“There’s only one thing to say: vengeance!”
The warband shouted back the word. “Vengeance!” rolled across the farmlands to echo back from the distant cliffs.
As they walked back to their horses, they passed the corpse of the Horsekin warrior, left sprawled in the open air for the ravens as a final insult. Salamander paused for a moment to contemplate him, and Gerran stopped to see what the gerthddyn was up to.
“Doesn’t this strike you as odd, Captain?” Salamander said. “The Horsekin never leave their dead behind.”
“So I’ve heard, truly,” Gerran said. “He was killed by a farmer, though. Maybe they see that as a dishonor.”
“Maybe, but I have my doubts. And then they didn’t finish searching the village. I wonder, I truly do.”
“Searching?”
“Why else line up the dead? Were they trying to make sure they’d killed everyone or was it mayhap a certain person they wanted dead? I don’t know, mind. I’m merely considering possibilities.”
The warband camped that evening a spare mile downriver from the ruins, just far enough to leave the smell of the dead village behind. The missing villager never appeared, even though they built campfires in the hopes of drawing his attention should he be hiding nearby. On the chance that the raiders were lingering out to the west, Gerran doubled the usual number of sentries. He also had his men hobble their horses as well as tethering them, a precaution that proved wise on the morrow.
Toward dawn Gerran woke abruptly. He could have sworn that he’d heard someone calling his name. He sat up in his blankets and looked around, but in the cold gray light of first dawn he saw nothing but the sleeping camp. He pulled on his boots and got up, buckling on his sword belt. He was planning on relieving the sentries out by the tethered horses, but when he glanced at the river, he saw Salamander standing on the bank. He picked his way through the sleeping men and walked down to join the gerthddyn.
“You’re up early,” Gerran said.
“I am, and so are you.” Salamander glanced at him and smiled, then returned to staring out across the river.
“Someone out there?”
“Not a Horsekin in sight, but look, there’s some odd thing in the sky. A flock of ravens perhaps, most deeply grieved with us for burying their gruesome feast.”
Gerran looked up to see, far off to the west, a flock of birds flying toward them in the brightening dawn. Or was it a flock? He heard a distant sound, a thwack and slap like a hand hitting a slack leather drum. The supposed flock looked remarkably like one bird, one enormous bird, flying steadily on huge silver wings. The sound swelled into a boom as the enormous wings carried the creature straight for them. He could see its long neck, its massive head with flaring nostrils and deep-set eyes, the silver scales touched about the head and spiked tail with iridescent blue, glimmering in the rising sun.
“It can’t be,” Gerran muttered. “Ye gods, it is! It’s a dragon!”
Behind him the camp exploded with noise—men yelling and cursing, horses whinnying in terror. Gerran knew he should turn and rush back, should impose some kind of order or at the least guard the horses, but he stayed, staring at the huge silver wyrm. It was so strong, so powerful, and beautiful, as well, in his warrior’s eyes, with the sun glistening on its smooth skin, stretched and supple over immense muscles. It reached the river, dipped one wing, then sheared off, heading north. On its side, just below the wing’s set, Gerran saw a smear of reddish black—old blood from a wound.
“Rhodry!” Salamander started yelling at the top of his lungs. “I mean, blast it, Rori! It’s me, Ebañy! Rori, come back! Rhod—I mean Rori! Wait!”
Screaming like a madman, waving his arms, Salamander raced down the riverbank, but the dragon flapped his wings in a deafening drumbeat and rose high, banking again to head back west. Gerran set his hands on his
The warband shouted back the word. “Vengeance!” rolled across the farmlands to echo back from the distant cliffs.
As they walked back to their horses, they passed the corpse of the Horsekin warrior, left sprawled in the open air for the ravens as a final insult. Salamander paused for a moment to contemplate him, and Gerran stopped to see what the gerthddyn was up to.
“Doesn’t this strike you as odd, Captain?” Salamander said. “The Horsekin never leave their dead behind.”
“So I’ve heard, truly,” Gerran said. “He was killed by a farmer, though. Maybe they see that as a dishonor.”
“Maybe, but I have my doubts. And then they didn’t finish searching the village. I wonder, I truly do.”
“Searching?”
“Why else line up the dead? Were they trying to make sure they’d killed everyone or was it mayhap a certain person they wanted dead? I don’t know, mind. I’m merely considering possibilities.”
The warband camped that evening a spare mile downriver from the ruins, just far enough to leave the smell of the dead village behind. The missing villager never appeared, even though they built campfires in the hopes of drawing his attention should he be hiding nearby. On the chance that the raiders were lingering out to the west, Gerran doubled the usual number of sentries. He also had his men hobble their horses as well as tethering them, a precaution that proved wise on the morrow.
Toward dawn Gerran woke abruptly. He could have sworn that he’d heard someone calling his name. He sat up in his blankets and looked around, but in the cold gray light of first dawn he saw nothing but the sleeping camp. He pulled on his boots and got up, buckling on his sword belt. He was planning on relieving the sentries out by the tethered horses, but when he glanced at the river, he saw Salamander standing on the bank. He picked his way through the sleeping men and walked down to join the gerthddyn.
“You’re up early,” Gerran said.
“I am, and so are you.” Salamander glanced at him and smiled, then returned to staring out across the river.
“Someone out there?”
“Not a Horsekin in sight, but look, there’s some odd thing in the sky. A flock of ravens perhaps, most deeply grieved with us for burying their gruesome feast.”
Gerran looked up to see, far off to the west, a flock of birds flying toward them in the brightening dawn. Or was it a flock? He heard a distant sound, a thwack and slap like a hand hitting a slack leather drum. The supposed flock looked remarkably like one bird, one enormous bird, flying steadily on huge silver wings. The sound swelled into a boom as the enormous wings carried the creature straight for them. He could see its long neck, its massive head with flaring nostrils and deep-set eyes, the silver scales touched about the head and spiked tail with iridescent blue, glimmering in the rising sun.
“It can’t be,” Gerran muttered. “Ye gods, it is! It’s a dragon!”
Behind him the camp exploded with noise—men yelling and cursing, horses whinnying in terror. Gerran knew he should turn and rush back, should impose some kind of order or at the least guard the horses, but he stayed, staring at the huge silver wyrm. It was so strong, so powerful, and beautiful, as well, in his warrior’s eyes, with the sun glistening on its smooth skin, stretched and supple over immense muscles. It reached the river, dipped one wing, then sheared off, heading north. On its side, just below the wing’s set, Gerran saw a smear of reddish black—old blood from a wound.
“Rhodry!” Salamander started yelling at the top of his lungs. “I mean, blast it, Rori! It’s me, Ebañy! Rori, come back! Rhod—I mean Rori! Wait!”
Screaming like a madman, waving his arms, Salamander raced down the riverbank, but the dragon flapped his wings in a deafening drumbeat and rose high, banking again to head back west. Gerran set his hands on his
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