Dog and Dragon-ARC (7 page)

It was inevitably hot. Fionn began wondering if he should have relieved the travelers of some water as well as some of their gold. The smoky air was still and thick, and Fionn traced more flows of energy rushing through it. It felt like a thunderstorm—not just dry lightning, but a real cloudburst of rain was coming. It even looked like it with black thunderhead clouds forming. The creatures of smokeless flame would not like that! They’d be exerting all their power to stop it. Things were definitely in a state of flux here, although the causeway itself did not seem to be a problem. The weather could always be a side effect of Tasmarin rejoining the great planar ring of worlds. That would have an effect on all the planes and all the sub-rings that spun off those. Had others of his kind kept the energy of the planes balanced, while he was trapped in Tasmarin? Would Tasmarin itself remain truly stable without him? That could be awkward, as his hoard was hidden there. The few pieces of gold he had with him were a poor replacement for that.

Just when Fionn thought he’d have to carry the drooping dog, who was still determinedly pushing onwards, two things happened: firstly, it began to rain, in thick hot drops; and secondly, they came to a large stone trilith set over the causeway, which had narrowed down and become stones in the dust here. The trilith—made by hauling a huge megalith onto the top of two other upright megaliths—was big enough to have required several giants to move the vast, shaped stones. There was considerable magic about it, but yet it did not disrupt the flow of energy. Either the builders had consulted another planomancer or this was a relic of the First.

The dog wasn’t waiting to examine it. He found the energy to scamper towards it.

And did not emerge onto the causeway beyond. Fionn could see that. It was singly devoid of dog.

So he lengthened his stride to walk though himself.

On the other side there was still a trilith. It was just much lower and entirely surrounded by forest. And darkness.

It was also cold, and wet. Fionn’s dragonish eyes saw further into the various spectra, and also rather well in the dark. He could spot the white patches on Díleas. The dog was sitting there, looking back at the trilith. Waiting. Plainly not with much patience, by the way he stood up. There was obviously a time difference here. That happened in transitions between the planes. It was usually more gradual though.

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” said Fionn. It occurred to him the dog probably did not understand irony, even if he understood entirely too much speech, by the way Díleas butted his hand with his nose, and started to walk down the rough track. The dog seemed to know where he was going, and there wasn’t much to keep Fionn here, even if he might be tempted to have a closer look at that trilith. Human worlds had once abutted those of the demondim, so that was not that surprising, but to find a path he did not know…worried him.

Also, he was sure, just by the feel of the place, that this was not the cool damp of night in fair Annvn, but the cold terror damp of night in Brocéliande. Mind you, in the dark it was hard to tell. If they were attacked by monstrous beasts or wolves it would be the vast primal forest of Brocéliande. If it was mere bandits, it was probably Annvn. The beasts or bandits were more likely to attack a human, and Fionn had nothing against helping himself to their booty, so he altered his form accordingly. If it turned out to be Brocéliande, he’d probably regret that. It was, either way, one of the Celtic cycle. His Scrap’s true name suggested she might have come from one of those.

They walked on, the wood even darker than the cloudy night sky, with trailing branches drooping over the track. A sliver of watery moonlight peeked out from the cloud as they came to a stream with a shallow ford. Díleas ran forward to drink as if there was no other water ever to be found.

Fionn was beginning to wonder whether he had been wrong, and this was somewhere else entirely, or that times had changed for the bandits or wolves or monsters. He was also thinking about the trilith-gated road, and wondering about the mathematics of joining planes thus, and how it could be that the outcome was uncertain. He was so deep in thought he almost didn’t see the afanc slithering closer to the dog. He barely had time to yell and leap as the crocodilian jaws clashed shut…

…On Fionn’s cloak and the arm rolled in it, giving Díleas a chance to utter a startled yelp as he leapt back and pulled his head aside. Without Fionn’s yell the monster would have had the dog, and even with it, the afanc would have had Díleas by his nose, except Fionn had stopped the jaw closing on the dog with his arm.

The downside of this was that the water monster had Fionn instead. And while dragon skin is tougher than human skin by several orders of magnitude, and the thick woolen cloak would have stopped a knife thrust, the afanc still had a truly viselike grip, and it was using all of the strength of its massive legs and beaverlike paddle tail to haul its prey back into deep dark water to drown him.

Dragons are not easy to drown, and the afanc would need more than just patience to manage that. But no one told Díleas that. The crazy dog latched itself onto the afanc’s nose, burying his sharp teeth inside the sensitive nostril.

The afanc was now trying to get away, shake off the agony attached its nose, and deal with Fionn. And Fionn knew that he wouldn’t drown, but there was no such guarantee for that obstinate dog.

So he stuck the fingers of his free hand into the afanc’s eye, and at the same time hauled with all the strength of his legs.

And got wet. Fell over and got showered. The afanc did not like having its eye poked out. It loosed its grip briefly and, with a ripping of cloth, Fionn pulled the arm and cloak free, and dealt the afanc a wallop alongside the head that would make the monster regard anything bigger than a field mouse as hard chewing on that side for a month. As Fionn fell backwards he grabbed Díleas by the scruff of the neck and flung him back up the bank, before scrambling that way himself.

A minute later he was sitting high above the stream, wet and a little wary, with a sheepdog nearly on top of him, inspecting the damage to himself and the dog. Fionn could feel Díleas’s heart pounding. Fionn realized that under all that fur, he was still not a very large dog. He was not too sure if the dog thought he was defending the dragon, or seeking a safe spot. “I think,” said Fionn, “that we’re in the forests of Brocéliande, dog. Which makes that thing one of the nicer creatures that inhabit these dark woods. I think my dragon form is probably wiser and safer. The blasted thing has half shredded my cloak and given me a rather sore forearm. But that could have been the end of you. And I do not want to have to explain that to your mistress. So, could you cope with riding over the water on my back? And I should probably take those boots of yours off. You’ve got them full of water.”

Díleas held up a foot in the moonlight. The thongs were wet, easier to cut than untie, but the dragon-leather hide was still good.

Fionn became the black dragon, and was sure that the eyes watching from the water, and quite possibly the woods, would sheer off. He wondered, as always, just what happened to his clothing and gear in such changes. For years he’d set them aside. He still was wary about a pack, but it appeared that somehow all his clothing and gear were with him, yet not with him. He could still feel the ghostly touch of them, as a dragon.

The logical answer now was to fly across the water, but he had no idea how the dog would deal with that. And it was unlikely the afanc would seek a second encounter just yet. “Up on my back,” he said, wondering what would happen. The answer was readily supplied. Díleas jumped up. Stood between his wings. “If I have more trouble with the afanc, you’re to jump off and make for the bank. I can deal with it, but not if I am trying to stop you getting drowned or bitten.”

Díleas growled at him.

It was a good thing, reflected Fionn, that he’d taken the dragon-skin foot coverings off Díleas. The dog was getting far too big for his boots. Fionn walked slowly into the water of the ford, trying to keep his back even and steady.

He was prepared for Díleas to fall off, or even for the afanc to make another try. They really weren’t very bright. What he wasn’t expecting—and it nearly had him lose his footing on the slippery rocks—was for Díleas to bark at the water, the whole way across. A sort of “come and get me if you dare” bark.

Fionn had to try and ignore it and concentrate on keeping his balance on the slimy, shifting, round rocks.

On the far side, having had enough of barking in his ear, Fionn said, “Off.”

“Hrf?”

There was definitely a questioning note to that bark. Or was he beginning to imagine speech from the dog too? “Yes, off. You enjoyed that didn’t you? You were taunting him. Well, I suppose he did very nearly snap your nose off, and possibly would have eaten you. But—although this advice may seem odd coming from me—make sure the beast you taunt is not merely making you advertise yourself to the rest. Because unless I am very much mistaken those are wolves howling a reply to you. You had better stay up there after all. But no barking in my ear unless you’re warning me of something. My foreleg is somewhat tender from the last effort.”

They walked on, and the only sound Díleas made was an occasional low growl. Looking behind himself briefly—one of the joys of dragon form was that he could, while humans could not without turning their entire bodies—Fionn saw that the dog was alert, questing, tasting the air with inquisitorial sniffs. The white fur made him quite visible, as did the glowing red bauble at his throat. There might be a need to do something to hide it.

The wolves, and anything else watching from dark woods—and there would have been things there, Fionn was certain—left the dragon alone. At length, after perhaps an hour’s walk, dragon pace, they spotted a light. And smelled a more welcome scent than that of a manticore or wolf—woodsmoke.

“I think food and sleep, indoors, is called for. If you sleep outdoors in the forests of Brocéliande, something digestive, or even nastier, can happen you. The trick is going to be persuading anyone to let us in at this time of night. I think it is time for me to become a gleeman and you a gleeman’s dog rather than a dragon rider. I don’t think those are much more welcome than dragons. Of course in these parts you never know just who might own the farmhouse. They could be just as keen on eating us. And finding space can be an issue out here. Even the cows have to sleep indoors.”

Díleas received this speech by lifting his leg on a roadside bush, from which something sneezed and retreated, making Fionn laugh and Díleas growl. “Even half the trees in Brocéliande have some sort of awareness. And many are not going to enjoy that kind of shower, dog.” They walked on.

As it turned out it was not a farmhouse, but an inn at a crossroad, catering to travelers who didn’t want to chance spending the night out in the forest. In these forests men traveled in groups and, as none had arrived at the inn, it had plenty of space. The crossbow-armed innkeeper wanted a vast sum to let them in, which as far as Fionn was concerned, was both iniquitous and, worse, up-front. “I should have slept under a bush,” said Fionn grumbling as he counted out silver. Copper would have been more appropriate and normal.

“You’re welcome to, and the dog’ll be extra,” said mine host. “They make work.”

Fionn sighed. “And not much chance of juggling for my supper, I suppose?”

“Supper will be another silver penny. You can juggle all you please, but half your takings will come to me. Anyway, there’s no one here but a pack-peddler and a pot mender, both waiting for a group going West. The rest of their party was going to Carnac.”

Mournfully Fionn fished out a coin from the corner of his pouch. Rubbed the edge of it, with a good imitation of regret. It was larger than the pennies, and gleamed. “I only have this. I’ll go hungry before I give you all of it. Make change for me.”

The innkeeper took it. Looked at the unfamiliar face stamped onto it—the silver pennies were so thin and worn, it was hard to tell what they were. “Where is this from?” he said suspiciously.

“How would I know? Some drunken merchant gave it to me in a tavern as payment for my juggling. The light was bad and he probably thought it was a copper. I did, then. I didn’t go looking for him in the morning to ask. It’s silver. Worth at least twenty pennies. Give it back if you don’t want it.”

The innkeeper slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll give you ten for it.”

“Eighteen I’ll take. No less,” said Fionn.

“What’s money to a corpse? You’re lucky to be alive out there, on your own in the dark. Wolves or monsters get most such fools.”

“I didn’t plan it,” said Fionn. “The others ran the other way when we had our little run-in with the afanc at the ford. It ripped my cloak, curse it.”

“You’re lucky it was just your cloak.”

“Ach, the dog gave me warning. I sleep sound enough knowing he’s there,” said Fionn. “Now either give my silver back or give me eighteen silver pennies for it.”

For a moment it looked like the innkeeper was weighing up whether simple murder would not solve this dilemma. Then he sighed. “Seventeen. And that’s merely because the dog looks hungry.”

“I haven’t let him eat a rascally innkeeper for weeks,” said Fionn, sardonically. “Seventeen. Provided you feed him too.” Twenty silver pennies was still far too little for the weight of the coin—had it been silver, or going to be staying in the innkeeper’s pouch.

The beer was good, the squirrel stew adequate. Fionn found the quarters less so. The window was thoroughly barred with heavy iron bars and a fair amount of magework too. In fairness, Fionn had to admit it did seem directed less to keeping him in, as to keeping the various forest denizens of Brocéliande out. Only he had thought a little fly around would help to orientate himself, and quite possibly make the denizens of the forest a little more wary. With self-mocking virtue, Fionn laughed at himself. There was nothing quite as easy as performing a public service, while actually looking for the sort of magical chaos his Scrap of humanity would be generating, just by the way she was. So he sat down and took out a fragment of the coin he’d given the innkeeper, and called it back to itself to be whole again. He was rewarded a few moments later by the coin squeezing itself under the door, and rolling across to him. The dvergar coin would follow its heart piece for miles. Fionn had once thought he’d lost it, when it had been trapped in an iron strongbox. But sooner or later, someone had opened the box. Besides, it wasn’t silver, but actually a great deal harder. Dvalinn said it would burrow its way out of anything in time.