Dragon's Ring (36 page)

Meb soon realized that the lane led back to the small town that the inn was on the edge of, and that it hadn't been for Meb's benefit that she'd been led there by the girl. There was a large young man with a florid face in the roadway outside one of the cottages. "Justin!" panted the girl.

He looked, shouted "Keri!" and turned and ran up to them. Oh well, thought Meb, that's that problem solved. It was only when he knocked her down, that Meb realized that this was not the case.

"Steal my woman, would you, you little bas—" He reached down to grab Meb and Díleas jumped up and bit him on the cheek. The pup dropped back to earth and stood next to her growling like a full-grown wolf, not a puppy with very new teeth.

Meb, the initial shock now gone, did her best to swear louder than Díleas could growl. The young man probably hadn't grown up around fishing boats. He began pulling at the hedgerow for a stick, blood on his face and murder in his eye as the innkeeper's daughter clung ineffectually to his cloak.

Meb decided that if she was going to get beaten up or even killed she wasn't going to make it easy, not when he swung a heavy dead branch at Díleas. He dared try to hit her dog! She slipped her arms free of the pack, and struggled to her feet and ran at him, head down, fists flailing. He stepped aside almost contemptuously, lifting the branch . . . Only he'd miscalculated, quite seriously, on two things. One was the girl Keri clinging to him, which slowed him down, and the other was Díleas, whose teeth closed on his calf. Meb's head hit him in the solar plexus and he fell over Díleas. Then he caught a knee against his jaw as he fell, and a fist against his ear. He landed with a solid crack on the roadway, stunned, with the breath knocked out of him, and his tree-limb lost from his grasp.

Meb scrambled to her feet, grabbing the limb. Díleas danced around him, snarling and nipping. "You . . . you touch my dog, or me and I'll . . . I'll march your teeth out of your butt like parading soldiers," snarled Meb. "I've never touched this stupid girl of yours."

"There they are!" shouted the innkeeper. "It's that thieving scum Justin! He must have set fire to the kitchen for the little bastard."

There seemed to be quite a mob of people with him. "He's kidnapped my daughter and run off without paying the bill. Get them!"

Meb grabbed Finn's pack and bolted. She was aware that the man she'd fought, the girl and Díleas were running too. She was also aware of a big spiky dragon-shadow suddenly darkening the sky and terrified yells and screams. But mostly she was aware that it was time to run, and to keep running for as long as she could.

Fionn feathered his wings to allow him to stall and drop just short of the ridge. Burning buildings, and a mob chasing her . . . It would seem that his Scrap was doing her usual best to raise chaos! And trust the dvergar to make his life complicated. He carefully scratched a set of symbols on the edge of the ridge. It would take a while for the spell to work, but such forces were intertwined. He'd laid the foundation for this spell on Morrisey Island years before.

He changed and trotted down through the coppiced woodland to the path that they had been running down. It would take the citizens of Vorlian's demesne some time to recover from having their hair frizzled by a breath of dragon-fire above them. Vorlian was, by dragon standards, a very enlightened overlord, who generally confined himself to consuming their taxes, occasional livestock and miscreants. A strange dragon was going to have the locals in fits and squalling for their protector—who was conveniently absent. If Fionn was any judge, he wouldn't be flying back for at least three or four days, by which time Fionn had every intention of being elsewhere.

He could hear them panting along so he sat down to wait.

Then there was excited flurry of barking and the black and white sheepdog pup ran up to him and danced gleefully around him. Fionn was rather surprised at the joyous reception he was getting.

* * *

Díleas suddenly barked and ran ahead. Meb was barely staggering by now. But she looked up to see what form of trouble had found them this time. The relief at seeing Finn standing there with Díleas up on hind legs yipping excitedly was almost too much. "Oh master! I thought you'd gone off without us," she panted out, dropping his pack, and doing her best not to join Díleas.

"Now, Scrap. As if I'd do that," he said, cheerfully. "Anyway, it seems that you have found help." He looked at the innkeeper's daughter and her lover, who had panted to a halt. "And one who has taken some blows for you, by the looks of it," he said, looking at the young man.

"Huh," said Meb. "She caused all this trouble telling her father that first you . . . and then when you were away, that
I
was her lover. And I had to hit him," Meb pointed, "because he tried to hit Díleas."

Finn laughed. "Serves him right. And the fire?"

"I had nothing to do with it. Her father said he'd have me locked up if I didn't marry his daughter. So when the kitchen caught fire, I ran away."

Finn laughed some more, this time until tears ran down his face. "I see the bride followed you, Scrap. She'd be well served, and so would you, if I took you back and let them marry the two of you off."

"I'd like to go back and explain," said Meb. "We still owe them for the lodging. But I don't see why I should marry her." She couldn't exactly point out that it would be a very disappointing wedding night for both of them.

Finn shook his head. "No, we were well-enough overcharged yesterday, and seeing as you brought my pack, I've no need to go back. And explanations are so tedious. We have a ship to catch, Scrap."

"Erm." The big fellow that had hit her cleared his throat. "Masters," he said apologetically. "Um. Keri has just told me what really happened. I must apologize, young master. I . . . I thought . . . Anyway, is there any chance that you would need a clerk? I can scribe and do numbers and . . . and if I go back there old man Branna—the innkeeper, uh, Keri's father, will have me locked up at best or gelded for rape at worst. I . . . we . . . want to get away."

"The highway is all yours," said Finn.

"But, please, we have no money," said the girl, smiling at him in a way that would have had Meb's stepmother call her a trollop.

"A common problem . . ." Finn stopped. Sniffed. Looked at the young man, "I'll pay your passage to Lapithidia. A scribe should find work there."

Meb did not like that at all.

"But," said Finn, "I think we need to get off this track and walk across the fields for a while. They're going to be looking for you soon and we want to be in time to catch the tide."

"Not to mention the dragon," said Meb, shuddering.

Finn nodded. "I wouldn't mention that," he said with a foxy grin. "I don't want to catch it."

So they made their way across two sets of fields, and down to the track which led to the coast. After their rather unfortunate start the two newcomers were doing their best to ingratiate themselves with Finn and even Meb. Meb didn't really understand it too well. But she did know that it made her feel uncomfortable. If this Justin was a scribe—a man with a valuable profession—why then had Keri's father been happy to marry her off to an apprentice jewel-trader (or possibly a smuggler)? Why was Justin so happy to leave his home and all his possessions behind? Yes, there had been a mob—but surely he could have simply taken the innkeeper's daughter back and been the hero of the hour? Maybe even been accepted by the innkeeper?

It smelled like old fish. Meb set out to ferret it out of him. And just what had made Finn suddenly decide to help them? Thinking of smells, it was almost as if he'd scented something.

For a small price they got a fishing boat to give them a ride up the coast to a larger port. Meb found that with a little flattery Justin the scribe expanded like a flower in the sun. The poor man had been the victim of such jealous abuse, merely because he was handsome and skilled, she found out. Which was why he just at present was not working. They were complete falsehoods of course, merely because his employer had thought that he was being successful with a landlady that he'd fancied himself. "Meanwhile I was having it off with his wife
and
his daughter." As he was boasting to another, younger male, he felt no need to be shy about his conquests. "Girls can't resist me," Meb was informed. "And they can't get enough." He gestured.

Meb, who had grown up around fishermen, but under Mother Hallgerd's eye, in an odd combination of coarse terminology, but actual prudery, found it hard to deal with.

"So, youngster . . . I bet even a pretty boy like you has had some good sluts in your travels," said Justin, now convinced that Meb was his best friend.

"Er." Meb was left literally wordless and blushing.

Justin grinned. Slapped him on the back. "You get some silver out of that old master of yours's strongbox. He must be rolling in it. Keri brought me some she'd prigged last night. He won't miss a bit. I'll lose Keri and we'll go for a night's whoring that you won't forget in a hurry."

Meb retreated in confusion. This was a long way from her romantic ideals. And as if she'd ever take Finn's silver! She had to talk to Finn. Soon.

Fionn had caught the scent of Lyr on the young bravo's clothing. Well, if matters came out as he planned he would need to get a message to the sprites. They were difficult to deal with, unpredictable, and entirely too prone to kill anything that wasn't Lyr. Humans, being humans, found them attractive. So did the alvar, but then the alvar were obsessed with beauty. And even Fionn had to admit that the Lyr were graceful and perfectly symmetrical. If that was what attracted them like moths to a flame, they deserved the Lyr. And splinters, which they'd get from loving plant-women. He looked at the Scrap, deep in conversation with the fellow while the other young woman sat on a coil of rope, combed her long blond hair and stuck her chest out. Fionn hoped that the Scrap wasn't taken with the young man's good looks. He knew the type. Still, they had about five days sailing to Port Lapith, and then they'd be rid of him, and the girl who was making calf-eyes at Fionn, and her lover, alternately. She'd be well served if Fionn took her along on his next little journey.

The magic Fionn had set at work on the ridge spread slowly, aligning particles of iron in the rock. Lines of force spread out from there, the sudden sharp magnetism affecting a sequence of other things. Deep within the earth a number of huge columnar structures—crystals of enormous size—gave out a low note that had dvergar across a thousand islands swearing. The crystals moved fractionally. A deep artesian spring stopped flowing.

Up on the high plains of Lapithidae the waters of the dark pool were still. The watchers watched, reading probable futures.

And then to their horror, the level of the water—constant for millennia—started to drop.

Nothing could have terrified them more.

Vorlian found the flight back to Starsey quite the hardest thing he'd undertaken. It took him three days to get ready to even try it. Lying in the forest, he had time to think a great deal. To watch as first alvar knights came galloping to the scene, and then somewhat later, curious human peasants. Fearful peasantry, but still overwhelmed by a desire to come and gawk. How very human that was! A patrol of alvar cavalry had spotted the trail out of the bog. Vorlian felt that eating two of them and a horse was fair recompense for being pestered with arrows. No more had come that way before he had made a short, labored flight to some nearby cliffs where he'd slept off the meal and begun to recover. It was only a stern sense of duty, and knowing he'd recover a lot faster if back with his gold, that persuaded him to try the flight back at all.

He'd wondered several times on the last section if he'd get there at all or simply fall into the sea. And . . . if he did that, could he transform into a sea-serpent and swim to shore? He'd never swum before.

He made it. Barely. Blown and sore, he landed on the shore-line. Dignity be blowed. He'd walk to the top of the nearest hill . . . when he had recovered his breath.

He was surprised to be approached by a delegation of humans—the dignitaries and Duke Ragath, his alvar princeling. They must have watched his flight. "Lord Vorlian," said the duke, bowing very low. "We are glad to have you back."

Vorlian was sore, tired, hungry . . . and quite surprised. The alvar might be glad, but the rest?

"News of your duel in Yenfar reached us yesterday. A trading ship took advantage of the chaos over there to slip her moorings after dark and come across."

"Zuamar trespassed in my territories. I could not allow that."

The duke looked uneasy. "Er. Another dragon has also done so while you were away."

Territorial anger lent Vorlian strength. "A black dragon?" he said, raising himself up.

"Er, yes," said Duke Ragath.

"I'll flush him out." The anger was just a little tempered by the memory of how Fionn had humbled Zuamar. But . . . Vorlian was a dragon. This was his island and his gold. "Has he been up to my eyrie?"