The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [7]
—The Pseudo-Iamblichos Scroll
Loathing. Dallandra could put no other name to her feeling. Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, she was standing on top of the wall that circled Gwerbret Cadmar’s dun. Below and around her the town of Cengarn spread out over three hills, bound them with curving streets, choked them with round stone houses, roofed in filthy black thatch. Behind most of the houses stood pens for cows and chickens and of course, dung heaps. Out on the muddy streets she could pick out movement—townsfolk hurrying about their business or perhaps a pack of half-starved dogs. Here and there stood trees, dark and leafless under the grey sky.
The view behind her looked no better. Massive stone towers, joined together, formed the dark and brooding broch complex in the center of the dun. The muddy ward of the enormous fort swarmed with dirty servants and warriors, cursing as they led their horses through a clutter of pigsties and sheep pens. A blacksmith was hammering at his forge; pages sang off-key or chivvied the serving wenches, who swore right back at them. In the crisp autumn air the stink rose high—human waste, animal waste, smoke, spoiled food—overpowering the pomander of Bardek cloves she held to her nose. You should be used to it by now, she told herself. She knew that she never would get used to it, no matter how long she lived among human beings.
“Dalla!” A man’s voice hailed her from below. “Care for a bit of company?”
Without waiting for her answer Rhodry Maelwaedd, who preferred to be known only as Rhodry from Aberwyn, began climbing the wooden ladder that led up the catwalk. A tall man, but oddly slender from shoulder to hip, he was handsome in his way with his dark blue eyes and ready smile. Despite the touches of silver in his raven-black hair and his weatherbeaten skin, he looked young and moved fast and smoothly, too, like a young man. She knew, however, that he’d been born well over eighty winters ago. Although he shared her elven blood—his mother had been human, his father one of the Westfolk like Dallandra—he seemed to have distinctly human opinions about some things. He leaned on the parapet and grinned down at Cengarn.
“A fine sight, isn’t it?” he said.
“Maybe to you. I hate being shut up like this.”
“Well, no doubt. But I mean, it’s a fine thing to see the town standing and not some smoking heap of ruins.”
“Ah, now there I have to agree with you.”
But a few months before, Cengarn had stood in danger of being reduced to rubble, besieged as it was by a marauding army. Now the only threats hanging over the town were those faced by every city in Deverry each winter—disease, cold, and starvation. Dalla leaned on the parapet next to him, then stepped back. He smelled as bad as the rest of them.
“What’s wrong?” Rhodry said.
“That stone is cold. Damp, too.”
“True enough.” But he stayed where he was. “We should have snow soon.”
She nodded agreement and glanced at the lowering sky. A nice thick white blanket of snow—it would hide the dirt, she hoped, and freeze the offal and excrement hard enough to kill the stink.
“There’s somewhat I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been having some cursed strange dreams. Do you think they might mean dweomer at work?”
“I’ve no idea. Tell me about them.”
“Well, it’s the Raven Woman, you see. She comes to me in my dreams and taunts me.”
“That is serious. Here, let’s go somewhere warm, where we can sit and talk.”
They climbed down the ladder and picked their way across the mucky ward. As they passed, the various servants and riders out and about fell silent, turned to stare, and even, every now and then, crossed their fingers in the sign of warding against