by Chris Bunch
“What?” Faadi asked.
“Never mind,” Hal said, trying to keep from crying. Lees put an arm around him.
“We’ll fight them, Hal,” she said firmly. “Fight them and win.”
Hal wanted to believe her, but heard the doubt in her voice.
Later, in his attic room, Hal did cry, feeling like a stupid baby, knowing that wouldn’t do any good at all.
He stared out the window, at the rainy street below, remembering his mother’s words about being “beggars on the road.”
No. That would never happen. Not to his parents.
The clock downstairs in the taproom rang midnight. There’d been no customers to run out to their homes. The whole village seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see what Lord Tregony would do to the boy who dared hurt his only son.
Hal thought of what his father had said, about going to the city with his hat in his hand to hire an advocate who’d stand firm against Tregony’s pocket magistrate.
No, he thought. That would never do. Not for his parents.
He thought about them, about their careful lives, careful budgeting, here in this tiny mining village in the back of beyond. And he considered his own life, what he would grow up to be.
He knew he’d never go down into the mines like his fellows. What, then? Inherit the tavern, and have to listen to the sponges and the old gaffers mumbling their drunken way toward the grave? Maybe become a tutor to teach the miners’ children to barely read and write and bow and scrape before the boys followed their fathers underground, and the girls began to bear baby after baby until they were worn out at thirty?
No.
At least, he thought a bit forlornly, he didn’t have to worry about saying goodbye to his friends, since he really didn’t think he’d ever had any.
Moving very quietly, he dressed, wearing his best woolen pants, heaviest shoes, a sweater and his rather bedraggled and torn coat. He improvised a pack from another pair of pants, stuffed two shirts into it, along with a toothbrush and a bar of soap.
He started downstairs past his parents’ bedroom, heard the sound of their fitful sleep.
In the taproom, he wrote a note that he wished would say everything in his heart, but couldn’t.
He took bread, cheese, two pints of the tavern’s ale, a small square of smoked ham. He saw a sheathed knife, ancient, a wall hanging, next to an antique sword, took it down, tested its edge.
It would serve, and he found a small sharpening stone in the taproom’ s utensil drawer, added a knife, fork, spoon to it.
There were a handful of coins in the cash drawer and, feeling for the first time like a thief, he took a few of them.
He looked around the taproom, inviting, warm in the dying firelight, the only world he’d known.
Then he unlocked the front door, pulling his coat on, went down the steps, and off through the rain for a new and better world.
2
Hal looked up at the dragon crouched on the outcropping, put one foot in the step of his stilts and pushed off. He wobbled back and forth, then caught his balance.
He glanced back at the dragon. It was, he thought, looking amusedly at Hal’s clumsiness, although no one but Kailas would’ve given the monster that characterization. It was green and white, young, he guessed, perhaps two years old, thirty feet long, and had been hovering around the hopfields for three days now.
The workers had tried to ignore it, in the hopes it meant no harm, although no one knew just what would enrage one of the monsters.
This picking of the hops was too happy a festival for the workers who’d flocked out from the capital of Rozen with their families to allow a damned dragon to ruin things.
It was late summer, hot, dry, the hop flowers beginning to dry, perfect weather for picking. The workers used stilts to walk down the rows of pole-tied vines, as that was faster than using ladders, to reach the cones fifteen feet overhead.
The hops were baled and taken to the big kilns in the strange-looking circular oasthouses for drying, then pressed and carted away to the breweries.
For centuries, the poor of Rozen had taken this harvest as a holiday, streaming out of their cobbled streets and packed slums. The farm owners provided tents, and vied with each other, claiming to offer better food and stronger beer.
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 up 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 out 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 in 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 flashing 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 onto 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 dragons 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 onto 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 right side 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.”
3
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.
