Fyre's consciousness remained absent as he was taken to the soldiers' encampment. Had the path down the mountainside been a bit longer or the horses more spirited, the next chapter of Fyre's existence would have been written in the Summerlands; he'd been placed none-too-gently across the saddle of the squad's only packhorse. The beast was a middle-aged roundel mare, easily adequate for the weight of an unconscious man atop the half-empty panniers she was already carrying, but mounds of snow remained in the shade of the great trees, concealing the ground and causing many a stumble. Very soon, the deep wound was open again and spilling yet more blood.

Fyre briefly regained consciousness when the jostling stopped. There was a moment in which he could not recall where he was or why; he would have thrashed in panic had he not been securely bound across the packsaddle. He was too weak to break the rawhide thongs--how could that be? His brief, febrile struggle went unnoticed by those around him, but it renewed the pain in his chest and reminded him that he was in the clutches of enemy soldiers. He risked a furtive peek through his eyelashes; the world swam crazily upside-down, much too out-of-focus to be sure where he was, or even how many enemies surrounded him. The soldiers were arguing; he quickly realized he was the subject for debate. Again, he was appalled at his weakness. Where were his mighty talons; where was his Flame? A tiny facet of his mind was amazed that humans could stand to exist in such limited, soft bodies. All he could do was listen, giving no sign of awareness lest he be asked questions that must not be answered.

"I says we puts ‘im inna wagon," said a voice. "Haul ‘im gentle-like to the fortress. They’ll be scanty reward for’m ef ‘e bleeds to death."

"Reward, says you, gentle-like, says you!" This, from the man called Dirk. "Oo’s rewardin�?us for ‘aulin�?ím down a mountain? ‘E’s got no livery, nor even a bit o�?scrip. Like as not, we’ll never know ‘oo ‘e is, let alone get a bounty fer ‘is carcass! All’s we’re doin�?is wastin�?daylight, when we coulda found that dragon an�?butchered ‘im up! You an�?yer gentle-like..."

"God’s beard, you talks a lot o�?dragon butcherin�?" interjected the other; an older man, by his voice. "Ne’er seen ye foller a boar-hog inter bush, not whole, and spec’ly not wi�?a wound on ‘im. On’ry, fierce! ‘E’ll ‘ear ye comin�? an if ‘e gets set afore ye see’m, ’is tushes is the last ye e'er see. E’en if ye get th�?first thrust, ‘e’ll run up th�?length o�?the spear shaft an�?gut ye as ye’re guttin�?‘im! " The old man must have gestured suddenly; Fyre heard Dirk gasp. "Now, did yer see the size o�?that dragon? ‘E’d make a pile o�?boar-hogs, an�?likely just as tough. Ye threw that iron-head spear, an�?ye made ‘im bleed, but ye didn�?drop ‘im. ‘E slithered off on ‘is own, an�?whether ‘e’s laired up lickin�?‘is wounds, or whether ‘e’s turned an�?stalkin�?us, ye cain’t say, can ye?"

The old man’s words must have registered; the argument ceased and the horses were back in motion. How ironic, Fyre thought; if they only knew....

Soon, Fyre could sense that the trail had at last leveled out. Abruptly, the squad came to a halt. The thongs that bound him were suddenly severed; cold air slapped his skin as the fur that cloaked him slid off. His horse was forced to sidle until it thumped against a hard surface behind him. Calloused hands shoved at his shoulders until his knees hit the cluttered bed of a wagon. His newly freed arms–oh, the sting of recently-thwarted circulation!–folded convulsively across his wound as he tumbled forward, too weak to catch himself. The side of his head hit the edge of the wagon-bed; that was the last thing he knew for a long time.

***

Pain. He’d never known his body could contain such pain. Indeed, he believed it couldn’t. His blurred eyes could take in little of his mundane surroundings; he was a mote, suspended in a blood-tinged pool of agony. The cart in which he lay; the sky above; the three peasants-turned-infantrymen around him; all were obscured by the shrieking, smothering, palpable pain. Fyre knew they were there, but they were insubstantial, barely real. Only the pain was real.

Nightfall brought some relief. In a primitive wagon on a rutted road, each stone or pothole had been a new torture; he’d soon learned not to turn his head swiftly if he must move it at all. Sunlight, perceived not as vision but a cruel blaze into his eyes, ceased to torment him. He heard someone asking, over and over again, for water; only gradually did he realize the voice was his own. A chill of fear went through him; in his delirium, he’d spoken in Draco, the common language of everyday life in the Weyrs. Since he’d spent most of the past month among his own kind, it wasn’t unnatural that his native tongue would be the first to his lips, but it was very, very unwise to let it do so here. He urgently hoped his injury-weakened voice had gone unheard; all he could be glad of was that his begging hadn’t been done in High Draconian. Nearly every word in the formal High Tongue was charged by magic; this fact made the language perfect for the Convocation of Elders, for it made the Tongue highly inadvisable to tell lies in–but casual use of it was forbidden for very good reasons.

As though in direct reaction to his thought, he sensed more than saw or heard soft footsteps near the wagon in which he lay. Amazing, he had time to think, that his hearing remained acute despite the pain dominating his other senses. The approaching steps were too light for Dirk’s muscular build, and spaced too far apart from the old man; they must belong to the soft-spoken youth the old one referred to as "Aaron, lad," and Dirk merely called "Daft Aaron." Fyre hadn’t heard enough of the youngest soldier’s voice to know if the moniker "daft" had any basis; the youth apparently spoke only when spoken to and answered in monosyllables. ‘Twas thus, the surprise was complete when the footsteps circled the wagon to approach from the side farthest from the campfire. A hand gently cupped his ear, and the youth’s voice whispered, "K’tol’sum..."

Fyre stiffened. He couldn’t have heard what he just heard: the traditional greeting of dragons! Not even among his friends at Chalandor were those words said. Before he could even react, the youth cleared his throat and tried again. "K’tol’sum ísfahár... your pardon, Skylord, I’ve had no opportunity to greet one of your kind in several years."

He’d said �?B>ísfahár,’not ísfahár’rrh, and he’d gotten the tonal change in the second syllable wrong; the young man’s words translated "greetings, thermal updraft," not "greetings, wind-borne warrior." Fyre raised a hand, or tried to, but he’d lost too much blood. He attempted to draw a deep breath; drew a shallow one instead; but before he could speak, the young man went on. "K’tol’sum ísfahár. ‘M’tli�?glok’t’k ee’ay’essalay’ee."

Fyre had but a moment in which his amazement could register: Daft Aaron had clearly intended to tell him, "say nothing in Dragon’s Language." Instead, he’d said, "say nothing that makes any sense." For perhaps half a heartbeat, Fyre’s lips parted to explain the mistake. Then the full impact of the magically charged words resonated with his inner power, so inadequately shielded due to his desperate condition. A huge spark flashed between the two of them, stinging the hand still cupping his ear against being overheard and sending Fyre back into oblivion.

Dirk and Gaffer Will had been relaxing around the campfire; Dirk gazing into the flames and the Gaffer deliberately staring away from them. They were enjoying the best part of a day in the field: going over the day’s events and planning for the next day, interspersed with long, companionable silences and listening to the night. When the spark flashed and the Gaffer felt a blast of magic against his shields, his boot knife was immediately in his hand as he scanned the darkness. "Dat was vat?" he exclaimed.

Dirk’s eyes immediately snapped away from the lovely patterns in the hot coals and tried vainly to penetrate the darkness. Dammit, that was why the Gaffer had tried to pound it into his head never to look into the fire when they bivouacked–it made him blind to the rest of the night. But the night had been so quiet, so peaceful; the nearest enemy must be dozens of miles away. He had no clue what had drawn the Gaffer’s eyes toward the wagon, but he’d felt a strange, swirling sensation akin to dizziness, which passed almost as soon as it began. He started to say, "I’m not sure, what did you see," but all that came out was, "Eyyyyye....m-m-m...."

Before he could get any further, the Gaffer interrupted in a singsong voice, so different from his usual country dialect. "Magic that vas. Felt anything like it, in forty years I have not. Come from where it did?"

Daft Aaron stumbled away from the wagon, where he’d been bending over the wounded man. The youth’s eyes were still rolling in his head; whatever had happened must have gone off very close to him. The Gaffer was already on his feet, the long knife he called his "toothpick" at the ready. He steadied the youth with his left hand, leaning him against the wagon until he could catch his balance.

Aaron’s eyes came back into focus; he seemed to know exactly what had happened. "Meade and buttons. Cinnamon ginger barricade elocution, quarantine etiquette," he pointed toward the again-unconscious warrior. Then his knees buckled, and Gaffer Will had to drop his long knife to catch him.

Dragging Daft Aaron back to the campfire was easier than it should have been. Damn it, hadn’t the lad been eating? Not for the first time, the old man’s heart twinged at the idealism that had torn the pampered son of a corrupt nobleman from the duke’s court to the hardships of the field. Back then, the lad had been Alain, son of Lord Valaris, whose duchy was rapidly expanding, with the King’s blessing no less, to engulf the wild provinces where witches once reigned. But Alain had been influenced–ruined, some said–by the gentle ways of his mother, the Lady Yvette. Valaris had locked her away in a convent several years before, when she was caught trying to flee the palace with her son. Since then, the boy had only seen his mother once or twice a year, but the damage was done. Even as a squire, ‘twas known he’d been opposed to torture, to trial by ordeal, and to taking sexual advantages of servants. The latter, Valaris had made some concession to on the premise that too much debauchery was bad for discipline. The old lord had drawn the line, though, when Alain was knighted. It was traditional for a new knight to ask one boon of his liege lord. Most asked for gold or wine; a few, well-placed in the favor of their liege, would ask for a war-horse, or a small grant of land. Sir Alain asked to open a school for the children of commoners.

Had he made the request in private, Valaris could have simply ignored it. Had Alain waited until his father was in his cups and in a good mood, he may have been granted a small room and the service of one of his old tutors to teach clerical skills to the sons of the palace staff. Sadly, the newly-dubbed knight had spoken out in Court, where other nobles and Church dignitaries were present. The result was a scandal that had reached even an isolated fort like Briarwood. All knew of the polite contempt of Bishop Arnulf’s public reaction at the idea that peasant children could learn to read, as well as the huge tantrum he’d thrown in private. Literate commoners would not need Churchmen to keep their records or interpret scriptures for them; why, they’d be mere steps away from thinking for themselves! That evening, the new knight was drugged, bound, and hidden away; two days later, a hastily-arranged parade celebrated a man of Alain’s height and build, wearing his armor, at the head of a regiment marching away to besiege Chalandor.

The boy had come to, tied up in a supply wagon. One of his father’s favorite minions had gloatingly informed him that, when the castle fell, he’d be forced to take part in the rape and torture-interrogation of prisoners; only then would he be released. Should he refuse, he’d simply be slaughtered; word would go out that he’d "perished nobly in battle." Sir Alain had made up his mind to die; his only regret was for his mother when she got the news. An attacking dragon had changed all that; the army had been put to flight; livestock stampeded; Alain’s rolling prison overturned. In the confusion, no one had thought to check on the prisoner. He escaped into the wilderness on one of the few remaining horses–with meager supplies and no idea how to survive in the wild.

A few days before what was starting to be called the Battle of Chalador (an odd title, considering how many battles had been fought in Chalador’s past), Gaffer Will had been responsible for concealing a tragedy. The real Daft Aaron, a moon-touched lad of twenty summers, had been slowly dying when a press gang took him from his village. His condition had been no problem to the lieutenant in charge; the lad had been male, of the right age, with the correct number of arms and legs. One more tally-mark was added to a form; a uniform and kit had been issued, and that had been that. Gaffer Will had comforted the lad, days later, as he’d passed away. Afterward, he’d used what resources he had: a little magic; more subterfuge; and a network of collusion among the locals, to return the boy’s body to his family. The Gaffer chose to conceal Aaron’s demise as long as possible, so as to spare some other young man from being conscripted to take his place.

Around the same time, young Sir Aaron’s horse threw a shoe, and Alain traded it to a widowed farm-wife for a few days�?worth of food. Word of the unlikely traveller got back to the Gaffer via his many contacts among the peasantry–though his rank was low, all knew him as one of the very few who’d listen to their grievances against the soldiery and attempt to make things right. ‘Twas thus, he’d arrived in time to prevent the lad from being hung as a deserter when he was caught. The boy had stripped off all insignia and refused to speak to his captors; fortunate, for it allowed Gaffer Will to identify him as Aaron and have his behavior excused due to his mental condition. The Gaffer had received a reprimand with the threat of a flogging should he ever again fail to keep "his pet mooncalf" under control. Thus, Sir Alain became Daft Aaron, and was ever so glad to do it.

Thoughts of his young ward ran down well-worn tracks in the Gaffer’s mind. Truth, it seemed he’d had the lad on hand forever, instead of a mere two weeks. He’d expected at least some whining at the rigors of their lifestyle, but the lad never complained, not even at pulling latrine duty day after day. Of course, among other soldiers, he’d had to be meek–the real Aaron, when alive, could barely speak, and the weak illusions within the Gaffer’s ability did not extend to sound effects. Even so, Gaffer Will had expected at least some venting during their occasional, whispered chats. The boy worried about his mother and the plight of the common people; never himself. Was I ever that young, the old man wondered. I do the best I can, but was I ever that idealistic? I’m positive I was ne’er that naive.

Motioning to Dirk to unroll the lad’s bedding, he placed him in it, boots and all. How in Helle’s corset will I work this out? Gaffer Will asked himself. Only one form of energy could have gone through my shields like that. Dragon magic; haven’t felt anything like it in thirty years. I can unbind it from myself, but I can’t make it go away. What in the Summerlands can I do for these two? He looked at the unconscious form in the wagon. At least I know for sure what you are now. A dragon on my hands, wouldn’t you know it? The Goddess does have a sense of humor.

 

 

He returned to the fire and got Dirk’s attention. "Branches, some cut. Beddin�?for th�?stranger we’ll make." The younger man hurried to follow orders while Gaffer focused intently on the problem. When he spoke, or attempted to, he could sense the spell’s workings–if spell was the right thing to call it. Although he’d had little formal training in magic, he’d picked up a lot of bits and pieces over the years. A capacious memory, plus a lifetime of going over tiny details for clues of when a mare would foal, when it was safe to plant, how much of which tincture to give an ailing calf, among a myriad other things the villagers used to ask him about, had honed a truly fine analytical mind. He sensed that all his skills would get a workout by the time this mess was dealt with–if it ever could be. He could sense the intent of this working, and it was askew from its effect; there was no circle of enclosure, and the energy frequency was all wrong for this sort of spell; only a tremendous source of latent energy could have activated it at all. Apparently, what they were experiencing was no spelled item or amulet of the stranger’s; it could only be a mis-spelling by an amateur. In that case, there was no predicting how far it went or how long it’d take to wear off. He glanced at Alain--now Aaron, he mustn’t forget that-- whose swoon seemed to have lightened into normal sleep. So the lad had known some Dragon-tongue; he’d heard its use was dangerous. He must have known a only the words, but not the precautions. No doubt, the kid had just been trying to be polite. Would he be daft in truth, after this? The Gaffer knew of no way to tell.

Dirk touched his arm for attention, and gestured at the bedding he’d made for the stranger. A small hollow had been dug near the fire, just opposite the large rock they’d used to reflect the warmth. Fresh pine boughs had been arranged in the hollow, with extra needles and even some moss atop them. Poles had been planted at an angle on either end; they’d hold a piece of spare canvas that would be tented over the wounded man to shield him from the wind and catch a bit more warmth from the fire. The Gaffer suppressed a smile, knowing it would be taken the wrong way. Dirk usually tried to sound as though he had no heart, but his actions often revealed a gentler side. Not for the first time, the Gaffer wondered what Dirk would be like if he hadn’t grown up as an orphan in a large city. Were he caught showing compassion, he’d be ashamed of himself and put on a show of increased ruthlessness to compensate. The old man reminded himself to act like he didn’t notice.

Together, they moved the stranger by lifting the canvas upon which he lay. It took all their effort to do it; he was much heavier than he appeared. Dirk’s eyes widened in surprise, "W-w-what...’s th-that guy b-been, been, been eat-in�?"

"Don’t know do I, Dirk. Tell you all I can, think I he’s by the dragon attacked."

"D-dragon! W-w-was’t th�?..." Giving up, Dirk mimed a spear throw, then spread his hand questioningly.

"Aye, think I you the truth have. Doubt don’t the beast this man had a-hold of. Chest wound made was by a claw."

"Then I...then I..."

"Aye, saved his life you did. Now seeks the beastie fer ‘is prey. ‘Tis what over us has come; a Skylord attack survived unharmed but in speech." The two men settled their patient in his improvised bed; afterward, the old man walked into the trees, apparently to answer Nature’s call before sleeping.

Dirk was both terrified and relieved. His eyes searched the darkness constantly; Gaffer Will wouldn’t need to remind him to keep his eyes off the fire any time soon. He was relieved the older man had explained what had come over them all, saving Dirk the struggle of getting the question out. He suppressed a yawn; the day had been long even before finding the stranger. That was nothing new; all their days were long; apparently, being bespelled by a dragon really took it out of you.

He checked the horses one more time, making sure the picket rope let them reach plenty of grass. On second thought, if a dragon were hunting in the darkness, picketing horses near the trail was a bad idea–they’d be easy to spot from the air and have no way to escape. Dirk had spent enough nights trapped and terrified in days gone by; though he was ashamed of his lack of ruthlessness, he couldn’t let the horses go through that misery if he could help it. He glanced furtively toward the campsite, but neither his fellows nor the stranger would witness him being soft. After making sure they had all the water they wanted, he led them beneath the trees and tied each horse where the branches overhead would screen it from view. So long as the beasts could see each other, they wouldn’t object on a night no colder than this; not when there were plenty of dead leaves, twigs and loose bark to browse on.

Back in camp, he made sure the injured stranger was resting quietly. He was startled to see the man’s eyes open; why hadn’t he called for something to eat or drink? As if in answer, the stranger’s lips parted; his throat working soundlessly as though attempting to speak. His eyes widened in panic when, try as he might, no sound came out. "Hey, it’s all right; don’t panic," Dirk intended to say, though it only came out, "hey, sssssssssss....allrigh’t. D-d-don�?..." Abruptly, the stranger’s eyes cleared with recognition. For a moment, he looked sympathetic, almost apologetic. As always, Dirk’s temper rose at the implication there was anything about him to feel sorry for. He opened his mouth to fire off one of his habitual retorts, so perfect for abrogating all offers friendship before they were made, cancelling appreciation for his good deeds and landing him in worse trouble than ever. This time, however, no caustic comment ignited; as soon as anger flooded his system, he found himself as mute as the stranger. Dirk finally shrugged and went back to his work. He could neither back the man off verbally, nor prove any impression of softheartedness was mistaken–but it wasn’t the end of the world. The stranger couldn’t tell anyone, and his injuries meant it’d be a long time ere he’d be able to use Dirk’s compassion for others against him. Not only that, but if the Gaffer was right, the stranger owed Dirk his life. There were worse ways to make an acquaintance.

He filled a small bowl with water and helped the man drink. Dirk had been wounded in a time or three, and he recalled thirst being almost as big a nuisance as the rip in his hide. The stranger grimaced when he moved his head. Pox, but he’d gotten a bad lick when they put him in the wagon. Dirk had barely moved the horse into position when Daft Aaron had tried to help. It had been one of the times you could really believe the lad was touched in the head. Dirk grimaced in frustration at the memory; he’d sensed something was wrong, but had said nothing for fear of being caught in softheartedness. Ever since his mum had been dragged away on "suspicion of witchcraft," gentleness had been a luxury he could ill-afford–the only vice that was swiftly punished on the back streets of the capital. He’d survived by running errands when he could, picking pockets the rest of the time, and going hungry more nights than not. Somehow, he’d managed to enlist in the Army voluntarily before getting picked up by a press gang, which meant he’d had a little more training than a lot of the men in the field. Not that it was any distinction; he’d still been assigned to the Briarwoods along with many another who’d never be considered for advancement. It was well-known that no one was ever promoted here; the post was most useful as a dumping ground for misfits, screw-ups, rejects of all kinds. They were there to keep them available when a major battle was in the offing–for use as cannon fodder.

The wounded man finished drinking and looked up. Rather than battle again with the dragon’s magic, Dirk gestured as though spooning something into his mouth. The stranger got the point, started to nod, remembered not to, and smiled. Dirk poured some water into their one-and-only kettle, set it on the coals and peeled some potatoes into it, along with shavings of their dried beef. He was more generous with the beef than he would have been, had anyone else been watching; but for now, the only witness to his generosity was the stranger, who was in no position to tell on him. Besides, what was the point of having saved someone’s life if he merely died on you afterward? Quickly, Dirk shut that thought away before it evoked bad memories.

By the time the soup was boiling, Dirk was worried about the Gaffer. The old man left for his Nature call a long time ago; even considering the effects of a hard day’s ride, surely Nature ought to be happy by now. As he set the kettle aside to cool, the old man’s warnings about the dragon weighed ever-more-ominously on his mind. Though the density of the treetops would screen Gaffer Will from an air attack, what if the monster didn’t always hunt on the wing? What if it was, even now, stalking them on foot?

Dirk’s pulse began to sound in his ears; the beast he’d speared had been large and fierce, and its magic had already attacked them once. If magic it was; in Llawhaven, it was fashionable to doubt that magic existed. What if the dragon’s attack, instead of magic, had been some sort of venom? A spice merchant Dirk used to run messages for once told of a serpent whose venom could blind a man from four horse-lengths away. This dragon could have an ability like that, only its poison silenced instead of blinded. Growing up in Llawhaven, Dirk new or had heard of a number of places where those with enough money and the right connections could obtain packets or vials that would do a lot more than ruin one’s talent for conversation. A few times, he’d been desperate enough to earn a few coins delivering those parcels–though only a few times; running often for the potioners was a good way to disappear.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made and the easier it was to forget or ignore the elements which contradicted his case. Dirk could easily picture the huge creature closing in on the stranger, whose blood it had already tasted. It must have been set to strike, only Daft Aaron had startled it, ruining its aim. He and Gaffer Will merely caught the over-spray; thus they could speak after a fashion.

A chill ran down his back as he envisioned the dragon’s next move. Thwarted in its original hunt, surely it would vent its frustration on the one who walked off alone. Dirk’s fertile mind conjured gruesome pictures of what might be happening to the old man. Sure, Gaffer Will was tough and smart–smarter than any of the pimps, thieves, and crime bosses Dirk had run from or been forced to serve as a homeless boy–but what chance could anyone have, alone in the dark, with his trousers ‘round his ankles? He couldn’t stand it if anything befell the Gaffer. Pox take it, it just wasn’t fair! He couldn’t remember his father, but his mum had been a wonderful person; when the city guard took her, he’d wanted to die. Even now, he couldn’t quite forgive himself for not protecting her as Fat Henri’s "apprentices" kept the guards from the brothel women. Looking back, he understood an eight-year-old couldn’t deal with sword-wielding adults, but it was still hard to let go. Even so, ‘twas a moot point; no one taken from their part of town ever returned.

The ten years which followed had been a nightmare, which his nine months in Valaris�?uniform had done nothing to dispell. Only since the Solstice, when he’d been stationed in Briarwood and assigned to the Gaffer, had life gotten better. Now, once again, the one person he really cared about might be snatched away. Well, by all the gods, he had a sword this time! The weapon gleamed in his hand before he realized he’d drawn it. He threw extra wood on the fire until it blazed over his head and built several smaller ones as well, forming a rough perimeter around the two helpless men. Satisfied that they were as safe as he could make them, he ran into the woods to rescue the Gaffer.

Giving himself a mission was one thing; fulfilling it was another. Gaffer Will began showing him the basics the first day of their first patrol, with the remark, "None o�?yer big-city fightin�?moves’l impress a varmint tha�?sashays up behind ye an�?cuts yer throat–nor that-un as sits up in a tree waitin�?to fill ye full of arrows." Dirk had paid the old man close heed, even evoked a little praise for his swift learning–but his skill level was nowhere near the ability to track a veteran woodsman through the forest in the dark. Even knowing how hopeless it was, he had to try. Gritting his teeth, he went down the most likely paths, making right-angle turns at intervals in a rough attempts at a grid pattern. Several times, he tried to call out, only to note once again the bane of all stutterers: the higher the emotion, the worse it gets. His best sounded like a raven choking on a biscuit. Eventually, the diminished flickering from the direction of the campsite told him his bonfires were burning out. He’d have to go back; it made no sense to allow three men to be eaten instead of just one. Without conscious volition, his frustration vented in an inarticulate roar.

Just then, some leaves rustled, and the Gaffer stepped into sight. An odd sight he was, too; strands of yarn trailed from his boots as though both socks had unraveled; his coat drooped low on his shoulders, and he staggered as he held his trousers up with one hand for lack of a belt buckle. Dirk’s jaw dropped; had he been able to get the words out, he couldn’t tell whether would have said, "thank the gods, you’re alive," or, "you crazy old fart, I’m gonna kill you!" He was running toward the old man, either way, beside himself with the simultaneous urges to pick him up in a bear-hug and knock his teeth down his throat.

The view from the Gaffer’s perspective was equally interesting. When he’d slipped off to work his ritual, he’d had no idea how long it would take. Unbinding the spell from himself was quickly accomplished; the hard part had been what to do with so much newly-freed magic. As a farmer and village head man, he’d worked extensively with the energies of the planet and the living creatures it nourished. What he struggled to control now was utterly different; it tasted equally of the earth and astral planes. It was amazingly strong, and it had no inherent tendency to be grounded–quite the opposite. At the same time, he sensed the magic’s plasticity. It could adapt to nearly any sort of working he’d ever done, from fertility to levitation. This wild energy was always in motion, and he sensed that to lose control of it would probably be fatal...all of which made it a singularly bad time for Dirk to be rushing toward him, wild eyed and with sword in hand, roaring like a bull.

The swift distraction was all it took for the balance of the magic to shift. Dirk’s continued existence owed itself to the fact that, as a farmer, Gaffer Will was long since conditioned not to look straight at an enraged animal–which was what Dirk most resembled at that moment. As it was solid blast of flame shot past the top of Dirk’s head, singing away a swath of hair and dropping sparks down his shirt. Startled, he dropped to the ground, slapping away at smoldering patches on his clothes. The mustache he’d been encouraging for several months bit the dust, and he probably wouldn’t need to shave soon, either.

Far out into the night, huge fires sprang up where the Gaffer’s gaze landed. Each time, a backlash staggered him, but he felt relief in sensing that the load had lessened. Thinking swiftly, he carefully directed blasts near the other two men, leaving scorch marks on just about everything, and singed patches on hair. His last feats, only attempted when almost all the dragon-magic was gone, was to cast an illusion of claw marks across the chest of the stranger and place an auric charisma about him, which would influence others to think well of him. That done, he deemed it safe to send the last dregs of the dragon-man’s energy back into him, a trickle at a time, so as to aid in his healing without causing further damage. He fell then, out cold where he stood.

It was hard work, first building another shelter to hold the Gaffer’s bedroll, then carrying the old man all the way back to camp, especially when it involved cradling him gently as a sleeping child. Dirk didn’t mind, and he didn’t care who saw him.

(Carli)

A second pair of hands helped Dirk ease the old man into his bedroll. Aaron was back up and around, seemingly none the worse for his swoon. The impression was simultaneously correct, as mistaken a single impression could be Alain... Aaron. He must never think of himself as Alain again, checked to see if the Gaffer had enough bedding. Just to be safe, he added a blanket of his own. The youth doubted he'd be cold tonight, he could still feel the dragon;s magic humming through his body, so vibrant it amazed him that his feet still touched the ground.

Satisfied that Gaffer Will was as comfortable as Aaron could make him, he checked the fir...;no fires. Whose doing was that? One was all they'd ever used before. The small ones around the edge of the campsite down to a few coals apiece now, had been laid on bare ground with nothing cleared away and no stone-circles to enclose the flames. Meanwhile, their original campfire must have been built to a near-inferno. The large mound of ash and coal revealed what had happened to most of the dry wood they'd managed to gather before darkness fell. A few charred branches had even fallen outside the fire ring, barely missing the soup kettle. Aaron's nose wrinkled. One of many discoveries since he 'd escaped from his father's minions, occurred when he inadvertently dropped part of a shovelful of ashes into the soup. Dirk had forced him to eat it himself and he'd had to comply. As Sir Alain trained in armed and unarmed combat by several of Chalandor finest masters he could have beaten the other man easily, but Daft Aaron had had no such training to reveal any knowledge of self-defense would have imperiled not just himself, but the Gaffer as well. Forcing himself to look meek and confused accepting blows that could have been easily parried while never striking back was by far the hardest part of Aaron's disguise .

Something about the kettle caught his eye. Peeling vegetables for their meals was one of his designated chores since he was thought to be too witless to hold a weapon, He'd been assigned all the scut work to compensate. Tonight disaster had happened before he'd had time to prepare anything. How did the kettle come to be half-full of soup? Thick soup,too,,, it held twice the potatoes and easily three times the salt beef of their usual meals. Had Dirk, usually a miser when it came to food - especially meat, suddenly changed his ways? Aaron looked up inquiringly, but was warned off with a glare. Several sparks jumped from what was left of the blaze. One of those must have been what had awakened him. Gingerly he rubbed his stinging left ear. Wait, half his hair had been singed off! What in the bishop's hell had gone on while he was out. Looking around the dim moonlight revealed scorch marks on just about everything. Had Dirk attempted to set their whole camp on fire? He rIsked another glance to where Dirk stood at attention, sword in hand, staring into the night as though he expected invaders to charge at any moment. The fellow's' stance was unsteady despite his obvious best efforts. Aaron could only hope the poor fool would sheathe that sword rather than risk falling on it Sighing, he braced himself beneath an all-too-familiar wave of guilt. Once again, his good intentions had led to disaster rather than preventing one, though he couldn't see how his botched efforts at Dragon-tongue could have caused it. Dirk had obviously lost his wits.

Sighing, he moved the kettle to a safe place,then shoveled the remnants of the small fires back into the larger one before banking it for the night. If he offered some soup to the dragon, would it be accepted? He desperately hoped he could do so without breaching some obscure protocol vital to the peace between the species. Two disasters in one day were all he could live with. Then, again, his clumsiness in moving the Skylord into the wagon hadn't doomed them all past redemption. Perhaps nothing he was capable of could. The young knight-in-disguise had known as much dragon lore as his mother had had time to teach him, which probably made him the second-most knowledgeable expert this side of the Weyrs. Christian rulers made war upon dragons. Witches made treaties with them, but only his grandparents, Duke Geoffrey and Duchess Rowena of Bergamot, had dared leave human lands and live among the Lords of the Sky. Their courage had been ill-rewarded by King Ma`athglinn, though appointed as Royal Ambassador, Geoffrey had returned after several years to find his lands overrun and a former mercenary named Valaris in possession of the Ducal Palace. Rather than set things right,Ma`athglinn had banished the Duke and Duchess and forced a marriage between Valaris and Yvette, their only child. Under Church law, which Ma`athglinn decreed should supervene native Chalandor statutes. The marriage gaveValaris control of all Yvette's possessions. He'd become Duke, in name as well as power, when Geoffrey died. Yvette's son had been frail as a child. The Lady helped him cope with many long days stuck in a sickbed,by telling precious memories. Now. by recounting her life among dragon-kind until he felt like he'd been there in person, he was even fairly sure he knew who the stranger was. The young warrior who answered the challenge of reciprocating House Bergamot's gesture and residing among humans for years at a time, great-grandson of mighty Bekon Borealis-Fyre;

He was a little amazed at his own temerity, daring to offer such primitive fare to one he'd heard stories of all his young life. Nonetheless, should beat going hungry, even by the standards of dragons.

***

Save for muteness and the pain of his injuries, Fyre would have spent the preceding hour trying not to laugh while the most belligerent of his captors ran about. Obviously the man thought he was taking precautions against the revenge of the dragon. he had attacked yesterday. Once again, Fyre suppressed a chuckle at the irony, but what precautions lighting fires to deter a Skylord? What did he intimidate peasants with piles of grain. Though his vision was still blurred, Fyre's hearing and Dragon innate sense of metal were both more than sharp enough to paint an accurate picture of the lout blundering through the woods brandishing his sword as though he expected to do something with it. Though he had made very good use of that gods-accursed spear�?

Had Fyre actually been in his true form and stalking? Even wounded, the young soldier would have stood no chance against him. The odd part of it all was that he could sense the man's intense awareness of that fact. Though young by dragon's reckoning, Fyre had been deemed more adept than most of his elders in understanding humankind, both in speech and the unconscious things they expressed with every movement.

The three in whose hands he now found himself, were a conundrum. At least two of them knew exactly what he was, yet instead of killing him, they hid his identity from the third one. That one had attempted to murder him as a dragon, but had protected him and cared for Fyre when he passed for human. Fyre didn't know if the blow to his head had been deliberate or accidental; in fact, he couldn't recall what had happened, but he was almost joined at a later time by the more tyrannical agony of the head wound. It was all so confusing. Why had the old man deliberately fostered the idea that Fyre might be one of their own from a different outpost? His and the youngest one's actions seemed more in sympathy with Chalandor's interests than those of the lord they served.

Fyre's musings were interrupted when the old man emerged from the woods. The old soldier was too far away for Fyre's blurred vision, but Fry's sense of magic had cleared enough to give the dragon a clear picture of what was going on. To Fyre's psychic sense, the old man seemed coated in a psychedelic mishmosh of energies: draconic energy which had drained from Fyre along with the blood from his wound and invoked by Daft Aaron's unfortunate attempt at helpfulness; a large amount of earth-energy which apparently was the old man's habitual matrix for spell-work, and the thin, glowing column of the old man's own life-force. Nearly staggering, he came forward trailing the strands of his unraveled stockings, cloak slipping down from an unwound fibula, a metal clasp for cloaks or other clothing, used since ancient times. It resembles a giant copper safety pin., one hand preventing his trews from falling down while the other hand gestured to focus the man's control of recently-unbound dragon magic.

In his present state, the dragon could but watch, helplessly, as Dirk's near-hysteria cause his fellow's control to slip. The old one was attempting to handle dragon-magic as though it were the same as that of the earth--an error analogous to treating a bird of prey as though it were one of the chickens! Desperately, Fyre attempted to gain his feet, sit up, even raise his hand in assistance, but each time his weakness bound him to his pallet. He gave up his attempts when he realized that, should his wound reopen, he'd bleed even more raw power into their midst. With the same sense of inevitability as if watching the beginnings of an avalanche, Fyre could have predicted the old man's next move.His throat spasmed as he strove to work around the missspell that held him mute in time to warn the old man against touching anyone with dragon-energy when they were already bound by a warped draconic enchantment. Gods! Could any beings on any plane be more frustrating than humans? Surely not, else the land itself would long since have sunken beneath the seas in sheer embarrassment.

Had Fyre had the use of his voice at that moment, he could have explained that the fragmented accident of magic which stil held his, Dirk's, and Aaron's powers of speech in thrall (though he knew Gaffer Will must have unbound himself; only a very powerful success could have so disarranged the old man's attire and left him with now-unused magic on his hands) would be swiftly dispersed by the normal renewing processes of their own life-force. Dispersed, that is, so long as there was no further exposure to draconic energy. As it was, the Gaffer's mage-blasts applied layers of the Sky-lords' energy atop almost everything they possessed, most especially including the three of them. With gritted teeth, Fyre attempted to assess the damage. Sure enough, the effect was a near-perfect sealing of the spells. The effect was much like putting an airtight lid upon a kettle before removing it from the heat; it would be a long time before anything underneath managed to evaporate. The Lords of the Sky are trained early in life to maintain a calm outlook and moderate reactions. Even in his helplessness, Fyre needed every iota of that conditioning not to go beserk with the Gaffer's next moves. The illusion of a claw-mark was bad enough, though had the Gaffer been aware of what he was doing, his placing of that particular symbol on the body of a Dragon would have been at least an international incident; quite possibly a cause for war. The real kicker, though, was what the Gaffer did next: in recycling Fyre's own energies back into him in his weakened and transformed state, his shift into humanform was rendered all but permanent. Additionally, the miss-spelling was now reinforced from two directions, within and without. In growing desperation, Fyre felt even the knowledge of be locked away deep inside him; though the meanings of words remained clear to him, he could not recall how his mouth and tongue had moved or felt when speaking. By the time a few moments had passed, the memory of ever having spoken aloud seemed an intellectual thing; like an exotic performance he'd observed from a distance, long ago, or perhaps just read about.

(Carli)

Daft Aaron came to him then, with the rest of the soup in a small bowl. Being re-infused by some of his lost energy helped in one way, at least: this time, Fyre was able to pick up the horn spoon and lift it to his lips. Though his arm tired swiftly and the lad had to help him with the last of it, Fyre managed to feed himself most of the bowl’s contents with minimal assistance. His hunger must have been greater than he’d realized; only after all the soup was gone did he realize that all of it had been placed in his bowl; the young man hadn’t reserved any for himself. Fyre wanted to thank the lad, as well as chide him for neglecting his own needs. From the pinched look of the boy’s face, it was far from the first time he’d done so recently. Rather than causing him to struggle with bespelled throat and lips, Fyre’s urge to communicate transmitted itself to his fingertips. This, the lad quickly noticed, and quickly set the empty bowl down as if to free his own hands. Was it possible–could this human know hand-speech? Fyre had never heard of its use among any but dragon-folk and the dwarves and elves who at times appeared before the Council of Elders, for its chief use was to teach High Draconian without the risk of magical disasters such as had happened this evening. Then again, how could the youth have learned any of the High Tongue without first being taught hand-speech? It was worth a try.

With an effort, Fyre moved his arm to the side, allowing what was left of the firelight to illumine his hand. Gesturing much more slowly than he would have, had he been addressing a young dragon, he made the gesture of greeting, followed by a careful, �?I> have you hand-speech?�?/FONT>

Aaron’s eyes sparkled in recognition as his entire face lit up, which had the effect of making him look younger than ever. Does Valaris wait for these younglings to be weaned, before he conscripts them to fight? Fyre wondered, though he was careful not to let his expression reveal any sign of his thoughts. But the lad was already gesturing in reply: �?I>Yes, Honored Skylord, my mother taught me [incomprehensible] when I was ravenous noisemaker.�?/FONT>

“When you were a youngling, I understand. But how comes a conscript of Lord Valaris to know aught of Dragon-kind?�?/FONT>

The youth hesitated; a series of expressions Fyre could not interpret rapidly played across his face. Then his lips narrowed resolutely as though he’d come to some sort of decision. “A peasant conscript would not. But the grandchild of Geoffrey and Rowena could not avoid it.�?

Fyre’s eyes widened. “Geoffrey and Rowena? I saw them at the Weyrs. Why, I was nearby when Yvette first cried upon the crèche-stones–how could she have a youngling? She’s a child herself; she can’t have seen forty winters!�?

“Thirty-two, actually,�?/FONT> Aaron smiled. “But still balanced wings. You forget, our kind assemble crèche stones early age.�?/I>

“No, I remembered that. The phenomenon simply seems, well, so extreme. My own dam caused a scandal when she wished to wed at one hundred and fifty. The Council only gave its blessing when it was pointed out that the human’s wars had decimated our clan. She and my sire had to vow that, when she rose for her mating flight, the crèche would be built within sight of the Weyr Mothers�?lairs. Many doubted that one so young could brood successfully.�?/I>

“You minimal yaw.�?/FONT>

“The sign is, ‘okay.�?Which literally means ‘to launch with correct angle of attack.’�?/FONT>

Fyre would have liked to converse longer, but he quickly tired. Amazing that even such subtle movements could become exhausting in a short time. At least, the pain was less. He had the old man to thank for that.

Just then, on the far side of the campfire, Dirk staggered more than before. Aaron rushed to help him before he really did fall on his sword. The older youth stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed and allowed Aaron to slip a shoulder beneath his arm and help him make it to a large rock near the fire. Even seated, Dirk reeled drunkenly and would have fallen without Aaron to steady him. “Th-thanks, kid. Ye’re all right.�?

Surprised, Aaron grinned in answer before remembering he was supposed to look confused. “Don�?don�?don’t bother, I...already know ye’re n-not a mooncalf.�?

“Obsequious watermelons!�?was the startled reply, before he remembered the problem his mistake had created. Thinking hard, he tried to come up with some sign Dirk could recognize.

“‘Ssss’okay. I seen ye...t-talkin�?to th�?stranger wi�?yer hands.�?Dirk gave a short laugh. D’ye think ye’re the first one G-gaffer’s kept from hangin�?�?/FONT>

Aaron’s shrug made Dirk laugh again. “‘E draws them in tr-trouble l-like...a rich widow draws sssuit’rs. ‘C-cause ‘e ain�?...chur–churchy, ‘e’s a witcher. ‘E thinks-like all witchers, like aw-all o�?Chaldor’s ‘is long...long...long-lost grandkids ‘r sump’n.�?

Laborously, with lots of gestures and many long pauses, Dirk told what he knew of the Gaffer’s story, opening up more than Aaron would have believed. Lady Yvette had mentioned, once, that exposure to large amounts of dragons�?energy caused inebriation in some humans–particularly those who were Gifted but untrained. If that were the case, Dirk must be very Gifted, and very untrained, for he was blitzed. As the hours slid past, Aaron learned everything Dirk knew about an old man who’d apparently provided a turning point in many lives.

The Gaffer was village headman in Otterbrook, three days�?ride from Briarwood Fort. The town was at the confluence of the three large streams that formed the Otter River, and thus was a natural collection point for meat, grain, hides, and root crops to be shipped to Llawhaven and beyond. According to Dirk, that had been the case for more years than he or Aaron had been alive. Within three or four years after King Ma’aglinn died, the mercenary companies who’d streamed into Chalandor to answer ambitious lords�?offers of gold began trickling away in search of wars in lands whose economies weren’t destroyed by civil war. Ma’aglinn’s religious hatred, fueled by his need to be seen as legitimate ruler despite Castle Chalandor’s rejection of him and the existence of several others with better claims to the throne, had kept Chalandor’s economy in shambles even while he lived; and it only got worse in the vacuum left by his death.

The departure of the mercenaries had left most would-be kings with but one option: sending out press gangs to conscript civilians to fight. Theoretically, the gangs were only allowed to take unemployed men and youths who were not apprenticed. Theoretically, the conscripts were to be amply paid for their services, and discharged after a given length of time. Neither theory lasted long as alliances formed and shifted, with no one lord or faction able to gain and hold an advantage.

These days, it was possible to walk a mile in the poorer sections of most cities and towns without spotting one able-bodied man of fighting age. Lately, it wasn’t just the poorest parts of town that were emptied of men; even in middle-class areas, businesses were shuttered or running on skeleton crews, with frail old men struggling to complete tasks usually done by journeymen and apprentices. Rural areas were just as bad off; only a few farms, charged with supplying food to their lord’s armies, had been allowed to keep their menfolk. The nation appeared to be withering with few exceptions, one of which was the area around Otterbrook.

Every few weeks, Valaris�?press gangs came up the Otter River. Each time, well-tended fields and farmhouses gave the lie to the complete absence of boys and men, other than a few ancients. The lieutenant in charge couldn’t prove the existence of a network that alerted the region when a gang would be coming through, but he was positive the case. He was even more positive that a certain glib-tongued village headman was behind it all. On their fourth dry run within two months�?time, the old man himself was conscripted. He wasn’t taken for his fighting skills, but to remove his influence from the lands Valaris struggled to keep under control. It was universally expected that the hardship of life in the field would swiftly kill the old man, but he proved as hardy as his villagers had been elusive. The past two years of rough living had rendered the Gaffer a little grayer and more weathered, but peasants and yeomen along the Otter spent most of their lives in direct contact with the elements. These days, those whose bodies couldn’t adapt usually died very young.

Dirk hadn’t known how to express his respect for the old man, nor his willingness to aid the Gaffer’s efforts in any way he could. All he could do was pretend to be as blind as the next guy to the old man’s tricks. Aaron’s eyes grew wider as he heard the confirmation of so much he’d believed or suspected about the man who’d saved his life. Was his own grandfather, Geoffrey of Bergamot, like that? Aaron hoped so.

The thought of his grandfather brought his mother to mind. What was she going through tonight? Did she believe he’d been killed, as his father’s advisors had intended, or could she sense he’d found some way to escape? No doubt she’d been told of his purported death immediately; it would be unlike Valaris to miss a chance to torment her.

Suddenly, Dirk leaped to his feet, though he couldn’t balance and sat back down very quickly. “Wh-what was that? Ye wouldn�?b’lieve, the damndest thing just happened. I s-saw a wwwoman with h-hair just like yours. Sssshe had on a ggggreen....�?

“Oranges! Silver piglets...�?once again, Aaron had to surrender to the mis-spell. What could he do? Dirk knew no hand-speech, and Aaron thought it was unlikely he’d learned to read. Taking a twig from the kindling pile, he drew the silhouette of a woman and child on the ground. He pointed to the child, and gestured to himself. Once again, Dirk’s eyes widened. “Your mother! I saw your mmmm...�?

Aaron nodded. “I use–used t�?ssssee stuff like th-that, when–when I w’s a kid. M’mum t’told me not, not, not t�?let on, l-l-lest I be t-taken f’r a witch. But then....�?Dirk’s head dropped; he hid his face as silent sobs rocked his shoulders. Between the dragon’s energy, the close contact, and Dirk’s untrained (and thus uncontrolled) Gift, the pictures flowed freely between their two minds. Together, they relived the moment Dirk had followed his mother into the little shop where she worked as a seamstress, only to find themselves surrounded by guards with swords unsheathed. They screamed together a the sight of the young woman being brutally frog-marched away, while another guard tore her young son from her side; the boy wailing and struggling in the clutch of his unseen tormenter. Then the child-Dirk—whose name had been Devon, then—had gotten in a lucky elbow-jab somewhere beneath his captor’s midsection. Enraged, the guard had flung the boy into a wall, and all had gone dark.

Other pictures swiftly followed. Another young woman with auburn hair rushed down a darkened stairway, her left hand carrying a small valise; the hand of a boy of around ten clutched in her right Swiftly and silently, they went down an unlit servants�?passage and out a small door, and across the midnight courtyard. They moved as quickly as they could across the rocky ground; since Valaris usurped Bergamot holdings, the grounds were very poorly maintained, but the two dared carry no light. The child was silent when unseen potholes and rocks made him twist his ankle and bruise his feet. He thought it fortunate that life with his father and his father’s thugs had taught him to bear pain silently. Moaning or weeping while being beaten only added to his abusers�?enjoyment and his mother’s torment; thus he gave no more sign of these new hurts than of the welts which so often crisscrossed his back and legs.

They were almost to the stable. Alain began to let himself hope that they’d really get away. He’d helped clean stalls, curried and exercised horses enough times that all the animals knew him and would make no disturbance. He’d deliberately left the tack room unlatched before sundown, and he’d oiled the leather of saddles and bridles with extra care. They wouldn’t squeak when he lifted them, and all jingling metal parts had been wrapped with oiled rags. Mentally, he went over where everything was; he’d have to find it all in total darkness without making a sound. He was sure he could do it; he’d practiced with his eyes closed for weeks.

Then a tiny breath of wind brought him the scent of the bitter herbs Valaris liked to smoke when he was in a particularly nasty mood. He tried to step protectively in front of his mother, just as she jerked him protectively behind her. The motion caused him to put his foot down hard, biting his lip against the pain. As if the tiny sound were a signal, Valaris�?brutal laugh resounded and the shutters were opened on half a dozen lanterns. Revealed almost at their feet was the head stable-boy, barely conscious, beaten within an inch of his life. The hostler stood nearby, eyes downcast. At least he had the grace to look ashamed. A gesture from Valaris brought a grim parade into the light: their chamberlain; lady’s maids; chambermaids; both pages; even the cook and the cook’s boy. The latter had been Alain’s second-favorite playmate; his favorite was lying on the ground. “Did you think--did you really think you could make a move I wouldn’t know about?�?Valaris laughed again, contemptuously. “When you eat, I know what you ate. When you shit, I’m informed. When you’re daft enough to speak, I hear every word that dribbles from your puling maws. I own these poltroons! They’re mine, not yours, and any one as forgets it…�?he paused in his tirade to aim one more kick at the wounded youth’s head.

Aaron and Dirk both shuddered; as one, they howled against the injustice, but they couldn’t stop the parade of memories: Yvette bundled into a waiting coach, its shutters locked from the outside; she was hauled to a convent legendary for its isolation and Spartan lifestyle, never again to eat a decent meal; have a warm room in the wintertime or sleep in a comfortable bed. Aaron, Alain at the time, had thought he knew what a beating was, but the ones he received over the next fortnight were worse than he could have imagined. His friend, the stable-boy, never recovered; Valaris�?last kick damaged his brain. The youth continued to clean the stables, but he had to be led through tasks he’d done by himself before, and suffered from frequent seizures. Alain suffered gut-wrenching guilt every time he saw or thought of him, knowing he’d suffer for what remained of his young life for befriending Alain. Two summers later, Valaris sent the stable-boy off to fight; the lad never returned.

The two young men trembled and wept as they relived one memory after another. From his pallet, Fyre observed the progression with increasing alarm. Dirk’s Gift was clearly out of control. How many traumatic memories could the youths relive, one after another, before their minds were permanently damaged? Yet what could Fyre do, in his condition, to intervene?

He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t speak. But if he didn’t do something, both young men would be witless or dead by morning. Desperation sent icy fingers down his back, which brought him around a bit. He recalled the constant advice of his great-grandfather, when as a babe of thirty or so summers he‘d made his first attempts at flight: �?I>don’t struggle, nestling, think! A dragon’s not a magician--a dragon is magic. Transcend!�?/FONT>

He couldn’t shout at the youths, couldn’t go to them. He couldn’t even throw pebbles at the two in his weakened state. But magic�?That was what he had left. Fyre first began to focus on drawing what he could of his drained magic back into his own body; not an easy task with such unruly energy, and he pulled in a lot of earth-energy along with it. Finally, he believed he had enough to direct his consciousness into the plane to which he’d transferred seven-eighths of his body mass when he’d shifted into human form. His huge pack had gone with it; by focusing carefully, he could send his mind up the thin filament of energy that was his connection between his present body and the rest. With an effort that made his human head hurt worse than before, Fyre managed to force his conscious awareness to penetrate into his pack. There was the amethyst Geode had given him, and there…there was another crystal, shimmering white with energy. The old trickster had slipped him a second magical object. What did it do? No matter, Fyre had only time and energy to deal with what he knew about.

Beads of sweat glittered in the remaining firelight upon the dragon-man’s brow. Were he uninjured and un-bespelled, the whole procedure could have been accomplished in a moment’s time and with little effort. Then again, if that were the case, he could have simply stepped up and jostled the boys. He was near to passing out again when, with a muted, “pop,�?the amethyst appeared just above him and landed on his chest, causing a fresh spasm of pain. Whether activated by the blood soaking through his bandages, or simply his focused will, the gemstone immediately blazed forth shafts of purple-white light. One beam shone in the faces of the two youths, dazzling their eyes and breaking the vicious cycle that had entrapped them. Others, writhing like luminous serpents, encircled his wounded body for long moments with bands of colored light. He couldn’t detect any increase of strength, nor was the mis-spell which silenced him affected, but his vision cleared and the overwhelming pain in his head subsided. It no longer hurt so much to breathe, and he was sure the bleeding of his wound had stopped. In the darkness, he could hear the Gaffer’s ragged breathing deepen and become less congested. Fyre was glad, but had little time in which to absorb the sensation before other things happened.

The amethyst seemed to be expanding, though its weight was unchanged; growing until it was well able to enclose the face and upper body of Geode, bolt upright in his nightshirt with the shocked-aware expression of a man suddenly awakened out of a deep sleep. “What? Where?�?barked the startled philosopher. �?Merciful Goddess, it’s Fyre!�?Seconds later, his image was joined by that of Lilly, peering over her husband’s shoulder, and the shock-whitened visage of Qyzida, silken hair mantling the bed quilt she’d apparently thrown over her nightdress on her way downstairs.

The projections from Fyre’s amethyst dimmed as the dragon-energy dissipated into the night. Then the three within Chalandor joined hands, feeding their own energies into the linked gems. Fyre thought, though he couldn’t be certain, that some of the energy in play came from the Castle itself. For a moment, all was confusion as his three friends attempted to question him at the same time. Then Geode said, “We’ve known for a day and a half that ye were wounded; what we have to know is, where are you?�?/FONT>

Fyre gestured toward his lips, then waved his hand in negation; Qyzida was the first to catch on. “He’s mute. Whatever happened has affected his ability to speak.�?/FONT>

Relieved, Fyre started to nod, then caught himself; the energy focused and amplified through the gemstone had brought him relief, but he’d be foolish to push it. He settled for smiling into Qyzida’s eyes in acknowledgement. Recovering quickly from her shock, she darted out of sight for a moment and returned with a plaque on which the runes of the Futhark had been painted, along with numerals and handy words like “yes,�?and “no.�?

“I made this to communicate with a pixie friend whose voice isn’t audible to humans,�?she explained. Thistle-bright simply walks on it, but it’ll work just as well if you direct me with your eyes and blink when my finger’s on the right spot. Got it?�?/FONT>

Fyre’s tired eyes traveled up and left, where “yes�?shone in Qyzida’s precise lettering. Relief had kicked in; adrenaline was ebbing, and with it went his last burst of energy. He dimly heard Lilly repeating herself several times before he realized she was speaking to him, “how badly are you hurt?�?/FONT>

He got out the words, “spear,�?“chest,�?“blooded,�?“head,�?and “broken,�?but it was tough going. His eyelids drooped; he tried to shake himself awake and nearly passed out again.

Qyzida was asking, “Are you safe?�?His eyes darted between “yes,�?and “no,�?then attempted, “think I found allies.�?/FONT>

The three friends joined hands again, feeding still more energy into the linked gemstones. The campsite was becoming well-lit; Fyre sensed they could see the three soldiers. “But those are enemies!�?Lilly cried. “They’re in the livery of the marauders!�?/FONT>

“Forced service,�?Fyre bit his lip against the fatigue. Gods, that stung! Human lips were amazingly fragile. “know what I am, still fed me;�?but Geode was asking, “Where are ye now?�?Fyre got out the letters “b, r, i, r�?�?before he was out again.

 

 

 

Back at Castle Chalandor, the three witches, all leaning over the rough hewn wooden kitchen table, now worn smooth with years of use, examining a map that Geode had produced from his chambers.  They didn’t hear Lady Majyk come into the kitchen and all jumped with a start as she said, “What are you all doing with that map?�?  Immediately Lilly and Qyzida started to rapidly speak, each recounting their own version of what had taken place, while Geode just sat there, intensely studying the map, while absent mindedly pulling on his silver beard.  â€œB R I R�?B R I R…�? over and over he mumbled to himself as he remained intent on studying the map from all angles.  Lady Majyk held her hands up and asked for quiet, as she wasn’t getting a thing from either Lilly or Qyzida.  Both witches sat down as Lady Majyk bent over Geode’s shoulder.  “Where in the Goddess did you get that ancient map Geode�?she asked, now noticing he was mumbling to himself.  Geode looked up with the expression of a headmaster being interrupted by a student, then waved his hand absent mindedly as if to say, “Sorry dear, didn’t hear you come in�?  “From amongst the papers in my chambers�? and continued before Lady Majyk could say another word, “I’m trying to figure out exactly where Fyre is�?  “As far as I know, he’s with the Skylords�?she said, but then noticing the look on Geode’s face, “What aren’t you telling me?�?SPAN>  That was the cue, Lilly and Qyzida started in again, and Lady Majyk had to hold up her hand once again, “I asked Geode, please, please sisters.  Geode doesn’t dig for old and musty maps unless there’s a good reason�?  She urged him to continue.  “Just now he made communication with us through the amethyst he carried in his pack�? Geode said with a serious tone, “and was…�?“Was what�?Lady Majyk asked, her eyes now narrowing in concern.  “Wounded!�?blurted Qyzida.  “And how, prey tell, did he communicate as a dragon.  No one here knows the language of the High Draconians.  That is powerful magick, that can backfire with grave consequences!�?she shrieked.  “He wasn’t a dragon�?hissed Qyzida, “he was in human form�? she finished by slamming her Futhark Rune plaque on the table.  “This is how we did it, with this�?she gestured towards the neatly done plaque.  She continued, “For some reason he cannot speak…�?  Lady Majyk interrupted her again, “If he cannot speak, and was communicating through the amethyst crystal, how did Thistle-Bright’s rune plaque come into play?�?she asked with all sincerity.  “He gestured to the rune I pointed to with my finger, with a blink of his eyes�? Qyzida said triumphantly.  “How ingenious!�? Lady Majyk said with a sudden clasp of her hands.  “But we are still no closer to finding him�? Geode said slowly as he poured over the map, now holding a large magnifying lens to bring the map’s smaller details into focus.  “He must have given you a clue, or Geode wouldn’t have this map spread all over the table�?Lady Majyk said, now vying for position to see through the glass Geode held in his hand.  “He did�?said Lilly, now setting a fresh steaming pot of Earl Gray tea on the table, and lying out fresh cups for all.  She continued, “It was just four letters, B R I R�?she finished, now sitting down next to Geode and competing for space with Lady Majyk, to have a better look at the map.  Hedwig came zooming in through the open kitchen window, landing squarely in the middle of the map.  “Oy!  Hedwig, off!  Move!�?shouted Geode, trying to brush his snowy owl off the map.  Hedwig responded with a sharp nip on his finger.  “OUCH!  Hedwig, this is serious, we’re trying to find Fyre, and you standing on the map�?said Geode, once again trying to brush the owl off the map.  Geode reached out, taking one of the biscuits off the plate, handed it to Hedwig.  “There, now please go and eat it somewhere else�?Geode pleaded with his owl.  Hedwig dropped the biscuit and flew off with a final nip at Geode’s ear.  “I don’t know what’s got into him�?Geode apologized as he picked up the biscuit.  “Awww, I left a stain on the map�?Lilly said and reached out with a cloth to clean the stain.  “Careful dear�?said Geode, “this is a very old and ancient map�?  As Qyzida absent mindedly flicked a biscuit crumb from the map, she saw it�?“What were those four letters Geode�?she hurriedly asked, not taking her finger from the place she’d flicked the errant crumb.  “B R I R�?said Geode, “why?�?SPAN>  “I think I found him�? she beamed!  “Where?�?“Where?�?said Lady Majyk and Lilly at once, almost knocking each other over to see where Qyzida had her finger firmly planted on the map.  “Right here!�?she exclaimed.  Without moving her finger, she continued “What if he didn’t know how to spell it?�?SPAN>  “That wouldn’t surprise me�?grunted Geode, the lug never could spell properly.  “Yes�?said Lady Majyk, “that’s why he kept getting spells wrong, the lack of proper grammatical spelling!�?SPAN>  “Well, then there ya go�?said Qyzida, now lifting her finger, “right here�?in Briarwood Fort!�?SPAN>  Qyzida stood tall, folded her arms and beamed at her own accomplishment in solving the puzzle.  The four looked at each other with looks of impending doom.  As if the God and Goddess had just declared the earth dead, they couldn’t have had more shocked looks on their faces!  Lady Majyk snapped out first, and holding her hands up, said “That’s right in the middle of Lord Valaris�?kingdom.  His personal guard and army, not to mention all the marauding press gangs and their conscripts roam that area.  Killing without hesitation, raping and pillaging everything in sight!  We must have a plan, a solid plan, if we as witches are to venture into the jaws of certain death.  We must have the magick of Chalandor securely on our side.�?SPAN>   She finished her thought with the reminder they were nowhere nearer to solving the puzzle of the five.  Sure, she herself was a highly accomplished witch and high priestess.  Geode was an excellent spirit communicator and held the power of the crystal kingdom.  Lilly was a gifted healer beyond all years.  Qyzida was witch queen of the faery realm, and had their magick at her beck and call.  But who, just who was the fifth to share, to contribute their magick to make Chalandor come alive, complete and unbreakable?  As she stood watching the sun sinking ever lower on the horizon through the ancient glass of the kitchen window, she could hear Geode’s words from the library now echoing in her head�?/SPAN>

 

 

As she listened to the words in her head, she could hear herself say to the now rising moon, “O dear Lord and Lady, we beseech thee, impart upon us thy knowledge of the fifth, so we may rescue that which is dear to our hearts, and is now within our grasp, from the clutches of the Dark One.  So Mote It Be!�?SPAN>  “So Mote It Be!�?echoed the rest, now standing solemnly around Lady Majyk in a circle.

As Bekon's eyes gazed at the claw marks on Fyre's chest, indignation and outrage welled to overflowing within him.

Fyre waved his hand weakly to get Bekon to look at him in the eye.

As their eyes met, their minds met and in a twinkling the entire episode of the past few days was transfered.

 

Bekon was a mix of inconcievable astonishment, and overwhelming amusement at the vision of what had transpired. Humans dabbling in dragon magick was very tricky if not downright dangerous, and the follies that had been a result made him want to bellow out in laughter, yet the the relief that no one was dead, especially Fyre was such that the old dragon could only shake his head.

 

Dirk, Aaron, and Will still paralyzed by the Dragons spell could only stare in fear wondering what the Sky Lord would do.

Bekon turned slowly to the humans and lowering his brows he spoke in a firm and commanding tone.

 

"I suppose allowances should be made for good intentions, but I cannot stress too strongly the dire consequences of what could have happened, and what still MAY happen, as a result of what has gone on here."

All three of the men's bowels were noticeably weaker as Bekon turned back to Fyre.

"We must go now."

Fyre managed, barely, to utter the words, "All of us."

Bekon looked at him askance, and eyed the men out of the corner of his eyes. "You sure?"

"yes, please!" Fyre replied weakly.

"Very well!", Bekon turned to the men, "Close your eyes and ears!"

 

All three men frantically slapped their hands over their ears and squinched their eyes tight without pause or question, too afraid to dare a peek when they felt a whirlwind engulf them.

 

It seemed like both an eternity and a twinkling before the winds stopped and the earth seemed solid again beneath their feet.

 

The ground quaked as Bekon stepped near and touched each of them to let them know they could open their eyes and relax again.

 

What they saw was beyond comprehension. Instead of being in the Briarwood forests ankle deep in mud and freezing, they were standing in a courtyard of a castle all in the same positions they were standing in in the forest, complete with horses and wagon!

 

A door burst open to a bevy of folk running toward them all calling out Fyre's name and cheering!

Dirk reflexedly grasped his sword and as the sound of it becoming unsheathed met Bekons ears, he just as quickly loosed it at the scowl and snort from Bekons nostrils, raising his hands in a surrendering pose.

 

Lady Majyk and Qyzida both climbed, fairly LEAPED into the wagon bed, followed by Lilly and begun asking a dozen questions, touching and examining Fyre from head to toe in deep concern.

 

Fyre was at first startled by the sudden jouncing, then seeing Qyzida's face looming over his he smiled and was overcome with a sense of relief he hadn't felt in ages, and quietly passed out.

 

He was home again, thank the Goddess.