Heritage of Fire Read online

  "No one, messire," replied Gerd, and it was true. He had not known how to do what he had just done. He had never done such a thing before. It just came to him, like breathing.

  The stranger laughed indulgently. "Discreet, too. You need not fear. Certainly it is forbidden to teach peasants how to use weapons, but any man may carry a quarterstaff. I would I had managed one so well, at your age. My own armsmaster would have been proud." Gerd did not reply. "No more questions about that, then." The stranger drank. "To business. Are you bond or free?"

  It was the vital question, the most important of questions. To be bond was to be tied to one lord's service, never to be free to work for whom one willed. But to be tied was to be secure. Gerd was free. He had been a foundling and no man could say that his parents were bond. But that meant freedom to work each day for the day's keep, no more. In times of want, it was freedom to starve, work as he might.

  "I am no man's son," said Gerd. "No lord has taken my service." No lord has thought it worthwhile, he added, in thought.

  The fair eyebrows quirked at the bitterness in his voice. "Would you rather be bond?"

  Gerd gestured. "If it meant having land to till, eating regular," he replied.

  The gentleman's brows drew down. "You disappoint me. I had in mind to hire you, my last varlet having left me in Peterfield a day ago. They said in the village there was a lad here, and I thought you bore yourself well in your contest with that red-faced lout. But I cannot hire one in bond to a lord, and I shall not hire one who would rather be so." He sipped his ale, watching Gerd.

  Gerd's mouth opened and closed. Hire? What, work for regular wages? Him?

  Then it was as if hands held his shoulders, and a voice whispered in his ear. "Forgive me, messire," he heard himself say. "Hunger warps the mind."

  It sounded like a proverb, one of those gloomy old saws that Bill Sniggen was so fond of. And yet it was true. Gerd tried to remember a day that he hadn't been hungry. Hunger gnaws more than a stomach, he realised; and it was as if something within him heard the thought, and nodded in approval.

  As the gentleman was doing. "Well said. Can you groom horses?"

  The sudden switch almost confused Gerd, but he answered, readily enough: "Yes, messire. I stable them when we have them at the inn."

  "Excellent. I am Robert Penrose, pursuivant, squire-at-arms. And you are?"

  "Gerd, messire."

  The squire nodded. Only one name, of course. Gerd had no family to claim. "Well then, Gerd. I offer you honourable employment. Varlets groom horses and attend. Wages of a penny a day, plus keep, and a new tunic and hose. And -" a glance at Gerd's clothing - " a cloak and shoes, in this case. There is a cobbler in the village?"

  "Y-yes, messire."

  "Very well. We'll be off in the morning then, as soon as you're outfitted. See to my horses now."

  Gerd stood, automatically. His hands opened and closed. He hesitated. The squire's eyebrows quirked up, enquiringly.

  It all seemed assumed. The greatest thing ever to happen to him, and it had been decided in a few casual words, and without him saying anything at all, as though he didn't matter.

  Well, that was nothing unusual. But still … "Messire … where are we going?"

  The eyebrows fell again. "To meet the dragon of the Carrine Pass," said Squire Penrose, dismissing, and sipped his ale again.

  2

  Life changes, and yet it stays the same, thought Gerd. Squire Penrose was, in his own way, as hard to please as Mistress Withers. Less free with the cuffs and curses, maybe, but the look of pain on his face when he saw badly-oiled harness, or heard a poorly-turned sentence, was as hard to bear. Especially at the next practice with quarterstaff.

  "Once more. Defend. Pass of three. High line," the squire said, and as Gerd came on guard, he attacked.

  Snap, block, pivot around the block and tap the squire on the shoulder. Knock the return strike up and lean left to take the next glancingly down the right arm.

  The squire nodded. "Enough. Well done." He stepped back.

  Gerd bowed slightly. He could have hit harder, he knew. More important, he could have slipped the return blow altogether. But if the Squire had noticed it, he said nothing. He stood back to allow Gerd to pack up after their mid-day halt.

  The great difference, thought Gerd, was the victuals and living. He wasn't hungry. Not all the time, anyway - he'd just eaten, and eaten well. And, for the first winter he could remember, he wasn't cold. Well, not cold. Not really.

  He cupped his hands to allow the squire to mount from them, picked up his pack, and made ready to move on, walking, the squire riding, as was only right, though there were three horses.

  The road had become worse over the last day. It was no more than a rutted, muddy track over stony fields. The villages were poorer, too, and the squire had said that tonight's rest was the last billet before the mountains. After that, there was a tent strapped to the pony. Gerd rather hoped he might have a corner of it, if it came on to snow.

  Perhaps it would be uncomfortable, though hardly more so than the common-room floor in winter. But staying on at the inn had been out of the question anyway. Jenny had said as much.

  "Of course you must go, Gerd," she had told him. "Dan Miller will be after you."

  Gerd knew that, and he was worried for Jenny. But she had smiled. "Dan will be no problem to us. Mistress Withers will complain to the Lord's sheriff, and he will visit Dan's father. We are covered by the Lord's law."

  So they were, being bond to him. But Gerd was not. No lord had taken his service, so no lord would protect him. Except for Squire Penrose.

  Gerd took the pony's leading-rein and clucked to him. Squire Penrose was already walking his horse on. Gerd fell in behind, the pony ambling beside him. That made three horses - Rousset, the fine dappled palfrey which Squire Penrose rode with such easy grace; the pack-pony Gerd was leading, whose name was Hal; and Hugo.

  Hugo was the largest animal Gerd had ever seen. He was a bay gelding, short-coupled, seventeen hands high, with withers like boulders and a chest like the arch of a hall. Squire Penrose groomed him personally. Hugo wouldn't allow anyone else to do it. He was trained not to, and he was naturally mean, anyway. That was to the good, in his case. Hugo was a warhorse. Gerd kept away from him.

  Hugo carried nothing but Squire Penrose's armour, which was carefully rolled in oiled leather in the panniers, and his own harness and saddle. Hugo was not for carrying things, except his master in the charge. He was fed on the best of oats and the best of hay and green fodder, though, carefully chosen, and Squire Penrose paid out whatever silver was required in the villages through which they passed to get it.

  Gerd supposed that if you wanted to slay a dragon, you needed such a horse. He had never seen a dragon himself, of course, though he had often heard of them. But they were going to find one. The Dragon of the Carrine Gate. And that was all that Gerd knew.

  He hadn't questioned Squire Penrose further. Somehow, the squire was not to be questioned. What questions could Gerd ask, anyway? They could all be answered from what he knew already. Like, how did the squire know of the dragon? (What did it matter?) Where was the Carrine Gate? (In the mountains up ahead, obviously.) Was it a huge dragon? (No, stupid, it's only the size of a goat, but don't tell anyone.) Why did the squire want to find it? (Haven't you been listening? It's a dragon.)

  What did he know of dragons? Little enough. That they were huge and strong and that they poured fire from their mouths. That they lived in caves, sleeping most of the time on the golden hoards that they gathered. And that they were magical. Some said they could do magic, but others said that was nonsense; that only warlocks and witches could do magic, for magic was released by words, and only by words.

  What did it matter? Gerd had left the village, and that was the most important thing. If he returned, it would have to be in some way that would make Dan Miller leave him alone. Perhaps bonded to some powerful lord. Or not go back at all.

  "Gerd,"
said the squire, from the saddle. "Repeat your letters to me."

  Gerd sighed. The squire had remarked that a good servant should be able to read, at least a little, and had begun to teach him. Gerd reflected that not everything was as enjoyable as learning to use the staff.

  Their billet that night was a place called Hardrange Hall. Well-named, thought Gerd, weary, leaning on his staff to stare at it. It was a grim pile of massive stones guarding a narrow valley high in the hills. Here there was rough grazing, a little ploughland and, in a sheltered fold of ground, a precious scrap of orchard, enough to support a village and some wandering shepherds. And the lord's house. But it was near the mountains, and wild folk lived up there. Dragons, some said. So the house had thick walls and a slate roof, and those walls were pierced only with arrow-slits, and the only door was massive and on the first floor, reached by a plank ramp that could be drawn up.

  If the folk they passed wore rough clothes, and seemed close and dour, there was reason enough. The shepherds, out with sheep they had to move each day and guard from wolves each night, seemed to appraise Squire Penrose, his horses, his weapons and his follower, with knowing eyes. Men who fight wolves learn enough of fighting to assess such things. Wild folk themselves, perhaps. Wandering shepherds - who can say who is their lord?

  But they had directed the Squire to Hardrange Hall, and there was a welcome there. The gentry look after their own. A gentleman could claim guest-right at any lord's hall, and this village was too poor to have an inn.

  They arrived not long before the early dark, and yet supper was already laid on the plank tables. The lord, Squire Gratton, kept old-fashioned hours.

  And old-fashioned ways, too. Gerd had to dig his master's spoon and eating knife out of the bottom of the pack, for here guests brought their own. He stood behind Squire Penrose's chair at meat - and meat it was, lumps of mutton stewed and roasted, and great pasties of goat's-flesh and mountain herbs.

  Squire Penrose ate sparingly, with the delicate manners of the gentry. Not so the household. They shovelled their food down with a will, tearing the bread and using it to mop their gravy, sucking their fingers, laughing, belching, throwing scraps to the dogs. Not much different from the village on feast-days, thought Gerd. Not much different from me. And the master of the house ate like the rest, putting away an amazing amount of food, for all that he was small and spare, like his own hillmen. Coarse and dark of skin and hair like them, too.

  Squire Gratton had seated Squire Penrose on his right, of course. That accounted for two of the three chairs in the hall - the rest of the company sat on benches around trestle-tables. The other chair, on the host's left, remained empty. The lady of the hall was dead, Gerd had heard.

  Their host wiped his fingers on his napkin, remembering just in time not to use his doublet. He leaned back and spoke to Squire Penrose.

  "We have few visitors, especially this time of year, messire," he said, and raised his eyebrows slightly.

  It was as close to a direct question as good manners would permit. Squire Penrose shot Gerd a glance under his brows. It meant follow my lead. Gerd schooled his face and let no change of expression cross it.

  "The hunting is best in winter, I hear," the squire answered. "The wild mountain sheep with the great curving horns may be taken then."

  Squire Gratton squinted into his cup and then held it out for a refill. "Aye," he said. "And they are wild and dangerous enough. Though I never heard of a man using a warhorse to hunt them." He mused a moment. "But then again, you didn't actually say you were here for the hunting."

  "Oh, I'm here for the hunting, all right," said Squire Penrose.

  The lord grunted and retired into his cup. If he was unsatisfied, he gave no sign. He waved the other hand, and an old man stood up among the benches and approached the high table. A tall, lean old man, with grooved cheeks and a face full of angles and shadows.

  "Alessin. Bard," said Squire Gratton, as if no further explanation were required. "Perhaps The Lay of the Carrine Dragon tonight, I think."

  The old man bowed, and the hall grew quiet. He waited a moment, his eyes closed, as if recalling words to mind. Then his chin rose, and he began to recite:

  When winter whites the mountain meads

  And wicked winds the summers slay,

  And night and noon wear widow's weeds,

  Dark dragons in the passes play.

  Of dread the daughters, lost to light,

  Children of chaos and cold night.

  The old man's face took on a light of its own as he chanted. Gerd listened, and it was as if the words went straight to his bones like ice and honey, as if they told him about something he already knew. The hall was silent. Shadows had gathered among the roof-beams and by the thick walls, and the fire in the centre of the long room burned low, throwing brooding ripples across the faces of the listeners, making masks of them.

  The verses rolled on. They told of dragons, huge, terrifying. How they hoarded and slept on treasure in their caves of ice and stone. How they grew through the slow ages, and increased in will and cunning. And how the greatest of all of them was the Dragon of the Carrine Gate.

  Gerd started at the name, and his eyes flicked to the face of his master. But Squire Penrose gave no sign, unless it was the slight narrowing of his eyes. The bard spoke on, unmoving, standing like a stone, as if he were no more than a vessel for the words:

  Scales like shields, might none may measure,

  Yet her wisdom was awaking.

  Dragged from dragon dreams of treasure,

  From her bed of bright gold, shaking

  Shining jewels, she rose unheeding.

  For no hoard could help her needing.

  The hall seemed to darken. All Gerd could see was the face of the bard, all he could hear was the tale he told of the Dragon of the Carrine Gate. She, greatest of the dragon-kind, had grown mighty through the slow ages and increased in wisdom and power. As her magic grew she sought outlet for it. But for this she needed word-skills, for only words can release magic, and words are made by men and women, and only by them.

  Paltry seemed her pearls, her prizes,

  And the paladins, the plunder.

  Words she wanted. So arises

  She of Carrine Gate, and thunder

  Rolled through all the snowy summits. Poised like peregrine, she plummets.

  How she sought people for the words that they alone could teach, and how she had either to fight them or to flee, for they would have no commerce with dragons. How she could learn little from cringing captives or from would-be warriors save pleas and defiance. How at last she tried another way:

  Hence she came to human hearths

  Where words are wrought of different dreaming.

  Words, to walk the wizard's paths And spells to shape another seeming.

  And to learn, the Carrine Worm Took upon her human form.

  Gerd stared. He knew dragons were magical - everyone knew that - but that they could change their form, that he had not known.

  Made as maiden, mild as Maytime,

  So she came to croft and crafter,

  Helped in harvest and the hay-time,

  Shared our striving, learnt our laughter.

  Thus, by little laid on less,

  So she came to humanness.

  A dragon, becoming human? So it seemed, for the verses rolled on:

  Not a grotto, golden-gleaming,

  Now she needed, nor yet knightly

  Knaves to gnaw on. So that seeming

  She retained, and reasoned rightly

  Dragon days were borne behind;

  And henceforth home's with humankind.

  Not only becoming human, but living among humans, going with them, being one of them, and staying as a part of them, at last becoming one of them in all but her magical nature:

  So still she's with us. Who shall say

  What law or lord she may be bound by?

  Whose the house where last she lay

  Or any m
ark she might be found by?

  Only this that one would say:

  Beware of wenches on the way.

  But that would mean that a dragon could actually become the same as a human being. Change its shape so completely that it could not be told from one. Gerd listened, and there was a certainty under the words, full authority that he could see and recognise.

  When winter whites the mountain meads

  And skies grow steely, grey as glass,

  Then listen as her laughter leads

  Across the crags to Carrine Pass,

  And follow, if your fear be small,

  Or fail to fare that way at all.

  The bard bowed his head, and the lord of the hall nodded, as the household shouted its applause. Squire Gratton gestured to the steward, and the old man's cup was filled with dark red wine.

  "A fine bard, my lord," said Squire Penrose. "One hears few of the old ballads now. They are grown out of favour in the towns in the lowlands."

  Squire Gratton grunted. "So I hear. Yet the doings of the folk of the lowlands get little airing here, or interest. Ours are the old ways, and our ballads are the old ones, too." He paused, and eyed Squire Penrose as if he were a horse offered for sale. "There's much wisdom in the old ballads."