Dragon's Treasure (29 page)

"Surely he is too young for this. It is dangerous for him?"

"I don't know that either. It may be."

Karadur's lips pressed together hard. Then he said, "Shem Wolfson, thou art thy father's son, surely." He swept the boy into his arms.

"Rogys, Finle, get your horses. Torik, bring my sword. Shem, you shall ride with me. Smoke will bear us both, and you and Hawk will guide us to Taran. Lorimir, you will hold the Keep until I return to it."

"I will, my lord."

Rogys and Finle rode into the yard. Raudri came from the armory carrying the dragon banner. He handed it to Rogys. Behind them came the grooms with Lily and Smoke.

Karadur set Shem before him on the saddle. Torik trotted across the courtyard. He was holding Dragon's sword in both hands. Dragon took it and fastened it across his back, cavalry style.

"Raise the gates," said Lorimir Ness. Men sprang to the winches. The big gates rose. Karadur rode through the gate.

The men on the walls shouted, and waved their spears.

15

His knife was gone. His boots were gone. His feet were tied together at the ankles. His arm was doubled up and trussed to his body. His head throbbed where something had hit it. He was lying on sacks. His left eye was shut with something crusted over the lid—probably blood. A rough cloth covered his body. There was also, most unpleasantly, a cloth in his mouth. He smelled beer, and old boots. Had he been drinking? He could not remember drinking. Someone had, though. Edric had been there, and Herugin. No, that was impossible. He was feverish. He willed himself to wake.

He was in a wagon: he could tell by the jolting, and the steady, rhythmic clip-clop sound that moved in time to the jolts. Each jolt shot a little bolt of pain through his head.

Several centuries later, the jolting stopped. The cloth over his body was yanked away. He gazed at the stars. An unfamiliar voice said, "I'm going to take the rag out of your mouth and let you breathe. If you yell, I'll gouge your eyes out." A hand fumbled at the rope. It went away. The sodden cloth was plucked from his mouth.

The relief was enormous. He breathed, and spat, and breathed again.

He whispered, "I have money. Let me go. I'll pay you."

"Nice try. I've been paid." A hand thrust the rag into his mouth. He tried to bite it. A gritty, spatulate thumb settled on his right eyelid. It hurt. He tried to move his head away from the pressure.

"Fight me, lad, and I'll blind you. My orders are to deliver you alive and in one piece. They didn't say in what condition."

He froze. The thumb lifted. The rope went round his head again. His captor, whistling, unhitched the horse, or mule, from the wagon and took it away, presumably to be groomed, fed, and made comfortable. Taran smelled woodsmoke, and heard the crackle of flames. His doubled arm was numb. His feet were numb. The shoulder hurt, a white agony that would have made him yell, had he been able to yell. The inside of his mouth hurt, too.

He heard footsteps. Hands fumbled at his body. His kidnapper hauled him from the wagon and dropped him. The ground was chill. He started to shiver. His abductor picked Taran up—it took him little effort to lift a full-grown man—and dumped him beside a fire.

Taran stared at him out of his one working eye. His beard was black, and his head was smooth as an apple. He was big, big of shoulder, and big in the belly.

He said amiably, "Gods, you stink. You want that rag out again?"

Taran nodded. He felt hands around his head. Then the gag left his mouth. He coughed, spat, breathed. He smelled urine. Sometime during the ride he'd pissed himself.

He whispered, "Water. Please." His thirst was tremendous.

"Here." The stranger cupped his chin and poured wine into his mouth. It burned. He choked, but drank. The man gave him some more. It warmed him. He stopped shivering.

With painful effort, he turned his head and wiped his crusted eye against his shoulder. Now he could see out of both eyes. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Ralf Molto."

"Where are you taking me?"

Ralf Molto laughed. The sound curled the hairs on Taran's neck. "Home, boy," the heavyset man said. "I'm taking you home."

He turned to build up the fire. An owl hooted. The night was alive with crickets. Taran had no idea where he was. The memory of Edric floated again through his mind. It was not a dream: he had been talking to Edric, at the Keep. How had Edric come to be at the Keep? It made him furious that he could not remember.

He said, "My arms and feet are numb. If they get no blood, they'll rot."

"Too bad," his captor said. He did not sound concerned. Nevertheless he rose. Crossing to Taran's side, he loosened the rope that bound Taran's arm to his ribs. The arm flopped free. There was no feeling in it whatsoever. He re-bound it in a different position, and laid a finger for a moment on the nexus of pain in Taran's shoulder joint.

"Hurts right there, doesn't it," he said cheerfully. "How's your head?"

"It hurts, too."

"It'll improve. Or it won't, and you'll die. Better lie down and sleep now." With a practiced gesture, he popped the rag back into Taran's mouth.

He might have slept. Mostly he shivered. Morning came. Molto put him in the wagon. The sun beat down on the canvas that covered him. They were on a road. They stopped twice that day. The first time, Molto allowed Taran to shit and piss. Then he fed him wine. It stung his mouth, which was torn in the corners from the gag. He tried to pull his head away. He strained against the ropes. It did no good.

"Drink it," Molto said. He cuffed him. "Drink it or I'll stop your nose and drown you in it." The drink made Taran's head spin. The wagon slats felt hard as rock. Molto dumped him into the wagon and pulled the canvas cover over him. It was heavy. Sweat poured off him, mingling with the urine.

The day seemed to last forever. That night, Molto was cheerful. He took the hideous gag from Taran's mouth. "If you yell, it goes back in," he advised. "You need to piss again?" Taran nodded. It hurt to speak. Molto untied his belt and yanked his breeches down. "Vaikkenen's balls, you stink like a goat."

They were somewhere off the road. Molto had a fire going; he was cooking. The meat smells made Taran's stomach churn. Molto brought him to the fire and set him in front of it. He forced himself to speak. "Where—Edric?"

Molto raised a bushy eyebrow. "Dead."

"You kill him?"

"You don't remember? I must have hit you harder than I thought. Of course I killed him. I couldn't let him live. He believed it was true, all that nonsense he told you. He told us about you, One-arm. He said you can always see a lie. Some witchery in you. Is it so?" Taran grunted assent. "Useful. How do you do it?"

"Don't know." He had no memory of what Edric had told him, nor of what he had said in return. "How many—take me?"

"At the Keep, you mean? There were three of us, and Edric. At first I thought I might have brought too many people. Turned out to be just enough. You struggled like the devil. Truthfully, I didn't expect it. It was bad luck your scarred friend showed up. Bad luck for
him
." He laughed.

"Herugin." So it had not been a dream—Herugin had been there. "What—what do to him?"

"We killed him," Molto said. He pulled the skewer from the fire and waved it in the air to cool the meat. "I told Sandro and Lorenzo to drop his body in a ditch. I expect they'll think you killed him."

They would, of course. The wine, and the fact that he had had no food for days, was making him dizzy. He stared into the fire, praying that it would hear him one more time. The quivering flames blurred.
Wake! Move!
He imagined a fiery hand reaching through the air to fasten incandescent fingers around Molto's neck.

He managed one more question. "Where?"

"Where are we going? I told you, boy, you're going home. We're on the Great South Road. It'll take us a week to reach Nakase. Three days after that, more or less, we're in Sorvino, and my work's done. I saw the hanging cage they've built for you in Sorvino. It's small, too small for my taste, but solid. It'll hold you."

An iron cage... He had seen such a monstrosity once, in Arriccio. It had had a skeleton in it. The horror he felt must have showed on his face. Molto laughed.

"Ah, they've got other plans for you as well." He brought the flask out. "Enough conversation. Drink, now," he crooned.

Taran clenched his jaws together.

"Stubborn bastard. Drink," Molto said, "or I'll break your teeth and make you swallow them."

Helpless, Taran drank.

* * *

A fire burned in his head.

Outside him was the greater fire. That was Dragon.

Sometimes Dragon's fire swelled, growing so huge that the smaller fire was nearly obliterated by its power. But then it would shrink, and he would feel the little fire again. The little fire was Taran One-arm. He was not really inside Shem's head. He was in a wagon. He did not want to be there, but the man traveling with him would not let him go. He was sick, and afraid, and helpless. His misery made a cold pain inside Shem's heart.

It seemed to him that they had been riding forever. They were riding on the edge of the world. If they fell, they would fall forever. But Dragon would not fall, and so neither would he, because Dragon's arm was around him. It held him firmly on Smoke's back, while the road pounded beneath the horses' feet. Ahead of them the dragon banner, gold on white, snapped and glittered. Travelers on the road saw it and moved aside for them. Rogys had the banner. Finle was behind them. Hawk rode on their left. When he turned his head he could see her, but he did not have to turn his head to know she was there: she was in his head, too.

They stopped at a traveler's shelter. Rogys gave the horses water. Hawk brought food. She fed it to him, bits at a time. It tasted of ashes. He felt suddenly dizzied, sick, as if he were falling. He yelled. Strong arms caught him. A deep voice spoke to him. "It's all right, cub. You're safe."

"Hurts," he said.

"What hurts?"

"Here." He touched his shoulder and his mouth. It was Taran's sickness, Taran's pain, but it made him hurt, too. His head was muzzy, and the emptiness in his stomach—no, it was not his stomach, but it felt as if it was—made it ache. Herugin was dead, Dragon was angry—that made his stomach ache too. The twisting pain was so strong that he was afraid he would not be able to breathe....

Then somehow Hawk was there, between him and the pain.

Hurts,
he said to her.

I know, cub.
She said aloud, "Poor babe, he has no skin."

Dragon said, "Can he endure it?"

I can
, Shem thought.

Hawk did not answer.

Then they were riding again.

* * *

Just before they got to Estancia, the wheel came off the wagon.

Taran, head hazy with wine, half-asleep, felt the wagon lurch. There was nothing he could do, of course. The floor beneath him canted. He rolled as it tipped.

Molto swore, "Gods-cursed flimsy piece of wreckage... !" Taran heard a snapping sound. The world slid. He was slammed against the side of the wagon. Pain pierced his left shoulder, vicious and penetrating as a sword cut.

Fingers gripped his leg. Molto said softly, urgently, "Keep still, or I'll kill you right now." Steps approached the wagon.

A man's voice said, "Hoy, you need help?"

Molto said heartily, "Thanks, it's fine. The axle pin's broken, that's all. I'll make another."

"You're lucky the wheel's not split. Did you lose your goods?"

"Naw. Everything's tied. What's the nearest town?"

"Estancia. It's south about four miles." Molto moved away from the wagon, talking. Like a giant's hand, the heat pressed down on the canvas. It squeezed the air from Taran's lungs. He gasped for breath. Sweat poured from him. He tried to move his legs. He could not even wriggle.

Molto called commands to the mule. The wagon lurched and rolled. It stopped. The heat lessened. A songbird called. The sound was very close. Molto was whistling.

Suddenly he stripped the cover back. Taran gasped at the relief. "Gods, what a stench. Get up." Molto dragged him from the wagon and thrust him against a tree. Pain coursed through his shoulder. It felt like the bones had separated. For a terrifying moment he thought that he might vomit. If he did, gagged as he was, it would suffocate him. He fought the sickness with all his strength. Molto took the gag from his mouth.

"Are you going to be sick?"

Taran shook his head. "Water."

"Here." Molto held a waterskin to Taran's mouth. His lips were hot, gluey, and swollen. He sucked like an infant. The water ran down his chin and onto his soiled, fetid clothing.

Molto watched impassively. Then he said, "I'll leave the gag off if you promise not to yell."

Taran nodded. He did not think he could yell; his mouth was swollen, and the tissue of his throat was so inflamed that it was torment to swallow.