Learning Curves
It was just as well that the trip took so long, for the Hatchling had plenty of time to mull over his potential name. Many options presented themselves, only to be discounted when he gently probed the Huntress' wisdom on such matters. He became irritated at his own lack of understanding; never really feeling the need to choose a name, but sensing the importance he decided to take care in the decision. Cynwise was more than happy to recount the tales of wars and heroes who died in them that she had learned as a swaddling babe, explaining the symbolism and reasoning behind each stanza with patience the Hatchling wouldn't have credited himself with had the positions been reversed. All the while he gained a greater understanding of human society, language and history- albeit somewhat tainted through the Huntress' own cynical views on the same. He took to the tales like Thrymja after a squirrel; dragons figured in many of them to some extent and he was eager to learn a little of his lost kindred, though it saddened him that so many involved the hero slaying the beast. Perhaps Cynwise was an exception amongst her species after all.
Times for thought and relaxation were scarce; descending the mountain took great effort of mind even once one knew what dangers to look for on the path. Stray rocks, crevasses and even dead animals could impede their downwards slide, as the Hatchling discovered when they ploughed unexpectedly into the half-thawed remains of a horse and its rider.
Their corpses had been hidden beneath a deceptively flat straight and only been discovered when the skids bit deep into the half-frozen mass; barely melted but already swarming with maggots. As the three uncovered their unexpected find the cause of demise became clear; the horse had stumbled in a drift and broke its leg, crippling the rider in its fall. The two had died there, frozen and buried beneath a shroud of snow, most likely some time before the Hatchling had even been born. Thrymja pranced around and dug in the snow thinking it a game, but the Hatchling read the grim expression on the Huntresses' face and neglected to join in the play.
"Someone you knew?" He said, padding over to where the human stood, holding her nose. She was staring down at the two, as though trying to see something in the macabre vista.
"Know him? Not the face, but I know the man." She said, superstitiously touching her fingers to her cap, which had inexplicably acquired a braid of black feathers. "Test your perception. Let's see what you make of 'im."
The Hatchling took careful account of the man's clothes and equipment, though knowing little of human dress styles there wasn't much he could discern. The man had seemingly been clad in leather and had carried ample supplies for himself and his mount in a pair of wide saddlebags. He wore a sword at his hip, its blade sheathed in a mouldering, metal-capped scabbard. Clearly he had been a man who expected to spend much time on the move in adverse conditions; a hunter, but a sword was little utility against game. His quarry had been men, not beasts.
"A bandit?" He hazarded, remembering her tales of the fierce men in the hills.
"A good guess and you could be right too." She kicked the scabbard, which parted from the corpse's belt. "But I think it more likely he was an adventurer. A bandit would have no reason to be coming up the mountain, which I guess is where he was heading. And the marauders move in groups; they wouldn't have left him here to die. He was probably trying to get across into Bálheim after the southern passes froze up in the autumn- there's plenty work for their type over there."
"What's an adventurer?"
"A bloody fool to take a horse on a trail like this, 's why I leave mine in the hills. Give me a hand getting his leg unstuck there."
Thrymja was all for eating them, but the Huntress shooed the wolf away, throwing her spear into the trees for her to chase. With much retching and cursing they managed to drag the remains of the beast's rider away from the road, dumping it a short way into the trees. Together they piled rocks upon the body to keep away scavengers, and laid the man's putrefying cloak upon the cairn to mark his grave.
The Hatchling didn't know what to make of the second human he'd ever seen; even if this one was a corpse it seemed to have much different features and build to his rescuer. Perhaps humans came in different shapes and hues as much as any other creature. When that onerous task was done the Huntress sifted through the remains of the man's equipment, and to her disgust found nothing worth loading into her sled.
Save for the sword. Ice had sealed the blade in its scabbard and protected it against the elements; there were only a few small spots of rust and mould from the decaying sheath to be cleaned away. The Hatchling started as Cynwise gave the blade an experimental twirl, instinct sending a burst of panic down his spine before he could master it; too many ancestors had felt the hot flash of a sword against their hide for him not to cringe at her testing strokes.
"There's an old saying hereabouts that a sword is more likely to get you killed than not." She said to no one in particular, sheathing the blade with a snap and tossing it into the sled. "I can vouch for that. When knives are out people don't take chances, or prisoners. They'd rather not risk their own hide trying to disarm 'em, y'see? Better to stand back and drop an arrow in their guts." She wrestled her spear from Thrymja's mouth. "You'd do well to remember that too; there's no shame in surrendering in the face of impossible odds if that's what it takes to save your hide."
"You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing." He said, casting a glance back at the grave.
It was a painful reminder of his own family's fate, and he longed to be on the move again.
"Too bloody right! I spent the better part of my years behind the Huscarls banner, and the sell-swords after that. There's good money to be made in that business, if you have the stomach for it."
The Hatchling pondered that for a moment.
"Did you have the stomach for it?" He asked innocently.
"That's the question, isn't it?" She scoffed. "What the hell would I be doing out here in the sticks hauling hides if I could be making a mint as a mercenary. Oh I suppose you've earned my story. I never really had much of a childhood. Fell in with a bad crowd when I was young (and then fell out with them, which was worse) and took up the sword as the only alternative to taking up the bedchambers to... make ends meet. Not really much more to say on that score. There aren't many options for a young woman without husband, family or dowry y'see. We usually inherit our mother's craft, but disgraced as I was that wasn't an option. It's hard as hell to make an honest living on your own, but the Companies don't ask too many questions you can't just lie your way through and at least see the lasses as equal to the blokes when it comes to stabbing things. So, I found myself tramping around the northlands alone, scared, with a sword I didn't know how to use and stuck in the middle of a bunch of blokes who weren't too inclined to respect a lady's personal space, chasing Trow and Gagori through the blistering fucking snow for months on end. I'd probably have died out there if I hadn't learned to swear and fight and fart with the best of 'em, and after a while I spat and scarred my knuckles enough for them to accept me. It all became second nature, even to a quiet farm girl from the coast."
"So how did you end up on the top of a mountain?"
"I got sick of it." She murmured, shifting uncomfortably. "Truth to be told I got sick of seeing people who really had no business being away from their homes get slaughtered. Like that poor bastard." She said, nodding towards the makeshift grave. "There would always be a few who joined up looking for adventure or stories to woo girls in the taproom, and they did never have a cursed clue what they were getting into or the balls to stick it out until they got good enough to survive. The mercs were a right motley bunch so the taskmasters were hard to keep discipline in the ranks; a few would get cocky and die under the lash, some panicked and ran away and like as not ended up wolf food. Others went nuts and got themselves killed in their first battle. Of course, a few would make it though and go on to survive again, because killing is one of those god-awful things you get better at with practice. I got sick of living on the edge and never knowing if the next battle would be the one that finally finished me or if we would all get lost in the wilds and starve. Assuming we didn't freeze first. I bought my way out and set myself up out here with the skills I learnt behind the banner. Its quiet and no one bothers me, at least not until you anyway."
"Don't you ever get sick of the mountains?" The Hatchling asked, his interest piqued; Cynwise normally shied about discussing herself other times he had asked. "It's very pretty, but there is nothing very interesting to hunt once the rats are all gone."
"You have no idea." She chuckled gruffly, remounting the sled. "There are times I get so bored I could chew my own arms off, but I remember what it was like on the march; twice as cold, thrice as hungry and the work never ended. I spent far more time wielding a shovel than I ever did a sword. Let that be another lesson to you, oh curious one; money can buy many things but it can never buy peace and quiet. Unless you want treasure hunters and taxmen charging into your lair, do everything you can to stay poor!"
***
The road which had seemed little more than a hair's breadth from up high was more than twice the width of their sled; the stones were worn smooth from centuries of ice and wheels so dragging the contraption was easier than over the humps and bumps of the rough upland passes, though there were fewer slopes where one could enjoy an effortless slide.
There was traffic here after a fashion, and the Hatchling was forced to view the journey from beneath a pile of heavy furs to necessitate secrecy. Thick mists coiled in the bottom of the valley at dawn and dusk, and more than once they came upon fellow wayfarers only when they suddenly materialised from the obscuring veil, emerging suddenly like a spirit through a wall. They were a motley sort; traders and pilgrims, foresters and rogues; men and women clad in thick, shapeless, all-obscuring cloaks closed with brooches of copper. They all seemed cut from the same cloth; tall and fair of eyes and hair, enough unlike his mentor with her raven locks that the Hatchling wondered at first if they were some sub-species of humans, like brown and black rats. All wore the same style braids of black or white feathers, hung from cap and saddle. Cynwise grew tense and irritable as the journey progressed, exchanging only a few pleasant words with any who crossed their paths. Sometimes they would encounter bands of armed men on squat, shaggy horses and she would finger the hilt of the sword nervously, but if any were bandits then they had better sense than to waylay them. Too much effort to go to for too little a reward, she said.
But with humans came trade. Carts moved sluggishly in the opposite direction, their unshod wheels rattling on the flat cobbles like someone rolling a barrel of bones. Grey horses prodded onwards by greyer faced men led strings of caravans through the passes, and a few tired merchants with frazzled beards accosted them with their wares, always casting wary glances at Thrymja. The Hatchling watched the proceedings from beneath his heap, daring to shift his head enough to flick out a tongue and taste their airs, noting that only those wearing black feathers seemed to want to trade with them. The men always smelled exotically of grasses and fabrics, and the acrid weeds they burnt in long pipes.
It was from one such roving trader that the Huntress purchased something called bacon, which she cooked at the roadside on a fire of dried bracken. The smell was so enticing after weeks of hard tack that it was all the Hatchling could do to keep from drooling, and Thrymja failed at even that- her muzzle looking as though it had been mauled by a vicious slug and her wide tongue hanging limply from her jaws. The strong salty taste was tonic to the Hatchling; at first he feared it might be poison, but ate with gusto when he saw the others doing the same and felt much invigorated for the bit of warmth in his belly after the endless cold. For a creature that needed the warmth to thrive he coped well with the chilly clime; a fact which was not lost on the Huntress. She determined that being born to the cold must have inured him to it, or that perhaps it was an adaptation to help a cold-blooded dragon survive the freezing temperatures found at altitude.
When the meal was done the two animals licked the tasty grease from Cynwise's hands and settled down to rest.
"This is the only pass this side of the ash-wastes still open." She said idly once they'd dragged the sled a short distance from the road, where the trees might give some meagre shelter from the wind. She stared into the oily flames with unfocussed eyes, her fingers mechanically working at the mats in Thrymja's coat. "There were many once, but then the tundra shifted and choked up the milder southlands with ice. The northern passes were lost when Nordgard was razed by Ashkar; four hundred years later and bards still sing laments about that city." She sighed. "Perchance, do you know where we are?"
"In a valley?" The Hatchling chanced. Cynwise let out a bark of laughter that startled Thrymja from her reverie.
"Yes, but I meant borders-wise." She said as she mastered her humour. "Two kingdoms claim these mountains." She explained when he shook his head, opting for human body-language. "To the west, there's Bálheim, where I was born, and to the east there is Westgard. Bálheim needs this pass to bring in wheat and wool from the south, and Westgard wants it for the oils and fats that come from the north, and to keep the fucking Gagori from raiding their lands. You can see what happens next."
"They fight." He stated, flicking up a cloud of dead pine needles with his tail. His tuition in human social dynamics had progressed far enough to know that they never just shared anything if it could be avoided.
"Right you are." She said. "It's in these passes that things get interesting. Merchants with a white feather in their caps are from Westgard, and black feathers are from Bálheim. You see, both kingdoms have something that the other needs and neither is strong enough to control the whole mountain range, which they'd have to do that if they wanted to keep the pass open at the opposite end. So they agreed ages ago that the pass would belong to neither of them, but would be patrolled by both. Of course there are still scuffles and some petty larceny, but they don't dare fight openly." She pulled her thick sleeping furs close, lying down on her side and setting her spear within easy reach.
"Wouldn't the stronger destroy the lesser?" He asked, perplexed. That was the way of the world. Certainly it was the way of human politics; everything he had learned about their history told him that nations were like predators, always preying on the weaker.
"That depends." She sniffed. "By numbers, Westgard would be the stronger, but living so close to the dangers of the ash-wastes makes Bálheim the better fighters. So they've spent the last few hundred years eyeballing each other from across the mountains, trade making an uneasy alliance of necessity. Over time it's become a bit of a tradition to see how much you can cheat or extort out of the other without getting caught. Generally no one gets hurt, but occasionally one caravan will pay off the bandits to attack a rival and things get tense for a while. The old grievances are deeply buried, but they never really went away." She yawned. "My guess is that things are bad this year. I've seen riders from both kingdoms, and none of them look too happy. Traders are driving their beasts as hard as they dare; something is afoot."
"What grievances?" He asked, stifling an infectious yawn. He was exhausted, but enjoyed her telling of history enough that he forced himself to pay attention.
"Nordgard." She said simply. "It was a kingdom in its own right, always threatened or contested by someone or other, but in its day it was mighty and very, very rich. Westgard and Bálheim existed alongside it as cousins, and in times of trouble people from Nordgard would come south for protection. They'd mix, and some would take wives or husbands of the others, but don't try telling that to anyone or they'd stove your face in. Nordgard was destroyed for the last time when neither Bálheim nor Westgard could agree how it was to be retaken, and in the interim the whole city was occupied by Ashkar. Both kingdoms blamed the other and they've been trying to shift the dogmen for nigh four hundred years, but every army sent gets beaten to pieces. Meanwhile everyone descended from the Nordgard survivors clamour for action and keep a rift between us all."
"It all sounds very stupid." He said, giving in to the losing battle with fatigue and closing his eyes. The steady warmth and crackling of the fire was like a lullaby, seeming to ease away the effort of the day. He'd wake when his blood was warmed through and be unable to sleep any more, but a few hours of blissful comfort would be worth the restless night.
"Oh it is," She chuckled, "Arguing over something that no one is old enough to have witnessed. But peoples need to mark out the differences between themselves somehow, and with mankind the tools used to do that are ancient, half-remembered divisions and hatreds. How do dragons manage it?"
"Scent, I think." He murmured, visions of tall grass and fleeing antelope playing through his mind. "We don't group ourselves like you do. Each dragon is his own; free to make his own choices and affections."
"A smart way to do it; cuts down on the internal fighting. I've never heard of wars going on between dragons." She said, and his earfins expanded with satisfied superiority. "Of course, that's probably why there are so few of you."
"What do you mean?" He said, his satisfaction bursting like a bubble.
"Living alone in the wilderness with nothing to rely on besides your own strength, guile and wits; no one to care for the injured or the sick. Or the young." She added. "A lone dragon is a powerful creature, but even you need help sometimes."
"I can't see dragons fitting into civilisation." He murmured, biting back his initial retort. He wouldn't be alive if not for her help, but he was damned if he was going to condone a way of life that had done everything it could to annihilate his species. "There are too many rules and strictures and things that make no sense to us, or weren't meant for us. We have too many practical concerns for human frippery."
"Civilisation isn't that bad." She chuckled, hearing the chagrin in his voice. "You'll see."
"Is that a town?"
The Hatchling only noticed the constructs when they were almost upon them, and even then it was just the unnaturally straight lines amidst the endless jagged shelves and crags of the valley wall that gave them away. At first glance the settlement was little more than a small fenced off corral secreted in a groin between two spurs of sheer rock, but as they drew closers lines of balconies and doorways materialised from the thin evening mist.
"Nothing so grand." The Huntress said, puffing a little as she pulled the sled. "More like a waystation; a place travellers can rest, take some ale and get out of this fucking cold. Still, there are refreshments and good stories to be heard here if you know who to ask. Real food too, which is always a plus."
The flatulent stink of boiling greenstuff suggested that the Hatchling would spend tonight with a bellyful of tough jerky again. It looked almost like a honeycomb he'd once raided when venturing in the wilds; a confusing myriad of holes and yawning tunnel mouths carved into the rock face. Rather than shacks of timber like the Huntress' retreat these dwellings had been hewn in stone like a dragon would dig his cave, though for human sized proportions. The smoothness of the cuts suggested that some skill and care had been expended in the work. Horses snorted and picked at the sparse grass, swished their tails unconcernedly from within the small paddock; delicious prey scent and a particularly wide passage suggesting that more were housed in an underground stable. Moths fluttered where light leaked from between gaps in the wood of the shutters and sounds came from within; many voices in a cacophony of speech, singing and laughter that echoed back and forth in the narrow pass until it seemed that the noise came from all directions and a thousand throats.
Movement attracted his eye; a pair of bearded men reclined on tall stools near one opening, spears laid across their laps as they drank and talked amongst themselves. They roused as the Huntress dragged the sled into view, the light touch of her hand on his head pushing him back into the pile of furs.
"State your business." The lead one called unenthusiastically. He was a tall and portly man, with the tired look of one who would much rather be partaking of the festivities within than standing guard on a cold night. He wheezed a little as he walked, holding his spear lazily with the point to the sky.
"I know that voice." Cynwise muttered to herself. "Bugger off Roff, you know what I'm about." She shouted, rolling her eyes. "How many years is this now?"
"Cyn! You're late this year! Sorry about that, but it's the new rules." The fat man said, setting down his spear and brushing drops of some sickly-sweet smelling liquid from his beard. He moved with a limp, shuffling his feet so that he left twin trenches of snow in his wake. "We're meant to challenge people after dark now, waste of bloody time that it is. By the looks of it you had a good season."
"Better than expected, though the passes were snowed in on the descent." She grinned, taking his hand and clapping a closed fist against his shoulder. "What's all this about then? Has Devin finally gotten tired of rolling your arse out the hall after a sup?"
"Like he could keep me away when the taps are flowing!" The man, Roff guffawed and elbowed his companion in the ribs. "Naw, more like Ashkar making a nuisance of themselves 'round Nordgard again, only this time they're out in force. The bloody Cimerians chased 'em all north and now the Westgarders are stuck with 'em. Makes life difficult for us all." He peered at Thrymja from beneath his heavy brow. "Is that a wolf?"
"I'm headed that way, any reports near the road?"
"A couple, scouts seems like. The main body is staying in the Boughs, for now at least. We'd rout 'em except the damn Jarls are taking sweet time getting their churls in order. They'll probably set off later in the spring. Here, we'll help you get this in... Gods forgotten! How did you haul this so far?"
The Hatchling felt the cart move and heard the three humans puffing as they dragged the wooden sled into the settlement. The sound of scraping and muffled celebration, along with cursing as a skid caught on a doorway suggested that the cart was being taken to the underground stables. He wondered if his scent would alarm the beasts and nearly started when one let loose a high pitched shriek, only to relax a moment later when Cynwise's harsh voice sent "No Thrymja! Bad dog!" reverberating through the narrow corridors. The delicious scent of their terror set his stomach painfully rumbling.
She bustled about, pretending to straighten the furs. The Hatchling poked his head out, forked tongue flicking the air nervously as Cynwise surreptitiously approached.
"You'll have to stay here for a while." She said in a hushed whisper. "Keep hidden, I'll bring back some food and drink." She ran her fingers over his snout affectionately before tucking the furs to cover him. Patting her thigh she called Thrymja to heel, the wolf's claws and her hobnailed boots scraping loudly on the floor as they strode away.
Rather incensed at being left behind, the Hatchling curled tightly within his hide-and-hair prison, grateful at least that it was warmer underground than outside. He closed his eyes, letting the sound of speech and songs fill his mind; too distorted through stone for him to make out clearly, but it was change from the crisp crunch of snow and distant whistle of the wind. Time slipped into inconsequentiality, and without even realising he'd fallen asleep he was awoken by the sound of returning footsteps.
"...Authorities alone will have take head for heresy, and that's not even to consider those Paradigm zealots. Oh by the gods forgotten Cynwise what have you got yourself into this time?"
The Hatchling drew back at the sound of agitated voices. Cynwise and her fat friend were arguing heatedly through hissed whispers. He snarled as a hand reached beneath his fur hideaway, drawing it back and leaving him blinking stupidly in the sudden light.
"Easy, child." Cynwise said, wearing a wry grin. "I'd like to introduce you to Roff, a comrade in arms. He saved my life many times."
"Against your supposedly better judgement! If I had a flagon for every time I'd played father to you I'd never be sober again." The fat man spat, examining him with a baleful gaze from beneath his bushy brows. Now that he was closer the Hatchling could see a calculating intellect at work behind his piggy eyes; the man's face was ruddy with years of cold and heavy drinking, and his airs were tainted with an odour of acrid leather polish. They and the sled were secreted in a side chamber away from the wider, smooth-hewn cavern of the stables beyond a curtained portal. The room was small and unfurnished save for a row of rotten smelling straw mattresses along the far wall. Roff harrumphed loudly, drawing himself up.
"Enough of this stupidity Cyn. If anyone found out you was harbouring that animal they'd hunt you to the ends of the earth. The wolf is bad enough. Let's find a deep river and be rid of the damned thing before it gets you killed." With beetled brows he reached out.
The Hatchling lashed out reflexively and the man drew his arm back with a muffled curse, reaching for his knife with his good hand. Thrymja growled, her hackles raised like the edge of a saw blade and he hissed, tasting blood on his teeth. With the sharp stamp of a boot Cynwise stilled them before the bare room was redecorated in shades of gore.
"Enough! Roff, he isn't some cat to be drowned! Thrymja, still that racket or you'll bring the guards." She planted her hands on her hips. "The dragon speaks, Roff, and he's a damn sight smarter than I am all told. That's why I asked for your help. He can't stay with me; it puts us all in danger."
"I don't care if it can sing and dance, you need to be rid of it. What do ye expect me to do? Give it a job and a month's wages!" The man all but shouted. Blood ran freely from between his fingers and was spattered against the walls as he gesticulated wildly.
"Oh for the love of... C'mere." She grabbed his arm, binding his bleeding hand with her scarf and ignoring his protests. "I know you, Roff." She said as she worked. "There's no way you'd let your old contacts slip even if you really are out of the game now. There must be someone around who owes you a few favours and is good at... distributing surplus acquirements. Buckshee, as it were." She pulled the scarf tight, making him grunt. "Perhaps you could help me with transporting some precious cargo of my own?"
The man's eyebrows narrowed.
"And no rivers." She added, raising a finger to her nose and Thrymja added a low growl for emphasis. The man's shoulders visibly loosened, knowing he was outmatched by the spry female before him.
"I'll be wanting payment." He said thickly, testing his injured hand. "Substantial payment. It won't be easy. I've never smuggled live game before, and you're taking the rap for this if you're caught. No linking it to me."
"You'll have your gold, but maybe I can do you one better. I'm heading into the plains for the spring, so there's no need for you to handle the goods." She said cheerfully. "All I need from you is a name and a village; I will take care of the rest." She turned to the Hatchling. "If you're willing, of course."
"I suppose I shall have to." He said sadly, knowing enough about humans that to stay would mean bringing danger to his companions wherever they went. "But first I should like to know where I will be going?"
"By Nordgard, it does speak!" Roff exclaimed, making a sign to ward off evil.
"South," Cynwise grinned, her teeth reflecting torchlight. "I've been talking to a few old friends laid up here, and they all tell me Cimeria is quiet right now. I pulled a few tours there with the mercs way back when; it's hot, sparsely populated and there's lots of game running around. Maybe even a few dragons too. What do you say?"
"It... sounds good." He said, not entirely sure. The Huntress tickled his chin.
"Don't despair! We've a-ways to go yet little drake, still some time before we part. With any luck I'll be able to pass you off to some people who know how to move things around quietly and they'll see you safely to the savannah."
"If he doesn't get you all skinned alive first." Roff muttered darkly.
"Oh shut it ye great lummox!" The Huntress said, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder. "Still foretelling doom and gloom all these years later, I'd have thought you would have gotten over that old complaint by now. You haven't changed a bit."
"Neither have you," Roff said with a growl, Glaring at the Hatchling and flexing his injured hand. "I see you still have a knack for acquiring staunch defenders."
"You know the way it is Roff. I never go looking for 'em, they always come to me."
"Aye, I'll grant ye that." He grunted, the miserably added. "I don't suppose one more to the tally would matter?"
"You're coming with us?" Cynwise said, genuinely shocked. "I never thought anyone would be able to pry you away from your hearth again."
"Aye, if I were at the hearth rather than watching some stinkin' door." He grumbled, brows beetled. "Someone needs to make sure you don't get yourself searched, or worse, pick up some other straggling monstrosity. I'll only go as far as the Westgard border. No one will miss me- I'm sure Devin can find some other washed up old ale-sop to watch his fucking door."