DragonFire (12 page)

         
17
         

B
UG

“I’m going to let you go.” Sir Kemry waved a hand at the ropma. “But stay here. I want you to answer some questions.”

The vine loosened around the ropma’s legs. As soon as the binding fell away, the beast darted toward the deeper woods. Kale and her father grabbed its arms. It gave up without more ado and whimpered.

“Go home,” it pleaded. “No take little dragons.”

Sir Kemry stroked the agitated beast’s back and guided it out into the clearing. Kale followed with several of the dragons perched on her as the others flew ahead.

“Here, sit,” said Sir Kemry and pressed the ropma kindheartedly onto a large boulder. “I have something to eat I think you will like.”

“Eat?”

“Yes, a treat.”

The ropma watched intently as Kale’s father brought out a small package and unwrapped a dark brown hunk of bread.

The creature took it and turned the morsel over in his hands, smelled it, and then stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. It chewed with a smile on its face.

“Good. Sweet. More?”

It ate the second piece of molasses-laced soft bread offered without even a brief examination.

“Good. More?”

“No, that’s all I have for now.”

The ropma frowned and started to rise. Sir Kemry put a hand on its shoulder and kept it on the rock.

“What is your name?”

“Bug.”

“Bug, are you a male or female?”

“I Bug.”

Kale smiled at the ropma. “Will you be a da or ma when you have little ropmas?”

“I be da. I be da now. We have many bas.” He shook his hairy head. “There is woman. Woman no ropma. Woman no good. Mean to bas.”

Kale looked suitably shocked. “That’s horrible. Very bad. I don’t like no-good woman.”

Sir Kemry patted the ropma’s knee to regain his attention. “What is the name of the no-good woman?”

A puzzled look came over Bug’s face, and he didn’t move for almost a full minute. He smiled when he remembered. “Stox. She leave becks to watch dragons. Becks say, ‘Stox is gonna getcha. You obey.’”

Kale wondered what a beck could be, but then saw a huge, militant warrior in the ropma’s thoughts. She shivered at the exaggerated image of a bisonbeck.

Sir Kemry nodded. “Stox is no good.”

Solemnly, Bug nodded in agreement. “Becks no good.”

Kale pointed to herself and her father and to the ropma. “We are friends. We want to help the dragons.”

Bug frowned. The more he thought, the more sour his expression became. “No help dragons. Make becks mad. Becks tell woman. Woman be bad. Hurt ropmas. Hurt bas.”

Kale shook her head. “No, we won’t let them.”

Bug eyed Kale and her father, then stood. “No. Bug go home. No friends you.”

“Wait,” said Sir Kemry. “I understand your fear. We won’t make you help us. Just answer some questions.”

The ropma looked longingly toward the woods and the gateway.

Metta sat up straight on Kale’s shoulder and sang. The tune caught the beast’s attention. Dibl flew over and sat on the creature’s shaggy shoulder. Bug cringed, but when the yellow dragon did not bite or spit, the gentle beast relaxed. He turned back to watch Metta as she swayed and occasionally spread her colorful wings.

Kale spoke softly. “When we go through the gateway, are the bisonbecks and dragons there, right next to the gateway?”

“No,” answered Bug, his attention on Metta.

“Where are they?” asked Sir Kemry.

Kale focused on Bug’s thoughts, knowing his words would not be able to express clear directions. She saw a range of mountains, stark and unfriendly, a river lined with grassy banks, a narrow pass, and a wide meadow in a high country valley. In the meadow, dozens of dragons of all sizes wandered about aimlessly. Among these captured creatures, many ropmas worked. Some carried feed. Others groomed the bigger animals. Among the rocks surrounding the area, bisonbecks stood on guard. Tremors of fear shivered through Bug each time his memory touched on one of the armed soldiers.

“Do you see what I see?”
asked Kale’s father.

The valley?

“Yes.”

She could feel her father’s interest in the different views presented in Bug’s mind. She could almost understand Sir Kemry’s analysis. But not quite. She studied the many dragons and wondered at their docility.
Why don’t they just fly away?

“There has to be some sort of deterrent, but since our friend, Bug, does not understand it, we most likely won’t find the answer until we are there.”

There seems to be more than an adequate guard on the area. Can we accomplish a rescue on our own?

“A decision we must make after we have seen for ourselves what the situation involves.”

Kale watched the ropma’s memory of a dozen bas clambering over a full-grown major dragon. The dragon did not even look annoyed.
Are the dragons bonded to their captors?

“That would make our job more difficult, but again, we won’t know until we are there.”

Kale marveled at how many dragons there seemed to be, and at the great variety. Was Bug’s mental accounting to be trusted? Did he unwittingly show them the same dragons repeatedly but in different settings? From the details of the images, Kale would guess the ropma was, indeed, familiar with a great variety of dragons.

How long has Stox been gathering the dragons?
she mused.

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps—”

We’ll find out once we are there.

“Exactly.”

Then I guess we’d best get going.
“Bug.” She smiled and extended a gentle hand to smooth the hair on the creature’s forearm. “We want to go back with you through the gateway.”

The ropma shook his head in dread. “No, no. Bug bring dragons. Bug bring food. No people. Becks no say bring people.”

“Oh, we don’t like becks, either. We won’t let the becks see us with you.” She turned to Sir Kemry. “Will we, Father?”

The older man pursed his lips and made a show of thinking. “No, I don’t think we will, daughter. But I would like to see all the pretty dragons.”

“And,” said Kale, “maybe if one of our dragons would go with you, you would have something to give the becks to make them happy.”

“Becks never happy.” But Bug eyed the singing dragon and reached up to pet Dibl, who still sat on his shoulder. “Good to bring dragons to becks. Becks no yell, no hit.”

Kale furrowed her brow. “Do the becks yell at the dragons? Do they hit the dragons?”

“No. No hurt dragons. No-good woman scream, yell, kill. No-good woman want all dragons. No hurt dragons.”

Sir Kemry took Bug’s arm and eased him toward the woods. “We best be going now. Don’t want to be late for supper.”

“Supper?” Bug resisted the knight’s efforts to move him.

“Night food,” said Kale. “We don’t want to be late for night food.”

“Rain make good food,” said Bug with a grunt and shuffled into the trees.

“Rain is the ma to your bas?” asked Sir Kemry.

“Yes. Good ma. Good cook.” He pushed ahead, plowing through the underbrush.

Kale and her father hurried to catch up but froze when they heard a loud voice in front of Bug.

“Well!”

Kale easily identified the growling tone as a bisonbeck. She and her father silently lowered themselves behind the thick foliage. Using her talent, she looked through Bug’s eyes to see two soldiers standing beside a gateway almost obscured by vines.

The taller bisonbeck grimaced. “I don’t like having to come look for the scavengers.” He frowned. “What have you got on your shoulder? Where did you get that little beauty?”

He reached forward to grab Dibl, but the small dragon hopped into the air and flew to a tree branch. Five angry minor dragons swooped at the soldier as he leapt up in a vain attempt to catch Dibl.

“Look at this,” said the second man. “This ropma must be a Dragon Keeper or something.”

The bigger bisonbeck stood with his fists planted on his hips, staring up at the tree, now serving as a perch for the colorful dragons. The little beasts chattered angrily from their safe roost.

“Nah, I know this ropma. He’s Bug, and there isn’t anything special about him.”

Bug wagged his head back and forth, a sorrowful expression pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Bug no Dragon Keeper. Dragon Keeper in woods.”

Kale saw both soldiers jerk around to stare at the ropma. She glanced over at her father, and he shrugged.

“Under the circumstances, my dear, he couldn’t have kept it a secret.”

The bigger bisonbeck pulled his sword and stared into the trees. “Where?”

Bug turned and pointed right at the clump of bushes where Kale crouched. “She’s there…” He searched the forest, his head swiveling. “Man no.”

The large soldier started toward Kale’s hiding place. “There’s two? Or are there more? How many, Bug?”

“A dozen. A hundred. Maybe seven.”

“Argh!” complained the second man with his battle-ax held ready. “Fool question. Ropma can’t count.”

“To be on the safe side,” said the first, coming to a stop, “let’s drag Bug back through the gateway and get reinforcements. Stox will give a reward for catching Dragon Keepers as well as dragons.”

Sir Kemry straightened and strode into the small space in front of the two soldiers, coming to a halt beside Bug.

“Just a moment. Bug does not want to be dragged off. I have no wish to meet Stox at this time. And my friends in the forest have decided you two are a nuisance.”

The large bisonbeck raised his chin and pointed his sword at the old knight. “I’m not so sure you have friends. I’m willing to bet you are all alone.”

Sir Kemry laughed. “A bet you are about to lose.” Without taking his eyes off the warrior, he spoke over his shoulder. “Gentlemen, show yourselves.”

         
18
         

A D
RAGON
H
ISTORY

Bardon cringed as a servant dropped a loaded tray of dirty dishes. The clang reverberated through the tavern and bounced back from the plastered walls. Sir Dar’s ears turned back and down. Bardon wished his ears could block out the clamor. Gilda and Regidor didn’t even look up from their conversation in a high-sided wooden booth for two. Bardon thought of the hundreds of couples who must have declared their love in the secluded alcove. He wouldn’t mind a quick chat with Kale right now in a private room where he could hold her as well as speak words of devotion.

The image of Kale in his mind brought a smile to his lips and then a frown. He didn’t have his wife as a traveling companion, but rather her mother. Who would want to go into battle with his mother-in-law? Lyll Allerion was all right in her own way, but she had a tendency to be bossy and headstrong.

Bardon smiled again.
Just like my wife.

A marione gent in farmer’s homespun garb opened the common room door, letting in a stiff draft of cold air. A kimen followed him. The diminutive man’s clothes now appeared dark purple, his hair stood on end, and his lips were set in a grim line. They paused, and their gazes searched the crowd. The marione spotted Sir Dar, and they weaved through the other customers to reach him.

“News,” the marione said as he sat down at the table with the two knights, “and it isn’t good.”

Lady Allerion hurried from where she had been visiting with several local women. She took the chair between Dar and Bardon. The new men gave her a wary look.

“She’s with us,” said Sir Dar. “Lady Allerion, this is Armin and Yent.” He pointed to the marione and the kimen in turn.

Armin stood and took off his hat, making a short bow. “Pleased to meet you, m’lady. And thankful we are that you and the others have come to our assistance.”

The kimen stood on his chair and bowed. “I’ve met your daughter, Kale, and pray she is well.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Lyll answered. “My daughter is hunting with her father. She was well when last I saw her. Please be seated.”

Armin sat and kept his hat in his hand. “The rumor is that the wizards are gathering a great army of dragons to defend us.”

Lyll Allerion sighed. “I wish that were true, my friend. But there is not a great number of dragons.”

“Why is that, m’lady? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Sir Dar lifted his hand. A maid came to the table, and the doneel ordered a variety of treats and hot tea to be served. When she left, he addressed the marione. “I will tell you what I know.”

Bardon, curious to hear again the tale he knew so well, leaned forward. To hear the history from someone gifted as a storyteller would be different than reading it out of a textbook or hearing a dry lecture by a professor.

Lady Allerion surprised him by taking his hand. Her somber face reminded him he must look eager as he waited for Sir Dar to begin.

“It’s a sad tale,” she said. “One that shames the high races.”

Bardon nodded. He knew.

“Why?” asked Armin. “Because they were cruel where they should have been kind? Did they do harm to the dragons when the dragons were every person’s friend?”

She shook her head. “No, ours was a sin of omission. We did not regard our dragon companions as we should have. We did not honor their camaraderie. And we took advantage of their generous nature.”

Dar agreed with a nod. “First, the meech dragons grew tired of dealing with us.” He let his gaze fall on Gilda and Regidor at their isolated table. Anyone giving them a cursory glance would think they were tall o’rants. The clothing they wore with hats and capes disguised their dragon features. “The meech race is intelligent, moral, and conscientious. Those who have memories of when these rare dragons mingled with the high races say they grew tired of making excuses for our people.”

“And disgusted,” added Lyll. “They withdrew, limiting their contact with us.”

“And the other dragons?” asked Armin. “Did they shun the high races as well?”

“No.” Lyll looked at Dar, raising her eyebrows. “Not exactly.”

The maid came back to the table with mugs, platters of daggarts, bread and jam, and a pot of tea. Lady Allerion poured the hot brew and passed around the treats, making sure everyone had what they wanted.

When the busyness of serving had passed, the kimen, Yent, spoke up. “Continue the history, please, Sir Dar.”

The doneel bit into a toffee daggart, sipped the mint tea, and smacked his lips. He placed his mug on the table but cradled it with his hands as if to garner its warmth.

“It wasn’t a matter of segregation that led the other dragons to dwindle. They didn’t forsake the company of men. While they co-inhabited Amara, they ceased to trust the high races. The scarcity of dragon eggs is the manifestation of this distrust. It is a mystery why the dragons reacted so strongly. I believe there is more to the story than history records.”

Bardon shifted in his seat. He wondered if Kale had heard this saga of the dragons from Fenworth, Librettowit, or Cam. The old librarian Librettowit would be the most colorful in his descriptions. He’d also be the most thorough. If Kale knew of this history from one of her mentors, she had never mentioned it. He wished she were here.

Sir Dar enjoyed the rest of his daggart and picked up another.

“Please, sir,” said Armin, “the tale.”

The doneel took a long slurp of his cooling tea and held the mug as he spoke. “For a dragon egg to hatch, it must be quickened by someone of the high races. Dragons do not nurture their young. The hatchlings are self-sufficient within a day of breaking out of their shell. But dragons do care for the overall welfare of their offspring.”

The kimen’s clothing faded, the light dimming as if covered with a gray haze. “So they hid the progeny from us to protect them.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Sir Dar. “When the majority of the dragons became cautious of us, their former comrades, they began nesting in places where we would not find the eggs. Instead of proudly presenting their eggs to those to whom they had bonded, they didn’t mention the laying of eggs.”

“Some say,” said Yent, “that some of the older dragons made the arduous journey across the sea to the continent south of Amara.”

Sir Dar and Lady Allerion nodded.

Bardon closed his eyes and pictured Kale with gem-colored minor dragons flying in to land on her, scampering to claim their favorite perches, and adorning her clothing like living jewelry.

“So the population of dragons has dwindled,” he said.

“To our sorrow,” said Sir Dar.

“To our shame,” said Lyll.

The marione’s face reflected the hopelessness of the situation. “Will we be able to win the support of the dragons who remain? Will they join with us against Pretender, Stox, and Cropper?”

Lyll squeezed Bardon’s hand. “There are dragons who have bonded with members of the high races. These dragons would do anything for their comrades. Whether they can be persuaded to fight for Amara, for the whole of civilization, rather than just the individuals they care for, I don’t know.”

“I think they will,” said Dar. “But not for the high races. For Paladin. For Wulder.”

Bardon nodded. The kimen stood straighter in his chair, and the marione lifted his chin, a new look of hope in his expression.

Dar shook his head. “The point is they don’t have to. Legend says the gateway that brought them from their world to ours still exists, and they know where it is. They could leave us in our own muddle, rightly declaring that the tight spot we are in is of our own making.”

The marione’s brightened countenance faded.

Bardon folded his hands together as they rested on the table. “We shall have to hope their devotion to Wulder is stronger than ours has been.”

“Now tell us,” said Sir Dar to Armin. “What is your bad news?”

“The fishermen north of Prushing report a swarming of quiss in the sea.”

“Is it time for their overland migration?” asked Bardon.

“Narg,” snorted Armin. “More like their overland feed. Eden Bay is stuffed full of the monsters. When those two appendages stiffen and they crawl up on shore, there will be thousands more than we’ve ever faced before.”

Lyll sighed. “Crim Cropper’s work, I’m sure.”

Sir Dar poured himself another mug of tea. “It’s amazing how that evil wizard makes us all suffer, when he rarely comes out of his experimenting chambers. I don’t know anyone who has ever seen him.”

“He has Burner Stox to represent him,” said Lyll.

Armin groaned. “And spread his abominable filth among decent folks.” He bit into a bread and jam sandwich and spoke as he chewed. “What’s this about him and his wife fighting each other?”

“It’s true,” said Bardon.

Sir Dar laughed ruefully. “Their domestic quarrels have not made life easier for the people of Amara. They throw pots and pans at each other, and dishes on the shelves break, pictures fall from the walls, and furniture is smashed into pieces. Only their pots and pans are armies, and the house being destroyed is our country.”

“What are we going to do about the quiss?” asked Armin.

“Destroy them,” said Yent. “We know something we did not know before when they last attacked three years ago.”

Armin cocked an eyebrow at his tiny friend. “That is?”

“Salt.”

“Salt?” questioned several voices around the table.

“Quite by accident we discovered when sprinkled with salt, the body of a quiss reacts in the same way as a slug when doused.”

Lady Lyll wrinkled her nose. “I hope we don’t have to be too close when this happens.”

“I don’t understand.” Sir Dar scratched the hair along his chin. “Quiss live in saltwater. Why would salt kill them?”

“Because their bodies try to absorb the salt all at once,” answered the kimen. “Remember when they come on land, they are in some kind of starvation status. They tear through fences, crawl over walls, swarm and crush buildings. The only homes that remain somewhat unscathed are those we’ve built into the ground. All because they seek to devour everything edible, both animal and vegetation.”

“How are we going to get close enough to shower them with salt?” asked Lyll.

Yent grinned. “The salt can be dispersed from dragons flying overhead.”

“Wait.” Bardon pushed his chair away from the table and put his hands on his knees. “What type of creatures are these?”

“They’re quiss, man!” The marione jammed his hat onto his head, glanced at Lady Lyll, and pulled it off again. He waved it over the table as he spoke in a controlled whisper to the young knight. “They pour out of the ocean as a mass of ravenous flesh, eating everything in sight. The beasts overpower any resistance by sheer number. They look like a walking octopus, but not as pretty. They smell like a sewer, but not as sweet. And they eat like pigs, but not nearly as persnickety as the plump porcine on my farm.”

Bardon held up both hands and shook his head. “My cousin N’Rae and I came across a quiss in Southern Wynd on the Gilpen River—”

“Are you completely daft?” interrupted the marione. “Quiss live off the northeast coast, and they abhor fresh water except during their rampage.”

“Exactly,” agreed Bardon. “Most quiss. But this one had been altered by Cropper. If these quiss are like the odd one we encountered, then we can’t slaughter them. He had a mind. He thought. He felt great sorrow. He regretted his life.”

“Regretted his life? Then I see no hindrance to our wiping the whole lot out. Do them a favor and exterminate the monsters.”

“I see your point,” said Dar, facing Bardon. “We fight face-to-face with a creature who reasons. We obliterate a plague if we can. The question is”—he paused and looked each one around the table in the eye—“are we up against intelligence or pestilence?”

“How do we find out?” asked Yent.

“We get close and examine one,” said Lyll.

“You’re all mad,” said Armin.