Free Son of the Hero by Rick Shelley Page A

bother.
    “How many dragons are there?” I asked.
    “One’s too many,” Lesh said.
    “They don’t exactly fill out census questionnaires,” Parthet said. “But there can’t be many or the buffer kingdoms would soon be totally barren. I doubt there’s a half-dozen that come across our skies.”
    “Where do they live?”
    “Anywhere they want to,” Lesh said with an explosive laugh.
    Parthet scowled at him but nodded. “Sometimes they come in from the Mist. Sometimes they seem to nest in the Titan Mountains. They can fly from Mist to mountains in an hour.”
    “What does it take to kill one?”
    “A bigger dragon.” That was Lesh’s contribution. The subject of dragons really pushed all his buttons.
    “They have been killed by mortals,” Parthet said.
    “Can you show me one who did and lived to tell about it?” Lesh challenged. “Introduce us and I’ll buy his beer for ten years.”
    The way Parthet tried to fade into his saddle, I knew he couldn’t.
    Precarra seemed to change its nature every few miles. It wasn’t a homogenous forest at all, more like a number of different forests tacked together. For a time it would look tame around us, like a city park, and then the forest would go suddenly berserk in a mass of tangled underbrush. Groves of oak gave way to soaring fir trees, which gave way to willow and birch every time we came to a waterway. Creeks, some of them looking more like drainage ditches in a drought, were common. There were no bridges out in the country, only traces where generations of Varayans had forded each stream. The road—the others insisted on calling the rutted cart path we followed a road—wound through the forest from one ford to the next. So, though we were heading generally east, we might be moving in almost any direction at any given moment. Several times we saw smaller paths leading away from the road, narrow tracks as overgrown as the path to Uncle Parthet’s cottage. Once I spotted a field of young corn in a clearing ringed by burned stumps.
    “We should be coming to the village of Nushur soon,” Lesh said about mid-afternoon. My watch said five-fifty, but that was still Louisville time. “The last time I was over this way, the innkeeper had a potent brew for his guests. I could sure use a flagon or two.”
    “So could I,” I said, “but I don’t think anyone thought to equip us with ready cash.”
    “The crown’s credit is good,” Parthet said. “His Majesty’s bursar pays every reckoning promptly. Whatever our problems, poverty isn’t one of them.”
    “You mean all I have to do is charge it?” I asked.
    “It’s not American Express, but you wear the family rings. No one will refuse you service in Varay,” Parthet said.
    “We could have an early supper, and a drink or two, and ride on a few more miles before sunset,” I said. There were no dissenting votes.
    The anticipation of refreshments made the miles to Nushur seem longer. It took us an hour to reach the village—thirty homes and two larger buildings in the center. “The inn and the home of the local magistrate,” Parthet said.
    “Do we need to stop to see the magistrate?” I asked.
    “No need at all,” Parthet said. “Once he hears that you’re in his village, he’ll come to pay his respects. You outrank him.”
    We rode straight into the courtyard of the inn. It looked as though the walls were made of adobe, but the region didn’t seem dry enough for that. A herd of young boys came to care for our horses and to guide us to the inn’s public room. As we entered, the innkeeper came up, bowing and scraping. Lesh and I both had to duck our heads to avoid hitting the lintel over the doorway. The ceiling wasn’t much higher. The innkeeper led us to his largest table—there were only three in the room—and carried on at length about how honored he was to serve us and how excellent his kitchen and beers were. When Parthet “announced” me, the innkeeper got positively slobbering in