hips and glared as the gerthddyn came jogging back to him.
“And just how did you know its name?” Gerran said.
Salamander winced, tried to smile, and looked away. “Actually, you see, well, um, er—that’s my brother. He was a silver dagger named Rhodry, but now that he’s a dragon, he’s known as Rori. I keep forgetting to use the right name.”
Gerran started to speak, but his words twisted themselves into a sound more like a growl.
“I’m not a dragon,” Salamander said hastily. “Neither was he originally.”
“What? Of all the daft things I’ve ever heard—”
“Scoff all you want. He was turned into a dragon by dweomer.”
“Dafter and dafter! What are you, a drooling idiot? There’s no such thing as dweomer, and a witch could never have done aught as that.”
“I should have known you’d take it this way.” Salamander looked briefly mournful. “I’m telling you the exact truth, whether you believe it or no. So I thought I’d best find him and see how he was faring and all that. It seemed the brotherly thing to do.”
“Daft.” Gerran was finding it difficult to come up with any other word. With a last angry shrug he turned on his heel and ran back to camp.
It took till noon for Gerran and the two lords to transform the warbands from a frightened mob of men and horses into an orderly procession. Even then, as they rode south along the riverbank, the men kept looking up at the sky, and the horses would suddenly, for no visible reason, snort, toss their heads, and threaten to rear or buck until their riders calmed them. To set a good example, Gerran kept himself from studying the sky, but he did listen, waiting for the sound of wings beating the air like a drum.
In midafternoon they stopped to water their horses at the river. As soon as his horse had finished drinking, Salamander handed its reins to one of the men and went jogging eastward into the meadowlands.
“What in all the hells does he think he’s doing?” Gerran said. He tossed his reins to Warryc and ran after the gerthddyn.
Not far off a small flock of ravens suddenly sprang into the air, squawking indignantly. With his Westfolk eyes, Salamander must have seen them from the riverbank, Gerran realized, and sure enough, he found the gerthddyn standing by the scattered remains of the ravens’ dinner, a dead horse, or to be precise, the mangled bones, tail, and a few scraps of meat of what had once been a dead horse. Lying around it in the tall grass were torn and broken pieces of horse gear. Salamander nudged a heavily painted leather strap, once part of a martingale, perhaps, with his toe.
“Horsekin work,” Salamander said. “They decorate all their horse gear. I think we now know what disturbed the raiders at their foul, loathsome, and heinous work.”
“The dragon?” Gerran said.
“Exactly. Their horses doubtless panicked as ours did at the thought of ending up in a great wyrm’s stomach. I wonder if dragons follow the Horsekin around? Where else are you going to find heavy horses like theirs?”
“The best meal going, eh? It could well be, but come along, we’ve got to keep moving today.”
When the sun was getting low, the warband came to another burned village, a tangled heap of ruins spread out over a charred meadow. Once again the horses began snorting and trembling. Swearing under their breaths, Cadryc, Pedrys, and Gerran dismounted some distance away and walked over to the ruin, expecting the worst, but they found no corpses, not even a dead dog, among the drifting pale ash.
“Well and good,” Cadryc said. “I’ll wager they got to Lord Samyc’s dun in time.”
“And I’ll wager they’re still there, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “One way or another.”
“Just so. Let’s get on the road.”
Lord Samyc’s dun stood on a low artificial hill, guarded by a maze of earthworks on the flat and a stone wall at the top. Not far away lay a patch of woodland. As the warbands rode up to the
“And just how did you know its name?” Gerran said.
Salamander winced, tried to smile, and looked away. “Actually, you see, well, um, er—that’s my brother. He was a silver dagger named Rhodry, but now that he’s a dragon, he’s known as Rori. I keep forgetting to use the right name.”
Gerran started to speak, but his words twisted themselves into a sound more like a growl.
“I’m not a dragon,” Salamander said hastily. “Neither was he originally.”
“What? Of all the daft things I’ve ever heard—”
“Scoff all you want. He was turned into a dragon by dweomer.”
“Dafter and dafter! What are you, a drooling idiot? There’s no such thing as dweomer, and a witch could never have done aught as that.”
“I should have known you’d take it this way.” Salamander looked briefly mournful. “I’m telling you the exact truth, whether you believe it or no. So I thought I’d best find him and see how he was faring and all that. It seemed the brotherly thing to do.”
“Daft.” Gerran was finding it difficult to come up with any other word. With a last angry shrug he turned on his heel and ran back to camp.
It took till noon for Gerran and the two lords to transform the warbands from a frightened mob of men and horses into an orderly procession. Even then, as they rode south along the riverbank, the men kept looking up at the sky, and the horses would suddenly, for no visible reason, snort, toss their heads, and threaten to rear or buck until their riders calmed them. To set a good example, Gerran kept himself from studying the sky, but he did listen, waiting for the sound of wings beating the air like a drum.
In midafternoon they stopped to water their horses at the river. As soon as his horse had finished drinking, Salamander handed its reins to one of the men and went jogging eastward into the meadowlands.
“What in all the hells does he think he’s doing?” Gerran said. He tossed his reins to Warryc and ran after the gerthddyn.
Not far off a small flock of ravens suddenly sprang into the air, squawking indignantly. With his Westfolk eyes, Salamander must have seen them from the riverbank, Gerran realized, and sure enough, he found the gerthddyn standing by the scattered remains of the ravens’ dinner, a dead horse, or to be precise, the mangled bones, tail, and a few scraps of meat of what had once been a dead horse. Lying around it in the tall grass were torn and broken pieces of horse gear. Salamander nudged a heavily painted leather strap, once part of a martingale, perhaps, with his toe.
“Horsekin work,” Salamander said. “They decorate all their horse gear. I think we now know what disturbed the raiders at their foul, loathsome, and heinous work.”
“The dragon?” Gerran said.
“Exactly. Their horses doubtless panicked as ours did at the thought of ending up in a great wyrm’s stomach. I wonder if dragons follow the Horsekin around? Where else are you going to find heavy horses like theirs?”
“The best meal going, eh? It could well be, but come along, we’ve got to keep moving today.”
When the sun was getting low, the warband came to another burned village, a tangled heap of ruins spread out over a charred meadow. Once again the horses began snorting and trembling. Swearing under their breaths, Cadryc, Pedrys, and Gerran dismounted some distance away and walked over to the ruin, expecting the worst, but they found no corpses, not even a dead dog, among the drifting pale ash.
“Well and good,” Cadryc said. “I’ll wager they got to Lord Samyc’s dun in time.”
“And I’ll wager they’re still there, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “One way or another.”
“Just so. Let’s get on the road.”
Lord Samyc’s dun stood on a low artificial hill, guarded by a maze of earthworks on the flat and a stone wall at the top. Not far away lay a patch of woodland. As the warbands rode up to the
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