Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

When the strangers had disappeared toward the nearest town, Hadradril brought his oeikani out of concealment, mounted, and followed at a leisurely pace.

Toren gazed about, numb. First the city, now this. His hunger crawled into some hidden niche of his body and was forgotten, obscured by the unease of walking on land that he considered barren. The country rolled and spread to the horizon like the Flat, home of the Alahihr, the Vanihr's most hated enemies, who dared to cut trees down to plant their crops. He had seen the Flat once, but that had been from the safety of the forest. Here trees, when they occurred, stood alone in a sea of nibbled grass, while livestock dung decomposed in their shade. It was even worse when they reached the first of the cultivated fields.

"What's wrong?" Deena asked.

"This ground," he said, pointing to the upturned soil. "They grow food in it?"

"Of course."

He was in a land of sinners. Deena pressed him to say more, but he kept silent. He decided he lacked the words in her language to explain why ground crops were evil.

Deena spoke to Geim, who seemed to grasp the problem. "This land is not barren because the folk cleared it," he told Toren. "It has been this way as long as they can remember. They grow food because the earth provides very little otherwise. Is that a sin?"

"Men should not live without trees. They will go mad."

"On the contrary," Geim said even-handedly, "most people in the north find this type of landscape soothing."

Toren did not believe that. "What is the name of this place?"

"We are in the nation of Irigion."

"How much farther north is Serthe?"

Geim paused. "Serthe is southwest of here. The portal dropped us in the center of the continent."

Toren felt his home sail farther over the horizon.

The farms became more frequent as they left the slightly rolling terrain and entered a broad valley. Fences rose around the pastures. Homesteads appeared. A shepherd boy watched them from a haystack, a horn hanging at his side-a dark-haired boy, with a pale complexion like that of Deena or the Ijitians Toren had seen in Talitha. Now it was Toren whose skin color did not belong, as the stare of the boy proved.

They stopped to watch a farmer open a floodgate, to let water flow down a shallow canal toward his orchard. The orchard astounded Toren even more than the plowed fields. Trees, deliberately placed in rows, instead of allowed to sprout at random as nature intended. Even when they grew honest food, they did it sacrilegiously.

As the sun grew swollen and red in the west, they reached the edge of a small village. Two armed men met them at the perimeter.

"Your business?" the taller one asked. They startled Toren by using Deena's language.

"We were told to ask for Mayor Korv," Deena replied. "And to show him this." She held out a copper coin. Toren briefly glimpsed the engraved image-a frog.

The sentry took the coin. His eyebrows raised. "I will fetch him. You can wait at the inn. Vodd will take you there."

"Our thanks, Goodman."

The first man strode away. Toren, Geim, and Deena followed Vodd toward the hamlet's only two-story structure. The town bustled, full of laborers done with their day's work in the fields, or wives gossiping before preparation of the evening meal. Toren couldn't keep up with the new sights-people in skirts, men with beards, walls of clay brick, oeikani much larger than those of the Wood. The citizens blinked and pointed at the golden skins of the Vanihr. They made less of a fuss about the hair, though villagers who were blond tended toward darker, honey tones, rather than the brilliant yellow of the southern race. Toren could not help but notice that an unusual number of the inhabitants carried weapons.

He picked up snatches of conversations-twice he heard "faces like boys" murmured behind his and Geim's backs-but for the most part the chatter blended into a chaotic buzz. Some of the people spoke the language that Geim and Deena shared, which, other than the familiar sound, completely washed over him.

"What is this place?" Toren asked Deena.

"The village is called Greenfield. Struth has an arrangement with the local officials-they keep watch on the portal exit, and provide hospitality for those who come through, in exchange for gold and certain gifts of sorcery."

"Why are so many of them armed?"

"Greenfield is near the border of Mirien, my homeland," she said wistfully. "Many of the people living here are refugees from the Dragon's invasion. They are wary of further incursions." That explained the presence of two languages.

A pretty tavern girl greeted them inside the inn. "Visitors for the mayor," Vodd announced.

"Then they'll want to sit in his booth," she replied, and showed them to an alcove. Toren chose the seat against the far wall, behind the table, grateful to slip out of conspicuous view.

"We'll get you some new clothes soon," Deena said. "It will make you feel a little less out of place."

"I like what I'm wearing now," Toren said.

The front door opened, letting in Vodd's companion and a stout elder in a well-tailored shirt and kilt. The latter joined them in the alcove.

He lay Deena's coin on the polished wood. "I'm Mayor Korv. How may I serve the emissaries of Struth?"

"Food, a night's lodging, and a few supplies for the road," Deena answered. "We'll leave for the temple in the morning."

"A modest request," Korv declared. "I'll tend to the first right now." He beckoned the serving girl. "You've just come from Talitha?" he asked when she was gone.

"Yes."

"Then you'll want news."

"Yes. How go the Dragon's conquests?" Deena asked.

The mayor's face clouded. "You've heard that he took Tamisan?"

"Yes."

"His main force is now moving slowly into Simorilia." He tugged his kinky, disarrayed beard. "We seem to be safe here for the moment. I hope it lasts."

"It won't," Deena said.

Toren had to listen attentively to be able to follow the dialogue. His command of the tongue still wavered, and Korv spoke with a different accent than Deena. He gave up, which was just as well because the conversation soon shifted into the other language, which the mayor seemed equally comfortable speaking. Geim asked him several questions.

The girl brought bowls of stew. The rising steam smote Toren with the sharp, bitter aroma of unknown spices. He guessed that the meat came from the small, woolly grazing animals he had seen earlier that day. The vegetables looked like some sort of roots or tubers.

"Are these grown in open fields?" he asked Deena, poking at a vegetable with a two-tined fork.

"Yes," she answered. "That one is called nioc. It's very good."

He glanced at Geim. His fellow Vanihr was shovelling his portion down with gusto. Toren did not know what to do. Every bit of the recipe offended the religious laws of his people. Even the meat came from livestock raised on treeless land. Yet he had to eat something sooner or later.

Geim nudged him. "You're not going to start this nonsense again, are you?"

Toren scowled, and took a bite.

"You see?" Deena said encouragingly. "When I was a child my mother fed us nioc every day. She taught me how to prepare it a dozen different ways."

He grimaced as he swallowed. "That must be why your skin is so pale."

"Try the mutton, then. These spices are delicious."

"I'd really prefer some snake," Toren said, but he relented and began eating everything. It filled his belly with a soothing heat, and it did curb his hunger. However, he could not muster the enthusiasm Geim and Deena were displaying.

Half an hour later, his stomach suddenly spasmed. The mayor quickly directed him toward the rear door. He staggered away and, once free of the shame of observation, he lost the meal.