Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

Seerie felt color rise in her cheeks. She felt raped, exposed, tossed aside. All her noble plans of the previous day had resulted only in giving the conjuror information about the prince's gauntlet.

"She's worthless to us, then," the governor said, as if in echo of her thoughts. "She can rot in the dungeon with the other traitors."

"I suggest not, my lord."

"Eh?"

"She will be dead in less than a fortnight, even if we give her your lady's chambers and feed her sweetmeats off silver platters."

"All for the best, then," Puriel said.

"I mean that it is pointless to keep her. She can do us no harm outside. If she dies while incarcerated, some of the populace may conclude that we fear old dames so much that we murder them. She would become a martyr."

Puriel scowled and twisted one of his many rings back and forth on his finger. "I see. Very well, then, we'll let her go. Not that I care what the rabble believe."

"My lord is wise," Omril said, with what seemed to be honest deference.

Seerie was not fooled. Puriel did not deserve such a capable ally. Seerie feared for the rebel twins. The Dragon had sent one of his best after them.

There was only one small way in which she could be of help. The idea made her heart race. If only…

Whether by fate or conscious intent, her wish was granted. She was dead before Puriel could summon the guard to escort her out of the castle.

THE SUNLIGHT HAD BARELY begun to filter through the trees when Toren and his captors broke camp. The rain had quit early the evening before, but its effects were still omnipresent. The leaves sparkled, heavy with moisture; the ground squished beneath the travellers' feet; and a chorus of frogs was loudly celebrating its good fortune.

Toren stared at the crumbling ash of their fire. The ring of hearthstones was the last evidence of Fhali presence he would be likely to see. His grandfather had placed some of those stones, though the memory was now lost with the totem. He whispered the ritual words spoken when taking leave of the dead, and turned his back to his tribe's land.

He walked for four days like a drugged man, taking no interest in his surroundings. Deena taught him a few words of her language each time they camped, but he memorized the lessons with some distant part of himself. He did not care which forks of the trail they took. Each morning when he was roused, he would already be longing for the night, when his weariness would pull him quickly off to sleep.

What would his son be thinking? He was due back at his village. As the days passed, would Rhi assume that he had been killed? Surely, after a month, he would.

Rhi would have to be adopted by his uncle, or his grandfather, and plan to receive their totem in place of Toren's. Toren wished there were a way to tell his son that he would be back in time. It would be many years before Rhi's manhood ceremony. Surely he would be back by then.

The voices of his ancestors sent no comforting words.

On the morning of the fourth day, something intruded into his fugue like a woodpecker battering at a weather-hardened tree. He stopped.

Geim barely avoided bumping into him. "What is it?"

Toren shook the dust out of his head. "I don't know," he said, but even as he spoke he felt a familiar, ethereal tug. In the past he had always interpreted the sensation as the speech of his ancestors. The signal pulled him past Ivayer, down the trail to a large boulder.

The top of the stone was flat. Bones had been placed there.

Toren pointed. Ivayer picked one up. It was a human ulna. There were also a few vertebrae, a section of a tibia, and several other smaller fragments difficult to identify. Each showed indentations left by filed teeth. The hair on the nape of Toren's neck began to rise.

"It's a border marker. We are entering the territory of the Amane," Toren told Geim.

"Amane? The cannibals?"

"Yes. I have a bad feeling."

Geim frowned, and translated Toren's comments. Ivayer ran a finger along the gnawed surface of the bone he held and answered in slow, thoughtful tones.

"How far is it around the Amane nation?" Geim asked.

Toren pointed east, then west. "Their range stretches all the way to the coast, and all the way to the Flat."

Ivayer seemed displeased with the news. Eventually he tossed down the bone and jerked his thumb at the trail. Geim translated his comments.

"We came through on the way south. In fact, it was near here that we first spotted your tracks."

"You were lucky," Toren responded. "By this time they may have discovered traces of your earlier visit. They will be more vigilant."

"Nevertheless, there doesn't seem to be a way around them. We will go on."

"Then give me my blowgun back so that I can give an accounting of myself before I am eaten."

Much to his surprise, Ivayer granted the request, though they made him place his pouch of darts on the rear of his belt, where it was in plain view of Geim and Deena. The latter, as usual, kept a nocked arrow in her bow.

Ivayer led the way. Toren kept his weapon in his hands. He drummed his nails against the hard reed tube. The premonition refused to fade.

The forest, contrary to his mood, was bright and fresh. Birds twittered through the branches, gathering material for nests. The moist humus and the recently washed leaves gave off a thick, fecund aroma. As they passed through occasional clearings, Achird's rays beat pleasantly on their shoulders, mitigating the late winter chill. The scene should have had a cheering effect.

Half a day's hike past the border marker, the sensation of danger suddenly overwhelmed Toren. He pitched forward into the mud. An arrow whistled over his head.

Ahead, Ivayer screamed, dropping to his knees, struck by another arrow squarely in the center of his chest. Toren rolled into the brush. He saw Geim dive for cover. Deena, however, stood her ground, her bowstring drawn back as far as she could pull, feathers at her chin, searching the brush. She fired. Someone screamed. Deena bolted for the protection of a fallen log. An arrow caught her in the forearm just as she ducked out of sight.

Toren turned back to Ivayer. His face was a rictus of pain. He clutched the shaft in his heart. He had a few seconds at most to live. Yet, to Toren's amazement, he sloughed the bracelet off his wrist and threw it to the modhiv.

As Ivayer collapsed, the woods filled with the sound of charging men, at least two coming down the trail, and others though the foliage at either side. "Run!" Geim shouted. As he called out, an arrow grazed his upper arm, ironically the one Toren had wounded days before.

Before the archer could reload, Toren sprinted down the trail toward Geim's position.

An arrow hummed past his side and ricochetted off a small rock.

Toren cursed. The latest missile had come from a new direction. An archer in a tree was cutting off their retreat.

Geim launched his net. It snared the archer. The man gave one spasmodic jerk and fell to a hard impact beside the trail.

From the original direction, four Amane warriors burst into view, bearing spears and shields.

Toren fired his blowgun. The dart caught in the thick hide of a shield. There was no time to reload. Toren jumped behind the log where Deena had taken refuge. Geim was already there. He had finally had time to pull his bow from behind his back and draw an arrow from his quiver.

The Amane lifted their shields and kept coming. Geim drew back and released. The arrow raced completely through the shield and sank deep in the lead warrior's body. The Amane staggered, jaws agape. The second Amane collided with the first.

Deena's wound made it impossible to use her sword. She drew it and shoved the hilt toward Toren. Geim eliminated the third Amane as he had the first, then the fight became too close for archery. Toren brandished the sword and the fourth man, perhaps daunted by the worsening odds, halted his charge. Neither he nor Toren would commit to a thrust or a throw. In the meantime, the second Amane recovered his footing.