The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [181]
The sun was long gone, and the wheel of stars was marking the midpoint of the summer’s night, when the entire army heard a concatenation of noise—a distant bellowing of cows, men yelling at the tops of their lungs, and the drumming of enormous wings, beating the sky. Neb pulled on his boots and hurried out of the tent along with all of the archers and Salamander. Most of the army woke, stumbling out of their blankets to stare at the sky. Up at the temple points of light bobbed along the walls—torches, most likely, in the hands of servants.
In the pale moonlight Neb could just make out a dragon shape, circling high above the priestly dun, then moving on to plunge down out of sight behind it. In but a few moments Arzosah rose again, but slowly. Her wings were beating so hard that the camp could hear them, at that distance rather like the sound a humming-bird makes, though up close it must have been deafening. Limp white shapes, barely visible, dangled from her claws.
“She got two!” Neb said with a laugh. “By the gods, she’s strong!”
“Dragons are generally known for that,” Salamander said. “I hope she’s not going to eat them near the horses.”
Arzosah had apparently kept the horses in mind. She flew well clear of the army’s camp, landing beyond their sight somewhere off to the east. Shaking their heads, laughing or cursing in awe, the watching men slowly migrated back to their blankets and a few more precious hours of sleep, but the shouting up at the temple went on for some time.
With the morning light the high priest of Bel, flanked by four priests each carrying a quarterstaff, marched down from the temple and across the road to the camp. Two sentries hurried to meet him. Neb, who happened to be close by, stayed to watch as the priest demanded to speak with Prince Voran.
“His dragon has stolen some of our cattle,” Govvin said with a snarl. “I demand repayment.”
The sentries both bowed, and one darted off to fetch the prince. While he waited, Govvin stood with his feet spread a bit apart and his hands on his hips. Voran, with a chunk of bread and cheese in one hand, ambled slowly over to meet him. He smiled his froggy grin and bobbed his head Govvin’s way to acknowledge him.
“What’s so wrong, Your Holiness?” Voran said.
“That dragon!” Govvin shook a finger in the prince’s direction. “It stole two of our best cows. The beast is obviously yours, and I expect you to pay for them.”
“Mine?” Voran took a bite of his bread and chewed it thoughtfully for a long moment. “No man owns a dragon, Your Holiness. She’s chosen to accompany us, is all, for some reason of her own.”
Govvin’s hands tightened into fists.
“Besides,” Voran went on, swallowing hastily, “yesterday you told me, and I quote, ‘naught that happens here is your affair, Prince Voran.’ I believe I’ve got that right.” He glanced Neb’s way. “The scribe would know.”
“You have, Your Highness,” Neb said. “Word for word.”
“It stuck in my mind, like.” Voran waved his chunk of bread in the priest’s direction. “So why are you bringing this matter to me?”
Govvin started to speak, stopped himself, turned red in the face with narrow-lipped fury, then turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by his guards. It took a great effort of will, but Neb managed to keep from laughing. Voran, however, did laugh, only a gruff masculine chuckle, but the head priest heard him.
Govvin turned around and glared. Voran fell silent, but the priest kept staring at him. Slowly, guards in tow, Govvin took a step toward the prince, then another, while Voran stared back as if he were naught but a carved statue. The bastard’s done it! Neb thought. He flung up both hands, and Wildfolk appeared, swarming around him, a troop of spider-spindly gnomes and furious sprites, dancing in the air. The fat yellow gnome stood among them and shook a tiny fist at the priest.
“Go!” Neb whispered.
With a howl of rage like a distant winter wind, the Folk charged. Govvin