Dragon's Ring (3 page)

After a moment's panic, the voice inside her now coarsely shaven head said,
he's bigger than you and he has a knife. Why should he bother to trick you into taking it off
?

So she did.

He took it, rolled it up and tucked into another pouch. "I've not much use for it," he said cheerfully, "But I thought it'd be fitting punishment for thinking such things of me." And he disappeared into the water, with hardly a splash.

For a moment Meb stared at the water in horror. And then she started to swear. The lying, cheating bastard. At least he'd left her his light.

Then the merrow's head popped back out of the water, just has she was getting to her third breath and her foster-brothers' more choice vocabulary. The merrow looked impressed. "You've got a fine tongue on you, for a girl!" he said, clapping. "Now, it's as I thought," He reached for his light. "The way is still clear. Come." He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the current.

There was a reason that the villagers and their boats kept away from the cliff that sheltered the bay from the South wind: the current. The waves broke over the sandbar at the bay-mouth, and the water had to go out somewhere. The current sucked boats that came too close onto the rocks. Plainly it ran through these caves. But the merrow obviously was more than a match for the current. He pulled her along through it almost effortlessly.

"Last bit." He said. "You'll have to hold your breath again."

They went down. When she thought her lungs would burst, Meb saw the blessed gleam of sunlight through the water. And then they popped out into the open air again. They were in the middle of the still patch of weedy water where the cliff, the shingle and the sea intersected. The place was called "the perilous pool" and it wasn't even any good for throwing a line into. Village children were forbidden to play here. Meb knew why, now. The current still sucked at her feet.

The merrow was, however, as good as his word. He pushed her across to a slab of rock on the edge of the pool. "Up and off with you," he said cheerfully, swatting her across the behind.

She gasped—but grabbed at the leathery kelp fronds and hauled herself upwards, scraping her bare knees on the pink edged key-hole limpets. She was out! She scrambled higher up onto the rock, and then onto the crunching pebbles and broken shell of the beach. It was only then that she looked back, feeling she ought to wave, acknowledge he had been fair at least. And he had saved her.

The merrow had vanished back into the depths as if he had never been there.

Meb ran. Well, she did her best to run. The fear and cold water had sapped her strength. She could see smoke ahead. The common-sense part of her mind said that she was running the wrong way. That didn't stop her though, even if the shingle-beach was long, and very awkward to try and run on.

The village was tucked in behind an overgrown dune that gave it some shelter from the East wind. The seaward slope was a mass of fish-drying racks, hung with salt-crusted, yellowed, flayed cod. Meb panted her way up it. Nearing the top of the dune the sensible part of her mind finally got the upper hand:
running down into a fight
, it said to her,
a woman in her in underthings, unarmed, is not the cleverest thing she'd ever done, and she'd done a lot of stupid things before
. So she grabbed a fish-rack pole. It wasn't much to soothe the inner voice, but it was something.

Meb crested the dune—and realized that she was too late. Far too late.

All the little reed-thatched crofts were burning. So were the boats, hauled up onto the little second curve of shingle on the edge of the estuary. And the raiders, in their black cloaks and steel mail shirts were the only people she could see, stalking among the burning crofts.

It hadn't been a big village. A hundred or so people—when the boats were in. It hadn't taken at least twice that number of armed men long to over-run it. Looking down, Meb saw that some of them hadn't managed to flee, either. That was old Hallgerd's body sprawled down there, in front of Meb's croft. She couldn't mistake that dress.

Meb sat down, dropping her pole. And then lay down and sobbed. The old woman had been a terrible scold, but she was also the nearest thing to a mother that Meb had ever had. Meb had expected a real telling off for slipping away to the cliff-top to idle this afternoon. She'd been faintly dreading it.

Now she would have welcomed it.

The raiders weren't searching for people to seaward. A few quested like dogs through the gorse slopes behind the village. The rest seemed to be kicking about the village. Looking up at the skyline, looking inland.

Looking at the watching dragon.

So this is why the winged creature had come here. To oversee his pack of sea-wolves. To destroy her home, her life.

Sitting there among the fish-racks, looking down at the destruction of her life, Meb did the unthinkable. Dragonkind ruled here in Tasmarin, with an absolute power. Always had, and always would. Under them other creatures lived and died at their will. Someone had once said that humans were nothing more than kine to the Dragon Lords. Before this happened that had seemed like the natural order of things. Not something to be thought about, let alone defied. Now she raised her small fist and shook it at the sunset silhouetted dragon. A cold flame of bitter rage burned in her heart.

"We are more than just your cattle," she said grimly, in voice far older than her seventeen years. "I'm going to destroy you."

It was a ridiculous, futile gesture, and she knew it.

The Lyr presiding over the grove had no idea where the celebrants had got the idea that the rites they performed should be done naked. Like so many of the things humans did it was something they had decided would please the lady of the trees—possibly because it would please them. The bodies of animal life had very little to interest her, except as fertilizer. They smelled vile—like the animals they were. They came, secretively, to the gatherings deep in the forest. At first the Lyr had struggled to grasp why they came. She had killed some of those who had infringed on her sleeping groves. That had made them respectful and yet more ardent. She had watched some of them rutting in the forest. There was some of the same heat about them when they came to worship. Their overlords had heard about it, and forbidden the gatherings. For those who came that seemed to make it more attractive.

It had not taken the Lyr long to realize that that these foolish worshipers would do anything she ordered them to, in her service. The reward she gave . . . well, it was in their heads really. The Lyr gave them meaningless ritual, sacrifice and sex. It seemed faintly ridiculous to the Lyr. But like the alvar, these humans were somehow besotted with the Lyr. It was a simple thing to encourage, and very useful.

For centuries now, in groves across the islands, the Lyr had allowed humans to recruit themselves by their own stupidity. They were more practical than slaves. A slave had to be bought and fed. These fed themselves, and gave their utmost to the tasks the Lyr set. Gave their heart and soul, they said—whatever that was.

Right now the high priest of Yenfar grovelled, his little bare buttocks quivering. "Lady of the Trees. She wasn't there. Yes, some of the villagers fled. But the talismans you gave us led us to the sea. I swear it. And the dragon, Lady. We were afraid for our lives. The slavers wanted to flee immediately . . . We only stopped them with difficulty." He pointed to his bruised face. "Will you punish them, Lady?"

"Wait."

He remained on his hands and knees. Shivering. It may have been at her anger. Or it could have been the cold. They died, sometimes, if the Lyr forgot them.

She talked to the trees. The trees talked to other trees. It was not fast communication—vegetative life lacked that nasty animal quickness. But it was sure. It was an unlikely alliance, between the Lyr and the creatures of smokeless flame, but the energy beings had access to magics that the Lyr could not use. They also shared a common goal, at least up to a point. And, unlike animals, the beings of energy did not devour plants. The fire-beings were unable to pass over on the soil of Yenfar, and thus the worshippers of the Lyr had a role to play. The Lyr knew they were normally actually quite effective.

It took time, but she got word back from her contact, Haborym: The human with the gifts still lived.

She went back to the high priest. "Find out where the people of this village went. Search among them."

The gold of his hoard gleamed dully in the red light of the dragon's lair. He did, of course, remain between it and the others. He might tolerate, and indeed, conspire with lower life-forms, but there was a limit. Other creatures might
want
gold. Dragons
needed
it. Dragons were not builders. The lair had once been mere caverns. Some dragons had had slaves in to improve them before they moved in. This had cost them dear, and had not happened here. There were no secret passages or hidden doors. Just rock. The caverns—with exception of smoothing by passage of hard bodies over generations—were as they had always been. Not a place which something other than a dragon would have found comfortable. A dragon would have found it pleasant, because of that hoard. Having them meet here, in his lair, this close to his gold was a gesture of faith. Almost unheard of faith. He wished that the sprite had not insisted on this place, as even talking to them here made him uncomfortable. But Lyr the sprite was a very necessary part of his plans. The tree-woman made no allowances for emotions. She didn't understand them in the same way that the warm-blooded species did—although the sprites could feel hate.

"Let us call this meeting to order," said Lord Rennalinn. The alvar lord looked as uncomfortable to be here as the dragon was to have him. Alvar did not like caverns. And they liked to delude themselves that they, not the dragons of Tasmarin, were the greatest power in the plane. "We need explanations. How dared you attack a fellow Lord's demesne in force?"

Haborym, an almost-face in the dancing flames, replied. "Our auguries suggested that we would have the best chance of success."

"We knew that you would not consent," said the Lyr coolly. She always spoke like that. It was not a royal "we." All the sprites were part of the same tree.

The flames danced as Haborym spoke again, his voice warm and persuasive as usual. "We thought it best to present you with a
de facto
situation. We've known that our final component is somewhere in Zuamar's demesne for several moons. What have we done? Sat and argued. Zuamar is not aware of the intrusion. The raiders are not aware that they were sent thence by us. Even if they are caught, they cannot betray us."

"It's not right," grumbled Rennalinn. "It's not done that way. It's not the tradition."

"Actually," said the centaur Actaeon, from the far corner—without stopping his narcissistic posing in the standing mirror there, "it is traditional, Lord Rennalinn. This business of respect for another's demesne is a new thing. Historically, territory belonged to he who could hold it."

Rennalin scowled. "Yes, but we've moved on from the war years. Civilization, Lord Actaeon . . ."

"May I remind you, alv, that we are trying to prevent the collapse of that," interrupted Lyr.

"And sometimes we have to go outside the rules of civilized conduct to do so," said Haborym.

The dragon snorted. But quietly. He needed those two. True, Rennalinn was powerful and wealthy on his island. But alvar conspirators were ten a penny. Merrow and dvergar mages could be compelled—and virtually every one of their kind had some skill. But one had to remember that all the sprites were effectively one creature. Alienate one and you alienated them all. And the untrustable creatures of smokeless flame . . . well, Duke Haborym had orders from on high, or the fire-being would not be here. They were more hierarchal than creatures of flesh and blood. Even their names followed a certain rigid tradition—based apparently on some arcane joke on humankind! The dragon did not share their sense of humor, but well . . . Anger their Emperor, and that would be the end of their collaboration. He needed one of each of the intelligent species, a representative from each of the ancient planes, if his plan were to work. Besides, he rather agreed with the sprite and fire-being. Rennalinn's petty insistence on protocols, meaningless outside the traditions and rituals of alvardom, made reaching decisions like plowing through mud. A dragon flew above that. He was accustomed to making up his own mind, and doing whatever needed to be done himself. This need for consensus was un-dragonish.

"My good fellows, we are here to prevent a catastrophe. A catastrophe that will destroy our world. Yes, preventing it requires that we take actions that are frowned on by our various kind. It will take courage, and taking risks and breaking rules, because we pursue a high purpose. All we need is a human magic-worker. Lord Rennalinn, you know that we have caught and put to the test seventeen so far. Every one proved a fraud or of such minor power as to be useless for this task. We know that the one we need exists. By divination we have pinpointed it. We cannot afford to wait indefinitely. Since the loss of the South-Eastern tower, we've found serious cracks in the Western, South-Eastern and Northern towers. Dragon and alvar have bent their skills to the attempt to repair them. We have failed. And there have been sudden and cataclysmic infalls—sinkholes in the very reality of Tasmarin. Are we going to sit and argue and worry about breaking a few rules to save our world? I say no. We only need one human . . ."