Dragonbards Read Free Page A

something.
    There, Kiri thought, a gully—that
line . . .
    The dragons strained into the wind toward
the thin scar that cut across the ice. As they neared it, it
widened to a deep ravine. They circled and dropped, hovering,
looking down into the cleft, at the shadowed procession that moved
along the bottom.
    A procession of small men marched there,
leading a train of sleds lashed together and pulled by wolves.
Bound to the sled, her head lolling, her tail dragging through the
snow, was the limp body of a young white dragon.
    She can’t be dead! Marshy cried. But
the little boy’s terror filled them.
     
     
     

Chapter 4
     
    The dark seeks to destroy the mystery of our
pasts within us—and so destroy our sense of who we are. That is how
they will enslave us—by creating a race without self-knowledge.
Only dragon song can stop them. Oh, I dream of singing dragons with
claws and teeth like ivory swords, tender and affectionate dragons,
so clever at the vision making.
    *
    The dragons circled the ravine, driving a
sharp wind down across the procession. The white dragonling’s body
rocked limply on the line of sleds. They could not tell whether she
was alive. Marshy stared down at her, his face white with longing
and terror. The fur-clad soldiers flashed swords and spears,
looking up at them with no hint of gentleness. These were not human
men, but dwarfs. Teb watched them, his hand on his own sword. If
the dragonling was dead, surely they had killed her. He clenched
his knees into Seastrider’s sides. Dive!
    No, Tebriel. They have not hurt her.
    I said dive!
    Can’t you sense it? They are rescuing
her. Seastrider swung her head around close to his face. The
dwarf folk mean her no harm! She is near to death. Sick, with
something foreign and horrible. It is not their doing.
    Seastrider spread her wings and dropped soft
as a white flower beside the procession. Windcaller followed. The
small men backed away against the snow cliff, their swords drawn
but not lashing out. Dwarfs and bards remained still, watching each
other. Seastrider said, They are afraid, Tebriel. But they are
not evil. Marshy slid down from Windcaller and pushed boldly
past the swords toward the small dragon. Teb and Kiri dismounted,
to face the band’s leader.
    He was no taller than six-year-old Marshy,
broad and stocky, dressed in heavy ermine furs. His crown was a
gold band studded with emeralds, sewn into the ermine hood that
covered his ears and the end of his pale beard. His lined face was
burned by sun and cold. His eyes were so dark, there seemed to be
no pupils. He stood with his feet apart, and they were goat’s feet,
hooved. The tops of his furred trousers were tied around his ankles
with rawhide straps. Teb saw the delight in Kiri’s eyes, though her
face remained solemn. The dwarf king’s sword was a blade of fine
blue steel, its gold hilt studded with rubies. The other dwarfs,
perhaps forty in all, were richly dressed, all armed with splendid
blades.
    “We are dwarfs of the nation of Stilvoke,”
the small king said. He eyed the tall white dragons with respect
but not, Teb thought, with fear.
    “What do you do with the young dragon?” Teb
said. “Where do you take her? What has happened to her?”
    “The dragon has been drugged, young bard. We
found her awash in the sea, her body beating against the cliffs. We
hauled her out. There was half a dead seal floating beside her,
stinking of the drug cadacus.”
    Teb looked at Marshy, filled with pain for
him. The child was pressed against the young dragon, his arms
trying to circle her neck. So the dark also knew about the new
clutch of dragons—if the dwarf could be believed. Did the unliving
mean to kill the young dragons, or to capture them? He looked
steadily at the dwarf king, his mind edgy with questions.
    “I am Tebriel of Auric.”
    There was a murmur of recognition among the
dwarfs.
    “My companions are Kiri of Dacia, and Marshy
of Dacia.” Teb studied the dwarf king.
    The