Beccaroon admired her profile as she gazed adoringly at her husband. She had almost no wrinkles in her fair skin, and she radiated youth. Her stunning beauty turned heads everywhere. He loved to watch new acquaintances’ expressions change when she spoke. He didn’t quite understand what Verrin Schope hoped to accomplish but trusted his scheme would work.
Verrin Schope instructed the minor dragons to stay out of sight. Two flew to the roof of the Blue Moon, and two dived into his cape.
Inside the inn, Sir Beccaroon asked to be seated for noonmeal. Before his eyes could adjust to the dim light, he heard Lady Peg greet someone.
“I remember you,” she said. “We met in the village of Selkskin. Do you remember we walked together one day?”
Groddenmitersay answered, “Yes, milady, I do remember.”
“This is my husband, Verrin Schope, and our good friend, Sir Beccaroon of the Indigo Forest. It’s more of a jungle than a forest. Huge flowers, snakes, and tiny fibbirds. We live on the edge, where we can see the beauty.” She paused to take a breath and raise one finger. “But we do not have to deal with any unpleasantness, like rabbit-eating spiders.”
She shook her head. “Sir Beccaroon is the magistrate and takes care of other unpleasantness. Not spiders, of course. I don’t believe they would learn to eat cabbage instead of rabbits. The rabbits eat cabbage from our garden, and Bec has no jurisdiction over that either. But when our cow visited with some vagrants, Bec sent her home again. I don’t think he reprimanded the cow, because she really didn’t have much sense, so he must have talked to the scalawags. I suppose he spoke sternly, because they did mind him. You don’t mind if he sits with us, do you? I’m sure he doesn’t mind if you sit with us. Unless you are a vagrant or a scalawag. Of course, he doesn’t mix business with pleasure and if you’re—” She spotted the innkeeper. “We’d like a table now. We are very hungry.”
Groddenmitersay gritted his teeth behind the false smile he’d pinned on his face. They’d followed him. She threatened him with the law. She considered him to be no better than a scalawag or a vagrant. And she might have implied he was lower than a cow. He wasn’t sure about that.
Should he walk away or sit with them for noonmeal? What was her plan? It wouldn’t surprise him if she gave the orders and the other two were merely her henchmen.
No matter how clever the woman was, he would not be bamboozled. He could match her cunning deceit.
“I would be pleased to dine with you, Lady Peg.” Aha! He sounded just as ingenuous as she did. “Perhaps you or your comrades can tell me some news of this war.” That should pique her curiosity. “I’m a long way from home and don’t understand why my king would choose to invade Chiril. It seems we had an equitable trade agreement. Why cast that aside?”
Lady Peg made a face at the mention of war. Groddenmitersay cocked his head and waited. He’d caught her off guard with his pointed question. She would see he was more than a match for her subterfuge.
“War!” Lady Peg motioned toward the table where the innkeeper stood ready to serve them. “We don’t approve of war.”
She sat in the chair her husband pulled out for her.
Groddenmitersay sat on the opposite side of the table. “No civilized being approves of war.”
The artist sat next to his wife. A male servant brought in a perch for Sir Beccaroon.
“We’ll have our dessert first,” said Lady Peg. “I would like anything hot with fruit in it and whipped cream.”
The innkeeper suggested hot parnot layered between thin sheets of parted dough and cooked with seasonings from the east coast.
“Nothing,” said Groddenmitersay.
The others ordered cake.
“Do you always eat dessert first?” asked Groddenmitersay.
“No,” said Lady Peg. “But today is a day filled with good things, so it is only natural to begin with a sweet.”
Groddenmitersay bit back his impatience. He would not let her taunt him into saying something he’d regret. This game would see him the winner. “And what is it about today that is so special?”
“We are celebrating Backward Day.”
“I don’t believe we celebrate Backward Day in Baardack.”
“Well.” Lady Peg pressed her hands together. “Some things are best done backward. For instance, when a woman washes her hair, you would expect her to wash it, comb it out, and put it on top in a do.” She shook her finger at him and wagged her head back and forth.
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. His cheeks ached from the false smile.
“But,” said Lady Peg, “she must start at the other end of the process. She takes down her hair, combs out the tangles, and then washes it.”
Groddenmitersay stared at her for a moment. She’d lost him. She looked so pleased with herself that the urge to strangle her rose violently in him. He wrapped his fingers around one of the inn’s rough cloth napkins.
He glanced at the parrot and her husband. Neither showed any sign of being disturbed by the conversation. The parrot looked studious. Groddenmitersay decided the bird had two expressions, studious and interested. Studious for when he avoided being engaged in the conversation. Interested for when courtesy demanded he attend to the speaker.
The husband maintained a rather enigmatic but pleasant manner about him. He either entertained agreeable daydreams constantly or lacked brains to puzzle over a problem.
Groddenmitersay loosened his hold on the crumpled napkin. He deliberately relaxed his jaw and arranged his face in what he knew passed as the impression of polite questioning.
“I’m afraid I don’t see the point, Lady Peg.”
“Oh, you are so clever, Master Groddenmitersay. Of course you’ve pinpointed the bottom line in a backward day. The point is unfathomable. That means it is inexplicable. Inexplicable is a good word to say because of the way it sounds, but it is difficult to spell. My husband can spell it, but he does so many things well.”
She patted him on the arm.
He smiled. “Thank you, my dear, but don’t lose the point of your discussion on my account.”
“The point?”
“Precisely.”
She didn’t speak.
Verrin Schope’s voice did not indicate that her abstraction frustrated him. He merely reminded her of the topic under discussion. “The point of Backward Day.”
“Oh yes, the point is unreliable.” She turned her attention to the tumanhofer.
He thought her eyes might bore into his mind, seeing his confusion. She was getting away from him. He must concentrate, for there would be a clue. Something deep. Something profound.
She smiled. “It could be pointed this way or that but never as you would expect it. I love Backward Day because you can start at the core, rub through the nitty-gritty, travel past the heart, unless you are headed downward, and then you would pass the root. But in any case, after all your trouble, you finally get to the point, and it isn’t where it should be, or it is still moving, or there are multiple points and no one bothered to tell you.”
She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I’m never in favor of downward days. I did mention a downward path, but that is only in passing and one passes downward in order to turn upward, so downward is never really the purpose of the journey.”
Groddenmitersay expelled a long breath, then pulled it back in. “What is the purpose of the journey, Lady Peg?”
She smiled graciously as the innkeeper delivered the desserts.
When they were all served and the man had walked away, Groddenmitersay cleared his throat. “The purpose, Lady Peg? The purpose of the journey?”
Her expression never altered. Her blue eyes swept the men around the table and settled on him. Again he had the uncomfortable feeling of being examined and found lacking.
He squared his shoulders. “The purpose?”
She dipped her chin, and her smile widened. “The same as the point.” She leaned forward. Her voice came out in the barest whisper. ??
?To come out on top.”
They left the inn after a filling noonmeal and continued their journey, not to Growder but to the Valley of Dragons in the Mercigon Mountains.
The grand parrot rested a shoulder against the side of the carriage, bracing himself. Jouncing over the rough road threatened to toss him off the slippery seat. He preferred to fly, but he needed information from his old friend. He longed for a perch, but he longed more to understand what had just happened.
“Verrin Schope,” said Sir Beccaroon, “what was the purpose of Lady Peg’s discourse on Backward Day?”
The wizard laughed out loud. “To thoroughly befuddle Groddenmitersay. At this point he doesn’t know up from down, backward from forward, or in from out. Any information he collects will be suspect. He won’t know what is valid from what has been concocted to confound him.”
“So the minstrel’s tale of the three statues?”
The sculptor of those three statues shrugged. “Could be the vivid imagination of a man who is paid to entertain.”
“Was paid. I should have gotten him out of there.”
41
The Leader
The Grawl crouched behind a set of boulders, watching the kill. The schoergat swooped in with his lance tucked under his arm and pierced the side of his prey, a mountain goat. He shook the animal loose from the tip of his weapon. Swinging his legs forward and his wings into a horizontal slant, the schoergat stopped in midair and dropped to the ground. His feet landed next to the goat’s head. Catching the struggling animal by one horn, he exposed its neck and sliced it with the sharp edge of his lance.
Patient, as always, The Grawl spent the day observing the creatures he hoped to enlist to battle the dragons. He noted their style of attack and determined when their vulnerable spots were exposed.
The lances they each carried would be no obstacle. He also used a lance and knew how to disarm a man quickly. But the schoergats’ claws posed a problem. Long and sharp, the talons could pierce his skin and tear out parts of him that were better left inside. But their lack of height was in his favor. His arms and legs were longer, and once the lance was removed from a warrior’s grip, The Grawl could kill without getting close to those bladelike fingernails.
He knew which of the schoergats held the position of leadership by the way the others deferred to him. This one he watched more carefully. If his plan worked, he would have to fight only the leader.
Telling the rest of the clan apart had been a challenge. By identifying small differences in their sparse clothing and variations in their movements, he named them and had them ordered as to importance. Torn Shirt had dominance over Right Limp. Itchy Back plagued the lowest of the males, Four Fingers.
The females amused him. They took great pleasure in stirring up strife. He pitied the males that had to keep them in line. One female reached behind her as she passed another, catching her in the act of stretching after a nap. She pinched the skin of the armpit hard enough to make the victim howl. It seemed part of their nature for the females to torment each other without reason.
When the sun coursed over the noonday sky, The Grawl had seen enough hunting by the schoergats to feel confident in his plan. He rose from his observation post and strode down a rough trail to the canyon floor. As he approached, the schoergats drew back, blending into their surroundings.
He stood exposed in a rock clearing. The area had been smoothed, and blood stained the dirt. The Grawl assumed this was the place where ceremonial feasting took place. The schoergats probably held judgment fights, combatants set against each other to settle a dispute. This would be the arena for that as well.
Soon the schoergats came forth, silently circling him. He counted sixteen, which meant two were still in hiding.
He stood tall and looked each in the eye before making his pronouncement. “I am The Grawl. I’ve come to lead you to a valley filled with dragons.”
Leader stepped forward, his lance pointed at The Grawl. His beady black eyes had no whites around the pupil. He twisted his lips in distaste.
“We don’t follow any creature other than the one appointed as head of the clan.”
The Grawl found the raspy growl of the schoergat pleasant, a tone of voice he could get used to.
“I understand your people are the greatest killers of dragons among all creatures of the world. I also was told you eliminated the total population of dragons in the southern hemisphere.”
Leader lifted his chin. “That’s right.”
“But it isn’t. There are still dragons in Chiril.”
He huffed. “Minor dragons, more like cats. We don’t count one of them to make a single meal. The meat’s stringy.”
“No, not minor dragons.”
The short schoergat tilted his head more to the side and looked up at The Grawl. “Why don’t you kill them yourself?”
“I’m going after the wizard who tends them in the absence of the dragonkeeper. You slay the dragons. I slay the wizard.”
“There isn’t a dragonkeeper in Chiril.”
“And you thought nothing but minor dragons lived in Chiril. You’re wrong.”
Leader growled. He cast a look at his clan. Nine men were ready to launch themselves on this intruder.
The Grawl read the eagerness to fight as easily as did their leader. He also knew of the two still hiding in reserve, to ambush him if necessary. He could probably take them all down, but that would defeat his purpose. And he didn’t relish the hits he would take as he conquered this little band.
Grunts passed between the men and their leader. It irked him that he didn’t know what had been communicated.
The leader pointed his lance toward The Grawl’s throat.
“You tell us where this Valley of Dragons is, and I will lead my people there.”
“No, I want your people to take orders from me.”
The leader laughed, and those around him joined in. “I am head of clan. The people follow me.”
“I challenge you for that position. You and I fight. If I win, your people hold me as leader. If you win, you remain the leader.”
“What is your weapon?’
“My hands, my teeth, and my strength.”
“I have the pultah.” He held up his lance and shook it.
“You may carry your pultah into battle.” He smiled, knowing that would unnerve his opponent. “But I will take your weapon away from you.”
“A schoergat does not drop his pultah.”
The Grawl merely raised his eyebrows. He could tell his arrogance vexed his small opponent. A warrior who entered combat in a riled state did not fight efficiently.
“If you drop your pultah, any of your clan is free to throw another for you to use.”
Leader’s eyes widened to expose a narrow band of red circling the black pupils. He swung around and grunted to the others. The look of anticipation fell from their faces, and each stepped away from the clearing.
Leader slowly pivoted to face his new enemy.
The Grawl nodded, squinting his eyes to disguise his pleasure in baiting the schoergat. “I won’t fight you until you agree to the terms. I win, I rule. You win, you rule.”
“Agreed.” The drawn-out rumble in the word ended with the schoergat leaping into the air. His lance point turned down, and he plunged.
The Growl stepped aside, and his opponent had to avert a crash into the hard ground. He flew upward, circled, and came at The Grawl in another dive. The Grawl turned. The point missed him by inches, but The Grawl did not miss grabbing the end of the pultah. He followed the departing enemy with several running steps, and then he stopped their forward motion and swung the pole like he would hurl a sling around and around before he threw the projectile. When he let go, the pultah and schoergat slammed into one of the canyon walls.
While the schoergat gathered his wits, The Grawl marched over, took the pultah, and broke it over his knee. Leader pushed himself to his feet. Grunts from his clan encouraged him to straighten and glare at
The Grawl. He gestured with his empty hand, and a pultah sailed down from Torn Shirt, one of the watchers.
Leader caught the weapon, hefted it as if to judge its balance, and charged. When he was within six feet of The Grawl, he leaped straight up, turned the pultah point down, and dropped out of the air to sink his weapon into The Grawl. Instead, the pultah struck dirt, and the point broke as the schoergat’s weight forced the shaft to bend.
The Grawl stood several feet away, and the schoergats roared. Leader kicked the broken pultah out of his way and demanded another weapon from those watching. After a moment’s hesitation, Itchy Back threw his pultah down. Leader had to move a few steps to pick up the weapon. He kept his eyes on his opponent.
The Grawl smiled. “I wouldn’t attack you until you’re armed. That wouldn’t be fair.”
The schoergat yelled, did a somersault, and came up with the pultah grasped in his hand. Leader’s attack stance faced a huge boulder.
The Grawl had moved. Now he was behind Leader. He grabbed his wings, gripping them hard enough to shatter the delicate bones under the leathery skin. Leader screamed. The Grawl thrust him forward, pitching him face first into the boulder.
He held the schoergat pressed against the rock surface, twisting his wings with one hand and shoving his face into the boulder with a grinding motion.
“Acknowledge me as winner,” he urged.
The creature dropped his weapon and brought a clawed hand up to tear The Grawl’s grip off his head. But The Grawl had no intention of allowing those yellowed nails to dig at his flesh. As soon as Leader let go of the pultah, The Grawl whipped his body over his head and launched it at the other wall.
Bloodied and shaking, Leader heaved himself to a stand. “I’ll kill you,” he said.
“Too optimistic,” replied The Grawl.
The schoergat curled his hands into weapons of ten razor-sharp blades. “I’ll kill you.”
He attacked in a straight-on run.
The Grawl picked up the abandoned pultah and held it firmly. Leader didn’t recognize what defense his opponent had put up until it was too late. He impaled himself in a mad rush to slay The Grawl.