The Blood of a Dragon

Chapter Eighteen

Despite the discomforts of his hiding place in the bushes along the riverbank, Dumery kept dozing off, only waking when he started to fall forward, branches scraping his face.

Each time he would jerk himself back up to a sitting position and stare wildly about before settling back down to watch the door of the inn.

Finally, about mid-morning, the man in brown, the dragon-hunter, emerged. He was wearing his brown leather outfit again, not the more ordinary clothes he had had on when he had left the Inn at the Bridge and boarded theSunlit Meadows.

He stepped out, turned to his right, and marched across the verandah to the steps at the north end. He trotted down the steps without any hesitation, turned again, and strode off to the east, down the main road of the tiny riverside village, away from the inn and toward the mountains.

Dumery scrambled from concealment and followed.

He had had enough of secrecy. He had every intention of running right up to this Kensher person and announcing himself, and then demanding an apprenticeship. After all, Dumery had followed the man all the way from safe, familiar Ethshar out into the wilds of Sardiron-didn’t that prove his resolution? Didn’t that show how determined he was? Wouldn’t that be enough to impressanyone?

Dumery tripped over a branch and fell sprawling. He picked himself up quickly and looked ahead.

Kensher was already well down the road, almost out the far end of the village-if the tiny collection of buildings qualified as a village; being a city boy, Dumery was not sure just how small a village could get and still deserve the name.

The dragon-hunter was walking along quickly, in the brisk, determined stride of a man who knows exactly where he’s going and who wants to get there. Dumery broke into a run.

Tired as he was, he couldn’t sustain it, and after a hundred feet, when he was scarcely past the inn’s stables, he slowed to a stumbling trot. Halfway through the village, as he passed through the rush of warm air from the smithy, that became a walk.

Well, Dumery told himself, he’d catch up eventually. The man would have to stop and rest sometime.

Stopping to rest sounded like an absolutely wonderful idea, but he knew he didn’t dare do that.

But maybe just aminute wouldn’t hurt.

But he didn’t dare lose sight of Kensher!

He trudged on, and on, out of the village, out of sight of the village, past the farms that lined the river, up into the hills and forests where the road narrowed to a trail, and when at last, despite the best his tired legs could do, hedid lose sight of Kensher, he collapsed in a heap by the side of the road. Promising himself he would only rest for a moment, the better to run on and catch up to the dragon-hunter, he immediately fell asleep.

When he awoke, he sat up and looked around, puzzled.

Wherewas he, anyway?

He was sitting in a pile of dead leaves in the midst of a forest, beside a trail that seemed to wander aimlessly through the trees. The ground was uneven; it sloped in various directions. The air seemed unseasonably cool. The sun was sending slanting light down through the leaves, leaves that spattered the ground with shadow, and Dumery, upon consideration, decided that the sun must be in the west.

That gave him a sense of direction. The road ran east and west; to the east it sloped up and over the crest of a hill, while to the west it sloped gently downward and, by the look of it, into a valley.

Dumery’s mind gradually cleared, and he remembered the little village by the river, the desperate chase after Kensher Kinner’s son, through the village and into the forest and all along that valley and on up here, to where the road had wound up and over the hill and out of sight and he, Dumery, had finally collapsed.

There was no sign of Kensher, of course.

Frustration and lingering fatigue caught up with him, and Dumery burst out crying.

When that was over, he stood up, brushed himself off as best he could, and thought about what he should do.

Back down the valley lay the village and the river, and somewhere downstream-a hundred leagues? More?-lay Azrad’s Bridge, and the road back to Ethshar and home.

Up the slope lay-what?

Kensher’s home camp might be just across the hill; why not? After all, this was a Sardironese forest; wouldn’t there be dragons around?

That was a disturbing thought, and Dumery immediately reconsidered.

No, there wouldn’t be. He was still too close to the river, the village, and civilization in general.

All the same, he owed it to himself to go on. Surely, it couldn’t be much farther! And to come all this way and then give up-that would be ridiculous.

His brothers would never let him live it down.

At the very least he should take a look over the summit, he told himself.

He wiped his eyes, looked around, and, seeing nothing dangerous, he marched on, up the hill.

At the crest he stopped and looked. There was the road, winding down the other slope-to a fork. Dumery stared at it in dismay.

Which way had Kensher gone? Which fork had he taken? Was there any way to tell?

These questions got Dumery thinking, and he realized that he didn’t know whether Kensher was still on the road at all. The man was a dragon-hunter, and therefore he was surely an expert woodsman and dweller in wilderness. He wouldn’t need roads. He might have gone off the road anywhere.

Dumery would probablynever find him, then.

But if one dragon-hunter worked in this area, maybe others did, as well. At the next village he came to he could ask, or if he found no villages, then a house or even a camp-somebodylived out here, or there wouldn’t be a road, let alone a fork. The locals would know about dragon-hunters in the area.

He didn’t need to apprentice himself specifically to Kensher;any dragon-hunter would do, really.

And he might yet catch up to Kensher. If hehad stayed on the road, maybe there would be some way to tell which fork he had taken. The ground around the fork in the road looked soft; there might be footprints, and Dumery hadn’t seen any sign of anyone else on the trail.

He made his way down to the fork, where the earth was, to Dumery’s delight, damp. Then he knelt down and studied the ground.

The left fork, which led eastward, showed fresh footprints in the soft, moist earth; the right fork, which veered off to the south, did not.

Dumery took the left fork and marched on, over the next hill.

And the next hill.

And the next.

And there, at last, he came across a house.

It was a rather peculiar house, by Dumery’s standards, being built entirely of heavy, tarred timbers, with no plaster, no stonework, no fancywork of any kind. The hinges on doors and shutters were simple iron straps. It was set back from the road, among the trees; behind it Dumery could see a few small outbuildings built of grey, weathered planks, and a gigantic woodpile. There were no signs of life.

Still, it was a house, and Dumery was delighted to see it. He quickened his pace-not to a run, he couldn’t manage that, but to a brisk walk-and hurried up to the door.

He knocked, and waited.

No one answered, and he knocked again.

“Setsh tukul?” a voice called from inside-a woman’s voice.

“Hello!” Dumery called. “Is anyone home?”

The door opened, and a woman looked out-not an old woman, by any means, but one past the full flower of her youth. Her hair was light brown, with no trace of gray, and her skin was still smooth, but there were lines at the corners of her eyes and a certain hardness to her face. She wore a plain brown skirt and a tan tunic, and held a heavy iron fireplace poker.

“Kha bakul t’dnai shin?” the woman demanded.

“Do you speak Ethsharitic?” Dumery asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Ethsharit?” she said. “Ie den norakh Ethsharit. Ha d’noresh Sardironis?”

Dumery could make nothing of that, but he correctly concluded that in fact the woman didnot speak Ethsharitic.

Surely, though, she might know a few words.

“Dragon hunters?” Dumery asked. “I’m looking for dragon hunters.”

She glared at him. “Ie den norakh Ethsharit,” she said. “D’gash, d’gash!” She gestured for him to leave.

“Dragon hunters!” Dumery repeated. “Please!”

“D’gash!” She pointed angrily at the road.

Desperately, Dumery tried, “Kensher Kinner’s son?”

She paused, peered down at him. “Kensher?” she asked. “Kensherfin Kinnerl?”

Dumery nodded, hoping that she meant the man he was looking for, and that he hadn’t accidentally spoken some inappropriate Sardironese phrase.

She shook her head. “Da khor,” she said. “Pa-khorú.” She pointed down the road in the direction Dumery had been traveling.

Dumery had no idea what the words meant, but the gesture was clear. “That way?” he said. “Thank you, lady! Thank you!” He bowed, and backed away.

She stood and watched until he was back on the highway and heading east again.

Then she stepped inside and slammed the door.

Dumery trudged onward, wondering how far back into these wild hills Kensher was going to go.

Surely, if the woman knew the name, Kensher’s home couldn’t betoo much farther.

Dumery passed five more houses before night fell, and knocked at each one; three were apparently unoccupied, but at the other two a scene similar to his first attempt was repeated-Dumery would ask questions in Ethsharitic, and receive uncomprehending and incomprehensible replies in Sardironese. At one house even the name Kensher evoked no response, and he gave up and went on; at the other, the name elicited immediate recognition and careful directions, using gestures. Dumery took a moment to grasp that when the man there held out his first two fingers, spread wide apart, while pointing with his other hand, that it represented a fork in the road ahead.

Once he had that, though, the crossed index fingers for a crossroads seemed obvious, and running another finger along to show which fork to take, or drawing an imaginary left turn in the air, was clear enough.

The man gave Dumery a list of four forks and two crossroads, which Dumery carefully memorized.

Surely, he thought, it wouldn’t be long now! He marched on almost merrily, and even whistled for a moment or two.

He stopped, however, because it made him notice the cold more when he blew all that air out. The weather had very definitely turned colder-or perhaps it was because he was far to the north, and spring came later here.

Cold or not, though, he expected to find Kensher’s home shortly.

By sunset he hadn’t even reached the first fork.

Not long after he stopped at a marker stone, bearing an inscription he couldn’t make out in the failing light, and decided that he needed to rest. He couldn’t go on in the dark; he might wander off the road or get himself eaten by wolves. Besides, he was exhausted.

He was hungry, too, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He would go on in the morning, he decided.

He spent the night curled up by the road, shivering with the cold and listening to his stomach growl. In the stories he’d heard when he was younger the heroes had wandered about in forests for years, living off nuts and berries and roots, picking fruit from the trees-but he could see no nuts or berries or fruit and the roots were mostly well-hidden, while those that weren’t looked quite surprisingly unappetizing.

Water was no problem; there were streams and pools all through the hills, especially along the valleys between ridges. It was often dirty, stagnant and foul-tasting, but it was water.

Food, though, he could not find.

He had chewed a few stalks of grass as he walked, but that was not really satisfying. He had eaten reasonably well on the barge, but he hadn’t eatenat all since coming ashore, except for the grass, and he was beginning to wonder how long it took to starve to death.

Some of the houses he had passed had had gardens, and he wondered if he might do well to backtrack until he found one and pick a few things, but it was too early in the year for much of anything to be ripe yet, and he didn’t like the idea of stealing.

Besides, it was getting dark very rapidly, and he was afraid he’d lose the trail if he tried to go anywhere.

When he awoke the sun was already high up the eastern sky; his discomfort had kept him awake well after he should have slept, but once asleep his exhaustion had taken over. He rose quickly and started on toward the east once again, but almost immediately began to think about turning back and searching for food, maybe going back to the house where he had gotten directions and begging. That man had seemed kind; surely, he would feed a hungry stranger!

This idea grew steadily more appealing for almost half an hour. Then he topped the next ridge and reconsidered.

Ahead of him, at a fork in the road that was surely the first of the four he had been told about, stood an inn.

It had to be an inn. It was much larger than any of the houses he had seen out here in the wilderness, with a large, cleared yard, and a stable attached at one end. The main building was all wood, but decorated with carvings and paint in a way that none of the houses had been. A large herb and vegetable garden spread across the hillside to the rear, with a wellhouse at one back corner and what appeared to be the roof of an icehouse at the other. A signboard hung over the door.

If he had only gone on a little farther in the darkness-but that didn’t matter now. Dumery staggered happily down the slope; surely, his six bits would buysomething edible here!

When he got closer he saw that the signboard showed a pine tree splitting in half from the top down, with a jagged yellow line in the center of the split that extended up to the top of the wooden panel-lightning, Dumery guessed.

That hardly seemed like a favorable omen, but Dumery didn’t really believe in omens in everyday life.

The front door was open, and Dumery tottered in without hesitation. He found a chair and fell into it, and hauled his few pitiful coins out of his purse.

“Ukhur ie t’yelakh?”

Dumery looked up at the serving maid who stood over him; he had been too busy with his money to notice her approach.

“Do you speak Ethsharitic?” he asked, depressingly certain that she would not.

“Ethsharit?” she asked. “D’losh. Shenda!” This last word was shouted in the direction of the kitchens.

Another, older serving maid appeared in reply. “Uhu?” she asked.

“Da burei gorn Ethsharit.” With that, the younger woman turned and headed for the kitchen, while the older one emerged to take her place.

“Yes, sir?” the new arrival asked.

“You speak Ethsharitic?” Dumery asked, amazed and pleased.

“Yes, sir. What would you like?” Although she spoke politely, Dumery saw her looking askance at the rags he wore.

“I haven’t eaten in two days,” Dumery said. “This is all the money I have left. May I have something to eat? Anything?”

She looked at the coins and considered. “I think we can manage something,” she said. Dumery noticed she had only a very slight Sardironese accent.

She turned and headed for the kitchen, and Dumery sat, waiting nervously.

She emerged a few moments later with a platter and set it before him.

He stared, mouth watering.

There were soft brown rolls, and two green apples, and white-streaked orange cheese, and the remains of a chicken-the legs were gone, and the breast meat stripped away, but one wing was still there, and Dumery could see a fair bit of meat still on the bones.

“Left-overs from breakfast,” the serving maid explained. “Four bits.”

Hand shaking with anticipation, Dumery pushed over four of his six coins and began eating. The thought of haggling didn’t even occur to him.

The rolls were still good, only slightly stale, but the apples weren’t anywhere near ripe, the white streaks on the cheese were an unpleasant mold, and the chicken was cold and greasy.

All the same, to Dumery it was all ineffably delicious. When he was done nothing remained on the platter but chicken bones and the stems and seeds of the apples.

He sat back, hands on his stomach, enjoying the sensation of repletion.

The serving maid reappeared at his side.

“Are you a warlock?” she asked. “You look so young!”

“No, I’m not a warlock,” Dumery replied, mystified. He stared up at her for a moment, then asked, “Should I be?”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, well, most of the people who come here who have forgotten to eat for long periods are warlocks.”

“I didn’tforget,” Dumery said, flabberghasted by the very concept of forgetting to eat, “I just didn’t have any food!” He continued to stare up at her.

She stared back. Dumery grew uncomfortable.

“Why would... I mean, do a lot of warlocks come here?” he asked. He couldn’t see any reason they would; while the inn was pleasant enough, he saw nothing magical about it.

“Sometimes,” she replied.

“Why?” Dumery asked, puzzled.

She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “They don’t talk much. They’re always headed southeast, down the main highway. Usually they fly.”

This news did not set very well with Dumery. “Southeast, down the main highway” described his own intended route. The idea of encountering several warlocks along the way wasn’t appealing. If he couldn’t be a magician himself, he preferred not to deal with them at all until he could somehow hold his own.

“Just warlocks?” he asked. “What about wizards, or sorcerers?”

“No, just warlocks,” the woman said. “I’ve never even met a sorcerer, and it’s been years since a wizard’s stopped here.” She paused, then added, “I met a demonologist once when I was a little girl, but that wasn’t anywhere near here.”

“Oh,” Dumery said. He thought for a moment.

He couldn’t think of any reason that warlocks would want to travel the area, but then, he didn’t know much about warlockry.

It didn’t really concern him, he decided.

He would want to stay out of the way of any warlocks he encountered, of course-not just now, but always. Warlocks had a nasty reputation. Being a dragon-hunter and demanding piles of gold for dragon’s blood would give him a way to get back at wizards, but warlocks used no potions or spells; even a dragon-hunter wouldn’t impress them.

But on the other hand, they would have no reason to bother him. He was harmless enough, and his business wouldn’t interfere with theirs.

And now that he thought about his business, he had another question for the serving maid.

“Um...” Dumery said, “I’m looking for an apprenticeship to a dragon-hunter. Would you know of any around here who might be interested?”

The woman blinked, and thought for a moment.

“I don’t think I do,” she said. “Of course, there aren’t very many dragons right around here; they’re mostly to the east, up in the mountains. Or north. Or south. There are certainly dragon-hunters in Aldagmor, but I don’t know where.”

“Where’s Aldagmor?” Dumery asked.

She stared. “Here, of course!”

“I thought this was Sardiron,” Dumery said, puzzled.

“It is.”

“But you said...”

“The gods help you, boy, Aldagmor ispart of Sardiron! Or at least, it’s part of the Baronies of Sardiron.”

“Oh,” said Dumery. “It’s one of the Baronies?”

“The largest of them,” the woman replied.

“How many are there?” Dumery asked. “I mean, there are three Ethshars, and everyone knows that because it’s called the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, but how many baronies are there?”

“I have no idea,” she replied. “I think it varies-barons can divide their lands up between heirs, and sometimes a marriage will merge two of them. Right now, well, there’s Sardiron of the Waters, of course, where the Council meets, and there’s Tazmor, which is east of the mountains and the richest of them all, and Srigmor, in the north, except much of it’s abandoned, and The Passes, where the highways cross the mountains into Tazmor, and then there are all the Lesser Baronies along the river, Hakhai and Tselmin and Takranna and the rest...I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Dumery said again.

“We’re in the North Riding of Aldagmor here,” she volunteered, after a moment of awkward silence. “Though I think it’s actually more to the west than to the north of the others. You crossed the boundary about a mile back, if you came up the highway from the river-didn’t you see the marker stone?”

Dumery remembered where he had slept the night before. “I didn’t read it,” he admitted.

This was all very interesting, he thought, but they were getting further and further from what he really wanted to know.

“So you don’t know where I can find a dragon-hunter who needs an apprentice?”

he asked.

“No,” she said, “I’m afraid not.”

Dumery sighed, then asked his next question. “Do you know a man named Kensher Kinner’s son?”

She stared at him. “Why, yes,” she said. “He stayed here last night.”

“Hedid?” Dumery yelped.

“Yes, he did,” she confirmed. “He comes by about four times a year, and he has for as long as I can remember. Everyone along the road knows him; he always has a good word for everyone he sees. You’re not from around here, though; do you know him?”

“Sort of,” Dumery said, while cursing himself for not pressing on the night before. He had been so close!

“Well, he just left, oh, half an hour before you got here, at most. Maybe if you hurry, you can catch him on the road.”

“Maybe,” Dumery said, looking at the platter of chicken bones and wishing he’d stuffed the food in his pocket to eat on the road instead of wasting time at the inn. “I’d better get going.” He rose, put his last two bits in his purse, and headed for the door.

“Good luck!” the maid called after him as he rushed out. He didn’t take time to answer, A moment later, though, Dumery’s head re-appeared in the doorway. “Which road did he take?” he called.

The servant pointed. “That one,” she said, indicating the right fork.

That was in agreement with the gestured directions Dumery had gotten the night before. The boy nodded, turned, and ran.