hatched, toward that jutting tangle
of bare mountains that rises between Dubla and Fendreth-Teching.
She sensed other creatures there, but they would soon be gone, for
she would allow no threat to her eggs.
*
In Rushmarsh the crowd of otters exclaimed
over Teb. Their leader, Feskken of the pale tan coat and dark
muzzle, escorted the raft to shore, scowling at the few who
complained and sending them on other business. ‘The boy will die
without rest. He needs food and quiet until morning.”
Charkky and Mikk looked at Feskken
gratefully and pushed the raft in among the grasses of Rushmarsh,
where they would be safe for the night. There they fed Teb again
with chewed seafood and told their tale to Feskken and the
gathering of otters in the great meeting holt in the center of
Rushmarsh, a holt woven of the living green grasses of the marsh
and so quite invisible from any distance, as were all the holts in
Rushmarsh. Feskken sent two otters to pack Teb’s wounds with damp
moss and to feed him horserush tea to ease the pain. Teb hardly
knew he ate or drank, and kept falling in and out of consciousness.
The horserush tea made him sleep, and he knew nothing more until he
woke the next morning on the raft again when the first wave hit
him. He was sweating with pain again and shivering, and the otters
were afraid for him. They gave him more of the tea, carefully
stored in a clamshell, and again the pain eased, and Teb lay
watching the sea roll and heave, and drowsing.
“Mitta will help him,” Charkky said. “She’ll
know what to do.” He splashed more cold salty water over the
seaweed that packed Teb’s leg and touched the boy’s cheek with a
hesitant paw. Teb only blinked at him. “I wish he could tell us his
name,” said Charkky. But Teb couldn’t, he couldn’t dredge any name
up out of the darkness.
“He’s weary with pain,” Mikk said. “He’s
half gone in shock and sickness.”
The journey took half the day, the two
otters pushing and pulling the raft, a slow cumbersome way to
travel for those who could flip through the sea like hawking
swallows, weightless and free. By the time they sighted Nightpool,
both were weary indeed of the slow, willful raft that bucked and
halted at every wave. Teb had thrown up twice and was so white they
were sure he would die.
“We shouldn’t have brought him,” said Mikk.
“We should have left him on the battlefield.”
“You know you couldn’t have.”
“What is Thakkur going to say?”
“What is Ekkthurian going to say is more the
question.”
“Who cares what Ekkthurian says. He’s
nothing but a troublemaker.”
“Well, whatever anyone says, it’ll come soon
enough. Look, they’re gathered on the cliff, and there’s
Thakkur.”
*
The dragon took one meal after the breeding,
dropping down onto a mountain pasture to snatch up sheep and goats.
She ate only the aged and crippled, hunting the domestic mammals as
the wolf hunts, for food only, and selectively. She had seen other
dragons below her as she traveled, common dragons lairing in the
mountains over which she flew, but there were none like herself.
None frightened her, though if they came for her eggs, she would
kill them.
At midmorning she took possession of the
entire tangle of peaks that made up the Lair, driving out two
common dragons, several king lizards, and a black python, and
eating their eggs and newborn so they would not return to their
nests. Then she began to uproot trees from the countryside below
and, on the highest peak of the Lair, to weave her nest from the
trunks, curving the smaller branches and twigs inward to make a
soft bed. She sensed the five young within her with a terrible joy
of love and possession.
When she was ready to lay, she killed two
angora goats and three sheep, and laid them around the nest in a
circle, then ripped their bellies open. These would receive her
five eggs, to warm and nurture them. When all was ready, she
crouched, bellowed again to shake the sky,
of bare mountains that rises between Dubla and Fendreth-Teching.
She sensed other creatures there, but they would soon be gone, for
she would allow no threat to her eggs.
*
In Rushmarsh the crowd of otters exclaimed
over Teb. Their leader, Feskken of the pale tan coat and dark
muzzle, escorted the raft to shore, scowling at the few who
complained and sending them on other business. ‘The boy will die
without rest. He needs food and quiet until morning.”
Charkky and Mikk looked at Feskken
gratefully and pushed the raft in among the grasses of Rushmarsh,
where they would be safe for the night. There they fed Teb again
with chewed seafood and told their tale to Feskken and the
gathering of otters in the great meeting holt in the center of
Rushmarsh, a holt woven of the living green grasses of the marsh
and so quite invisible from any distance, as were all the holts in
Rushmarsh. Feskken sent two otters to pack Teb’s wounds with damp
moss and to feed him horserush tea to ease the pain. Teb hardly
knew he ate or drank, and kept falling in and out of consciousness.
The horserush tea made him sleep, and he knew nothing more until he
woke the next morning on the raft again when the first wave hit
him. He was sweating with pain again and shivering, and the otters
were afraid for him. They gave him more of the tea, carefully
stored in a clamshell, and again the pain eased, and Teb lay
watching the sea roll and heave, and drowsing.
“Mitta will help him,” Charkky said. “She’ll
know what to do.” He splashed more cold salty water over the
seaweed that packed Teb’s leg and touched the boy’s cheek with a
hesitant paw. Teb only blinked at him. “I wish he could tell us his
name,” said Charkky. But Teb couldn’t, he couldn’t dredge any name
up out of the darkness.
“He’s weary with pain,” Mikk said. “He’s
half gone in shock and sickness.”
The journey took half the day, the two
otters pushing and pulling the raft, a slow cumbersome way to
travel for those who could flip through the sea like hawking
swallows, weightless and free. By the time they sighted Nightpool,
both were weary indeed of the slow, willful raft that bucked and
halted at every wave. Teb had thrown up twice and was so white they
were sure he would die.
“We shouldn’t have brought him,” said Mikk.
“We should have left him on the battlefield.”
“You know you couldn’t have.”
“What is Thakkur going to say?”
“What is Ekkthurian going to say is more the
question.”
“Who cares what Ekkthurian says. He’s
nothing but a troublemaker.”
“Well, whatever anyone says, it’ll come soon
enough. Look, they’re gathered on the cliff, and there’s
Thakkur.”
*
The dragon took one meal after the breeding,
dropping down onto a mountain pasture to snatch up sheep and goats.
She ate only the aged and crippled, hunting the domestic mammals as
the wolf hunts, for food only, and selectively. She had seen other
dragons below her as she traveled, common dragons lairing in the
mountains over which she flew, but there were none like herself.
None frightened her, though if they came for her eggs, she would
kill them.
At midmorning she took possession of the
entire tangle of peaks that made up the Lair, driving out two
common dragons, several king lizards, and a black python, and
eating their eggs and newborn so they would not return to their
nests. Then she began to uproot trees from the countryside below
and, on the highest peak of the Lair, to weave her nest from the
trunks, curving the smaller branches and twigs inward to make a
soft bed. She sensed the five young within her with a terrible joy
of love and possession.
When she was ready to lay, she killed two
angora goats and three sheep, and laid them around the nest in a
circle, then ripped their bellies open. These would receive her
five eggs, to warm and nurture them. When all was ready, she
crouched, bellowed again to shake the sky,
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