Dragon Book, The Page 4

  “I will,” Ercule said.

  Perla thought, He hunts in the daylight. But on his home hunting ground. Off his range, he would be more cautious. Her palms were clammy. If you try to escape, I will definitely eat you.

  Marco said, “And find out where the Duke is. I heard he was coming back north.”

  Ercule said, “I will, Marco.”

  Perla swallowed, her hands pressed together at her breast, and looked down at the sea beach below the cliff, where once the village had been—where still a lot of the village remained. A story began to form in her mind, but she had no one to tell it to. If she kept it silent, it would go away. She looked out at the broad, rippled sea, burnished in the setting sun.

  Ercule said, “What’s got you so pinch-faced? I’ll be back in a couple of days.” He showed his teeth in his ugly grin. “Then we’ll have a good time.”

  “I’d rather be eaten,” she said.

  Ercule came back with a buzz of news. To her relief, Perla’s courses had begun, and for once she slept untroubled and alone. A few days later, the Duke himself rode down toward the village on the beach.

  His charger was black, with reins worked with silver, and silver stirrups. Marco met him at the foot of the trail up the cliff; the villagers all watched from the height.

  The Duke’s voice was clear and loud. “I know who you are. Word came to me even in the south, where I was fighting Saracens. Help me defeat these northern sea-raiders, and I’ll make you Count of this place. You can go on robbing, unh, taking your tolls on the highway. Just give me half.”

  Perla, horrified, saw her brother bow down, agreeing to this. The Duke wheeled his horse and rode away, and Marco came back up the trail to the village.

  Perla went to him as soon as she saw him without Ercule. She said, “He is lying! He is lying. Can’t you see that?”

  Marco smiled at her. “It’s all right, my darling.” He kissed her. “I was lying too.” More a dragon every day.

  Marco said, “They come on the full moon. The Duke agrees with me, says there have been three attacks this year, all north of here, but moving down the coast. They come in the night of the full moon, burn the village, seize all the people, go before daylight comes. Slavers, obviously. We can figure they’ll come here, if not the next full moon, then the one after. Especially if we all move back to the village on the beach.”

  Perla clamped her lips shut. They would be safe on the cliff.

  If they stayed on the cliff, the dragon would be safe from them.

  Now Marco was telling the plan. “We’ll dig a ditch just above the high-tide line. The Duke will bring archers, who will hide in the ditch, and knights, who will wait in the village. When the raiders come in, we’ll get them between, and we’ll have them.”

  Perla bit her knuckle. Ercule swung around toward her. “Well, what do you think of that?” He picked her up and swung her around. “When I am a lord, you’ll be a lady. Hah! Then you’ll like me better.” She clenched her teeth, angry, and thought of getting a knife somewhere and sticking it up between his ribs.

  But for the next few weeks, all the men worked hard digging the ditch, and Ercule mostly left her alone. The moon was waxing. The women went back to living on the beach, in the shells of the old huts; with the summer coming on, these were pleasant in the evening breezes, and close by the water for the children. They talked of taking out the boat to fish, until someone noticed the holes in the nets.

  A few days before the next full moon, the Duke rode in and galloped his black horse on the beach at low tide, all the while staring out to sea. Perla watched him morosely. Talk was, his war in the south had not gone well. He needed to defeat someone. Her gaze went to Marco, working hard in the heat to shore up the side of the ditch. Surely he was making a fool out of Marco, who was doing all the work, while the Duke would get all the glory.

  The Duke’s handsome young son raced after him. He practiced with his sword, pretending to do battle with hundreds.

  Just one, she thought, her heart hammering, and looked out over the sea. Or maybe she had dreamt it. Just a story, after all. Maybe there was nothing but the likes of Ercule, the Duke, and Marco.

  Her sister came to her, and said, “The moon will be full tonight. We are going into the woods again. Will you come?”

  Perla said, “I want to stay.”

  “It’s been said—” Her sister’s mouth kinked. “If the Duke can’t have his sea-raiders, he’ll take Marco.”

  She said, “I will stay.”

  “Ah, you’ve always been a fool, Perla! Now I think you’re a little crazy.”

  She knew that Marco had spread that word about her, that she was crazy.

  She was beginning to wonder, what difference did it make, if everybody else believed something else? Surely they were right?

  The sun set, and the round moon rose. She alone of all the women stayed in the beach village, where the Duke’s knights spread out to eat their supper among the huts. Wary of them, she walked down toward the water. She circled the end of the ditch, full of men with bows. Out before everybody else was Marco, with the other villagers.

  She climbed up onto the rock at the end of the beach. The moonlight made everything silver and black, glistening sand, the inky pit of the ditch. The sea ran soft and quiet in the windless night, just curling over along the beach. She thought, The knights are ready, either for the attack from the sea, or to attack Marco. Marco had only five men, and the Duke one hundred.

  She sat on the rock in the moonlight, dozing, and she dreamt of the great red eye, gold-rimmed, and the deep voice saying, “Tell me a story.”

  She opened her eyes. The moon was sinking into the west. Her hair tingled up. Out there, an eddy was forming on the rippled water.

  She stiffened, her breath frozen in her lungs. Behind her, a man called out sleepily, “What’s that?”

  Marco shouted, “Perla! What are you doing there? Run!”

  She twisted to see him running away from the water, dashing for the cliff. The other villagers followed him. So that was his plan! He remembered the dragon after all. Without waiting for her, Ercule and the others at his heels, he raced toward the trail up the cliff, leaving the Duke’s men behind to fight.

  The Duke’s men ignored him. To them, nothing was happening. A few of the archers in the ditch lifted their bows. One called out, “What are we shooting at?”

  The sentry shouted, “Something’s out there.”

  Standing in his stirrups to see, the Duke rode to the edge of the ditch, his son behind him, his face stretched in a lopsided yawn. Out on the sea, the eddy whirled larger and deeper, sleek and dark in the moonlit water around it. The edge broke hard on the beach. Then the horned head shot up, and the dragon lunged into the air.

  Perla leapt down from the rock. “No! Go back—it’s a trap! Go back—” Something struck her hard in the back, and she fell headlong, almost in the water.

  A tremendous brazen roar drowned everything. She felt the waves lapping at her hands, and crawled up toward the dry sand, out of the way. Her back hurt, and blood ran down her side; she twisted her arm around carefully to feel behind her, but touched only her sodden dress. Whatever had hit her had glanced off. She sank down, gasping with pain. Then the dragon hurtled up out of the sea past her.

  As he went, he shot out a green bolt of flame that scorched the ditch from end to end. When the few men who could raised their bows, he swept them up in his jaws. Some he ate, and some he cast aside to go after more. He crossed the smoldering ditch with a bound. Perla, crouched by the rock, heard the ping of the arrows striking his scales.

  A horn blew. In a long single line, the knights charged down the beach. The Duke led them, his sword drawn. They swept in around the dragon like a surging wave, their swords hacking, the horses whirling and struggling against spurs and bits.

  Then another green flame sizzled out and knocked the dark wave back, and, with a shriek, the dragon reared up, his head high, the Duke between his jaws. E
ven from the side, Perla could hear the armor crunch. A wail went up from the Duke’s men, and they scurried back, away.

  The Duke’s son galloped forward. “Rally! Rally—”

  The dragon hurled the Duke’s body down and went straight for the son, and the boy wheeled his horse and ran. The great jaws snapped shut at the horse’s tail. The knights followed in a stream. The dragon grabbed another as they fled, and ate him, spitting out the coat of mail and the helmet.

  Perla rose, stiff with pain, and limped toward him. He was bleeding from a dozen places, a slash on his neck, a deep gash in his breast, arrows sticking into his scales. She held out her arms to him.

  “Are you all right?”

  The dragon turned to her, and she saw the first dawnlight glisten on the golden disk between his eyes. His voice was harsh. He said, “I am sore wounded, my heart’s blood flows on these sands. If not for your warning, they would have had me. I swore I would devour you, if I found you. But you saved me, and suffered for it.” He turned, swaying back toward the sea. “And I remember the stories.”

  She said, “I want to go with you.”

  He stopped, his neck arched, his head hanging down. His wounds dropped thick globs of blood that burnt a moment on the sand and then went out in a wisp of smoke. “I remember the stories. I do not know where these wounds and the sea will carry me.”

  “Yet I will go with you, whatever happens.”

  His head swung toward her. The great red eyes glimmered, brimming. The long tongue flicked out tenderly over her bare feet. She climbed up over his shoulder and onto his back, sitting astride, holding with both hands to the great spine before her. She had only enough time to draw a deep breath before he plunged back into the sea.

  Vici

  NAOMI NOVIK

  Here’s a demonstration that “Seize the day!” is often good advice, even if taking it gets you entangled with a dragon—in ways that you never could have anticipated!

  Born in New York City, where she still lives with her mystery-editor husband and six computers, bestselling author Naomi Novik is a first-generation American who was raised on Polish fairy tales, Baba Yaga, and Tolkien. After doing graduate work in computer science at Columbia University, she participated in the development of the computer game Neverwinter Nights: Shadows of Undrentide and then decided to try her hand at novels. A good decision! The resultant Temeraire series—consisting of His Majesty’s Dragon, Throne of Jade, Black Powder War, and Empire of Ivory—describing an alternate version of the Napoleonic Wars where dragons are used as living weapons, has been phenomenally popular and successful. Her most recent book is a new Temeraire novel, Victory of Eagles.

  “WELL, Antonius,” the magistrate said, “you are without question a licentious and disreputable young man. You have disgraced a noble patrician name and sullied your character in the lowest of pursuits, and we have received testimony that you are not only a drunkard and a gambler—but an outright murderer as well.”

  With an opening like that, the old vulture was sending him to the block for sure. Antony shrugged philosophically; he’d known it was unlikely his family could have scraped together enough of a bribe to get him let go. Claudius’s family was a damn sight richer than his; and, in any case, he could hardly imagine his stepfather going to the trouble.

  “Have you anything to say for yourself?” the magistrate said.

  “He was a tedious bastard?” Antony offered cheerfully.

  The magistrate scowled at him. “Your debts stand at nearly 250 talents—”

  “Really?” Antony interrupted. “Are you sure? Gods, I had no idea. Where does the money go?”

  Tapping his fingers, the magistrate said, “Do you know, I would dearly love to send you to the arena. It is certainly no less than you deserve.”

  “The son of a senator of Rome?” Antony said, in mock appall. “They’d have you on the block, next.”

  “I imagine these circumstances might be considered mitigating,” the magistrate said. “However, your family has petitioned for mercy most persuasively, so you have an alternative.”

  Well, that was promising. “And that is?” he said.

  The magistrate told him.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Antony said. “How is that mercy? It’s twelve men to kill a dragon, even if it’s small.”

  “They did not petition for your life,” the magistrate said patiently. “That would have been considerably more expensive. Dragon-slaying is an honorable death, and generally quick, from my understanding; and it will legally clear your debts. Unless you would prefer to commit suicide?” he inquired.

  Dragons could be killed, guards might be bribed to let you slip away, but a sword in your own belly was final. “No, thanks anyway,” Antony said. “So where’s the beast? Am I off to Germanica to meet my doom, or is it Gaul?”

  “You’re not even leaving Italy,” the magistrate said, already back to scribbling in his books, the heartless bugger. “The creature came down from the north a week ago with all its hoard and set itself up just over the upper reaches of the Tiber, not far from Placentia.”

  Antony frowned. “Did you say its hoard?”

  “Oh yes. Quite remarkable, from all reports. If you do kill it, you may be able to pay off even your debts, extraordinary as they are.”

  As if he’d waste perfectly good gold in the hand on anything that stupid. “Just how old a beast are we talking about, exactly?”

  The magistrate snorted. “We sent a man to count its teeth, but he seems to be doing it from inside the creature’s belly. A good four to six elephantweight from local reports, if that helps you.”

  “Discord gnaw your entrails,” Antony said. “You can’t possibly expect me to kill the thing alone!”

  “No,” the magistrate agreed, “but the dragon-hunter division of the ninth is two weeks’ march away, and the populace is getting restless in the meantime. It will be as well to make a gesture.” He looked up again. “You will be escorted there by a personal guard provided by Fulvius Claudius Sullius’s family. Do you care to reconsider?”

  “Discord gnaw my entrails,” Antony said bitterly.

  ALL right, now this was getting damned unreasonable. “It breathes fire?” Antony said. The nearest valley was a blackened ruin, orchard trees and houses charred into lumps. A trail of debris led away into the hills, where a thin line of smoke rose steadily into the air.

  “Looks like,” Addo, the head of the guards, said more enthusiastically than was decent. Anyone would’ve thought he’d won all the man’s drinking money last night, instead of just half. There hadn’t even been a chance to use it to buy a whore for a last romp.

  The guards marched Antony down to the mouth of the ravine—the only way in or out, because the gods had forsaken him—and took off the chains. “Change your mind?” Addo said, smirking, while the other two held out the shield and spear. “It’s not too late to run onto it, instead.”

  “Kiss my arse.” Antony took the arms and threw the man his purse. “Spill a little blood on the altar of Mars for me, and have a drink in my memory,” he said, “and I’ll see you all in Hell.”

  They grinned and saluted him. Antony stopped around the first curve of the ravine and waited a while, then glanced back: but the unnaturally dedicated pedicatores were sitting there, dicing without a care in the world.

  All right: nothing for it. He went on into the ravine.

  It got hotter the farther in he went. His spear grip was soaked with sweat by the last curve, and then he was at the end, waves of heat like a bath furnace shimmering out to meet him. The dragon was sleeping in the ravine, and merda sancta, the thing was the size of a granary! It was a muddy sort of green with a scattering of paler green stripes and spots and spines, not like what he’d expected; there was even one big piebald patch of pale green, splotchy on its muzzle. More importantly, its back rose up nearly to the height of the ravine walls, and its head looked bigger than a wagon cart.

  The dragon snuffled a littl
e in its nose and grumbled, shifting. Pebbles rained down from the sides of the ravine walls and pattered against its hide of scales lapped upon scales, with the enameled look of turtle shell. There was a stack of bones heaped neatly in a corner, stripped clean—and behind that a ragged cave in the cliff wall, silver winking where some of the coin had spilled out of the mouth, much good would it do him.

  “Sweet Venus, you’ve left me high and dry this time,” Antony said, almost with a laugh. He didn’t see how even a proper company would manage this beast. Its neck alone looked ten cubits long, more than any spear could reach. And breathing fire—

  No sense in dragging the thing out. He tossed aside his useless shield—a piece of wood against this monster, a joke—and took a step toward the dragon, but the shield clattering against the ravine wall startled the creature. It jerked its head up and hissed, squinty-eyed, and Antony froze. Noble resignation be damned; he plastered himself back against the rock face as the dragon heaved itself to its feet.

  It took two steps past him, stretching out its head with spikes bristling to sniff suspiciously at the shield. The thing filled nearly all the ravine. Its side was scarcely an arm’s length from him, scales rising and falling with each breath, and sweat was already breaking out upon his face from the fantastic heat: like walking down the road in midsummer with a heavy load and no water.

  The shoulder joint where the foreleg met the body was directly before his face. Antony stared at it. Right in the armpit, like some sort of hideous goiter, there was a great swollen bulge where the scales had been spread out and stretched thin. It was vaguely translucent, and the flesh around it had gone puffy.

  The dragon was still busy with the shield, nosing at it and rattling it against the rock. Antony shrugged fatalistically and, taking hold of the butt of his spear with both hands, took a lunge at the vulnerable spot, aiming as best he could for the center of the body.