Crewel Lye by Piers Anthony Page B

missed the obvious connection. Of course ogres had babies, too, just as did humans and elves. Hardly as nice as humans and elves, but a similar principle. “Now how do I get this little monster off my wrist?” The matter was getting urgent, because the ogret was chinning himself up, one-handed, and was angling to bite off my hand.
    “Knock him on the head until he lets go,” the stork advised.
    “But he's a baby'”
    “That's how ogres show affection.”
    “Oh.” Live and learn. I rapped the baby on his stony skull with my free knuckle, bruising my hand, and he let go and dropped back into the bag.
    “We'd better deliver him before he gets hungry,” the stork said.
    Excellent notion! I loaded stork and bundle on Pook, then mounted. The ogret grabbed onto a link of chain and started chewing on it. The three of us were crowded, but Pook could handle it. Apparently he had some sympathy with the plight of the stork. Pook was a pretty decent animal, really.
    The ghost horse started out at a brisk pace. I knew why; there was an incoming smell of dragon on the wind. How long would it take for the dragonlet to bring its mother back here?
    “It's really not far to--to--” the stork remarked, but seemed to forget what he was going to say. It was as if his blood were draining right out of his memory.
    There was a sound. I felt a shiver; that was a dragon snort, off to the right. I was in no mood at the moment to take on a dragon! I urged Pook to faster speed, but he needed no urging; he fairly flew across the land. I looked back over my shoulder to check on stork and ogret; the stork had his feet hooked firmly into a chain, so was secure, but the ogret had chewed almost through the link he was working on. “Stop that!” I snapped at him, and he growled and continued chewing. The trouble with juveniles these days is that they have no discipline!
    The dragon heard us, of course, and moved to intercept us. Dragons have phenomenal ears that tune in on whatever interests them; what interests them most is prey, and just about any living creature is prey to a dragon. I had heard folk tales about single men fighting and slaying single dragons, but the closer I came to that sort of activity, the less I believed it. The fact is, the smallest grown dragon is generally more than a match for the largest man, unless that man has magic. I did have magic, of course, but I wasn't sure how much good it would do me in the belly of a dragon. I suppose in time my bones would reconstitute from the dragon droppings, and I would recover, but I didn't care to try that out. Certainly there would be some discomfort and awkwardness. Who wants to wake in the middle of a pile of dragon manure?
    Pook was making excellent time. We were leaving the dragon behind. But then another popped up ahead, and I knew we were in trouble. In fact, I was coming to resent the myth that barbarian warriors love to fight dragons; it seemed that the dragons were the first to believe it, being eager for the fray. There is a distinction between adventure and folly that even the average barbarian is aware of.
    We veered to the left, to the bank of the river. The river was smaller here than it had been downstream, but when we sought to cross it, a water dragon lifted its head and hissed. No escape there!
    “Hang on--I've got to fight!” I warned. Supposedly, barbarians fight just for the fun of it; that's a half-truth.
    We enjoy combat when we expect to win. With dragons, the odds are inclement.
    I guided Pook with my legs. He was very responsive, knowing that once again his half-life was on the line as much as my whole life was. I anchored my left hand on a chain and lifted my good sword with my right. The dragon behind me was a fire-breather, so we stayed clear of it; the one in front was a smoker. That would be no fun, but was a better risk than fire. They say that where there's smoke there's fire, but that's not generally true among dragons. They also say that more people