Dog and Dragon-ARC (18 page)

If she’d wanted to be shown how to fork dung they’d have shown her, even if she was supposed to be a lady. When she left the stable, she was floating on a sea of goodwill and feeling oddly happier than she’d felt since parting from Fionn and Díleas. Horses were not as clever as dogs, or certainly not as clever as Díleas—but they had some of the same kind of trust for humans.

Of course it was all too good to last. She had horsehair on her dress, her hair less than well ordered, and she found Lady Vivien waiting for her, worry written all over her face. “Anghared. You look a fright. You mustn’t go to the stables. You mustn’t wander around without an escort. The women are in an uproar about it.”

Meb wondered if now was the right time to challenge Vivien about being a spy for Aberinn. She decided she just couldn’t face dealing with it right now. “What does it matter? They don’t like me anyway. They won’t like me, and won’t accept me.”

“They’re saying you must be some kind of lowborn imposter.”

“Well, I am, I think. I’m not what they thought I was, anyway. And the minute I can get out of here, I will leave. I know…I promised to help Lyonesse, but I can’t do anything here. There must be somewhere else I could go.”

Vivien shook her head. “Anghared!” she sighed. “Yes, there are some fortresses to the north, and down to the south where Earl Alois still has some following. But, well, they are leagues away. You can’t just ‘go.’ Even the regent’s messengers go with an armed escort of twenty men. There are the tail ends of armies out there. You can’t feed yourself and there is nowhere safe or dry to sleep. And anyway, judging by the talk, they’re more likely to throw you in a cell and question you than to let you go. You have to try to fit in, and you have to show them your power.”

“That will probably make them want to kill me instead,” said Meb crossly. As if they hadn’t been trying to do that already. It was obviously no use asking Vivien for help in escaping. “I’ll wash, and change and come and smile and try to be nice. And tell them I had left something in a saddlebag, and as I don’t have a tirewoman to send, I went myself.”

***

The queen of the Shadow Hall peered in puzzlement and anger at her glass. Not only had Dun Tagoll withstood the evil eye, but they were thinning the ice bridge. She’d worked hard, feeding pieces of the dead to her cauldron, mixing, blending and making her creatures. Filling their minds with her orders and sending them out. Spreading the fear of treachery across Lyonesse. She’d been able to preempt the false, treacherous Aberinn, because she’d known the patterns of the Changer. Known that the Ways between would open when next the mage used the ancient device in the tower. He did not understand it fully. His strength lay in protecting, cloaking and hiding. Who would have thought he could turn that against her skills? Of course he did have the legacy of the devices and the books in the tower.

She had the cauldron, her muryan slaves and the vision. He could stop her looking at Dun Tagoll, but that was the limit of his power. She sighed to herself. She’d fought this war for such a long time now, she would not let a little check stop her. There was work to do, the cauldron to be fed. The muryan brought a constant stream of material for it. She’d been getting behind, and some of it was quite ripe. Of course, when the muryan brought it in, some of it was overripe already.

CHAPTER 13

It was inevitable, Fionn thought, that they didn’t meet just one Fomoirian, but a good fifty of them, All waiting as they came out of the mouth of a defile, so there was no avoiding them. And they were in a filthy, fight-picking mood. In other words, their normal selves.

“What are you doing here?” their leader demanded. A number of them, Fionn noted, were walking wounded.

Fionn stared at him as if he was a large salad at a carnivore dinner. “It’s more like what are you doing here? Here of all places.”

“Why shouldn’t we be? It’s our hunting territory,” said the burly misshapen leader, scratching his vast paunch.

“Where have you been?”

“Killing Tuatha Dé children with the magic-stealers. But they’ve melted the south bridge, and the priests say they can’t find the cold to send out.”

“Ah. That explains it. Part of the sky is going to come down,” said Fionn pointing at the dark water above their torch flares. He got suitable expressions of terror from the Fomoire. It had happened, occasionally. “They’ve drawn too much cold out. It got too warm in here, and that’s making the sky fall. I’m supposed to be looking for fires. You better put those out.”

“But…it’ll be darker than the inside of a whale’s belly if we do.”

“It’ll be wetter than one if you don’t,” said Fionn. “Keep one lit, and head out for somewhere higher.”

“And you?” demanded one of the warriors. He was quite well made for a Fomoirian. Could almost have passed for a large pallid man with very big ears and horns.

“I can see in the dark. Been sent by my clan chief to smell out fire. So that’s what I’ll do.” And he walked on past them, aware that his neck piece was twitching. The dog was behaving as if it was going to sneeze.

“Who is your clan chief?” demanded one of Fomoire.

“Balor.” There were always at least twenty Balors in the evil-eye clans. And they had the most power and the most respect as a result of the status of the evil eye.

“Huh. The Tuatha Dé children taught you lot a lesson, didn’t they?”

Fionn could only hope they had. The evil eye gave him a headache, which of course was nothing to what it did to creatures less robustly built than dragons. The dog wouldn’t survive it, even if it was about to sneeze in his ear. “Yeah. But we’ll make them pay,” Fionn grunted and walked on. Fomoire were, because of where they lived and because bathing was not a cultural practice they’d ever been that keen on, always a smelly bunch. But this lot had a real taint to them. Dead meat. Rather like that giant.

“I don’t think he is what he claims to be,” said the fellow with the horns.

Most of them had been good little Fomoire and put out the torches. Fionn helped the surviving two to go out, and loped off.

They wouldn’t manage to find him. But word would get around. That would cause panic. The Fomoire had retreated here to be safe from the cheerful genocide of their successor people. They had made repeated attempts to take their old lands back, in the earlier days anyway, secure in the knowledge that they had a place which was safe. Which could not be reached, let alone invaded, by others. It had meant that they didn’t even have to try to get on with their neighbors. It also meant no one could get away, and they had to live with their own fire smoke and mistakes. The place didn’t even have decent beer. Fionn hoped that the dog was leading them out of Mag Mell and soon. They’d been walking in this direction for several hours now.

And then, abruptly, the dog sat up and barked in his ear. Fionn looked around. It was pitchy dark of course, but planomancer dragon eyes could still see a little. They were alone, in the darkness.

The dog nosed at his face.
 

“What do you want?”

Díleas jumped down and began walking…Back. He turned around and gave his little “come along” bark.

Fionn wanted to sit down, put his head in his hands and use some very descriptive terms in several long-forgotten languages. “We just came from there,” he said between gritted teeth. “Look. I followed you, principally because I didn’t want you to get hurt. You’re important to her, and one place is much the same as the next for starting a search. I’ll spot her magic easily enough. When you started taking me through gateways between worlds that I didn’t even know existed, instead of the usual transitions,
and
you brought me to the Celtic cycle…well, I assumed you had some way of knowing where she was, just as the shepherd’s kidnapped dog found its way home. I’d heard of lost dogs tracking people who had moved before, but this is insanity. This is the second time you’ve just changed direction. Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“Hrf.”

“Two barks for yes. One bark for no.”

“Hrf. Hrf.” A pause. “Hrf.”

Fionn closed his eyes. “That’s either ‘yes and no’ or ‘maybe’ or just me imagining things. Well, the only way I know out of here is a good two weeks’ walk away…so is it back the way we came?”

“Hrf hrf.”

So they began the long walk. That was one of the major drawbacks, as far as Fionn was concerned, of Mag Mell. The land beneath the waves had a magical “roof” a mere ten cubits up, which made dragon flight impossible there. It was shank’s pony or nothing. Anyway, he had the dog to look after. He needed to see how he could fly with it.

Fionn was careful to avoid Fomoire. It was easier, because night had fallen above the water, and even in the shallows there was little ambient light. Smoke drifted up here and was trapped, polluting their best lands. One could, to some extent, understand why the Fomoirians were such a charming bunch, even if it was partly self-inflicted injury.

Fionn was glad the dog knew where to find the way out, because there were absolutely no marks on this side. Just gravel that had once been seabed and dead scallop shells in the water-filtered moonlight. Díleas jumped down and danced around him on his hind legs. So Fionn reached down and picked him up and held him above his head. Díleas jumped through the “roof” of dapples. Fionn, determined not to lose him again, used all his strength to jump up and follow. It was pretty much, Fionn decided, exactly where they’d entered Fomoire lands, only it was not dark out here, but late afternoon instead. Well, time ran at variable speeds in these planes. Fionn and Díleas swam back to the beach. The rocks provided some fresh oysters, and a driftwood fire dried them, and while Díleas did not deign to dine on raw oysters, he did eat them cooked; a small slightly brackish trickle provided their drink. It wasn’t ale and a good roast dinner, but Fionn was tired, and tomorrow would have to provide those.

They were woken in the morning by cockle pickers. Fionn had time, barely, thanks to Díleas’s warning growl, to assume a human form. By the reaction of the cockle pickers he might have been wiser to let them confront a just-awakened dragon. It didn’t help that one of the cockle pickers threatened to beat Fionn for poaching and trespassing so Díleas bit him. Matters only went downhill from there, as there was a small army of cockle pickers arriving. And the terrain of low-sand hills and marrams did not lend itself to running away.

“Look, I’ll go along with you to your lord. Just don’t lay a hand on my dog.” It was usually easier to talk his way out of situations than to fight or to run.

“He bit me,” said the aggrieved cockle picker, carefully not coming close enough for Díleas to have a second try. “He’ll have to be killed.”

“No,” said Fionn patting Díleas who was working on giving the cockle pickers the intimidating eye, as he had seen the other sheepdogs do to the sheep. It seemed to be working on cockle pickers too. “He should be fine,” said Fionn. “I don’t think he ate enough of you to poison him. Dogs have tough constitutions.”

Fortunately—in a way—for both parties, an overseer came riding along to see why they weren’t at work. He defused the riot by escorting Fionn and Díleas back to the lord’s manor and promising his master’s retribution.

Their overlord was faintly puzzled at the demands for summary justice. “How many bags of cockles did you catch the varlet with, Velas?”

“None, milord. He was trespassing in the bay, though,” said the overseer.

The lordling turned to Fionn “Well? Don’t pretend you didn’t know that it’s my land and my rights. Where are you from?”

“Well, my ship was from Dun Arros, but it’s sunk now. So I am from nowhere, I’d reckon,” said Fionn slowly, as if this much speech was a chore.

“Your ship?” asked the local lord.

“Aye. She ran onto the sands last night. The dog mostly hauled me ashore, led me out. Was not my idea to trespass, milord. Just to stay afloat.”

“You mean you were shipwrecked?” The local lord was sharp for an aristocrat, Fionn had to admit. Only had to be told twice, and not the usual three or four times.

“Aye, Look at my clothes, all salt-stained,” said Fionn, doing it for the third time anyway, just in case. “We ran onto the sand and tore her keel off. Lost her masts…She was heavy laden, poor old thing.”

“Where?” demanded the local lord, a predatory light in his porky eye.

“Out in the bay. I reckon that bunch of corpse ravens are all over her by now. Fine woolens she was carrying. That’s why they wanted to be rid of you,” he said, jerking a thumb at the overseer, who had been unwise enough to hurry Fionn along with his whip.

“Wreck rights are a lord’s rights!” said the noble, his jowls quivering at the indignity of it all.

“You had better go and claim them then,” said Fionn laconically, and sat down and put his head between his knees.

“Velas! Get what men you can. Damn this levy for the war. We need to get down there before they steal me blind. What’s wrong with this man?”

“I’d guess he’s half-drowned, milord. I think he’s faint,” said the overseer shaking Fionn. Díleas snarled at him.

“Well, leave him. Let’s get down to the beach.”

And in a flurry of shouting and yelling, they did. Before the dust had settled, Fionn got up, walked to the kitchen. “Your master said to feed the dog and me,” he cheerfully told the cook.

Well breakfasted, they were on their way a short while later. Fionn wished the cockle pickers and their masters the best of a miserable morning, and walked really fast. It would take the local lordling a few hours to establish he’d been gulled, but he was not going to be very pleased when he failed to find the wreck, or the sailor.

“The question is, Díleas, where we should go now? And don’t suggest ‘back.’ I think ‘back’ is going to be a bad idea for some years,” said Fionn as they stopped to take a breather at the top of a hill a few miles from the bay. “You appear to have an instinctive idea, which I’ve been following. But I am reaching a few conclusions after a bit of thought about this. If she went back to where she once came from…well that would fit with the Celtic cycle. Anghared was her name, and that could be from anywhere, with Annvn, Carmarthen, Abalach, and possibly Lyonesse being the more likely places. And she has the ability to stir things up around her, and to be in the very center of all sorts of trouble, and yet she’s shifted from place to place. So right now my bet—if I was a gambler, which I am not, as I only bet on certainties, except where I am wrong about innate sheep-herding ability—is Lyonesse. On the other hand, your sense of direction indicates that either she is moving, or her world is, and as the latter is impossible, perhaps she is with an army that is moving? Or maybe some more of those travelers are with her.”