A Muddle of Magic. Alexandra Rushe

you, said Raine.

      Mauric trotted up on Goblin. “They’ve left their post,” he said, indicating the rapidly dwindling guards. “They can’t do that. They’ll be put in the stocks.”

      “Tell that to their horses, if you can catch them,” Raven said. “What’s that you’ve got?”

      Mauric grinned. “Dragon skin. Flame left it in the meadow when he was rolling about. It should fetch a dandy price at market.”

      “Mauric Lindar, I might have known,” Raine said, outraged. “That’s why you volunteered to stay with Flame.”

      Mauric gave her an injured look. “Here, now, lass. You can’t expect me to abandon perfectly good dragon skin. Think of the waste.”

      A few miles down the road, they encountered the hapless guards returning south. Varl swore and jerked his horse off the road, staying well away from the dragon. The remaining guards did likewise. Two of them showed signs of having been unhorsed, their cloaks and leather hauberks mudded and smeared with grass.

      “Varl,” Raven said, nodding to the guard as they rode by.

      “Roark.” Red-faced, Varl stared straight ahead, his reins clenched in his fist.

      “By Tro, they’re a gloomy, unpleasant lot,” Mauric said as the disheveled guards slunk past them. “What ails them?”

      “Flame, I suspect,” Raven said. “I doubt they expected to encounter a dragon on their watch.”

      “I should bloody well hope not,” Mauric said. “Crack their skulls open and have a look inside, if they did. Not at all the usual thing, you know, dragons on the North Road.”

      “Thank you, Mauric, for stating the obvious.”

      “You’re welcome. You need anything else explained, anything atall, you let me know.”

      “That’s a great comfort,” Raven said. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

      “Think nothing of it, cuz. Delighted to be of service.”

      Chapter 8

      Trouble at the Gate

      They traveled along the causeway until they reached a roaring river. Raven drew up at the foot of the stout bridge that spanned the watercourse.

      “The Shara,” he shouted over the noise of the water. “The river flows out of the Black Mountains. This is the only crossing for twenty leagues.”

      “That’s the Shara?” Raine stared in awe at the churning monster.

      The Shara of her memory was a sluggish, brown snake, coiling through the brown foothills and soupy quagmires of Durngaria. This river was an angry torrent, snapping its rocky jaws as it surged past.

      Raven urged Lúthon into a trot. The horse danced across the bridge, his unshod hooves plunking softly against the stone.

      “Yo, up ahead,” Mauric shouted after them. “Our darling dragon’s in a dander, again.”

      Raven wheeled Lúthon around. Mauric sat astride Goblin on the south side of the bridge. He flashed them a rueful grin and pointed to the dragon. Flame hunkered in the road, nostrils flared, and eyes narrowed to gleaming slits.

      What is it, Flame?

      Flame glared at the bridge in affront. Morven said no more wobbles.

      Morven was wrong, but this is the last wobble, I promise. We’re almost at the Citadel.

      Phhhh. The dragon exhaled rudely. Flame does not care about Silly Dells.

      “What’s the hold up?” Raven demanded.

      “Flame is upset,” Raine said. “He doesn’t want to cross the bridge.”

      “Oh, for the love of Tro. I’ve had enough of this.”

      Dismounting, Raven strode to the end of the bridge. “Stop this foolishness at once, you overgrown salamander, and get over here,” he said in a voice that carried over the roaring water.

      Flame snorted and lashed his tail.

      “It’s that way, is it? Very well,” Raven said. “Good luck living under a bridge. Should you change your mind, there’s a fat sheep waiting for you at the Citadel.”

      Sheep?

      “Come along, Mauric,” Raven said. “Flame has decided to stay here.”

      Raven mounted Lúthon once more and turned the horse’s head to the north. Goblin clopped across the bridge and Mauric joined Raine and Raven on the other side.

      Morven?

      Raine heard the muffled scratch of claws on stone, then the dragon shot past them. Flame squatted in the middle of the road, his wings outstretched.

      “What now?” Raven said wearily, halting Lúthon once more.

      Flame will not live under a wobble. Flame will go to the Silly Dell with Morven, but Flame wants two sheep, not one.

      “Flame says he’ll come with us, on one condition,” Raine told Raven. “He wants two sheep, not one.”

      “Disgraceful bandit,” Raven said, scowling at the dragon. “Doubled the price, have you? Very well, then. Two sheep it is. Now, move your scaly arse out of our way.”

      Flame snorted in delight at this abuse and galumphed off, churning up the hard-packed road with his clawed feet.

      “What’s that?” Raine asked, indicating a verdant smudge in the distance.

      “The Greenwood, the oldest forest in Finlara,” Raven said. “A gift from Reba to Finn when he was named first rowan. The trees there are called sentinels. They grow nowhere else in the world.”

      They rode on, the green blur looming higher and higher, until it blotted out the mountains beyond. The North Road disappeared into the leafy gloom, a dark tunnel slicing the belly of the wood. They clopped into the forest and the outside world dropped away, the silence unbroken but for the soft thud of the horse’s hooves on the trail and the wind through the heavy branches. The air was rich with the scents of wood, sap, green needles, and damp vegetation. In the cool shadows beneath the mammoth trees, snow still mantled the ground and clung to the tree branches. Raine gazed at the sentinels in awe, towering giants with thick black bark, massive trunks, and limbs wide enough for two men to walk along side by side.

      The trees seemed to murmur in awareness.

      “They’re watching us,” Raine said in a low voice. “The trees are awake.”

      “Aye,” Raven said. “They know we’re here, and they’ve taken our measure.”

      Something scuttled in the branches overhead, showering them with snow.

      Raine sputtered and wiped her face. “Hey,” she said. “Cut it out.”

      Flame grinned down at them from a huge branch. Opening his wings, he glided out of the tree and landed in their path. He swished his tail and hissed playfully at the stallion. Lúthon dismissed this foolery with a flick of his ears.

      Stupid shorse, Flame said, scrabbling with his claws up another tree in a shower of bark. Crouching on a massive limb, he twitched his tail, ready to pounce again.

      “Someone’s found his second wind,” Raven said. “He’ll be ready for those sheep when we reach the Citadel, methinks.”

      “Are sheep expensive?” Raine asked.

      “Not particularly. Why?”

      “I don’t have any money. I was wearing jammies when I came to Tandara.”

      “Wearing what?”

      “Sleeping attire. It was cold, and I was seriously underdressed. Mauric made me