Greer ambled toward the rocky ridge to sit within a few yards on the grassy bank. Bardon tried to ignore the ripple of amusement coming from the dragon’s mind.
“Why don’t you go fishing?” he asked.
The dragon stretched his neck over the water.
“Not here!” Bardon jerked his line and jutted his chin out toward the long expanse of shoreline. “Go to the other end of the lake. Sir Dar said the water is quite deep there.”
Greer looked to the north and then over his shoulder at the stunted forest.
“No,” said Bardon. “I don’t need you to stay and help greet the ladies.” He paused to absorb the dragon’s response. “I am not in a foul mood, and I will not catch any fish with you hanging over my shoulder. Go have your dinner and let me catch mine.”
Greer spread his wings and abruptly took off, but not before Bardon heard the rumble in his throat that indicated the dragon was laughing at his rider.
Bardon ducked as a draft from the strong, leathery wings nearly knocked him off his rocky perch. But Greer’s good humor dispersed the last of his rider’s prickly temper. By the time Bardon looked up to see his friend soaring above the mountain lake, a grin had replaced his scowl.
He pulled in his line, reset the bait, and cast his hook into the water. Then he leaned back against the rocky ledge and watched Greer rather than the cork floating in the placid lake below.
The purple dragon circled over the lake. One moment he spiraled in a lazy pattern, the next, he tucked his wings and plummeted into the water. He came out again, stretching his neck skyward, flapping his wings, and leaving a waterfall of droplets cascading from his body. Even across the distance, Bardon felt the satisfaction that pulsed through the dragon as he swallowed his catch.
Bardon’s gaze locked on Greer as the dragon repeated the performance many times. The dragon didn’t feed every day, but when he did, he ate until sated. With the close connection between dragon and rider, Bardon grew more and more content as his friend satisfied his hunger. He leaned against the sun-warmed rock and sighed. Even if he had to eat hardtack tonight instead of fried fish, he would be immeasurably happier here than at the busy Castle Pelacce in the heart of bustling Dormenae.
Bardon wiggled his foot, feeling as if a muscle in his calf had drawn taut. The cramp intensified. He opened his eyes and sat up. Around the circumference of his lower leg, a writher snake had coiled its two-inch-thick, moss green body.
Bardon held his breath. Writher snakes, though small in circumference, had muscles that were strong like cables, teeth like razors, and a reputation for drowning their victims. Bardon wondered how old this writher might be. Legend said they grew five feet longer every year, but never any thicker. This one’s tail still hung beneath the surface of the lake.
With its head lifted, the snake’s pale eyes gazed dispassionately at its victim. A black, forked tongue flickered, tasting the air. Hissing with an odd cadence like the humming of a song, the serpent bobbed its head to and fro.
Bardon eased his hand to his waist, where a leather sheath held his hunting knife. The creature flinched and drew back toward the water, squeezing its victim’s leg and pulling him toward death. The snake paused, flicked its tongue, bobbed its head, and stared at the face of its prey.
Bardon’s fingers inched over the finely braided leather loop that secured the large knife. With no other part of his body moving, he pushed a finger under the catch and freed the blade. He took a slow, steadying breath and tensed for the one attempt he would have to kill the beast. He whipped the blade out in a smooth motion and swung to slice off the snake’s head. The snake dodged the knife and struck at Bardon’s leg. His boot saved him from the serpent’s bite. The tough leather tore, but the teeth did not penetrate.
The snake jerked, tightening its grip, and moved toward the water. As if understanding the threat of the knife, it laid its head along its victim’s inner knee, too close to the rock for Bardon to reach without slicing his own leg.
Flipping onto his stomach, Bardon tried to find something to hang on to, something to help him resist being dragged beneath the cold waters. He dug the fingers of one hand and the knife in the other hand against the hard surface of the rock. The stone gave no purchase. He slid farther as the snake pulled.
Bardon knew just when Greer recognized his rider’s distress and flew toward the south end of the lake. The amount of fish he’d eaten slowed his flight. His movements would be sluggish, but the dragon would not abandon his rider.
Again the snake yanked backward, and Bardon fell off the rock. Just before his head splashed beneath the surface, he heard the enraged battle cry of a dragon above him and a feminine screech of horror from the shore.
2
ENTANGLED
Bardon kicked at the coil around his leg with his free foot, trying to pound the snake’s body into loosening its grip. Directly above him, the impact of a massive body entering the water announced Greer had come to his rescue.
A cloud of bubbles surrounded the squire, obscuring his vision. A moment later, his descent abruptly reversed. He whooshed out of the lake, dangling upside down, still entangled in the long snake. Greer held the serpent in his mouth and flew toward shore.
Water streamed from Bardon’s hair. He swiped at his eyes with one hand and glanced up. The snake coiled around his leg, its head battering the leather of his boot. The length of the writher’s body dangled from Greer’s mouth. Bardon estimated the creature’s body stretched twenty feet between his foot and Greer’s teeth. Bardon looked down at the rippling surface of the lake, then at the rocky shore as Greer gained height. The piles of rounded stones did not look like a comfortable place to set down. He desperately hoped the serpent would not let go of his leg now.
Seconds later, the dragon banked over the grassy expanse before the cabin. Bardon bent in half at the waist. Still holding his hunting knife, he grabbed the snake’s body as if it were a rope and hauled himself up to Greer’s head. Clinging to the dragon’s neck, he braced himself for the landing.
Thanks, Greer.
In return for his expression of gratitude, Bardon listened to a tirade on the foul taste of writher snakes and the unpleasant feel of serpent scales rubbing against the tongue.
As soon as the dragon’s feet hit the ground, he spat the offending reptile from his mouth. Bardon’s back struck the grassy bank with a thud, knocking the air out of his lungs. The knife flew from his grasp, landing out of reach. As he labored to breathe, a frantic young woman rushed toward him with an ax raised above her head. He wheezed, struggling for just one breath of air while the snake’s hold tightened around his leg.
His eyes followed the young woman’s helter-skelter dash toward him with that large ax brandished. He emphatically desired to get away from the snake and out of the path of the ax-wielder, but all he could do was hack and gasp. She stumbled, and the blade of her weapon barely missed his leg.
Sitting up, Bardon finally drew several breaths of bracing air. He tried to move away from the figure sprawled on the grass beside him, but the snake lurched toward the lake and dragged him along.
Greer!
The dragon whipped around, his tail flattening a bush. He examined the situation, gave a huge sigh, and reluctantly placed one large forefoot on the slithering beast.
His dragon friend’s surge of disgust washed over Bardon. He thought Greer’s abhorrence of snakes would be laughable if he’d been free of the creature wrapped around his leg.
Back on her feet and armed again with the ax, the young woman charged in between Bardon and Greer. She swung the ax above her head and, as it came down, let out a frightful screech. Bardon grimaced and covered his ears. The serpent jerked, the coil around Bardon’s leg relaxed, and he shook the body of the snake loose. Dark purple blood spurted from the two ends of the severed flesh.
Greer removed his foot from the twitching snake body and backed away from the creature. The young woman scrambled back as well. Tears ran down blotchy red
cheeks, and her chest heaved as she sobbed. An older woman stood by the forest’s edge with a serene expression fixed upon her dark face.
Bardon pushed wet locks away from his eyes and studied the emerlindian. A granny?
She smiled. “Yes, a granny. Granny Kye.”
Annoyed that she had heard his thought, Bardon carefully guarded his expression. He could also guard his thoughts after working with Kale on his mindspeaking abilities while they had been on a mission together three years ago. His talent was minimal next to hers. He put the guard in place so that this granny would not know how frustrated he was by the presence of these women.
He struggled to his feet, tried to stamp some circulation back into his numb leg, and straightened his tunic. Chagrined that in spite of all his training, a girl and a dragon had just rescued him, Bardon bent in an awkward bow. The court polish of three years deserted him.
I am not a callow lad, and I will not stutter words I’ve repeated many times before.
He smiled with all the charm he could muster. “I’m pleased to meet you, Granny Kye.”
“And I, you. I have been expecting you.”
The younger emerlindian, her pale skin still flushed, turned unbelieving slate blue eyes on the older woman. “Grandmother, you never said.”
Bardon almost missed her words as he watched those thickly fringed eyes grow as dark as storm clouds.
Granny Kye chuckled. “I don’t tell you everything, infant.” She turned to Bardon. “This wild child is N’Rae.”
Bardon turned to N’Rae. Her beauty astonished him. Even in plain clothing, she outshone all the fair ladies of court. He straightened his tunic again and managed a more polished bow. “My pleasure.”
She glanced away, then down. Bardon decided she was younger than he’d first thought. Probably a little younger than his friend Kale. But where Dragon Keeper Kale Allerion had a determined expression about her eyes and in the tilt of her chin, this fair maiden resembled a lost kitten. Splashes of dark purple blood covered the front of her homespun dress, looking incongruous on someone who radiated such innocence.
Bardon wanted to see the unusual color of her eyes again and spoke softly, hoping she’d glance up at him. “Thank you for saving my life.”
She did look up. A moment before, the hue of her eyes had reflected stormy clouds. Now the vivid blue matched the sky above. “I didn’t know what to do. I hate snakes!”
Bardon felt a shudder of agreement from Greer’s mind, and he glanced over at the dragon to see him giving N’Rae a nod of approval. At the moment, Bardon wasn’t too fond of snakes, either. And he’d never been too fond of people. Even a fetching female and a wise old woman were more company than he desired. He turned to the granny.
“I am Bardon, squire to Sir Dar of Castle Pelacce, in Dormenae, Wittoom.”
“A squire?” N’Rae almost looked impressed, but she shook her head, causing her long, white-blond tresses to swing. With a sigh that took the stiffness out of her shoulders so they drooped in defeat, she stared again at the ground. “It’s a shame you aren’t a knight. We could use a knight.” Her chin lifted, and she looked to the granny. “Actually, we could use Paladin’s army, but Grandmother says we are to accomplish our task with the resources Wulder provides.”
The old woman nodded. “And Wulder has provided Squire Bardon.”
“Wait.” He held up a hand and slowly shook his head. “I’m entering into my sabbatical. I’m charged to devote myself to meditation. I cannot undertake to aid you in any endeavor at this time.”
N’Rae turned away from him, gave a little gasp, and pointed a finger at Greer. “Oh dear, that was dinner.”
The dragon lifted his nose from the dropped baskets of berries by the forest edge. His long, blue tongue licked the last of the smashed purple goo from his lips. He blinked and focused on his rider.
Bardon frowned at Greer but turned a pleasant face to the two ladies and delivered the message his dragon had impressed into his mind. “Greer wishes to offer his apologies. When it comes to food, he has very little willpower. We have provisions we will gladly share.”
His thoughts turned back to the dragon. Those are my provisions you’re offering, and this isn’t helping to remove these interlopers from the cabin. Do you have any suggestions on how to get rid of them?
Greer turned his back on his rider and strolled down to the shore. He launched into the air and headed for the northern end of the lake.
Bardon turned back to the women. “Greer will bring back fish for our dinner. I’ll drag what’s left of this snake far into the woods for scavengers to dispose of.”
He fought the urge to clear his throat before he made his next announcement. “The cabin belongs to Sir Dar, and he gave me permission to dwell in it this summer. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you.”
Granny Kye smiled. “Not at all, my dear boy, we shall be leaving on our quest within a day or two.”
Bardon deliberately shifted his gaze away from the bright brown, knowing eyes of the emerlindian.
Not with me! he protested. He strolled into the cabin to retrieve his sword. He wouldn’t be caught unarmed again. When he came out, he nodded to the women and picked up his hunting knife and sheathed it. With the head section of the snake’s carcass in one hand and the long body in the other, he marched into the trees. His stride lengthened as he determined to banish a persistent nagging in his heart.
I am not required to do anything for these females.
3
THREE!
Bardon dragged the snake’s body farther into the woods than was necessary. With every step, he pondered the question of what his reaction should be to these two inconvenient women.
Gracious Wulder, by Sir Dar’s example, I know that when someone is in need, that need takes precedence over any personal plan. So, here I quibble. Where it would be expected to set aside a personal plan, it would be unacceptable to ignore a mandate from You. Is my sabbatical a personal plan or a divine assignment?
The snake’s body snagged on a bush, jerking Bardon to a halt. He turned and yanked. It didn’t budge. He walked back, held the lower branches back with his foot, and pulled. The bush let go, and he trudged on along the narrow path. He entered a forest glade and headed for the other side.
You and I both know that there really aren’t two choices, but only one. You wouldn’t have put this need in my path if You didn’t want me to react as You’ve taught me. I will do as You require.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Bardon unsheathed his sword at the first rumbling growl. He let the dead weight of the snake slip from his fingers and took a step backward. Crouching with his weapon ready, he looked into the cool yellow eyes of a five-foot-long mountain cat. Just within the line of trees, the animal pressed its entire body close to the ground, legs bent, ready to pounce. Golden stripes adorned the animal’s tan hide. The cat’s tufted ears lay back against its skull. With its lips pulled back, the wild beast’s snarl showed pointed teeth.
“I am really not in the mood for this, cat.”
A growl vibrated through the meadow. The cat’s tail swept back and forth across the forest floor.
“Wouldn’t you like this snake for dinner? You can have it. My treat.”
The cat stepped forward.
“Believe me, the snake would be a tastier, easier dinner.”
He inched back. The cat inched closer.
Bardon sighed. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of the sword. The weapon had been crafted by Wizard Fenworth and placed in Bardon’s hand by Paladin himself. On the occasions he’d had to use the sword, it had never failed him. Sometimes, he thought Fenworth had embedded special powers within the weapon. Other times, he thought Wulder had blessed the blade for righteousness. But killing a mountain cat over a dead snake did not seem to be a noble cause. Still, being eaten seemed less than a noble end to his career as a knight. He pulled his hunting knife out and balanced the two weapons.
Bardon’s lip twitched
in humor. Greer would tell him this awkward situation was his own fault. “Never mess with a snake,” was the dragon’s creed.
“Never mess with a mountain cat” is more apropos at the moment.
Where are you, Greer?
He watched the cat as he listened for the mental connection to his dragon. Greer answered readily, having already placed a large giddinfish on the grass in front of the fair N’Rae. As usual, the dragon’s take on Bardon’s problem sounded impertinent. Bardon concentrated on the wild animal before him as he responded.
I do not think the cat prefers warm-blooded, fresh meat to cold, dead snake. But I prefer not to test your theory. Could you hurry a bit? I want to be out of here before I become its next meal.
He managed to ease backward a few steps before the cat prowled into the meadow. The feline warily approached the serpent carcass, nose quivering, large eyes on the man, not the snake.
Yes, of course I want a ride, Greer. This is ill-timed humor.
The cat didn’t come straight at him, but sashayed in zigzag fashion, always with whiskers trembling and eyes fixed on the man. Bardon held his sword and knife ready but hoped Greer would reach them before he had to fight.
He had plenty of battlefield experience. He’d matched prowess with skilled bisonbeck soldiers. He’d engaged many grawligs, and they were barbarous creatures.
One-on-one with a wild cat involves different skills. Wild beasts fight with a finesse lacking in the savage low races. Still, I’ve fought a trundle bear and won. Bardon shook his head slightly and clenched his weapons. But trundles are a smallish bear. Not at all in the same class as this beast. He looked at the magnificent cat, a creation of Wulder, and willed Greer to swoop in over the trees.
The dragon’s grumbling rolled through his thoughts, and he answered.
It’s not my fault you gorged yourself on fish and berries…I know you like to nap after a feast…I’m not the one who offered to catch dinner for the women…The sooner you get me out of here, the sooner you can stretch out beside the lake and bask in the afternoon sun.