Battledragon (9 page)

Bazil swam slowly toward the shore, turning his head backward frequently. It was closer, but still circling him. He felt it moving just fifty feet away, nosing past, curious but not yet moved to attack.

By Glabadza's ancient fiery breath, it was huge! He floated head down in the water, gripping the stubby hilt of the tail sword and keeping as still as possible.

The fish was gone. Even the stench receded. The moments ticked away with a dreadful slowness. Then he sensed a pressure coming toward him from the land. Closer and closer it came. It could no more see him than he could see it, though he could sense a deeper blackness pushing toward him, but it knew precisely where he was.

Then it was upon him. A darker mass coursing through the black water, a great mouth opened, teeth six inches on a side gleaming faintly through the murk.

Bazil ducked down, drove himself deep with two intense thrusts of his tail and curved up again.

The monster's jaws slammed shut a foot behind him with a clash like the end of the world, and he rose up alongside the vast body as it went past.

He swung, the short sword struck and stayed fast, lodged in the monster's tail.

It gave a tremendous heave, Bazil felt himself lifted up and broke the surface for a moment, still clinging to the sword hilt. He sucked in a great sobbing breath of air before the next thrash of the tail drove him back under the surface and dislodged the sword. He was hurled away, tumbling.

The giant was already turning back on its own length, and again its jaws clashed shut barely inches from dragonhide. This time his evasive twist brought him into violent contact with the shark's belly.

It was like bouncing off a gravel road; rough skin rubbed him raw and he shot away quite helpless to strike a blow.

Again the monster turned. There was some of its own blood in the water now. This produced an abrupt effect on the giant shark. It charged, jaws snapping repeatedly, a sound with a concentrated crack in it that hurt the ears.

There was no time to dodge; he survived because the monster had entered a frenzied state and bit at the bloodied water as much as anything solid. The huge bulk slammed him aside and for a moment he felt the giant's dinner-plate size eye under his talons, but he was spinning and could do no harm. The shark bucked under the stimulation of the blood. For a fraction of a second he was suspended over its side. He stabbed home with the blade and felt it sink to its hilt. The wall of flesh reacted angrily. He clung with all his might and felt the blade cut itself free, delivering a terrible wound; then he was driven deeper by a solid slap from the great tail.

Foul-smelling blood clouded the water. The giant hurtled away, turned, and then flung itself back.

Bazil was several feet below the blood cloud when the shark passed through and this time he stabbed upward and the tail sword sank into the great fishwhite belly and stuck. In a moment it was torn from his hand.

Bazil arched backward and drove himself down deeper, spiraling away from the scene. With no weapon he could do no more harm to the shark, and if it detected him now, he would die in those terrible jaws.

He heard them snap shut twice more in quick succession as the monster curved back into the blood cloud. Then it was gone again, leaping away into the darkness.

He drove himself deeper still, and sensed another, smaller shark, attracted to the blood. They passed unseeing, the shark barely noticing the dragon so intent was it on the blood ahead. A moment later Bazil touched bottom and clung to seaweed to hold himself there.

The smaller shark, a mere eight-footer, attacked the blood and a moment later was cut in half with one monstrous slam of enormous jaws.

Bazil clung to the bay kelp and held his breath. Another small shark went past, very close, traveling at top speed.

Up above, the monster returned, took the remains of the smaller shark and flashed away. The blood from both its own belly and the smaller shark was widely distributed now, and more sharks were gathering every second. The waters just off a port city were good grounds for some kinds of sharks, and there were dozens in motion now.

Bazil recognized that this was becoming a very dangerous neighborhood. A five-foot-long blue shark drove itself at him until he stunned it with a punch on the snout that left it to float away, feebly twitching. Moments later he felt it crumple under the assault of several of its fellows.

Bazil drove himself across the seabed, crouched low, heading in what he prayed was the direction of the shore.

Behind and above him he heard the terrifying sounds of a feeding frenzy underway. Dozens of powerful fish were hurling themselves in and out of the blood cloud while snapping at everything in their path. At regular intervals this background roar of teeth was overlaid with the clashing of the giant's jaws as leviathan cut through the crowd of smaller terrors, destroying them as he went.

The water shallowed beneath his feet, a sandy bottom. He caught the sour stench of human pollution from the lower bay. He had to breathe, which meant risking a rise to the surface. But he could go no farther without air. He kicked himself upward, broke the surface, and sucked in several deep breaths before he dove and powered himself down to the seabed again. The frenzy continued as sharks hurtled through the water above him.

The sandbank climbed to a bar, and he found himself wading across tidal flats in waist-deep water. Ahead lay a channel of deeper water yet and then the flats again, now bared at low tide.

There was a fire going on the beach. Probably the same drovers he'd seen before. He envied them their cheerful drunken sing-along, completely oblivious to the terrors of the cold water of the Long Sound.

He crept up the beach as far from the fire as he could and slipped back across the promenade. He had been gone less than an hour and the streets were still empty as he padded up the hill and reached the Dragon House.

The guards had resumed their customary slack pose. Bazil looked around for something to divert them with and observed a hay wagon, parked up the slope by the wall of the Novitiate. He pulled the wagon free of the wall, kicked away the brake block, and let it roll slowly down the cobbles, heading toward the top of Water Street. As it went, it picked up speed and began to rumble.

The guards woke up and gave a cry. Since they were the only folk awake at that hour in that part of the city, no one responded, and in a moment they were both pursuing the wagon down the street, trying to turn it and head it into the stone wall of the Dragon House where it could do no harm.

Neither of them observed the great wet dragon that slipped into the entrance behind them.

In the morning Relkin awoke with foul breath and a muzzy head. It was enough to make him instantly regret the strong ale of the night before. For a moment he wished he could stay just where he was, tucked up snug in his cot, eyes closed like armor against the world, but then the sounds of morning in the Dragon House intruded and with them came the remorseless demands of routine.

He stretched, ducked himself in cold water to chase away the cobwebs, and went down to the kitchens for hot kalut and a cauldron of stir about for the dragon.

Carefully balancing kalut and pushing the cauldron on a dolly, he came back bristling with gossip. The cooks were full of the news that they were to pack their kit that very day. Something was definitely in the wind.

He found his dragon still sound asleep and proceeded to wake him with a lively whistle in the ears. The big eyes snapped open.

"Why does boy feel compelled to wake this dragon?"

"We've got a busy day ahead, that's why. I think we'll be moving today, likely to go on board one of the ships in the harbor. You're usually awake by now anyway, so what's the problem?"

"Shrill, snappish boy, that's what." Bazil accepted the cauldron and fumbled off the lid.

"No akh?" he said in a deeply injured tone.

"How the hell you manage to eat that stuff at this time of the morning I don't know."

"Eat it because it is good."

Relkin drained a cup of kalut, his second, which seemed to revive him a bit, and threaded his way back to the kitchens in pursuit of akh, the pungent, mouth-burning condiment favored by wyverns on all food.

The delicious smell of fresh bread greeted him. He took a deep breath and then felt a playful punch on the arm. Swane wanted to know all about die dinner with Wiliger.

Up to that point Relkin had managed to obliterate all memory of that embarrassing horror, but now it came crashing back, including that awful moment when they'd informed the new dragon leader he couldn't have his own design of cap badge for the 109th fighting dragons.

"You had too much ale, I can tell."

Relkin merely groaned. Swane chortled. Up to this point he had felt seriously left out.

"What did Wiliger want?"

Relkin groaned again.

Manuel had come in unheard behind them. His sudden voice made Relkin jump.

"We are twitchy today."

"Yes," agreed Relkin, "we are."

Manuel shouldered past Swane and tore himself a piece of bread.

"In answer to Swane's question, Dragon Leader Wiliger was trying to be friendly," he said. "Trouble is he's inept. Told us about some fight he was in up in Kenor. He doesn't want us to think he's had no combat. Made me think he's an idiot."

"He's probably crazy," muttered Relkin, gathering up a pot of akh and a half dozen fresh-baked long loaves.

"What's that the Quoshite said?" said Swane.

"Wiliger's barking mad, that's what," replied Manuel between swallows of fresh army bread, straight out of the oven.

"Well, I already knew that, academy boy," growled Swane.

Relkin spoke again. "The cooks say they've been told to dismantle the kitchens and prepare to embark today."

"By the breath, why didn't you say so?"

"You didn't give me time to."

Swane grabbed up an armful of loaves and set off for the stall he shared with Vlok, a stolid, perhaps even unintelligent, leatherback dragon who had become the third longest serving dragon in the 109th by dint of luck and hardiness.

Relkin took bread and a pot of akh back to his own stall and fed the dragon, drank more kalut and ate some bread himself. His head felt better by degrees, and he soon noticed that his dragon had some fresh abrasions, with crusted blood, along his side, on his tail and his forearms.

"What are all these cuts?" he said indignantly. One slaved over the great beasts, keeping them in perfect health and what did they do? They horsed around in the plunge pool and broke their limbs, or rolled in sharp grit and cut their skins to shreds, which was what it seemed Bazil had been up to.

The dragon ate but said nothing.

Relkin sensed something was wrong.

"Come on, tell me, you've been rubbed raw in places here. What the hell did you do?"

Bazil stuffed another loaf of bread into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

Relkin tried different tacks, to no avail. The dragon would make no response. Relkin gave up with an elaborate sigh. Finishing up his breakfast, he made a quick inventory of things he wanted from the commissary and headed out.

"Will boy go to fish market again and try for sternfish?"

He looked back. "They won't have any."

"They might today."

Relkin eyed him suspiciously. What did that mean? But the dragon gave every sign of refusing to answer any more questions. Pushing a sulky dragon was not the way to get anywhere. Relkin went on his way, thoughtfully chewing his lower lip.

At the commissary he ordered new hooks and studs for the joboquin, plus a new set of nail clippers, his old ones having grown dull. Dragon talon was doughty stuff and soon blunted steel. Then he turned to his requests for various items of tropical kit.

The clerks checked and found that some of his requests had come in, but were not yet unpacked. He was told to come back later in the day.

Outside, with some time free, he enjoyed the feeling of sunshine beating down from a sky clear of clouds for the first time in days. The air was cold and fresh, and the colors of the city were bright and sharp. He decided to stay outside in the sun, and for something to do he wandered down the hill to the dockside. He would just stick his head in at the fish market. The dragon's hide had already scabbed over; later he would examine the cuts and perhaps use some Old Sugustus. Then, maybe, he would get the truth.

Down Tower Street he went, passing through the crowds that thronged it every day. At Foluran Hill he saw a party of sailors, very visible in their white pantaloons and bright blue coats and hats. They were hauling handcarts laden with trunks and other items of personal luggage. As they passed, they sang a shanty, a tune unfamiliar to Relkin that ended each line with a rousing "away- a- way- oh!"

The city of Marneri, of course, was utterly used to sailors, and nobody turned a hair, except for a few ex-mariners who joined in on a few choruses. Relkin watched them go before crossing the street, and he felt an odd exaltation in his heart. He had fond memories of two previous sea voyages, the longer of which had brought him back from Ourdh, all the way around the Southern Cape. Great weather, no dragon leader, weeks of fine sailing on steady seas with little to do except relax and fish for bonito in the evenings. Of course, it was now midwinter, but still he found himself looking forward to the sea. It was an advantage, of course, that he had never felt a moment's seasickness, where some of the others had been prostrated.

He took a deep breath. His hangover from the night before had miraculously faded. He went on down the pavement whistling the "Kenor Song."

At the dockside he observed more sailors passing crates and bags onto the dock to be ferried out to the great white ships sitting in the deeper anchorage of the bay.

After gazing at the ships where they glittered in the cold winter sunlight, he turned and went on up the dockside to the fish market. Inside, enveloped in that peculiarly powerful odor, he came to a stop and felt his jaw drop.

A gang of men with a crane was raising the head and jaws of the largest shark ever seen in Marneri. Chains had been passed through the jaws and out through the neck. With a mighty heave-ho on the block and tackle, they ran the rope back and the great head rose from the floor and wobbled ten feet into the air.