Stephen King - The Eyes of the Dragon

“The same.”

With a hesitation utterly unlike her usual forthright manner, Naomi asked: “What does the dream mean, Ben?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell. Danger to Peter, that much is clear. If it means anything else-anything I can ken-it’s that we must hurry.” He looked at her with an urgent directness that made her heart speed up. “Can we reach Peyna’s farm tomorrow, do you think?”

“We should be able to. No one but the gods can say that a dog won’t break a leg or that a killer bear who can’t sleep his winter sleep won’t come out of the woods and kill us all, but aye… we should be able to. I exchanged all the dogs I used on the run up, except for Frisky, and Frisky’s almost tireless. If the snow comes early it’ll slow us down, but I think it will hold off… and off… and for every hour it does, it’ll be that much worse when it finally comes. Or so I think. But if it does hold off, and if we take turns jumping off the sledge and running alongside, I think we can make it. But what can we do except sit there, unless your friend the butler returns?”

“I don’t know.” Ben sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. What good, indeed? Whatever it was the dreams foretold, it would happen at the castle, not at the farm. Peyna had sent Dennis to the castle, but how did Dennis mean to get in? Ben didn’t know, because Dennis hadn’t told Peyna. And if Dennis did gain entry undetected, where would he hide? There were a thousand possible places. Except…

“Bent”

“What?” Jerked out of his thoughts, he turned to her.

“What did you think of just now?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, something. Your eyes gleamed.”

“Did they? I must have been thinking of pies. It’s time you and I turned in. We’ll want to be off at first light.”

But in the tent, Ben Staad lay awake long after Naomi had gone to sleep. There were a thousand places in the castle to hide, yes. But he could think of two rather special ones. He thought he might well find Dennis in one… or the other.

At last he fell asleep…

… and dreamed of Flagg.

Teter began that Sunday as he always did, with his exercises and a prayer.

He had awakened feeling fresh and ready. After a quick look at the sky to gauge the progress of the coming storm, he ate his breakfast.

And, of course, he used his napkin.

By Sunday noon, everyone in Delain had come out of his or her house at least once to look worriedly toward the north. Everyone agreed that the storm, when it came, would be one to tell stories about in later years. The clouds rolling in were a dull gray, the color of wolf pelts. Temperatures rose until the icicles hanging beneath the eaves of the alleys began to drip for the first time in weeks, but the old-timers told each other (and anyone else who would listen) that they were not fooled. The temperature would plummet quickly, and hours later-perhaps two, perhaps four-the snow would begin. And, they said, it might fall for days.

By three o’clock that afternoon, those farmers of the Inner Baronies fortunate enough to still have livestock to watch out for had gotten their animals into the barns. The cows went mooing their displeasure; the snow had melted enough for them to crop last fall’s dry grasses for the first time in months. Yosef, older, grayer, but still lively enough at seventy-two, saw that all the King’s horses were stabled. Presumably there was some-one else to take care of all the King’s men. Wives took advantage of the mild temperatures to attempt to dry sheets which oth-erwise simply would have frozen on the lines, and then took them in as the daylight lowered toward an early, storm-colored dark. They were disappointed; their washing had not dried. There was too much moisture in the air.

Animals were skittish. People were nervous. Wise meadhouse keepers would not open their doors. They had observed the falling mercury in their barometric glasses, and long experience had taught them that low air pressure makes men quick to fight.

Delain battened down for the coming storm, and everyone waited.

Ben and Naomi took turns running beside the sledge. They reached the Peyna farm at two o’clock that Sunday after-noon-at about the same time Dennis was stirring awake on his mattress of royal napkins and Peter was beginning his meager lunch.

Naomi looked beautiful indeed-the flush of her exercise had colored her tanned cheeks the pretty dusky red of autumn roses. As the sledge pulled into Peyna’s yard, the dogs barking wildly, she turned her laughing face to Ben.

“A record run, by the gods!” she cried. “We’ve made it three-no, four!-hours earlier than I would have believed when we left! And not one dog has burst its heart! Aiy, Frisky! Aiy! Good dog!”

Frisky, a huge black-and-white Anduan husky with gray-green eyes, was at the head of the tether. She was jumping in the air, straining against the traces. Naomi unhooked her and danced with her in the snow. It was a curious waltz, both graceful and barbaric. Dog and mistress seemed to laugh at each other in a powerful shared affection. Some of the other dogs were lying down on their sides now, panting hard, obviously exhausted, but neither Frisky nor Naomi seemed even slightly winded.

“Aiy, Frisky! Aiy, my love! Good dog! You’ve led a famous chase!”

“But for what?” Ben asked glumly.

She released Frisky’s paws and turned to him, angry… but the dejection on his face robbed her of her anger. He was looking toward the house. She followed his gaze and understood. They were here, yes, but where was here? An empty farmhouse, that was all. What in the world had they come so far and so fast for? The house would have been just as empty an hour… two hours… four hours from now. Peyna and Arlen were in the north, Dennis somewhere in the depths of the castle. Or in a prison cell or a coffin awaiting burial, if he had been caught.

She went to Ben and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Don’t feel so bad,” she said. “We’ve done all we could do.”

“Have we?” he asked. “I wonder.” He paused, and sighed deeply. He had taken off his knitted cap and his golden hair gleamed mellowly in the dull afternoon light. “I’m sorry, Naomi. I don’t mean to snap at you. You and your dogs have done wonders. It’s just that I feel we’re very far from where we could give any real aid. I feel helpless.”

She looked at him, sighed, and nodded.

“Well,” he said, “let’s go in. Maybe there’ll be some sign of what we’re to do next. We’ll at least be out of the blow when it comes.”

There were no clues inside. It was just a big, drafty, empty farmhouse that had been quit in a hurry. Ben prowled restlessly from room to room and found nothing at all. After an hour, he collapsed unhappily beside Naomi in the sitting room… in the very chair where Anders Peyna had sat when he listened to Dennis’s incredible story.

“If only there was a way to track him,” Ben said.

He looked up to see her staring at him, her eyes bright and round and full of excitement.

“There might be!” she said. “If the snow holds off-”

“What are you talking about?”

“Frisky!” she cried. “Don’t you see? Frisky can track him! She has the keenest nose of any dog I’ve ever known!”

“The scent would be days old,” he said, shaking his head. “Even the greatest tracking dog that ever lived could not…”

“Frisky may be the greatest tracking dog that ever lived,” Naomi replied, laughing. “And tracking in winter’s not like tracking in summer, Ben Staad. In summer, trace dies quickly… it rots, my Da’ says, and there are a hundred other traces to cover the one the dog seeks. Not just of other people and other animals, but of grasses and warm winds, even the smells that come on running water. But in the winter, trace lasts. If we had something that belonged to this Dennis… something that carried his scent…”