Once they were past the two low hills with their masses of relics and oblations, Dapplegrim came to full halt. “It is close,” he said. Another long draw of air through his nostrils. “It descends. Hurm. It wheels down upon us.”
Caewen looked up, but she could see nothing against the inky clouds and few scattered stars. “I should do this alone,” she said.
Dapplegrim did not reply. He remained unmoving, almost as a statue.
She slid off his back, and felt her heels tap down lightly into the soft turf. “Dapple? Did you hear me? I think this is for me, alone.”
“No. You are not going to do that,” he said, his voice flat.
“I can do as I please.” She folded her arms, defensively, across her chest.
“No. I won’t leave you here. I won’t let you be here alone when Aslaug comes.”
That was when she started to feel the tears pricking at the edge of her eyes. With a shake of her head, she did her best to clear away the building pressure inside. But she felt her nerves fray just a little more. Tension twisted like a thread through her chest, and up into her throat. The worry, and the pain and stress and anger of the last few days stung her with every breath.
There was a risk she was going to dissolve into ugly tears, but holding back, she said, at last, “I can’t do this knowing that I might be about to kill you too.”
“Caewen, hur, I’m simply not abandoning—“
“Really, Dapplegrim? Could you fight a dragon, if it came to that?”
“Of course not, but–“
“No. Enough.” She shut her eyes. “Go away!” she screamed it at him, and her voice was resounding and dark and full of shadows.
He flinched. His eyes widened and his mouth slackened a little in shock. “Caewen–“
“I said, “Go! Do not say another word of argument! Do not joke. Do not make your hums and hurs. Just. Go. Away.” She pointed. “Wait for me at the bottom of the two hills we passed. Come back only when it is safe. Go! Now!”
Dapplegrim hesitated. He seemed to be fighting something inside.
“Now!”
He turned then, though his movements were slow and reluctant. He took two, then three mechanical steps. A trembling overtook him as he took another, then stopped. “Caewen, please do not…”
“I said, go! Now.”
His voice grew strained. He seemed to need to fight to reply. There was a distinct note of pain in his words. “Do not step beyond the stones.”
“What are you–?”
“The stones, Caewen. They are not huge. Just small rocks of black and white granite. Look for them in the grass. They mark the boundary proper of the moot.” He was now forcing himself to speak, and before another second flicked by, the trembling overran his muscles and he stumbled, as if whipped or goaded with a sharp stick. Caewen watched. What had did she just done to him? But there was no time to worry about that. No time for guilt, if indeed there was anything to feel guilty about. She just watched, as he walked away. And soon enough, Dapplegrim was almost lost in darkness. Just before he disappeared into the gloom, he looked back, once, and Caewen couldn’t help but feel that his red, bright eyes held a light of betrayal. Of pain, too. She had just done something awful to him–she was sure of it–and she didn’t even know what she had done.
He shuffled off into the night.
And then she was alone.
All she could do was stand still, silent, waiting.
After a minute, or two or ten–or who knows how long—she heard the noise. It was a rushing of air, like a storm rushing through bending pines. But where a storm is cold, the air above her gave out a sudden sense of spreading warmth. At first gentle, and distant, then stronger and hotter and harder. The heat seemed to drift down upon her in waves. She turned her face to the source of the rushing dry hot air, and that was when she saw the flicker of light. Tongues of flame appeared and disappeared on the rthym of breath: in for darkness, out for fire, in for darkness, out for fire.
Now, she thought. Best put the trinket out for him.
Best not be caught with it on her person.
She had not stashed the little gold plate back in its ivory box. After all, that would have hidden it from the senses of the approaching dragon. All she had to do was reach into her satchel, remove the plate and lay it out on a patch of dirt and sheep-cropped grass. At strange juxtaposition with the moment, she noticed that there were some sheep droppings near the gold plate, and she kicked them aside. Then, she took several steps back.
Still, she could hear the descending dragon, and see the fire of its breath, but nothing more. Scanning the dark landscape, she thought she could make out several low salt-and-pepper coloured stones making a long line in front of her, just as Dapple had said.
Alright, stay this side of the stones then. For what good it will do.
She turned her face up to the sky and felt the heat grow. And yet Aslaug had still not arrived. He remained far up in the sky, and all the while, his awful searing heat was becoming uncomfortable. Were the folks at the moot aware of him now? Could they see him descending? Surely they must be able to.
As she watched, at long last, he swooped downward and stretched his wings out into two vast sail-like masses of green-veined black. When he landed the earth rumbled, just way the earth used to shake when there was a distant landslide or an avalanche, back in her mountain home.