The Fire Dragon

by Katharine Kerr

  “What's that stench?” Maryn glanced around. “Ye gods, Owaen! What have you brought me, a dead rat?”

  “I've not, my liege,” Owaen said. “The rat is kneeling there beside you.”

  In the firelight Maddyn could see Oggyn's face blanch.

  “Spoiled rations, my liege,” Owaen went on, waving the bit of pork. “Your councillor there assigns the provisions, and I think me he gave the silver daggers the last of the winter's stores.”

  “What?” Oggyn squeaked. “No such thing! If you received spoiled food, then one of the servants made a mistake.” He glanced at Maryn. “Your Highness, if you'll release me, I'd best go have a look at the barrel that meat came from. I'll wager it doesn't have my mark upon it.”

  “I'll do better than that,” Maryn said, grinning. “I'll come with you. Lead on, captains.”

  Maddyn received a sudden portent of futility. No doubt Oggyn had been too clever to leave evidence lying about. The two silver daggers led the prince and his councillor back to their camp and the provision cart, where Garro and his da hauled down the offending barrel. By the light of a lantern Oggyn examined the lid with Maryn looking on.

  “Not a mark on it,” Oggyn said triumphantly. “This barrel should have been emptied for the dun's dogs, not carted for the army.”

  “Well, make sure it's dumped now,” Maryn said. “But a fair bit away. I don't like the smell of it.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Oggyn said. “I'll have a replacement sent round from my personal stores.”

  All at once Maddyn wondered if he should have sampled the pork. Too late now, he thought, and truly, we've eaten worse over the years. He put the matter out of his mind, but it remained, alas, in his stomach. He woke well before dawn, rolled out of his blankets, and rushed for the latrine ditch just beyond the encampment. He managed to reach it before the flux overwhelmed his self-control.

  “Nevyn, my lord Nevyn!” The voice sounded both loud and urgent. “Your aid!”

  Through the tent wall a dim light shone.

  “What's all this?” Nevyn sat up and yawned. “Who is it?”

  “Branoic, my lord. Maddyn's been poisoned.”

  Nevyn found himself both wide-awake and standing. He pulled on his brigga, grabbed his sack of medicinals in one hand and a shirt in the other, and ducked through the tent flap. Branoic stood outside with a lantern raised in one hand.

  “He ate a bit of spoiled pork, Owaen told me,” Branoic said. “But it came from a barrel that Oggyn gave us.”

  Branoic led Nevyn to the bard's tent. Just outside, his clothes lay stinking in a soiled heap. Inside Nevyn found Maddyn lying naked on a blanket. The tent smelled of vomit and diarrhea. Owaen knelt beside him with a wet rag in one hand.

  “I've been wiping his face off,” Owaen said. “I don't think he's going to heave anymore.”

  “Naught left,” Maddyn whispered.

  “How do you feel?” Nevyn said.

  “Wrung out. My guts are cramping.”

  The effort of talking was making him shiver. Nevyn grabbed a clean blanket and laid it over him. In the lantern light his white face, marked with dark circles under his eyes, shone with cold sweat. Nevyn sent Owaen off to wake a servant to heat some water, then knelt beside his patient. Branoic hung the lantern from the tent pole and retreated.

  “Gods,” Maddyn mumbled. “I stink.”

  “Good,” Nevyn said. “Your body's flushing the contagion out. I'm going to make you drink herbwater, though, to ensure that every last bit's gone. It won't be pleasant, I'm afraid.”

  “Better than dying.”

  “Exactly.”

  Maddyn sighed and turned his face away. The stench hanging in the tent was free of the taint of poison, or at least, Nevyn thought, free of any poison he'd recognize. While he waited for the hot water to arrive, Nevyn sat back on his heels and opened his dweomer sight. Maddyn's aura curled tight around him, all shrunken and flabby, a pale brownish color shot with sickly green. Yet it pulsed, as if it fought to regain its normal size, and brightened close to the skin. Nevyn closed his sight.

  “You'll live,” Nevyn announced.

  “Good.” All at once Maddyn tried to sit up. “The rose pin.”

  “What?” Nevyn pushed him down again. “Lie still!”

  “I've got to find the rose pin. On my shirt.”

  All at once Nevyn remembered. “The token the princess gave you, you mean?”

  “It was on my shirt.”

  “All your clothes are right outside. It can wait.”

  Maddyn shook his head and tried to sit up again. Fortunately, a servant provided a distraction when he came in, carrying in one hand a black kettle filled with steaming water.

  “My thanks,” Nevyn said. “Put that down over there by the big cloth sack. I've got another errand for you. On the bard's shirt outside—”

  “The rose pin, my lord?” The servant held out his other hand. “Branoic told me to bring it to him.”

  On his palm lay the token. Nevyn plucked it off and showed it to Maddyn, who lay back down.

  “I'll pin this on my own shirt,” Nevyn said, “so it won't get lost.”

  Maddyn smiled, his eyes closed. Nevyn set a packet of emetics to steeping, then called in Branoic. Together they carried Maddyn and the kettle outside, where the herbwa-ter could do its work while sparing the tent. The rest of the night passed unpleasantly, but toward dawn Nevyn realized that Maddyn was on the mend when the bard managed to drink some well-watered ale and keep it down. He sent young Garro off to wash Maddyn's clothes and told Branoic to try feeding Maddyn a little bread soaked in ale the next time he woke.

  “I've got an errand to run,” Nevyn said. “I wonder where Oggyn's had his servant pitch his tent?”

  “Just back of the prince's own,” Branoic said. “He's put a red pennant upon it.”

  “Just like the lord he wants to be, eh? Very well then.”

  In the silver light of approaching dawn the tent proved easy enough to find. Nevyn lifted the flap and spoke Oggyn's name.

  “I'm awake, my lord,” Oggyn said, and he sounded exhausted. “Come in.”

  Nevyn ducked through the tent flap and found Oggyn fully dressed, sitting on a little stool in the semidarkness. Nevyn called upon the spirits of Aethyr and set a ball of dweomer light glowing. When he stuck it to the canvas Oggyn barely seemed to notice.

  “I've been expecting you,” Oggyn said. “I heard what happened to Maddyn. The gossip's all over the camp. I suppose you think I made that wretched bard ill on purpose.”

  “I had thoughts that way, truly,” Nevyn said. “Was it only the spoiled pork, or did you use a bit of Lady Merodda's poisons?”

  “Neither, I swear it!” Oggyn began to tremble, and by the dweomer light Nevyn could see that his face had gone pasty white around the eyes. “Even if I had given them that barrel, how could I ensure that only Maddyn would eat the stuff? Nevyn, do you truly think I'd poison the entire troop to get at him?”

  “Shame is a bitter thing,” Nevyn said, “and you had a score or two to settle with Owaen and Branoic as well.”

  Oggyn slid off the stool and dropped to his knees. “Ah ye gods! Do you think I'd do anything that would harm our prince?”

  “What? Of course not!”

  “He depends upon the silver daggers.” Oggyn looked up. Big drops of sweat ran down his face. “Think you I'd poison his guards?”

  “Well.” Nevyn considered for a long moment. “Truly, I have to give you that. And there's no doubt that spoiled meat will give a man the flux as surely as Merodda's poisons would.”

  Oggyn nodded repeatedly, as if urging him along this line of thought. Nevyn opened his dweomer sight and considered Oggyn's aura, dancing a pale sickly grey in terror but free of guile.

  “Will you swear to me again?” Nevyn said.

  “I will,” Oggyn said. “May Great Bel strike me dead if I lie. I did not try to poison Maddyn or anyone else. That salt pork should have been left at the du
n for the dogs.”

  The aura pulsated with fear but fear alone.

  “Very well,” Nevyn said at last. “You have my apology.”

  Oggyn got up and ran a shaking hand over his face. “I can see why you'd suspect me,” he whispered. “But I swear to you, I did no such thing. I'm just cursed glad you came to me in private and didn't just blurt this in front of the prince.”

  “I did have my doubts.”

  “Ah ye gods! I'll never be safe again. Anytime the least little harm befalls that wretched bard, I'll be blamed.”

  “Truly, you might devote some time to thinking up ways to keep him safe.”

  Oggyn gave him a sickly smile. Without another word, Nevyn left him to recover his composure.

  There remained the problem of what to do with Maddyn. He was too weak to ride with the army; jouncing around in a cart would only weaken him further. This deep into enemy territory leaving him behind would be a death sentence. The morning's council of war, however, solved the problem. Gwerbret Ammerwdd pointed out that Braemys was most likely laying a trap or, at the least, leading them into some weak position.

  “He knows this country well,” Ammerwdd said. “I've no doubt he's got some trick in mind, or some battlefield that will be to his liking but not to ours.”

  “I agree,” Maryn said. “I suggest we camp here today and send out scouts. They can cover a good deal of territory once they're free of the army.”

  After a great deal of discussion, the rest of the lords went along with the plan. All that morning the army waited as horsemen came and went, fanning out into the countryside in the hopes of getting a glimpse of Braemys's position.

  Nevyn spent much of the wait with Maddyn in his tent. Although the herbs had purged the worst of the contagion, the bard still lay ill, so exhausted he was cold and shivering despite the afternoon warmth. From the vomiting, his lips and the skin around them were cracking. When Nevyn rubbed herbed lard into them, he noticed that his skin had no resilience. Nevyn pinched a bit twixt thumb and forefinger so gently that Maddyn never noticed, but the little ridge of skin persisted rather than smoothing itself out.

  Fortunately, near to camp some of the men had found a spring of pure water; Nevyn sent Branoic off with a clean bucket to fetch some back.

  “The contagion has depleted his watery humors,” Nevyn told him. “We've got to replenish them.”

  Sometimes Maddyn could keep the pure water down, and sometimes it came back up again, but eventually he did manage to drink enough to allay the worst of Nevyn's fears. Through all of this Branoic hovered miserably outside, glad for every little errand that Nevyn found for him to do.

  “He's been my friend from the day I joined the daggers,” Branoic said. “I'll do anything I can, my lord.”

  “Good,” Nevyn said. “He needs water and food both, but he won't be able to keep down more than a bite or swallow at a time.”

  “If all that arse-ugly pork's gone, why is he still so sick?”

  “I wish I knew. Men who've eaten spoiled food often stay ill for a long time after, but I've no idea why.”

  Branoic stared wide-eyed.

  “There's a cursed lot of things I don't know,” Nevyn went on. “No other herbman I've ever met knows them either. Why contagion lingers is one of them, and how it spreads is another.”

  “I see.” Branoic rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “That's not what I'd call reassuring, my lord.”

  “Honesty rarely is. Now, go tend Maddyn. I've got to make myself presentable for the prince's council of war.”

  In a darkening twilight two of Daeryc's men galloped in with news. A herald led them to the prince, who was sitting in front of his tent with Nevyn and some of his vassals around him. In the firelight they knelt to him and told their tale. They'd ridden directly east—or so they'd reckoned from the position of the sun. Their shadows were stretching long in front of them by the time they topped a low rise and saw, some miles farther off, a huge cloud of dust drifting at the horizon.

  “It had to be the Cantrae men, Your Highness,” one of the scouts said. “Naught but an army could raise that dust, and the gods all know there's not enough men left for more than one.”

  “Just so,” Maryn said, grinning. “How far away were they?”

  “From our camp, Your Highness?” The scout thought for a moment. “Well, at least a day's travel for an army that size, but not a cursed lot more, I'd say. We watched for a bit longer, too. The dust didn't seem to come nearer.”

  “Looked like it were shrinking a bit,” the second scout volunteered. “And I thought, I did, they be settling down for the night's camp.”

  “Good.” Maryn stood up and glanced at the noblemen. “I doubt me if we'll see battle on the morrow.”

  “Most likely not,” Gwerbret Ammerwdd said. “But I say we should stand ready for it anyway.”

  The rest of the noble-born nodded, muttered a few words, and glanced back and forth among themselves. Nevyn was aware of Gwerbret Daeryc, watching him with one eyebrow raised. Nevyn smiled blandly in return. He had nothing to add to the scouts' report, not at the moment, at least.

  Late that night, when the camp lay asleep except for the night sentries, Nevyn went into his tent and summoned his body of light. He rose straight out through the tent's roof into the etheric plane, where the stars hung down close, it seemed, as huge glittering silver spheres. With the scout's report to guide him, he travelled fast over the red and glowing countryside below. Eventually he saw on the horizon a strange light, a flickering expanse of yellows and oranges, shot through with dancing reds, that looked just like a wildfire burning across a grassy plain would have looked in the physical world. He knew, however, that here on the etheric he was seeing the massed auras of Braemys's army.

  Although he now had a reasonable idea of their distance, he decided to risk going closer. The army had set up camp on his side of Loc Glas and the river that flowed south from it. He could approach them with no danger from the seething water veils, and Braemys had no dweomermas-ter in his retinue. Unchallenged, Nevyn floated over the horse herd, drowsing at tether in a meadow. The tents lay just beyond. Nevyn rose up high for an overview; while he had no time to count them, he could tell that this force was a good bit smaller than Maryn's.

  Something about the camp struck him as odd. He let himself drift on the etheric flow, hovered like a hawk on the wind while he tried to think. The rational faculties function sluggishly, if at all, out on the etheric. Still, he studied the camp and stored up images of it before he turned back and returned to his tent.

  As soon as he was back in his body and fully awake, he understood what he'd seen. No carts. No packsaddles, either, stacked at the edge of the meadow. With the first streak of grey dawn, he got up and trotted through the sleeping camp to Maryn's tent. He found the prince awake, standing outside and yawning.

  “News, Your Highness,” Nevyn said. “Braemys has left his baggage train behind. His men must be carrying what food they can in their saddlebags. He's marching for a quick strike.”

  Maryn tossed back his head and laughed. “Good,” the prince said at last. “Today might see the end of this, then.”

  “Perhaps. I can't help but wonder if Braemys has some tricky maneuver in mind.”

  The camp went on armed alert. Under Oggyn's command, the contingent of spearmen assembled the provision wagons, extra horses, servants, struck tents, bedrolls, and suchlike out in a meadow, then stood guard round the perimeter. The army saddled and bridled their horses, then donned armor, but rather than tire their mounts, they sat on the ground beside them to wait. Since the prince had sent some of his silver daggers out as scouts, they would have ample warning should Braemys be making a fast march to battle. In the dust and shouting that accompanied all these preparations Nevyn slipped away from camp. He walked about a mile back west to a copse of trees he'd spotted earlier. The matter of Braemys's missing wagon train irked him.

  In the shelter of an oak he lay down on t
he ground, crossed his arms over his chest, and went into trance. During daylight the etheric world glowed, pulsing with life, and the blue light shimmered and trembled all round him. The sun, a vast blazing sphere, shot huge arrows of gold down upon the earth. The reddish auras of grass and trees writhed and stretched out long tendrils of etheric substance to capture the gold and feed upon it. In all this confusion Nevyn could barely sort out east from west. He rose up high, where he could comprehend the view and pick out roads and rivers from the general splendor. With the silver cord paying out behind him, he travelled back east, heading for the spot where he'd seen Braemys's army.

  Nevyn was expecting to meet up with the enemy, and indeed, he overtook them some miles closer to Maryn than he'd left them the night past. The army straggled over a long stretch of road, and thanks to this loose formation he could see that not a single wagon followed the riders. He swung north to keep clear of the tangled mass of auras and physical dust, rose higher in the blue light, and saw off on the horizon northward a glow. It appeared as a dome of pale light, mostly yellow, shot here and there with red. On the etheric, with his physical body and its correlates far behind him, he was hard-pressed to tell just how close it might have been.

  Isn't this interesting? Nevyn thought. A second force, perhaps. He angled away from the road and headed toward the pulsing dome of light. As he travelled, he noted landmarks below that might, once he'd returned to his normal intellect, give him some idea of distance and location. The dome itself never seemed to move or change its size. Once he drew close, he could see why. Not a second force, but Braemys's missing baggage train spread out over long-deserted fields. It was enormous, as well, a good many times larger than Maryn's—even though Braemys was leading a far smaller army. When Nevyn dropped down closer for a look, he saw many small auras, pale and trembling, among the larger glows: frightened children, he realized with a shock. Many of the large auras belonged to women, as well. What were they doing there? And why north, what must have been a good long distance north? A puzzle, all of it.