Bazil Broketail (34 page)

Bazil Broketail reached the chorus anew and gave it an especially heavy hum. As he did he thought of her, the mother of his children, and he wondered what she was doing at that moment.

Flying on the night air, he decided, somewhere over Tunina as she hunted. They had agreed that she would stay and hunt for the wounded wild drake until he was able to fly again.

Then she would fly north and find a good place to nest and hatch her and Bazil’s young. Of course that would be far away, and those young would quite possibly be unable to fly. Bazil was not sure what the union of a wingless wyvern and a flying dragon would be like, but he had told her that if they were wingless they were to be sent south and he would see that they were raised for the legions of Argonath.

And that brought up another thought, even more unwelcome. Would he ever see her again? She of the slinky green skin and lashing tail and velvet wings?

It was impossible to say. The humming ceased.

The best that could be said was that she would return to Mt. Ulmo the following year. If he could get there at that time then they would be reunited.

And how was a battledragon to be sure of returning to this region at that time? That was a problem, but he resolved somehow to get back here and win her once again. And that brought on euphoria and happy memories and the humming began once more, louder than ever.

Until it was most rudely interrupted by a heavy growl from the forest ahead, somewhere to his right, but close to the trail.

With the growl, simultaneously, came a host of smells. Raw meat was the first, with blood overtones predominant. Then came the stink of a big mammal, a peculiar mixture of musks and muddy odors. Bazil searched his memory; it was unlike anything he could recall, certainly not dog or cat, nor ox or cow or horse or pig. By the Ancient Drakes, what was this? And then he had it, surely this was bear!

Bear!

Bazil slowed his tread and peered into the dark. Dragons have good eyesight in the dark, not as acute as that of cats perhaps, but better than that of most creatures, and he most definitely wanted to see this bear. There were some species of bear that became monstrously large, and they could be very aggressive too. Not even a leatherback battledragon wanted to stumble into a bear like that.

A few moments later he’d picked it out of the darkness, a heavy blotch of blackness within the more general gloom under the pines. It was close, and it was angry and surprised and it was getting ready to charge, and it seemed very big.

Meanwhile the smell of meat had started Bazil’s stomach rumbling. It had been a long time since his last meal. Indeed, when he thought about it he realized he was starving.

But hungry enough to eat raw meat? As if he were a wild dragon himself? He was torn; raw and wild meat did not appeal to his civilized side, conditioned to human norms. But he was a starving dragon, and dragons ate anything they encountered, if they felt like it.

Hunger won out over caution. He edged closer, and pulled his shield down from his shoulders and slipped his left forearm into the grips. He wouldn’t take the whole thing; he’d leave this bruin some of his kill.

Of course it was always possible that this might not have been the bear’s own kill anyway. Bears were more known for driving other predators off their kills than for running down prey themselves, he seemed to recall from the stories they’d told him at the village school in Quosh.

Then the bear lunged out onto the trail with a roar and stood up on its hind legs and roared some more. Baz whistled to himself. This bear was huge alright; it was as tall as himself and it looked as if it might weigh a ton or more.

The bears he’d known before had all been the black bears of Bluestone province, none of which grew much larger than a man. Those bears were no threat to a dragon and shy of man, fearing his arrows and spears which had taken a terrible toll on them.

This was a very different proposition, a giant brown bear, and since it was roaring its challenge to him from just ten feet away now the stink of it was appalling.

The bear was worked up into a killing rage by a mixture of fear and hate. It roared its challenge to the strange-smelling thing that had come up on it out of the night.

The bear was seven years old and in the prime of life, but right then it was in truth a little puzzled, even alarmed, for the first time since cubdom. Never, except in nightmares, had it seen anything as large as Bazil Broketail.

Nor did the thing smell familiar in any way. There were man scents, of leather and metal, and there was a serpent-like odor and an odor like blood, but no blood that this bear had ever tasted.

Again it roared its challenge.

Bazil heard the anger in that challenge, but he was not deterred.

“You got more meat there than you can eat, friend bear,” he said in as placating a tone as he could manage. “This dragon will take just half, if you don’t mind.”

The bear reacted badly to this little speech, perhaps understanding the intent if not the words. It dropped to its four paws and charged up the trail snarling in rage.

“Ah,” said the dragon. “You do mind.”

Bazil met it with Piocar swirling and shield ready.

The bear slammed into the shield, then gripped it and shoved Bazil back a couple of steps. The shield stayed between them however, and with a roar of frustration the bear slapped it with a roundhouse left.

Bazil felt himself lifted almost off his feet by that blow and he gave up another step. The bruin had an almighty great punch—it had to be as strong as a maroon troll, maybe stronger. But it was unarmed, and about to get a lesson in humility.

“Silly damn bear,” muttered Bazil, and then he moved to his right and swung Piocar in a flat slap that echoed hard in the dark woods as it connected with the bear’s rump.

The bruin yelped with shock and pain.

Piocar swung again and connected once more, though not quite as solidly this time. The bear jumped and almost fell over as it scrambled back. Baz let out a dragon roar and charged it, bringing his sword overhead for another swat with the flat of the blade.

This blow rang on the bear’s head. It went down for a moment, then rolled over, crushing small trees and came back up snarling for more.

Baz met the charge, got his shield down to occupy the bear’s claws and walloped it on the rump and flank again and again.

It tried to swallow the shield—great gobs of saliva flew into Bazil’s face. He shook them off and then was shoved backwards by the brute strength of the beast.

They paused. The bear stood up on its hind legs again and considered the situation. It didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with this and its rump was smarting from some tremendous blows. It looked back at the monster it was fighting. Was this really worth it? Getting whacked all over the body by an opponent that you couldn’t seem to get a grip on?

The bear was unsure about this.

Suddenly Bazil let out a dragon scream and charged. The bear was spooked; abruptly it turned about and crashed off into the thickets at high speed.

Staying around to fight this monster for the remains of that old elk he’d killed was not something the bear wanted to do anymore. It was time to go elsewhere. He’d never run from anything in his life before, but clearly there was a first time for everything.

Bazil wasted no time in appraising the carcass of the elk. It was an elderly animal with thin limbs and gaunt ribs. It had been simply too old to outrun the bear once it got close.

It was going to be tough and very, very chewy.

With a sigh he divided the elk carcass in two and then took up the front half and carried it away.

He butchered it crudely with the sword and then wiped the blade before sheathing it once more. He sat down on a rock and applied himself to the elk and devoured it, with a lot of chewing and a lot of saliva. The biggest bones he tossed into the bushes, the rest he chewed up and swallowed.

Noodles with akh it was not, or roasted salmon, or any of the more sophisticated foods he had grown used to living among humans, who had elevated cooking and foodlore to a point far beyond that of any other race. But chewing the tough, gamey-flavored flesh of the old elk brought out something wild and primeval in Bazil’s heart. This was something he was meant to do, just as he was meant to fight for a female and win her and lie with her on a mountaintop. The taste, which had been sour and rich at first, gradually became acceptable, even enjoyable.

He was finishing his half of the elk when he heard a new noise nearby. Vicious snarls and growling echoed through the trees.

A look back showed that several smaller animals were at work on the other half of the carcass. By the snarls he identified a group of coyotes in conflict with something else that was keeping them very busy.

Bazil moved closer, surreptitiously. Like most dragons he had the ability to move quietly if need be in the woods, and now he shifted to within fifty feet of the fracas around the elk remains. The wind was blowing toward him quite strongly and thus the warring little animals were unaware of his presence.

Crouched over the elk was a small dark creature with a big mouth and oversized teeth. It kept snarling and snapping at the trio of coyotes that surrounded it and driving them back. Whenever it charged, however, another would rush in and nip its rump or tail.

Bazil watched the contest for a little while. Three coyotes didn’t seem to be quite enough for this indomitable little fellow.

Abruptly the wind began to shift, taking his scent to them. Bazil moved into view and gave a loud hiss. The coyotes almost leapt out of their skins and disappeared in a flash. The small animal in possession of the kill remained in place, however, and continued to snarl defiance.

Bazil stared down at it; in the moonlight it was hard to see clearly in detail but after a few moments he understood.

“Ah, a gulo,” he snorted. No wonder—this most fierce of all beasts would rather die than surrender anything, especially a kill like this.

Bazil examined the wolverine briefly and prodded it with Piocar once or twice, eliciting howls of fury but no retreat, and then with a chuckle he left it and went on down the trail.

The place where he’d eaten his half of the elk was already the scene of vigorous scavenging by weasels and mink.

Far ahead in the moonlight he could see the dark, wide-spreading Can, with great rivers glistening where they weaved across it.

He intended to descend to the Gan, find the Argo and move along that until he reached Dalhousie, then he would get across the river somehow and report for duty. This seemed a more likely bet than searching in the vast expanse of Tunina for the small force under Captain Kesepton.

The thought of his dragonboy roaming around out there with no dragon to look after him brought a twinge of worry and guilt. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to that boy while they were separated. What had got into him to run off like that and get lost in the forest? He was supposed to be a trained military dragon and he’d lost his wits when poor old Kepabar was killed.

Well, at least he knew better than to try and search Tunina for Kesepton’s force. From Dalhousie they could be reunited, eventually. In Tunina he might blunder around for years, tormented by elves and forced to live wild on elk and bears!

The pine woods thinned out suddenly and he found himself on a deer trail that passed along one side of a ridge that jutted out from the mountain. On the far end of the ridge something caught his attention. The suggestion of walls and towers, a human-built fortress!

He hadn’t known there was a legion post out here, but if there was then things could be simplified considerably. Somehow a message would be sent, and he would be reunited with Relkin and the rest of the 109th in a matter of days.

He picked up his pace, dipping down into gulleys that cut through the side of the ridge where pockets of oak and birch survived. Finally he came out of the last gulley and found himself standing at the edge of a dry moat. It was then that he made a discomforting discovery: the walls of this place were in ruins.

Jumbled stone covered the bottom of the moat, glinting in the moonlight. Jagged towers were broken down along the wallfront. The ruins had the look of great age about them. Intrigued, he stepped forward, climbed the moat and found a breach through the masonry wall to reach the city within.

Set less than a mile from the city, as close as the men were prepared to go in fact, was the camp—a huddle of tents and shelters, with three fires blazing and a corral for the horses to one side.

It was a quiet camp; the men, survivors of two hard battles in the past three days, were shocked, bruised and exhausted. They’d fought too much and seen too many friends die to even think about celebrating around the fires. This was a good thing considering the likely topics of conversation.

Even the smith, burly Cowstrap, was too weary to repair damaged weapons, of which there were many. After the evening meal, washed down with a measure of whiskey released by the captain, everyone laid themselves down and slept except those unfortunate enough to have pulled watch duty.

But underneath the exhaustion there was a pulse of something uglier, for the men were close to mutiny. After the fight at Ossur Galan the rumors had begun about what lay ahead of them. It was being said that the witch was going to lead them onto the Can. There were enough horses now for every man to have a mount, and with them they would ride to hell under the witch’s command.

The captain, it was also said, was besotted with the witch’s beautiful young apprentice and helpless as a result. No one wanted to follow that witch out onto the Gan, to be lost forever in the sea of grass until they were slain by the nomads, or worse, taken as slaves and sold in Tummuz Orgmeen.

It had barely been articulated yet, but it was there, and if the captain ordered them to ride out onto the Can he was going to be slain, along with the witch and the girl. Furthermore, anyone else who didn’t go along would also be killed and the survivors would tell the authorities they had died in battle. The question of what they would do if the surviving dragons wouldn’t accept this had not yet come up.