Christopher Rowley - Bazil 06 - Dragons of Argonath

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Dragons of Argonath by

Christopher Rowley

Chapter One

It was the custom in the vale of Valmes for the farmers to harrow their

fields in the spring, after the plow and before they planted. They used

teams of two or four horses to pull the great steel-toothed harrows,

combing the ground and smoothing it out ready for the seed.

When seen from a distance, or even while passing along the lane,

harrowing seems a perfectly tranquil part of farming life—a scene for a

pastoral painting, a poem to the glories of the annual round. But for the

small inhabitants of the fields, the harrow is the most dreaded event of all,

for there is no escape from its fifteen-foot-wide comb of steel points,

dragging through the topsoil. For mice and voles this is bad enough, but

these little fellows are swift-footed and might yet escape. For toads,

slow-hopping, crawling toads, it is certain death.

Thus in Valmes, as in much of old Cunfshon, there was another custom.

The old witches, including all the retired crones, would scour the fields to

gather the toads. For the farmers of Cunfshon, with their fine-tuned

husbandry, were acutely conscious of the beneficial effect of toads, which

consume insects in considerable numbers every growing season.

This was but one of many ways that the old witches, who had gone into

the mystic or simply retired from active service, paid for their upkeep. Of

course, they also fashioned spells to encourage crops and animals, and

they used their arts to drive away flies from house and stable. The benefits

of this last activity were enormous, and many of the diseases that plagued

the world were virtually unknown in Cunfshon.

In Valmes, the witches were aligned to various farms from time

immemorial. Thus old Lessis, now in retirement, was at work that day in

the field of Gelourd, still farmed by folk of that name after seven centuries.

She put a shoulder bag occupied by two dozen disgruntled toads over

the wall and into a barrow. In the next field over, Bertain's, she could see

the old witch Katrice working with an assistant, hauling a cart full of

toads toward the road. It was a fine day, warm enough to require only a

simple shift and sandals, but not so hot as to work up a sweat. Ah, the

toads, the fine rapacious toads, Lessis blessed them silently. She felt their

confusion, they were afraid, poor things, but they were toads that would

survive the morrow, when the harrow would tear through these fields. The

day after that they would be returned to their fields, a simple task that

farmworkers would perform, since all that was required was to open the

bags and dump out the toads, carefully.

At lunch she rested sitting on the stone wall above the field. Behind her

the ridge rose up in a long dun-colored mass. Spread before her was the

town of Valmes, spires and roofs visible amid the trees. The graceful stone

tower of the temple was due north, and the long spine of the temple roof

was visible just behind. It was a well-sited town, with centuries of concern

taken with every detail of place and road. Some black cattle were being

moved up a lane about half a mile distant. Farther away sheep dotted the

hillsides of Big Bank and Chalk Hill. In the sky were a handful of soft white

clouds.

Farmer Gelourd sent out fresh-baked bread, cheese, and fruit to all the

workers in his fields. With the toad collectors he was always free with the

best in his cellar. A good Valmes Reserva was uncorked and poured into

Lessis's plain tin cup. She washed down the good bread and the soft white

cheese, and then ate an apple. The wine was rather too good for her old tin

cup, but Lessis decided that was part of Farmer Gelourd's homage to his

toads—the "worthy little folk" of every well-kept field, who would

annihilate crickets, beetles, and caterpillars.

Lessis enjoyed the moment and gazed over toward the town with

peaceful detachment. She had found retirement even easier to enjoy than

she had imagined. Just worrying about the roof of her house, and the

flowers and fruit trees was enough to fill some days. Add in such duties as

the gathering of toads or the blessing of crops, and she found she had

limited time to devote to the study of the mystic.

Suddenly she noticed a small node of change strike the pastoral scene.

Someone, walking very fast, emerged from the trees on the west farm

road. The figure was instantly at odds with the peace around it, a dot that

emitted a field of tension.

It disappeared from view when the road went around a bend, then

came back into sight, pulling hard up the long slope. At the crossing it

turned onto the lane running up to Gelourd's fields.

Clearly whatever message impelled this person was important.

Now the figure was close enough for Lessis to see that it was exactly

what she had feared, a tall girl in novice blues.

Lessis studied the girl as she came closer and saw a long face, a

determined set to the shoulders, dark hair tied back in a novice bob. The

clothes seemed too big for her, but maybe she would grow into them.

The girl approached her. Lessis's concern grew. Everyone knew that she

had retired. She had served for five hundred years and more, that was

enough. There were other witches with skill. Irene and Melaan could take

up the slack. Lessis had sent enough men to their deaths.

"Excuse me, Lady," the girl curtsied clumsily. She was a little gawky.

"Yes, what is it?" Lessis did not welcome this intrusion.

"Message came for you. Prioress said it was important. Sorry to trouble

you."

A long, long moment of silence. Lessis heard the wind soughing in the

tall grass on the slopes above. The gentle clouds continued to float in the

high blue sky.

"Yes, that's quite all right, child. What is the message?"

"Here, Lady," the girl handed her a pouch containing a tiny scroll, the

specialty of the Imperial message corps. It must have been brought on the

wings of a seagull.

Lessis opened the scroll and read it in a moment. Ribela, the Queen of

Mice, begged her for help. There was something she must do. People she

must visit. The toads squirmed in the bag on the roadside, and Lessis

squirmed at the thought of engaging once more with the world's troubles.

She had set that aside. After five centuries she had earned a decade's rest

before a peaceful death.

But no, it was not to be. Circumstances were not in her favor. Now

Ribela herself, the very Queen of Mice, had begged her to intercede, and

Lessis could not refuse.

Chapter Two

Situated down in the Blue Stone country, Cross Treys camp was an old

legion post, so old the palisade was rotting away in places. The corner

towers were too dangerous to occupy and could fall down in the next stiff

gale. Someday soon a decision would have to be made whether to keep

Cross Treys going or abandon it.

But the main block was still functional, and the Dragon House, though

small, was known to be famously warm in the winter and cool in the

summer. The plunge pool was outdoors, of course, as in most outposts, but

it was paved and the water never got muddy.

That summer Cross Treys was host to the 109th Marneri Dragons,

along with sixty men of the Eighth Regiment, Second Legion and a party

of twelve youngsters who were completing their pre-legion training in the

youth Pioneers.

Cross Treys was regarded as a restful posting, a place for convalescence.

Nothing much happened in Blue Stone that required legion interference.

A minor incident with a troll owner now and then, or an old vendetta in

the western hills might flare up. Bandits occasionally attacked wagons on

the road in Ersoi on the coast, but mostly it was just a quiet routine of

work in the woodlots and helping parties of Imperial Engineers to build

and repair roads and bridges. Dragons actually looked forward to these

projects. They didn't last long, not with ten dragons helping, and wyverns

didn't mind a certain amount of heavy work. It even felt good to dig and

haul stone for a few days. But mainly they liked it because the Imperial

Engineers always had a huge budget for beer. On that score the dragons

were well pleased. Blue Stone brewers specialized in summer wheat beers

that were very popular with the dragons.

Another pleasant aspect of building a new bridge was that the local

people would vie to feed the dragons. Pies, roasts, huge platters of ham,

mounds of hot bread and cheese, the cooks everywhere tried to outdo each

other in feeding the dragons. This could be an expensive process, though

not nearly as expensive as hiring gangs of laborers.

Throughout the Argonath lands, the roads were now paved and usable

year-round. Clean water flowed to every city and town. Sewage was dealt

with sensibly in all major towns. Bridges, walls, canals, ponds, docks,

wherever possible the Imperial Engineers were at work, assisted often by

dragon labor, which made heavy work go very swiftly indeed. Ten wyvern

dragons, equipped with gigantic shovels and steel beams to use as picks

and prods, could cut two hundred yards of canal, ten feet wide and eight

feet deep in a few days, depending on the nature of the ground.

When there wasn't any work, the dragons just lazed around the camp.

They exercised regularly, of course, and worked with their weapons. There

was a drill session at least once a week. Dragon Leader Cuzo insisted on

this. But there was always the plunge pool when they got hot. And in the

evenings there was legion dinner, plain but plentiful, and with it some

legion brew. It was a restful life at Cross Treys.

And it would have been for the 109th, but for the growing rivalry

between dragonboys Swane and Rakama.

Big, long-nosed Swane had been the bully boy in the unit for years. The

brown-haired fellow was well over six feet and solidly built all the way

down. He could whip any of them, except Relkin, who he had never fought.

The two had always fenced around, but had never come to serious blows.

Swane respected Relkin and was jealous of him at first, but over the years

his respect had grown and the jealousy had faded.

Now the hierarchy was challenged by the presence of Rakama, a

pug-nosed chunk of muscle from the Blue Hills town of Mud Lake.

Rakama was a scrapper and more, he had trained in fighting school. He

had a powerful upper body and a terrific straight right hand. His hand

speed and coordination were dangerous.

Swane was the taller and twenty pounds heavier, but from the

beginning Rakama thought he could take him on.

Swane was never one to ignore a challenge like that, and so the two had

had several run-ins. Swane had prevailed so far, but none of these fights

had lasted more than a minute or two before being broken up by others.

Even though he'd been pushed around in these short exchanges, Rakama

had hit Swane plenty and hurt him. They both knew that, which had

changed the equation slightly. Now Rakama was even more eager to fight

Swane, convinced that if a fight ran on past the first furious two minutes,

he would hammer the bigger youth. Swane fought well, however. But

Rakama had a natural hand speed that made his stinging right hand too

much for anyone but a trained boxer. Indeed, he had been chosen to

represent the Eighth Regiment in the summer games at Dalhousie in the

light-heavyweight division.

If Rakama could get through Swane's first rush, then he felt sure he'd

start getting in punches that would take the steam out of Swane very

quickly. Swane had a sneaking suspicion that this might be true and knew

that he had to level the Rakbrat with his first charge, keep him down, and

whop the hell out of him on the ground.

A serious fight would come soon, it was clear. Rakama and Swane were

constantly after one another, and there were brushes every day. Finally it

came from a silly incident between their dragons. After a five-mile march

one afternoon, the dragons headed for the plunge pool, and Vlok

accidentally tripped Gryf. Rakama said something nasty about Vlok.

Swane told him to apologize. They bounced up against each other and had

to be ordered apart by Dragon Leader Cuzo.

"Later!" they both growled.

That evening the camp was quiet enough. Men had eaten and were

sitting around before sleep claimed them. Bazil and Relkin were actually

at the far end of the camp, giving legal depositions, again, in the case of

Marneri vs. Porteous Glaves. A pair of scribes from Marneri, one hired by

Glaves and one from the crown attorney's office, took down their

responses to questions from a judicial assistant.

They had answered the questions two or three times before, during

earlier stages of the marathon trial of Porteous Glaves, who had once

commanded the Eighth Regiment. Yet again Glaves's case was being

appealed to the Marneri high court.

It was while they were absent that Rakama and Swane finally got down

to it. They met in the hallway behind the refectory. The only other boys

around were the newbies Curf and Howt, and neither of them wanted to

tangle with the older boys.

Rakama spat on the floor and muttered something at Swane. Swane

charged and booted Rakama into the wall. He crowded in and started

pounding left and right, pinning the smaller youth for a while. Rakama

head-butted Swane to break out. Swane came right back with a body

tackle that slammed Rakama back into the wall and crushed him there.

Swane held him there and went for the body, two heavy shots, but Rakama

finally got a right to Swane's head that propelled him away and gained

enough room to kick clear.

Rakama shook his head to try and clear it. There was blood running

from a cut on his forehead, and his mouth had taken a solid whack, but

Swane's whole face and chest were crimson from the blood running from

his nose. The first adrenaline blitz of fighting had begun to ebb. Now it

was down to guts, training, and skill. They sparred around trying kicks

and punches, feints and ducks.

Rakama, floating on his toes, was recovering every second. Swane

rushed in, but Rakama's right hand snaked out and Swane staggered

back, shaking his head. Rakama moved closer.

Swane moved to stay clear of the right hand. He was beginning to fear

that punch. They kicked at each other and blocked and swerved. Rakama

was trying to edge closer, trying to get Swane into an exchange of

punches, and Swane felt a sudden strong twinge of concern. It seemed he'd

caught a bear here. He didn't feel that confident of getting through

Rakama's defenses without getting knocked silly in the process.

He wondered what to do. Both were tiring. They had been battling for

more than four minutes straight. Their breathing was starting to come

hot and heavy.

Swane suddenly found the wall at his back. Rakama came in, and

Swane snapped a desperate left and then a right to keep him away.

Rakama dipped, dodged, and came up inside, and the right hand

slammed Swane's head off the wall. A tooth popped out. Swane hauled

him down to the floor, and they wrestled. Swane rammed Rakama's head

into the wall one time, but Rakama got him back with an elbow in the

face, and they both reeled away for a few seconds to recover their wits.

There was blood everywhere now, mostly from Swane's nose, great

splashes of it on the whitewashed walls. Rakama sensed victory. Swane

was afraid of him now, afraid of that right hand, which was still way too

fast for the bigger boy to block. Rakama came in again, ducked Swane's

frantic left with a confident twist of the head, but then ran into a short

right hand that stood him up straight. Swane got a knee into Rakama's

midriff, then connected with a big left hand to the jaw and Rakama went

spinning away, out of control and his careful fight plan in ruins.

None of this was without cost. Swane felt like he'd broken his hand, and

Rakama's jaw was going to ache for a week. Rakama came up against the

wall and clung there, shaking his head vaguely to clear it. Swane pushed

himself forward, determined to finish it while he had the advantage.

And then he heard a voice in his ear telling him to stop. He ignored it.

It was time to finish this bastard Rakama. This had been coming a long

time.

Relkin had come in through the refectory door and heard the fight at

once. It was what he'd been expecting and dreading for days. Swane and

Rakama had really hurt each other, blood all over. He didn't hesitate,

waving the other boys to help him as he stepped in and took Swane down

with a low kick into the back of the knees. Swane fell backward with a

startled cry. Curf and Howt jumped on him and pinned him down.

Rakama lurched off the wall and would've kicked Swane on the ground

except that Relkin was there to block him.

"No more."

"Get out of the way," snarled Rakama dizzily. "This ain't your fight."

"It's over."

"No way…" Rakama didn't hesitate. He knew that Relkin had a

reputation as a fighter, but the other dragonboy was too slender to worry

him. He snapped out that quick right hand and moved left, just as he'd

been drilled, but Relkin had read the move and was already out of range.

Rakama went a little out of balance and hung there for a moment. Relkin

was fresh and took the opportunity, planting a foot so deep in Rakama's

midriff that the bigger boy dropped like a stone and stayed there,

struggling to get a breath.

Swane was trying to get to his feet despite the efforts of Curf and Howt.

Relkin pushed him back down.

"Stop, Swane, listen to me!"

Swane's big nose was definitely broken. Relkin had broken his own just

a few months earlier and knew all about that. Swane would be having a

few bad days up ahead.

"Swane, stay down, I swear I'll kick you down if I have to." Curf and

Howt grappled with Swane again, who struggled in their grasp.

"Shut up, Quoshite! This is my business."

"No! It's all of our business. You two have been going at each other for

months. It's got to stop. Dragons are feeling it. We're all tired of it."

"He'll be tired, when I'm done with him."

"You should see yourself. You're both gonna be up on charges as soon as

Cuzo finds out. And you're going to be under medical orders for months."

"Look, this kid's been asking for it ever since he came up. You weren't

even here then!"

"Then, you're gonna fight it out in the ring under rules."

Rakama finally got back on his feet. His face had gone white, then

slowly it turned pink again. Relkin worried for a few seconds there, afraid

he'd done some serious internal injury. That foot had gone deep.

"S'not over," he blurted.

"It's over, Rakama. You fight Swane in the ring, or you don't fight just

Swane, you fight me."

"You?" Rakama snarled, and lifted his head. His eyes locked on with

Relkin's, and after a while they fell again. There was something in Relkin's

eyes that promised more than he could handle. Suddenly Rakama

understood something about the quiet youth. Relkin knew about killing.

"Fight's over. If Swane attacks you, we'll take him out; if you attack

Swane, you're in it with all of us, you got that?"

Rakama stared at him, shocked by his little discovery. Then he gave a

sullen nod.

Relkin turned to the others.

"Just maybe, if we all get to it hard and quick, we can clean this up

before Cuzo sees it and save these two idiots a charge."

Curf and Howt nodded enthusiastically.

"Get hot water, get brushes and soap." Relkin looked down at Swane,

now a blood-soaked mess. "I'll get the others. You"—he pointed at

Swane—"get cleaned up, you're a disgrace right now."

Swane nodded slowly, accepting the situation. Damn that Quoshite, he

was always right.

"And start rehearsing some excuse. Make it simple 'cos Cuzo is gonna

be damn curious about how both of you are messed up at the same time."

Chapter Three

Unfortunately dragons have minds of their own, and they are all

individuals, all different. Most unusual of all, by common consent, are

hard greens. These are wyverns with a slim body build, unusual height,

and deep, dark green skin. They have a reputation for being difficult to

work with, of carrying grudges, and sometimes going so far as to kill a

dragonboy in anger. Still, they are often very skilled with dragonsword,

providing the most fluid movements, balletic spins and turns, amazing for

beasts weighing two tons.

Rakama's dragon was Gryf, a young hard green, from Mud Lake. When

Gryf heard the story of the fight, he was upset by Relkin's interference.

Rakama would probably have won, in Gryf's view, and so Relkin had taken

the victory from his dragonboy. Gryf found this a bad thing in principle,

and he complained loudly in the Dragon House on his return from sword

practice.

"Dragonboys fight. That is natural. Why not let Rakama finish the job?"

The others ignored him. Bazil was in the plunge pool and out of

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