Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures

Well, at least they don’t breathe fire. I think. No wings. And they aren’t very fast…

But they were right in the middle of his projected route home. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

RAIN WOKE HIM before dawn. Shivering in the warm air, he rose and cleaned up the campsite. He pulled out a bar of concentrate to eat as he walked and left, heading for the flatlands.

Working with his mental map and sense of direction, he plotted a route that would take him in a long loop around the bogs. It would add half to a whole day to his journey, but that was acceptable, if it insured that he did not become a snack for an eighteen-foot dragon.

When he hit open ground, he stretched his short legs, hoping that the detour was safer than the original route. He was acutely aware of the lack of data concerning dragonish habits.

For all he knew, the things hunted right up to the valley of the Knife Clan. Into the valley; what did he know? Maybe there were virgin sacrifices. Maybe dragons sat on the Council of Clans. If there was a Council of Clans. Maybe dragons were pets of Edger’s people. Maybe Edger’s people were—

“AAARRRAAW!”

O, damn.

He pivoted slowly on a heel, looking for it. To the east, south, west—clear to the shadowy horizon.

Immediately north, his view was cut off by a jumble of rose and grey rock.

“AAAARRRRAAAAWWW!”

Of course. So, then, another detour. He didn’t really have to be back at the ship for another five months or so—

“P’elektekaba! “screamed a voice from beyond the rock.

Val Con ran.

He tore around the rockpile and skidded to a halt, spraying gravel. Directly before him, a squalling eggling, frozen mere feet from the safety of a rock-niche. Further—on treacherous sand—Edger, lance couched and ready, facing the dragon.

In dragons, eighteen feet is small.

Val Con dove forward, hitting the eggling with a surprisingly hard shoulder. The squalling cut out abruptly as the baby sprawled half into the niche. He skittered in the rest of the way to avoid his soft friend, who threw a knapsack at him, yelling, “Stay there!” had he but known.

The rock-niche was comforting, calling up thoughts of home. He made himself as small as possible and stayed very still.

Val Con ran forward, yanking gun from belt; dropped to one knee and fired. The pellet whistled harmlessly off an armorplate side. The dragon did not even turn its head.

It swung at Edger with a long-taloned claw—withdrawn rapidly as the lance leapt to meet it.

Val Con returned the gun to its loop—worse than useless, not even a diversion, for Edger to move into the throat.

He ran, making a wide detour, fishing the machete from his kit. The tail was half as long as the dragon itself, wickedly armed with Val Con-high spikes.

He brought the machete down. Hard.

The dragon screamed. Encouraged, he swung his weapon again.

And again.

On the eighth blow, the blade shattered and the dragon screamed—close. He looked up, saw the descending jaws, double-toothed and gaping—

Reflex hurled the useless handle into the descending maw, as reflex snapped him into a backward somersault, away from certain death.

Teeth clicked as he rolled away and Edger cried out, “A’jliata!”—the rest of his words eaten by another dragonish shriek.

Val Con snapped tall, whirling back—

Edger was down.

Dodging whipped tail, ducking a sweeping paw, Val Con reached the T’carais, set his hands against the place where shell met shoulder—and pushed.

He was not strong enough. Edger tipped, tried to get his feet under him, holding to his lance—and the dragon was turning back, paw raised in a gesture the man had seen from its bogland kin.

It meant death, that gesture. It would sweep Edger over, exposing the softer shell across his chest… Val Con stepped back, hands dropping from horny shoulders, staring upward as fingers groped in his belt—

Touched—and had it out without fumble. The safety clicked off as the paw swept down, talons first, toward the struggling Edger.

Val Con fired the flaregun into the towering face, his cry echoing the beast’s as the blue-white flash blinded both.

IT IS NOT difficult to dispatch a blinded dragon. One walks up to where it stands clawing at its ruined eyes and one cuts the soft throat. It is an act of mercy.

Sentient beings are not allowed this mercy, unless they ask for it very specifically.

Edger hunkered down before the man called Val Con yos’Phelium Scout, in the fullest form thus far available. The smallness of him as he rocked back and forth, arms folded across his face, touched the spirit with ice.

“Tell me what I may do to aid you,” he begged, feeling ignorant as an eggling.

The small one gave a shuddering sigh. “You are well? It is dead?”

How valiant a being was this! “Yes, brother,” Edger assured him, “A’jliata is dead. I am uninjured, as is this foolish eggling, my heir.” He paused, then asked again. “But you—tell me what I may do. You are damaged…”

Another sigh, less profound. “Only temporary. I think. The light was so bright…”

Truth. Edger had been turned away, shielded by his shell, yet the flash had stabbed his eyes.

Val Con dropped his protecting arms and raised his head. The bright eyes were squinted almost shut, and there was moisture running from them, but it appeared that they functioned.

“I’ll be all right,” he said slowly. “It may take a little time for me to be able to see—properly.” He took a breath, moving his head from side to side. “I am sorry to trouble you, T’carais…”

Edger was conscious of a tightening of his spirit, in pride. “There is no trouble, brother, ask what you might.”

“I was returning to my ship,” Val Con explained, “when I happened upon you. If you could guide me…” He shook his head, turning his many-fingered hands up, palm out. “I am sorry to trouble you,” he said again, “but it may take my eyes some days to—to heal…”

“There is no trouble,” Edger assured him again, “Are you strong enough to travel immediately? Shall I carry you—I will be careful,” he added, conscious of how easily one might crush a being as small as this new brother.

Val Con smiled wanly. “I can walk,” he said, “though I may need to hold onto—something—and be guided…”

“It shall be done,” declared the T’carais, rising to full height. Gingerly, he extended a hand to the small person on the ground.

In a moment, that person also put forth a hand, curling many fingers about Edger’s few, and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

THEY REACHED HIS new brother’s vessel in the near dark of the third moon. Edger led, leaning upon his lance; the T’carais’amp and Val Con followed, hand-in-hand. The eggling wore the man’s knapsack on his back like a soft leather shell.

Voices carried on the night air: two, raised in disharmony. Edger straightened and lengthened his stride, entering the clearing as a T’carais should.

The Broodmother cut off in mid-lament; bowed as deeply as she was able. His brother inclined his head, reading the weariness in him, but saying nothing, as was his gentle way.

Edger stopped, motioning those behind to come forward.

Hand-in-hand, they did so; stopped before T’caraisiana’ab and Broodmother, waiting.

The Broodmother looked up and resumed her outcry.

“You see what I have told you! It made off with the T’carais’amp, the evil thing!” She turned to Edger, every line of her pleading justice. “Will you not slay it, T’carais? You have seen with your eyes how evil—”