The Gold Falcon (56 page)

Despite Dallandra’s fears, Salamander’s plan was for him, at least, remarkably direct. With the first light of dawn he woke and dressed, then trotted out to the nearby meadow to join Arzosah. She was crouching by the stream, lapping up water. When she was done drinking, she dipped her entire head under the water for a brief moment, then raised it to shake herself dry.

“There!” Arzosah said. “All nice and clean. I do hate having dried blood on my face.”

“It must be an unpleasant sensation,” Salamander said. “I take it you found prey last night.”

“I did, thank you, and I feel much restored. I suppose you want to set off immediately. I was hoping to warm my poor aching wings by lying in the sun for a little while.”

“Go right ahead. There’s no use in making our strike until the messengers have taken the hobbles off their horses.” Salamander glanced at the pale sky, brightening as the sun inched itself above the horizon. “They’ll be desperate to make all possible speed to Zakh Gral, but they’ve got to let their mounts graze nonetheless.”

“Let’s hope they get nice and fat.” Arzosah paused for a yawn, displaying teeth the length of sword blades. “The horses, I mean, not the men. I remember Dalla’s orders.”

“Good. I’m going back to camp to get some breakfast and consult with Valandario.”

Over a scant meal of flatbread and spiced honey-water, Salamander went over the details with Valandario one last time. She and her squad would ride slowly north, waiting for his signal to dismount and continue on foot. Two of the men would stay back to control the horses in case they got a good whiff of Arzosah’s sour scent.

“I just hope we all end up in the right place at the right time,” Valandario remarked.

“I’ll make sure you do,” Salamander said. “Don’t forget that I’ll be able to see you from the air, too. It’s surprising and a little wonderful, really, how far you can see from dragonback.”

“I suppose it must be. I can’t say that I have a burning desire to try it myself.”

“It does take some getting used to. So. I’d better scry and see just what our quarry is up to.”

Just as he’d expected, Salamander found the messengers still at their camp. Out in the sunny grass their horses still grazed with their forelegs hobbled. Now and then they’d take a few rabbity steps to reach fresh grass. The men were rolling up blankets and gathering their gear. Soon, no doubt, they’d saddle up and ride. He broke the vision.

“They’re just where I left them last night,” Salamander said.

“Good,” Valandario said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what about the silver wyrm? Is he going to join the siege?”

“I don’t know. He hadn’t appeared by the time I left, and Arzosah refuses to discuss him.”

“That bodes ill. It really is ghastly, you know, thinking of Rhodry’s transformation.”

“Yes, but never ever let Arzosah hear you say it.” Salamander tried to smile and failed. He got to his feet and turned away, looking out to the north. He could see Arzosah’s shiny black bulk lounging in the grass a fair many yards away. “Rori’s nearby, I think. I’ve scried for him at odd moments over the past month or so, ever since I saw him in the flesh. He’s always been in the wilderness, but now I’ve gotten a good look from on high at the countryside around here. I recognized a couple of the places I’d seen him in.”

“If he does turn up, you’ll try to help him, won’t you?”

“Of course!”
If anyone can,
Salamander thought.
If it’s possible to help him.
“Well, we’d best get on our way.”

Salamander waited until Valandario and her armed squad had left the camp before he rejoined the dragon. Once he and Arzosah had taken flight, Salamander scried again, using her patterned scales as a focus. This time he found the messengers saddling their horses, freed from tethers and hobbles. He broke the vision, then leaned forward to yell to Arzosah.

“It’s time to make our strike.”

She dipped her head to show she’d heard him, then began climbing higher into the sky. Salamander grabbed her crest spike with both arms and held on as tightly as he could. He could feel his legs sliding under the restraining rope behind him. If he should lose his grip on the spike, he’d flop onto his belly and doubtless slide all the way free to fall helplessly to earth. At last she leveled out, flapped twice, then let herself glide on the wind.

Below, the land seemed to have shrunk to a tapestry in green, with the occasional stream or rock only an embellished detail. Yet among the threads of grass, tiny figures moved, men and horses.

“There they are!” Arzosah called out. “Shall I swoop?”

“Yes!” Salamander wrapped his arms around the spike again. “Now!”

Downward she shot straight for the little band of messengers. Salamander could see nothing but the back of her neck and head, but he could hear the sudden neighing of panicked horses and the yells and curses of the men. When he risked a glance to one side, he saw grass rushing upward to meet him. With a muttered oath he concentrated on looking at the back of Arzosah’s head and nothing else. Just as suddenly as she’d dropped she banked into a turn, then began flapping her wings to gain height.

“Two of the riders are off,” Arzosah called out. “And the packhorses have pulled free, too. They’re galloping south.”

“Good!” Salamander called back. “Let’s make another pass.”

For a moment, however, she steadied her flight. From that height he could see Valandario’s squad far off to the south. When he focused his mind on his old master in the craft he felt her mind respond almost instantly.

“Now, Val!” he thought to her. “We’re—oh, by the Black Sun—dropping again!”

He wondered if she could hear the scream that followed, torn out of him, it seemed, as Arzosah plunged down and down. Once again, he heard men yelling and horses neighing. Once again the grass rushed at him. Suddenly Arzosah laughed in a huge rumble and leveled her flight.

“The last two are on the ground,” she called out. “Shall I drive them south?”

“Yes!” Salamander could barely find the breath to yell. “Toward the other Westfolk.”

This time Arzosah descended more slowly. Salamander could sit up and look over her neck. Some fifty or sixty feet below—he was in no mood to worry about precise measurements—the four men were running south or trying to, shoving their way through the tall grass that hindered them. Once one of them tripped. The other three kept running, but the fallen man managed to get up and take off after them, following their path through the trampled grass. Arzosah soon overshot them; she rose straight up, then banked into a turn to circle round and come at them again.

“There’s Val and the squad,” Salamander called out. “I think we can leave the messengers to her.”

“Very well,” Arzosah yelled back. “But this has been great fun.”

“What was? Scaring the messengers or me?”

“Both, of course.”

“You promised to keep me safe.”

“If I’d felt you slipping through the ropes, I’d have leveled off and caught you. Don’t you trust me?”

When Salamander didn’t answer, she rumbled with laughter, then went into a long smooth glide with outstretched wings. Salamander could see the four messengers throwing themselves down at the feet of Valandario and her archers in abject surrender.

“Head back east to the army,” he yelled. “Val seems to have everything under control here.”

Since her morning’s amusement had left her tired, Arzosah flew more slowly on their return journey. They reached the army late in the afternoon, just as it was making the night’s camp near Mawrvelin. From their height, the dun of Bel’s priests looked like a handful of pebbles. The dragon flew over it, giving Salamander a glimpse of the round temple inside the walls, then circled back over a pasture dotted with white cattle. With one last flap of wing to pull free of the turn, she began a long smooth glide down on silent wings.

“There’s the army by that stream,” Arzosah called out. “Just below the temple hill.”

“Good!” Salamander called back. “It looks like they’ve made splendid progress.”

“Splendid? They can’t have gone more than twelve miles!”

“For a spur-of-the-moment army like this, with those wretched supply carts and their wooden wheels, on a road that runs uphill—that’s splendid progress.”

Arzosah snorted in disgust, then concentrated on landing a decent distance from the army’s nervous horses. She curled her wings and hovered for a brief moment, then gently lowered herself to the earth in a nearby fallow field. Salamander let out his breath in a long sigh. When she lowered her head, he slid off her neck to the beautifully solid ground.

“A thousand thanks, O wyrm of great splendor,” Salamander said.

“What lovely manners you have when you’re not exploiting poor pitiful dragons!” Arzosah looked heavenward. “The gods know how I suffer, thanks to that wretched Evandar.”

With a shout and a wave of greeting, Dallandra came running across the field. Salamander hurried over to meet her.

“All’s well,” Salamander said. “Val and her archers have four prisoners.”

“Excellent!” Dallandra paused for a moment to catch her breath. “I must go thank Arzosah.”

“And take these wretched ropes off!” Arzosah had apparently heard her. “I am not a smelly old mule.”

“There’s no doubt about that.” Salamander called back. “I’m on my way to release you.” He glanced at Dallandra. “Where’s Neb?”

“Up at the temple with Ridvar and Voran. They took Cadryc and some of his men for an escort. The noble-born agree with you that the taxes the priests have set are far too high. Neb’s acting as scribe for the meeting.”

No one could have accused the head priest of Temple Mawrvelin of growing fat at the expense of his poverty-stricken villagers. Since the priest was wearing only a knee-length linen tunic and sandals, Neb could see the outlines of most of His Holiness Govvin’s bones under his pale skin. His shaved head looked more like a skull with deep-set dark eyes than part of a living body, except that, unlike skulls, he never smiled. He sat as straight as an iron poker on a backless bench, his scrawny hands clasped in his lap, and stared directly at Prince Voran, sitting opposite in a rickety chair, for the entire meeting, except for a few brief moments when his eyes flicked Ridvar’s way. The young gwerbret said very little, merely leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Neb, who sat on the floor near the gwerbret’s feet, was profoundly relieved to be out of the priest’s line of sight. They’d been taken by the gatekeeper to a little reception chamber in what had once been barracks and stables, the usual long wooden building built into the curve of the wall. Aside from the bench and the chair, it contained nothing, not a statue of Bel, not a tapestry on the wall, not even straw on the stone floor. As Voran talked, noting the pitiful condition of the farm families along the road, Neb wrote a few words on his pair of wax tablets for each point the prince made. He left space for the priest’s answers between each, but in the end, he might have filled the tablet for all the need of that space he had.

“Let me see if I understand you,” Govvin said finally. “You’ve spoken many fine words, but as far as I can tell, your message is simple. You’re concerned for the villagers because you expect this temple to furnish military aid in time of war. I refuse to do any such thing, so you may lay your concerns aside. Naught that happens here is your affair, Prince Voran. The priests of Bel answer to a higher justice than your father’s.” He stood up, nodded to the prince, then turned and walked out of the chamber, leaving the door open behind him.

Voran rose and clasped his hands behind his back to stop their shaking. He was white around the mouth in sheer rage. “The gall,” were the only words that he could force out.

“Indeed,” Ridvar said. “We’d better go back to camp, Your Highness.”

“So we had.” The prince took a deep breath, then spoke normally. “We can talk more freely there.”

Neb scrambled up and followed them as they strode out of the chamber. Out in the ward the young gatekeeper was waiting for them. The only sign of deference he gave was a brief bob of his head in Voran’s general direction, and he said not one word while he showed them out of the dun. The two lords were just as silent as they walked down the hill to the road, where some of their own men were waiting—the priests had earlier refused entry to their escort. Tieryn Cadryc stepped forward and raised one eyebrow in a silent question.

“Worse than we expected,” Ridvar said. “We’ll hold council later this evening. My thanks for the loan of your scribe.”

“Most welcome, Your Grace,” Cadryc said. “By the by, that dragon’s come back. It’s over by the Westfolk’s camp.” He glanced at Neb. “Or is it a he?”

“A she, Your Grace,” Neb said. “Her name’s Arzosah. Dallandra tells me that she’s the same dragon who saved Cengarn from the Horsekin siege. Apparently they live a long time.”