Dragon's Ring (26 page)

"That would be appreciated. However, you had better come with me. Our magical skills are complimentary." He might as well flatter her. They'd still need the sprites for some time to come.

She stared at him for some time in the unblinking way of her kind. Fire can burn steadily too, so he stared back. Eventually she nodded. Nonetheless she got one of her pet humans to lead them.

He took them to an area of charred stumps and scattered patches of snow on the mountainside. It was plain that the damage caused her some distress. There was still some warmth from the fire in places. Haborym liked the ash and heat more than the snowy wet forest.

Fire-creatures were, naturally, good at identifying sources of energy. Dragonfire left clear traces. The sprite was quite right about the source of the fire. And yet . . . had the Angmarad been destroyed, that too would have left a sign. It was perfectly possible to destroy it, but it would have a marked effect on water. It might . . . well, cause snowstorms.

So might winter.

Waterspouts or a rain of fish would be more indicative. Haborym looked at the sprite's faithful human. He still wore the finder charm Haborym had made. Well, human blood made a good magical indicator. It was the iron. "I need a sacrifice . . . ."

As he said that Haborym was instantly aware of the return of the Angmarad to Yenfar.

From this close it was like being stabbed in the gut might be, to the sort of lifeform that had a gut. All Haborym wanted to do was to flee. But he was dimly aware, through his pain, that the human was pointing excitedly at the finder-charm.

The mage must have the accursed thing. And they were close. How long could he endure this for?

And then abruptly, the pain lessened. He could still feel energy draining away from him, but at least it didn't hurt. "We have bespelled you," said the sprite. "Now let us see if we can capture her."

"Quickly, though," agreed Haborym. He had not realized that sprite magics could affect his kind. He wasn't sure he liked that fact. It was the strangest feeling—this must be how other species felt when they were drugged by a powerful opiate. The sprites were able to do that, he recalled in this strange wooly-headed region of clouded thought he now occupied. They could even—with the help of another species, affect dragonkind. Knock them out. Haborym was faintly aware of the danger of this strange state of mind he was in. He did like the surcease of pain . . . and if they could capture the human mage and get her away from here, his work would be nearly all done. Victory would be in his grasp.

They followed the human acolyte up the slope and across a ridge. There they cut a trail. One that had been trodden, recently. A little further on Haborym, looking down, could see that the trail switch-backed and there, some distance below, he could see three figures. To Haborym their different body-heats made it very obvious they were three different species. He could see his target now and set a compulsion on her. She would turn and come up to him. Now!

Meb was beginning to tire, and, even walking hard and wrapped in her cloak, the cold wind was biting at her. She wanted, firstly, to rest somewhere out of the wind, and to eat. And then, suddenly, she wanted to go back up the trail. NOW. She turned and pushed past the startled merrow and was running up the snowy slope—never mind the trail or the snow that was over the tops of her boots.

It was that snow and an unseen gully, just short of her goal, that betrayed her. She stepped forward . . . and just kept going straight down and then sprawled on her face into the snow—vaguely hearing Finn's shout. Looking up she saw that her goal was coming down the slope with his companions. He was tall and wrapped in a long black cloak. His face was inhumanly handsome, and he seemed to glide across the snow. The tall, slim woman with the greenish-white skin next to him struggled through the snow. The third man was floundering through it. But not the wondrous, handsome desirable man. He floated above it. She wanted to reach him desperately.

The first Fionn knew of it was when he heard the merrow's surprised yell. Scrap was running up the slope as if the fire-beings were on her heels. And then he realized, looking up, that she was running straight to the creature of smokeless flame. His first instinct was to run straight after her. The merrow was already doing that. Only it must be a truly powerful fire-being and a powerful calling spell. Because the Scrap was going to beat him to it. That was impossible. He could outrun any human—and then he realized what was happening. The sprite that was with the fire-being was bespelling the bracken under the snow. It was twining frantically around their legs.

The merrow too had fallen and the fire-being had almost reached the Scrap. But the shape it had assumed wavered and for a brief instant revealed the flame-being there.

Fionn had seen fire-beings before. Only . . . this one was not well. There was no searing heart of dancing white heat surrounded by reds and oranges. It was only a pallid yellow flame, which faded to a green and then violet . . . and then black. It crumpled, the black hooded cloak falling to the snow, empty.

The Angmarad! She was still wearing the diadem of the sea under the hood of her cloak. It had been wrapped in protections against his kind, Fionn knew. And besides—when the flame met the sea, the sea always won. But there was still the sprite—she had stopped in horror, but now she was coming forward. Fionn began to change. Tree-people were no match for a dragon. The merrow meanwhile had flung that trident of his. He pronged her neatly. It would not stop the tree-woman but it did have an unexpected effect. The human with her gave a distraught cry and tried to wrench it out. He pulled her off her feet, and the Scrap hauled herself out of the gully and half-rolled, half-fell back down the slope toward Finn. The sprite tossed her loyalist into a snowdrift—with a casual inhuman strength—and ran after the Scrap.

Changing took time and Fionn realized that he didn't have enough. On the other hand the tree-woman, once he was close enough, he could deal with in any form. He surged back up tearing bracken out by the roots. He grabbed the sprite just as she reached for Scrap. The trident made a good lever, and he rolled her into the snow. What he was unprepared for was Scrap—instead of sensibly running off—attacking the tree-woman like a wildcat herself.

And she fought like a wildcat who was determined to disembowel her attacker. Sprites were creatures of strong magics, but that magic is almost totally ineffectual against humans or dvergar. Humans can, on the other hand, inflict magical damage on the tree people, nearly as effectively as the dvergar can. And the Scrap was putting out raw furious magics, amplified through a dvergar magical artifact. The tree-woman went from a determined attack, to trying to get away in a few heartbeats. Fionn realized why, as he pulled himself free from a stony arm. The sprite was petrifying wherever the Scrap had struck—and the stone was spreading.

In the meanwhile, the merrow had broken free of the bracken and was fighting with the human follower. The merrow was larger and stronger, and a hunter too. But the scrawny human fought with hysterical strength. Fionn was obliged to haul him off the merrow and hold him up by the scruff of his neck, to kick and squirm in mid-air. His little human mage had realized that Fionn no longer needed rescuing and had backed off herself. But it was too late for the sprite. She'd managed to get to her feet, but did not get any further. The petrification continued to spread. Her face and arms were already stone and her human companion screamed in horror as she became a sprite statue.

Fionn tossed him face-first into the snow. "Cool off," he said sternly. "Are you all right, Scrap?"

She nodded, panting and wide-eyed. "Wha . . . what happened?"

"I'd guess you met your first creature of smokeless flame." The sprite's follower was kneeling in the snow, sobbing. Fionn watched him, carefully, as the merrow tried to pull his trident out of the stone sprite. "Now how am I supposed to be getting this thing back," he said grumpily. "You're expensive on tridents, Mage. You know that?"

The sprite's companion chose that moment to launch himself at the Scrap. Fionn had been expecting it, so he stuck a foot out and the man landed on his face in the snow. Fionn stepped over and put a foot on his back to keep him there. "Come and sit on this one and I'll take it out. Or at least have a try."

So the merrow did. He removed a knife from the man's belt too, as Finn tugged at the trident. "Here, Scrap. Come help pull." The little human did. "We want to give it back, to get it out," said Fionn. "Our merrow friend is probably lost without it."

It suddenly came loose and they both fell over in the snow—but they had the trident.

"What are we going to do with this?" asked the trident's owner, prodding the man he was sitting on.

"Hmm." Fionn pulled a glowing amulet from the fellow's wrist. He saw that the Scrap was starting to shake. Well, she'd be unused to fighting. He'd seen humans who had been as brave as young lions fall apart afterwards before. Best to try and make her laugh. "I suppose we could use him as a sled. Take turns sitting on him while the others pulled. Or we could let him go and deliver a message back to the sprites to leave us alone."

"I'm in favor of the sled idea," said the merrow.

"Yes, but I don't think he'd slide too well. He's not the right shape."

"We could take his clothes off and freeze him first. Into the right shape. What do you think, Scrap?"

The man moaned. "The Goddess of the forest's curses on you."

"Let him up," said the Scrap imperiously, still holding the trident. She poked him with it as he sat up. "You understand this," she said grimly. "You leave my master alone or I'll push this trident so far up your behind that it'll come out of your mouth."

"She is a goddess . . ."

"She's a statue," said Fionn. "Remember that too. Now get going. If we see you again, we'll come and turn the rest of the sprites into the same thing. Go."

And staggering to his feet, the man went.

"Come on," said Fionn. "Here. Take my arm, Scrap. Hrodenynbrys, you take the other side. There's a shepherd's hut relatively close by. It's about time we took a rest, anyway." It had not been his plan, but the little scrap of humanity was ready to fall over on them. And she'd done well. He was still a little taken aback by her attack on the sprite. So plainly, was she. "I thought she was going to hurt you, master."

"I'm fairly tough, Scrap. I don't hurt easily. And now I need to find some way to proof you against the call of the creatures of the smokeless flame."

"I'm sorry, master."

Fionn decided to ignore the "master" this time.

The rough-stone hut was fortunately supplied with wood and was reasonably weather-tight. It was, of course, very cold, but Fionn had a fire going soon enough. It would be dark soon, and it was snowing again. They should be safe enough for now, no matter if the sprite's worshiper called out all his friends and all the alvar too.

Fionn was a little worried about the Scrap. She'd fallen asleep just as the fire was getting going. He knew that humans could burn themselves out with magic-use. Too stupid to know their own limits, he supposed. That was what he liked about them.

Hrodenynbrys tended the fire. The human mage was fast asleep. Finn had gone back out into the snowy twilight. 'Brys was sure, by now, he was not human. He wasn't too sure exactly what he was, except dangerous to anger, and wily as a big old sea-pike and just as fast. 'Brys had to admit that for chance-met companions who constrained him to accompany them, he could have done worse. He had always known his power with music set him apart. All merrows had some magical skills, but they tended to be fairly minor manifestations of it. It was . . . refreshing to be in company of those similarly blessed, or cursed, depending on how you looked at it.

Finn came back with a large, dead animal, already flensed. "I bought it, believe it or not. The Scrap would be proud of me."

"What is it?" asked Hrodenynbrys.

"A sheep. I found the owner flensing those he'd had to kill or that had died when Zuamar burned a piece of mountainside," said Finn with a scowl. "He was a ruined shepherd. Now he's got some silver and a fine ruby that'll buy him a bigger flock, if he has the patience. Right, let's hack some bits off this carcass and cook them. They'll be tough as old dragonhide, but it'll be food."

"Is dragonhide something you'd be making a habit of eating, then?" 'Brys asked, taking out his knife.

Finn grinned wryly. "It's come my way before. Trust me, you haven't missed anything. Too full of metals to be good for you anyway. Slice some collops off that leg. There is a bit of fat there, and in the cold humans need the energy from it. Our little mage needs feeding up."

"And you, lord?"

Finn rolled his eyes. "What with her 'master' and you calling me 'lord' it's a wonder I don't get too self-important for my own good. Call me Finn. I like a bit of mutton, but this weather is not really cold for my kind." He threaded lumps of meat onto a long stick he'd sharpened, and held them into the flames. They began to smoke and fizzle on the edges. "You hold this—I'll get out some salt."