Page 25 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Hunting a woman on a dragon was futile. Instead, I hunted for bait.
The long miles had led here, the southern tip of Derbyshire. The local farmland was divided in twenty-acre parcels abutting a long, wild forest. Each parcel was planted with a single crop: wheat, oats, peas. Commercial production, not subsistence, and chosen for the wartime market.
Not perfectly chosen, though. I would have rotated those crops with clover and turnips. Wars start with a blow, but they last for years. Forage and fallow would matter. Still, this was clearly a managed estate… although the gentleman’s name escaped me. I blinked to steady my own wandering thoughts. I was tired, too.
I dismounted outside the farmhouse and stretched, spine grating, hamstrings unlocking with pinprick stabs. I dropped Escalus’s reins a few paces from a stone-rimmed well and signedHalt. That earned me a butt on the shoulder. I stroked his muzzle and whispered, “Patience.” His ears flicked.
The farmer emerged from the house, a stocky, half-bald fellow, arms crossed but in thought, not defiance.
I acknowledged him. “How do you do?”
“You tell me, sir.” He unfolded his arms and rubbed dusty, muscled hands against his coarse wool trousers. “Good enough, I should think.”
My appearance was little better than his. At dawn, I had rinsed my clothes in a brook and hung them to dry. That left them marginally fresher but, even after half an hour, damp. They dried while I rode, but they were comically wrinkled. That should not matter, but a lifetime of perfect dress was hard to dismiss. At Pemberley, I would have told my valet to throw them in the nearest fire.
Still, they were a gentleman’s attire, and the farmer bowed.
I nodded. “I wonder if I could water my horse?” Escalus edged one hoof longingly toward the well.
The farmer shrugged. “Surely.”
I drew a pail. Escalus gulped noisily, and I began unhitching his saddle.
The farmer strolled over. “Fine mount you got there. Big, to be sure. Eighteen hands?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a little over run.”
“We have had a long road.”
I draped the saddle over the fence. The farmer’s gaze noted the pistol and sword. He studied me, a sturdy finger rubbing his chin, neither afraid nor dismissive. A sensible man. Sensibly cautious.
“Have you any oats?” I asked. Oats were the best feed for energy. He returned with a ten-pound sack, and I gave him two shillings, a fair price with pence to spare. That earned a pleased grunt. Did he not expect a gentleman to pay his debts?
I poured a third of the bag onto a patch of grass. Escalus dug in, and I began rubbing his back with the small towel that had wrapped the hoof pick and game snares. I wished I had a curry comb.
Impulsive trips are poorly equipped. On the second day, I bought a blanketand razor from a passing trader, but my quarry was too elusive to risk detours for proper supplies.
“Good to see a gentleman who cares for his horse,” the farmer observed.
“He has carried me for five years. It seems fair.”
“I’ll do his withers,” he offered. I passed him the towel, and he rubbed them down, leaning to massage the muscle. Escalus cast him a curious glance, then relaxed, bobbing his head in approval.
“You know horses,” I said, working my shoulders and looking over the farm. Any distraction was welcome to quell the tension of being stopped and far behind Elizabeth.
The field was tall with pea plants, but their color looked off.
“My father was a groom.” The farmer passed the towel back and patted Escalus’s shoulder. “He’s in fine condition.”
I wiped down Escalus’s flanks, then draped the sweaty towel beside the saddle. “Have you heard reports of Blackcoats?”
“Those raiders, you mean? Troublemakers, to be sure.” He pointed to the forest. “Rumor is they’re heading south. What’s left of them. If you follow the road a few more miles, you’ll hear fresher stories than mine.”
“What do you mean, what’s left?”
“The angel caught two of their crews already. The rest are hiding.” His laugh cracked the air. “Folks say angel, but you tell me. Forest burned away to rock, smooth as glass. Always at night, and there’s nary a tooth nor a buckle left behind. I figure it’s devil, not angel. Not that those raiders don’t have it coming.” He grinned, enjoying his story, not knowing I had heard a half-dozen variants already. “You tell me. The devil barters for souls, then sends his she-devil to claim them. She drags them down. Hellfire spills up.” His grin widened. “I saw it.”
