The Last Dragon Chronicles: The Fire Ascending (31 page)

“No. Cut uz free,” The eremitt gabbled. His gaze was anywhere but on the knife. “Lemme go. Lemme go!” He tugged at his ties. In a desperate eruption he suddenly cried, “He be named Stygg and he shacks wi’ a crone. Don’t let it ’ave me! Don’t let

it near!”

Rune stepped back. “What are you

talking about?”

“Rune, look out!”

From the doorway of the shack, Truve called a warning. I had seen the danger, too, but couldn’t have miaowed if I’d wanted to.

The half-dog, Stygg, leaped through theair. A shadow must have flickered in

Murgo’s eyes, for Rune, despite hisroundness of age, was quick enough tospot it and roll his body aside. Styggmissed the man of Taan and sank his

claws into the prisoner of Nomaad. Murgo’s screams nearly stopped the rain. Eight jets of hot red blood spouted from the points that had punctured his chest. His body spasmed. His eyes froze open. He looked into the slavering face of hell and his life force washed away into the mud.

Truve by now was eating up the ground,both hands clamped to the hilt of hissword. He was a big man, a farmer, as Rune had said. He did not care for

subtlety in sword play. As the man-dog ripped itself free of Murgo, Truve roared like thunder and lunged at the beast, intent on putting an end to its life with one unstoppable swing of steel. The blade sang heavy in the rain, its angle savage, its purpose true. Stygg’s gruesome head looked sure to be parted from its mutant body. But fortune favoured the villhund. Truve, in his haste, had run into the rain in his stockinged feet. One piece of grit, one treacherous nub of Nomaad stone, bit into his sole and made him tilt. The blade fell

awkwardly, its target missed. Stygg’s ear

popped off in a crown of blood. A portion of the flesh underneath went, too. So neat was the cut that the villhund did no more

than yelp. The rain beat down. The horses panicked. A dead eremitt hung from a long-dead tree. Then the water and the mud and the weight of the swing all conspired to take Truve down. As he lost his footing and fell to the ground, Stygg was on him, tearing and thrashing and making all the damage he needed to make to hasten the closure of a brave man’s life.

The sodden fields of Nomaad were wetted

bright red before Rune could land a blow with his knife. His blade sank firmly into Stygg’s flesh. Stygg howled at the sky and danced away sideways. But this time he did not fight back. Still yelping with pain,

he loped into the trees, leaving a trail of

blood in his wake.

Rune fell to his knees and gathered uphis friend, pressing Truve’s collar againstthe wounds. It was hopeless. There was ahole in the farmer’s throat that was

already sucking in air and rain. “I’m so sorry,” Rune said, perhaps for a multitude of reasons, but right then, as he knelt in the blood-stained dirt, it was surely because he knew he could do nothing to save the life of a dear companion.

“Did you see it—?” Truve croaked. “The robe… did you… ?”

“Don’t talk,” said Rune, rocking him gently. A tear ran out of his craggy eye.

Truve gripped Rune’s arm with all the strength a dying man could muster.

“Taan,” he said. “Grella’s mark on it… ” He gurgled and started to cough. A surge of loose tissue bubbled over his lip. “Follow it, Rune. Dog… take you…  to… her. Follow, avenge my… ”

And that was it. That was all there was.

Truve’s head fell sideways and hebreathed no more. Rune gathered himtighter and held him close, speaking aquiet, angry prayer. After a suitable timehe laid Truve down, setting the farmer’sfist across his heart. “Rest, I will comeback for you.” He made the Taan salute,then picked up the sword and strode to thehorses. He took the saddle and a huntingbow off Truve’s horse and sent the horse

running into the woods. Taking what he needed of Truve’s possessions, he hid the

saddle inside the shack. He saw me

trembling on the porch. All the katt’s fur was standing on end. Strangely he said, “Look after him for me.” Then he went out

and mounted his horse. He looked at the

eremitt and shuddered over Truve. Then

he kicked the horse once and galloped after Stygg.

In his altered state, and despite his injury, Stygg must have travelled as fast as the horse, for he appeared at his own shack several minutes before Rune did. By now, the fire stars had lessened in number and we were coming to the end of Grella’s story. I was in the body of the squirrel again, watching from a tree where I could see it all. Stygg dragged himself to the edge of the porch, yowling like a katt

that had brought home a mouse. Some tone in his voice must have spoken to his mother, for Griss opened the door and stepped out.

She was holding an axe behind her back.

“Gettee gone!” she snapped. “You ain’t

no son o’ mine.”

Stygg could not speak. A bloodstaincovered his entire shoulder. His feet were

bathed in a puddle of red. He flopped onto the steps and bayed at his ma.

“Gettee gone!” She showed him the axe.

Somewhere   in   the   background

Gwilanna cried.

Rain swept hard across the clearing.

The shack roof creaked. The tree topsbowed.

Stygg raised a paw and crawled up astep.

“I’ll cut ’ee. I’ll trim yer,” his motherthreatened.

Stygg bayed for help. Griss chewed her tongue. “Ma… ” he croaked.

And she swung the axe.

One chop sent the end of his dog’s pawspinning.

The need in his wild eyes turned tohorror.

The storm rapped the shack front,blowing the door inward.

Then he was on her, like he’d gone for Truve.

Suddenly, an arrow scythed through theair and sank its point between Stygg’s

shoulders. He jerked upright and spat out a gobbet of blood. He swayed for a second, not making a sound. Then a second arrow hit him, closer to the neck. Only then did he fall back, heavy and stiff, breaking the bottom step in two. His mother fell the other way, into the shack. Half her face had been shredded into

strips by his claws.

Rune came running out of the trees. He

threw the bow aside and drew his sword.

“Grella!” he shouted. “Your father is

here!”

From within the shack he heard her

voice. Feeble as a sparrow, but alive.

Alive
.

Whispering a prayer, Rune ran to Stygg.

With the flat of his foot he kicked him

once to be sure he was dead. The man-dog rolled off the broken step. As his useless life washed into the rain, he shrank back into his Nomaad form. He had one hand

missing and his back was split by a diagonal wound. His face was violently contorted, two askew eyeballs in a crumpled bag of flesh. Rune made the sign of the dragon over him, then bolted up the steps and into the shack.

I was down the tree in a flash, and there.

On the floor of the shack lay a slenderwoman, dressed in a fine Taan robe. Herface was in shadow but there was no

mistaking   her   strong   yellow   hair, spreading out across the sagging boards. On her knees, bending over the woman on

the floor, was another woman clothed in filthy rags. She had very little hair and she smelled of pig muck. A knife was clamped in her wounded hands. Its quivering point was aiming downwards.

“No!” Rune Haakunen shouted.

In error, he thrust his sword.

The figure in rags gasped. Slowly, sheturned her head. She had swollen eyes andbroken skin. Sores on her scalp. Teethchipped and missing. A yellow lesion hadeaten one side of her nose. But the shapeof the mouth, the fall of the ears, the glintof recognition in her tormented eyes wereall Rune needed to know his daughter.

Grella dropped the knife and let itclatter to the floor. She put her handsinstead around the point of the sword

which had passed through her back and out through her belly.

Rune let go of it. He staggered backwards, knocking over the chair where Griss liked to sit and pour scorn on the world. “What have I done?” he wailed.

“What have I done?” Seeing Grella about to fall, he rushed to her and caught her and held her up. As tenderly as he could, he withdrew the sword and flung it aside. “In the name of Godith, forgive me,” he said. And he wept openly, and vividly, and strong.

Somewhere in her mazy consciousness, Grella heard his sobs and found the energy to raise a hand. She touched her father’s

fatty cheek. Her lips parted and she tried to speak. Rune tipped his head and begged

her not to. But she managed just two words. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Thank you.

For releasing her from her torture.

I felt so sick with grief.

Lifting her into his powerful arms, Rune carried her outside onto the porch. He went back for his sword and in one huge swing he cut through the chains that bound her to the Nomads. Then he carried her

into the rain. He was Taan; he was not about to give up hope, but he knew enough about life and death to be certain that all

she had left were seconds. Laying her down in the rain-softened earth, he fiddled in the pocket of his jerkin for something. It was a small piece of rock. A tiny remnant of Mount Kasgerden, singing gently with

the auma of Galen. Folding her hands together on her breast, he fumbled the rock inside her grasp and knelt to say a final prayer. He had barely begun when a sharp wail cut through the hissing rain.

A baby, crying.

Torment savaged his rugged face. Here lay his once most beautiful daughter, dying from a thrust of his reckless sword, and there in the background was the entire reason for the whole tragedy. The wind made another tour of the trees. Rune

looked at Grella through wetted eyes. Even now he saw a twitch of motherly concern as her fingers stretched towards the sound. Groaning in confusion he thumped the earth.
 
Damn it!
 
I heard him

cry.
 
Damn this ludicrous child!
 
He

hurried to the barn, with me in pursuit.

There she was, in her woodpile crib. Gwilanna: no bigger than the day she’d arrived. No sweeter on the eye than an upturned louse. Rune looked baffled. He stopped short of the crib. He turned a quick circle, perhaps wary that he’d walked into a Nomaad trap. No. Just him and the child… and a squirrel. He looked at the squirming baby again. “No,” he said, holding his head in disbelief. And I knew he must be thinking of his meetings at the border. The baby girl that had become a toddler, with no abnormal creases in its soft pink skin. Yet here was this ugly…troll again.

He reached in and lifted Gwilanna

clear. Instantly, the logs gave way and the

crib fell apart, exposing the few things Grella had hidden: a small pouch, presumably a gift for Gwilanna; a very rough pair of baby shoes; the dress Grella might have been ‘wedded’ in. All of this added to his misery and grief. “What are you?” he hissed at the child. “What devil made you so foul?”

Gwilanna gurgled and clutched her kachina doll.

Growling like a bear, Rune turned herround. Supporting her under the arms, hewalked out of the barn and showed her

Grella’s body. “Look at her, child. Seewhat this…
 
deceit
 
has made me do. See

what has become of my only daughter. What made her care for a wretch like

you?”

Gwilanna kicked her feet and stretched

her hands. “Guh… ” she gurgled. “Guh.

Guh.”

Something glinted across the clearing. Itwas the mirror Griss had used when she’d

brushed ‘her’ hair, still hanging by a thread from its place in the tree.

“Come,” Rune said, marching out into the rain. “Look, child. Behold your
 
beauty
.” And he thrust Gwilanna towards the mirror.

A flash of lightning impaled the

darkness.

The tree branch withered.

The mirror cracked.

And a different face flashed in the

glass.

“Agh!” Rune was so shocked he let the

baby slip. As her feet hit the ground she pitched forward and fell face down into a puddle. And though he must have hated her more than anything, he reached out to prevent her from drowning. But the child, like Stygg, was about to go through an incredible transition. Right before his eyes, Rune watched her grow. Large, beyond childhood. A youthful woman. Too startled to react, he allowed her to turn. Mud was dripping from the end of her nose. Her eyes were a harbour of loathing and menace. She was wrinkled still, but not as badly as before. This was the woman I had seen in the cave whose

eyes betrayed her lack of years.

Unmistakeably the sibyl, Gwilanna.