Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

"Am I sure?" he said animatedly. "I wish I weren't. I can just see the Dragon's armies storming through our forests, once they can be pulled from the New Kingdoms or the Eastern Deserts. The prince will need all the power he can get." He spat in a porcelain spittoon. "Isn't it be something, though?" he said in a more subdued tone. "Imagine, a wizard of the Ril, whipped like a baby. That Alemar, he was born and raised in Cilendrodel. It's time one of our own kicked the Dragon in his hind end."

"Indeed it is," Deena replied in a firm but noncomittal tone. "Tell me, what would be the best way to reach Garthmorron?"

He stepped on a wood ant and swept the insect out with the side of his boot. "Stay here, is what I'd say. We're too far from anywhere for rebels or Dragon's men to worry about. But if you must go, keep off the roads once you get to Yent."

"Many thanks."

The innkeeper shook his head and ambled toward the kitchen, frowning in the manner of a man who has no patience or love for political events. The group waited until he vanished behind the curtain before they exchanged worried glances.

"We're arriving just in time," Toren murmured. "Our host is right. If the Dragon has lost a wizard of the Ril, he'll send serious reinforcements, and soon. We'd better step up our pace."

The fare was simple but sustaining. After weeks of camp food, it went down with a satisfying evenness. Toren especially liked it. It was different from the cuisine of his home, but it was forest food, and for all its newness there was something familiar about it.

"Aren't you going to throw up?" Deena teased. Toren rapped her knuckles lightly with his spoon.

They resumed their trek before noon. The innkeeper muttered to himself and cautioned them not to make light of the conditions ahead. Deena thanked him.

"We'll keep to the open road," Toren announced as the inn vanished behind them. "It's faster. But we'll have to start camping out of sight."

An herb growing at the base of a giant tree caught the modhiv's eye-as did the rich, black soil in which it grew, and the unusual striations of color on the bark above it.

"Something wrong?" Deena queried.

"No," he replied. "The countryside just seems familiar." And well it should, he thought. Obo had lived in this land for almost nineteen years. The impressions reminded Toren of those he used to receive from his ancestors. In a gesture of sentimentality, he awakened his father's spirit. His sire murmured that it was good to have found forest again, but then berated him about the colorful native garb he wore. He restored the totem fragment to its niche and closed the lid.

On the second day, they encountered a squad of three armed men who glared at them but passed by without comment. From then on they kept off the main highway. On the third night after their meal at the inn, Toren's hands began to tickle, as if coated with strands of cobweb. The sensation intensified when he faced east.

"What does it mean?" Deena asked.

"Alemar and Elenya are closer than Garthmorron," Toren said.

The next day the tickle became an itch. It felt as if he were wearing something on his hands. It guided him slightly south of east, nearer to the coast. As the afternoon wore on he grew annoyed by the effect, so he dismissed it. From then on he summoned it at will, normally only when they came to forks in their path and had to choose a direction. At each such time it pulsed more strongly.

They passed a gutted estate. In the shade of the trees at the edge of a corn field they found freshly turned graves, one of them marked with a shattered sword. Unharvested corn lay knocked to the ground, stalks broken, the grain denied its chance to mature. A league farther east, as they searched for a way to cross a major stream, they found a destroyed bridge.

A middle-aged woman sat on a boulder just upstream from the broken structure, fishing. Startled, she pulled in her line and watched the travellers intently as they approached. Toren, senses keen to any premonition of ambush, felt no danger.

"How close is Yent?" he asked the woman.

"Ye stand within the province," she responded. "The town be five leagues east by northeast." Her reply fell oddly on his ears. She spoke in the local vernacular, the Low Speech of the Cilendri.

Toren thanked her and they rode on, obviously much to her relief. They soon found a ford and crossed the stream.

They detoured toward the south, avoiding the provincial capital. The deep patches of uninhabited forest vanished, replaced by groves of silk trees, corralled thickets, and even cleared fields. They saw prevalent signs of recent conflict-burned buildings, despoiled crops, and a distinct absence of normal traffic on the highways.

They concealed themselves in a brush-filled gully while a patrol of twenty armored men galloped past, the Dragon's insignia emblazoned on their jupons. Many of their helms were dented, and links had been shattered in their chain mail hauberks. Two of the soldiers wore bandages.

Toren called a halt when they found an abandoned barn. "A good place to hide for the night," he declared. The scent of goat and pig and dog still hung strongly in the air, as if the animals resided there still, but the party shared their slumber with only mice and bats.

As dawn beamed in through open knotholes in the walls, Toren let his hands feel the pull once more. He sat up in surprise. The sensation was definitely stronger than it had been when they bedded down. He roused the others.

"They're close, and they're moving. Let's go. We can eat breakfast as we ride."

The barn was not far from a thin road scarred with wagon ruts and choked with weeds. They had avoided it the evening before, but now Toren announced they would follow it.

His hands itched so furiously it was hard to hold the reins.

"Stop there!" cried a voice from the trees.

Toren and the others halted. The canopy of leaves above their heads glowed beneath a noonday sun. Ten archers stepped out of the thick growth on either side of the road, arrows nocked and drawn. The speaker was a tall man dressed in doeskin.

"What is your business here?" the man demanded.

The temple guards stiffened. Geim's fingers inched toward his throwing net. "Be at peace," Toren told them. He considered what he would tell the stranger. Given the intensity of the itch, the choice came easily. "We seek Alemar, Prince of Elandris, and his sister, Elenya," he said loudly.

The leader regarded them calmly. "Why?" he said finally, and Toren knew he had chosen well.

"I will share that with the prince or princess. Tell them that I come from the temple of Struth."

The tall man smoothed his hair back. "The prince has told us that a man may come from the South. He is to be asked three questions."

"Go ahead," Toren replied.

"What is the capital of Serthe?"

"Headwater."

"Where do statues speak?"

"At the Oracle of the Frog God."

"Where were you born?"

"In the village of Ten Trees, in the Land of the Fhali, in the Wood."

The tall man smiled. "'In the Wood' was sufficient. Well met," he said, and at his gesture the archers eased their bowstrings. "My name is Tregay. And you?"

Toren gave his name.

"You truly are from the Wood," Tregay mused. "I thought that was just part of the code. You've come a long way to meet my lord and lady. I am happy to announce that your journey is at an end. They're less than a quarter of a league away. I'll take you to them."

ALEMAR KNELT OVER OMRIL. The Dragon's sorcerer lay limp on his pallet, drooling and uttering weak, piping noises. His silk robes reeked from a month without laundering. Alemar's men had repeatedly tried to remove the soiled garments during the month since the fight in the north, but Omril clung to them with hysterical vigor. Attempting to take them was the only thing that could provoke the magician to action; otherwise he did nothing more than whisper to himself or stare at beetles and grubs on the ground. He had to be reminded to eat and take care of bodily functions.