Berd watched him closely while his men moved the caravan further along the deeply rutted road, each of the steeds straining to get to the water they could smell, but were forbidden to drink.
Lyman’s knees began to sag and his back slumped as he pushed harder on the fifth time through. He acted as if he pushed the staff through thick and rapidly solidifying mud. Berd slapped the haunches of the final steed as it passed him and hurried back to the magician. He might not like having a magician assign himself to the caravan, but once with him, he was now Berd’s responsibility. He shoved a shoulder beneath Lyman’s arm as the old man slammed the tip of his staff into the solid ground five times. The muck slid off it into a stagnant pool at his feet. It flattened out but remained semi solid, neither seeping into the dirt nor sliding back toward the ring of stones.
“The water should be clean now,” Lyman said weakly. “You’d best test it on a rat before allowing the steeds near. But I can smell that it is clean once more. The farmer can return to work the land again.”
“And what of you, old man? What do you need?”
“Food and rest. By morn I’ll be strong as your Champion.” He dropped abruptly to his knees, slithering out of Berd’s grasp.
That night Berd fed the old man an extra portion of journey rations. Lyman smiled as he wolfed down the jerked meat in two huge gulps, barely bothering to taste the salt. Then he drank deeply of the newly cleaned well water.
“Oh dear,” he groaned, clutching his belly and rolling back and forth on the ground.
“What is it? Is there still a taint in the water?” Berd helped the magician sit up.
“Nothing quite so dramatic. I ate too much too fast. My belly is not used to such abuse and protests most heartily.”
Berd searched his memory for some remedy he might have in his kit, or possibly seen growing near by. All he could think of…
“What you really need is a stout mug of beer,” the master drover muttered into his beard.
“You cannot tap a cask for me, young man,” Lyman said. “Though it would taste good right now, the pain will pass as all sour bellies do. If they don’t burn your throat out first.” His half-smile turned into a grimace as he clutched his belly and groaned again.
“Water is good for some things. Beer is better for others.” He hoisted the small cask he kept hidden on the last supply sledge to his shoulder. He and his man had been on the road long enough that they all craved beer. But they’d not get more until they reached the city, five days hence. The small cask would only last one night with eight thirsty men and a bone-weary magician. To shouts of joy from his men, he tapped the cask.
The first mug went to Lyman. He sipped gingerly at first, then drank more deeply. Before the other men had managed to down half a mug each, Lymen loosed a belch that started in his toes and worked upward, long and low and…
“That smells of sulfur worse than the dragon,” Berd said from across the farmyard. A second belch, just as loud and odiferous brought a smile of relief to Lyman’s lined face. Then with a sigh he sought his bedroll and slept deeply.
Before the first bird cheeped a meager query of the not yet visible sun, amongst groans of sore heads and moans of eyes that winced in the pre-dawn light, Berd ordered the caravan up and on the road. Berd himself felt much calmer and full of energy to face the next leg of the journey. Lyman looked restored and eager to move as well. The road quickly opened up into grasslands again, leaving behind the copse that shaded the farmstead. Berd wondered if anyone alive could legally claim the land. A pretty place, fertile, with sweet water again. Might be a comfortable living for a retired caravan drover. When he was done with following roads, wondering what lay over the next hill, what cargo awaited him to carry back toward the foothills.
He settled into a rhythm of steps matching Champion stride for stride, head bob for head bob, looping thoughts bouncing back and forth between enjoyment of his life and longing for a more settled future, perhaps with a wife and if they were lucky, children. He’d make provisions for caravans to camp on his property and use the well…
A long rumble echoed around the heavens. Berd immediately searched for the dark clouds that would produce a thunder storm.
Nothing. A vast expanse of clear blue stretched from horizon to horizon, barely punctuated by a copse or a higher hill. A whiff of sulfur preceded a blast of smoke.
“Lyman! Your dragon is back,” he yelled. “Get the steeds to water,” he followed through with his primary concern.
The crackle of flames on dry grass turned his knees liquid. Half the southern horizon glowed fire green with a wall of black smoke rising up as it swelled toward them. Steeds screeched their distress, half-rearing in their traces. The sledges rocked and tilted.
The dragon came at them low and fast, flame dribbling from his mouth.
“Chrysum, stand down!” Lyman shouted, waving his staff at the winged monster. “Swallow your anger and go back to the lair where you belong.”
The dragon ignored him.
Lyman lifted his staff high, holding it by the tip and circled it in the air. He chanted strange words in the same fluid language he’d used the previous night in cleansing the well.
Backlit smoke showed the dragon’s outline of the rounded body tipped with golden yellow along the wing veins, tips and spinal horns. The rest of him sparkled with iridescent fur that pushed the eye to look anywhere else yet demanded all of Berd’s attention.
He didn’t have time to stop and admire the apex predator. He needed to get his steeds and his cargo away from here, toward water that he couldn’t find anywhere by sight or smell.
Lyman shouted his commands again.
In response, the dragon belched a sheet of flame. The stench of rotten meat laced with sulfur and a neglected latrine nearly felled Berd and his herd. And yet…
It smelled the same as Lyman’s upset stomach from the night before.
Hastily Berd grabbed the lashing holding six kegs of beer tight on the jostling sledge. “Cut the traces!” he yelled at the nearest man trying to calm the steeds and lead them North toward a depression that he hoped contained a stream wide enough to stop the fire.
“Champion will run,” the young drover warned.
“Let him. He’ll lead the others toward water and he’ll find it before you do. Cut the traces.” Berd obeyed his own orders and gave up on loosening knots and buckles. He cut the straps with a slash from his utility knife and let the barrels roll off the conveyance. Some deep core of him shuddered in dread. What was he doing?
Saving his world.
As soon as the first barrel cleared the guide poles, Berd flipped it upright and began leveraging the lid free with his knife. He had to close his eyes before he regretted the sacrifice of one of the finest brews of the year.
“Lyman, how much can a dragon drink?” he asked as the smell of yeast and hops and barley swamped his senses.
“The alcohol will fuel the flames,” Lyman called back even as he ran from the path of the dragon. Yesterday he’d faced the beast and subdued it by will and magic alone.
Maybe the old man had used up all his reserves of magic. Maybe the dragon’s stomach was more upset than yesterday. He knew old men who couldn’t sleep because every meal burned back up the throat.
Berd turned his attention to a second barrel. Lyman worked on a third barrel, and the youngest drover righted a fourth.
The dragon kept coming.
“This has to be enough,” Lyman called. He gestured with his staff for them to retreat, across the road and down a shallow decline.