The Foundling and His Keeper

It looked rather like a dog. It was about that size, at least, and crawled on four legs. It wore a wrought iron collar, which chafed so that the soft hide below its jaw had all shed and lymph sat slick on the raw flesh. That bothered it little now. Now its fetter was broken, and embers were on the air. It was cold, but the winter chill held small sway. The season was dry and dead leaves sat in tall heaps like the bulbs of an hourglass on the forest floor, growing all the time. The whole thing was poised to go up. Tinder for a thousand-thousand oak trunks swirling into one unending firestorm. It had to get out. Flames were something it had never mastered. It had shunned fire ever since its skin blistered under the hot brand behind the auction block. Fire was something to be feared and certainly was an unwelcome sight even as it crackled from the wagons of the covetous menfolk in disarray behind it. “Away” was the only thought that hung in its mind. Upwind and quickly.

No shortage of sharp rocks prickled underfoot, icy to the touch so bald skin under scale would stick, but light feet remedied that sure enough. It was the sheets of slinging stones and lead gumdrops that made its legs so heavy. Already they pelted the wagons, drumming like rain on a roof, battering them into charcoal still burning, settling in the damp grass. Crawling low against the ground, it was pelted again and again, catching ricocheted missiles bouncing up from steep trajectories and rattling against the bars of his dripping bridle. The feeling was familiar, but it didn’t hurt any less because of it. On the other side of this wooded corridor, the tunnel haze set in around a tree, anonymous but for one leaf that bobbed under the fury of barrage. The rest it would forget until that hell had all but closed up behind, roars only whispers beneath the creaking trees.

Now he was finally free and gone. He was master, answerable only to himself. No more prodding. No more hungry nights. There were no gods before him than himself. He was free to forage and fend in the wilds as his kin were partial to, not that that helped him much. He hadn’t any experience. A low chieftain’s menagerie was the last place a dragon was meant to be, but there was always offal enough and fresh water and for all the expectant looks and jeers, it was his world nearly as far back as he could remember. Suddenly, the world got much bigger. He would have to learn it all or perish and there was still the matter of his bridle. Mucus brimmed from his nostrils. He smelled nothing, not that it would have made a bit of difference in this cold. What tracks he found were as confused as their makers, circling back, kicking up leaves. Only one thing stood out: tumbling red hair against birch bark.

Like the rest, the dead man’s hair was worn long. It must have started from early Autumn just for days like this one, woven into plaits and draped over the shoulder like a shawl. The man was heavy with lavender oil and orange blossom. It burned. His stomach worked in fits and froth bubbled through the bars. He stepped back. He made busy with more important things. The man’s satchel gave good promise. Trekking in long woods usually meant something fatty, maybe with salt. He couldn’t be sure but running made him ravenous. He nuzzled the flap of the satchel hoping to pry it open, but the buckle made his life difficult. He tried gnawing at it through the bridle, but not a crumb or crust came out. And a glint went up in the sun, and he saw what it was the man was holding. A clot of wet leaves in one hand, rings set with amber glass, and a sword hilt flat against the ground. He padded forward. One delicate step and he could see the elaborate chasing along the cross guard: dogs and long-necked birds. He set his shoulders, poised the point between the bars. Twisting, tightening, pulling, he knew it had to split the joins when the blade sprung loose. His muzzle was stern, and it drove him mad. He pressed his bridle as hard as he could into the soft of the palm, hoping to dig the handle out, but the chain against his tongue made him gag.

His ears perked like hounds of their own. He stopped and he followed their lead. There was a new sound in the forest. A warble. Even as he looked, he heard whispers. He spotted a tangle of roots a couple of paces away. Something about it didn’t belong. More than anything it looked like a tail, like a spear of pampa grass, cream-colored and bushy. He came low again, belly tight, and started at a tangent. Easy, slowly. The tail moved. He didn’t think. One stride and another and he was quick upon it. A yelp went up and crows whined in the trees as furs spilled from the little tumbling thing. He saw it turn and all was strobes and pulsing in his ears. Then the world seeped back in. His chance was slipping away, scuttling backwards, legs misted with his blood. He lunged straight forward so it stopped and held its naked hands above its face and he could finally see it still and clear. He stared at it, curious and unafraid. It was human and young. No more than two years, draped in satin and stones worth more than all the slaves in the fief. Dew caught mats of hair against its face with smoldering emerald eyes. As he probed, it pulled its arms in close. It was helpless. It was his.