by Dave Freer
"The highway is all yours," said Finn.
"But, please, we have no money," said the girl, smiling at him in a way that would have had Meb's stepmother call her a trollop.
"A common problem . . ." Finn stopped. Sniffed. Looked at the young man, "I'll pay your passage to Lapithidia. A scribe should find work there."
Meb did not like that at all.
"But," said Finn, "I think we need to get off this track and walk across the fields for a while. They're going to be looking for you soon and we want to be in time to catch the tide."
"Not to mention the dragon," said Meb, shuddering.
Finn nodded. "I wouldn't mention that," he said with a foxy grin. "I don't want to catch it."
So they made their way across two sets of fields, and down to the track which led to the coast. After their rather unfortunate start the two newcomers were doing their best to ingratiate themselves with Finn and even Meb. Meb didn't really understand it too well. But she did know that it made her feel uncomfortable. If this Justin was a scribe—a man with a valuable profession—why then had Keri's father been happy to marry her off to an apprentice jewel-trader (or possibly a smuggler)? Why was Justin so happy to leave his home and all his possessions behind? Yes, there had been a mob—but surely he could have simply taken the innkeeper's daughter back and been the hero of the hour? Maybe even been accepted by the innkeeper?
It smelled like old fish. Meb set out to ferret it out of him. And just what had made Finn suddenly decide to help them? Thinking of smells, it was almost as if he'd scented something.
For a small price they got a fishing boat to give them a ride up the coast to a larger port. Meb found that with a little flattery Justin the scribe expanded like a flower in the sun. The poor man had been the victim of such jealous abuse, merely because he was handsome and skilled, she found out. Which was why he just at present was not working. They were complete falsehoods of course, merely because his employer had thought that he was being successful with a landlady that he'd fancied himself. "Meanwhile I was having it off with his wife and his daughter." As he was boasting to another, younger male, he felt no need to be shy about his conquests. "Girls can't resist me," Meb was informed. "And they can't get enough." He gestured.
Meb, who had grown up around fishermen, but under Mother Hallgerd's eye, in an odd combination of coarse terminology, but actual prudery, found it hard to deal with.
"So, youngster . . . I bet even a pretty boy like you has had some good sluts in your travels," said Justin, now convinced that Meb was his best friend.
"Er." Meb was left literally wordless and blushing.
Justin grinned. Slapped him on the back. "You get some silver out of that old master of yours's strongbox. He must be rolling in it. Keri brought me some she'd prigged last night. He won't miss a bit. I'll lose Keri and we'll go for a night's whoring that you won't forget in a hurry."
Meb retreated in confusion. This was a long way from her romantic ideals. And as if she'd ever take Finn's silver! She had to talk to Finn. Soon.
Fionn had caught the scent of Lyr on the young bravo's clothing. Well, if matters came out as he planned he would need to get a message to the sprites. They were difficult to deal with, unpredictable, and entirely too prone to kill anything that wasn't Lyr. Humans, being humans, found them attractive. So did the alvar, but then the alvar were obsessed with beauty. And even Fionn had to admit that the Lyr were graceful and perfectly symmetrical. If that was what attracted them like moths to a flame, they deserved the Lyr. And splinters, which they'd get from loving plant-women. He looked at the Scrap, deep in conversation with the fellow while the other young woman sat on a coil of rope, combed her long blond hair and stuck her chest out. Fionn hoped that the Scrap wasn't taken with the young man's good looks. He knew the type. Still, they had about five days sailing to Port Lapith, and then they'd be rid of him, and the girl who was making calf-eyes at Fionn, and her lover, alternately. She'd be well served if Fionn took her along on his next little journey.
The magic Fionn had set at work on the ridge spread slowly, aligning particles of iron in the rock. Lines of force spread out from there, the sudden sharp magnetism affecting a sequence of other things. Deep within the earth a number of huge columnar structures—crystals of enormous size—gave out a low note that had dvergar across a thousand islands swearing. The crystals moved fractionally. A deep artesian spring stopped flowing.
Up on the high plains of Lapithidae the waters of the dark pool were still. The watchers watched, reading probable futures.
And then to their horror, the level of the water—constant for millennia—started to drop.
Nothing could have terrified them more.
Chapter 40
Vorlian found the flight back to Starsey quite the hardest thing he'd undertaken. It took him three days to get ready to even try it. Lying in the forest, he had time to think a great deal. To watch as first alvar knights came galloping to the scene, and then somewhat later, curious human peasants. Fearful peasantry, but still overwhelmed by a desire to come and gawk. How very human that was! A patrol of alvar cavalry had spotted the trail out of the bog. Vorlian felt that eating two of them and a horse was fair recompense for being pestered with arrows. No more had come that way before he had made a short, labored flight to some nearby cliffs where he'd slept off the meal and begun to recover. It was only a stern sense of duty, and knowing he'd recover a lot faster if back with his gold, that persuaded him to try the flight back at all.
He'd wondered several times on the last section if he'd get there at all or simply fall into the sea. And . . . if he did that, could he transform into a sea-serpent and swim to shore? He'd never swum before.
He made it. Barely. Blown and sore, he landed on the shore-line. Dignity be blowed. He'd walk to the top of the nearest hill . . . when he had recovered his breath.
He was surprised to be approached by a delegation of humans—the dignitaries and Duke Ragath, his alvar princeling. They must have watched his flight. "Lord Vorlian," said the duke, bowing very low. "We are glad to have you back."
Vorlian was sore, tired, hungry . . . and quite surprised. The alvar might be glad, but the rest?
"News of your duel in Yenfar reached us yesterday. A trading ship took advantage of the chaos over there to slip her moorings after dark and come across."
"Zuamar trespassed in my territories. I could not allow that."
The duke looked uneasy. "Er. Another dragon has also done so while you were away."
Territorial anger lent Vorlian strength. "A black dragon?" he said, raising himself up.
"Er, yes," said Duke Ragath.
"I'll flush him out." The anger was just a little tempered by the memory of how Fionn had humbled Zuamar. But . . . Vorlian was a dragon. This was his island and his gold. "Has he been up to my eyrie?"
"Uh. No. Not that we know of. We haven't been up there ourselves," said the duke, wisely. "But I have had a sentry on every hilltop, keeping watch. We've had horsemen ready to warn the human citizenry."
"Is he ravaging the countryside?" asked Vorlian, just a little surprised. Fionn had never seemed the type to ravage anything.
The alvar duke who had plainly been quite proud of the steps he'd taken—and by the nods the civic leadership of the humans had been too—now looked embarrassed. "Um. No. He attacked and attempted to flame a group of people in Lenter-vale. They had a lucky escape, and there was only one injury—a broken arm. But he hasn't been seen since. We've been cautiously scouting, and we've had clear nights too to watch in. Not a dragon to be seen. He's either left, or is lying up somewhere, Lord Vorlian. But unless he walked—and we searched for tracks, he has gone nowhere near your lair."
Vorlian sighed smokily. "Someone get me a couple of sheep. And then leave me in peace. I'll look into it once I've got back to my eyrie and rested for a day or two."
But when, several hours later, he had managed the last few leagues to his eyrie, and had discovered his gold still
apparently intact, there was still no rest for him. The creature of smokeless flame had plainly been waiting. There was an aura of power about Belet that made Haborym seem tame. "Congratulations on your defeat of the dragon Zuamar! There were those among us who thought he might be too much for you, but I knew you were made of sterner stuff!"
"Spare me the flattery," said Vorlian. He knew that if it hadn't been for Fionn, Zuamar might well have killed him.
"No flattery! Why, the story of your duel is all over Yenfar."
"And how would you know?" said Vorlian tersely. He was too tired for this.
"I was there. There are smuggling vessels that go to-and-fro all the time. Zuamar's tax collectors charge very high rates. They have the tar-business in a stranglehold."
The fire-being paused. "The alvar nobility over there are up in arms about it. Not directly of course, but I believe that they've sent out an appeal for another protector."
"I have no intention of being overlord there," said Vorlian, yawning. "You'd think they'd be glad to be rid of Zuamar. Who have I got for a new neighbor?"
"High-Lord Myrcupa."
"They may soon wish for Zuamar back again," said Vorlian. "Now, I need to rest. Have you anything else to say?"
"Just that we have these." The fire-being produced a little fireproof box. Vorlian opened it. There were carefully painted pictures of three humans—a tall thin man with a foxy face, a beardless boy and a broad-shouldered fellow with a trident.
"The middle one is our quarry, disguised as a male. We believe that they fled Yenfar successfully. They were heading for your charming island. The one with the trident is a merrow. We have used the sprite's devotees to start a search—copies of these pictures were at every grove the night before your fight with Zuamar. But when I came here you had already left, Lord Vorlian."
Vorlian looked at the pictures. Thought of the organization on the part of the fire-beings which had gone into this quest and did not like it. "It has been four days. If you haven't found her by now, I doubt if a few hours will make any difference. I am going to rest on my gold, and then I'll see to it that Duke Ragath puts his soldiery to use looking for them. He likes to be busy. Now go away." Vorlian slumped back on his gold.
The next day, however, he was as good as his word. And he flew down to Lenter-vale and tried to get a scent of Fionn.
It was there that they brought him news that the fugitives he sought . . . were also being sought by the local law-guards. For a range of crimes . . . it would appear that the young fresh faced 'boy' was being accused of arson, rape and kidnaping, along with a local man of unsavory character. A petty thief, a ne'er-do-well, an informer. The human mage certainly picked her companions!
And the tall fellow . . . he'd last been seen the night before. They'd made their escape when the dragon had raided Lenter-vale. A little later word came in that the two, dressed as traveling gleemen, in the company of a young man and woman who did not appear to be compelled in any way, had taken a passage with a merchant vessel. The destination was unknown, but it had been sailing West.
Vorlian was not stupid. It seemed obvious that the human mage was somehow associated with the dragon Fionn. There were always dragon conspiracies . . . he was part of one, after all. It appeared that the human mage was part of another, with the small black dragon. And they were no longer on his territory. He sent messages to his fellow conspirators asking them to meet. He would also fly to the conclave . . . just as soon as his wings had recovered a little more.
Prince Gywndar of Yenfar looked uncomfortably at his new overlord. High-Lord Myrcupa had been invited to expel the tired and injured Vorlian. Myrcupa had, very conveniently for him, arrived some hours after Lord Vorlian had left. He had, however, wasted no time in stamping his authority on Yenfar. He'd made an example of two human villages. Unfortunately, one of them had been the settlement at Tarpit.
Gywndar was furious. The pit was still burning, sending its vile fumes wafting over the best hunting grounds on the island. Besides, the humans who had worked there were not easy to replace, especially now! Prince Gywndar had sent a respectful but firm message to High-Lord Myrcupa, asking him to come to the palace. Myrcupa had killed the alvar messenger's horse and eaten it. He had sent back a message that if Gywndar wanted to see him, he could come up to his overlord, not the other way around.
And when Gywndar had done so . . . "I want to make it clear to you, Princeling, that the tax revenues need to increase," Myrcupa informed him.
"My Lord, we'll do our best, but you set fire to our main revenue earner," said Gywndar bravely.
A swipe of the dragon-tail knocked him out of the saddle. And then the dragon killed his horse with a backhand slash of one talon. "Are you questioning me?" hissed Myrcupa. "Undermining my authority? Let me make this clear. I will have no such thing and I will have at least one and a half times as much gold. Strike a bit of raw terror into the hearts of these humans. And we need to continue the search for the human mage among them."
Feeling his ribs, and seeing how his precious gray mare had been killed, Prince Gywndar nodded. He was too sore to speak, and he had a long walk back down the mountain.
He had to wonder about the motives of those of his friends among the alvar nobility who had suggested that Myrcupa would do nicely as a suitable old-fashioned dragon lord. It was Lord Rennalinn of Magyn who had been so effusive about how ideal he would be. Even better than Rennalinn's own Brennarn, Gywndar recalled.
"And you need have no fear of a return of Vorlian. I have formed a strategic alliance. Lords Chandagar, Lamdian, Brennarn and I are the largest of the dragonkind. Vorlian might have defeated Zuamar, but he can't deal with more than one of us."
That, somehow, did not make Prince Gywndar feel any better. He did not inform his new liege lord that Zuamar had actually been fleeing a smaller black dragon when he was killed by Vorlian, and that the black dragon had flown from the field of battle without any difficulty.
Nor did the news, later, that a large part of the fishing fleet and their families had fled Tarport during the night improve his temper. Humans!
He could send his swanships after them, but perhaps it would be better to wait until the merrows sued for peace. Gywndar's magicians had the merrows' precious relic and were working on it right now. He hadn't heard from them in some days. The incident with Zuamar's death and the unrest that had followed had kept him from following up on it.
On Cark Island the troops were being assembled. The fire-beings had bought slaves. They had no use for them as slaves, but they made good janissaries. They were completely expendable and in the long term valuable merely as a feint. A distraction. They'd been scattered across the island in many hidden camps. But the time for subterfuge was over. Now they were coming together in a huge, and ever-growing encampment.
The fire-beings were creatures of energy. The stresses and strains in the fabric of the plane that was Tasmarin where obvious to them. Were the place to break up . . . well, without magical protection many of the inhabitants would die. Not the people of smokeless flame. They had their own plans. The hellflame would be seized and safe if it came to that. When they'd discovered the existence of the human mage some two years back the conspiracies they ran as matter of normal business had become focussed on finding her, and using her for the "renewal."
The fire-beings were far more familiar with the energies in this artificial construct than any other species. The effect on the entire ring of conjoined planes from which the raw material of Tasmarin was drawn would be cataclysmic.
This plane might survive, but the others would return to primal fire.
It made for a great deal of new lebensraum, and got rid of a lot of the threats to the people of smokeless flame, not least of all, dragonkind. Dragon-gold—and part of their magical power—had gone into creating this place. Renewal would destroy that.
The planes of existence would be a hotter, better place without the dragons. No other species could survive the home territory of the pe
ople of smokeless flame except the dragons. And while alvar magics were effective at banishing fire-beings, dragonfire could consume them utterly—and yet the dragons were immune to the energies of all but the mightiest of the hierarchy of flame.
Chapter 41
Fionn waited until they were far out to sea, and well into the second watch of the night, before slipping overboard and changing his form. He really did not like doing that . . . especially when after a hundred yards or so a merrow swam up next to him.
"It's a poor imitation of an orca that you make, at least in your ability to swim," said the merrow.
"I swim like a rock. I've not had much practice."
The merrow nodded. "That I can see. We had word from the dvergar thanking us for returning their hammer."
"Umph. Thanking you."
