had already crept in under the tree’s skirt, and small gold lamps glowed like fireflies where various groups camped under the branches.
Linsha stared in delight. She sat for so long, mesmerized by the beauty and comfort of the vallenwood that she did not notice Sir Hugh approach her.
“There you go, sleeping again. Why is it every time I come to look for you, you’re gazing off into the distance like a stunned kender?”
Before she could make a witty retort, he took her horse’s reins and led her to a site just under the fringes of the great tree where the refugees from Missing City were regrouping and setting up a camp. He helped her down from the horse, helped her unsaddle it, and led her to a seat on an old tree trunk that had been hauled in for that purpose. He left her there while he took her mount to the picket lines and gave it some food.
She noticed a pot of liquid heating on a small cooking fire and inhaled with deep appreciation. Someone had found some kefre.
“That’s for later, for the sentries,” Mariana told her, catching her look of yearning at the pot. “Wanderer has invited us to a meal in his camp. Food before business. It’s an old tribal custom.”
Linsha felt her stomach rumble. It had been too long since she’d had a warm meal that filled her belly. “I appreciate old tribal customs,” she replied heartily.
“Good,” Sir Hugh said behind her. “And you can get there on your own. I am not carrying you all over this camp.” He walked around beside Mariana and tossed Linsha a walking stick he had cut and shaped to her height. “No, it is not vallenwood. If you look carefully at the grain you will see it is olive. There is a grove of wild olive not far from here.”
Linsha tried it and found she could hobble around well enough to ease the pain in her ankle. Her expression of gratitude was thanks enough for Sir Hugh. She winked at the Knight and, using her stick, limped away to take a closer look at the Grandfather Tree’s huge trunk. She glanced over her shoulder just once and saw the half-elf and the Knight sitting close together on the old log and quietly talking. It was as it should be.
20
Crucible paced at the end of his chain and snorted a deep, rumbling rush of anger. The chain infuriated him. It was only bolted around one leg and it certainly was not strong enough to hold him, but it was the principle of the matter. The Tarmaks had put it on him to make a point, that he was chained to them and that he was not going to leave until they decided to let him go. He whipped his tail around in an agitated fit of rage, nearly squashing three inattentive guards, and stamped back to the tree that held the other end of the chain.
The movement set off the pain in his shoulders again. He twitched and squirmed to rub his back against the tree branches, but his efforts only made the pain more irritating. The barbed dart was starting to drive him mad. Every time he moved his forequarters, every time he lifted his wings or shrugged his shoulders or took a step, the barb rubbed a little deeper into muscles that were already swollen and inflamed. The wound was a constant source of nagging pain and frustration. His thirst was beginning to annoy him as well. He was a bronze dragon, a creature of land and water whose affinity for lakes, rivers, and seas always kept him near places of abundant water. These stupid Tarmaks did not seem to understand that. They had been marching beside the swift Toranth River for several days, and all they had allowed him to drink was a few buckets of water. Buckets! His throat and skin were so parched that he could have drunk a stock pond dry.
He twisted around to look at the river only a few hundred feet away. It was nearly dark, but he could smell the water and hear its rustle. He glared at the tree and made up his mind.
One quick precise beam of his breath weapon seared the tree in half lengthwise and melted through the chain. As the two halves of the large tree sheered sideways and crashed to the ground, he tugged his foot loose and galloped toward the river, ignoring the shouts of the Tarmaks behind him. Water splashed in sheets around his feet. He charged out into the fast-flowing current to the deepest channel of the river, stretched out his legs, and lowered his bulk into the cool water. He drank and splashed and drank again until he could feel his body relax and his thirst ease. Eddying around him, the water cooled his wound and washed the dust from his torn wings.
Finally the dragon submerged himself as deep as he could go in the river’s bed and let his head rest on the water’s surface. His eyes closed.
“Are you quite through?” a harsh voice shouted from the riverbank. He opened one eye and saw the Akkad-Ur standing on the bank, his guards around him holding torches and longbows.
“No,” he grumbled.
“I could have my guards kill you,” the Akkad-Ur warned.
“Don’t bother,” said Crucible in acid tones of resentment. “I will go nowhere. I just need water.” His lean head floated near the bank like a large and bilious crocodile. “If you want to keep me alive so you can kill me later, you have to let me have more water than a bucket’s worth.”
The Akkad-Ur jerked his head at his guards to lower their weapons. He watched Crucible thoughtfully for a few minutes then said, “You should tell us if you are in need.”
Crucible’s hooded eyes glared balefully at him out of the darkness. “Very well. I need you to get this thing out of my back and let me go.”
“Food and water will be sufficient.”
“Then it had better be riverfuls of water. Not buckets.”
“We are close to the river’s ford. We will soon be entering the realm of Duntollik,” the Akkad-Ur informed him. “What will you do when we enter the desert?”
Crucible snorted a huff of hot air and steam in a small geyser. “I know where we are,” he growled. But he did not answer the question.
The Akkad-Ur shrugged. “Good. Then you know we will soon expect you to fight. When battle comes, I will place you in the front to decimate their forces. Whether there is water or not.”
Crucible glowered at the Tarmak from his watery bed, his ears flattened to his head. “You can put me anywhere you want, but I will not kill innocent people.”
“All dragons kill. They are the children of Kadulawa’ah. It is in their nature.”
“Who is Kadulawaha?”
“The goddess of the Descent,” replied the Akkad-Ur, ignoring the dragon’s mispronunciation. “The rebellion of the sky gods was instigated by her and her children.”
Crucible hissed another geyser of steam. “We are the children of Paladine. Keep your blue-skinned mythology to yourself.”
The Tarmak crossed his arms and regarded the big bronze like an interesting specimen he was about to pin to a board. “I do not understand you. I offer you a partnership. I will give you lordship over Missing City. I will give you treasure, authority. I will give you freedom, if you join us willingly.”
“I have seen how you deal with your allies,” responded Crucible with a snarl. “The treasure you offer is stolen, the lordship rests on the bodies of my friends. The only freedom you will give me is death.”
The Akkad-Ur went on without a pause as if he had not heard him. “And yet you throw it all away for a woman. A human woman who will age and die in only the blink of a draconic eye. You are a fool.”
“Then I am a fool, for I will not fight for you.”
“Then your woman dies.”
“She is not my woman.”
The Akkad-Ur crossed his arms. “I see. Then perhaps it will not bother you if I told you she is already dead.”
Crucible’s head reared out of the water, creating a wave that washed up the bank as far as the Akkad-Ur’s sandaled feet. His eyes glowed a fierce yellow; his wet horns glittered in the torchlight. His rational mind told him he was being baited, but his more passionate draconic nature burned with rage. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, really,” the Akkad-Ur said coolly. “I was merely making a point. You care very much for this
