Dragon's Ring (28 page)

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Vorlian contemplated his gold. There was a lot of it. His island was a rich one, fertile, if not as large as, say, Lord Zuamar's holding. The big old dragons had originally taken the largest territories, with no thought as to the nature of those territories. Ones with cliffs and mountains were good for eyries and take-offs. They were often less than agriculturally ideal, Vorlian had concluded. Agriculture hadn't been a factor dragons considered . . . but here on Tasmarin it had become fairly apparent that growth among dragonkind related to hoard-size.

And that, Vorlian had come to realize, related to the other species. Someone had to dig the gold up, and that one wasn't a dragon. Fertile fields and trade brought gold, even if no human or dvergar miners did.

And for that, Vorlian knew he needed humans. They were annoying, smelly, prolific creatures. But dragons needed them. There was a difference between eating one, once in a while, and embarking on a wholesale slaughter—as Zuamar was now calling on all of dragonkind to do.

Vorlian had the feeling that it was at least in part his fault. His island, Starsey, was far too geographically close to Yenfar. Vorlian had already made up his mind that he would defend its population.

But could he, if Zuamar came with the sort of support he seemed to be gathering? One-on-one they were not too unevenly matched. But no dragon could stand even against three. That was how the conclave kept the peace.

Meb awoke to a throbbing growl in her ear. There was a dark shape over at the rotting arch that was all that was left of the doorway. And the pup was letting her know that he found it alarming. Meb stuck out a hand to wake Finn—only he wasn't there.

"I see we have a guard dog," said Finn's voice from the dark shape. "More use than a chewer of mutton bones, even if it still has to learn who its enemies are."

"I think he thought you were the dragon again. He's shivering."

"The Scrap should tell her scrap that it's only me. We want to get moving before dawn. We've got an hour or two's walk to the cliffs, and there is not much cover close to the sea."

They got up and left. Meb felt that cold mutton was less of a breakfast than she'd hoped for, but it was food, and they could both eat and walk.

It was predawn gray when she first heard the distant rhythmic sound of the waves carried on a salt-laden breeze. She hadn't realized just how much that sound and smell were part of her, or how much she'd missed it, until that moment.

"Will the two of you stop standing stock still and get a move on," said Finn. "You'll hear it better from closer."

So they walked on. It was an effort to keep up with the merrow. They made their way down a section of crumbly, broken cliff and to a small bay of shifting grumbling cobbles. The sun was just coming up. The merrow rushed down to meet the foam-line of the wave. He grabbed water and splashed himself. He thrust his arms out and stretched, as they watched. The pup, put down on the stones, looked warily at the water. The foam rushed up at them, sending cobbles clacking. The pup pressed against Meb's leg and barked at it.

"I didn't realize what a lot I had in common with your brave hound, Scrap," said Finn, grinning. "There should be some caves for us to rest up in. We'll need to find a boat, unlike you, Hrodenynbrys. I can see no reason why you can't swim away and tell Margetha that Fionn is coming to collect the hammer."

The merrow looked torn. "I should stay and guard the Angmarad."

Finn shrugged. "If the worst comes to the worst we'll just toss it in the water. We're not going to be more than a few feet away from the sea until we get there, with luck. We'll go hunting a fishing boat after dark."

'Brys bit a long fore-finger, and then nodded. "I'll find someone to take word, and will be back. But . . . could I ask you to do one thing for it? Let the water touch it. It needs the sea and the sea needs it. Please."

He seemed as earnest as the merrow ever got. Meb looked at Finn. He nodded. "Just hold onto it."

Meb lifted the twisted circlet of bladder-wrack off her head and stepped down the sloping beach to the foam-laced top of the surge. The sea was still gray in the new light of morning. The sun, still a half red orb on the eastern horizon, hazed by the wind-whipped sea-spray that trailed the breakers, gave everything curiously sharp outlines, even the flight of curlews moving in a ragged vee above the water. A wave came rushing up the stones, sending the cobbles hissing and clattering. Meb put the circlet into the water, and realized that she'd misjudged the strength of the wave. The water came half way up her boots. From being icy cold when she touched it, it was suddenly as warm as blood, and tingling. Meb was aware of a curious whistling and ringing in her ears, like the sound of the sea being somehow echoed through a thousand distant bells. Just for a moment she felt the race of the tide, the swirl of the water and the heartbeat of the waves, as if the sea were part of her and she, part of it.

"Groblek said to say he misses you," said Meb, feeling mildly foolish.

Beside her the pup sneezed. Snorted salt water. That didn't stop him biting the wave that was attacking her feet again. A dog couldn't be tolerating this stuff even if it was excessively salty! He'd teach it a lesson!

It did make her laugh and break the spell. The sun had risen just a fraction more, and the sea was bright with it. Or bright with something. It seemed bigger and wilder somehow.

The merrow did too. He was changing back into the blue-skinned tassel-finned creature she'd first met. He bowed respectfully. "For that, the thanks of all of the waters and all that live in them. I'll bid you farewell, for now."

And he slipped effortlessly away beneath the tumble of foam of an incoming wave.

Meb looked at the circlet of dried seaweed. It wasn't so well-dried any more. But it still looked pretty much like any other piece of seaweed that might have been washed up after a winter storm.

"Well," said Finn. "Unless you want to keep getting your feet wet and make your scrap of a dog even wetter, and swallow half the sea, maybe you'd better come back up to the caves. There is bit of driftwood there and what with the spray blowing up the cliff the smoke will be lost. And after that," he pointed at the dripping loop of seaweed, "there are going to be magic workers from here to far Prettisy Island wondering what is going on, anyway."

So Meb came away from the sea, away from the oneness and the power and deep currents of it, and was showered by the pup, who celebrated her return to common sense by dancing around her and shaking.

Finn was a wizard when it came to getting even an unpromising damp salt-encrusted pile of debris and flotsam to burn. He yawned. It was the first time Meb had seen him so obviously tired. "Tide's coming in, and this beach will be covered. But the top end of the cave stays dry, or not more than spray-damp. Sorry, Scrap. I need a rest. Then we need a boat."

Meb had noticed that there was not a sail to be seen. That was unusual unless it was stormy. Yet it seemed a good brisk fishing day to her.

The Lyr had been aware, at some basic level, that something had happened to one of itself. When news came, via the shocked priest of the Hamarbarit grove, that not only was the sister-Lyr that he had been with destroyed, but that Haborym had been destroyed too, Lyr knew fear. And, as near a plant-lifeform could rage—a sort of cold, bitter anger. They needed the human mage. But the plant-lifeform feared humans as well. She had every intent of seeing the human destroyed the moment that their work was done. Humans were near defenseless against the fire-being kind, and this had been part of the great agreement reached between them.

Still, human reportage could not be trusted. A Lyr was dispatched from her grove to go and see how much of the story was mere human exaggeration. They were very prone to that.

What came back frightened the Lyr even more.

Emissaries were hastily sent out.

"The alvar ships certainly always made other vessels look clumsy and slow," said Cyllarus to Ixion, his companion of the day, as they paced the low dock of Port Lapith.

"They're elegant enough." Even in today's light breeze the long hulled alvar vessel glided across the water. It was not by chance, naturally, that two of the centaurs-folk's leading generals were on the quay-side. Yesterday had been wind-still. They knew what the swan-ship carried.

They waited as ropes were cast ashore and the vessel was secured. Soon the gangplank was lowered and that in turn was used to put a horse-ramp in place. Soon an alvar prince, resplendent in sky blue silk hose, a delicately engraved silver mail-shirt, with a midnight blue surcoat embroidered in silver over that, rode out on a spirited gray horse, with silver bosses on her fine tack . . . And nearly fell off, as the fine mare found the half-horses very much outside of her experience.

"Prince Gywndar," said Ixion in greeting, as the alvar tried to keep the last shred of his dignity intact by at least staying in the saddle.

The use of his name was almost the last distracting straw, and Gywndar had to grab the saddle to stop his suitably grandiose arrival in the lands of the centaurs from ending with a splash in the harbor. But, like all of the alvar he was good with horses and did eventually calm his steed. "Greetings," he said. "I seek urgent counsel with the leaders of the centaur peoples, our ancient friends."

"Speak, Prince." It was true enough that the alvar had always avoided conflict with the centaurs. Although to call them ancient friends was a little disingenuous.

"Take me to your leaders. I must speak with them," said Gywndar, tilting his head back and trying—and failing—to look down on them a little. They were taller than he was.

"We do not have hierarchical ranks as you do, Prince. In the herds Cyllarus and I are counted as the leaders of Phalanxes. I think it is us that you wish to speak to. That is why we are here."

The alvar prince looked at the two big centaurs facing him. Ixion had made a study of alvar kind. If the centaurs had been setting out to make things easy, they could have worn some kind of insignia or symbol of rank. Faced with two bronzed torsos, and no clothing at all, unless you counted the utilitarian weapons of war they carried, how was the alvar to have guessed? After a few seconds of looking into their faces he looked around and said awkwardly. "Um. Here? On the dockside? There are humans unloading loading crates of fish over there."

Cyllarus nodded. "We do not have palaces as you alvar do. We speak where we meet, Prince. What is it that you wish to talk to us about?"

Gywndar was by now thoroughly off his stride, and discomforted. Which, if he had been a centaur . . . or even a fire-being or a dragon, he would have realized was the purpose of their actions. But the alvar had fixed ideas about protocols, and had become very set in their ways. "Erm. Well, I come as an emissary. Can I present my credentials to someone?"

"We know who you are, Prince Gywndar," said Ixion. "Your coming was foretold."

"One forgets that the centaurs are so adept at reading the future," said Gywndar, favoring them with his best smile.

"We have not forgotten that the alvar are so silver-tongued. We are here to listen," said Cyllarus—which was true. They were.

"I've come to tell you of portentous and tragic happenings and to beg for your aid. I am the prince of Yenfar. We are the guardians of an ancient treasure . . ."

"The Angmarad of the merrows," said Ixion.

"Er. Yes. Anyway, there has been some kind of vile conspiracy. A conspiracy between some humans, the merrow, and, we are sad to say, a renegade dragon, to steal this sacred trust."

"They have returned it to the water. The shock of it, and the renewal of the sea, was felt everywhere," Cyllarus said.

"No, we recovered it. A large group of the thieves were caught with it in their possession. Nonetheless it was a breach of trust. A breach of the ancient compact. They must be dealt with before they try again. This means war!"

"Why?" asked the two centaurs, together after a moment of silence.

The alvar princeling opened and closed his mouth at them, like a fish out of water. "The balance of powers, the merrow and, and, and a human!" he squeaked eventually.

"Not to mention a dragon," said Ixion, controlling a desire to laugh.

Gywndar drew himself up. "The dragons rally behind us to show that this was just one renegade. They are our staunch allies. We are now gathering all the peoples to deal with them."

"All of them?"

"Yes," said Gywndar firmly. "Well, some of them. We're sending emissaries to the merrows to demand that they turn over the thieves for justice. And we'll give them a good lesson."

"I meant all of the dragons. Our scrying of the dark glass of the future shows dragon fighting dragon, and the lands of Tasmarin aflame."

"Lord Zuamar gathers the great ones to him. We'll soon weed out the handful of traitors. They and the merrows and their human allies will be eliminated. Will you join us?" demanded Gywndar.