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Chapter Fifty-Four



From the first day at the cave, the fellowship had agreed that the only plausible threat when spending a night in a dragon’s lair would be if the dragon itself decided to attack. In which case, you might as well die in your sleep. So they had reduced their watches to one person instead of two and enjoyed both more and deeper sleep.

Therefore, it was doubly startling when S’ythreni shook Druadaen awake. She didn’t bother to whisper. “There’s a large group on the plains. Settlers, from the look of them.”

The others were rising as Druadaen buckled on his baldric. “How many?” he asked.

“And how far?” the dragon added, opening one eye to watch the humans ready themselves.

The aeosti had returned to the cave’s rough apron, staring out over the plain. “Just over fifty, I think. Three are mounted. They stopped to camp about five miles south of the killing field.”

“Well,” sighed the dragon, “it seems some cow-lover saw my brief aerial display.” It shook its head. “They grow more panicky by the month.”

Druadaen shook his head. “I am truly sorry.”

The dragon snorted. “I could not have gone much longer without leaving to gather my own food. And that would have entailed activities these herd-tenders would have found far more alarming, I assure you.” It stretched and rose. “No, detecting and reacting to me again after these many years was an eventual certainty.”

“And what will you do?” asked Umkhira, who joined S’ythreni at her post.

That is far from certain, Lightstrider. But it shall surely be fateful.”

Druadaen, head tucked as he thought, crossed his arms. “Do the settlers know of this lair?”

“No. They have only encountered me on the ‘killing field.’ They seem to presume, as their legends tell them, that my kind all lives far up in the mountains.”

“At the Final Talon.”

“Well, the Dragon’s Talon, but yes. When we had plentiful game and little to worry from two-legs, those peaks were our home. But this time they are sure to find me here.”

“Why?”

“Their path into the mountains passes near the base of this hill. They will surely notice the tracks and spoor of your mounts.” It shrugged. “Now, I have but two choices. I can abandon this place and take refuge in a smaller, meaner cave I have already prepared. Or I shall fight and die here, and hope to be reborn into one of the eggs I have hidden at the other lair.”

Druadaen nodded, head still down. “And where is this other lair located?”

The dragon tossed its powerful head to the east. “A long morning’s ride. Or a long day on foot. Why does that matter?”

“Because I believe we can lead the settlers away from here and toward your other lair, instead.”

The dragon’s brow crackled as it furrowed. “How? You would do a very poor imitation of me, I think.”

“That is true. But I suspect Ahearn could deliver an excellent impersonation of a heroic dragon hunter.”

The swordsman blinked. “I could?” Then he smiled broadly. “Why, yes: I could!”

Druadaen nodded. “His accent is not from this region, but nor is it so unusual to be considered exotic or memorable. He grew up in Clearwall and Eld Shire, so the settlers will presume him to be exactly what he is: a Midlander. I, however, will conceal my accent by being his silent servitor.”

“Oh,” Ahearn exclaimed grandly, “I like that part!”

Druadaen smiled before he could stop himself. “We shall intercept the settlers, tell them we are tracking the dragon to its lair, and warn them against crossing the killing field. After all, the dragon is not only reputed to watch it, but its young are there and can warn it of intruders.”

“Which will agree with their legends and beliefs.” The dragon nodded. “Impressively reasoned…except for one small flaw: How will you convince them that you know where the lair is?”

“I won’t have to convince them.”

“And why is that?”

Druadaen smiled. “Because you are going to show them the way.”

The dragon reared back. “I am prepared to be either very amused or very angry.”

Druadaen shrugged. “Before Ahearn and I sneak down the hill and sweep around to approach the plains from the west, you will slip out of this cave. Using the cover of the remaining darkness, and staying behind the contours of the hill, you shall glide north. Come morning when the settlers resume their march, you will soar high and remain visible for half an hour. They will surely see you…and watch as you fly to your reserve lair.”

“That rather defeats the purpose of finding a way not to encounter them, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, because even if we wind up traveling with the three riders S’ythreni has seen among the approaching settlers, we will not reach your reserve lair until late in the day. So they will not have been close enough to see that you did not go into it, but remained outside, hiding behind the crest of that hill.”

The dragon nodded, understanding. “So come nightfall tomorrow, I may glide back here unseen, courting the cover of the intervening heights. Very clever. But there is one last problem. I know where my lair is, but you do not. How will you guide the murderous mob to a place you have not seen?”

“I won’t be guiding them.”

“Then who shall?”

Druadaen smiled. “Ahearn. Because you will send an image of it to his mind.”

Ahearn stared at Druadaen wide-eyed. “I don’t like that part at all.”

The dragon looked like it might become nauseous. “Nor I. Which may be the greatest understatement I have uttered this century. Perhaps ever. However, Dunarran, either your toil among archives has been helpful or you are to be congratulated on your powers of induction, because your assumption is correct: just as I can detect what is in a mind, I can also send messages and images into it.”

The dragon stood suddenly. “Very well. We shall undertake this plan. It is well considered, and quite considerate, besides. Which reminds me, there is something I planned to bring to your attention before you departed.”

It moved its tail slightly. The very tip of it pushed aside a ruined shield, revealing a sword. It was very long and very straight, but what Druadaen noticed most was its almost hypnotic brilliance. As if the light it reflected first went deep into the mirrorlike metal before being sent back in a concentrated form. He’d never seen its like before.

Except…

Druadaen glanced down at the bracer on his wrist.

“Yes,” said the dragon.

The bracer unwound itself, becoming the velene. The transformation was unrushed this time, and the creature was content to remain on his arm.

Druadaen heard the others gathering near him. They, too, were apparently mesmerized by the otherworldly blade. “What battle, with what hero, brought this into your, er, collection?”

The dragon barely moved as it spoke. “It is not mine. You will note that I keep it separate from all other objects herein.”

“I see that.”

“It is special.”

“So,” Ahearn quipped, “it isn’t more of your rubbish, then?”

The flat stare the dragon turned upon him was infinitely more unnerving than any of its more animated expressions or colorful threats. The sudden close of the swordsman’s mouth made a faint pop.

Druadaen forced himself to look up from the blade. “You still have not said anything about the battle whereby it came to be here. I presume you do not wish to speak about it?”

“I did not speak about a battle because no battle was involved.”

Druadaen frowned. “So, did you find it in your travels?”

“Quite the opposite. The one who had it found me. After long travels of their own.”

Elweyr’s question sounded a bit too eager. “So you were able to ambush him, take it without a fight?”

“Or did you catch him trying to steal from you?” S’ythreni added.

A ripple of annoyance briefly clouded the dragon’s otherwise emotionless gaze. “The one who brought the blade was neither a warrior nor a thief. Merely a traveler.”

“Who sought you…to what end?” Druadaen asked.

“To bring me the sword.”

“That’s quite a gift,” Ahearn commented broadly.

“I did not say it was a gift. I said it was brought to me.”

“Why?” Druadaen asked, uncertain he’d get an answer to so direct a question.

“I did not know.” The dragon’s eyes met the velene’s briefly, then rose to meet Druadaen’s. “Until now.” Its tail drew fully back from the sword.

“Are you giving it to me?”

“It is not mine to give.”

Druadaen frowned, then remembered that Shaananca had used a similar phrase to describe…

The velene was looking up at him with its silver-statue eyes.

“But I may take it?”

“If you wish and if it is allowed.”

Druadaen was tempted to ask allowed by who or what? but decided to skip another round of cryptic answers. He stepped forward, grasped the hilt, and lifted the sword.

And almost swung it up over his head. It was light, phenomenally so for its length, which was just under that of a true hand-and-a-half sword. The hilt was a similar compromise between the kind found on a longsword and its longer cousin. But on closer examination, the blade’s most peculiar feature was what it lacked: maker’s marks of any kind. No master’s stamp, no guild sigil, not even a single letter or icon giving a hint as to its owner or origin. “Does it have a scabbard?” he wondered, realizing a moment later that he had spoken it aloud.

The dragon had stepped well away from him. “It did not arrive with one.” It shook its head slightly. “Well, I’m glad that’s over. Now, if we mean to follow this plan of yours, we should make haste.

“Dunarran, you and the steel-waver have at most two hours to ride far enough to the west so that the settlers will believe that you are arriving from that direction. The other three must make their way north and then east through the hills beyond this one until they reach a position from which they may observe and, ultimately, rejoin you. And I must make my way toward the Dragon’s Talon, flying low and then waiting until the sun is high enough so that I may be seen flying among the peaks and then returning to my other lair. But before we part…”

He turned to look at Druadaen. Dragons’ eyes were so different from humans—or any other animals’—that they were difficult to read. But they seemed…concerned?

“Dunarran,” it said quietly, “I offer a word of personal perspective on an inquiry you have not been able to pursue…yet. Bear this in mind: the lands and seas of Arrdanc may not be as new—or unchanging—as short-lived races believe. This could become a considerable complication the further you pursue your admirable quest for the truth of the world.”

Druadaen swallowed at the onerous phrase that the dragon dropped almost casually: “the truth of the world.” It sounded, and felt, like seeing an anvil plummeting out of the clouds at his upturned face. “Thank you for that warning. That topic is at the core of my next inquiry, as soon as I return to Tlulanxu to investigate the history and origins of Saqqaru.”

The dragon nodded slowly. “An intriguing subject. But, unless things have changed greatly, you will not find answers in dusty repositories of ‘knowledge.’”

Druadaen frowned. “Truly? An esteemed Saqqari scholar repeatedly traveled to the Archive to seek information on related matters. He has requested me to visit him in his homeland. Perhaps there, I will learn more about the mysteries you mentioned regarding both lands and seas.”

The dragon looked away. “I suppose you may find some of what you seek by visiting the libraries of great nations. But still, I counsel you to seek out those places where ancient truths are not a matter of record but living memory. Such as Mirroskye.” The wyrm glanced at S’ythreni.

She shook her head. “I cannot help him. I…I am not entirely welcome there.”

“A pity.” The dragon’s eyes returned to Druadaen’s. “Then you have little choice but to seek others who, by one means or another, have recollections of such early times.”

“And where would I begin searching for such persons?”

The dragon smiled. “Even if I knew, I would not deny you the exhilarating experience of discovering that for yourself.”

“Well, perhaps my researches at the Archive will give clues as to how I might find them.”

The dragon sighed, closed its eyes. “I do not wish to unduly influence you—we must follow our own paths through the Great Skein of Fate—but I would be remiss if I did not share this.” His tone became not merely serious, but dire. “Mark me well, Druadaen: you must not return to Dunarra. Not yet.”

Druadaen was puzzled and intrigued, but he shrugged. “And yet, I must. I am still an Outrider and I am duty-bound to report what I have learned in my travels.”

“Did they not free you of any obligation to return in the near future?”

If ever, Druadaen emended. “Well, yes, but they could not have foreseen how much I have learned. And a small amount of additional research at the Archive could produce exactly the direction needed to determine the next step of my—”

“Human. If further answers were to be found in the Archive, you would already know them. As for reporting what you have learned, is doing so worth the risk of being unable to ask further questions?”

Druadaen frowned. “And why—or how—would that happen?”

The dragon shook its head sharply. “I do not know. And if I did, I could not say. I only know that it could happen. Almost anything can, when one delivers oneself into the hands of a greater power. And if you return home and find yourself prevented—or worse yet, prohibited—from continuing your quest, you will have a stark choice: obey or break with your homeland. That might be one of the prices you must pay along your journey toward the truth of the world.”

There’s that soul-withering phrase again. And maybe there is something to the dragon’s warning. But for now, I must do my duty as I understand—and feel—it.

Still, it never hurt to gather a little more information, and the dragon might be willing to share a helpful destination if Druadaen signaled that he might consider it as an alternative to returning to Tlulanxu. “So, if I should not be seeking answers in the archives of Dunarra, where should I be?”

“On a ship bound for Shadowmere.”

“In Far Amitryea? I just came from there.”

“Life is nothing if not a font of perpetual ironies.”

“And what,” Ahearn asked impatiently, “would we find there that isn’t better found here?”

The purple eyes snapped toward the swordsman. “Well, firstly, you won’t find yourself face to face with an increasingly annoyed dragon.”

Druadaen smiled. “A situation I will be sure to avoid. That said, I have resolved that peril must not be an impediment to my quest.”

“Oh, there will be peril aplenty for you in Shadowmere, Dunarran. Just not the same kind of peril.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said earlier: that you will have to find those answers and discern those dangers by traveling there. Which cannot start until you leave here. And that cannot happen until your friends have the information necessary to carry out your ploy.”

The dragon rose and approached Ahearn and Elweyr. “I will show you where you need to go, unfold what you need to know,” it told them somberly. “Meet my eyes. Do not look away, and do not resist.” For a moment, neither the humans nor the great wyrm moved. Then it turned away and the two humans started, Elweyr much more violently than Ahearn.

“There,” it said, “that is done. And it is time for us to part.”

It started to move toward the mouth of the cave and the night sky beyond it, but Ahearn jumped after him. “Ah, before you take flight, I was wondering…”

The dragon turned, eyes and voice suggesting that its patience was very limited. “Yes?”

Ahearn struck his trademark “reasonable man” pose: hands out in appeal, tentative smile on his mouth, concerned frown on his brow, and a calculating look in his eye. “Now, Yer Wyrmship, since you consider your cave to be filled with, er, rubbish, and since you find it so foul and unsightly, I suspect we’d be willing to remove some.” He started fitting his actions to his words. “By way of showing our appreciation for your toleration and hospitality, of course.”

“Put that down. Yes, it is rubbish. But it is my rubbish.”

Ahearn looked crestfallen.

“However…”

The swordsman looked up, hopeful.

“If you should happen to find anything outside, I lay no claim to that.”

Ahearn’s face returned to its prior mournful state. “I’m afraid there’s not much call for dead, burnt trees.”

“Is that all that’s there? Hmm. Well, better luck next time, perhaps.” The dragon stepped out into the night, nose high, as if smelling the wind. Then, with an irritated shake that ran the length of its body, gold and silver coins once again showered down from where they had become caught in his scales. As the great wyrm smoothed its macled hide, Druadaen heard Ahearn gasp in what sounded like shocked bliss infused with ecstasy.

The dragon gathered its thighs for a reprise of the first mighty leap with which it had launched into its earlier flight, then stopped, looked back at Druadaen. “Regarding your tale of what occurred at the river with the Kar Krathauans and Caottalurans. From what I know of your species’ mantics, an attack so determined and carefully planned as that one invariably grows from deeper roots than mere vengeance. As your associates have conjectured. So walk carefully. I would be annoyed if you did not come back to pester me again. It has been…moderately diverting.”

In a rush of movement too fast for Druadaen’s eye to fully capture, the great wyrm took off into, and was consumed by, the darkness. They heard one flap of immense, leathery wings. Then it was gone, and the night was still.

An instant later, Ahearn rushed out and started scooping up the coins that had rained out from between the scales of the dragon’s hide, murmuring gleefully to himself.

Umkhira’s already-packed kit was slung over her left shoulder. “What now?”

Druadaen nodded at Elweyr. “What did the dragon show you?”

Elweyr was packing his own kit in an uncharacteristic rush. “We go north and follow behind the next bank of hills. We’ll be watching for you from the crest of the one with the best view of the eastern sward. When you show up there, we’ll ride to join you.”

Ahearn called from his determined search of the area in front of the cave. “Gotta hand it to wyrm-scales; he gives adequate directions.”

Elweyr stared balefully at his friend’s back. “Yes. The dragon didn’t leave much to the imagination.”

“I think it would be interesting to have my mind touched by a dragon’s,” S’ythreni mused.

Elweyr stared over his shoulder at her. “Trust me,” he said in a hollow voice, “you wouldn’t enjoy the experience.”

Wondering at the difference in the two men’s reaction to having their minds in contact with the dragon’s, Druadaen put his hands on his hips as he thought aloud. “One last thing to settle; where do we go after—if—we manage to draw off the settlers?”

“Do you mean to take the dragon’s counsel?” Umkhira asked.

“You mean, not to return to Dunarra?” Druadaen shrugged. “If I had a clear path, any path, elsewhere, I would certainly consider it. But as it is, I have none. So I suppose—”

“The wyrm mentioned Mirroskye,” S’ythreni muttered.

Druadaen frowned. “Yes, but you said we are not welcome there. And I know from Shaananca and others in the Consentium that the Iavarain of Mirroskye are not in the habit of inviting outsiders to visit.”

“I’ve heard the same. For years,” Ahearn called over.

S’ythreni’s eyes were aimed straight ahead, but whatever they were seeing was not present in the dragon’s cave. “There’s another way.”

“Tell us on the trail,” snapped Elweyr, slinging his pack roughly over his shoulder. “We all have a lot of ground to cover. So let’s get out of this damned place.”


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