks came from. At least an attack there would stop the rolling rocks from driving them off the path.
Pirvan ran straight at the next boulder, at the last moment leaping to clear it. He would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the steepness of the path. Instead he fell across the boulder, flung himself off it in time to avoid being crushed, and landed beside the path.
He had his dagger out before the arm came out of the bushes, and he stabbed for the hairy wrist, thicker than his ankle. The wrist’s owner howled, and the bush shook, making Pirvan wonder if he faced humans.
Then something grabbed him by the ankle.
Two somethings, actually-for a moment he knew he was either going to be dragged into the bushes or split like a wishbone. Then another howl shattered the night, one grip on his ankle eased, he kicked free of the other, and rolled back onto the path almost at Haimya’s feet.
She grinned and pulled him up as the bushes cracked and splintered in the path of more attackers. Now they were in the open and easy to recognize, even if half the lanterns were out.
They were ogres, perhaps related to the legendary dwarf ogres, as they were more human in size than most of that breed. A few humans were among them, all nearly as hairy, ill clad, and undernourished as their companions.
All of them had muscles, and clubs and daggers of bone, stone, or bronze. Pirvan knew that with the unfamiliar sword in his hand he would be a menace to friend more than foe. He preferred to fight as he did when a tavern brawl turned bloody-with the difference that this time he would have to strike to kill.
He leaped to the right, faster than even a human eye could follow, went up on his hands, then over and back on his feet. He came up behind a human armed with both club and dagger, and thrust his own weapon hard into the base of the man’s spine. The man screamed, reeled, clawed at his wound, turned around to strike at Pirvan-and took the thief’s dagger squarely in the throat.
Pirvan snatched his bloody weapon free from the dying man, kicked an ogre in the groin, and saw Haimya’s sword come down across the back of the ogre’s neck as he moaned and tried to unfold himself. Then Haimya was leaping over the ogre and standing beside Pirvan, and they began to weave steel around them so that nothing could get through.
The battle shrank down to what Pirvan could see himself or what Haimya’s face and eyes warned him of. He lost the ability to tell an ogre from a human, except that now there seemed to be some full-sized ogres with their immense reach.
He saw Haimya duck away from one club’s swing, lose her footing on the path, and go down. Without thinking, he straddled her, kicking and slashing. The ogre drew back, but it had a comrade on each side. They came on, and Pirvan had the sick certainty that he and his friends were disastrously outnumbered.
The warbling came again, louder than before, then a third time, so loud that the bird might have been perch
ed on Pirvan’s shoulder, crying into his ear. Then the thief heard a splintering like all the fences in Istar being torn down for firewood, and a dragon came out of the forest.
It was a copper dragon-Pirvan could see its color plainly, even with only one lantern still lit. It was a pale copper, in parts almost white, and the scales seemed smaller than the pictures, perhaps no larger than a baby’s hand. One wing flapped, the other dragged, but from nose to tail it had to be more than thirty feet long.
That dragon would be formidable if it only sneezed. Pirvan hoped it remembered that it was good, and the ogres were not.
The dragon did more than sneeze. It swung its head, its eyes closed, and its breath weapon poured out. It was green and smoky, and smelled just like something that came out of a dragon’s stomach.
As it struck the ogres, they stopped moving. Those caught in midstride fell down and seemed to be struggling to regain their feet. Those swinging clubs dropped them. Pirvan saw one ogre bend over to retrieve his weapon, struggle as if he were wading against a strong current, then fall over on top of the club.
The dragon warbled again, swung its head, and poured the smoke down the other side of the path. This time it caught a soldier grappled with a human opponent. A slash at the enemy’s head turned into a tap with the flat of the blade, as the sword turned in the soldier’s slowed hand. The enemy tried to bring a knee up between the soldier’s legs, but lost his balance and fell. The soldier tried to kick him in the head, but lost his balance.
When the soldier fell on top of his opponent, Pirvan heard him laugh.
There wasn’t much else to laugh about for at least a few more minutes. The wind was from up the path, so that as long as the dragon breathed down either side of it, those in the middle escaped the worst of the spell. Unfortunately, they couldn’t close with their opponents; if they entered the smoke, they also would be slowed.
The archers were ready to try arrows on the slowed attackers. The officers weren’t ready to let them, as they might hit friends. Pirvan snatched a bow out of one archer’s hand, then Haimya hit him in the stomach with the hilt of her sword. He lost interest in archery.
