WYVERN (5 page)

Those silver eyes measured her, narrowed a moment. Elsbeth cringed behind the shield when the wyvern's head swung close. Its breath, smelling of peat fires and scorched wood, heated a path down one side of her body. Had she not been wearing the armor, it might have blistered her skin. It sniffed her, reared back as if in surprise. "It cannot be," it said, and lunged forward to catch her scent once more.

Elsbeth thought she might faint. "Please don't eat me," she said softly. Some small part of her still capable of coherent thought raged at her situation. Ireni and her insane suggestions! She should have never listened to the old crone!

Again, that growling laughter, now laced with a hint of annoyance, vibrated the ground. "It's well known amongst our kind that humans taste foul. I might kill you, but rest assured I won't eat you."

The wyvern sniffed her a third time. "Dragon armor and a fiddle. Strange combination, but so familiar."

Elsbeth didn't have time to ponder such odd remarks. She dropped the crossbow and scampered halfway up the outcropping when the beast suddenly smashed a clawed foot onto her fire, smothering the flames.

The moon and the wyvern's silver eyes were the only things offering illumination. Why had it killed her fire? Such a small flame was no threat to a creature that surely created bonfires when it sneezed.

As if it read her mind, the wyvern answered her unspoken question. "All things are clearer when revealed in the dark."

A cool wind spun off the fields below, bringing with it the moans of the mythical haints bound to the cliffs for generations of time. Elsbeth climbed slowly off the outcropping, still crouched behind the shield, and bent to retrieve her fiddle and bow. She left the crossbow where she dropped it. The wyvern watched her, light eyes growing darker with each passing moment. The serpentine body tightened its coil, muscles twisting in agitation. A swift slide of scales hissed in time with the wind's plaintive call.

The wyvern's voice took on a lyrical cadence. Elsbeth was mesmerized, despite her fear. "I knew a woman once," it said, "who played such an instrument as if the gods danced along the bow hairs." The silver eyes were almost completely black and reflected a strange intensity not present earlier. "Tell me your name, fiddler, and why you are here."

The council house, packed to the walls with villagers, erupted into pandemonium, Elsbeth at its center. She sat next to Ireni and crossed her arms. Such a stance kept her from lashing out and swatting one of the shouting villagers.

Ungrateful bastards. She'd risked her life traveling to Maldoza with nothing more than a damn fiddle and sat through the night in hot dragon armor negotiating with an enigmatic wyvern for her grandfather and the villagers. She'd come away with a fair bargain, odd though it was in some respects. Now the villagers fought with each other over who would have to give up a portion of their livestock for the wyvern's tribute.

Next to her, Ireni put her fingers to her mouth and blasted a whistle that left Elsbeth's ears humming. "Enough! Enough!"

The council hall fell abruptly silent. All eyes turned to the small elder. She stood on the council dais, hands fisted at her hips. "What are you doing? What more do you want?" The crowd shuffled and rumbled its discontent, but no one interrupted.

Ireni paced the dais. "The beast is here for another month, maybe less. We can give up a dozen cattle or sheep if it means our village is left in peace."

One of the villagers spoke. "But who, elder? There are some among us who can't afford to give up more than a single ewe. And what of those who own no herds? What do they sacrifice?" His gaze slid to Elsbeth, accusing.

A red haze passed over Elsbeth's vision. She forgot the courtesy afforded an elder and jumped in front of Ireni. "How dare you, Manny Howe." The villager dropped his gaze before her indignation. "My grandfather is dying. Instead of spending the next three weeks tending to him, I get to entertain a wyvern. I'd give over three herds of cattle if I could make such an exchange and stay home with Angus."

Her eyes watered with frustrated tears. She didn't want to argue; she just wanted an accord. If the village rejected the wyvern's bargain, Elsbeth would pack her grandfather and their necessaries and be gone from Byderside by first light. Angus might not survive the trip, but she'd be damned if she'd sit idly by and watch the world around her reduced to cinder heaps because a few greedy farmers refused to give up a head of cattle.

No one countered Elsbeth's remarks. With the confirmation that Angus's armor was not the harbinger of their problems, many felt ashamed of their behavior toward him and Elsbeth.

"What about a lottery?"

As one, the crowd turned. Donal Grayson stood near the door and puffed on his pipe. He spoke around the stem. "Those families with livestock enter their names. If you can only afford one sheep or one cow, put your name in once. If you can afford more, put your name in twice or more." His eyes narrowed, and he took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at the crowd. "And don't think we don't all have a measure of each other's worth."

"What of those who don't own more than chickens or a sow?"

Elsbeth answered that one. "We buy one from a neighbor who does and give it over. If you haven't the coin for that, then barter something. A thing you've made or your service in a fellow man's fields at harvest time."

A mumbling grew among the villagers, this time less combative, and many nodded their heads in agreement with her and Donal's ideas. Elsbeth clutched her skirts, praying they'd consent to the lottery.

Ireni patted her arm, her pale eyes warm with approval. She and the other council members conferred for a moment before facing the villagers once more. As always, Ireni acted as spokeswoman.

"Thank you, Donal and Elsbeth. Those are fine ideas." She addressed them all. "What say you? A lottery tonight? Council will visit each of you and assess your holdings. For those who are chosen and have no livestock to give, you may parley with a neighbor who does and decide between you a price. If you deem it necessary, council will mediate."

More nods among the villagers, and Elsbeth breathed a cautious sigh of relief.

"What say you?" Ireni repeated.

The chorus of ayes was loud and sure, if not enthusiastic. Side discussions followed the agreement until one of the elders convened the meeting and urged the villagers outside. A few stopped to embrace Elsbeth or shake her hand and express their thanks.

One, the village healer and midwife took her hand and squeezed. "You did a fine thing, Elsbeth. For us, yes, but mostly for your grandfather. I'm not so sure my grandchildren would brave a fire-breathing beast in its lair for me."

Elsbeth smiled. Despite its surface telling, her grand adventure had been nothing more than a long, sweaty walk up and down the cliff paths and a strange evening talking to a creature more articulate and shrewd than any aristo politician. She pictured the villagers gaping at her in astonishment if she told them that once she got past her terror of the wyvern, it had made her laugh a few times with its dry wit and acute observations of human nature.

Her humor faded. Were it not for her grandfather's failing health, she might look forward to the three weeks spent in the wyvern's company. It had not asked much from her personally. Twenty days as a "guest" to play her fiddle and keep it company. But those were twenty days away from Angus, and in that time she would fret and wonder if he would be alive when she returned to fetch him from Ireni's house.

She sighed and turned to Ireni. "I'm off to see Angus. I want to spend as much time with him as possible before I go. Will it be all right if I don't attend the lottery tonight?"

Ireni patted her hand. "Do you have to ask? No one will begrudge you this time, Elsbeth. If they do, I'll be boxing a few ears to set them straight."

"Thank you. Also, if you can put my name in the lottery for me, I'd appreciate it. We only have a nanny goat, a pregnant sow and a small coop of hens, but I can sell a rug or two and buy a ewe or tup from Donal."

Byderside had not selected the diminutive Ireni as an elder because of her retiring nature. She swelled with awesome indignation. "I most certainly will not. You've given your tribute, Elsbeth. You're part of it. No one expects you to participate in this lottery."

Maybe not, but Elsbeth wanted no mutters of unfairness or short shrift. She had money saved from sales of her previous rugs. She could afford to buy livestock for the tribute if necessary. Malcolm was the wealthiest man in Byderside, with several herds of cattle. He'd sell her a cow or bull without hesitation, but for a price she was unwilling to pay. She'd buy a ewe from Donal instead. He was a friend and a good man who'd made his own bargain with the wyvern and done well by it.

She hugged Ireni briefly. "Please. I don't want any more trouble. If my name is picked, I'll give you the coin for a sale. Buy from old Donal, not Malcolm."

Ireni huffed, reluctant to relent. "I'll think on it. And I wouldn't buy a jeweled purse from Malcolm Miller if he offered it to me for a ha'penny." She returned Elsbeth's embrace before pushing her toward the door. "Get going, lass. Angus has driven me to distraction with all his complaints and wanting his ale warmed just so and his toast buttered on a particular side." She gave Elsbeth a wink. "It's your turn to put up with him before you leave me to his mercies."

"Elsbeth, why didn't you tell me?"

Semi-reclined in his bed and looking even grayer and more fragile than ever, Angus stared at his granddaughter with accusatory eyes. Elsbeth sat next to him, holding his hand. The lies about to pour from her lips were enough to earn her an eternity of damnation.

"I'm sorry, Grandfather. I didn't want to worry you. When Lord Tybalt's factor expressed interest in the rugs, it was on the condition I present them for his review. He insisted on meeting the weaver." She squeezed his fingers gently. "It was only to Durnsdale, Grandfather. You and I have made that trip many times. I knew the roads, knew the town. And it looks like we'll have a profitable sale, but..."

"But what?"

"Lord Tybalt has offered to sponsor me as an applicant to the weaver's guild." Elsbeth could hardly meet Angus's gaze. "I could be accepted, but only if I agree to three weeks of review and demonstration of my skills."

Angus's eyes lit with joy, and he gripped her hand with a strength that startled her. "My sweet lass, this is grand news! Tell me more. I knew the guild would recognize your worth one day!"

Almost two hours passed in which Elsbeth spun her tale of guild acceptance and swallowed tears as Angus waved his thin arms enthusiastically and gave her snippets of advice on how to present herself at the first guild meeting and what the masters looked for in apprentices. By the time she took her leave, he was exhausted and half-asleep. She kissed him on the forehead and stared at him for several moments, trying to memorize his sunken features in case he was gone when she returned.

A blaze of late afternoon sunlight greeted her when she left Ireni's house for her own. Elsbeth, used to the candle luminescence in Angus's room, was almost blinded by the brightness. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes and found herself face to face with Malcolm.

He blocked her path, a hulking darkness that smelled of sour ale and violence. She tried to step around him, but he matched her movements, holding her captive in the village square's open space.

"What do you want, Malcolm?"

His flat black gaze was suspicious. "'Twas an easy bargain you made up there, Elsbeth. Armored knights on warhorses couldn't conquer the serpent. And all you needed was a fiddle?" He reached out a hand to touch her hair, and she jerked away, repulsed by the idea of his hands anywhere on her.

Elsbeth shrugged. "The wyvern was reasonable enough. I didn't come at it with a javelin and an empty jewel purse waiting to be filled, so it was willing to listen."

She tried to sidestep around him, and once more he blocked her. "Get out of my way. I've a house to close, supplies to pack, and my grandfather waiting for me. You're wasting my time, Malcolm."

"Easy, lass. I just want to talk a moment."

Malcolm didn't just talk. He bullied, fished, and prodded. If that didn't work, he used his fists. Elsbeth didn't think him bold enough to try and harm her in the public square, but she never underestimated his brutality. Like Donal, she thought his wife had come to a premature and purposeful end.

She crossed her arms and looked for the first opportunity to escape. "Then talk and be done with it."

He smirked and ran a paw-like hand over his beard. "You say it ain't a dragon, but something close." His small eyes gleamed. "Did you see its treasure? Were there jewels? Gold?" He leaned closer, knocking her almost senseless with breath that smelled of rotting mutton and ale.

Elsbeth gagged, but saw her chance to flee. She whipped around him while he was off balance, and was halfway across the square before he'd straightened and turned to follow. "Nothing," she called over her shoulder. "No gold, no jewels. Just a wyvern waiting to slaughter you if you've a mind to pay him a visit."

She made it to her house in two more strides. Elsbeth had never been so glad to see her humble home. Malcolm still stood in the square, watching as she turned and closed the door on his malevolent gaze. She leaned her forehead against the wood. Too bad the wyvern eschewed humans as food, otherwise Elsbeth would find a way to replace a hapless ewe with one Malcolm Miller as part of the tribute.

Less frightened and hesitant about her second trip to Maldoza, Elsbeth made quick time to Donal Grayson's land. She'd left Byderside at dawn with good wishes this time instead of derisive laughter. Somehow, it didn't make her feel better. The villagers were placing their faith in her now, faith that the wyvern would uphold its part of the bargain. And faith that she would uphold hers well enough to please it.

She found Donal on his roof, rethatching a section blackened with scorch marks. Her stomach dropped. Had the wyvern abandoned its unspoken accord with the farmer and given his house a warning taste of fire?