Dog and Dragon-ARC by Dave Freer Page A

if you told them that there is no need to pinprick this particular dragon with arrows and that the quivering sheepdog is no threat. It’s all right, Díleas, the storm is over.”
    Sir Bertran stood up. “My mother,” he said resignedly, looking at the palanquin approaching. “Sir Fionn, you and your dog strove bravely with me today. I give you thanks. I am in your debt, as I am aware the giant could have caught me on several occasions had the two of you not drawn him off.” He patted Díleas. “Seldom has the world seen a braver, cleverer dog, Sir Fionn.”
    “As long as there are no thunderstorms,” said Fionn. “Anyway. One of your grazing paddocks now has a new rock formation, I think. Let’s go and inspect it before they come and fuss about you. You took a quite a toss there. Got something of a shock, too, I shouldn’t wonder.” Fionn didn’t point out that he thought the knight had got off quite lightly, all things considered.
    They walked across to the late three-headed giant, now a vast tor of blackened glass, with the evil tusky faces distorted and twisted into something even uglier. The giant glass statue was somewhat the worse for having suffered multiple lightning strikes, but that didn’t stop the peasants and men-at-arms approaching cheering their lord, or Díleas lifting his leg on its foot. He was still rather new to this lifting of a leg instead of squatting puppy- or girl-dog fashion, and nearly fell over in the process. That could have been awkward, as the foot was still cracking with internal heat.
    Maybe the loyal retainers might have been approaching a little less fast than they might…if their lord was not being supported by a dragon. And even from here Fionn could hear the hero’s mother. He was a brave lad, this Bertran. Best to leave him to be brave alone, decided Fionn, but it appeared he was not going to be that lucky.

CHAPTER 8
    Alois, the Earl of Carfon, had been riding south by night, hiding by day for more than a week now. He was exhausted and hungry and he was in a better state than his horse. He knew he should be grateful for the horse. Grateful for the magical intervention that had plucked him from the cell, while waiting for the torture chamber, and dropped him next to the horse in a half-ruined stable, a good fifteen miles from Dun Tagoll, where months of planning had all gone so wrong.
    And he was glad. Glad that he would see his son and wife again. Glad, in the last few miles, to see signs that he was returning to farmed lands and not anarchy and banditry. Only Dun Tagoll had wholly abandoned any effort to farm the lands. Only they could. All of the Duns tried to keep at least some agriculture and livestock farming going. It was usually limited to fields just outside the walls. Too few fields, feeding too many mouths. Only in the South had they managed to keep a reasonable amount of land under cultivation, and that by building a great many more forts and having as nearly as many men-at-arms as neyfs working the land. And as he’d said to Branwen when he’d rode out on this venture, the Gods above and below alone knew how much longer they could survive. That was why he’d taken up the offer from the plotters. They’d be dead for their pains, he had no doubt.
    So close. So very close to seeing Medraut dead.
    And then…He mulled it all in his mind, as he had a thousand times since.
    He rode slowly along the lane. It was muddy, but at least not overgrown too. And bandits were rarer here.
    “Halt. Who rides after the curfew bell?” demanded a voice.
    “Earl Alois. And I am truly glad to see my own land and my own men!”
    Six hours later, after a sequence of fresh horses, and with a troop around him, he rode into the gates of Dun Carfon—he’d never thought to see it again—and then into the arms of his wife, and to gaze on the sleeping form of his son. “We’ll have to wake him,” said Branwen. “I’m afraid…like most of us, he believed you were dead, Alois.