The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [21]
“You’re up early,” Gerran said.
“I am, and so are you.” Salamander glanced at him and smiled, then returned to staring out across the river.
“Someone out there?”
“Not a Horsekin in sight, but look, there’s some odd thing in the sky. A flock of ravens perhaps, most deeply grieved with us for burying their gruesome feast.”
Gerran looked up to see, far off to the west, a flock of birds flying toward them in the brightening dawn. Or was it a flock? He heard a distant sound, a thwack and slap like a hand hitting a slack leather drum. The supposed flock looked remarkably like one bird, one enormous bird, flying steadily on huge silver wings. The sound swelled into a boom as the enormous wings carried the creature straight for them. He could see its long neck, its massive head with flaring nostrils and deep-set eyes, the silver scales touched about the head and spiked tail with iridescent blue, glimmering in the rising sun.
“It can’t be,” Gerran muttered. “Ye gods, it is! It’s a dragon!”
Behind him the camp exploded with noise—men yelling and cursing, horses whinnying in terror. Gerran knew he should turn and rush back, should impose some kind of order or at the least guard the horses, but he stayed, staring at the huge silver wyrm. It was so strong, so powerful, and beautiful, as well, in his warrior’s eyes, with the sun glistening on its smooth skin, stretched and supple over immense muscles. It reached the river, dipped one wing, then sheared off, heading north. On its side, just below the wing’s set, Gerran saw a smear of reddish black—old blood from a wound.
“Rhodry!” Salamander started yelling at the top of his lungs. “I mean, blast it, Rori! It’s me, Ebañy! Rori, come back! Rhod—I mean Rori! Wait!”
Screaming like a madman, waving his arms, Salamander raced down the riverbank, but the dragon flapped his wings in a deafening drumbeat and rose high, banking again to head back west. Gerran set his hands on his hips and glared as the gerthddyn came jogging back to him.
“And just how did you know its name?” Gerran said.
Salamander winced, tried to smile, and looked away. “Actually, you see, well, um, er—that’s my brother. He was a silver dagger named Rhodry, but now that he’s a dragon, he’s known as Rori. I keep forgetting to use the right name.”
Gerran started to speak, but his words twisted themselves into a sound more like a growl.
“I’m not a dragon,” Salamander said hastily. “Neither was he originally.”
“What? Of all the daft things I’ve ever heard—”
“Scoff all you want. He was turned into a dragon by dweomer.”
“Dafter and dafter! What are you, a drooling idiot? There’s no such thing as dweomer, and a witch could never have done aught as that.”
“I should have known you’d take it this way.” Salamander looked briefly mournful. “I’m telling you the exact truth, whether you believe it or no. So I thought I’d best find him and see how he was faring and all that. It seemed the brotherly thing to do.”
“Daft.” Gerran was finding it difficult to come up with any other word. With a last angry shrug he turned on his heel and ran back to camp.
It took till noon for Gerran and the two lords to transform the warbands from a frightened mob of men and horses into an orderly procession. Even then, as they rode south along the riverbank, the men kept looking up at the sky, and the horses would suddenly, for no visible reason, snort, toss their heads, and threaten to rear or buck until their riders calmed them. To set a good example, Gerran kept himself from studying the sky, but he did listen, waiting for the sound of wings beating the air like a drum.
In midafternoon they stopped to water their horses at the river. As soon as his horse had finished drinking, Salamander handed its reins to one of the men and went jogging eastward into the meadowlands.
“What in all the hells does he think he’s doing?” Gerran said. He tossed his