Dragon Wing

18

“I’ve come this far. What do I do now?”

Limbeck wiped his hand over his sweating forehead, rubbed his fingers under the wire rims of the spectacles that kept slipping down his nose. The god was in pretty bad shape, or so Limbeck thought, being uncertain as to the physical properties of gods. That deep gash on the head would have been critical in a Geg, and Limbeck had no choice but to assume it was critical in a god.

“The help-hand!”

Limbeck jumped up and, with a backward glance at the comatose god and his very remarkable dog, the Geg scrambled up the side of the crater. Reaching the edge, he saw all the dig-claws hard at work. The noise was ear-splitting—gouging and scraping, creaking and screeching: all very comforting to the Geg. Looking up quickly, ascertaining that there were no more dig-claws coming down, Limbeck crawled out of the crater and ran back to his own pit.

It was logical to assume that whatever WUPP Geg found the L mark on the dig-claw would send down the help-hand to the same location or as near as he or she could get. Of course, there was every possibility that no one had seen the L, or that they couldn’t get the help-hand ready in time, or countless other dire Occurrences. Running along, tripping and stumbling over the heaps of broken coralite, Limbeck tried to prepare himself to accept without disappointment the fact that no help-hand would be there.

But it was.

The wave of relief that broke over Limbeck when he saw the help-hand sitting on the ground right near his pit nearly drowned the Geg. His knees went weak; he grew light-headed and had to sit down a moment to recover. His first thought was to hurry, for the dig-claws were about to rise again. Staggering to his feet, he headed back for the crater at a run. His legs informed him in no uncertain terms that they were on the verge of rebellion against this unusual amount of exercise. Pausing a moment for the pain to subside, Limbeck reflected that he probably didn’t have to hurry after all. Surely they wouldn’t bring up the help-hand until they were certain he was in it.

The pain drained from his legs but seemed to take all his strength with it. His limbs felt six times heavier than normal, and in addition, instead of his legs supporting him, Limbeck had the distinct impression that he was dragging them along. Wearily, stumbling and falling, he made his slow way back to the crater. He slid down the sides almost reluctantly, certain that, in his absence, the god-who-wasn’t had died.

The god was still breathing, however. The dog, huddled as closely as possible next to its master’s body, had rested its head on the god’s chest, its eyes keeping watch over the pallid, blood-covered face.

The thought of dragging the god’s heavy body up out of the crater and across the cracked and pitted landscape sank Limbeck’s heart and left his spirits as heavy as his legs.

“I can’t do it,” he muttered, collapsing next to the god, his head resting on his propped-up knees. “I don’t think ... I can even make it back . . . myself!”

His spectacles steamed up from the vast heat he had worked up. Sweat chilled on his body. Adding another blow to his already numb mind and body, a rumble of thunder indicated a storm brewing. Limbeck didn’t care. Just as long as he didn’t have to get to his feet again.

“But this god-who-isn’t will prove you were right!” nagged that irritating voice. “At last you will have the power to persuade the Gegs that they’ve been deluded, used as slaves. This could be the dawning of a new day for your people! This could start the revolution!”

The revolution! Limbeck lifted his head. He couldn’t see a thing, due to the mist over his spectacles, but that didn’t matter.

He wasn’t looking at his surroundings anyway. He was back on Drevlin, the Gegs were cheering him. What was even more beautiful, they were doing as he advised.

They were asking “why”!

Limbeck could never afterward clearly recall the next harrowing span of time. He remembered that he tore up his shirt to make a crude bandage to wrap around the head of the god. He remembered glancing askance at the dog, being uncertain how the dog would react to anyone moving its master. He remembered that the dog licked his hand and looked at him with its liquid eyes and stood aside, watching anxiously as the Geg lifted the limp body of the god and began hauling him up the side of the crater. After that, Limbeck remembered nothing but aching muscles and sobbing for breath and dragging himself and the body a few feet, then collapsing, then crawling forward, then collapsing, then struggling on again.

The dig-claws went back up into the sky, though the Geg never noticed. The storm broke, increasing his terror, for he knew that they could not hope to survive its full fury out in the open. He was forced to remove his spectacles, and between his myopia, the blinding rain, and the gathering gloom, Limbeck lost sight of the help-hand. He could only keep traveling in what he hoped was the general direction.

More than once, Limbeck thought the god was dead, for the rain chilled the body, the lips turned blue, the skin ashen. The rain had washed away the blood, and the Geg could see the deep and ugly-looking head wound, a thin trickle of red oozing from it. But the god still breathed.

Perhaps he is immortal, Limbeck thought dazedly.

The Geg knew that he was lost. He knew that he had traveled halfway across this blasted isle at least. They had missed the help-hand, or perhaps the help-hand, growing tired of waiting, had gone back up. The storm was worsening. Lightning flared around them, blasting holes in the coralite and deafening Limbeck with the concussive thunder. The wind kept him flattened to the ground-not that the Geg had the strength to stand. He was about to crawl into a pit and escape the storm (or die, if he was lucky) when he noticed blearily that the pit he was contemplating was his pit! There was the broken wooden frame of the wings. And there was the help-hand!

Hope lent the Geg strength. He made it to his feet. Buffeted by wind, he nevertheless managed to drag the god the last few remaining feet. Lowering the god to the ground, Limbeck opened the door to the glass bubble and looked curiously inside.

The help-hand had been designed to allow the Gegs to come to the assistance of the dig-claws, should that be necessary. Occasionally a claw got stuck in the coralite, or broke, or malfunctioned. When this occurred, a Geg entered the help-hand and was lowered down onto one of the isles to effect repairs. The help-hand looked like what it was named—a gigantic hand made of metal that had been severed at the wrist. A cable attached to the wrist allowed the hand to be raised and lowered from above. The hand was slightly cupped; thumb and fingers forged together, it held in its secure grip a large protective glass bubble in which rode the repair Gegs. A hinged door allowed entrance and egress, and a brass horn, attached to a tube that ran back up the cable, permitted the Gegs to communicate with those above.

Two stout Gegs could fit comfortably inside the glass bubble. The god, being considerably taller than a Geg, presented a problem. Limbeck dragged the god over to the bubble and thrust him inside. The god’s legs hung out over the edge. The Geg finally fit in the god, tucking his legs up so that the knees rested against his chin and folding his arms over his chest. Limbeck climbed in wearily himself, and the dog jumped in after. It would be a tight fit with all three of them, but Limbeck wasn’t about to leave the dog behind—not again. He didn’t think he could stand the shock of seeing it come back from the dead a second time.

The dog curled itself up against the body of its master. Limbeck, reaching over the god’s limp form, struggled against the roaring wind in a futile effort to shut the glass door. The wind whipped around to attack from another direction, and suddenly the door slammed shut on its own, throwing Limbeck back against the side of the bubble. For long moments he lay there, panting and groaning.

Limbeck could feel the hand rock and quake in the storm. He had visions of it breaking, snapping off the cable, and suddenly the Geg wanted only one thing—to get off this rock. It took a supreme effort of will to move, but Limbeck managed to reach over and grasp the horn.

“Up!” he gasped.

No response, and he realized that they must not be able to hear him. Drawing in a lungful of air, Limbeck closed his eyes and concentrated all his waning strength.

“Up!” he yelled so loudly that the dog sprang to its feet in alarm, the god stirred and groaned.

“Xplf wuf?” came a voice, the words rattling down the tube like a handful of pebbles.

“Up!” Limbeck shrieked in exasperation, desperation, and sheer panic. The help-hand gave a tremendous lurch that would have knocked the Geg off his feet had he been on them. As it was, he was already scrunched up against the side to allow room for the god. Slowly, with an alarming creaking sound, swinging back and forth in the gale winds, the help-hand began to rise into the air.

Trying not to think what would happen now if the cable snapped, Limbeck leaned back against the side of the bubble, dosed his eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t be sick.

Unfortunately, closing his eyes made him dizzy. He felt himself spinning round and round, about to fall into a deep black pit.

“This won’t do,” said Limbeck shakily. “I can’t pass out. I’ve got to explain to them up above what’s going on.”

The Geg opened his eyes and—to keep from looking out—set himself to studying the god. He had, he realized, thought of the creature as male. At least it looked more like a male Geg than a female Geg, which was all Limbeck had to go on. The god’s face was rough-cut: a square, cleft chin covered with a stubbly growth of beard; firm lips, tightly drawn, tightly closed, never relaxing, appearing to guard secrets that he would take with him to death. A few fine lines around the eyes seemed to indicate that the god, though not an old man, was no youngster. The hair, too, added an impression of age. It was cut short—very short—and though matted with blood and rain-soaked, Limbeck could see patches of pure white at the temples, above the forehead, and around the back where it grew at the base of the neck. The god’s body seemed made of nothing but bones and muscle and sinew. He was thin—by Geg standards, too thin.

“That’s probably why he’s wearing so many clothes,” said Limbeck to himself, trying hard not to look out the sides of the bubble, where lightning strikes were making the stormy night brighter than any day the Gegs, in their sunless world, ever knew.

The god wore a thick leather tunic over a shirt with a drawstring collar that encircled his throat. He had wrapped a strip of cloth around his neck, the ends tied in a knot at the base of his throat and thrust into the tunic. The shirt’s long, full sleeves covered his wrists; drawstrings held them fast. Soft leather trousers were tucked into knee-high boots that fastened up the sides of the legs with buttons made of what appeared to be the horn of some animal. Over all this, he wore a long collarless coat with wide sleeves that came to the elbows. The colors of his clothes were drab-browns and whites, grays and dull black. The fabric was well-worn, frayed in places. The leather tunic, trousers, and boots had softened around the body, fitting it like a second skin.

Most peculiarly, the god wore rags around his hands. Startled by this, which he must have noticed, but hadn’t thought about until now, Limbeck looked at the god’s hands more closely. The rags were skillfully applied. Wrapping around the wrist, they covered the back of the hand and the palm and were twined around the base of the fingers and thumb.

“Why?” Limbeck wondered, and reached forward to find out. The dog’s growl was filled with such menace that Limbeck felt the hair rise on his head. The animal had jumped to its feet and was gazing at the Geg with a look that said plainly, “I’d leave my master alone, if I were you.”

“Right,” Limbeck gulped. He shrank back against the side of the bubble. The dog gave him an approving glance. Settling itself more comfortably, it even closed its eyes, as much as to say, “I know you’ll behave now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a short nap.”

The dog was right. Limbeck was going to behave. He was paralyzed, afraid to move, almost scared to breathe.

The practical-minded Gegs liked cats. Cats were useful animals who earned their keep by catching mice and who took care of themselves. The Kicksey-Winsey liked cats, at least so it was supposed, since it had been the creators of the Kicksey-Winsey—the Mangers—who first brought cats down from the realms above to dwell with the Gegs. There were, however, few dogs on Drevlin. Those who kept them were generally the wealthy Gegs—such as the High Froman and members of his clan. The dogs were not pets, but were used to protect the wealth. Gegs would not take each other’s lives, but there were a few who had no aversion at all to taking each other’s property. This dog was different from Geg dogs, which tended to resemble their owners—short-legged, barrel-chested, with round, thick-nosed, flat faces . . . and an expression of vicious stupidity. The dog holding Limbeck at bay was sleek-coated and slim-bodied. It had a longish nose, its face was exceptionally intelligent, and the eyes were large and liquid brown. Its fur was a nondescript black with patches of white on the tips of the ears, and white eyebrows. It was the eyebrows, Limbeck decided, that made the dog’s face unusually expressive for an animal.

Such were Limbeck’s observations of god and beast. They were detailed, because he had a long time to study them during his ride in the help-hand back up to the isle of Drevlin.

And all the time, he couldn’t help wondering: What? . . . Why? . . .