Elvenbane (27 page)

Huh
. A way into the camp suddenly presented itself to him.
Why couldn’t I do that
?

It only took a moment of concentration to shift form; when that moment had passed, one of the ugly, warty-skinned pack-grels stood in the place Keman had been.

He ambled down to the oasis, heading straight for the water, as if that was the only thing on his mind, joining the others at the waterside.

He put his head down and slurped with the rest, going weak-kneed for a moment as the ecstasy of the cool water passed over his dry, parched tongue. It was all he could do to keep from gulping the liquid and foundering himself.

It took a moment for his presence—and the fact that there were now
ten
pack-beasts where there had been
nine
before—to register with the humans. But when they noticed, they greeted his arrival with greed and pleasure. Four of the drovers surrounded him; he raised his head and blinked mildly at them. They exchanged grins and one of them strolled up to him and put out a hand. He nuzzled it briefly, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the man’s rank scent, before putting his head down in the water again.

They allowed him to finish drinking, at least, before putting a halter on him and leading him to the picket line. There, in the company of nine other specimens of beauty, Keman closed his eyes and tried his best to touch Shana’s mind, straining until he had a headache in one temple that throbbed in time with his pulse.

With no result whatsoever.

He continued to try, off and on, while the humans around him puttered about, starting cook-fires, making dinner. One of them came by with a measure of grain for each of the grels, and Keman licked his up as quickly as any of the real grels. By sunset Shana still hadn’t emerged from the tent, and Keman suspected that something terrible had happened to her. He strained his tether rope to the breaking point, trying to get as close as possible to the tent, trying not to imagine all the horrible things that could have befallen her in there. But he couldn’t help it; he kept seeing her bound, gagged, tortured…

Finally he had his answer as to why she hadn’t appeared, when one of the two men who seemed to be in charge of this group, a big man in a gray desert-coat over his scarlet tunic, passed by his picket, measuring a few pinches of some kind of powder into a fresh skin of water.

A drug
… He altered his ears, making them keen enough to hear a gnat breathe, as the man pushed aside the flap of the tent and went in.

He heard Shana’s voice then—it sounded dazed and sleepy. “H’llo,” she said, slurring the word. “I’m—awful tired. Sorry.”

“Do not apologize for weariness, child,” another man replied. “You must sleep as long as you need. But drink, first. The desert air is dry, and you must drink often.”

“Thanks…” said Shana, and then she said nothing more. Both men emerged, looking very satisfied with themselves. The second man was dressed all in crimson, with crimson braid decorating his clothing, but otherwise he was unremarkable. His hair and eyes were brown, he was bearded, and he was a head shorter than the first man. He laughed softly, as if to himself, just as he passed the grel-picket.

Keman couldn’t help himself; he snapped at the man as he walked by, but the man simply reached out and brought his fist down hard on Keman’s nose.

Ayeee
! His bellow matched the cry of pain in his mind. The only time Keman had ever experienced pain like that was when Rovy was on his back, digging his claws into Keman’s shoulders. The young dragon went to his knees, still bellowing in surprise and hurt, as the man passed on, taking no notice.

Oh
—he thought, tears of pain coming to his eyes, as he moaned involuntarily. Fire and Rain, that hurt! He thought his nose was broken—

But as the pain died, he discovered that the man had done no such thing. His nose was perfectly all right; it wasn’t even bleeding. He had just discovered the grel’s one point of weakness. It was a lesson he wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry.

The picket line had been left alone in the dark, and Keman was once again trapped with his own thoughts and fears.

So the men had drugged Shana, and were keeping her drugged and collared. Why wasn’t she afraid, he asked himself, yearning towards the tent. Why hadn’t she wondered why she couldn’t see thoughts anymore?

Then it occurred to him—she had no reason to suspect that these people were dangerous—or even
human
. She had every reason to suppose that they were just more of the Kin, probably playing a drama-game.

Mother had never told her that the elven lords and the humans still existed. In fact, Mother had given her every reason to think that they had either died out in the Wizard War or lived so far away that the Kin would never see them. None of the other adults ever talked to her, and the only dragonets that told her about humans had been ones she’d never believe—Rovy and Myre. She had learned to write from books the Kin wrote in elven tongue, and those were never histories of anyone but the Kin.

They had kept her blind. Even if she suspected these people weren’t Kin, she was so drugged now she had probably lost the thought entirely. She wouldn’t want Kin to know what she could do—like see thoughts. She might not even have bothered to
try
reading thoughts, not if she was drugged.

And even if she had—she’d told Keman how her powers faded for a bit after she killed that ground squirrel. She might just think that they had faded again.

What am I going to do? How can I get us away from here when I can’t even warn her that I
am
here
?

It was a very long night, spent mostly without sleep.

The sun rose, silvering everything the first rays touched, sending long, blue shadows across the flat sands. A single bird cried; Keman didn’t know what kind it was. That was the only break in the silence.

Keman was exhausted. He’d never spent a sleepless night before. He yawned, and shifted his weight restlessly, wondering what was going to happen next.

One of the humans came out of his tent; a much smaller tent than the one Shana was in. He dropped another ration of grain before each of the grels, then bent again to fling a pack-saddle on him.

He started; then, without thinking, bucked it off.

The human tried again; he bucked just as hard. This time when he launched it into the air, it landed quite a distance from the picket line.

The human muttered something under his breath, and went after it. He manhandled it back to the picket line and heaved the saddle onto Keman’s back, with a repetition of the entire sequence.

This went on for some time. Finally, when Keman was really beginning to enjoy himself, another human, an older one, came up beside the boy. This one stared at him for a moment, and he noticed the human balling his hand into a fist.

Abruptly he became a model of docility, letting the boy fasten the cinches without complaint, then kneeling and permitting the humans to load a variety of packs and baskets of goods onto his back. He had learned his lesson and he saw no particular need to repeat it.

By that time all the other beasts were loaded, and Keman rose to his feet again. Just as he got himself and his load balanced, and looked around, a human scout returned, riding a horse with a bird on a special perch on the saddlebow. Shortly after that, the tent-flaps opened, and the two men who had been in there before came out with Shana between them.

Keman’s stomach churned with anxiety. She was clean, dressed in a new scarlet tunic, and wore a collar like the others. But she stumbled, rather than walked; her eyes were glazed, and she was dazed and plainly only half-aware of her surroundings.

The two men helped her into the saddle of the beast whose load Keman had been gifted with, and tied her there. The grels were lined up, and tied one behind the other in a long string. Shana was on the end; only three beasts behind Keman. So very near—and yet, he could do nothing about her or their situation. He was just as trapped as she was, because he refused to leave without her. And he couldn’t help her.

As the drovers goaded all the beasts—including him—into getting on the move, he bellowed with the rest of them. But the reasons for his crying were as different as his mind was from theirs.

Keman knew from the drover’s talk that the caravan was less than a day from their goal, the gates of the trade city where Shana would be further interrogated, then sold.

And he still hadn’t been able to free her, or even talk to her.

He plodded along the dusty road, breathing in the dust of the grel in front of him, kicking up dust of his own for the men walking behind him to inhale. Around him were Lord Berenels fallow fields; fields that at one time had been cultivated, full of his scarlet-clad slaves tending his crops. But, according to the drovers, that was before the Lord hosted a small war; now those fields lay fallow for the next decade. When the bodies—human bodies—had turned to rich, black earth, and the bones could be plowed up and crushed for fertilizer, Lord Berenel would plant again. Knowing that his fields would yield tenfold what they had before the war had been fought on them.

He was going to have to get away. And he was going to have to do it without Shana. Once he was in that city…

I don’t know, maybe it will be easier there to get her loose, maybe if I turn into elf-form I can order her release
…

But that was a foolish hope, and he knew it. A low-ranking elven lord was only marginally better than a high-ranking human, and no one in Lord Berenel’s service was going to release this particular captive on some unknown elven lad’s say-so.

Because they still hadn’t managed to get an answer they understood from Shana about where her tunic had come from.

She just didn’t have the words, the language, for one. But more importantly, she obviously believed that her “friends” were of the Kin, and she couldn’t understand why they kept asking the same question about her tunic, over and over. She
thought
she was being asked who the skin was from. She told them. She told them any number of times.

They thought she was mumbling gibberish, and began treating her as simpleminded.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do. He had to do something, but what?

Then, in the moment between one breath and the next, the question was taken out of his hands.

The cloudless blue sky above was split with a high-pitched roar that was like nothing he’d ever heard before. He, along with every other living creature in the caravan, looked up.

Diving out of the sky in a stoop, shrieking as she dove, was his mother. He knew her immediately; how could he not? It was easy enough to recognize her.

She was in pure, unadorned dragon-form.

She pulled up with a
snap
of wing-membranes at the last possible moment, cutting across just above the heads of the grel-riders. She gained altitude rapidly, readying herself for another stoop. Keman was tailmost today; he froze in pure astonishment, legs locking—but that wasn’t what anyone or anything else in the caravan did.

The grels, one and all, decided
en masse
to bolt, as Alara circled around for the second dive. Keman, standing stock-still, was unprepared; he was braced and the grel in front of him was leaping away—the tether snapped with a whip-crack sound, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the road. Alone, because the men had taken to their heels as well; some scattering over the fields, looking for somewhere to hide, and some belting after the vanishing grel.

.•Mother
!: Keman called, as she began her second stoop.
.-Mother, stop! Mother, you have to
—:

Either she couldn’t hear him, or had no intention of heeding him. The result was the same, either way. As she plunged towards him, he saw her foreclaws out, saw that they were padded.

Too late, he tried to make a run for it.

She hit him with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and snatched him up with her hindclaws, all in a single, smooth motion. And with him firmly caught in her claws she proceeded to gain altitude and distance, taking him farther and farther away from Shana, ignoring his protests entirely.

Shana was black-and-blue from head to toe. Grels, it seemed, were not smooth runners. Shana had been bounced around on the back of hers until she thought she was never going to sit comfortably again.

When the caravan stopped to allow the men on foot to catch up with them, she looked about herself, puzzled. Alara hadn’t actually hurt anyone—she’d only launched a teasing raid on the train. The worst she’d done was to carry off one of the pack-beasts. That was nothing more than a basic prank among the Kin.

Befuddled as she was, she couldn’t imagine why they were so genuinely terrified of a simple dragon in stoop, and a trick-raid.

She struggled with her straps, while the men straggled in, winded and weary. The more she fought the soft leather straps, the more alert she felt. Finally she freed herself from her straps, and slid down off the back of the grel. She looked for Kel or Ardan, but all she saw were the drovers, sitting or lying on the ground in postures of profound exhaustion.

They weren’t going to help.

She started to wander off, hoping to find someone to explain it all to her.

That
was when her “friends” Kel and Ardan appeared, suddenly changed; they grabbed her before she could get too far, as if they were afraid that she was going to run away. When she tried to wriggle free of them, Kel hit her.

She hit back; and kicked and bit, for good measure. That was enough to trigger a full-scale fight. She screamed and clawed and kicked with everything she had, but they were much bigger than she was.
They
kept trying to pin her to the ground, and never uttered a sound except when she kicked them especially hard.

She was convinced that both Kel and Ardan had gone mad.

Finally they subdued her by the simple means of tripping her and sitting on her.

While she continued to fight, they kept her pinioned.
Now
they began to talk, and it made no sense. Kel produced rope and they tied her hands together, then threw her on the back of her grel and tied her hands to the saddle and her feet to the stirrups, all the time babbling about the “monster” that had attacked them.