by Jane Yolen
I'm worm waste, he told himself. I should have oiled that door when I first thought about it. Slipping in, he turned, pulled the noisy door shut after him, and put the latch back on. The hall was unlit. There was a roaring fire in the hearth.
"Jakkin?" The voice was high, querulous, unsure. Light from the hearth behind him outlined a boy looking sleepy, disheveled, unbelieving, shuddering from his single moment near Dark-After. "But it's bone-chill out there. You're soaking wet. How can you—"
"Not now, Errikkin," Jakkin said. "Is there anyone here with you?"
Errikkin rubbed a fist in his eye, nodded.
"Who?" Jakkin pressed.
"Old Lik-and-Spittle."
"Where is he?"
"It's not his watch yet and you know how he—"
"Get ... him ... here now!" Jakkin said in a loud whisper. "We have major trouble!"
Errikkin's eyes got wide. "More drakks?"
"For God's sake." Jakkin couldn't believe this: of all the worst combinations to fight off trogs, Errikkin and Likkarn were it. He'd rather have fat Kkarina and mopey old Balakk. "Get him while I bar the door." He went to the nearest table and dragged it over to the door.
"He's on the—"
Shoving the table against the door, Jakkin raced back to the visitors' room to get the sofa.
"—sofa," Errikkin finished.
Likkarn was already sitting up. He looked alert for a man who'd just been awakened, though his face seemed to have fallen in on itself.
"We have visitors," Jakkin blurted out. "From the mountains. Coming to steal the breeding dragons." He didn't want to single out Auricle. It would take too much explanation. "And kill me. Because I know where they live."
"How many?" Likkarn stood, and grabbed a stinger from a small table. When he saw that, Jakkin's eyes went wide.
"We weren't sure we'd gotten all the drakks," Likkarn said. "And with two dragons near to laying..."
Jakkin nodded. He understood. Then he told Likkarn, "These are worse than drakks."
"Worse?"
"They're humans. Well, sort of."
"Ah..." Likkarn said, as if he understood.
And perhaps —Jakkin remembered that Likkarn had spoken about being in the mountains himself— perhaps he does.
"How many?" Likkarn asked again as they pushed the sofa against the door, the stinger close at hand on one of the sofa cushions.
"Two, maybe three. I—" Jakkin gulped. "I drowned one. Was only trying to slow him down. Broke another's shoulder. Two definitely and one wounded." He said it baldly, trembling at the memory.
"Good boy," Likkarn said. "You only did what needed to be done. So we're three to two." His steady voice helped, and Jakkin stopped shaking.
"Don't be fooled. They're tough, and we're—"
Likkarn nodded. "Not so tough."
Errikkin cleared his throat. "But it's Dark-After."
"Not now, Errikkin," Jakkin and Likkarn said together, then looked at each other and laughed. For the first time in days, Jakkin felt a ray of hope.
Just then the front door shuddered. Somebody pounded on it. Pushed at it. Cursed. Or at least that gabble sounded like a curse. Jakkin's head suddenly hurt with a sending of bright orange fire.
The trogs had arrived.
Likkarn rubbed a knuckle in his good eye.
Trying to wake up? Or did he get some of that sending? Jakkin wondered.
Likkarn simply shook his head, then picked up the stinger. "Sorry—there's just one here," he said. "But I'm a good shot, so I'll keep hold of this."
" Who's out there?" Errikkin asked, his voice quivering. "Who could possibly be out there? It's Dark-After."
"So you've observed," Likkarn said coolly.
The door shuddered again, but the latch, supported by the table and sofa, held.
"What's out there?"
"Get your knife," Likkarn told Errikkin in a steadying kind of voice. "And there's a hammer by the door of Heart's Ease's stall. Bring it for Jakkin." He turned to Jakkin. "Stall needs work."
Errikkin was still staring at the door.
"NOW!" Likkarn shouted, and added, "You pulsating bit of worm slime."
Errikkin took off at a run.
That's when Likkarn looked hard at Jakkin, his good eye steely. "He just wants a strong master. Makes him feel strong himself. Coddle him, and he feels nothing but pity—and shame. Now, Jakkin, tell me everything I need to know."
For a moment, Jakkin considered lying. But lying served no purpose. They had to live through this in order to save the dragons. He'd swear Likkarn to secrecy afterward. Likkarn was good at keeping secrets. "The men out there are the great-greats of the earliest settlers who escaped from bond and made their own communities in the caves," he told Likkarn.
"I've met a couple," Likkarn said laconically. "Or rather I spied on them. Never got that close. Quiet sort of folk."
"They don't talk out loud much," Jakkin said. "Mind link. With each other. With the dragons."
Likkarn nodded as if he understood.
Just then Errikkin returned with the knife and hammer.
At the same moment, the trogs stopped trying the door and suddenly everything went horribly quiet.
After a bit, Errikkin asked, "What do you think they're doing now?"
"We'll find out soon enough," Likkarn told him.
The silence from outside stretched on and on.
Jakkin tried to imagine what the trogs might be getting up to. Tackling the stud barn? The bondhouse? Going back to the mountains to get reinforcements? Whatever they're thinking, it won't be good for us.
He felt a probe into his mind, and he hastily built up the wall again. But the probe told him one thing. The trogs hadn't left. Yet.
The sound of glass breaking made the three of them jump.
"The window!" Errikkin cried, saying what they already knew.
Probably used the pole.
Likkarn turned, stared at the window, grunted. "The shutters should hold for a while."
"But the cold," Errikkin whined.
"Give me the stinger," Jakkin said. "I can stand the cold. You two get back in with the dragons. Their bodies will help keep you warm."
"How?" Errikkin would simply not shut up. "How can you stand the cold?"
"Don't ask." Jakkin held out his hand for the extinguisher.
Without a single question of his own, Likkarn showed Jakkin how to use the stinger, his comments concise. "This setting to stun, this to kill. Here's the trigger. Sight along the barrel. Don't hesitate. Keep firing in a circular motion. Don't worry—you'll hit something that way."
Though Jakkin said nothing, his face gave him away.
"Kill!" Errikkin said. "You've got to kill them all, whoever they are. Listen to Likkarn. Don't hesitate!"
"Will the stun setting stop them?"
Likkarn puffed his lips out for a moment. "It can stun drakks and a small dragon. It can certainly drop a man in his tracks, scramble his brains for a while. But these fellows ... I don't know. Errikkin is probably right." He jammed the stinger into the kill position.
The trogs were now pulling at the heavy wooden shutters. At each pull, frigid air flooded in. Errikkin's teeth were already chattering.
"Latch the door into the stall area and don't open it, even if you hear me beg, unless I say Heart's Blood's name," Jakkin told them. He held out a hand to Likkarn, who shook it. And then to Errikkin, who did not.
"Go!" Jakkin said as they heard the sound of the shutters being pulled off.
The two bolted toward the stall area, slamming the door behind them. Jakkin turned and went to the doorway of the visitors' room, readying the stinger. He stood in the darkened hall; that gave him a bit of cover. The window was partly lit by the hearth fire, which was vainly trying to beat back the cold. At least Jakkin knew he would be able to see to shoot.
A figure was half through the window, already picking its way past the broken glass.
Jakkin sighted along the stinger, pushed
the setting back to stun, then pulled the trigger. The first shot missed but not by much, hitting the left-hand shutter and exploding it into pieces of wood. The shot startled the trog and for a couple of seconds he looked around, not sure what was happening.
He's probably never even heard of anything like a stinger. Jakkin kept firing in the circular motion that Likkarn suggested until he eventually hit the trog—once, twice, three times. It hardly slowed him up at all. He jumped down from the window and headed directly toward Jakkin.
Jakkin slammed the lever from stun to kill and again sprayed the room with the stinger, round and round, until finally the trog fell, his legs scissoring a half dozen times before he died. Shaking, Jakkin kept firing at the downed body until the stinger ran out of energy.
"Well, that didn't go the way I meant it to," Jakkin whispered. Yes, he'd stopped the smallest trog—much to the dismay of his stomach, which was threatening to heave up into his throat. But the stinger was now useless. And Big Boss and the wounded trog were still out there.
Somewhere.
33
JAKKIN RAN to the stall door. "One down, but the stinger's empty," he shouted. He didn't mention that the trog was dead.
"Worm waste!" barked Likkarn. "Maybe it's just jammed. They do that sometimes." He pulled the door open. "Let me see it."
"No! No! No—he didn't say Heart's Blood!" Errikkin screamed, slamming the door shut.
Evidently the door shut on Likkarn's fingers, because he began to curse on and on, even after the door was opened slightly and then closed again as quickly.
"Heart's Blood!" Jakkin cried. "For God's sake, Errikkin, don't be a big fewmet. I'm all alone here."
The door was opened again. Errikkin was flapping his hands. "What's the good of a password if you don't use—"
"Give it here," Likkarn said, reaching out with his left hand. The right one he cradled against his body.
Jakkin was about to hand over the stinger when a noise behind him made him freeze. Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed a shadow dashing toward him. He turned, swung the stinger like a club. It connected with the arm of the already injured trog, who dropped to the floor screaming, a strange high-pitched cry of pain. This action threw Jakkin onto one leg.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to right himself, but before he was ready, something large leaped out of the darkness and hit him a body blow. He went down on all fours, struck by a sending so black and nasty, he nearly passed out from it.
Big Boss!
"Help!" Jakkin cried, his voice suddenly as weak as his body. "Heart's Blood!"
Behind the half-open door, Errikkin pushed aside Likkarn, who seemed momentarily stunned. Then he dashed out and launched himself at the trog's back. With his knife, he punched down, again and again and again, till the knife grew so slippery with blood, it slid out of his grip.
Big Boss reared and shook him off and Errikkin was slammed to the floor. He lay there, hardly breathing, something broken in his back.
"Worm drizzle!" Likkarn cursed, then raced toward the bloody trog before Big Boss could turn his attention back to Jakkin. Using his left hand—the right still pretty useless—Likkarn slung the hammer at the trog's head. It nearly missed, but hit him above the eye with a loud crack, then bounced off. Immediately the eye closed and blood sprayed from a deep cut above it.
Big Boss's sending ended with that blow and Jakkin was able to grab the messy hammer. Heaving up to his knees in a single motion, he slammed the hammer into the trog's other eye.
Effectively blinded, Big Boss howled and reached out for Jakkin, but Jakkin had already slipped behind him. Picking up Errikkin's body, he scrambled over to Likkarn.
"Get him back inside, into one of the stalls, any hen without chicks will do. He needs the warmth."
"I know what he needs, but that big troll—"
"Leave him to me," Jakkin said. "I have things to settle with that one." He handed over Errikkin's body and wiped the fair hair away from his friend's face. "Hang on, bonder," he whispered. "Hang on."
Then Jakkin went back to the trogs, one sitting with his hands up to his ruined eyes, one lying down. He looked around, found both hammer and knife, and took another deep breath. Then, standing behind them—Big Boss first and the smaller trog after—he slit their throats. He felt no more than did the stewmen who killed dragons for their meat. Maybe even less, for unlike the dying dragons, the trogs made no sound or sending to trouble him.
Jakkin dropped both hammer and knife. They clattered noisily onto the floor. Then he began to wipe his hands compulsively on his leather pants over and over and over again as if he could wipe away what he'd just done.
After a minute of this, he shook himself mentally. Stop thinking so much. Just do what needs doing. And then do the next.
Swiping a forearm across his eyes, he forced himself to breathe slowly. In and out, in and out. He thought of Akki, Heart's Blood, her brood. He must have let loose with a sending, because Auricle sent him back a tremulous landscape of grays and blues with something hunched and dark in the back.
"Danger?" she asked.
He smiled tentatively. "Not anymore, not for me, nor thee." He pictured the oasis, with dragons romping in the water.
By then he was finally calm, so he went over to the sofa still guarding the front door. Pushing it and the table out of the way, he flung open the door. A sliver of light was pushing up along the horizon. He walked outside. The tendrils of Dark-After's cold were already drifting away.
Soon it would be dawn and warm enough to bring Errikkin back into the bondhouse. There he'd be cleaned up, warmed up, and cared for in the hospice. There they could all eat and drink takk and rejoice at their close escape. Because it had been close. Now that it was over, he could admit that. He started to run his hands through his hair before realizing how sticky they were. Once again, he tried to rub away the blood on his leather pants. The pants were sticky, too, even clammy. He let his hands drop to his sides.
Jakkin had one more awful duty to perform. Dragging out the three trogs one at a time, he laid them out by the side of the barn. That way, they wouldn't disturb the hen dragons, and it would be easier to bury them.
In the rising light, the dead trogs no longer looked big or strong or threatening. They were somehow shrunken. Even rather sad. All of a sudden, Jakkin began to sob—for the dead trogs, for Errikkin. He took a big gulping breath, hearing Big Boss in his head: Do not kriah.
But I'm not a trog and I'm not ashamed to cry. He kept on sobbing, though now he did it silently. When he was done crying, he went back into the barn to check on his two wounded mates.
***
ERRIKKIN LAY in Likkarn's arms, each breath long and labored. Likkarn had taken off his own shirt and wrapped the boy in it. They were both snugged up against Heart's Ease, who looked strangely uncomfortable with them at her side, as if they were misshapen hatchlings. However, she was—as her name suggested—an easy dragon, with a mind as soft as her manner. She trusted old Likkarn, so she let them stay.
Jakkin sent her a cozy pink sand scene, with pink water from an oasis lapping at her pink feet, by way of thanks. She responded by stretching her neck around the two men, radiating even more heat.
"How is he?" Jakkin whispered.
Likkarn shook his head. "I think something's broken."
"Arm? Leg?"
"Back."
"That's bad." Slipping next to Likkarn, Jakkin put his arms around Errikkin's shoulders. He was ice-cold, even with the extra shirt and the dragon's warmth.
Jakkin pushed Errikkin's hair back from his broad forehead. "That was the bravest thing I ever saw anyone do," he whispered. "Errikkin, you're a hero."
For a moment, Errikkin roused. He tried to smile. His bland face suddenly took on real beauty. "I did it for you," he whispered back, his voice slow and cracking. "For ... my ... master." He pushed out each word as if they were boulders being rolled uphill.
"The best bonder ever," Jakkin said, trying to keep his to
ne light. "My best bonder ever."
Errikkin closed his eyes and sighed. "Your only bonder." Then he started shaking, tremors running up and down his body. It caused Heart's Ease to begin hackling.
To calm them both, Jakkin began humming two verses of the dragon lullaby, all the while stroking Errikkin's hair. It worked like a charm and soon both boy and worm quieted. But when Jakkin finished the second chorus, Errikkin suddenly gave three long shuddering breaths and was still, his mouth slightly open.
Sunlight touched the incubarn, splashing in through the broken window and shutters of the visitors' room. The stalls seemed eerily silent until Heart's Ease heaved herself to her feet and started rocking back and forth. She sent a picture of the boy covered in black.
Likkarn scooted away from her, still holding on to Errikkin, who never once stirred.
Jakkin looked down at his old friend. He noticed how quiet he was, how white.
The dragon continued her odd rocking, and now all the dragons in the incubarn were keening, a strange wailing pounding in Jakkin's head.
"Is he ... is he gone?"
"Gone to the highest master of all," Likkarn said. It could have been meant as a joke, but his face was fiercely serious.
"He'll like that." Jakkin's voice cracked on the last word.
"Let's bring him home," Likkarn said. He got to his feet carefully, with an assist by Jakkin, Errikkin still in his arms.
Heart's Ease stopped rocking, but the keening by the other dragons continued until Jakkin opened the front door of the bondhouse, ushering in Likkarn, who was carrying Errikkin's body as easily as if he were a child.
34
"WHAT DO I say to them?" Likkarn asked.
"As little as possible."
Likkarn nodded.
"We can't hide the trogs, of course, but no one needs to know the rest."
"I agree."
The kitchen door opened and Kkarina stood there, hands on her ample hips. When she saw Errikkin's body, she started to wail.
Four nursery folk raced out of the dining hall to find out why Kkarina was carrying on—young Terakkina in the front, then redheaded Vonikka, Slakk looking white and drained, and at the last, old Balakk.
