The Dragons of Argonath (2 page)

A serious fight would come soon, it was clear. Rakama and Swane were constantly after one another, and there were brushes every day. Finally it came from a silly incident between their dragons. After a five-mile march one afternoon, the dragons headed for the plunge pool, and Vlok accidentally tripped Gryf. Rakama said something nasty about Vlok. Swane told him to apologize. They bounced up against each other and had to be ordered apart by Dragon Leader Cuzo.

"Later!" they both growled.

That evening the camp was quiet enough. Men had eaten and were sitting around before sleep claimed them. Bazil and Relkin were actually at the far end of the camp, giving legal depositions, again, in the case of Marneri vs. Porteous Glaves. A pair of scribes from Marneri, one hired by Glaves and one from the crown attorney's office, took down their responses to questions from a judicial assistant.

They had answered the questions two or three times before, during earlier stages of the marathon trial of Porteous Glaves, who had once commanded the Eighth Regiment. Yet again Glaves's case was being appealed to the Marneri high court.

It was while they were absent that Rakama and Swane finally got down to it. They met in the hallway behind the refectory. The only other boys around were the newbies Curf and Howt, and neither of them wanted to tangle with the older boys.

Rakama spat on the floor and muttered something at Swane. Swane charged and booted Rakama into the wall. He crowded in and started pounding left and right, pinning the smaller youth for a while. Rakama head-butted Swane to break out. Swane came right back with a body tackle that slammed Rakama back into the wall and crushed him there. Swane held him there and went for the body, two heavy shots, but Rakama finally got a right to Swane's head that propelled him away and gained enough room to kick clear.

Rakama shook his head to try and clear it. There was blood running from a cut on his forehead, and his mouth had taken a solid whack, but Swane's whole face and chest were crimson from the blood running from his nose. The first adrenaline blitz of fighting had begun to ebb. Now it was down to guts, training, and skill. They sparred around trying kicks and punches, feints and ducks.

Rakama, floating on his toes, was recovering every second. Swane rushed in, but Rakama's right hand snaked out and Swane staggered back, shaking his head. Rakama moved closer.

Swane moved to stay clear of the right hand. He was beginning to fear that punch. They kicked at each other and blocked and swerved. Rakama was trying to edge closer, trying to get Swane into an exchange of punches, and Swane felt a sudden strong twinge of concern. It seemed he'd caught a bear here. He didn't feel that confident of getting through Rakama's defenses without getting knocked silly in the process.

He wondered what to do. Both were tiring. They had been battling for more than four minutes straight. Their breathing was starting to come hot and heavy.

Swane suddenly found the wall at his back. Rakama came in, and Swane snapped a desperate left and then a right to keep him away. Rakama dipped, dodged, and came up inside, and the right hand slammed Swane's head off the wall. A tooth popped out. Swane hauled him down to the floor, and they wrestled. Swane rammed Rakama's head into the wall one time, but Rakama got him back with an elbow in the face, and they both reeled away for a few seconds to recover their wits.

There was blood everywhere now, mostly from Swane's nose, great splashes of it on the whitewashed walls. Rakama sensed victory. Swane was afraid of him now, afraid of that right hand, which was still way too fast for the bigger boy to block. Rakama came in again, ducked Swane's frantic left with a confident twist of the head, but then ran into a short right hand that stood him up straight. Swane got a knee into Rakama's midriff, then connected with a big left hand to the jaw and Rakama went spinning away, out of control and his careful fight plan in ruins.

None of this was without cost. Swane felt like he'd broken his hand, and Rakama's jaw was going to ache for a week. Rakama came up against the wall and clung there, shaking his head vaguely to clear it. Swane pushed himself forward, determined to finish it while he had the advantage.

And then he heard a voice in his ear telling him to stop. He ignored it. It was time to finish this bastard Rakama. This had been coming a long time.

Relkin had come in through the refectory door and heard the fight at once. It was what he'd been expecting and dreading for days. Swane and Rakama had really hurt each other, blood all over. He didn't hesitate, waving the other boys to help him as he stepped in and took Swane down with a low kick into the back of the knees. Swane fell backward with a startled cry. Curf and Howt jumped on him and pinned him down.

Rakama lurched off the wall and would've kicked Swane on the ground except that Relkin was there to block him.

"No more."

"Get out of the way," snarled Rakama dizzily. "This ain't your fight."

"It's over."

"No way…" Rakama didn't hesitate. He knew that Relkin had a reputation as a fighter, but the other dragonboy was too slender to worry him. He snapped out that quick right hand and moved left, just as he'd been drilled, but Relkin had read the move and was already out of range. Rakama went a little out of balance and hung there for a moment. Relkin was fresh and took the opportunity, planting a foot so deep in Rakama's midriff that the bigger boy dropped like a stone and stayed there, struggling to get a breath.

Swane was trying to get to his feet despite the efforts of Curf and Howt. Relkin pushed him back down.

"Stop, Swane, listen to me!"

Swane's big nose was definitely broken. Relkin had broken his own just a few months earlier and knew all about that. Swane would be having a few bad days up ahead.

"Swane, stay down, I swear I'll kick you down if I have to." Curf and Howt grappled with Swane again, who struggled in their grasp.

"Shut up, Quoshite! This is my business."

"No! It's all of our business. You two have been going at each other for months. It's got to stop. Dragons are feeling it. We're all tired of it."

"He'll be tired, when I'm done with him."

"You should see yourself. You're both gonna be up on charges as soon as Cuzo finds out. And you're going to be under medical orders for months."

"Look, this kid's been asking for it ever since he came up. You weren't even here then!"

"Then, you're gonna fight it out in the ring under rules."

Rakama finally got back on his feet. His face had gone white, then slowly it turned pink again. Relkin worried for a few seconds there, afraid he'd done some serious internal injury. That foot had gone deep.

"S'not over," he blurted.

"It's over, Rakama. You fight Swane in the ring, or you don't fight just Swane, you fight me."

"You?" Rakama snarled, and lifted his head. His eyes locked on with Relkin's, and after a while they fell again. There was something in Relkin's eyes that promised more than he could handle. Suddenly Rakama understood something about the quiet youth. Relkin knew about killing.

"Fight's over. If Swane attacks you, we'll take him out; if you attack Swane, you're in it with all of us, you got that?"

Rakama stared at him, shocked by his little discovery. Then he gave a sullen nod.

Relkin turned to the others.

"Just maybe, if we all get to it hard and quick, we can clean this up before Cuzo sees it and save these two idiots a charge."

Curf and Howt nodded enthusiastically.

"Get hot water, get brushes and soap." Relkin looked down at Swane, now a blood-soaked mess. "I'll get the others. You"—he pointed at Swane—"get cleaned up, you're a disgrace right now."

Swane nodded slowly, accepting the situation. Damn that Quoshite, he was always right.

"And start rehearsing some excuse. Make it simple 'cos Cuzo is gonna be damn curious about how both of you are messed up at the same time."

Unfortunately dragons have minds of their own, and they are all individuals, all different. Most unusual of all, by common consent, are hard greens. These are wyverns with a slim body build, unusual height, and deep, dark green skin. They have a reputation for being difficult to work with, of carrying grudges, and sometimes going so far as to kill a dragonboy in anger. Still, they are often very skilled with dragonsword, providing the most fluid movements, balletic spins and turns, amazing for beasts weighing two tons.

Rakama's dragon was Gryf, a young hard green, from Mud Lake. When Gryf heard the story of the fight, he was upset by Relkin's interference. Rakama would probably have won, in Gryf's view, and so Relkin had taken the victory from his dragonboy. Gryf found this a bad thing in principle, and he complained loudly in the Dragon House on his return from sword practice.

"Dragonboys fight. That is natural. Why not let Rakama finish the job?"

The others ignored him. Bazil was in the plunge pool and out of earshot, but the Purple Green's eyes took on a dangerous tinge. The Purple Green of Hook Mountain was unique in the legions, a wild dragon who had joined the legions after losing the power of flight. The Purple Green had had several run-ins with Gryf already, and the smaller wyvern dragon had been saved again and again by the intervention of the others.

"Vlok! Where is Vlok?" called Gryf, eager to make his point to Swane's dragon.

"This dragon is Vlok," said the leatherback from his stall. He emerged a moment later with a question of his own. Vlok might appear dim, but in his own way he often hit on certain truths.

"Dragonboys are hurt," he said. "This fight go too far. Why waste dragonboys?"

"Listen to Vlok," sneered Gryf. "My boy beat your boy. That is the truth of it."

"By the fiery breath," roared Vlok.

"My boy will beat yours, you know it, he knows it. I know it," Gryf said loudly.

"Enough!" hissed the Purple Green. "We all tired of you and your boy."

"Who was talking to you? Not me, that's certain."

"Well, I am talking to you, and that too is certain." The Purple Green rose up to his full massiveness. Gryf's shoulders came up and a snarl escaped him.

"You stupid thing, wings cut, useless, can hardly wield sword!"

There was a brief moment of shock as this insult hung in the air, and then the Purple Green charged. Gryf tried to dodge, but was caught up in giant arms and swept back against the wall of the Dragon House, which shook under the impact. The Purple Green had returned to his atavistic nature. His huge jaws snapped down on Gryf's shoulder, which fortunately was still encased in leather armor from his work on the sword butts. Gryf roared in pain no less for that protection.

The building shook. Shouts of alarm rang out as men ran for the stairs throughout the central block. Two-ton wyvern and four-ton wild dragon grappled briefly on the wall, and then Gryf escaped the wild one's grip and broke away. The Purple Green came after him, but stumbled over a dragonboy stool that disintegrated to matchwood in the process. With a second to spare, Gryf now drew his sword from the shoulder scabbard.

Suddenly the incident had escalated into truly dangerous territory. A dragon with sword in hands became the most lethal thing in the world, and Gryf was in an insane place, black eyes flaring in mad battle rage. Unarmed, the Purple Green seemed doomed. Dragon murder hung in the air.

Then Vlok interposed his sword, "Katzbalger," and in a moment there was a fearsome flash of steel on steel. Gryf and Vlok were engaged in sword battle, right in the middle of the Dragon House.

Dragons tumbled out. Eventually Vlok too spilled out, defending himself desperately from a Gryf gone completely berserk. Vlok barely deflected the blows that were coming, any one of which could have slain him instantly. He was forced back across the yard, Gryf swinging with a speed and skill far beyond that of poor, old Vlok, who had never been much more than a middling hand with sword and shield.

Bazil Broketail, a leatherback of a little more than two tons, heard the commotion and rushed out of the plunge pool. He could see that Vlok was in a perilous state, outmatched and only just fending off Gryf's assault. But there was no sword to hand, and Bazil watched helplessly for a moment as dragon blades rang off each other just a few yards away. Then his eye caught on the nearest wooden butt. Huge pieces of the sword butts were constantly being cut away when dragons exercised upon them. Bazil grabbed up a hefty slab of wood six feet long and ran at Gryf from the side.

The young green never noticed him, too intent on finally getting through Vlok's guard. Bazil swung, but not too hard, and brought the balk of wood down on the back of Gryf's head and neck. The green was bowled over in a heap.

Unfortunately this didn't quite do the job. Gryf was a hard-headed wyvern, so he rolled over, sat up, and let out a shriek of rage as he started to get back on his feet.

Bazil instantly regretted holding back. He should've swatted Gryf with everything he had.

Vlok was standing nearby, panting, struggling to get a breath after that defensive struggle across the yard. Bazil reached over, grabbed Vlok's arm, and pulled him close.

"What you want?"

"Sword," said Bazil, twisting Katzbalger out of the other leatherback's astonished grasp.

Gryf was back on his feet, and his sword "Swate" was coming up in front of him. Bazil shoved Vlok away and moved to engage.

Gryf swung again and again, and was parried with a neat efficiency vastly unlike Vlok's hurried strokes. Once more Gryf came on, but Bazil parried and then turned Swate with a deft move, forcing it to the ground. Bazil struck on the rebound, and Gryf was forced to stumble back. The situation had changed radically. He wasn't fighting Vlok anymore. Bazil hefted Katzbalger in his hand. It wasn't the magic blade "Ecator" by any means, but it was well made, and light for its size. He came on at Gryf with speed and precision, and the hard green was forced back, helplessly on the defensive.

Gryf roused himself twice, coming close to regaining the initiative, but each time Bazil responded with a trick or two that absorbed Gryf's energy and kept the situation as it was. Finally Bazil came overhead, their blades rang together and the leatherback and green came belly to belly. They struck at each other, but Bazil struck the quicker and his forearm scored a solid smash that sent Gryf wobbling. For a second or two the green was virtually defenseless. Katzbalger came around in a flash and struck Gryf's forearm with the flat of the blade and knocked Swate loose.