last night . . . The way you describe your mount . . . I think I am the
one who brought you down.”
“I know.”
She turned to him wide-eyed. “You knew? And you did not tell me.”
“I pretty much figured it out the first day. I got a better look at you
than you did at me and unless there were other dragon riders in the area
it pretty much had to be you.”
“And you made me gather up my courage to tell you! Thank you very much, I
am sure.”
“Hey,” he said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, “I was the one
who hurt Stigi. I wasn’t sure how you’d take that.”
“Yes, but you did not mean to.”
“And you didn’t mean to shoot me down.” He grinned. “We’re even. By the
way, how did you bring me down?”
“With this,” Karin said, reaching behind her and drawing an arrow from the
front part of the quiver.
“Do not touch it,” she admonished as she held it up for his inspection.
Gilligan saw the whole arrow, from head to fletching, was made of iron.
Karin pointed to two black dots, one on each side of the broad arrow head.
“These crystals on either side of the head are eyes,” she explained,
pointing to the shiny black buttons. “When both can see their target the
arrow’s aim is true. There is a spell to keep the target centered in each
crystal.”
“Like a guidance head,” Gilligan nodded. “But that still doesn’t explain
how an arrow brought down a twenty-eight-million-dollar aircraft with
triply redundant everything.”
“The death spell,” Karin told him. “It paralyzes anything the arrow
strikes.”
“So that’s why my electronics went to hell.” He shook his head. “I’m damn
glad Congress is never going to hear about this.”
There was very little they could do. They did some exploring, hunted a bit
and gathered berries and other wild foods from the forest. But that did
not take much time. Karin spent an hour or two working with Stigi every
day and another half hour or so grooming him. Mostly they lazed around
camp and talked while they waited for Stigi’s wing to heal.
There was one chore that needed to be done regularly. Stigi was very
efficient at converting dragon food into dragon droppings. Although he was
partially housebroken and used a spot down hill from the camp, the spot
had to be shoveled out and spread around, well mixed with earth. Otherwise
the smell and insects would have made the camp uninhabitable.
Using her hand axe, Karin made them two wooden scoop shovels. They looked
a little odd to Gilligan and the handles were too short for his taste, but
they were much better than using hands.
Every two or three days Karin or Gilligan would “clean the catbox,” as
Gilligan insisted on calling it. It was hard, dirty work but it was at
least something to do.
“Well, this part of the woods should be green next year,” Gilligan said,
stretching backwards to try to get the kinks out of his back. “You know
this is one thing we never had to worry about with an F-15.”
Karin tamped down a mound of mixed earth and dragon dung and looked up.
“Back at the Capital the grooms and stable hands would take care of such
chores. But it is part of dragonriders’ training to be able to care for
our mounts in the field.”
“Does that include making shovels out of expedient materials?”
“Expedient . . . ? Ah, I see.” She smiled in a way Gilligan found utterly
charming. “No, I learned that from my uncle when I was growing up on the
farm. He would make such implements to take to the village and sell.” She
looked down at the scoop beside her. “I think he would find these a little
crude, though.”
“You grew up with your uncle?”
“My parents died when I was young,” Karin said. “A hard winter, not much
food and some malevolent magic.” She shrugged. “Life was hard before the
Sparrow brought us new magic.”
“Who’s this Sparrow?” Mick asked, as much to keep her sitting beside him