Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [105]
When they were all served and the man had walked away, Groddenmitersay cleared his throat. “The purpose, Lady Peg? The purpose of the journey?”
Her expression never altered. Her blue eyes swept the men around the table and settled on him. Again he had the uncomfortable feeling of being examined and found lacking.
He squared his shoulders. “The purpose?”
She dipped her chin, and her smile widened. “The same as the point.” She leaned forward. Her voice came out in the barest whisper. “To come out on top.”
They left the inn after a filling noonmeal and continued their journey, not to Growder but to the Valley of Dragons in the Mercigon Mountains.
The grand parrot rested a shoulder against the side of the carriage, bracing himself. Jouncing over the rough road threatened to toss him off the slippery seat. He preferred to fly, but he needed information from his old friend. He longed for a perch, but he longed more to understand what had just happened.
“Verrin Schope,” said Sir Beccaroon, “what was the purpose of Lady Peg’s discourse on Backward Day?”
The wizard laughed out loud. “To thoroughly befuddle Groddenmitersay. At this point he doesn’t know up from down, backward from forward, or in from out. Any information he collects will be suspect. He won’t know what is valid from what has been concocted to confound him.”
“So the minstrel’s tale of the three statues?”
The sculptor of those three statues shrugged. “Could be the vivid imagination of a man who is paid to entertain.”
“Was paid. I should have gotten him out of there.”
41
The Leader
The Grawl crouched behind a set of boulders, watching the kill. The schoergat swooped in with his lance tucked under his arm and pierced the side of his prey, a mountain goat. He shook the animal loose from the tip of his weapon. Swinging his legs forward and his wings into a horizontal slant, the schoergat stopped in midair and dropped to the ground. His feet landed next to the goat’s head. Catching the struggling animal by one horn, he exposed its neck and sliced it with the sharp edge of his lance.
Patient, as always, The Grawl spent the day observing the creatures he hoped to enlist to battle the dragons. He noted their style of attack and determined when their vulnerable spots were exposed.
The lances they each carried would be no obstacle. He also used a lance and knew how to disarm a man quickly. But the schoergats’ claws posed a problem. Long and sharp, the talons could pierce his skin and tear out parts of him that were better left inside. But their lack of height was in his favor. His arms and legs were longer, and once the lance was removed from a warrior’s grip, The Grawl could kill without getting close to those bladelike fingernails.
He knew which of the schoergats held the position of leadership by the way the others deferred to him. This one he watched more carefully. If his plan worked, he would have to fight only the leader.
Telling the rest of the clan apart had been a challenge. By identifying small differences in their sparse clothing and variations in their movements, he named them and had them ordered as to importance. Torn Shirt had dominance over Right Limp. Itchy Back plagued the lowest of the males, Four Fingers.
The females amused him. They took great pleasure in stirring up strife. He pitied the males that had to keep them in line. One female reached behind her as she passed another, catching her in the act of stretching after a nap. She pinched the skin of the armpit hard enough to make the victim howl. It seemed part of their nature for the females to torment each other without reason.
When the sun coursed over the noonday sky, The Grawl had seen enough hunting by the schoergats to feel confident in his plan. He rose from his observation post and strode down a rough trail to the canyon floor. As he approached, the schoergats drew back, blending into their surroundings.
He stood exposed in a rock clearing. The area had been smoothed, and blood stained the dirt. The Grawl assumed this was the place where ceremonial feasting