Dog and Dragon

by Dave Freer

  DOG AND

  DRAGON

  DAVE FREER

  Baen

  BAEN BOOKS by DAVE FREER

  Dragon’s Ring

  A Mankind Witch

  The Forlorn

  WITH ERIC FLINT

  Rats, Bats & Vats

  The Rats, The Bats & the Ugly

  Pyramid Scheme

  Pyramid Power

  Slow Train to Arcturus

  The Sorceress of Karres

  WITH ERIC FLINT & MERCEDES LACKEY

  The Shadow of the Lion

  This Rough Magic

  Much Fall of Blood

  The Wizard of Karres

  DOG AND DRAGON

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Dave Freer

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4165-3811-0

  Cover art by Bob Eggleton

  First printing, April 2012

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Freer, Dave.

  Dog and dragon / Dave Freer.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4516-3811-0 (trade pb)

  I. Title.

  PR9369.3.F695D64 2012

  823’.914—dc23

  2011053038

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  This one is for my Old English Sheepdog,

  Roland, loyal companion, faithful friend.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks go to the many readers who asked for this, and to my editor, Toni Weisskopf, for listening. To my agent, Mike Kabongo, for getting me to write a high fantasy in the first place. As this is my first entirely Australian-written novel: To the Australian immigration authorities for letting us come here to our own enchanted island, Flinders, and to all those who saw our animals (Roly, Puggles, Wednesday, and Duchess, Robin and Batman) safe through quarantine and here with us. To the friends who helped us settle in so that I could write, and the ones (that’s you, Jamie) who came up with good ways to kill monsters.

  And, as always, most thanks to Barbara, for editing, supporting and driving through Melbourne traffic.

  Characters

  Chapter 1

  Back to the sunset bound of Lyonesse—

  A land of old upheaven from the abyss

  By fire, to sink into the abyss again;

  Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,

  And the long mountains ended in a coast

  Of ever-shifting sand, and far away

  The phantom circle of a moaning sea.

  —Idylls of the King, Tennyson

  “Who are you?” hissed the lithe, dark-eyed man with the drawn sword.

  Meb blinked at him. Her transition from the green forests of Arcady to this dark, stone-flagged hall had been instantaneous. The stone walls were hung with displays of arms and the horns of stags. Otherwise there was not much to separate it from a cave or prison, with not so much as an arrow slit—let alone a window—to be seen in the stone walls.

  In Tasmarin from whence she had come, she had known just who she was: Scrap, apprentice to the black dragon that destroyed the worlds. You could call her anything else, but that was who she had been. Now . . .

  “Cat got your tongue, wench?” he said quietly. “Well, no matter, I’ll have to kill you anyway.”

  He swung the sword at her in a vicious arc.

  Moments ago, before she’d made the choice that swept her magically from Tasmarin, from the green forest of Arcady, she’d thought she might be better off dead rather than leaving them behind. Leaving him behind.

  Now she discovered that her body didn’t want to die just yet. She threw herself backwards, not caring where she landed, as long as it was out of reach of the sword.

  She screamed. And then swore as the blade shaved along her arm to thud into the kist she had fallen over. She kicked out, hard, catching her attacker in the midriff, knocking the breath out of him in an explosive gasp. Trying to find breath, he still pulled weakly at the sword now a good two-finger-widths deep into the polished timber of the kist. Meb wasn’t going to wait.

  But it looked as if she wasn’t going to run very far either. Her scream, and possibly the swearing, had called others, and the great iron-studded doors were flung open as men-at-arms with bright swords and scale armor rushed in.

  As she turned to run the other way, her passage was blocked by a sleepy-looking man—also with a sword, emerging from the only other doorway.

  There wasn’t a window to be seen.

  She wanted one, badly.

  And then she saw one, in the recessed wall to her left. She just plainly hadn’t spotted it before.

  She ran to it, and realized it wasn’t going to help much. In the moonlight she could see that it opened onto a hundred feet of jagged cliff, to an angry sea, frothing around sharp rock teeth far below.

  Some of the soldiers surrounded the man she’d kicked. They’d blocked her escape too, but you couldn’t really call it surrounding her. Not unless that included “getting as far from her as possible, while not leaving the other prisoner, or the room.”

  The man who had looked so sleepy moments before didn’t anymore. His sword was up, ready, his eyes wide as they darted from the window to her, seemingly unsure which was more shocking.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  There was something weaselly about him that made her very wary about answering, in case her words were twisted against her.

  And why did they all want to know something she wasn’t too sure of herself?

  * * *

  There was a narrow bridge across the void. Along it walked a black-and-white sheepdog, followed by a black dragon. The dog never looked back at the dragon, just forward, his questing written into every line of his body, from the mobile, pointed ears to the feathered tail.

  The bridge itself was narrow—made of vast, interlocking blocks of adamantine—or at least that is the way it looked. Reality might be somewhat different, at least to the eyes of a planomancer. Such eyes would see deeper than the ordinary spectra of light, and could see patterns of energy. Fionn, the black dragon, saw it all as the weave of magics that made the bridge between the planes of existence. He knew the bridge was fragile and fraught with danger. That did not stop him walking along it, any more than it stopped Díleas the sheepdog.

  The bridge was barely two cubits wide and had no rail. Far, far below seethed the tumult of primal chaos. The only way the dog could go was straight ahead. He kept looking left though.

  That was where he wanted to go. Sometimes he would raise his nose and sniff.

  Fionn knew there was nothing to smell out here. The air that surrounded the bridge was drawn and melded by the magics of it, from the raw chaos. It was new air, and Fionn knew that it did not exist a few paces behind them, or a few paces ahead.

  He was still sure Díleas was following the faint trail of something. A something which even a very clever dog could best understand as scent . . . even if there was nothing to smell.

  At least he hoped that was the case.

  Hoped with ever fiber of his very ancient being.

  Fionn had long since given up on caring too much. He was not immortal, as far
as he knew. He could certainly be killed. But compared to others, even of his own kind, the black dragon was long-lived. Time passed, and so did friends. His work was never done, fixing the balance, keeping the planes stable. He moved on.

  He’d been hated. He’d been worshiped, though it irritated him. He’d been laughed at and reviled. He’d been feared.

  He’d even been loved.

  He had never loved before, though.

  The black-and-white sheepdog was more experienced at love than the dragon, and he was a young dog still, maybe eight months old. Barely more than a pup. But Díleas—whose name was “faithful” in an old tongue, long forgotten by most men—would go to the ends of the world for her, and beyond, as they were now. His mistress was his all and he would search for her until he died, or he found her.

  Fionn knew that he’d do the same. His Scrap, his inept apprentice, had been plucked from them by magic. Her own magic and her own choice, made freely for them, and for Tasmarin, the place of dragons. Fionn knew, however, that it had cost her dearly. For him, left here without her, it was a worthless sacrifice.

  So now, somewhere, back in some place that she’d been torn from as a babe, they had to find her again.

  Fionn had no idea where that might be. A place of magics, where human magery ran strong in the blood, that much he could be sure of. But there were many such places in the interlinking chain of worlds, and they themselves were large and complex places.

  It was a good thing that Díleas seemed to have some idea where to go, because Fionn didn’t know where to even start, except by trying everywhere. He would do that, if need be. He had time. He would never give up.

  The only problem was that she was human and very mortal. And, if he had to be truthful with himself, she was able to attract disaster toward herself, just by being there.

  Fionn had never known love. He’d never really known worry either. Pain, and the avoidance of it, yes, fear, yes, but now he was afraid for her. Worried.

  The end of the bridge was now visible, if wreathed in smoke or mist.

  Fionn wondered if it would be guarded, or if the bridge was too new. The transit points often had their watchers, or barriers.

  As the other side of the void came closer, Fionn realized this place would not need such things.

  Most travelers would turn around and go back just as quickly as they could.

  Gylve was a place of fire and black glass.

  Fionn had been there before, and wouldn’t have minded if he’d never had to go there again. A planomancer needed to visit such places and straighten things out. Last time, it had glowed in the dark, and he’d had to do some serious adjustment. He was pleased to see that the radiation levels at least had dropped. Still, you could see fire dancing across the sky as the methane jets caught.

  On the silver collar on Díleas’s neck hung a bauble. A little part of the primal fire, enclosed in what merely appeared to be crystal. It should keep the dog safe from demons and from actually freezing. It wouldn’t keep his feet safe on the broken volcanic glass in the place they were coming to; only dragon hide would do for that.

  Fortunately, he had some with him, available without the discomfort of slicing it off himself. He could have done that. Dragons were tough . . . even if they really didn’t like making holes in themselves any more than the next creature. But every now and again a dragon died or was killed. If a dragon was sharp about it, they could get a piece of hide before the humans did. Honestly, thought Fionn, for a species that was afraid of dragons, humans had a habit of sticking their necks out.

  It was one of the things that he liked about them.

  The bridge was beginning to widen . . . to open onto the jet-black clinkers of one of the fire-worlds. Fionn stopped.

  Díleas didn’t.

  “Díleas, come here!”

  The dog did turn and look at him, with a “what do you think you’re wasting time at?” look. And then began to pace forward.

  “This muck will cut your feet to ribbons. And then you won’t be able to walk to her.” Fionn had to smile wryly at himself. Talking to the dog. Just like his Scrap of humanity had.

  The dog turned around and came back to him. Lifted a foot.

  Fionn’s eye’s widened. He’d have to do some serious reevaluation. And yes, now he could see that the dog was substantially magically . . . enhanced. Curse the dvergar and their tricksy magics. He was supposed to be the practical joker, not them. His Scrap had wanted Díleas to understand her. And she wore a very powerful piece of enchanted jewelry, which bound the magics of earth, stone, wood, fire and worked metals to her will.

  Not surprising really that her power worked on sheepdogs. They were clever and loyal anyway, or so he’d been told.

  “It won’t be elegant,” he said, “but then there won’t be other dogs out here to see you. He took the section of dragon leather from his pouch and rent it into four pieces, and then made a neat row of talon punctures around the edge, before transforming his own shape. Human form was one of those he knew best, and it allowed him to wield a needle well. It was of course partly a matter of appearances, and a useful disguise. He was far too heavy and too strong for a human—but hands were easier to sew with than clawed talons. A piece of thong threaded through the holes and Díleas had four baggy boots.

  Díleas looked critically at the things on his feet. Sniffed them.

  “Dragon hide,” said Fionn. “I wouldn’t show them to any dragons you happen to meet, but otherwise they’ll do. And really, scarlet boots match the bauble on your collar.”

  Díleas cocked an ear at him. Fionn wasn’t ready to bet the dog didn’t grasp sarcasm, so he merely said, “Well, let’s go. The only thing we’re likely to meet are demondim, and they like red anyway.”

  They didn’t like dragons, but were suitably afraid of them, so that was the form Fionn assumed, as the two of them walked into the badlands. It reeked of sulphur and burning, and Fionn knew the ground could collapse under their feet, dropping them down hundreds of cubits to white-hot ashpits. Vast coal measures had been pierced by ferocious vulcanism, and deep down, somewhere, it burned still. Fionn blinked his eyes to allow himself to see other spectra, patterns of energy, that might allow him to spot such instability before it killed Díleas. But the dog seemed aware and moved with a slow caution that he hadn’t showed up on the bridge.

  It was, as befitted a fire-creature world, hot and waterless. Fionn noticed that Díleas was panting. He’d have to learn to carry water for the dog, or to somehow carry the dog while he flew, because there were worse places than this, in the vast ring of planes that Fionn had once maintained the stability of. He was a planomancer, made by the First for this task, and there was plenty of work waiting for him.

  Right now, it could wait. All he did was to make a few preliminary marks with his talon and tail.

  And simply because he’d said to Díleas that they would see nothing here but demondim, right now he could hear noises that were very unlike those beloved of the creatures of fire. A jangle of bells, and, clearly, a bark. And human voices.

  Díleas, panting, could hear them too. Dogs could hear more keenly than humans, but not dragons.

  Fionn changed his form again, becoming human in appearance. A dragon would almost certainly be an unwelcome sight. He could, and possibly should, leave the demons to their nasty games. But he had some sympathy for humans these days. She’d taught him that. He would help, simply for her sake. They moved towards the voices and sounds.

  The caravan of carts was moving, slowly, along a causeway of blue-black hexagonal blocks. Probably the safest place around here, reflected Fionn, although you had to consider just what had flattened the top of the columnar dolerite dyke into a narrow straight road across the ash fields and lava lands. Bells tinkled from every horse’s harness strap. Whoever they were, they were not ignorant of demondim and their dislikes, or quite the helpless lost travelers Fionn had expected. The fire creatures liked to mislead and torment those. But who
ever had made those bells knew a thing or two about the demondim. They’d been made either to very precise mathematical formulae, or been shaved very carefully into making an octave.

  “Go on, Díleas. We might as well see just who they are and what they’re up to and cadge you a drink, panting dog,” said Fionn, prodding him with a toe.

  Díleas dropped his head and looked warily . . . not at the advancing carts but at the trail in front of them. He gave a soft growl. So Fionn looked closer. It was a well concealed little trap, the clinker plates hiding the thing’s lair. The Silago wasn’t a particularly intelligent predator, but it didn’t need to be. All it did was to make a bit of a trail and lie in wait. Eventually something—if there was anything—would choose the easiest trail and walk into its maw, just as he nearly had. Half-rock, half-animal, it didn’t need to eat more than once every few years anyway. Fionn found a piece of glassy rock and tossed it at the clinker plates. They collapsed inwards and a segmented creature with long snapping jaws reared out, lashing about, looking for prey.

  Fionn stepped back, Díleas had already neatly moved up against his side. And then the tossing Silago head sprouted an arrow shaft. And a second. Fionn paused, wondering if he should take refuge behind a rock spike. Any bow that could push an arrow hard enough to penetrate a Silago might even get an arrow into him.

  The dark-skinned, white-haired man on the lead cart—with his recurved composite bow in hand, arrow on the string, and perky-eared dog growling from the seat beside him—was smiling, though. A suspicious smile, but better than fear or anger, while he held that bow. And there were plainly others, because of that second arrow. “You ain’t one of the Beng,” he said, “because they don’t like dogs and they don’t walk on the ground. And they don’t like our bells or garlic. The question is who or what are you, stranger?”