The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [192]
Dallandra used the interval to scry for Rori. She saw him just leaving the embattled Horsekin army under the western cliffs, but she had no idea of exactly where that spot was in relation to the town.
“By the Black Sun herself,” Dallandra said, “we’ve got to get these people moving faster.”
“I agree,” Calonderiel said. “Let me go talk with Jahdo.”
Jahdo agreed as well, but the logistics of the move defeated them all. It simply took time to get a mob of civilians ready to move on, more time to get them actually moving, and still more time to deal with wagons, children, dogs, horses, oxen, and the like during the march. Dallandra felt as if they were crawling south on hands and knees. At least the weather would hold clear and dry, or so the Wildfolk assured her. They’d spotted no rainstorms anywhere near.
A further delay arrived with the young dragons, who appeared in midafternoon, flying high over the refugee column. With Medea leading them, they landed a good half mile ahead and to the east of the vulnerable livestock. Still, everyone stopped walking and paused to watch them, so graceful in the air. Cal, Dar, and Jahdo managed to get the line moving again while Dallandra turned her horse—one of those Pir had accustomed to dragon scent—out of line and trotted over to join them. She dismounted, dropped the reins to make the roan gelding stand, and walked over to Medea.
“Here we are,” Medea said. “Mama said we’re to help guard the prince.”
“And I’m very grateful that you will,” Dallandra said. “Do you know where the Horsekin are?”
“Not very far from the town, last I saw them.”
Dallandra swore under her breath.
“Mama and Rori are planning something,” Medea went on. “I don’t know what, but I know what it means when Mama gets that look in her eye. She told us she’d do something to the Horsekin, and then she and Rori would come south, too.”
“Splendid! That lifts my spirits considerably.” Dallandra paused, glancing at Mezza and the young silver wyrm. “Is that your half brother?”
“It is.” Medea turned her head. “Devar, come meet the dweomermaster.”
Devar was still young and slender enough to move with some grace on the ground. He trotted over, ducked his head in greeting, then looked at his sister as if asking what to say. Rhodry’s son! That reality still had the ability to shock Dallandra, but she smiled and fell back on platitudes.
“My thanks to you, too, Devar,” Dallandra said. “Your uncle’s riding with us, by the by.”
“Good! I do like him.” Devar hesitated briefly. “Mama said that you have dweomer.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Will you show us some?”
“Hush!” Medea snapped. “Mama said you weren’t supposed to bother Dallandra.”
Devar hung his head, so abashed that Dallandra pitied him, dragon or not. She patted his broad jaw. “I will,” she said, “but I don’t have the time to do it now. We have to keep these refugees moving, or the Horsekin will catch and kill them.”
“They won’t, not with me on guard!” Devar raised his head high and lashed his tail.
He was acting so like his father at that moment that Dallandra found herself speechless. Medea turned to him and hissed.
“Oh, listen to you!” Medea said. “Very fierce, I’m sure, for a hatchling!”
“Well, there’s the three of us,” Devar said. “That’s triple fierce!”
“Just so,” Dallandra said. “And now I suggest you all get ready to fly. I see the column’s moving again.”
By some hours before the late sunset, the disorganized throng of townsfolk had managed to travel fifteen miles from their town walls. Dallandra realized that while they dithered and complained