The Blood of a Dragon

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Once he had that, though, the crossed index fingers for a crossroads seemed obvious, and running another finger along to show which fork to take, or drawing an imaginary left turn in the air, was clear enough.

  The man gave Dumery a list of four forks and two crossroads, which Dumery carefully memorized.

  Surely, he thought, it wouldn't be long now! He marched on almost merrily, and even whistled for a moment or two.

  He stopped, however, because it made him notice the cold more when he blew all that air out. The weather had very definitely turned colder—or perhaps it was because he was far to the north, and spring came later here.

  Cold or not, though, he expected to find Kensher's home shortly.

  By sunset he hadn't even reached the first fork.

  Not long after he stopped at a marker stone, bearing an inscription he couldn't make out in the failing light, and decided that he needed to rest. He couldn't go on in the dark; he might wander off the road or get himself eaten by wolves. Besides, he was exhausted.

  He was hungry, too, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  He would go on in the morning, he decided.

  He spent the night curled up by the road, shivering with the cold and listening to his stomach growl. In the stories he'd heard when he was younger the heroes had wandered about in forests for years, living off nuts and berries and roots, picking fruit from the trees—but he could see no nuts or berries or fruit and the roots were mostly well-hidden, while those that weren't looked quite surprisingly unappetizing.

  Water was no problem; there were streams and pools all through the hills, especially along the valleys between ridges. It was often dirty, stagnant and foul-tasting, but it was water.

  Food, though, he could not find.

  He had chewed a few stalks of grass as he walked, but that was not really satisfying. He had eaten reasonably well on the barge, but he hadn't eaten at all since coming ashore, except for the grass, and he was beginning to wonder how long it took to starve to death.

  Some of the houses he had passed had had gardens, and he wondered if he might do well to backtrack until he found one and pick a few things, but it was too early in the year for much of anything to be ripe yet, and he didn't like the idea of stealing.

  Besides, it was getting dark very rapidly, and he was afraid he'd lose the trail if he tried to go anywhere.

  When he awoke the sun was already high up the eastern sky; his discomfort had kept him awake well after he should have slept, but once asleep his exhaustion had taken over. He rose quickly and started on toward the east once again, but almost immediately began to think about turning back and searching for food, maybe going back to the house where he had gotten directions and begging. That man had seemed kind; surely, he would feed a hungry stranger!

  This idea grew steadily more appealing for almost half an hour. Then he topped the next ridge and reconsidered.

  Ahead of him, at a fork in the road that was surely the first of the four he had been told about, stood an inn.

  It had to be an inn. It was much larger than any of the houses he had seen out here in the wilderness, with a large, cleared yard, and a stable attached at one end. The main building was all wood, but decorated with carvings and paint in a way that none of the houses had been. A large herb and vegetable garden spread across the hillside to the rear, with a wellhouse at one back corner and what appeared to be the roof of an icehouse at the other. A signboard hung over the door.

  If he had only gone on a little farther in the darkness—but that didn't matter now. Dumery staggered happily down the slope; surely, his six bits would buy something edible here!

  When he got closer he saw that the signboard showed a pine tree splitting in half from the top down, with a jagged yellow line in the center of the split that extended up to the top of the wooden panel—lightning, Dumery guessed.

  That hardly seemed like a favorable omen, but Dumery didn't really believe in omens in everyday life.

  The front door was open, and Dumery tottered in without hesitation. He found a chair and fell into it, and hauled his few pitiful coins out of his purse.

  "Ukhur ie t'yelakh?"

  Dumery looked up at the serving maid who stood over him; he had been too busy with his money to notice her approach.

  “Do you speak Ethsharitic?” he asked, depressingly certain that she would not.

  "Ethsharit?" she asked. "D'losh. Shenda!" This last word was shouted in the direction of the kitchens.

  Another, older serving maid appeared in reply. "Uhu?" she asked.

  "Da burei gorn Ethsharit." With that, the younger woman turned and headed for the kitchen, while the older one emerged to take her place.

  “Yes, sir?” the new arrival asked.

  “You speak Ethsharitic?” Dumery asked, amazed and pleased.

  “Yes, sir. What would you like?” Although she spoke politely, Dumery saw her looking askance at the rags he wore.

  “I haven't eaten in two days,” Dumery said. “This is all the money I have left. May I have something to eat? Anything?”

  She looked at the coins and considered. “I think we can manage something,” she said. Dumery noticed she had only a very slight Sardironese accent.

  She turned and headed for the kitchen, and Dumery sat, waiting nervously.

  She emerged a few moments later with a platter and set it before him.

  He stared, mouth watering.

  There were soft brown rolls, and two green apples, and white-streaked orange cheese, and the remains of a chicken—the legs were gone, and the breast meat stripped away, but one wing was still there, and Dumery could see a fair bit of meat still on the bones.

  “Left-overs from breakfast,” the serving maid explained. “Four bits.”

  Hand shaking with anticipation, Dumery pushed over four of his six coins and began eating. The thought of haggling didn't even occur to him.

  The rolls were still good, only slightly stale, but the apples weren't anywhere near ripe, the white streaks on the cheese were an unpleasant mold, and the chicken was cold and greasy.

  All the same, to Dumery it was all ineffably delicious. When he was done nothing remained on the platter but chicken bones and the stems and seeds of the apples.

  He sat back, hands on his stomach, enjoying the sensation of repletion.

  The serving maid reappeared at his side.

  “Are you a warlock?” she asked. “You look so young!”

  “No, I'm not a warlock,” Dumery replied, mystified. He stared up at her for a moment, then asked, “Should I be?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, well, most of the people who come here who have forgotten to eat for long periods are warlocks.”

  “I didn't forget," Dumery said, flabberghasted by the very concept of forgetting to eat, “I just didn't have any food!” He continued to stare up at her.

  She stared back. Dumery grew uncomfortable.

  “Why would ... I mean, do a lot of warlocks come here?” he asked. He couldn't see any reason they would; while the inn was pleasant enough, he saw nothing magical about it.

  “Sometimes,” she replied.

  “Why?” Dumery asked, puzzled.

  She shrugged. “I don't know,” she said. “They don't talk much. They're always headed southeast, down the main highway. Usually they fly.”

  This news did not set very well with Dumery. “Southeast, down the main highway” described his own intended route. The idea of encountering several warlocks along the way wasn't appealing. If he couldn't be a magician himself, he preferred not to deal with them at all until he could somehow hold his own.

  “Just warlocks?” he asked. “What about wizards, or sorcerers?”

  “No, just warlocks,” the woman said. “I've never even met a sorcerer, and it's been years since a wizard's stopped here.” She paused, then added, “I met a demonologist once when I was a little girl, but that wasn't anywhere near here.”

  “Oh,” Dumery said. He thought
for a moment.

  He couldn't think of any reason that warlocks would want to travel the area, but then, he didn't know much about warlockry.

  It didn't really concern him, he decided.

  He would want to stay out of the way of any warlocks he encountered, of course—not just now, but always. Warlocks had a nasty reputation. Being a dragon-hunter and demanding piles of gold for dragon's blood would give him a way to get back at wizards, but warlocks used no potions or spells; even a dragon-hunter wouldn't impress them.

  But on the other hand, they would have no reason to bother him. He was harmless enough, and his business wouldn't interfere with theirs.

  And now that he thought about his business, he had another question for the serving maid.

  “Um...” Dumery said, “I'm looking for an apprenticeship to a dragon-hunter. Would you know of any around here who might be interested?”

  The woman blinked, and thought for a moment.

  “I don't think I do,” she said. “Of course, there aren't very many dragons right around here; they're mostly to the east, up in the mountains. Or north. Or south. There are certainly dragon-hunters in Aldagmor, but I don't know where.”

  “Where's Aldagmor?” Dumery asked.

  She stared. "Here, of course!”

  “I thought this was Sardiron,” Dumery said, puzzled.

  “It is.”

  “But you said...”

  “The gods help you, boy, Aldagmor is part of Sardiron! Or at least, it's part of the Baronies of Sardiron.”

  “Oh,” said Dumery. “It's one of the Baronies?”

  “The largest of them,” the woman replied.

  “How many are there?” Dumery asked. “I mean, there are three Ethshars, and everyone knows that because it's called the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, but how many baronies are there?”

  “I have no idea,” she replied. “I think it varies—barons can divide their lands up between heirs, and sometimes a marriage will merge two of them. Right now, well, there's Sardiron of the Waters, of course, where the Council meets, and there's Tazmor, which is east of the mountains and the richest of them all, and Srigmor, in the north, except much of it's abandoned, and The Passes, where the highways cross the mountains into Tazmor, and then there are all the Lesser Baronies along the river, Hakhai and Tselmin and Takranna and the rest ... I don't know.”

  “Oh,” Dumery said again.

  “We're in the North Riding of Aldagmor here,” she volunteered, after a moment of awkward silence. “Though I think it's actually more to the west than to the north of the others. You crossed the boundary about a mile back, if you came up the highway from the river—didn't you see the marker stone?”

  Dumery remembered where he had slept the night before. “I didn't read it,” he admitted.

  This was all very interesting, he thought, but they were getting further and further from what he really wanted to know.

  “So you don't know where I can find a dragon-hunter who needs an apprentice?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I'm afraid not.”

  Dumery sighed, then asked his next question. “Do you know a man named Kensher Kinner's son?”

  She stared at him. “Why, yes,” she said. “He stayed here last night.”

  “He did?" Dumery yelped.

  “Yes, he did,” she confirmed. “He comes by about four times a year, and he has for as long as I can remember. Everyone along the road knows him; he always has a good word for everyone he sees. You're not from around here, though; do you know him?”

  “Sort of,” Dumery said, while cursing himself for not pressing on the night before. He had been so close!

  “Well, he just left, oh, half an hour before you got here, at most. Maybe if you hurry, you can catch him on the road.”

  “Maybe,” Dumery said, looking at the platter of chicken bones and wishing he'd stuffed the food in his pocket to eat on the road instead of wasting time at the inn. “I'd better get going.” He rose, put his last two bits in his purse, and headed for the door.

  “Good luck!” the maid called after him as he rushed out. He didn't take time to answer,

  A moment later, though, Dumery's head re-appeared in the doorway. “Which road did he take?” he called.

  The servant pointed. “That one,” she said, indicating the right fork.

  That was in agreement with the gestured directions Dumery had gotten the night before. The boy nodded, turned, and ran.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Teneria turned and studied the bank again. “Do you think we're getting close?” she asked.

  “Don't know,” the spriggan said. “Don't care. Like you better.”

  “To Sardiron of the Waters, or to the barge?” the boat's owner asked.

  “The barge,” Teneria replied.

  “I doubt it,” the boatman said. “Those cattle barges are usually sylph-propelled; they can really move along.”

  Teneria glanced at him, worried. “They can?”

  “Oh, yes. I told you when I picked you up that we weren't likely to catch him this side of Sardiron—the city, not the country, we're in the Baronies. But it's still a good long way to the city, and we probably won't catch up, not unless you use magic.”

  “And I told you that I don't have any magic that can move a boat any faster than you can row it or pole it.”

  The boatman shrugged. “Well, then,” he said, “I'd say you aren't going to catch this fellow, not so long as he's on that barge.”

  “I wonder,” Teneria said, “if he is still on the barge.” An odd uneasiness touched her as she thought about it, and she had learned early in her apprenticeship to pay attention to such things.

  She stared at the spriggan for a moment, soaking in its memories of Dumery—such as they were; spriggans, she had discovered, weren't much on remembering things. Then she turned to the bank, raised her spread fingers to her forehead, closed her eyes, and worked a locating spell Sella had taught her years ago, using the spriggan as her familiar.

  Her eyes flew open.

  “He's there!” she shouted. “He went ashore at the inn! Take us back, to that inn we just passed, quickly!” She pointed desperately, jabbing at the air in her excitement.

  How perverse of the boy, she thought, to go ashore without warning, instead of continuing on to Sardiron of the Waters as he had said he would! Teneria was beginning to dislike Dumery without ever having met him.

  “What?” The boatman stared at her as if she had gone mad, but already he was backing water with one oar. “How do you know?”

  “I just know,” Teneria said.

  “Magic? Is it magic? You're a wizard?” His voice was both eager and apprehensive.

  “I'm a witch,” Teneria corrected him. Then she corrected herself. “An apprentice, anyway. If I find the boy I'll make journeyman.”

  “But you said you didn't have any magic...”

  “I said I didn't have any magic that could move the boat faster than you can. I don't. Witchcraft doesn't work that way.”

  “But you say you know ... I mean, if you can do one kind of magic...”

  Teneria decided to just ignore the boatman's questions, and after a moment they trailed away into silence as he concentrated on bringing the boat safely up to the dock.

  Teneria fished in her purse and found the silver bits she had promised. She handed them over, tossed the spriggan gently up onto the dock, then climbed up after it.

  “Thank you,” she called back.

  The boatman just nodded as he pushed off. “Crazy witch,” he muttered a moment later, clearly unaware that witches were known for their remarkable hearing.

  Teneria heard the remark, but paid no attention. She was scanning the area, looking for psychic traces.

  There, behind that bush—someone had crouched there for at least an hour, probably much more, yesterday morning. It was a boy, about twelve.

  It was Dumery. No doubt at all, it was Dumery. She had found his trail.

 
; From here, it would be easy. The traces weren't as fresh as they might be, but there were no crowds, no conflicting signals, up here in the wilds of Sardiron. The traces were there; all she had to do was follow them.

  How difficult could it be?

  With a smile on her lips and the spriggan perched unsteadily on her shoulder, she marched up the trail into the forest.

  By nightfall it had begun to sink in that Dumery still had a good, solid lead on her, and she wasn't gaining much on him. Oh, she was gaining, but only very slowly; she estimated the traces to be only a day or so old, where she had started a good two days behind.

  But she still had a lot of catching up to do.

  She passed the spot where Dumery had slept, curled up beside the path, and noted it, even in the darkness. She wasn't about to stop there herself; this was her chance to gain a little ground.

  Besides, there was an inn ahead, she could sense it, no more than a mile away. She forged on, finding her way by moonlight and witch-sight. The spriggan, half asleep, tottered and almost fell from her shoulder; she put a hand up to steady it.

  Her legs dragged with weariness, but she kept moving.

  After a time she paused to catch her breath. The inn was just over the ridge, she knew that; she was almost there.

  Then the night was torn open by a blaze of orange light from above, light that spilled in sharp-edged blades through the dark trees, turning the forest into a jagged maze of bright color and black shadow. She heard the sound of a man's scream, thin with distance, and she looked up, seeking the source of the light.

  A man was hanging unsupported in the night sky, perhaps a hundred yards up and two hundred yards to the north, and the light came from his body, burning like a miniature sun.

  He was screaming, and appeared to be struggling with the empty air, as if something were pulling at him, dragging him somewhere he didn't want to go.

  Then his head jerked, the light went out, the screaming stopped, and he fell.

  Teneria stood frozen in astonishment for a moment, listening to the sound of branches snapping beneath the fallen magician's weight—for anyone who flew about glowing like that was clearly a magician.

  Then she heard the dull thud of the body hitting the ground, and she came to her senses.