Dog and Dragon

by Dave Freer

Meb made her way across to the infirmary. Already the women were carrying wooden buckets, and ewers, and bowls and anything else that would hold water from the central well to higher points. The buildings within the outer wall were almost all thatched, and plainly fire was a threat. So they labored up from the well with water. Meb wondered why they didn’t take water from the worn rock-bowl next to the outer wall. That was still full and trickling its water into a clay pipe. But perhaps it was for some other purpose. It was a very scruffy spot in the otherwise tidy courtyard. There must be some reason it was ignored. The water was probably brackish or something. It would still put out fires, surely?

  Neve was looking pale and wan, and had apparently been carried in from the battlements about midnight. “We’re going to die, m’lady. I shouldn’t have done it. But she told me I’d lose my p-place.” Tears streamed down her little face and Meb could get precious little sense out of her, or little comfort to her. Somehow she must use her magical skill to get rid of these attackers. She knew she still had the power that she’d wielded on Tasmarin, only . . . only most of the time there it had gone wrong. She’d had Finn to fix it for her. She actually really had no idea what she could do, or what she should do. She knew she was a summonser. She could call things to her. What would turn the Fomoire back? A dragon? A troop of centaurs? It sounded like everyone had reason to hate Lyonesse. She wouldn’t bet that that would not be true of anyone she summoned too.

  So she went up to join the bucket teams. Like the men-at-arms, they were trying to stay out of direct sight of the Fomoire, but judging by the chanting, the ice bridge was not there yet. But the sky was slate-grey, and the sunlight through Aberinn’s devices would not help today. Meb bit her lip. Well, there was no point in hiding the axe under the bed at this stage. And she could summons it . . . but best to save that. She went and fetched it instead. It remained the most deadly, sharp-looking thing she’d ever seen. She imagined she might cut a hair by dropping it on that blade.

  No one questioned her taking it with her to where a row of women huddled below the stone and mortar on the inner bailey with their buckets.

  After a little while Meb’s curiosity penetrated even her fear. The chanting seemed to have gotten far louder. She’d have to risk a peep soon. And then the idea stuck her: she had a perfect alvar-silver mirror in her hands. She held it up.

  No wonder the chanting was louder. The Fomoire host was nearly at the least-steep edge of Dun Tagoll’s peninsula. The monstrous, shaggy warriors had their big ovoid shields up to protect their chanting mages from the arrows being fired from behind the battlements without looking over—with their errant aim, quite a few were landing in the water. And lined up on the chariots just behind them and under the huge eye banner was a row of gigantic, misshapen men . . . all with only one eye . . . staring at the walls, from behind their shields. Meb changed the angle of the alv axe a little more to get a better view of them. Saw one stagger and fall sideways off his chariot.

  And then someone knocked the axe down. “What are you doing, woman?” demanded the man-at-arms.

  “Using my axe as a mirror.”

  “The evil eye will overlook you just as well in a mirror! Do you think it hasn’t been tried?”

  “It’s as bad reflected as direct?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course. Everyone knows that.”

  It was like a candle in a great darkness. A bright spark, in dry idea-tinder.

  Meb picked up the axe. The blade was bigger than her face . . . she held it in front of her face, and stuck her head up above the parapet. She couldn’t see anything. But she’d bet some Fomoire’s baleful eye was hurting. And she was rewarded by a reverberating groan from outside the walls. She was aware that the women—a mixture from both the bower and the kitchen just here—were staring at her. “Every one of you! Quick. Go fetch a looking glass. Any looking glass. Anything that reflects. We’ll give them their own back. Let them enjoy it.”

  Women looked, gawped, and then began scrambling away to run down the stairs.

  Within fifty heartbeats, mirrors—everything from ladies’ hand mirrors, with gold foil behind the glass, to polished pieces of copper sheet, to a shiny piece of plate—were being held up above the battlements. And even the chanting outside the walls had stopped.

  Meb had to risk a peek. By the cheering from the walls of Dun Tagoll she wasn’t the only one. The chariots which had held their one-eyed starers were being hastily driven back, pushing through the mobs. The eye banner had fallen. There was chaos in the Fomoire ranks, and quite a number of their men were down, and now archers on the walls of Dun Tagoll began aiming their shots at the rest.

  Meb saw Aberinn come out on the lower battlements. She could recognize him by the robe, but his head was encased in a glassy, spiked helmet of some kind. He took in what was happening. Took in the mirrors. Spoke to some people.

  Soon he was up on the inner battlement himself. “This was your idea?” he asked Meb, with no pretense of ceremony or politeness.

  “Yes. Someone said the evil eye affected you even if reflected . . . so I thought we’d give them their own back. It seems to have worked.”

  “You are either cleverer, or more powerful, than I had realized.” He turned on his heel. “Sergeant. Get me four men-at-arms and carry that lens down to the tower. We’ll give them a mirror to avoid. I’ll tin one of the lenses.”

  * * *

  Even Meb’s dealing with the baleful eye did not stop the Fomoire mages. They were back by late that night. And by morning the Fomoire warriors were assaulting the walls. But now it was just warriors against walls. And gigantic though the Fomoire were, they were as scared of hot pitch, and as easily killed by a dropped rock, as the Angevins had been.

  What wasn’t better was the sheer volume of warriors they had to fling at the task. Fomoire would climb dead Fomoire to get up those walls. If the sun shone in the mornings the mage’s lenses poured heat at the ice bridge. The Fomoire mages tried to build the ice bridges, and when the sun did not shine from the east, turned the cold of chanting onto the castle itself.

  It was bitter. So was the siege. The part that Meb really didn’t understand was how it affected her. It seemed to have merely deepened the infighting among the women.

  And Neve wasn’t dying. She just wasn’t getting much better either.

  Chapter 11

  The peat smoke Fionn had smelled came from a small village. It appeared that Fionn had reached the travelers’ destination of Annvn.

  The travelers might have wanted to go there for trade, but it was not one of Fionn’s favorite places. Its hereditary rulers had always had something against dragons. That was not abnormal or unevadable. It just meant he’d have to stick to human or some other form. Fionn could, with sufficient study, do a passable imitation of most body forms that he could cram his mass into. Some, like human, he was so at ease with that it took little or no effort. Others were barely worth the effort it took. But for Annvn, human would be best, although an alvar would be respected.

  On the other hand, it wasn’t even the best of places for a human. Slavery was still widespread, and the law was petty and very carefully enforced. There were licenses required for almost everything—including being an entertainer.

  In most planes silver was silver and copper copper, and the locals weren’t too fussy about the coin’s imprint. Annvn really was picky. Fionn had none of the local currency and a very hungry dog and a fair degree of hunger himself. It was late afternoon, not the ideal time for him to be doing a gleeman routine for his supper, beside the fact that, no doubt, some officious little man would demand to see his license. Anyway, there seemed to be some sort of contest on. Annvn was sheep country, like quite a lot of the Celtic cycle. And right now, several of the locals were showing off their dogs’ skill at herding sheep to the locals. By the looks of it there were some considerable sums being wagered. Fionn was a competent pickpocket. He just had a moral objection to it, and would in general only relieve thieves of their i
ll-gotten gains. He’d pushed the line of who were “thieves” to certain merchants, lordlings and tax collectors, too—and to the dvergar, simply because it was part of the game. You always paid them for what you stole or tricked them out of afterwards, or they’d get really nasty. But they liked the game. So did Fionn. “If you want to eat, you’ll have to work,” he said quietly to Díleas.

  Several of those taking bets had the look of professional gamblers doing their best to look like passing farmers. Fionn relieved one of them of a silver penny. He’d give it back later, if the man proved honest. “I’d like,” he said, assuming his best village idiot look, “to see how my dog would do.”

  He could feel the eyes of the “prosperous farmer” take stock of him. Apparently he looked enough of a rube. “Hey, Lembo. Stranger says he wants to try his dog at the sheep work.”

  “Aye,” said what plainly was a shepherd. “He good with sheep, mister?”

  “Well,” said Fionn. “He’s never worked with sheep before. He’s young, see. But he’s a really smart dog. He understands every word I say. I reckon he could be a champion.”

  “He looks like a sheepdog,” said the shepherd.

  “Well, his mother was. But his father was one of my lord’s graze-hounds. He’s but a pup. But you should see the size of his feet.”

  This provoked laughter. “And you reckon he can herd sheep? He’ll be more inclined to eat them.”

  “Oh, not Díl!” said Fionn, patting Díleas’ head. “He’s a good dog. Sharp as a whip.”

  “It takes a lot of training.”

  “I’ll bet my dog can do it,” said Fionn. “Sharp as a whip, I tell you.” He dug out the silver penny. “Here. Bet you my dog can get a sheep into that fold,” he said, pointing at an enclosure made of hazel-withy hurdles.

  “I’ll take you on that,” said the shepherd—who had not been Fionn’s intended target.

  Well, he could return it, once he’d worked over the money men fleecing the crowd. Fionn shrugged. “Which sheep, mister?”

  The shepherd shrugged in turn. “Any one. But just one, mind.”

  So Fionn bent over Díleas and said quietly, “One sheep, in that pen. But don’t make it too easy. We want to get the others to bet.” He’d found Díleas could hear him perfectly at a pitch humans could not. He’d realized it could be useful some day.

  Díleas trotted off as if he was the most obedient and smartest dog in the world. Started nosing one of the punters, pushing him out, with a wicked look in his eye at Fionn. Really. That dog. Showing off. “Sheep, Díleas, sheep. Not a man,” said Fionn. “One sheep. Up there. He hasn’t had much to do with sheep before,” he explained earnestly.

  “Neither have you,” said the shepherd with a laugh.

  That was true enough. As a dragon, Fionn had regarded sheep as needing to be well seared to get the wool burned off, or it might stick between his teeth. When masquerading as a human he generally had it served to him roasted or stewed.

  He rapidly began to appreciate that they really were best that way, and that he’d just lost the silver penny he’d wagered. The problem was twofold. Díleas was smart. Perfectly capable of understanding what was needed of him. The first problem was, of course, that sheep were stupid, and not capable of understanding his canine orders, and he’d never had any experience at herding them. The second problem was that sheep . . . didn’t separate. They really, really did not like it. The minute Díleas managed to get one out of the bunch, the sheep would either desperately try and rejoin the others, or the others would try and join it.

  Díleas was seriously unimpressed with the sheep and their lack of cooperation. He barked and told them about it, and they ran away. He had to run after them. The crowd, on the other hand, were delighted with the performance. Several of them were laughing so much they had to sit down.

  Fionn sighed and relieved the pickpocket, who had thought to take advantage of the distraction, of a few coins, and gave the probing hand a squeeze that would put the thief off for a while.

  “You’d best call him off,” said the shepherd, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “He’s chasing a month’s grazing off the sheep. I’ll not hold you to your bet. He’s got potential, that dog of yours.”

  Fionn knew when to admit he was beaten or, at least, when Díleas was, and called the dog, who came back panting, looking hangdog. Ears down, and his self-esteem somewhat lowered. Well, it might be a stolen coin well spent, for that. “A bet is a bet,” said Fionn, and handed the shepherd the silver penny. “I’ve learned something and so has Díleas. Worth the money.”

  The shepherd slapped his back. “Ah now. I’ll buy you a mug of ale with it. Best laugh I’ve had for years. Here now. Watch and learn.” He whistled up his dogs, and gave Fionn a lesson in how sheep should be handled. Fionn noticed Díleas studying the proceedings with intense care, head slightly to one side. “He’s a bright one, that dog of yours,” said the shepherd, noticing. “If you’d care to sell him, I’ll buy him.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that,” said Fionn. “He’s the lass’s dog, really. And she’d eat me alive if I didn’t come home with him.”

  “You watch some of those fellows then,” said the shepherd, jerking a thumb at a pair of apparently well-to-do farmers. “If they think he’s good, they’ll try and steal him and sell him. Did it to one of my dogs a year or two ago. I got him back; he must have come halfway across the county to find me, and he was in a terrible way. But straight as an arrow he came to me. Don’t know how he knew the way, but he did.”

  Fionn marked the two men down, and pondered what the shepherd had said. So dogs were known to have this ability, were they? She’d probably enhanced it without knowing.

  They went across to the alehouse and the mug turned into two, and Fionn used some of the copper to buy a mess of pottage for both himself and Díleas. The shepherd’s dogs were at least amiable—and also at his heel constantly. They, of course, were aware of the smell of dragon. But they were also fiercely loyal and very obedient. When told to shut up, they had. “You’re a good man. Many’s the fellow that might have sat quaffing and eating and left his dog hungry. Bella and Sly here, they eat in the morning. I’ll not be running to a bowl of stew for them, Finn! I don’t win silver every day.”

  “Well now,” said Fionn thoughtfully, “it’s possible that we could win some more of it. Those fellows who stole your dog are over there. Did you ever get your own back on them?”

  The shepherd scowled. “They are talking to Barko. He’s a gambler and a fixer. I have my ties to Old Persimmon. He’s as straight as a corkscrew, but he’s a fine man compared to Barko. They’ll be drinking some fellows into the army tonight. You be careful with them, Finn. You can’t touch them.”

  Finn smiled wickedly. “I thought they might like a little easy money. A bet with a drunk who is far too proud of his dog to have any common sense.”

  “Not your Díl and the sheep again!”

  “Oh, he’s not good with sheep. But I’ve taught him a trick or two with numbers. Enough to fool people he can count. Here, Díl. What’s two and two? Tap your paw for the number of times.” And speaking too high for the human to hear he said, “Tap each time I say ‘now.’”

  So Díleas tapped out four. The shepherd nearly fell off his stool. “Now, that’s clever. He really is sharp as a whip, Finn.”

  “Good,” said Fionn. “Now all you have to do is tell me and the alehouse in general, loudly, what a fool I am. No dog can count.”

  “But he can,” said the shepherd, puzzled.

  “You know that. And I know that. But our friends over there don’t. All they know is Díl and I made fools of ourselves earlier. If I’m willing to put my money down, they will be.”

  And indeed, they were. And oddly, simply because Díleas had made many people who were now in the alehouse laugh, some others were prepared to bet on him getting it right. “Any sum,” said Fionn, slurring his words. “Shmartest dog inna world. Sharp, sharp as whatchamakillit. Whip. Whip. B
et you a piece of gold, he c’n add or shub . . . subtrac. As long answer’s not over twenty-one. He only got his toes an’ tail ter count on, see.”

  “It’s a trick,” said a skeptical individual.

  “S’not. You make up the ques . . . questi’n. Smartes’ dog inna world. Worth a fortune, see.”

  Fionn ignored the comments about how smart his dog had been at handling sheep.

  Bets were taken. The alehouse silenced. “Make it up,” said Fionn to the sceptic.

  “Uh. Seven add three add four, minus nine, minus two.”

  “Ach. He can’t count on his toes that fast. Write it down. Say it again slowly. An’ then you count his barks.”

  “Seven . . . add three . . .”

  There was a gasp. “He’s looking at his toes.”

  Díleas was nothing if not a showoff. And it appeared that he could count, at least well enough to fool a rural alehouse. When he barked three times, and then looked at Fionn expectantly, Fionn’s “good boy” was lost in the roar. And quite a few people intervened to stop Barko and his friends hastily leaving before paying their bets. For the price of a few more bits of addition and subtraction from the smartest dog in the world, the shepherd’s Bella and Sly got mutton bones, as did Díleas. And Fionn could have had enough beer to float in. Fortunately alcohol had almost no effect on dragons. He simply liked the taste and the company.

  The shepherd, however, was a lot more worried than Fionn was. “They’ll have marked you down, Finn. They’ll not like you having taken money off of them. You’d best come with me. I’ll see if I can sneak you and Díl out the back.”

  It was at times like this that Fionn knew why he preferred low human company to high dragon company. They’d bet on the underdog, and they’d help out a stranger. At least, some of them would. “I’ve decided I don’t like them taking dogs off people either, my friend. Neither Díleas nor I are easy to catch. He’s cleverer than most and I am nastier than most. Unless I am much mistaken they’ll wait until Díl and I stagger out to sleep somewhere. And then I think they’ll plan to relieve me of my winnings and of my dog.”