Chapter 3 Let There Be Life

"Man is not a rational animal, he is a rationalizing animal" - R. A. Heinlein, Assignment in Eternity

Disclaimer: "Disclaimer" is Séanadh in Gaelic. I don't know how to say "Gronkles and most other dragons mentioned in this chapter don't belong to me" in Irish.

"It's been a rough day. Hit me with the tough stuff."

"Are you sure you can take it?" the villager knew some quite good Sarmatian, but with a thick accent, " It's got quite a kick to it."

Gatalas snorted and held up a wooden vessel, "I'll survive. I need a good kick, anyway. Bring it on."

The villager sighed, dipped into the barrel with a ladle and dished the strong smelling liquid into my Rider's bowl.

"Well, you must know your own limit- sour cream with that?".

"Of course."

A dollop of sour cream was tossed into the bowl ,and immediately it turned pink. My friend smelled the aroma from the bowl.

"Just the way I like it. Skuda, I wish you much health!" Gatalas said, and raised his wooden drinking bowl

"Berma'id," Skuda replied the traditional way, raising hers. They clicked the bowls briefly.

Then they both drank and sighed in pleasure as an earthy aroma of distilled liquids wafted around all of us.

"The hall cook makes the best beet root soup ever," Gatalas said, sighing in pleasure, "This is splendid."

"Mmhmf," Skuda's mouth was too full of root vegetables and broth, vinegar and sour cream to make sense, but her intentions were good.

I flared my nostrils and snorted quietly. Borscht- or beet root soup- has to be one of the greatest tragedies invented by Firemakers. The basic concept is brilliant- everything a horse would love. Let's see: beets, carrots, fennel, cabbage, dill, water, maybe a turnip or two. It's pure ambrosia! Then they have to go and destroy a masterpiece by throwing in onions, beef broth, perhaps a sausage or two and that vile fermented apple or grape juice they call vinegar. Then they completely throw it to the wolves and toss in fermented cream and mix it into a horrible pink color.

Firemakers.

Well, at least the bread made up for it. Every mare has her price, and mine is bread. So, Gatalas had made sure to filch a whole bunch of the dark bread for me from the table where the simple, but hearty, evening meal had been laid out for us. (Borscht, fresh baked bread, sausage with pickled cabbage and fresh apples)

Tired, but grateful, villagers made sure we were fed when we rode wearily back from the battle, bringing the few Viking prisoners that had surrendered. We do not normally take prisoners, but these people would not tolerate us killing the Vikings. Many of them had connections that they could be used as hostages to negotiate captured Slavs' freedom or pay back these villagers for the wealth they had lost through prior raids.

Most of the River Rats had died in the battle, fighting bravely at the end. It had not been glorious war, but we had stopped the villagers from being invaded by these River Rats. I know if we did not intervene those Vikings would have been now walking back to their floating wagons, prodding and whipping a very long line of newly minted slaves.

No matter how glum we were that this battle had been not as honorable as we wanted, we knew we had saved our allies.

So the feast of thanks awaited us. It was not a feast of jubilation but one of appreciation, and that mattered a lot to us.

The spread laid out for us made everything worthwhile and helped restore our spirits- along with the grateful thanks of the villagers. They know that, for Sarmatians, fresh fruits and vegetables are a treat, so they always made sure to feed us well after any of our battles, including lots of fresh produce of the season, both for human and horse. There was also fresh bread, another treat for us.

Both solid and liquid forms of bread.

First the solid bread.

Gatalas casually had dumped a helmet full of the lovely, sour tasting dark bread of this region onto my hay ration. If I were a dragon I would have purred as I munched that wonderful, yeasty, dark bread, my eyes closed in deepest contentment.

"Look sharp." Skuda warned. She clapped her helmet back on and leapt to her feet. She held her spear and shield in a vigilant position. Gatalas remained sitting cross-legged and lowered his head submissively and placed his shackled hands on his knees, showing all he was being held under arrest.

The Sarmatians who walked past us, bearing bowls of soup and bread, took a glance and Skuda and nodded approval of her vigilance over her prisoner.

When they left, she sat back down by Gatalas and picked up her soup bowl, "Those handcuffs really look like they are hurting you," she said, casually.

"Your knot work is as excellent as ever, ma'am," Gatalas said, lifting his wrists to show how Skuda had tied his hands so they looked tight, but it was all a big fat illusion of knots and bad promises, "And I appreciate your due diligence in volunteering to guard the hostile terrorist who went AWOL."

::Don't forget we're also Traitors to the Lightning People:: I reminded him, crunching on a heel of pumpernickel bread, ::We just continue to impress people wherever we go.::

"Pleasure's all mine, Mosquito Shadow," Skuda joked, using a childhood nickname she often teased Gatalas with. Like most of his family line, he had been very small and skinny until he hit late adolescence- just as I had been. Then, after we bonded, both of us hit our growth spurts and grew like weeds until we were taller than average for our species.

There was silence, then, just we horses munching the heavenly filched bread and watching our Riders sitting in front of us- childhood old friends who now fought together as Dragon warriors.

"What are they going to do to you, Gatalas?" Skuda asked finally, pulling a hand at the end of her pony tail, "It's rather awkward for Rasparagnus, I think. No one has ever disobeyed his orders before, so what kind of punishment is there? And the whole concept of prison is for these Settled Folk- no such thing exists in our caravans. Turning you loose to fend for yourself is moot since you kind of do that anyway as a Steppe Guide."

Gatalas snorted almost as well as I could, and I caught laughter in his breath as he did, "I should pull a whopper like this story some West African merchants I guided last month told . Something about how a clever hare is captured by some carnivorous enemies. He cries and begs them not to torment him by throwing him in a thorn patch, so of course they do so. Imagine their surprise when he runs away, slipping through the thorns, unharmed, calling out to them 'Guess what? I was born and bred in the thorn patch! See you later!""

"What? Tell them you hate being left alone on the steppe and let them abandon you? I think Raspy's ridden around the encampment a few times to know a trick like that. He'd dump you into the Red Death Timeline just to show you up."

We all fell silent at that. The thought that anyone would even think of doing that to a Sarmatian was horror. It would be an abuse of the priests' abilities to manipulate the gates.

"No one's tried that," Gatalas said, finally, "Opening a gate to chuck a criminal into the Red Death world could be disaster. They might get rid of annoying li'l ole me, but what if it resulted in leaving an even more attractive tear in the fabric for more monsters to come into our world." He shifted and turned back to watch me and smiled sadly, "I can think of a far better punishment."

I felt a chill wrap around my heart and, next to me, the bay gelding let out a warning whuffle, an indication he did not like where this conversation was going.

That makes two of us, pretty boy.

"Oh, no. Don't say that, Gatalas! They wouldn't," Skuda shook her head so hard her dark golden pony tail whipped, "Never! Just never! The council doesn't create a bond. How can they take it away?"

The firelight picked out a golden glow to the silvery scars around Gatalas' blank eyes, "Easy. Just make sure I am left somewhere on the steppes in this Timeline and good ole Horsebutt is conveniently relocated back to our original Timeline. You have to admit it, there'd be no better way to make sure I never caused any problem again…"

The unsaid words hung over all of us, … then to take away not only my Bond-Partner but my guiding eyes. To make me blind. Again.

"Remind me to drag you behind my horse with my lasso if you EVER say that again," Skuda said, her alto voice edged with fear and anger, "If you think it hard enough, maybe someone will catch that thought and decide it's a clever way to punish a Rider-azatani. Bad thoughts like that can fly into the wrong heads."

"Superstition is in the air," Gatalas sang softly, "You really believe that?"

:: Just shut up, that's all she's saying:: I snapped irritably, ::Don't borrow trouble before its time. Anyway, I'll fight like the Devilsteed himself if they try some prank like that.::

Gatalas sighed, ::Sorry, Horsebutt. I'm kind of puzzled about the whole thing myself. It brings out the weird side of me::

::You mean weird-er side,:: I snickered, and ducked as Gatalas tossed a piece of bread at me to bounce off my nose.

I just nosed the bread and ate it, never one to let a good projectile go to waste.

One thing did stick in my thoughts, though. Gatalas had just shared with all of us his deepest fear. And it was a real doozy, too.

Okay, can someone PLEASE change the subject?

Skuda to the rescue! She leaned closer to him, "Whatever happens, I will share that most of us Sand Spitters were mightily impressed with what you did. You gave that poor girl a chance at life again."

"Wouldn't you have done it, too?" Gatalas asked Skuda, trying to meet her gaze and failing, as usual. It always made me sad he could never quite meet someone eye to eye. But his azatani knew how to read his other facial features to know he was genuine.

Skuda stared back and then looked away, "Good question. I'd like to think I would, but in all honesty, I am not sure, Gatalas. At our initiation ceremony, we all swore on fire to honor our captain's and our Scepter Holder's orders as sacred. Breaking them is breaking honor. And, as nomads, honor is often the only possession many of us truly own."

Gatalas tossed his head emphatically, accidentally causing of his helmet-loosened forelock hair to fall in his eyes, "But what's the boundary, Skuda? Following orders is honorable, but if following them means someone who needs help is abandoned, then is that really honorable?"

Skuda hissed quietly through her teeth, weighing it out. Truly it is a question for us Sarmatians. We value honor and devotion to our leaders. Just as they have an obligation to care for us and our families. Our Scepter Holder is not just our Commander- he is, truly, our Prince, and he holds a responsibility to give us and our families access to join the caravan and adds to our flocks of sheep and goats and cattle. He provisions, cares and protects all of us in the Dragon in return for our loyalty in battle. The same rule applies to our squadron commander, who is not only a commander but a nobleman in his own right. The oaths we swear to both are sacred.

By breaking his vow to his squadron leader and, by association, to Banadaspos, Gatalas had showed he could not be trusted and that his vows meant nothing.

Finally Skuda chose the woman's way of answering: Thou shalt change the subject.

She reached over and pulled Gatalas' hair out of his eyes, "That really must bother you. I know it would drive me crazy."

He shrugged, "I never even notice when it happens for obvious reasons."

"Still looks painful. Anyway, I think you are the only one of us who had the wits to balance out what is more honorable and take the risk on it. " She smiled sadly, "I know you have your reasons for it- it's hard to see a person being treated as a hostage or a slave. It's hard for us, for any of us who remember the Thundering Victory Battle. But you actually do something about it."

Gatalas gave her one of his rare, illuminating smiles.

::Four candlemarks past noon:: I sent to him.

He thanked me and oriented in his mind. Then he reached his roped hands formed into fists to gently punch his childhood friend's shoulder, "Thanks, Skuda."

Well, that was the intent, anyway. Of course he missed and aimed slightly lower, almost hitting another, more awkward, part of the lady warrior. She laughed and caught his wrists in a hand grip, giving them a friendly handshake.

I silently was grateful Skuda had the class not to embarrass my Rider for his mistake.

"No problem, bucko. So, we've broken rye bread together. But where's the liquid bread?"

Her gestures brought over the person handling the all important beer barrel, and soon there were bowls of good autumn beer for us- four bowls. The villager had lifted his eyebrows, but he accepted Skuda's cock and bull story that Sarmatian horses get their speed from the hops in beer.

"Drink up, all of you," Skuda said merrily, placing a bowl by her merry bay gelding. His nicker was a glad song

::I NEVER thought you would remember!:: he thought-sent, ::And it's the Harvest Festival Beer batch. Hooray!::

Gatalas slid a bowl to me, and I started drinking as well, letting my ears flop back and forth in pleasure as I gulped. These villagers could brew a wicked beer- and that's a compliment!

Someone started singing a Sarmatian round -song near the food tables, and others joined in, dividing themselves automatically into groups to make a round.

Ho, young rider, apple-cheeked one.

Whither riding?

On your steed so black and prancing.

Whither riding?

What matters where I ride?

All the steppe lands are my pride!

Duschamoya, duschamoya.

What matters where I roam?

For the steppe lands are my home?

Dushamoya, dushamoya- Hoy!

The Nowheresville residents knew this song as well, but it was a version in their language, so they joined in and there was soon a cycle of rounds that spun like a wagon wheel, even though it was in two languages. It was quite lovely, and people were caught up in the bittersweet tune. The melody started sounded very much like the trotting of a horse and rider, moving across the steppes, guiding the path for a dragon.

I thought of a black and prancing steed and wondered, once again, if Toothless and his own rider were all right.

Cloudy sky, breakfast smoke fires. Horses, snorting and excited, pawing and eager to be moving again, free from this trapped place of wheel less wagons.

Units moving together, getting ready to strike out for home, but yet it would not be home.

Banadaspos and his squadron leaders had talked after the dinner and come up with a decision. The dragon attacks were getting more and more frequent, and it was time to start being proactive instead of reactive.

They were going to swing north and west of the village and move in the direction of the attacking dragons, mapping out a projected course based on patterns from valuable data.

Data that had been provided by a certain Lightning Breather with a funny Firemaker name. The very data that Gatalas and I had sneaked to our priests.

Hawks had been sent to alert the other members of the Dragon to send out their units and unite with our units northwest of here, facing toward the pine hills. Then they would all move on, hunting and seeking the source of the attacks.

Of course, a force of azatani would be left to guard the caravans- we Sarmatians are bizarre, but we are not crazy.

Breakfasted, provisioned and fit after a good night's sleep, the Dragon looked brilliant and beautiful. All of them.

Except for the blond man sitting cross-legged at the feet of his unsaddled, funny pale- colored horse.

Even though we had provided the data, Gatalas and I were to stay out of this mission. Banadaspos had been merciful to us, in the end, balancing out that my Rider had broken the rules to save a life. True, he had endangered his colleagues, but he had done a good thing to for the village. The girl was one of theirs, and she had been fostered to a village further up the river. She was now reunited with her family who was nursing her back to health and sanity.

Instead, Gatalas was told to ride back to our caravan , escorting two spare horses back with us. We would help with the home guard and messenger duties and wait for further orders on future placement.

Rasparagnus did not want us in the Sandspitters ,and so we were discharged.

Banadaspos had told Gatalas this in his noble way as my Rider ate breakfast, a steaming bowl of bread and hot milk, trying to balance it well in spite or his bound wrists.

"I have great respect for you, Gatalas, son of Gatretes. I also have respect for Rasparagnus. He comes to us with a lot of experience and respect from his native Roxalani Tribe, and he has been a great asset to us."

Banadaspos had clapped a hand to the sitting Gatalas' shoulder, "I'll work on him, you'll see. Hopefully, he'll come around. But, until then, it's best I ask you to stay out of the Sandspitters."

A knife flashed and the Scepter Holder deftly reached down to slice the ropes loose from Gatalas' wrists. Gatalas just flicked his wrists and the ropes slid off, as they had been intended to.

Banadaspos chuckled, "I see Skuda was up to her usual magical knots. It says more honor to you, friend, that you did not just run away."

"No disrespect, lord, but do you take me for a River Rat?" Gatalas said, softly.

"Not at all," Banadaspos helped the younger Firemaker to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder again, "Safe journey, friend."

Gatalas had bowed and sighed in soft relief. He really had been scared of being sundered from me, I realized.

Now Banadaspos paced in front of the assembled dragon, both he and Farna wearing their colorful riding clothes, armor packed away on one of the Scepter Holder's pack horses (our officers use ordinary horses for this). Without her armor, Farna was very distinctive. Her pale hide and blue eyes made her look like a ghost horse, an illusion made even stranger by the fact she had no mane whatsoever. (There are quite a few of my Turkmene people who have no manes).

Rasparagnus and the other two leaders came up by him and they turned to face the troops. Their horses gleamed with proud glow of the Turkmene breed: white, sorrel, black and palomino.

I heard someone start chanting behind us and turned to see a Slavic Firemaker with a long beard and dressed in black robes. He raised a hand in what could either be a blessing or a ward of evil.

Neither Gatalas nor I could understand him, but something about his voice disturbed us.

The man continued chanting as the Dragon troop moved off, the boy with the Sarmatae Draco banner leading the way. Wind sang in the Draco's mouth, making it roar joyfully.

Gatalas placed a hand on my neck so he could borrow my eyes as we watched our brothers and sisters move off. I could feel his hand clench a bit in regret. Like me, he wanted to be there, sharing the adventure.

It had taken so long to work our way into being a part of the Dragon. In one quick judgment, Rasparagnus had undone all our hard work. Worst was the feeling we could not serve with those we loved.

We saw a gleam of fire-colored horse hide and Skuda and her horse trotted past us with the Sandspitters. I noticed that she, and several of Sandspitters were holding one hand to their chest with their fingers curled in the symbol for support.

::Farewell, sister:: the bay thought to me.

Other Turkmenes sent me their wishes, too.

::Take care, Eyes for Gatalas. You ride with us in spirit::

::We will miss you.::

::Sky Lady watch you.::

As they passed by, a hawk flew over head, soaring towards the caravan on the steppes.

Skuda had let her hawk go, knowing that the bird would fly to her wagon perch and kin would care for the bird while her mistress was on the mission.

The bird called to us, tipped her wings, and flew onwards.

As they all disappeared towards the forest and away from the steppes, the man in black raised his hand and made a gesture of respect. Then he walked toward the octagonal meeting house.

"Our priest finds this interesting," a voice said, and Gatalas and I noticed the stout woman who had served my Rider and Skuda the beet soup, "The colors of the horses intrigued him."

Gatalas scratched me along the shoulder, as if trying to distract himself from a nagging though, "What was so interesting about that?"

"The Four Horsemen of the Revelations. The white Boneknapper horse- the rider be the agitator. The heavy red sorrel of the Gronckle riders- the rider be war. The black thin horse of the Stranglers- the rider be hunger. And the pale yellow horse of the Sandspitter rider."

The woman nodded, "The rider be death."

"I really am disappointed by that, actually," Gatalas told me several hours later as we trotted our way back through the border poles and onto our beloved Steppes of Insanity, "I always thought you would make a better Death horse than Rasparagnus' pretty palomino. She just looks too dainty and sweet for the role."

::Heh. Thanks for the insinuation that I am ugly. At least I don't look like a naked albino monkey::

"Jealous, I think you are." Gatalas grinned as pat me affectionately, "But you are the red color of death. Your coat is light orange-yellow, like a fading bruise in battle, and your red-brown mane and tail and legs are the exact, lovely shade of old, dried blood. And sometimes your hazel eyes glow green like botulism on a corpse, a truly death like steed all around, my lady."

Admiration was in his voice as he praised my equine beauty in the Sarmatian way. I sighed in delight and gratitude for my rider's kindness. Yes, I am a Sarmatian lady, and we are suckers for such poetic flattery.

I know we were being sent back in some kind of detention from our battle hijinx, but I was feeling pretty good. My Rider was with me, he was waxing poetic in our people's way, and we back on our beloved, chaotic Steppes!

My Rider gave a sharp whistle and the two horses we were escorting back to our encampment picked up the pace, jogging at a trot beside us. They were two shaggy, black brutes of stallions with a certain Viking air about them.

But now they were happy Viking stallions. They were dumb as ticks and boring to boot, but they lapped up the Sarmatian way of handling horses as if they had been in a desert and now stood in a rainstorm.

They no longer wore the Viking saddles or the heavy bitted bridles. Instead they had thick halters and just wore some light packs with supplies for the encampment. Some of the azatani had rigged up the stallions so they could be led by Gatalas as he rode me. He held a lead rope in each hand as well as gripping the handle bar of my neck harness.

The stallions were acting remarkably well, but that is no surprise. The Sarmatian way of handling horses is based on gentleness, positive reinforcement and establishing firmly that our Firemakers are the boss over these mindless twits of horses.. While my Firemaker-people prefer mares or geldings, we do have stallions for guarding our herds and some work around the emcampmemt. We expect them to have good manners. Most of them actually do, when they learn they cannot get away with threatening Firemakers, mares or geldings.

Once these two dimwits from the Norselands realized they no longer had a heavy bit in their mouth and a River Rat Firemaker who did not slam them on the heads, it did wonders for their attitude.

(It also helped that they both got several kicks in the face from me when they tried to ply their studly charms. I made it clear them that in our little herd of three, I was the lead mare.)

Gatalas, as well, did not let them pull their attitude on him. He did not hit them, but he got their respect very fast with sharp words. Eventually the two stallions held a quick discussion and decided Gatalas was the stallion and I was the lead mare, so they let us take over the management of the herd.

Non Turkemene horses are not all that motivated- if there is another "horse" willing to take over leadership, they will happily fall in behind him or her.

It also helps when there is no mare in heat.

Once we entered the wide, grassy plains of the Steppe lands, they decided once and for all they had died and gone to the Great Fields in the Sky.

::Oh, Fishbone Lead mare, you have take us now to Paradise:: one of them crooned to me, ::You skinny and butt ugly scarecrow, but you wondrous miracle mare to make us go to Heaven.::

We stopped by a river at midday, where we let the stallions drink deeply and roll to their hearts' content in the russet grass, shaking themselves and calling out friendly insults to each other. I won't print them here- they make me turn an even redder shade than I am.

Gatalas took off my harness and let me roll, too. Then he flopped on his back, a blade of yellowed grass in his mouth, and enjoyed the peaceful moment.

I cropped grass, seeking the last of green good stuff still clinging to the memories of summer. It hides beneath the dry bunchgrass, but it's there for the horse who takes the time to seek it.

"The stallions seem happy," Gatalas said to me, "They have some potential, I think. We'll see if someone can work with them. They look like good pulling horses for carts. I don't think they were cut out to be war horses, myself. "

::Agreed.:: I did wince when I saw the horses without their saddles. Their coats were ribby and harsh with plenty of white hairs from saddle sores, and edges of their mouths were scarred as well. One of the stallions even looked as if his tongue had been severely sliced, almost in two, by a sharp bit.

"Vikings." Gatalas snorted, picking up that image from me, "Pain and force might work on their own people, but there are easier and better ways." He yawned, "Well, we at least saved three hostages of theirs: the girl and these two stallions"

I came closer to the water and took a drink, enjoying the lovely clear steppe water.

It was then I heard the squeaking sobs, right near the river bank. I pulled my head up, water dripping from my muzzle. It sounded all to familiar.

I looked down where the river water lapped against the muddy clay. A little lump lay buried in the clay, shaking and squeaking, eyes tightly shut.

Oh dear.

It was the little dragon who had flown from the bag, the little milkweed puff screaming in pain as the wind pulled its baby wings too hard.

::Gatalas:: I mind sent, ::Actually, we may have saved four hostages. Come here. Slowly. Gently.::

I lowered my muzzle and scented, smelling fever and old wounds and, lurking at the corners, fading life sparks. The little dragon kitten had probably collapsed here, unable to fly any more on its damaged wings. Fevered, it had burrowed into the clay and just lay still, so weak it did not care what happened to it.

Gatalas followed my voice, stumbling over clumsily. He fell against my shoulder and touched my neck to gain my eyes.

The child-dragon cracked open eyes so filled with runny discharge it was hard to tell what color they were. They met mine, but showed no recognition and no caring. With a sigh, the kitten closed the eyes again and just lay on its side apathetically,

"Merciful Marha. The poor kitten. It's done for. It's come here to die, Horsebutt. Leave it in peace. I think it knows it's time has come. I recognize that look Come on, let's go get the others and move on. Just say a prayer for the little soul and move on with our lives."

I snorted and made my hazel eyes meet my Riders' blind silver eyes, ::No.::

Gatalas laid his head against my neck and his voice was full of sadness, "It's the right thing to do. You have too kind of a heart, Bond-sister. But I think it's too late to save it. I know it's hard, but sometimes a creature is so beyond care it cannot be helped."

I folded my knees and lay down next to the injured dragon. ::Then I guess you ride on without me, Gatalas. I'm staying here until you pick up that poor kitten for me. I sorely lack opposable thumbs.::

"I'm serious. The kindest thing to do is to leave it here."

I stared over the edge of the river and on to the far away plains in the distance. I remembered a canyon in a place not far from here but a Time very from here.

::It's a good thing, then, I did not feel that way about a starving, injured, sick youngling I found in a canyon.::

I heard my Rider take a sigh and his breath catch in his throat.

"Damn you, you stubborn mule." He said, and he dropped to his knees in the river clay next to me. Gently he scraped the dull clay from the little dragon kitten's hide and lifted it up.

The dragon kitten opened the eyes again and looked at my Rider blindly, uncaring. Then its eyes closed and it passed out.

The kitten lay limply, just fitting perfectly into my Rider's cupped hands with their long, fine archer's fingers. The wings spilled over each hand like crumpled fall leaves, once brilliant but now soggy and grayed by winter rains

"He's so small," my Rider said in a voice suddenly sounding smaller and tighter.

Gently, Gatalas washed the mud from the kitten, who just let him. The coat that emerged was dull, again no sign of what color the dragon's coat really was. Sickness and bad treatment had tarnished it to this muddy, apathetic brown-green

We stayed there for the rest of the night, letting the stallions graze. Gatalas was at a loss, but we knew we had to cool the little creature down.

Part of our guide equipment includes medicines and bandages for my Rider and me in case of injury, but also a small bag of medicines for dragons. The priests had taught all the guide Riders about basic cures, though they had warned us most dragons would not get that close to use to let us help them.

Gatalas wound up boiling some willow bark tea from the stash of medicinal. After it cooled, he dipped a spare cloth into it and dripped water droplets into the dragon's mount. Eventually, the little creature started sucking it on its (his?) own and soon it was slurping down the tea desperately.

Later, Gatalas tried a broth made from soaked and cooked beef jerky, and the little dragon sucked some of that- not much, but it was a start. I kept watch, my rider leaning against my legs to gain my eyes, the dragon huddled in his lap bundled in a thick blanket.

The stallions wandered over to watch and I gave them a rattling snort and snapped my teeth at them. Nothing personal, but since they had belonged to the Vikings, and the dragon had been tied to one of them, it would not be a good influence.

::Okay. You be snot, Fishbone Lead Mare all you want. Just keep us in heaven each day. We no complain about your ugliness and meanness. Deal?::

As the sun came up and migrating birds began calling across the plains, I grazed near the campfire. My Rider had fallen asleep on his side, his bed roll around his shoulders, the tiny dragon cuddled up in its blanket near his side.

I reached over and pulled the bed roll over my rider fully so he could sleep and he and the baby dragon could keep each other warm.

As I did so, I heard the breathing of the little kitten was rattling much less, and it was starting to sleep more easily. So, there was hope after all.

In more ways than one.

Some Terms

Berfama'id - Enjoy! Bon appetit!

Bale- Yes