Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

By evening, Old Stump came back to life, in a quiet way. Light glowed from the tavern windows, and the lamp above its sign clearly displayed the name: Silver Eel, called that because of the house specialty, delivered daily by local fishermen. A new squad arrived from the garrison, and several of those who had guarded Milec's body throughout the afternoon gladly whiled away the first of their off-duty hours in the pub room. Houses rattled to the sound of children running and wives cooking. Citizens occasionally appeared on the street, until the curfew drew near.

There was even some activity in the square, though no one lingered there. An elderly man with cataract-tainted eyes stopped and peered at the corpse, but a soldier's half-drawn sword kept him ten paces off. If anyone had any interest in the spectacle that went beyond morbid voyeurism, they hid it. Here in the shadow of one of the Dragon's strongholds it was not prudent to show concern for an enemy of the state. As Owl the tavernmaster put it, "Better him at that post than me."

In the small hours of the morning, a sentry yawned and thought once more of the relief squad due at dawn, and of the night's gambling that he had missed. Motherworld hung overhead, full and oppressive, staving off darkness with a bright orange glow. The shadows of the dead man's eye sockets seemed to hide an accusing stare. The sentry almost wished the rebels would try something, thereby relieving his boredom. But they would not. This was too deep in the Dragon's territory. If it had been otherwise, the guard would have been more numerous. The entire scheme had been staged merely to humor the Dragon's sorcerer.

It came as a shock, then, when the latter burst into the square, nearly drawing fire until the guards recognized his fine silk garb. "Have care!" the wizard shouted. "There is magic being cast."

The swordsmen drew their blades. The archers nocked their arrows and pointed them toward the shadows of adjacent buildings. But all they saw or heard for their trouble was a silk moth fluttering across the avenue toward the light of the tavern.

The sorcerer lowered his arms. "It is over now," he said.

"What was it, Master Omril?" asked the leader of the squad.

Omril stepped forward, rubbing his cheek in a habitual gesture, and sniffed the air at various points within the square. Eventually he strode up to the body of Milec. Even before he spoke, some of the sentries saw what he had discovered.

"The name is gone," Omril said.

Where Claric had carved Milec's name, there was now only smooth skin. One of the sentries made a sign against demons.

"Enough of that," Omril snapped. "It's only a trick." But he knew otherwise. It was a rare enough thing to be able to heal damage so quickly. To be able to do it to a corpse, and at a distance, was a talent beyond even the best of the Dragon's sorcerers.

One of the archers suddenly spun on the balls of his feet, pointing his weapon toward the middle of the street. An old woman bundled in a shawl was approaching, her shaky steps supported by a cane.

"It's Claric's aunt," one of the swordsmen declared.

"She's out after curfew. Arrest her."

Seerie made no attempt to shake off the hands that clamped on her thin upper arms. "A clumsy trap," she called to Omril. "Did you think the prince would let himself be caught?"

"If he wants the body, he or his men are going to have to stand revealed. Trap or not. If he doesn't come, then Milec will stay until he rots, and that will be a lesson in itself."

"I suspect he'll not rot, however long he stays there."

The sentry made the sign again. Omril felt another sliver of doubt, picturing the corpse's fingers straightening out, its skin becoming pink again. "Are you the rebel's spokesman, then?"

"I am only an old woman, who has lived too long already," Seerie stated. "And so I can speak my mind freely." She started to say something more, but stopped to stare behind them, eyes wide.

They all turned to look at the body. One of the archers gasped. Omril's jaw dropped, and he probed more thoroughly, but to his consternation sensed no magic in the vicinity.

"It has wings!" a swordsman yelled.

The body looked as if it were covered with a horde of huge moths or dragonflies, all fluttering at great speed. As the men watched, the ropes fell away, and Milec began to rise upward. Both archers fired. Omril saw at least one shaft strike home in the dead man's thigh, then the body was airborne. It shrank to a silhouette against the globe of Motherworld, and was gone westward, toward deep forest.

Seerie laughed.

Omril turned toward her with fury. "He's gone, but we have you. Will you be so smug in the governor's dungeon?"

"I am on Death's door," Seerie said calmly. "I have a cancer. I have no fear."

"You will," Omril promised.

"It is you who should fear, you and Lord Puriel and my nephew Claric. That was no ordinary rebel you killed."

"I have the favor of Gloroc himself," Omril said. "I'm not afraid of your prince."

"It is not the prince you need worry about. It is the princess."

AT IVAYER'S GESTURE, Toren stopped in his tracks. They had reached a bend in the path. Ahead, barely visible through the underbrush, they could see a hayeri nibbling at the leaves of a collberry tree. It was a young animal, sleek with fat-enough meat to last them several days. Toren had wondered when the foreigners would notice it; he had smelled it a dozen paces earlier.

Ivayer gestured to Geim, who drew out his throwing net. The undergrowth, which would have interfered with an arrow, seemed not to worry him. His prey browsed, unaware. Geim threw the net lightly. Once released, it picked up speed, flying over the brush and enveloping the animal's head. The target went down as if struck with a heavy mallet.

Ivayer strode forward at his leisure, finished off the hayeri, and settled down to gut and dress it. Geim, handicapped by his stiff upper arm, assisted as best he could.

Deena, as usual, nocked an arrow and guarded Toren while her companions were occupied. Toren, however, was not thinking of escape. He sat on a bed of ferns to observe the gutting. The men worked with a practiced air.

"Do you always butcher your game yourself?" Toren asked.

Ivayer and Geim both seemed intrigued that Toren had initiated a conversation. "Of course," Geim answered. "How else would we do it?"

"If possible, a modhiv would take it back to the village and let one of the hunters deal with it."

"A modhiv?"

"I am a modhiv," he said disdainfully. "We watch the tribe's enemies, fight the skirmishes, inspect the borders."

Geim nodded slowly. "I see. Among the Ogshiel, warriors and hunters are the same caste." He tapped his gutting knife. "Things change when one has no ancestors to tell the living how things should be."

Toren was shocked. Geim not only was unashamed that he had no totem active inside him, he actually seemed proud of it. He should not even talk to such a heretic. Yet, perversely, questions rushed to his tongue.

"That net-another gift of Struth?" Toren asked. His head still felt swollen. He had originally believed himself to have been knocked out by Deena or Ivayer, until Geim had mentioned that the other two had rendezvoused with him later.

"No," Geim replied. "This was given to me by Ivayer's teacher, a wizard named Obo, when he learned what our mission was to be. You'll meet him. He resides at the temple."

"Is that your home now, too?"

"Yes."

"Why did you come to live so far from your birthplace? Were you banished?" It was hard for Toren to conceive of any other reason why a Vanihr would leave the Wood.

"Not exactly." Geim smiled, but the expression implied wistfulness, not amusement. "Let's just say I had to leave in a hurry, and it wasn't wise to return. Still isn't, as far as I know."