Chapter 18

“Shouldn’t Shavala have caught up to us by now?”

Corec checked the warden bond. “She’s ... southwest of us,” he told Katrin. “I think her old border camp would be southeast of here, so she must have gone on to Terrillia instead.”

“She changed her plans? Is Razai with her?”

“No, Razai’s to the west. I’m sure Shavala’s fine, but she might decide to take a different road out of the forest so she doesn’t have to backtrack. She could be planning to meet up with us in Four Roads.”

“Should we send Leena to check on her?”

“Humans aren’t allowed in Terrillia, but if we don’t see Shavala in Four Roads, we’ll figure out a way to get a message to her.”

Katrin nodded, then stopped in front of a wide, single-story building with a flat roof, a cooing sound coming from above. A pigeon post aviary. “This must be it,” she said.

Corec tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Closed for the day, I guess.”

“We can come back tomorrow,” Katrin said. “We have to pass by here on the way out.”

Corec nodded. He planned to write to his father to let him know the visit home would be delayed due to the dragon. The road between Four Roads and Larso was too close to its new territory, and Corec didn’t want to risk being caught out in the open.

A pigeon would have to take the message to Highfell, and from there, a courier could be sent to Tarwen Village. It would cost extra for the service, but it was the only way—there were no pigeon keepers back home, and Corec couldn’t ask Leena to risk using magic in Larso.

“Let’s head back,” he said. “We passed a saddle shop on the way, and I want to stop in and see if their work is any good. Nedley needs a new saddle. You probably do, too.”

The sound of angry voices reached them.

“What’s going on?” Katrin asked.

The inns in town were full, and many of the refugees fleeing from the dragon couldn’t have afforded to stay at one anyway. Dalewood had allowed them to set up camps in a few spots around town, and one of those camps was here, at an intersection just beyond the last of the shops lining the street. A large group of people had gathered around a bonfire for warmth, with wagons and tents encircling the area.

The camp had been quiet just a moment earlier, but now the refugees raised their voices, shouting at each other. Corec couldn’t tell what they were saying.

“We’d better check it out,” he said, hopping off the wooden walkway down to the muddy street. It had rained earlier in the day, and most of the streets in Dalewood weren’t cobbled. He reached up to help Katrin down.

She grimaced at the mud but accepted his help, then followed him.

More people joined the argument, seemingly two groups shouting at each other while others tried to get out of their way. Then one man shoved another, and the second man’s friends rushed the first, bearing him down to the ground. The scuffle quickly devolved into a brawl, refugees fighting each other with fists or clubs or cudgels.

Corec broke into a run, casting his combat spells as he charged into the center of the melee, shouldering and elbowing men out of the way. He grabbed one man’s cudgel and snapped the shaft over his knee, tossing the pieces to the side. Another refugee tried to hit him with a quarterstaff, but it was deflected by his shield spell, a brief flash of light washing over the fight.

“Enough!” Corec shouted as he shoved the staff-wielder down onto the muddy street. Corec wasn’t wearing his plate armor, which people sometimes mistook as a symbol of authority, and his mail shirt was hidden under his winter coat. His sword harness was slung across his back, but he didn’t want to draw the weapon unless there was no other choice. He’d have to control the crowd without any help.

Then Katrin’s voice cut distinctly across the cacophony. “Stop fighting and stand down!” she called out. There must have been some bardic magic in it, because everyone took a step back and looked around, trying to figure out who’d spoken.

Those at the center of the brawl had seen the flash of Corec’s barrier shield. They may not have known what it was, but it was enough to startle them, and now they were trying to put more space between him and them, pressing back against the crowd behind them. The result was a widening circle with Corec standing alone at the center, except for a single town guard who’d gotten caught up in the fight and was now slowly struggling to his feet. Corec gave him a hand.

Katrin nudged her way through the mob and joined them, the refugees’ attention drawn to the warden rune glowing blue on her forehead. Magic was rare in the free lands—and sometimes feared, thanks to the proximity of Larso. People quieted down as they stared at her.

“What’s going on here?” Corec demanded of the crowd.

The guardsman tried to respond but his answer was drowned out by the shouts coming from all sides.

Then one of the refugees stomped into the cleared area. “They got food!” he yelled, pointing at the group nearest the wagons. “Them Dalewood bastards won’t help us and my family ain’t eaten since yesterday!”

A middle-aged man on the opposite side of the circle, dressed like a shopkeeper, stepped forward. He was holding one hand up against the side of his head, blood dripping down his cheek. “We’ve got our own families to feed!” he said, swaying unsteadily. “It’s not our fault you didn’t bring anything with you!”

“The dragon chased us off our land!” the other man shouted. “We didn’t have no choice!”

Corec turned to the town guard. “Why aren’t the temples helping? Or the mayor or the baron?”

The guardsman’s eyes went wide. “The temples are already...” he stammered. “The mayor ... we can’t feed them all.”

That didn’t seem to be enough of an answer for the angry mob, and the refugees started shouting again, the two sides jostling back and forth.

The man with the head injury didn’t join in this time. He blinked rapidly and then collapsed down on one knee before falling to the ground. A woman who’d been huddling behind him shrieked and crouched down over his body. “Help him!” she cried out to no one in particular. The mob grew quiet, staring at the fallen man.

“We’ll send for a healer,” Corec assured her. He raised his voice. “I need a runner!” he called out. “Someone who knows Dalewood, and knows how to find The Goose and Gander. I’ll pay.”

An older boy, perhaps Nedley’s age, was shoved forward out of the crowd.

“He’s been here before!” a boy behind him called out. “He’s got a townie girl!”

The young man flushed.

“You know where The Goose and Gander is?” Corec asked.

“Yessir.”

“Then go there and find a woman named Treya. She’s a healer. Tell her I need her here right away. Oh, my name’s Corec—tell her Corec needs her here. And ask her to send Ellerie and Boktar too.” They could help him figure out who was supposed to be responsible for feeding the refugees. “And Sarette and Ariadne.” He’d need them to make sure no other fights broke out. “Do you have all that? Repeat it back to me.”

The young man repeated the message, only getting Ariadne’s name wrong. It was close enough, so Corec sent him on his way.

Corec turned back to the mob. “There’ll be a healer here soon,” he said, projecting his voice so everyone could hear him, and slowly turning in a circle to meet their eyes. “And we’ll get you something to eat.”

But there had to be over a hundred refugees at this camp alone. How much help could Corec and his friends really provide?

Ellerie held back while Boktar stepped forward to introduce her. She was wearing the nicest clothing she could find in her packs, which happened to be the red silk dress she’d purchased in Snow Crown. It was wildly out of place in Dalewood, but it was the best she could manage on short notice.

“Mayor Oren?” Boktar said. “This is Her Exalted Highness, the Lady Ellerie di’Valla, daughter of Queen Revana of Teravas.” After asking around town, they’d tracked down the mayor at the finery forge—it seemed he was part owner.

The chubby man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back and gave an awkward bow. “Your ... umm ... Your Highness?” he stammered. “You, uh, do us honor with your visit. Welcome to Dalewood. How can I help you?”

Ellerie didn’t bother to correct the term of address. “I’m merely passing through,” she said. “I had business in Tyrsall. But while I’m here, I’d like to speak with you about your refugee problem.”

Oren’s face fell. “Ahh, yes. A terrible thing, that dragon, and now so many people coming here to escape it.”

“And what do you intend to do about those people? Many of them are going hungry.”

The mayor grimaced. “Ahh, well, we’ve done all we can, Your Highness. The temples are packed full with as many refugees as they can manage. The priests take in a collection to feed the hungry, but that’s just enough for our own people. I don’t know what we’re going to do with all these new folks.”

“As mayor, you must have access to additional funds. My friends and I are arranging food and blankets, but we’re only here for a day. Surely you don’t want the refugees begging on the streets or robbing your own citizens.”

Oren hesitated. “I’d like to do more, but I can’t,” he said. “Baron Greendale controls the town’s treasury, you see. Dalewood is the seat of the barony.”

“Will you introduce me to the baron?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s wintering in Tyrsall. I spoke to the seneschal, who said he’d send a pigeon, but that was over a week ago and we haven’t heard back yet.”

“Did the seneschal actually send the message?”

“I...” the mayor started, then faltered. Ellerie could guess the problem. He couldn’t accuse the seneschal of not doing his duty, but the alternative was to accuse Baron Greendale, which would be even worse. And it was possible the baron was arranging aid but just hadn’t sent a pigeon back.

“Never mind,” she said. “If you’ll write out another copy of the message, I can have it to the baron today—faster than any pigeon. You can say you sent it twice in case the pigeon didn’t reach Tyrsall. And another copy for the Duke of the West, just to be safe.”

The mayor’s eyes went wide. “Today?” Then he shook his head. “I can’t go to the duke behind the baron’s back!”

Ellerie considered her options. Dalewood was in the heart of the region Varsin Senshall managed for the Senshall Trading Company.

“What if the message didn’t come from you, but from someone both the baron and the duke do business with?”

“What is a dragon?” Ariadne asked Sarette as the two of them patrolled the perimeter of the refugee camp.

She’d been too embarrassed to ask the question in front of everyone. The language issue wasn’t as much of a problem anymore now that she knew enough trade tongue to get by, but the group sometimes dropped into Eastern or Western when talking with others they encountered, and Ariadne could only keep one of those languages in her head at a time. She’d only heard bits and pieces of the conversations with the refugees.

“You’ve never heard of dragons?” Sarette asked.

“They’re giant sea snakes, but those are just old stories,” Ariadne said. “They’re not real, or if they are, they died out a long time ago. Nobody’s seen one since we started keeping records. And I saw the map—Four Roads is nowhere near the sea.”

“I haven’t heard of sea snakes. Dragons are real, but they don’t live in the ocean. They look more like lizards than snakes, except they have wings and can fly. And they’re big, as big as a large building.”

“How does something that big fly?” There were feathered serpents in Van Kir—snakes with wings—but they were small, weighing not much more than a large bird. A creature the size of a building shouldn’t be able to support itself in the air.

Sarette shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can fly. Maybe it’s magic.”

Ariadne frowned at that. “Animals can’t use magic. Except for the totems, but they’re different.”

“Dragons can breathe fire too. How could they do that without elder magic?”

“They breathe fire? Rather than air?”

“No, I mean they breathe it out, like a weapon—or like Shavala’s flame spell. That’s why some of the refugees’ homes burned down. You’ve really never heard of dragons? Or drakes? Drakes are like dragons, but much smaller.”

“No, neither. Where do they come from?”

“Across the sea from somewhere, I guess. I don’t think we’ve ever had a dragon in the Storm Heights, so we’ve only heard stories.”

Ariadne nodded, then stepped around a refugee family attempting to assemble a tent they’d been given.

Calm had finally descended after the chaotic rush to purchase food, blankets, and warm clothing, and to distribute it all to the three refugee camps dotted around the town. Wooden crates and canvas bags lay empty and forgotten after having been used to transport beans, dried fruits, rice, and oats. A long and narrow cooking fire had been constructed near the dying bonfire, and now the last of the pots were being emptied and cleared away as the refugee families finished their meals. The smell of fresh bread had begun to waft over the town—Boktar had paid half a dozen bakers to reopen their shops for the evening. There’d be bread in the morning, to accompany the next food delivery.