<u>10</u>


    There was an ancient legend, telling of a warrior-prince who slept buried in stone.  Those who believed such things, who still clung to hope, said that the warrior-prince would awaken someday, saving their land from darkness.  Just a tale.  A way to keep hearts alive when terror and trouble were all that they knew, only…  The stone had been shattered.  The sleeper was gone. An Old One… last of his kind… was said to be walking the land. Truth?


    Nobody knew, and everyone wondered.  Up north, something stirred.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    The heat and humidity were relentless, pinned like steam by a pod-lid of clouds.  Brought to mind… someone telling him…


    “Down in the warm lands, where it be <u>so</u> fearful hot that folk run about bare as a needle, wearing naught but a smile and a necklace of teeth.”


    Right.  Miche had no intention of clothing himself in blushes and grins, but he did remove part of his armor.  Kept the cloak, though, so Nameless had something to climb besides newly bared flesh.


    Night came on gradually, down on the rift floor.  Clouds and high cliffs blocked much of the sun, but also extended its gloaming.  All of this meant there was still feeble light when they came to a slash in the rockface, a mile and a half from Miche’s towering image.  It seemed new; created (maybe) by his recent doings in stone.  They explored the cave, finding it deep enough to provide decent shelter, without plunging down into darkness and damp.  Marget seemed pleased enough.


    “Here,” she grunted.  “We can defend this place, and it is high enough to serve for a look-out, as well.”


    The cave mouth lay about fifteen feet off the ground, with a broken jumble of rock providing a natural stairway.  They could not simply flop down and rest, though.  Not with so much to be done.


    “The dragon is close,” rumbled Marget.  “I would claim the best meat before scavengers get to the carcass.”


    Miche nodded; very tired, but still with a little left in him. (Also, disturbed by the sharp, tangy reek of dead wyrm.)  So, caching their few supplies, elf and orc set off in search of the fallen wyvern.


    They found it less than half a mile further east, amid massive boulders and great, shattered trees; half draped, half impaled at the forest’s edge.  Looked much larger, more menacing, on the ground than it had in midair.  One of its golden eyes had sprung from the socket and hung by a glistening string.  The other still glared.  A giant stake of splintered wood… all that remained of a gom-tree… had skewered the beast clean through its armored chest.


    Marget rushed forward at once, axe in hand.  Miche kept watch.  It took him a quarter candle-mark to walk around the dead monster, what with smashed trees, crumbled stone fingers and one outstretched wing.  It was very much dead though, with Marget wading right in, chopping through scales and meat with her whistling axe.


    By the time he got back from circumnavigating the carcass, she had a considerable pile of steaks heaped up on an oiled cloth.  Was spattered in blood, much like the first time he’d seen her.


    “Ha!  Old One!  Just in time to share the first meat.  As hunter, it is your place and your right.”


    The orc slid down from the impalement site, where she’d begun her excavations.  Held something glowing and blood-smeared in one clenched fist, taking his hand as a brace for her final hop to the ground.


    “The dragon-pearl!” she exulted, first wiping, then holding out a shimmering jewel.  “And not petrified, yet.”


    Miche looked on, mystified, as she used her dagger to slice a long curl of “peel” from the harvested pearl.


    “First-meat to you, Hunter,” she repeated, urging the chunky coil on him.


    “I… erm… thank you,” responded the elf, taking that glowing rind more to defend his face from it than because he was hungry.


    Inhaled sharply, ordered his thinking, then took a bite from the least gory end.  Found it peppery, tough to chew and extremely pungent, with a kick like a hippogriff’s.  Managed to swallow, only not dropping the rest because his muscles seized up.


    “Phrugth!” he gasped, and then, “Zoc farg!” causing Marget to fall over laughing.


    “Where,” she demanded, once she could speak, “did you hear those words, Old One?  That is cursing to spit with your heart’s blood, into the face of an enemy!”


    She’d bitten into the pearl like an apple, seeming to savor its rank, filthy taste… but just for an instant, Miche was elsewhere, staring through crossed swords at the tattooed face of a wounded and glowering orc.


    “I… seem to have fought a few of your people, Marget… though I don’t recall when or why.”


    Rising from her seat on the ground, the orc bumped him with one burly shoulder.


    “Males, no doubt.  Young ones,” she scoffed.  “Good enough fighters against elven or human… but not the best that the Free Folk can bring.  Eat more,” she urged, changing the subject.  “It is said to bring strength and good luck to the bold, instant death to those who are false.  Cannot be shared… except between friends.”


    Which it seemed that they were.  Miche braced himself to finish the rest of his dragon-pearl rind.  Gave a sliver to Nameless, who downed it with barely a sniff, then went off in the trees to forage for better.


    Marget butchered more meat than they could reasonably carry, but the elf didn’t argue.  Too busy wondering about the orc he’d once faced in a fight to the death.  Why?  For whom?


    The fact that he didn’t know, couldn’t remember, troubled him deeply.  Just… it had been for somebody else.  A fight over land not his own, though the details escaped him.  There’d been a female, though.  Not a beauty, but fierce.  Strong.  Much too proud to accept… whatever he’d felt for her. Confused, Miche looked over at Marget, who’d paused in her chewing to watch him.


    “We should finish here,” he advised.  “Take whatever else you want.  I will burn the rest, to douse that offensive smell... and because a foe should not be left to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field.”


    Marget nodded.


    “That is well said, Valleck,” she grunted, vaulting back up to her meat-mine.  Meanwhile, he began putting away what she’d already carved.  It was going to be wyvern and apples for a long time to come, Miche thought, to judge by the state of his magical pockets.  But at least they had food.  When she’d finished, he placed a hand on the dragon’s slim head.  Called upon Firelord, then, saying,


    “Be freed of this broken shell, Scourge-of-the-Air.  Return, if you will, as something still greater, and wish me no ill, who would have been eaten himself, had matters gone otherwise.”  Then, “I give you clean flame.”


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The carcass first glowed, then burned away from its head to barbed tail, not scorching the ground and emitting no smoke.  For just a moment they glimpsed the shape of a great, blazing dragon.  Then it was gone; broken up into motes that flowed away westward.


    Back at their shelter once more, Marget fed Spots, while the elf managed dinner and set up the wards.  Alarm, not defense, for he hadn’t much manna left.  Not without rest.  For that matter, neither had Marget.  She offered to stand the first watch, though.


    “Your sparks and spookery have drained you, Vugtarr,” she muttered, going over to crouch by the cave mouth.  “You will be no good at all without sleep.”


    True enough.  He’d started to glow again, drawing bugs and assemblers away from their fire, making a feast for Nameless.  Over the marten’s quick darts and snapping jaws, he said,


    “Wake me at third watch, then.  And… thank you.  For all the names and… for staying.”


    Marget grunted sourly.


    “You have an oath to keep, Bradmiir, to find me a worthy mate. I stay until that is done.  After that, we part ways.”


    Rubbing at tired grey eyes with one hand, Miche nodded.


    “We’ll find him,” he promised, settling to the ground with his legs drawn up, arms wrapped around and head on his knees.


    That night, he dreamt long and well; drifting through visions of soaring through the air like a kite.  Of traversing a sparse northern forest.  Of talking to Marget and opening shrines.


    Meanwhile, the she-orc stood watch, sometimes getting up to stretch her legs and look over at Miche.  Shook her head.  He was pallid and small, with no scars.  No tattoos.  Nothing at all like a male of her kind.  Not that it mattered.


    Later, a hand to his shoulder woke the elf up.  No alarm, though.  Just the sense that it was time to arise and be doing.  He got to his feet to find darkness outside and Marget swaying with weariness.


    “I would have watched longer,” she told him, fighting a yawn, “Only, sleep tries to claim me, and…”


    “And it is better to waken another than to leave us unguarded.  Good thinking,” said the elf, reflexively cleansing and sorting himself.  Not needing his cloak in that soup-like warmth, he removed the garment and offered it up to the orc.  “To block light,” he explained.  “So that dawn doesn’t wake you.”


    Marget was very still for a moment.  Then she accepted the cloak, grunting,


    “Only for that, I will take it, Old One.”


    Maybe he’d done something wrong, but he was too newly awakened… the orc soon too deeply asleep… to probe after possible wounds.  Instead, Miche went to the mouth of their cave and a little beyond it, greeting Nameless at first and then… after the marten… making ready to welcome the dawn.  Time passed.


    Here in the warm lands, morning came when the clouds thinned and turned rosy-pale, exposing a handful of stars.  Facing east, he opened his heart to Lord Oberyn, who was present even in darkness and rifts.


    Firelord came forth for a bit, though not very far; keeping a hand inside of his follower.  Wary, lest the orc should awaken or darklings approach.  Together, they watched the sky come alive overhead.  Watched as the sun struck rainbows all through that broad valley.  The forest steamed in the rising heat.  Birds opened their throats in song, making strange, eerie cries.


    “I had rather be in the highlands,” he said to the fiery god on his shoulder.  “But there is wonder and beauty here, too.”


    ‘Not home,’ argued Firelord, shifting pebbles and rocks with his “whisper”.  ‘Not the right place.’


    The elf tilted his head to look up at the fiery god, whose hand was wrapped up in Miche’s blond hair.


    “Do you remember what is the right place, My Lord?” asked Miche.  “Do you know if there’s… when I’ve managed this thing… Do you think there’s any way we might return home?”


    Firelord’s face vanished entirely, both small ears meeting in front like two clapping hands.  After a moment, speaking from inside his follower’s mind, he said,


    ‘Much darkness, first.  Much danger. Person is hunted, and Fireling, too.  If caught, there is an end to the Dark One’s imprisoning.  We <u>must</u> not be taken, Last Person Who Loves Me!’


    From inside the cave came a sudden loud grunt, then a break in Marget’s burbling snores.  Firelord swiftly shot back into Miche, taking shelter and sustenance deep in the heart of his only worshipper.


    The elf bowed eastward.  He hadn’t time for the Dawn Hymn but welcomed the day in his own quiet fashion.  As (he thought) others had done whom he’d known and still ached for.


    He turned and reentered the cave after that, to find Marget just rising; yawning fit to crack her jaw, stretching and scratching her ribs.


    “Any attacks?” she asked him, by way of ‘good morning’.


    “None,” he said, smiling.  “At least, none beyond insects, and Nameless has dealt with all those.  Has sleep restored you?”


    The orc did not answer, instead she eyed Miche’s bare chest and arms with a scowl.


    “What’s wrong?” he demanded, confused by Marget’s behavior.  He could have cycled fresh clothing out of a magical pocket, been fully dressed at a thought, but…  “It is hot in this place.  I chose not to wear a tunic.”


    Marget shook her head till the braids flew, reaching for armor and weapons.  Merely glowered, at first.  Then she exploded with words, raging,


    “This… bare, spotless hide!  Blank as a cub’s.  As a worm.  You should bear scars, Valleck.  Proudly.  There should be many tattoos to proclaim your victories.  Instead, you have nothing.  Not one mark.  You look like… like you fear to face battle, or you mean to deceive.”


    Miche blinked, feeling all at once naked.  He looked down at himself.  Clear to the belt at his waist, there was just smooth, pearly skin over the muscles an athlete would have.  A fighter.  He’d never seen anything wrong with that and could certainly cover it up with a stifling shirt… only Marget’s disdain stung.


    So?  Not his problem.  <u>Hers</u>.


    But…


    “What… sort of tattoos?” he asked quietly


    A ferocious grin split the orc’s face even wider than her yawn had.


    “Hah!  I knew that there was a male in there!  No servant at all, but a person!”


    Digging into her carry sack, Marget hauled out a collection of needles, hammers and small, bright knives that would have been right at home in a dungeon. A brazier, too, complete with small irons.


    “Eat something.  Then I will mark your victory over the dragons.  Such a fight should be boasted of, so that others think long before testing your strength.”


    Uh-huh.  He was going to regret this.  He knew it.  Nevertheless, Miche roasted an apple and ate some more wyvern steak.  Then, because she wanted to start on his back, he laid down on his cloak and folded arms, cursing himself for an over-sensitive idiot.


    And… on the one hand, it hurt.  On the other, she was quick and knew exactly what she was doing.  First drew with soft charcoal, then began making small punctures and cuts (not at all like… nothing like <u>that</u>).  Marget sang the song that takes away pain as she worked, rubbing in ashes and pigment, retelling the fight as he’d told it to her; making it live on his skin.


    It took a few candle-marks, and left him reddened on back, waist and shoulders, but at last the business was done.


    “It itches,” he complained, getting back to his feet.


    “You’ll live,” she snapped back.  Chuckled at first, and then went suddenly quiet.


    “What is it now?” grumped the elf (who really did long to scratch).


    Marget went over to stare at the forest, misty with rainfall and heat.


    “It is nothing.  I had a brother.  Tattooed him, as I have you, for good fortune and courage.  He complained of the itch, as well.  Tried for my friend Agrada, once the marks healed.”  She said nothing more after that, leaving the outcome quite obvious.


    Forgetting the burn, itch and sting of that wretched tattoo, Miche went over to join her.


    “I am sorry,” he said to the orc.  “Your brother surely fought well.”  It was a statement, not a question.  Not to one who had loved and remembered her lost one.


    “No matter,” she grunted.  “He reached high and he fell.  It is the way things are done.  I have slain many, myself.  Some that I might have favored, had they been able to best me.”


    Miche conjured a flask of honey-wine, not sure what to say.  Marget was a prisoner of her people’s customs, a thing he couldn’t change.


    “Maybe… the heat breeds them big, and there is some truly horrific brute of an orc here in need of a large… scary… bride.”


    “With tattoo skills,” she muttered, brushing his shoulder with hers.  “Able to hunt for herself and dress meat. Put that in, too.”


    Marget accepted the wine, pulling long and hard at the flask.  Listened closely, as Miche added,


    “Solid muscle, able to stitch wonderful images onto the skin of her vic… friends.  A paragon of the battlefield and the hunt.  Any orc would be honored to cower at her side.”


    “Any male,” Marget corrected, handing the flask back. “Any male with the courage to try.”


    Down below, in one of those random patches of sunshine that sometimes swept through the rift, something glittered like metal.  Miche’s eyesight was better, his hearing able to separate sounds of the forest from rattling weapons and armor.


    “Something comes,” warned the elf, though Marget’s red eyes had gone narrow and hard.  She knew and was already reaching over one shoulder to grasp at a sword hilt. Miche dispelled the wine. Seized her arm, saying, “There is a time to fight, and a time to be wise, Marget.  Let us learn what we face, before committing to battle.  For all you know, it may be your future mate.”


    That made her smile.


    “If it is, you must face him, for you stand as my kin, and I can’t interfere.”


    Which… right.  Information he could have used earlier, but… Why not?  What in the blistering-curses else could go wrong?