LITMIR.BIZ

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own this little bauble. Which man was it, captain, if you don’t mind me asking?’

      ‘Not at all.’ Gerran pointed to the men digging the trench. ‘It’s Warryc, the skinny short fellow with the brown hair down at the very end. Next to the tall blond fellow, Daumyr his name is.’

      Salamander trotted off, and Gerran and the tieryn followed more slowly. The warband swung the remains of the villagers into the trench, then covered it over with earth, a brown scar in the green meadow. They finished just at sunset, and off to the cloudy west the light blazed red like a funeral fire. For lack of a priest, the tieryn tried to say a few reverent words. For a long moment he stood at the head of the trench and struggled with this unfamiliar activity while the men watched in silence.

      ‘Ah, horseshit,’ Cadryc said at last. ‘There’s only one thing to say: vengeance!’

      The warband shouted back the word. ‘Vengeance!’ rolled across the farmlands to echo back from the distant cliffs.

      As they walked back to their horses, they passed the corpse of the Horsekin warrior, left sprawled in the open air for the ravens as a final insult. Salamander paused for a moment to contemplate him, and Gerran stopped to see what the gerthddyn was up to.

      ‘Doesn’t this strike you as odd, captain?’ Salamander said. ‘The Horsekin never leave their dead behind.’

      ‘So I’ve heard, truly,’ Gerran said. ‘He was killed by a farmer, though. Maybe they see that as a dishonour.’

      ‘Maybe, but I have my doubts. And then they didn’t finish searching the village. I wonder, I truly do.’

      ‘Searching?’

      ‘Why else line up the dead? Were they trying to make sure they’d killed everyone or was it mayhap a certain person they were looking for? I don’t know, mind. I’m merely considering possibilities.’

      The warband camped that evening a spare mile downriver from the ruins, just far enough to leave the smell of the dead village behind. The missing villager never appeared, even though they built campfires in the hopes of drawing his attention should he be hiding nearby. On the chance that the raiders were lingering out to the west, Gerran doubled the usual number of sentries. He also had his men hobble their horses as well as tethering them, a precaution that proved wise on the morrow.

      Towards dawn Gerran woke abruptly. He could have sworn that he’d heard someone calling his name. He sat up in his blankets and looked around, but in the cold grey light of first dawn he saw nothing but the sleeping camp. He pulled on his boots and got up, buckling on his sword belt. He was planning on relieving the sentries out by the tethered horses, but when he glanced at the river, he saw Salamander standing on the bank. He picked his way through the sleeping men and walked down to join the gerthddyn.

      ‘You’re up early,’ Gerran said.

      ‘I am, and so are you.’ Salamander glanced at him and smiled, then returned to staring out across the river.

      ‘Someone out there?’

      ‘Not a Horsekin in sight, but look, there’s some odd thing in the sky. A flock of ravens perhaps, most deeply grieved with us for burying their gruesome feast.’

      Gerran looked up to see, far off to the west, a flock of birds flying towards them in the brightening dawn. Or was it a flock? He heard a distant sound, a thwack and slap like a hand hitting a slack leather drum. The supposed flock looked remarkably like one bird, one enormous bird, flying steadily on huge silver wings. The sound swelled into a boom as the enormous wings carried the creature straight for them. He could see its long neck, its massive head with flaring nostrils and deep-set eyes, the silver scales touched about the head and spiked tail with iridescent blue, glimmering in the rising sun.

      ‘It can’t be,’ Gerran muttered. ‘Ye gods, it is! It’s a dragon!’

      Behind him the camp exploded with noise – men yelling and cursing, horses whinnying in terror. Gerran knew he should turn and rush back, should impose some kind of order or at the least guard the horses, but he stayed, staring at the huge silver wyrm. It was so strong, so powerful, and beautiful, as well, in his warrior’s eyes, with the sun glistening on its smooth skin, stretched and supple over immense muscles. It reached the river, dipped one wing, then sheered off, heading north. On its side, just below the wing’s set, Gerran saw a smear of reddish black – old blood from a wound.

      ‘Rhodry!’ Salamander started yelling at the top of his lungs. ‘I mean, blast it, Rori! It’s me, Ebañy! Rori, come back! Rhod – I mean Rori! Wait!’

      Screaming like a madman, waving his arms, Salamander raced down the riverbank, but the dragon flapped his wings in a deafening drumbeat and rose high, banking again to head back west. Gerran set his hands on his 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 mid-afternoon 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.’

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