“To humor an ancient lissair. What’s your pack animal, a quagga?”
“Ah, so you do remember something!” Is she pretending? Her look of surprise perplexed him.
“Really? I’ve never seen one. I thought they were all gone.”
“Gone? Just the opposite. They were only discovered a hundred years ago. My grandfather tamed them first. Our ranch is the largest quagga farm there is. Best improvement in farming since the tusked fan-fan. Glad I don’t have to drive a fan-fan team. One gored my uncle.” Shoroko patted his proud beast between the ears. After he loaded up the quagga, they set off. “To get to the river, we have to pass through Ramcanopa, nastiest jungle around. Amnesia or not, your ears are better than mine. If it sounds dangerous, it is. I’ll climb, Fear will run, and you get to act terrifying with the teeth and all.”
The olissair shook her head. “You named your mount Fear? How heroic of you.”
“Now do you understand why they were so easy to domesticate? And I am too heroic! I fought you, didn’t I?”
“From behind!”
“Well, there are things I’m more afraid of than Lissai. I can shoot my bow as well from a tree as from the ground. Still not good firing on quaggaback.”
They passed stands of grunadel and spin-nut trees. Why’s she looking at the trees funny? “Do you recognize them?”
“That’s the problem, I shouldn’t but I do.”
“That’s a good sign, no?”
“No. The trees are all wrong. They shouldn’t feel familiar at all.”
She’s getting the attitude back. All the Lissai hate these trees. Call them invaders. “What trees do you expect?”
“Ones that are not from…” Melissa stuttered. “The trees that belong.”
“The migrating herds carry seeds. Choke out a lot of the original plants, including the ones you Lissai rely on for food and medicine. You’ve been mad about that forever.”
Just then, a group of Brown Lissai flew overhead. Shoroko motioned to Melissa to stand still. They were not spotted and resumed walking. “There they go again.”
“Doing what?” said Melissa.
“Hardly ever see Browns in this area, except for one month every seven years, when they claim to remember how to talk to animals. Then they fly around looking for herds of creatures to boss around.”
“Can they really talk to animals?”
“Don’t know; I’m not an animal. Maybe they can, but the animals never listen, so what’s the point? They just do whatever they already had in mind: cause trouble.”
Shoroko’s first idea was to walk in the lead. An amnesiac dragon was bound to stumble into trouble that would pick him for its meal instead. Once the mountain gave way to foothills, the trees became taller and the brambles thicker. Also, Melissa’s tail became a prime target.
“Ow!” Swish. She flicked her tail, sending a brown, toothy critter sailing. It smacked against the back of Shoroko’s head.
“Stop that! Improve your aim or I’ll leave you here to face the shaggas.”
“Sorry.”
“If you didn’t drag your tail so much, they wouldn’t bite it. From now on, you’re walking in front.”
“You try holding one up for hours at a time! I was born to fly.” She bent over and sniffed a berry laden bush, but drew her snout back in disgust.
“What? I thought you Claws loved zaff-berries.”
Melissa tore a branch off and sucked up a dozen berries. “Zaaaaaaffff. Khhhhukkh. Liar. How do I get rid of that taste?”
Shoroko saw a twinkle in her eye and dove behind a tree inches ahead of a streak of orange. When it was safe to poke his head out, he spotted her standing tippy-toe, sniffing a spiny fruit. Oh, no you don’t. Shoroko unslung his bow from his shoulder, fitted a shaft, and sent a projectile smartly through the heart of the sweet treat.
“Raaaaaarghh! A simple ‘That is poisonous’ would have worked!”
Shoroko clapped his hand over his mouth.
“So it’s not poisonous? You just want me to starve?”
“We’re not near water, and that stuff will make you – let’s say we are already leaving enough scent for a sniffling child to follow.”
Melissa glared at Shoroko. “I BATHED.” Then she eyed the pack on Fear’s back. The quagga read her ravenous expression and bolted.
Shoroko whistled and ran four steps after his beast, but when he heard a twig snap he stopped and wheeled about. “Melissa! Behind you!” He fitted an arrow to his bow, pulled, and waited.
The brush parted with an explosion of black, orange and white stripes.
Shoroko released the string. Thfffft. The arrow flew and struck its target. “Got you, tagger.” The nine foot cat fell, then crawled away, leaving a bloody trail.
Melissa turned in a slow circle. “Is it alone?”
“Not usually.” Shoroko readied his next arrow. “Taggers hunt in pairs.”
Melissa pointed with her right claw. “I saw a tail over there.” Sniff, sniff. “And the wounded one is behind us. You called it a tagger. Is that what your friend Jessnee called it?”
“Yes. He knows more about animals than anyone else. Taggers arrived seven migrata – seven migrations ago. Can’t get rid of them.”
“I hate suspense. Show yourselves.” Melissa took a great breath and exhaled like a flamethrower. The brush took to popping and hissing, and a ring of fire spanning 270 degrees rose up. “Now they only have one approach. I left one tree for you to climb, hero.”
“Thanks.” Shoroko shimmied up and sat on a branch. “I see only two. They’re coming around.” He readied another shaft and stretched the string until his bow creaked.
“I’m as big as ten of them.” Melissa inched forward. “Don’t worry.”
The taggers advanced side by side, teeth glinting and tails wagging. A broken arrow protruded from the haunches of one of them, but it might as well have been a rose thorn. The bleeding had stopped. They roared.
“I think we’d better worry,” said Shoroko.
Melissa ignored him and roared back.
They charged. She took a swipe at the right one with her claw while Shoroko shot the other. Then it was claws slashing and fangs rending and blood erupting in a frenzy.
“Aaaaah!” Melissa felt agony in her tail. She swung it around and sent a cat soaring into the inferno on their perimeter. Burning fur joined the aroma of the roasting fruit she fancied.
“Run!” said Shoroko. “There’s a ravine a hundred lisstai ahead. It’s our only choice.” He dropped from the tree and bolted.
“How long is a lissta?”
“As long as you are, but it could get longer than that if they slice you in half.”
Melissa surveyed the scene. Both taggers lay still. “What’s the hurry?”
“Just run! They’re hlisskans!” Brain-damaged idiot! Now I know she’s not faking it.
Melissa trotted along, smarting from the latest round of combat. Halfway to the ravine, claws fastened onto her back and teeth sank into her flesh. She rolled on her back. Snap. Its neck broke. She staggered to her feet, only to be met by the second tagger. Slash, shuffle, shuffle, crunch. Melissa limped on, looking backwards. Seconds later, she saw the dead tagger’s lungs re-inflate and its wounds close up. Then the process repeated itself. She went down once more.
The taggers leaped for her neck, but before they could sink their teeth in, the sound of galloping startled them.
Thhhfffft! Thhhfffft! “Yes! He rides, he shoots, he makes the kill!” Shoroko dismounted, drew his klafe and slashed at the taggers. Then he tied the carcasses to his saddle, hopped back onto Fear and dragged them along the path. Despite this rough treatment, they began to revive. One took a swipe at Fear’s hind legs. This spooked the quagga, who kicked the beast full in the face. Crack.
Shoroko jumped down, cut the rope, and heaved the first animal over the edge of the cliff. Tumble, tumble, splash. Five lisstai below, the striped fury drifted gently down the stream. He turned to face fi
ve hundred pounds of whiskered tenacity in mid leap. He thrust out his klafe in feeble defense, but the cat twisted in flight to avoid it. The force of impact sent them both flying over the edge.
Down they plunged. The buffeting of branches disoriented Shoroko. He grabbed at one. It snapped, but stopped his dizzying gyration. He put his second hand on his blade and slashed at an exposed tree root. He struck true. The point sank into the wood, and the shock dislocated his right shoulder. As he swung, ready to pass out from the pain, the tagger joined its companion in the frothing current below. It would be hundreds of lisstai before the banks dropped low enough for them to exit the rapids and resume their hunt.
Shoroko climbed up, found his quagga, and collapsed. I hate hlisskans.
* * *
Late afternoon, April 2nd, Ramcanopa.
The sun hovered over the horizon and the forest grew still. Shoroko walked in front of Fear, holding the lead rope. Trailing behind lay Melissa, lashed to a sledge cobbled together from the scorched remains of the trees the olissair’s fiery breath had consumed. The occasional agonizing hiss testified that his passenger still lived.
The sledge caught on a rock. He walked back and heaved. Pop! His shoulder went back in place. First thing to go right. Four hundred more lisstai to the fountains. Two more hours. The night hunters will be abroad soon.
They came to a stream. While his quagga lapped up his fill, Shoroko filled a skin with water and poured it on Melissa’s wounds. She moaned.
“Hush. Drink.” Five skins later, sleep claimed her again.
As darkness came, he looked for eyes. When he saw them he drew his bow. They retreated. If they didn’t, he loaded his sling with a stone and sent a stronger message. All heeded it save the grey-tufted carrion birds, which replied with raucous taunts that rendered his hearing useless. Calling the hunters, are you? Lick your beaks all you want. We are not your supper.
The trees thinned and a breeze brought comfort. A fine mist heralded their arrival at the fountains. Shoroko piled leaves for a bed, then untied Melissa and rolled her off the sledge. While she groaned, he hunted for herbs. After crushing them, he tossed them in a pot of water and stole a tendril of flame from her mouth to start a fire.
Her eyelids flickered. “Smells good.”
“It’s aliosha and balmroot tea. Hush. Drink.”
She downed the tea. “You saved me. Thanks.” A low gurgling emanated from underneath her. “Sorry.”
Shoroko snickered. “You’re not the one that needs to apologize.”
Woooossssshhhhh! A geyser erupted to Melissa’s left.
“Hey!” She scrambled to her feet, wobbled, and toppled over. A second geyser sprayed heated brine all over her. “That smarts!” Her artless dragon dance merely sent her deeper into the brown, muddy zone at the heart of the clearing. Slip, slide, splat. In seconds she was caked in bubbling hot mud.
Shoroko laughed so hard he slipped in a puddle and painted himself as well. When he tried to stand, Melissa tail-whipped him onto his back.
Fear retreated to the edge of the trees and regarded their play with snorts of disdain.
When the pain from her wounds made further motion unpalatable, Melissa stuck her snout in the adjacent pool and washed her face. “I need rest and food, and you make me mud wrestle. I take my thanks back.”
“The mud is good for wounds. Plus the mineral salts.”
“Oh, makes sense. Double thanks, then.”
“Jessnee told me about it. Says it kills the … the … mahgrubs.”
“Mahgrubs? What are they?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Never seen any. He says they’re so small you can’t see them. Makes me wonder how he can see them to know they’re there.”
She cast a long look at him. “Oh, they’re there alright. But let’s talk about something we can see – like those taggers we couldn’t kill. You called them ‘hlisskans’. What does that mean?”
“It means a long story. No clouds, so we’re in for a chilly night. I’ll get the fire going, and you save your questions.” He gathered sticks and watched Fear’s ear twitches. Safe for now. The flames danced and Shoroko relaxed. He stripped a branch laden with tearfruit to satiate his companion’s perpetual hunger.
“I never knew a dragon could pucker her lips.” He ducked the succeeding volley of pits Melissa spit in his direction. “Hey, I fed you!”
“That’s for not warning me they were sour. Another thing making me sour is my ignorance. Our recent battle convinces me I’m going to get us killed, so start teaching me about this world. For starters, what’s its name?”
“We call it Kibota. And if I listed the problems that plague it, hlisskans would come first.” Shoroko unlaced his rigrash armor.
“Not the migration?”
“That would be number two. Hlisskans are what make the migration dangerous.”
“Are all taggers immortal like the ones we fought?”
“No. Only one pair of every type of animal is immortal– the hlisskans. The rest are mortal like us. Just as a hlissak is a leader of one of the five races of Lissai, a hlisskan is the leader of their species. And smart. After centuries of roaming, they know the location of every stream, spring, oasis, and settlement. When a hlisskan moves, its pack or herd follows unerringly, at the expense of our livestock and fields.”
“Every type of animal. Hmm. Does that mean…”
“Except two.” He raised his hand. “Hands…” Then he placed it on Melissa’s paw. “… and Claws.”
“Why is that?”
Shoroko pursed his lips. “I think we all were once blessed with immortality, but committed a horrible crime and had our blessing revoked.” But that’s not the story you Lissai have been telling.
Melissa cocked her head and studied him carefully. “I can believe that about you Hands, but…”
Shoroko narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth. “Do you deny…”
“I deny nothing. If we had spoken two days ago, before I lost my memory, what story would I have told as hlissak?”
“That your kind endowed the creatures with this gift long ago by your own craft, and now regret it.”
“I see. If we could do this for others, why not for ourselves?”
“You put the pawg in the pen.”
“How long do Lissai live?”
“Centuries, but you say it was once much longer.”
“And why do we say things changed?”
Shoroko grabbed a few aliosha leaves that missed the pot and held them up. “Diet. You lost control of the animals, which ate the plants you need to prolong your life. The hlisskans also brought with them blights, insects and seeds of foreign origin, which decimated forests and choked out the herbs you need to live.”
“You are skeptical.”
“It is true that the western desert has grown. New hlisskans appear every few years, along with new pests, but you Lissai have no part in this. Your people are cleverer than ours, but the art required to accomplish this is far beyond your present skill, and this you do not deny.” He turned his back on her and became silent.
Melissa waited. When he refused to speak, she put her paw on his shoulder. “If I had this ability to preserve life forever, I would happily bestow it on you – and your sister.”
His shoulders relaxed and he turned. “Does it matter? No one knows how to stop the migration now, or make Hand and Claw as hardy as a hlisskan…”
“Or restore peace?”
He stood up. “All I can do is help you get strong. Your flame is almost out. You need liosh. There’s a seep nearby. Be back soon. Give a roar if anything comes close.” Five minutes later he returned with a pair of buckets balanced on either side of a branch resting across his shoulders. “Move. The geyser will blow again soon.”
“You know a lot for one so young.”
“Me? No. This spot is famous. Lissai come to the Fountains of Ramcanopa all the time to relax. Once the migration gets underway, any wounded who can fly will head here
to recuperate.” Shoroko kneeled and set the buckets before Melissa. “Drink up.”
She bent over to inspect her tonic: thick as pudding, and black as midnight. Sniff, sniff. She turned her nose in disgust. “That’s crude.”
“Are you for real? Lissai love that stuff! If drinking liosh could make me belch fire, I’d drink it, too.” He pushed the bucket closer. “No flame means no healing for my sister. Take your medicine.”
She stuck out her tongue and slowly lowered it into the liosh. “Mmmmmm. Sweet as dad’s valvoline.”
“Valvo what?”
Melissa shook her head and began to slurp it up. Lacking proper tongue control or any desire to master it, she soon doused Shoroko with thick goo and dragon saliva. She looked up. “What?”
He glowered at her.
Melissa bared her teeth in return. “Go jump in a geyser. At least you don’t have to drink it.” She quaffed the second bucket. Then she burped and set the forest ablaze.
This forced Shoroko to haul buckets of water from the pool to extinguish it. “I hope you’re happy.” He tossed another log on the fire. “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch. Try not to set your mane on fire.”
Shoroko climbed atop a pillar of hardened mud and sat. Two hours till moonrise. We’ll be safer after that. A dozen pools spotted the clearing, fed by as many springs or geysers. To keep alert and accustom his throwing arm to the distances, he tossed pebbles in each pool. Fear sniffed about, concluded the farthest was least salty and started to drink. The next time Shoroko looked, the quagga was gone. Dozed off. Where’d that beast get to?
The first glint of moonlight hit the pools. Shoroko walked the perimeter listening for his errant mount. When he looked back, Fear lay beside Melissa, swishing his tail. He gathered more sticks and stirred the fire to life.
How are we going to make it to Four Rivers, sis? I never planned to return. I went to kill a dragon, and now I have to take care of it. If we reach the river tomorrow, it will be with the last of our strength. Sho-Sho, what should I do? He picked up a branch, stripped off the leaves, and drew a map in the ashes. He added travel times, counted hazards, and finally tossed the stick down, answerless.
A Most Refined Dragon Page 5
