Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Ivayer had neatly skinned the hayeri. He lay the hide down as a platter and began carving the meat. Toren gazed longingly at the handsome chunks of flesh yielding to the foreign metal. Ivayer noticed and said something to Geim.

"You ought to be truly hungry by now," Geim translated. "If we cook some of this now, will you eat with us?"

"No."

"Suit yourself," Geim said. "Frankly, I wonder why Struth made us go to so much effort to catch you." He held out a crimson hand, palm down. "I see only this kind of blood on your hands, young modhiv. You have never taken a human life. How you'll manage to take that of a dragon is a mystery to me."

Toren frowned and looked away, eyes level.

They finished the butchering, wrapped the meat in its skin, and settled the bundle onto Toren's shoulders. "We'll give you some more time to decide about the food," Geim said. "Ivayer wants to cover some ground while the weather's good."

By early afternoon, the clouds thickened and turned black. Thunder rumbled off the low hills to the north. Small animals darted by, their concern for shelter superseding their fear of humans. Not far ahead they saw a huge, flat boulder straddling two others, forming a natural pavilion.

"We'll make that our camp," Geim told Toren, after Ivayer had given the directive in the northern tongue.

Toren smelled the shift in the air and knew that the deluge was already falling. They could see a curtain of rain obscuring the opposite side of the valley. They arrived under the shadow of the rocks just as the first droplets struck. The full torrent soon followed, pasting dead leaves and humus to the ground, driving the shrews out of hiding, and turning every low place into a puddle or stream.

They found a colony of snakes tucked in the cleft at the base of one of the boulders, and dispatched them with swords. A pair of hawks watched cautiously from a shelf just under the overhanging rock. Otherwise the arch seemed designed for the four travellers. The floor was flat, and well protected even when the rain was driven slantwise by gusts of wind. A firepit had been constructed at the center, and wood had already been gathered and stored where it would stay dry. Ivayer dug in the ashes and found nothing but cold char. The only recent spoor around the hearthstones belonged to various species of animals.

"A modhiv camp," Toren explained. "Used by wanderers. This territory belongs to no tribe." It was used primarily by the Fhali. Toren himself had slept here on occasion.

Ivayer nodded with satisfaction once Geim had translated. Since the torrent would prevent anyone from spotting their smoke, they built a fire and took advantage of the opportunity to cook the hayeri meat.

Toren sat with his back against one of the boulders, disturbed by a gnawing tick of apprehension. It was the storm. Though the lightning had passed, and they had found an excellent place to wait out the sky's fury, he knew that afterward there would be mud. Soft ground made it difficult to hide tracks.

Eventually he managed to doze, though it was fitful. He dreamed of playing with his son, and it made him lonely. He waited in vain for the voices of his ancestors. The scent of food drove him awake.

Deena was holding out a strip of roast hayeri. "Lom," Deena said.

Toren shook his head firmly.

Rather than withdraw her offering, she pointed at the sections of the animal still cooking. "Lom," she repeated.

This time he understood. "Meat," he said in Vanihr.

She mimicked him easily. Both languages used only one syllable for the word. Next she pointed to the knife with which she held the morsel, and said, "Kolich."

In response he gave her the general term for bladed weapons, rather than one of the array of specific names a modhiv might use.

She nodded, and used the knife to cut the meat in half. "Kolich zebret lom."

"Knife cuts meat," he translated. As Deena began chewing one half, she held out the other to him. "Um lom," she said emphatically.

He took the strip.

If she felt triumph, she disguised it with a modest smile. Toren forced himself to be dignified-chewing slowly, taking small bites, as if he were not at all hungry. The truth was that the first taste made his need much worse; until that moment his body had been reconciled to its continued lack. In what seemed like seconds he was swallowing the final bit.

She made no move to get more. Instead she gave him water, taught him her word for that, the verb for drinking, and then another ten words.

"Toren um lom," he said finally in exasperation.

She smiled and cut another strip hot off the spit. While it cooled she taught him a little more, corrected his pronunciation, and eventually rewarded him with the meat. He endured it by reminding himself that his shrunken stomach would only accept small portions anyway. She had by far the greatest impudence of any female he had ever encountered. She dressed in warrior clothing, carried weapons, and treated him as if she were his equal, perhaps even his superior. He wondered how he could subject himself to her behavior, but on a less conscious level, he appreciated the attention. It filled the hollow space left by his ancestors' absence with human companionship.

The rain slowed to steady, moderate precipitation, wet but no longer violent. Geim and Ivayer consumed their fill of the roast and began drying most of the remainder of the hayeri into jerky-as well as could be done in the limited time they had-by hanging strips high above the fire. While it cooked, Geim joined Deena and Toren.

"Yriha gam habet," Toren told him. Deena chuckled.

"I'm afraid I didn't understand that," Geim replied. "Deena has been teaching you the language of her homeland. All I've ever learned of it are the greetings and swear words."

Toren hesitated. Just how many peoples were there in this place to which he was being taken? "I said-I think-that your legs are hairy."

Geim smiled at the joke. Like all Vanihr, his only prominent body hair was that in his armpits and around his pubic area. Deena had hairier legs than he.

Once Geim had seated himself, Deena spoke to him. Toren tried to understand a word or two, and found that he could not. But that was to be expected. They would be conversing in their mutual tongue. Listening closely, he was pleased to be able to catch the different flavor of the sentences.

Geim seemed thoughtful at what Deena had said. Presently he told Toren, "She would like to know what is considered the primary duty of a modhiv."

"To protect the tribe from its enemies."

"That's what I told her. She wonders if you will understand, then, our motives for kidnapping you."

Toren stared into the flames. His captors mystified him. They were cheli, yet they seemed honorable-they had not abused him more than necessary even though he had tried to kill one of them. The thing that struck him most, however, was that it was now clear to him that the three of them represented different tribes-different races-and yet were united in their effort.

"The dragon threatens you all?" Toren asked.

"Yes," Geim said firmly. "In all honesty, I believe that if Struth's plan fails, eventually the Wood itself will feel the weight of Gloroc's rule."

Toren searched Geim's face thoroughly, but could see no trace of guile, despite the incredible claim he had made. He glanced at Deena, and saw the same sincerity. "I don't understand," he said finally, "but tell her I will be thinking about it."

ELENYA SPRINKLED THE SEEDS of sweet herbs over the grave and raked them under the newly-turned soil. Alemar handed her the water bucket, from which she took three handfuls in studied precision and cast them in droplets over her planting. Finally she lowered the sprig, its length thick with the tiny flowers that, after a season, would decorate the entire mound. Their fragrance rose though the heavy foliage toward the sunlight.