Six years later, outside the village of Trent’s How, in the barony of Holten, outskirts of Juncture twice removed

Chapter One

            “Arven!!”  Mrs. Dale screamed at the top of her lungs as she stood next to Galen in the Dale’s side yard, next to where he’d parked his bike.  Galen winced and turned his head a little so he didn’t catch the full blast of her shrill voice.  “Arven, th’ vet’s here!”  She turned to Galen, smiling.  “Nae then, Doc, you’ll have some tea?”

            Galen smiled back and shook his head.  “I’ll wait for Mr. Dale, ma’am.  I expect he’ll want to head out so we can check his flock.”

            “Ah.  I’ll send some with you, then, hun.  Did ye have any trouble on the ride out?”

            “No ma’am, smooth sailing.”  Last time Galen had come out to the Dales, the bike had sputtered and stopped in midair over the southern part of their property, tossing him in the heath and breaking his arm.  He still hadn’t gotten a replacement for the bike, but they just didn’t make them the way they used to.  The new ones didn’t work as well for carrying all the things he liked to have when he went on calls.  He had fixed his old one the best he could and prayed it worked every time he rode it.  When there were roads, he kept to the roads, but precious few farms in this area could be reached by road. 

            “Last stop for ye today, Doc?”

            Galen nodded.  “Oh, aye.” It had been a long day.  He hoped this visit would go quickly, but Arven Dale was taking his time coming around.

            “Ah, here he comes nae.  I’ll get that tea, then, hun.”  She walked slowly into the house as Galen bent to his bike and opened the carry-alls, ready to take out whatever he might decide he needed once he talked to Arven Dale a bit more. 

            The old farmer walked up, shading his eyes from the lowering sun, trailed by a shaggy grey dog.  “G’day, Doc Munro – make it through all right? That bike behave for ye this time around?”  The dog, Beastus, wagged his butt over to Galen for a good skritching. 

            “Oh aye, Mr. Dale, smooth sailing,” said Galen as he obliged the dog. Galen expected to be asked about his trip out here the next two or three dozen calls he made to this farm.  “You said you had some problems with the creela again?”

            “Aye, I’ve lost two and about three or four others ain’t right.  Thought you’d better take a look at ‘em, Doc.”

            “Ain’t right?”

            “Oh, aye, they’ve got th’ staggers.”

            Galen nodded and bent again to his bike, pulling out the fishing tackle box he used to haul around his medical supplies with.  He tugged it out, forcing it with a pop out of the tiny pocket dimension in the carry-all. 

            “Oh, ye think you’ll need th’ big box t’day, Doc?” 

            Galen nodded.  “It’s got what I probably need, Mr. Dale.”  He carefully closed and locked the carry-all – a couple years ago he had left it open and one of the big snake-crocs that lived in the bog had crawled in, all seven feet of it, and had then slithered out in a rush when Galen had started to unload the bike at home. Scared the hell out of him.  “All right, then – which pasture do you have them in, Mr. Dale?”

            “Oh, they’re all in the west one.”

            “With the sheep?”

            “Aye.” 

            Galen nodded, knowing then what they would find. Twenty minutes later and they were looking at it – Dale’s flock of creela, mixed in with the sheep, and Mr. Dale had pulled the two dead ones off to the gate.  The creela were taller than the sheep, thin bodied, spindly legged, stubby headed, with a fine fluffy water-resistant wool that grew at a ridiculous rate.  Right next to the gate, two of them were leaning against each other like drunken buddies, until one of them shifted and they both stumbled, gracelessly catching their balance before they tumbled over.  Galen counted three more creela with obvious signs of sheep staggers, and after watching the flock silently for several long minutes while Dale watched him, Galen counted six more that were also probably affected.  The rest probably were too, but were in all likelihood still feeling far too frisky to catch and do anything with. 

            “Well, Mr. Dale, looks like sheep staggers again, you know.”

            “Oh, aye.”

            “You still putting your sheep mineral blocks out here?” he asked, already knowing the answer; Galen had spotted one of the blocks in the corner south of the gate. 

Mr. Dale nodded. 

“Your creela aren’t sheep, Mr. Dale.  Those blocks are poison to them, remember what I said about that last time?”

“Oh, aye, but the sheep, they need that block, you know.”

Galen spent another wasted ten minutes trying, once again, to explain to Mr. Dale why he needed to keep his creela and his sheep separate, no matter how much they looked like they could be pastured together.  Mr. Dale nodded and agreed, just like the last three times.  Finally Galen gave up.  “Well let’s make sure that’s what’s going on, then,” he said.  Galen laid out his equipment next to the first dead creela and fired up his laserknife.  Mr. Dale made a tch, a sound of disdain at the show of technology.  Not many people used technology higher than about level 5 around here, except for Galen, and no matter how much he thought he was shunning tech, little things like the laser knife were hard to give up.  With a few quick cuts he opened the abdomen.  “Here you go, Mr. Dale – see here?  Look at those kidneys.  Fried. And there’s the volinus, totally overloaded.  Sheep staggers again, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Dale bent to look and nodded.  “You’ll treat the others then, Doc?”

“Aye, get Beastus to round them up.”  Galen pointed out the ones he wanted to treat, the ones that were worst off. 

Dale whistled at Beastus, who joyfully herded the sheep out and the creela in, guiding them toward the corner.  Two creela couldn’t walk well enough to come, and Galen filled his syringes and took them out to them.  They still stumbled away from him, and he caught them up by their silky wool and held them tight with one arm while he quickly examined them and then treated them.  A quick shot, and then he let them go.  They staggered away a few steps then turned and looked at him, looking a bit put out.  “Stop licking those damned blocks,” he told them quietly, but they’d pay as much attention to that as the sheep would’ve.  A lot of critters didn’t listen to Galen at all, and creela and sheep were some of them. 

He walked back and treated the rest; about forty were affected enough that Beastus could keep them herded.  Mr. Dale wasn’t much help, with his old injuries, but Galen had no trouble grabbing the creela and forcing them into the corner where he could treat them.  One of them he had to heft back to its feet when it toppled over.  

“Just the shot then, Doc?”

“Aye, just the shot,” said Galen.  “Replaces what they’ve lost because of that block and’ll help them rebalance the magnesium and boron, and their brellian, you know – same as before.”

Mr. Dale didn’t say anything, just chewed his cheek and looked out over the few creela they had already released, walking drunkenly away.  Galen waited, but Dale didn’t say anything else, and Galen breathed a silent inner sigh of relief.  Last time this had happened Mr. Dale had pointed out that his cousin knew a vet that could just heal his creela with magic, never lost any, and Galen, his patience already trashed because Dale hadn’t followed his advice, had angrily snapped back that a mage-vet sure as hell wouldn’t be wasting his life in a backwater twice removed from Juncture. 

Treatments done, Galen pointed to the creela, singling out three of them.  “You might lose those, still, Mr. Dale.  Might be too late for them, you know, too much damage done.  The others should do all right, as long as you get rid of the blocks.”  And with that Galen bent and lifted the nearest block and tossed it over the fence, then set off around the rest of the pasture with Dale trailing behind.  They tossed out all five of the blocks and Dale claimed he had no others.  Galen made him promise to check the other flocks as well, and try and separate the sheep out so he didn’t need to worry about this again, and then they headed back to the house. 

“Doc,” said Dale before they reached the yard, “I’ve got this sore on m’hand, was wondering what you thought, a quick peek maybe?”

Galen shook his head tiredly.  “Nae, Mr. Dale, you know I can’t look at major sentient species.”  He smiled.  “You want me to lose my license again?  Who’d look after your beasties then?”

“Ah.  Well, no harm asking, I just thought ye’d maybe be able to take a look, not like I’d tell anyone, Doc.”

Galen nodded, still smiling.  Dale would tell half the town; he couldn’t not tell even the smallest story if he had one.  “Sorry, Mr. Dale.  Ask Doctor Gunson, next time you see him.” 

Mrs. Dale came out to greet them.  “Doc, Dervis Cahl called over, said he needed you to come over to his farm straight away.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Dale, may I use your connect then please?”  She led him into the connect by the back door, one of the Dale’s few nods to technology, and called up farmer Cahl. 

Cahl was a man of few words.  “Sumat’s wrong wi’ m’sheep.”

Galen often wasn’t much more talkative.  “Oh, aye?”

“Aye, come around and take a look. Straight away, Doc.”

“Tonight, Mr. Cahl?  What’s wrong with them, can they wait until tomorrow?”

“I’ve got fifteen dead.  If I wanted ye tomorrow I’d call ye tomorrow,” Cahl said shortly, and disconnected. 

Holy crap.  Fifteen?  Galen settled up with the Dales, stuffed his tackle box back in his bike along with a thermos of tea from Mrs. Dale, and rode off to Cahl’s farm. 

Chapter Two

            Mr. Cahl just nodded when Galen pulled up, then turned and walked around to the back of his property, set back in the foothills southwest of Trent’s How.  Not knowing what to expect, Galen pulled out the big box again and followed him, jogging a bit to catch up. 

            “Have they been sick, Mr. Cahl?  Are the others sick?” asked Galen.  Cahl just turned a bit as he walked and gave him a grim look, didn’t say a word, then shook his head a little. 

            Galen frowned, worried.  If he didn’t know him better, he would’ve sworn that Cahl looked frightened.  Not possible - Cahl was one of the crustiest, most stoic old farts the town had ever produced, as far as Galen could tell. 

            The sun was setting.  They’d better hurry if they wanted to make use of what little sunlight was left.  “How far to your flock, Mr. Cahl? Which pasture are they in?”

            “Up by th’ first rock.” 

            Galen sighed inwardly.  It was still a bit of a hike, and all uphill.  The ‘first rock’ was one of the huge worn stone statues some ancient race had left trailing up the mountain, features so worn they looked like nothing more than rough black pillars.  Smaller, but still damned big rocks dotted the landscape, maybe limbs or projections that had come off of the larger statues ages ago.  Maybe smaller statues, but the smaller ones were all fallen and utterly featureless. 

            By the time they got to the pasture the sun was hidden, but there was still some dim light left.  They walked along a path set in the wooded foothills and came upon the pasture in question suddenly, rounding a turn. 

            Galen stopped.  Dead sheep were scattered everywhere.  There were far more than fifteen dead now, and Cahl cursed.  As Galen stared, trying to take it all in, he noticed Cahl turn away, wiping his eyes.  Galen shook his head – losing this many sheep would be hard on Cahl, and Galen knew he’d already been having a hard time keeping ahead of bills.  Galen had been letting Cahl’s account with him slide for three months now. 

            “What’s happened to them?” Galen asked as he turned back to survey the sheep again.

            Cahl grunted, then said, “That’s why yer here.  You tell me.”

            The pasture was butted up against the mountain, with the first rock marking the south border.  White wooly bodies were scattered everywhere, including past the fencing and dotting up the mountain.  A glance into the surrounding woods and Galen spotted a couple more.  With a surreal bit of shock he noted one was high up in a tree. 

            He walked down into the pasture and started to look a bit more closely at the ones that were down.  After a moment of hesitation, Cahl followed him. 

            Galen stopped at the first ewe.  A pool of blood was around its head, draining from its nostrils.  It was lying funny, all cockeyed, and when Galen bent to roll it over, he felt the disturbing sensation of fractured bones, grinding.  The legs flopped when it rolled over, all broken, shattered.  Galen straightened up and looked around the field at the others. 

            “Get the shirereeve,” he said.  He was so frightened his voice came out as nothing more than a whisper.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Get Stafford.  Get him here now.”

            Cahl nodded and ran back along the trail towards his house.  Galen watched him, wanting to call him back.  He suddenly had no desire to be out here as the sun set on this field of carcasses.  Once Cahl was gone, Galen scanned the pasture once more then reached inside the collar of his shirt and pulled out an amulet he wore on a thick silver chain.  It was a Saint Bened medal, and it glowed a firey orange when demons were near.  He stroked the surface of it, an etching of a bird in flight, reassuringly dark.  He set the amulet on the outside of his shirt and patted it against his chest. 

            Galen examined the ground around the sheep, looking for tracks, and looking for traces of demon spoor.  He found nothing but sheep shit.  He straightened and looked around again, wondering what happened to all the other sheep.  Sure, there were a lot dead, but Cahl had had a lot more than what Galen could count from where he was standing. 

            It was getting dark.  Galen went back to where he had left his box, pulled out a headlamp, and put it on, resigned.  He’d be here all night.  He paused, concentrating, and reset his right eye to see infrared and ultraviolet light, and turned up the light sensitivity, tuned down the color.  Every once in a while his bad eye, the implant, came in handy. 

            He examined a few of the other sheep.  Most were about the same, a ton of fractures, heavy bleeding from the mouth, nose, anus.  Finally he came upon one that had been shredded, and he crouched next to it, examining the wounds closely.  Deep, long lacerations, straight, sharp-edged, sometimes a little tear at the end of the cuts.  He bent and sniffed the wounds, then sat thoughtfully back on his haunches and stared at the carcass.  No sharp, acrid, nauseating smell of demon.  Something else had done this.  He sighed, deeply relieved, then remembered he didn’t really know what that something else was yet, and it still might kill him just as dead as a demon would.  He stood, taking another long look around the pasture.  Nothing moved.  He listened, and heard the usual constant background of comforting country sounds – night birds, insects, toads, and the occasional thin high wailing of pix-bugs.  Nothing weird. 

            He didn’t hear the baa until he walked over to examine the ewe that was up in the tree.  She was just caught up there, hanging upside down from a branch, still and dead, dripping blood from her nose.  He heard it then, a distant bleat.  He looked over to the path Mr. Cahl had run back down.  Still not back.  Galen hefted his tackle box again and set off after the bleat.

            As he neared a couple more chimed in.  He found what was left of Cahl’s flock back in the woods, huddled together in a little hollow, gathered around one of the ancient fallen black stones.  Still not as many as there should be, but at least Cahl had some left.  Several of them were hurt, and Galen did a quick triage.  Two he had to put down right away, one partially gutted and another with a bad open fracture of the right hock.  Then he started to grab the ones that were bleeding and set in on getting them auto-stitched up, holding them jammed up against the fallen stone with his knees as he worked, painting the wounds with tissue-healer before he let them go. 

            He was on the third one by the time he heard Cahl and Stafford shouting for him.  He hollered back until they found him.  Cahl jumped in without missing a beat, helping Galen hold the ewe he was trying to examine.  Stafford, the shirereeve of Trent’s How, set in on Galen right away.  “What did this, Doctor Munro?  Demons, you think?”

            Galen shook his head.  “Nae, it’s not demons.  I thought it might be, but it’s not a demon.”

            “How do you know?  How can you be so sure?  What did all this if not a demon?” demanded Stafford. 

            Galen straightened up and stretched his back, glaring down at Stafford.  Well, if you hadn’t fled Juncture to come here during the last Demon War, you’d know, then, wouldn’t you?  Galen bit back the words.  Stafford looked away.  He knew Galen held him in contempt. 

            “It’s not a demon,” repeated Galen.  “I’m not sure what it is.  Leopard, maybe, or a  shred-tiger.  Not wolves.”

            Stafford scoffed.  “We don’t have shreds here.”

            Galen shook his head and bent back to the ewe.  Her leg was really screwed up, tendons severed, and he was wondering if he’d have to put her down too.  “I don’t know, then.  Kalikane, maybe?”

            “Did you see any tracks?”

            “Nothing.”  Galen was silent then, thinking, and fussing with the ewe’s wound.  Whatever had caused this was big, to make wounds like this.  But how had it done all those fractures, with no external wounds?  It was like the animals had been crushed, or something.  Smashed.  And with no tracks around?  Impossible.  Why, it was almost like…

Almost like they had dropped out of the sky. 

            Galen straightened up again.  That sheep in the tree.  It had been too weird to think of how it had gotten there. 

            He turned and stared at Stafford.  Cahl and Stafford gazed back, waiting. 

            “Dragon.”

Chapter Three

            Stafford and Cahl just stared at him.  Stafford’s mouth even dropped open a little.  Then he recovered and laughed uneasily.  “That’s impossible.  John’s the only dragon around here, and he’s tame.  Tamer than these sheep,” he said, gesturing at the ewes milling around them.  Galen scowled a little.  ‘Tame’ was not the word for what John was, but it was what Stafford and people like him liked to think.   “John would never do something like this,” continued Stafford.  “Hell, he was at the last town meeting, he sat in back and stuck his head through the loading dock doors so he could hear, then he took some of the kids for a ride around the square.”  He shook his head.  “You let out that you think John did this, Doc, and there’ll be hell to pay.”

            Galen shook his head.  “I didn’t say John did this, Stafford.  I said a dragon did this.  There are other dragons out there, you know.”

            Cahl spoke up.  “Nae, not anywhere near here.  John wouldn’t stand for it, likes being alone here, he does.  Even calls this his mountain, and his town.”

            Galen shrugged.  “Well, then, maybe there’s another dragon around that John hasn’t run off yet.  I don’t know.  I’m not saying it’s John doing this though.  But it is a dragon; nothing else makes sense.”  He bent back to the sheep and decided to fix her up and see how she did rather than put her down.  He began to rummage around in his tackle box for the tendon splints. 

            Stafford frowned.  “How about something else, like a griffin?”

            “Griffins can’t lift full-grown sheep.  And they tear, with the beak, they don’t claw.  Whatever did this has claws.  Big fucking sharp ones, too.”

            “Then an Eibron.  They can lift sheep, I’d bet.”

            “Eibrei are a type of dragon, Stafford,” said Galen mildly.  And with that they degenerated instantly into an heated argument over whether Eibrei were classified as dragons or not.  It kept them busy the whole time Galen patched the ewe up. 

            Finally Cahl broke in.  “Look, whatever’s doing it, Stafford, I want it taken care of.  What are ye going to do about it?”

            “I’ll get a posse and we’ll start looking for it in the morning.  Too risky to look now, after dark.”

            “Dammit, I want sumat done nae.  I don’t fancy losin’ the rest o’ me sheep tonight.”

            “Nothing’s happened while we’ve been out here.  They’ll be fine; whatever it was has eaten its fill and won’t be back for days, I imagine.”

            Galen shook his head.  “It’s not eating them, Stafford.  It’s just killing them.” 

            Stafford turned on Galen and drew in a breath to start yelling at him again, and Cahl interrupted him.  “Don’t you start again!  Just tell me what ye plan on doing!”

            “I told you, I’ll get a posse together tomorrow and we’ll figure it out.  We’ll take care of it then.  For now, get your sheep in a barn or something.”

            Cahl gave the shirereeve a black look.  He had no barn nearby; these sheep stayed in this pasture all season.  It took half a day and the borrowing of a neighbor’s dog to get them to a barn.  “I’ve got no barn for ‘em,” he said coldly. 

            Stafford did not notice Cahl’s expression.  “Then stay out here and guard them.  Honestly, Cahl, they’ll be fine.”  With that he turned to go.  “I’ll be back in the morning.  Call around to see if you can to get folks to join up with the posse.  I’d like ten to start with, just to scout around.”  He paused then, as the inevitable thought struck him when he uttered the word ‘scout’.  “Er… I’d appreciate it if you’d be able to make it, Doctor Munro,” he mumbled.

            “Oh, aye.”

            Stafford turned again to go.  “I’ll talk to the mayor; he’ll want to know about this.  And I’ll send around a warning for the other farmers around here.”

            Galen stood, wiping his hands on a towel.  “You’ll talk to John, then too?”

            “Dammit, it’s not John, Doc.”

            Galen shrugged.  “Of course not.  But if there’s another dragon about – well, John might take care of the whole thing himself, you know.  We wouldn’t even have to worry about it then.”

            “Right.”  Stafford paused, thinking.  Galen watched him, knowing he was thinking about making that long hike up the mountain to see John, and that he was beginning to wonder, what if it was John, after all?  Galen smirked to himself when Stafford finally said, reluctantly, “Yeah, we’ll take the posse up and talk to John.  We’ll all go up.” 

            “Aye,” nodded Galen.  “We’ll be seeing you tomorrow, then, Stafford.”

            “Get here by nine, we’ll start early.”

            Galen nearly snorted.  Nine was pretty late in the morning for both him and Cahl. 

            Cahl muttered some kind of distracted farewell then turned back to survey his sheep as Stafford walked off in the darkness, turning on a torch as he left.  “Did you get them all, Doc?” Cahl asked tiredly. 

            “I got them all.  I’ll take another look at them tomorrow, make sure they all start healing all right, and make sure we found them all.”  He grinned.  “I’ll come out extra early, before we get the posse started.”

            “Oh, aye.  Early.”  Cahl sharply exhaled through his nose, about as close as he ever came to a laugh.  He shook his head.  “Early,” he repeated, under his breath.

            Galen packed up his kit and lifted it.  “Coming, Mr. Cahl?”

            Cahl shook his head.  “I’ll stay here and guard them, then, tonight.  I’ve got no barn to put them in.”  He sat on the edge of the fallen stone. 

            “Really, Mr. Cahl, Stafford didn’t mean that.  It’s too dangerous out here.  What if it comes back?”

            “Then I’ll try and keep it from killin’ m’ sheep, Doc,” Cahl said, shrugging.  “I can’t lose any more.  It’d ruin me.”

            Galen frowned, frustrated.  “What could you do, really, Mr. Cahl, if it is a dragon, and it comes back?  You’d get killed.  Come on back to your house and get some sleep.  I’ll be back out first thing and we’ll come back then.”

            “I’ll stay here.  You go on home, Doc, and I thank ye.”

            “Come with me back to the house at least long enough to get a weapon or something.  You don’t even have anything you could use to try and scare anything off with.”

            Mr. Cahl gazed at Galen, silent, until Galen became uncomfortable.  “All right then,” he finally said, and walked with Galen back to the house. 

            Before Galen left Cahl’s house he checked what Cahl was planning on taking back out as his weapon.  He raised an eyebrow at the long wooden staff.  He shifted his vision, but still didn’t see any sort of magic or power about it.  It was just a big old stick.  “What kind of weapon is that, Mr. Cahl?” he said, trying to sounds politely inquisitive.

            “Rock Staff of Kynwas.  Been in my family for four generations; my old man said his granddad used it in his Demon War.”  Cahl sounded a bit proud. 

            Galen doubted Cahl would be standing before him if his ancestors had really used this thing to fight demons.  He nodded pleasantly though.  “Not bad.  Let me see if I have anything else you might be able to use.”  Galen rummaged around in his bike’s carry-all until he found it; a sleek little laser-blast weapon, longer than your usual handgun but smaller than a rifle.  “Here you go, Mr. Cahl, hang onto this tonight; it’s a threedee gun.  Very useful.”

            “Threedee?” asked Mr. Cahl, eyeing it dubiously.  Like most folks in Holten, he distrusted any sort of technology. 

            “Threedee.”  He held it out in front of Cahl to show him the controls.  “See?  I’ll switch it over from ‘Die Demon Die’ to ‘Die Dragon Die’”.  Cahl nodded sagely, not understanding that Galen was joking with him a little. He watched carefully and seriously as Galen taught him how to use it.  “Honestly, Mr. Cahl, these things are so powerful, a dragon will be scared off after the first shot; you won’t even have to hit anything.”   Galen had no idea if that was true or not, but it sounded good.  He handed the weapon over to Mr. Cahl, who took it after hesitating only briefly. 

            Galen headed back over to his bike, shoved his box back in the carry-all, and turned back to Mr. Cahl.  “You be careful out there Mr. Cahl.  Or better yet, head inside and stay there.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

            Mr. Cahl shook his head.  “I’ll be heading back out there, Doc.  Come on out when ye get here t’morrow.”  He paused, obviously having something else to say.  Galen waited.  “And thanks, Doc.”  He lifted the gun a bit.  “I appreciate it.  G’night then.”

            Galen nodded at him again and bent to fire up his bike.  It popped and sputtered before it roared awake.  Galen offered up his usual little prayer to the god of making stupid bikes fly all the way home so Galen can get a bath and some sleep, and watched Mr. Cahl walk off back down toward his sheep, toting the gun in one hand and the staff in another. 

Chapter Four

            Galen saw the gun andstaff again early the next morning, but never saw Mr. Cahl, whole, again.  Galen found himself standing over his gun, laying on the ground in the middle of Mr. Cahl’s south pasture.  He stared at it grimly.  The staff lay fifteen feet away, cracked halfway through and bent at an angle.  He looked at the ground surrounding the weapons.  Tracks, a mess of them, but as far as he could tell they were all Cahl’s.  No blood, which was comforting.  But not very. 

            He surveyed the fields again.  Sheep everywhere, pretty much like he remembered them, maybe a bit messier thanks to the work of scavengers.  They were starting to stink.  Sheep seemed to take great pleasure in rotting quickly. 

            He went back into the woods where they had found the sheep before, back in the hollow with the fallen stone.  None were there.  He listened for several long minutes and heard nothing, no distant bleat.  Galen wandered back out to the open field, wondering what he should do now.  He tried to remember if Mr. Cahl had any kin nearby that should be notified, and anyone that would be able to care for his farm.  He couldn’t think of anyone. 

            He glanced at his watch.  It would be another hour or so before the rest of the posse arrived.  Something had to be done about the sheep.  So Galen started dragging the carcasses, shooing away ravens and a gang of buzzards and dumping them in a heap next to the first rock, thinking maybe he could burn them later.  He had dragged twenty three of them and was standing under the one in the tree, trying to figure out how to get her down, by the time the first of the posse arrived.  He heard a halloo and turned to see his friend Geraint striding up the path and across the field.  Galen waited for him, dripping with sweat and a little breathless. 

            “Mornin’, Galen,” said Geraint.  They had gone to school together, when they were much younger, and still met at the pub for a drink now and then.  Geraint now worked as a miller with his father-in-law, and their family had Galen over for dinner every couple of months or so.  “Where’s Cahl?”

            Galen shrugged.  “Gone.”  He shook his head.  “He stayed out here last night, to guard the sheep.  I think he was taken; I found his weapons on the ground over there when I came out.  All his sheep are gone; I couldn’t find any this morning.”

Geraint looked where Galen pointed, with a bit of a shocked look on his face.  “Holy shit.  You think he’s dead?”

“Yes,” said Galen shortly. 

None of the posse were all that pleased to hear that Cahl had disappeared, Stafford least of all.  Eight other people showed up, including Nwyvre and Moern, two of the ladies from the bakery, and Ederyn, one of the friendlier half-bloods from the elven settlement.  Most of them had some kind of weapon, swords, axes, bows and arrows, and most far better than the stick Cahl had been hauling around the night before.  Nothing as good as Galen’s gun, though, but he didn’t expect any of them would be much interested in a gun. Galen explained to them what had happened last night and what he thought had happened to Cahl.  The entire posse agreed that it couldn’t have possibly been John that did this. 

“John’s been my friend for years.  He’d never do something like this,” said Ederyn. 

“John’s the sweetest person around here, dragon or nae” said Moern.  “You know how he’s always helping people with heavy things, building their houses and whatnot.  And he’s so good with the kids.”  They all agreed, and a couple of them pointed out that John had indeed been at the last town meeting and had given kids rides afterwards, and had been as friendly as ever. 

“No one in Trent’s How has ever had a problem with John, and he’s been here, oh, lord, I don’t know, sixty years or more,” said Varyf, a weaver. 

“Longer than that,” said Ederyn. 

“Well, we’d still better go talk to him, see if he knows what’s going on,” said Galen.  They reluctantly agreed, more for the long hike up to John’s dwelling than all that much fear that John might somehow be involved in this horror.  It was easy to believe, in the light of day, that their old neighbor had nothing to do with it. 

Stafford insisted they scout around a bit first, just to make sure the culprit was not hiding out nearby.  Galen thought this was a damn fool thing to do and quietly declined to lead the scouting party, saying he was going to finish up with the sheep instead.  Ederyn and Geraint joined him, and Ederyn agily climbed up the one tree and hoisted the sheep off of her branch, letting her thump to the ground below for Galen to drag over to the others. 

“Why is Stafford looking around here?” asked Ederyn quietly when he had climbed and jumped back down.  “It’s not here, that’s obvious, whatever did this.  If it’s flying, he’s not going to find it sitting around out there in the forest.” 

Galen shrugged and said nothing.  He thought Stafford was just wasting time, maybe afraid to lead the group up the mountain. 

“He’s probably waiting to see if anyone shows up.  He thought a lot more people would come,” said Geraint. 

“Has anyone else been losing sheep or creela?  Or cattle? Have you heard of anyone seeing anything?” asked Galen.

Ederyn and Geraint shook their heads.  “Nae,” said Ederyn.  “Hessa said blood was coming though, blood and great changes.”  Hessa was a supposed oracle over with the Daere, the elves that lived in a little nameless settlement east of Trent’s How.  He shrugged and grinned.  “But she says that every week or so.”

“Aye, one of these times she’s bound to be right,” said Geraint, smiling. 

She just might be very right this time around, thought Galen. 

            Stafford and the rest eventually came back, having seen nothing but six more sheep scattered through the surrounding woods.  ‘No tracks, nothing,” said Hueil, the smith.  “One broken tree top, like it had crashed though it, but I can’t tell anything from that.  You should take a look, Doc.” 

            Galen shook his head.  “Why didn’t Erim come out?  He could tell more than I, you know.”  Erim was a hunter and trapper; he spent most of his time  in the summer picking off antelope for meat, and in the winter went after leopards and shreds for the pelts.  He was always out in the woods, and he was a far better tracker than Galen. 

            Stafford hesitated.  “I couldn’t find him.”

            Galen blinked.  “He carries a connect.  Just ping him.”

            “I did,” Stafford snapped.  He paused, looking worried.  “He hasn’t answered.  No one’s seen him since the town meeting.”

            They were all silent for a second.  Then Galen said, “I’m sure he’s just busy,” but his voice had no conviction behind it.

            The posse headed out then, going back down the trail towards Cahl’s house then doubling back up a different trail that would lead them the winding way up towards John’s place.  When the path flattened out a bit across a small meadow, Nwyvre hiked up next to Galen, who had somehow ended up in front, and smiled at him, pointing at the Threedee gun he had tucked into his belt.  He had left Cahl’s staff behind.  “So, Galen, is that a Threedee in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” She was a little out of breath from the climb. 

            Galen grinned, glancing back over his shoulder.  None of the others were really close enough to hear them.  “Always glad to see you, Nwyvre, you know that.  Very glad to see you come out to help.”    

            “Ah, I couldn’t pass up a chance to get outside today,” she said lightly.  “A nice day for a stroll, with the friendly neighborhood posse,” she said, eyes twinkling.  “You know, Galen, the St. Mercy day wife-toting race is coming up next month.”

            He gave her a sideways glance.  “Oh, aye, that is is.”

            “And have ye gotten any fool woman yet to tote this year?”

            He grinned back at her, “Still not married, Nwyvre, fresh out of wives, you know.”

            “Ah, that’s a shame, you know, Galen,” she shook her head.  “You nearly won last year, with that beautiful substitute wife they graciously allowed you to tote.”

            Galen snorted laughter and then looked back to see if anyone was watching.  They were all intent on the trail.  “Nearly won?!  You fell off me halfway through because you were laughing your silly head off.  I had to run back and grab you, hoist you up on a shoulder because you couldn’t hang on anymore.  Nearly won!” 

            “Aye, we would’ve won, too, if you’d kept your mouth shut like a good husband should, and not made me laugh in the first place.”  She nodded wisely, trying to look serious. 

            Galen made an outraged sound and glanced back again.  Geraint was watching now, smiling, and raised an eyebrow when Galen met his eye.  “Aye, and the only reason we did get the prize for style was because I hauled your fool behind down that field – like a good husband should.”  She tried to look indignant but just ended up laughing.    

            “I suppose I could let you haul my fool behind again, Galen, if you’re still sadly short on the whole wife thing.”

            He looked over at her, glad.  “Oh, aye.  I’d like that.”  He nodded.  “I’d like that very much, Nwyvre.”

            “Heh – we’ll see how much you like it when I pull out the spurs this year.”

            “Oh, for –“  Galen looked back over his shoulder to see half the posse watching them, now.  Still probably too far back to hear, but still.  “Well, before we get too much of an audience…” he tipped his head behind them, and Nwyvre nodded, smiling.  Then she pointed at the gun in his belt again. 

            “You never did really answer, Galen.  Is that really a Threedee gun you have there?”

            He raised an eyebrow, nodded.  “Oh, aye.  I lent it to Cahl last night.  I guess it didn’t do him any good though.”

            “Where did you get it?”

            “Oh, I’ve had it for ages.  Got it in Juncture, you know, when I used to live there, for school.”  He looked down at it and shrugged.  “Guess I’ve just always had a gun or two around, since the war.”  He felt his heart give that same familiar, little clench that happened whenever he mentioned the war.  How many years before he could say those words and not be a little afraid, a little angry?  He felt himself tighten up, scowl a bit, and forced himself to relax again and let it go, like the therapists had taught him. 

            “Oh,” said Nwyvre, softly.  “Yeah.  I guess you’d like to have one around, after that.”

            That pretty much killed the conversation.  Galen cursed at himself silently, trying to figure some way to salvage it, but then Stafford yelled up at him.  “Doc!  You sure this is the right way?”

            The trail had split in three and Galen, not hesitating, had taken the small path that headed back down the mountain a little.  Galen stopped and waited for Stafford and the others to reach him and Nwyvre.  “It’s this way,” Galen said when they got in talking distance. 

            Stafford pointed up the mountain.  “His place is up there, hell I can see one of his flags from here.  You sure, Doc?”

            Galen nodded.  “I’ve been up here enough, Stafford.  I was up here not three months ago.  I know the way.  The trail goes down a bit then wraps around up to his place.”

            Stafford looked at Galen suspiciously.  “What brings you up here so much?”

            Galen stared at Stafford in disbelief.  How this idiot ever got his position as shirereeve was sometimes beyond Galen’s understanding.  “I’m his doctor, Stafford.  And this is the easier trail.”  It’d be a little longer, but they’d still make the same time, and not be quite so worn out when they got there.

            Stafford turned a little red, but didn’t say anything.  He had quite simply forgotten that Galen would be John’s doctor, or that John would ever even have need of one.  There were two doctors in town, Doctor Gunson, who treated the humans, and Galen, who treated everyone and everything else, from the Daere elves to snotty nosed kittens – to dragons.  Galen turned, not without giving Stafford a slight glare, and continued on the trail. 

            So Galen was out in front when they topped the trail and came to John’s place.  He stopped them well before they got there, and everyone got their weapons ready, by now very nervous.  Galen looked them over again before they moved on.  Stafford was not willing to lead them in, and asked Galen to scout ahead.  Scowling, Galen surveyed the others before he moved forward.  He shifted his sight to get a good look at the weapons they had and the magic they carried.  Stafford had a long wand and a long thin knife, Nwyvre had, to his surprise, a wicked-looking axe, Geraint had a compound bow and seemed to be a bit embarrassed about the tech level, but it shone with a comforting degree of magic, and the others had weapons of varying degrees of potency.  Ederyn had by far the best weapon, a longsword that looked dull and battered with normal sight but was sharp and shiney, and covered in rivulets of tiny silver flames when viewed with hidden sight.  Galen shifted his sight back and readied his gun.  “Everyone stay here, and be quiet.  No talking, none at all.  Wait until I yell for you or come back for you.”  They nodded soberly. 

            He took a deep breath and with little effort, slipped back into scout mode, moving silently and slowly up the remainder of the trail.  He was a little amazed at how easy it was, after all the years, to slip back into doing recon, being a scout.  He was a little worried about how good it felt. 

            John’s place was called ‘John’s place’ because no one had a good name for it, kind of like John was called John because no one could pronounce his real name.  John lived in a huge cavern in the side of the mountain, that had been carved and modified until it suited him.  It looked a bit like a gigantic palace, a bit like a house, and a bit like a cave, because of the gaping front door, but really was none of these.  Colorful flags flew from a few of the outcroppings, pennants from the windows and above the door, and John had used white and cobalt blue tiles for decorative mosaics all around the outer walls, accented with golden lines in wide graceful curves.  It really was normally a lovely place, John’s. 

            Galen stopped, though, when he peeked around the edge to the broad courtyard that fronted John’s door.  He caught his breath, froze, and felt fear begin to crawl through his gut. 

            John’s courtyard, a broad front yard of set stone, normally dotted with meticulously tended trees, had been turned into an abattoir.  Sheep, creela, shredded and scattered.  Blood everywhere, darkening the stone.  The trees had been flattened, tossed around, splintered.  The fear raced up his spine when he spotted the man’s body, sprawled out, lying still on the ground amongst the sheep.  It was a bit far to see for sure, but Galen thought the man’s body looked like it was maybe missing a leg.  It didn’t look like Cahl, either; the clothes were different. 

            Everything was deadly quiet.  Galen could hear the flags, snapping in the breeze, and nothing else.  Was John in there?   He saw no sign of him. 

            For the first time in six years, Galen found himself wishing the meese were still with him.  He could send them in to see if John was inside, waiting.  But he had burned those bridges a long time ago – big, roaring flames. 

            Once he could force his legs to work again, he made his way back to the others and told them what he had seen. 

            Stafford was clearly at a loss what to do.  Ederyn flatly stated that they had to retrieve the body of the dead man. 

            “What if John’s in there?  We can’t risk it,” said Varyf. 

            “Wait a second,” said Galen.  “We still don’t know that John did this.  What if it’s another dragon; what if it’s run off John, or maybe killed him?  We’ve all heard the stories about dragons; they’ll take a home from another sometimes, even kill them.”

            They all looked dubious.  “Maybe, Doc, but from here it looks more like it just might be John,” said Hueil.  ‘Don’t matter, though, I don’t care who it is if they’re still inside; I don’t fancy going out there at all.” 

            “We have to get that body.  We can’t leave him here,” said Ederyn again, firmly. 

            “You go get him,” muttered Ithid. 

            “You couldn’t tell if anything was inside, Doc?” asked Stafford again.

            “I told you, no.  I didn’t get anywhere near the door; I stopped at the edge of his yard.”

            They argued about it for another twenty minutes until Ederyn got disgusted and walked up onto John’s yard, muttering in Daere.  After hesitating, Galen followed and caught up to him before he got too far.  “Ed, stop,” he hissed.  “Let me see if anything is inside before you go running around up here.”

            “I’m fetching the body; you do what you like,” Ederyn said shortly.  Galen watched him stride across the courtyard, skirting the carcasses and bits thereof.  Galen kept a close watch on the door, too, and kept his gun ready, but nothing happened.  As Ederyn bent and began dragging the man’s body back, Galen edged over to John’s door and looked inside. 

            He had to use his bad eye to get a good look; it was dark deep inside.  John usually kept the place brightly lit with wizard lights, and the place looked oddly sinister without them.  The carcasses of sheep and the nauseating smell of blood and death didn’t help, of course.  But – no John, and no other dragon either. 

            Galen turned and scanned the sky nervously.  If he wasn’t here, then where was he?  What was he doing now? And when would he be back?

            He hustled back over to Ederyn.  Geraint had come up to help him and they each had hands under the man’s arms, dragging him across the stone.  Big guy, and Galen got a look at his face.  Erim. 

            They dropped Erim’s corpse to the ground in front of the others and Ederyn stepped back towards the yard.  “Whoa,” said Galen, trying to grab his arm as he passed by, “Let’s get out of here, Ederyn.”

            “I saw someone else up there, too.” 

A couple of the men in back groaned, saying, come on, let’s leave.  But Ederyn was adamant, and he and Geraint and Galen went back out, walking hurriedly across the courtyard to where Ederyn had seen it.  Meanwhile a couple of the others began to take Erim down.  Everyone was thinking the same thing Galen had thought – if John isn’t here now, when is he coming back?

Ederyn had spotted Cahl’s body, even less intact then Erim.  Galen grimly directed them how to carry Mr. Cahl’s remains.  Geraint looked pretty pale but was able to help them out. 

“Doc, could you check the lair again for bodies?” asked Ederyn when they had returned.  Galen stared at Ederyn, who returned his gaze steadily.  Galen finally nodded slowly, knowing that if he refused Ederyn would turn and walk in there himself.  Damned Daere and their religion. 

So Galen found himself right back inside.  On his long careful way over, he thought grimly about how quickly ‘John’s place’ had become ‘the lair.’  Sure enough, he found a body, tossed against a wall, partially covered by a creela.  He didn’t recognize him, but he had been there a bit longer than the other two.  He steeled himself, heaved the creela off to the side, and dragged the man out. 

During it all there was no sound but the flutter of flags in the wind.  Clouds chased spots of sunlight across the yard, and with every shadow Galen glanced up at the sky, certain his luck had run out, and that he would see the shining red and golden scales of John as he wheeled in on his enormous wings, fangs and claws and death rushing at him.  But there was no sign of the dragon, and they were able to take the bodies back down the mountain with no incident.  They took Cahl to his house where Galen said he’d contact Doctor Gunson and the undertaker.  The others left him then to take the others to town. 

“We’ll have a town meeting tonight, I expect, Doctor Munro,” said Stafford before he left.  “You’ll make it?”

Galen nodded.  “And you’ll be letting the town know to stay inside?”

“Of course,” said Stafford stiffly. 

Chapter Five

            The first thing Galen did after talking to Dr. Gunson and then getting home was take a bath.  That last corpse had been nasty.  He sat in the tub a long time, just thinking and nursing a beer.  Thinking about John, and the last time he’d seen him.  Thinking about the rush he’d felt when he’d slipped back into scout mode, and how ashamed he was that he felt it.  Thinking about Nwyvre, a little, wondering why she’d kept herself so scarce from him these last few months, and was now talking to him today like old times.  He shook his head.  He’d never figure her out.  At least it looked like she might give him another chance to try. 

Mostly, though, he wondered what the hell was going on with John.  He seemed to have gone insane.  Galen had never heard of such a thing happening in a dragon.  And despite his protests up at John’s place, he too felt it very unlikely some other dragon had come in and was doing this.  He sat there, puzzling it over until his beer was long gone and the water cold, and the dogs were all sound asleep around the tub, snoring. 

            Well.  All that thinking and still no more wisdom than when he started.  He got out, dried off, and decided to call his old boss before he checked to see how many cases he had waiting for him today.  He imagined maybe some people might be missing creela or sheep or had some injured ones, but he wanted to try and figure out what was going on with John, first.  He glanced over at the incoming messages on his connect and saw none in ‘urgent’ mode. 

            He dressed, fed the dogs, and then got on the connect, contacting Issa.  She was in Juncture, so it took a while for the feed to come through, and there was a slight delay in transmission.  It took a few neat tricks to get the signal through the intervening planar zone, and Galen was glad as ever he’d bothered to have the thing installed. 

            Issa answered.  “Well, well, look who’s coming around to call again.  What kind of a case do you have this time, Galen dear?”  She sat and arranged her robes around herself, settling in front of the transmit.  She was Aerlown, one of the races lumped in as ‘elves’, for no reason other than they had pointed ears.  They were far more unlike the Daere than the humans were, though, and could not have children with either race, naturally at least.  Tall, thin, and graceful, all Aerlown had deep indigo skin that they liked to decorate with tattoos, delicate scars in elaborate designs, and little arabesques of tiny inlaid jewelry.  Galen was glad to see her.  Since she had retired to Juncture he had sorely missed her advice, and her patience. 

            “Now, Issa, maybe I’m just calling because I like seeing your pretty face.”

            “And I’m the new Queen of Juncture.  Oh happy day!”

            Galen smirked.  “Ok, you got me.  I have a bad case, Issa.  I need to run it by you, see what you think.”

            “A bad case?”  She shifted around again, trying to get comfortable.  “All right, let’s hear it.”

            “It’s John, Issa.”

            “John?  Oh dear.” 

            Galen told her what had happened, and she listened, focused on him.  “And so they’re having a town meeting tonight.  I’m worried about what they might decide to do.  I was hoping you might know what’s going on, or maybe you’ve heard of this happening before?  Do you think it’s John, or do you think there might be some other dragon running around out here?”

            Issa sat thoughtfully for a while.  Like all Aerlown she held his gaze as she thought, something Galen had never gotten comfortable with.  Finally she spoke.  “I don’t know, Galen.  I wouldn’t expect John to do this; he’s always gotten along very well with the people of Holten.  And John is a very old, very powerful dragon; he has been in Trent’s How for a long time.  He was there when I arrived in Trent’s How.”  Which was long ago, indeed.  Galen suspected he could practice in Trent’s How for the next sixty years and still be known as ‘th’ new vet’.  “John would not tolerate a new dragon in the area,” Issa continued.  “Not at all.  And unless it was a very exceptional dragon that came around, it would not be able to kill John and do this horrible thing.”  Galen nodded.

            “Many years ago,” she said, “a dragon did come flying around Trent’s How.  It was young, and stupid, and did not know of John.  John ran him off within a day.  I saw part of it; it was glorious.  The young dragon did not have a chance.  And this was many years ago.  Before I came, I heard that John had killed two or three dragons in the years after he first arrived.  I seriously doubt any dragon would be able to quietly come in and take him out, Galen.  If a dragon more powerful than John came – there would be a battle, undoubtedly, and you and all of Holten would know about it.”

            Galen nodded soberly.  That was as much as he had suspected.  “Then what has happened to John, if we assume it’s him doing this?”

            “I don’t know, Galen.  When did you last see him?  How has his health been?”

            “I saw him about three months ago.  He was doing fine.  He’d gathered some of those mites, again, and I had to help him out with the ones he couldn’t reach.” 

            “Any problems?”

            Galen shrugged.  “I got bit, by one.  It healed up ok.”  The damned thing had taken a neat thumb-sized chunk out of his shoulder.  Dragons had few parasites, but the ones they did have were hell to deal with.  John had been effusively sorry. 

            “Did he seem unusual, anything wrong with him?”

            Galen shook his head.  “No, not really.  He was complaining about some people that had been up on the mountain, but he does that.  People are always up there, he always has something to complain about.  Gives him something to do.”

            Issa looked at Galen sharply.  “Are you sure there was nothing unusual about that?  Do you know who it was?”

            “Nope.  And nothing unusual about that at all.”  Galen had thought about it, earlier, wondering if whoever had been up there had set off John somehow.  But there were always hikers, hunters besides Erim, usually folks from the other surrounding towns and villages.

            “Has he been to town lately, do you know?”

            “Aye, he was at the last town meeting, I heard.”

            “Really?  Isn’t that a bit strange?  I don’t remember him coming down for too many of those.” 

            Galen shrugged.  “Not too strange.  He’s come down for those a few times before.”  He smiled.  “More lately, it seems, to goof off with the kids than anything else.”

            “He didn’t have any issues at the meeting?”

            “Not that I heard.  I didn’t go; I was sick.”

            “You?” 

            “It happens.”

            “Not too often, goodness, Galen.  What was wrong?”

             “A cold.  And I’m just sick of those meetings anyway; you know how much I like going to those.”

            “Ah.  You’ll go to tonight’s, though?”

            “Of course.”  He sighed.  “Someone will have to speak for John.”

            Issa gave him another one of those piercing, long looks as she thought.  “I can’t immagine what is wrong with him.  I have heard of a slow decline of dragons, over time, but never anything this sudden.  Perhaps he is sick.”  She paused.  “Perhaps he is cursed.  Or possessed.  Or perhaps he is under someone’s mental control; do you have any psi in the town now?”

            “No.”  Galen paused to think.  “Well, one of the Daere.  But not strong.”    

            “Oh?  Who in the Daere?”

            “Eus.  Leire’s son.  He gained his ability after you left.” 

            “Ah.  I’m not surprised.  It’s something to consider.”

            Galen shook his head again.  “No.  Eus is a good man, and only psi four or so.  He relies almost entirely on touch to be effective.  He could not maintain control without maintaining contact.  He could not control someone.”  Galen shook his head again, certain, and added firmly, “He would not.”

            “Then perhaps someone you are not aware of.”

            He shrugged.  “I suppose.”

            “Then watch yourself at the meeting, Galen, if you choose to speak for John.”

            He nodded soberly.  He paused, then said, “I can’t imagine anyone I know here in town doing such a thing.”

            “Ah.” She smiled.  “You were always too naïve, Galen.  I can certainly imagine it.  So be careful.”

            “Aye, Issa.  Thank you.  I’ll keep you updated, but I had better go see how many cases I have waiting.”

            “You take care of yourself, Galen.”

            He ended the transmit and checked his messages.  Still nothing marked urgent – but 8 other messages.  He waded through them, cursed merrily, grabbed his gear and headed out.  He had forgotten how much the folks in Trent’s How hated to declare anything ‘urgent’. 

Chapter Six     

            Most of the calls were from folks that had lost sheep, creela, or other animals, and Galen winnowed the calls down to farmers that had injured livestock that needed attention.  It kept him busy all day, and with each visit he got more and more worried about just how bad the situation was.  So far no one else had turned up missing, but he knew now it was just a matter of time.  He had no time to change or bathe before the town meeting and even so was going to be late.  He raced his bike to the town square, landed and stopped the engine at the edge, not wanting to make too much noise near the meeting hall. 

            Of course, that meant he had to roll his bike across the town square, and right by the statue of Boot.  He paused at the foot of it after glancing around and noting the square was deserted.  As far as Galen was concerned it was a monstrosity.  Boot would’ve hated it, he was sure.  Eleven feet tall, bronze, it had Boot gazing heroically off into space.  Saint Ksantae Oram, the plaque at the bottom declared, giving the span of his twenty years, and then a short paragraph about the heroism of Trent’s How’s only saint.  The way the statue looked always disturbed the shit out of Galen.  They had a good likeness of Boot, and had done a fairly good job on approximating the gear they hauled around during the last days of the war, but Galen had been with him that very last day and knew he looked nothing like this.  The statue was clean-shaven, the hair was neat and short, and his face had that glazy, staring off into space look that was supposed to be holy, or heroic, or whatever.  Nothing like the unsettling combination of anger, fear, hopelessness and depression that Galen remembered from their last days together.  Even that crazy grin he’d had when he was trying to act normal would’ve been more true than this thing. 

            “Boot, you fucker,” Galen whispered.  Galen always found himself stopping here, when he was in the town square, stopping to say a word to his old friend.  People thought it was touching, that poor Galen was stopping for a quick prayer to the saint that went before him, and that sacrificed his life to save him.  Actually, Galen usually stopped to give Boot a quick and silent cussing out. 

            Six years and Galen was still angry as all hell at Boot. 

            It was an unreasonable anger, Galen knew, but there it was.  He was still pissed at him, angry that Boot had given him the light-bead and his salvation without keeping one for himself.  Galen felt guilty that it had been his idea to leave Trent’s How and head to Juncture, his idea to join the militia to get by and get money to go to Juncture’s university, and then Boot, following his friend the whole way, had been the one to die for it all.  He felt guilty that Boot had died and he hadn’t, and angry that he was saddled with that awful guilt. 

            Mostly Galen missed Boot terribly, and was angy that he had gone and gotten himself killed, and so wasn’t here with him now. 

            Galen sighed, drawing a deep breath and letting it go.  “Goddammit,” he breathed, frustrated that he still felt this way.  Six fucking years.  When would this change? 

One of the counselors that had talked to him, in those hazy days after Boot died and he was waiting for his eye to heal enough to get the implant, had tried to comfort him by telling him about a friend he had lost to suicide years ago.  “Twenty-five years, and I still miss him.  But the pain dims with that time, Munro, you’ll be able to bear it soon enough.”  Galen had not found that at all comforting then and still didn’t. 

Six years down.  Galen sighed again and headed in to the town hall.

It was crowded, standing room only.  At least that’s what it looked like at first when he came in, but then Galen saw, over the heads of his neighbors, that most of the front row was empty.  Galen was tired, cross, and his back and legs ached from bending over wounded sheep all day.  He pushed through the people crowded at the back and walked up the center row to take one of the front seats. 

Mayor Morvran Tegidsown looked up from the paper he had been reading aloud to the crowd, giving Galen a grim look as he came up the aisle.  He paused while Galen took his seat.  Everyone got a good look at him as he came in, bloody and covered in shit and mud from a long day’s work patching up dragon-worried sheep and creela.  He had managed to wash up his hands and arms up to his elbows but was otherwise a mess; he wasn’t aware he had a wide streak of dried blood on his forehead over his right eye.  Eyes turned in the mayor’s silence, whispered comments raced around the room, but Galen didn’t care; he was glad to get off his feet and sit down.  

Galen detested the town meetings - mostly because he ended up talking at every single one he attended and always ended up getting mad about something or other. 

He was ready for it today.  He was already in a fine mood, from the steady stream of bawling sheep he’d seen all day, to the last little stoking of his anger in front of Boot’s statue.  He was ready, and he settled in his seat and gave the mayor an expectant and totally unapologetic look. 

“As I was saying,” the mayor continued, “I’ll go over the list of farmers that have already reported sheep missing or dead, and the ones that Stafford reported, and we’ll not have any more of the hollering.  You’ll get your turn to speak.”  He gave Galen a glare.  “And, now that th’ vet’s here, he can let us know about the farms that he’s been seeing today, seeing’s as how a lot of those folks weren’t able to make it tonight.”  Galen nodded.  The mayor continued.  “Now, if I say the wrong numbers for your flock, speak up.  Otherwise, keep your mouth shut, otherwise we’ll be here all damned night.”  The mayor began to call out names and a list of how many sheep or creela were missing, found dead, or injured.  Once in a while a farmer would correct him.  For a short time a couple neighbors got into a brief argument about just whose sheep had been found injured, but the mayor shut them down quick; he wasn’t standing for any of the usual chaos that the town meetings usually turned into.  Galen guessed they had led off the meeting by going over the people that were missing.  Finally they were done withh the list that the mayor had, and Tegidsown turned toward Galen and nodded.  “Doc, if you will,” he said. 

Galen stood up and turned toward the hall.  “I’ve been to ten farms today.  I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to everyone that called me.”  He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper he had been keeping track of his calls on, and started detailing them, listing the farmer and the state of their animals, like the mayor had done.  He quickly added everything up in his head.  “So, from the farms I went to today, for sheep, we’ve got fifty six dead, eighty seven missing, and seventy to maybe a hundred injured.  All together I guess it’s about one hundred and forty eight dead, maybe a couple hundred missing, and about 250 injured or so.  Give or take.  Creela weren’t hit quite as bad, about half as many for all the numbers.  And a few goats, a couple cattle, and the Irmens lost their dun gelding.”  He paused, trying to remember if he’d gotten then all, nodded, and sat down. 

“Thanks, Doctor Munro,” said the mayor.  “Stafford, if you’d give your report then?”

Stafford stood, looking nervous, but he soon warmed up to his tale.  He told them about their trip up to see John that morning.  Galen scowled and gave him a sharp look that Stafford missed, when Stafford told the crowd that “we looked in John’s place…” and “we dragged the bodies out and down the mountain…”  Stafford hadn’t done a damned thing, hadn’t even stepped out onto John’s yard, and certainly hadn’t gone inside and dragged out that corpse.  Galen thought about pointing out exactly who had done those things, but decided he’d probably have enough battles ahead of himself this evening without having to start one with Stafford over something as stupid as Stafford’s damned ego. 

He got done with his tale and there was a lot of excited talk by the end of it.  The mayor had his walking staff on the table in front of him and banged it to get people to shut up.  “Hush, let’s here from Wedrein, about the stranger.”

Wedrein stood, a little man who readied and buried the dead, as his family had for generations.  Mostly he farmed, but now and then this other task took his time.  He’d had far more of this unfortunate duty in one day than he’d had in many years. 

“I’ve checked around, and no one knows who the stranger is that they found up in John’s place.  Erim we know, of course, and Dervis Cahl, and they have family to tend to them; Erim’s got his brother and Dervis has a cousin over in Bonham’s Gate that sent word that he’d come by tomorrow to settle him down.”  ‘Settle him down’, meaning, get him buried and take care of his affairs.  “But so far we can’t find anyone that knows this other man; no one missing in the towns around here.”  He glanced over at Doctor Gunson, who was sitting a couple rows back from Galen.  Gunson nodded, and Wedrein swallowed and nodded.  “His belongings seem to indicate he came from Juncture.  Not from around here at all.”

A rise in the level of excited talk from the crowd.  Very few people from Juncture came to Holten, and even less often did any come to little Trent’s How.   “How are you going to find out who he was?” called out someone from the back. 

Wedrein nodded.  “We’re working on it, we sent his gene info in for a match, hopefully we’ll get one by tomorrow, if he’s in the database.”  If he was from Juncture, it was highly likely his genomic sequence would be on file.  They still might not get a match, though, if he had come through Juncture from another plane altogether, or if he was genomically Major Altered since the last time he’d been entered on file.  Against the law, to alter your genome, especially a Major Alteration, without registering, but in Juncture is still happened all the time. 

Morvran thanked Wedrein.  “Please keep us updated on who that poor unfortunate was, Wedrein.  Now, is there anyone here who has seen John doing these things?  Remember Eus is here, so none of your stories, Tal.”  Laughter, as Talsen, a known ‘exaggerator’, was ribbed by his friends.  Galen glanced over at Eus, who as the town’s only psionically talented person could be called on to see if someone was telling the truth.  Eus did not look at all amused at the mayor’s joke. 

No one spoke up to say they’d seen John, though.  “When’s the last time anyone saw John?  Anyone see him after the town meeting a couple weeks ago?”

There was a consensus that many of them had last seen him at the town meeting.  For Galen it had been even longer than that.  But no one seemed to have seen him since then. 

The mayor hushed them up again.  “All right, all right, settle down.”  Galen winced at his choice of words.  “Now we know what’s going on, everyone and everything is accounted for, mostly.  Now I’ll open up the floor for suggestions but,” and here he pointed at the hall fiercely, “you’ll speak only when I call on you and not before, or you’ll step outside, got it?”

In spite of the mayor’s words, there was instantly a babble of chaotic shouting.  Half the people wanted protection for their flocks and for their families, and seemed to think Stafford and his two reevesmen was going to be able to guard them all personally.  The other half called for something to be done about John, and most of those people wanted him dead, and dead yesterday if possible.  Galen stayed quiet, knowing how these meetings usually went, although the vehemence of some of his neighbors was surprising him.  Making him angry, too.  He sighed, and rubbed his temples with one broad hand, eyes closed.  He was appalled at the direction things were going. 

Finally the mayor shouted them down, banging his staff again with a sharp crack that reigned in most of them.  “All right, I’ll hear from Ithid, and I want the rest of ye to shut the hell up!”  The crowd simmered down as Ithid, surprised to be recognized, nervously stood. 

“Well, it seems pretty obvious to me,” he stammered.  “We need to hunt John down.  Kill him, before he kills any more of us.”  The crowd erupted into shouts of approval. 

Galen heaved himself up out of his chair, by now furious.  “Nae wait just one goddamned minute,” he shouted.  “Ye can’t just decide to kill a person, just like that.”  Galen had a loud, bellowing voice that carried out over the other shouts. 

The mayor banged his staff again.  “I’ll hear from Doctor Munro, but another time out of turn and I’ll ask ye to leave, Doc.”  Galen gave him a quick glare and launched into the rest of them. 

“You’ve got no right.  John’s been here longer than most of us have been alive; he’s one of the town.  You’ve got no right to just kill him.  What if he’s sick, or cursed, or something?  What if it’s not John at all?  You can’t just decide to kill him!”

The people shouted back at him, saying they couldn’t risk any more, that it sure as hell looked like John from where they were.  Morvran fought to keep things under control. 

“Aye, Doc’s right,” the mayor said, to Galen’s surprise, and he turned to face him.  “We can’t just sentence someone to death, even a murderer, without a trial, without proof.  Our problem, of course, is that for a trial we have to catch the criminal and bring him to trial, and I doubt there’s a person here that can sweet-talk whatever monster it is out there doing this, to nicely come in for a bit of a legal matter!”  He waited for the crowd to quiet down again, and Galen sat down, surprised at the mayor’s stance.  His surprise wore off quickly, though, with the mayor’s next words.  “So, to my regret, I formally accuse the dragon of Trent’s How, known as John, of murder most foul, three times over, and of the wanton destruction of…” and here he paused, frowning, “…of… aw hell, however many livestock we decided on earlier.  Sentence, if proven guilty, is death three times over.  Stafford?”

Stafford jumped, startled to be called on, and said, “Aye, as Shirereeve I agree to the accusation.” 

The mayor looked up at the crowd, but before he could continue, someone in back called out, “And how are ye going to kill him then?”  Another outbreak of shouts, and the mayor calmed them down. 

“For now we’ll decide on guilt or innocence, and then we’ll decide how to take care of it.”

The crowd didn’t like that at all.  They wanted things taken care of that night. 

            Morvran shut them down again.  “We’ll do this right or we won’t do it at all.  If you want him dead, then you go out there and kill him yourself – and then you can face your own charges for murder, and face them in Juncture for all I care.”  The crowd shut up.  Not one of them wanted to face Juncture justice. 

            “All right then,” he continued when the crowd had quieted again.  “We’ll need to determine John’s guilt or innocence.  Ive brought the accusation; nae who will speak for John?”

            Silence. 

            Galen watched the crowd.  Everyone was staring at the ground, or some were looking around to see if anyone would come forward to speak for John, speak in John’s place since he was not present, and not likely to be.  No one said a word though, afraid they’d be chosen, if no one else came forward. 

            Galen stood again, slowly, feeling the tired aches in his back and legs.  “Aye, I’ll speak for John,” he said quietly. 

            “You will, Doc?” asked Morvran. 

            Galen nodded tiredly. 

            “How could ye, Doc?” called out Hueil.  “Look at you, hell, you’re a mess thanks to what John’s been doing.  And you saw first hand what he did, to Erim, and Dervis – what a disaster it was out at his place.  How can you speak for him, of all people?”

            There was a murmuring, agreeing with Hueil. 

            Galen shrugged.  “Someone has to.  I’ll be glad to speak for someone who was once my friend, whatever it is that may have happened to him now.”  He paused.  “Besides, I’m his doctor.”  It wasn’t much of an argument, but it was enough for Morvran. 

            “Very well, Doctor Munro will speak for John.  How do you answer the accusations, Doc?”

            Galen did not hesitate.  “Innocent on all counts,” he said firmly. 

            Shouts, an angry chaos of them.  Even Morvran seemed surprised, as if he had expected Galen to plead differently.  After he let the hall vent for a little while, the mayor quieted them down and then asked Galen, “Innocent, Doc?  Are you kidding me?”

            Galen shook his head.  “Innocent.  You want me to speak for John, I’m speaking for John.  And I’m going to have to say, for now, that he’s innocent.”

            “I donn’t understand hhow you can say that, Doctor Munro.  You’ve seen what he has done.”

            “I already told you – no one has seen what is doing these things.  We don’t know for certain it is John.  And if it is John, then why?  Why has he done this, it would be totally out of character for him, totally against everything he has given to this town, everything he has been to us.  Why?  Assuming it is him, why?  Is he sick?  Is he possessed, or under some spell?  Why would he do this?”

            “I don’t care why he’s doing it!  I want him to stop, and if that means killing him, then so be it!” came a shout.  The crowd agreed, vehemently. 

            Round and round went the argument.  After batting the whole thing around for another frustrating hour, it was decided that they would allow Galen to speak with John, to try and determine what was going on.  No one much liked the idea, though.  No one wanted the carnage to continue, but despite Galen’s unpopular stance, no one wanted to risk losing him either, especially the Daere that were in attendance.  He was their only doctor, and he was well-liked. 

            But Galen and Morvran argued them into it.  Galen refused to back down on his plea for John, and Morvran insisted on following the legal niceties about the whole thing.  Galen was a bit confused about that, but was grateful that the mayor wasn’t calling on emergency powers, or anything like that.  He had been convinced he would have allowed a lynch mob to try and go out after John, and something like that couldn’t help but end very badly.  And it probably wouldn’t be John that ended up dead. 

            “All right then, it’s decided,” said the mayor, waving his hand to calm down the crowd again.  “We’ll let Doctor Munro have one day to find John and determine to his and our satisfaction his guilt or innocence, and whatever else the doc wants to innvestigate if he can.”  Morvran gazed at Galen grimly.  “We’d appreciate it if you return and tell us what you find out, Doc.  Don’t try and be a hero.”

            “No danger,” said Galen.  “I’ll need someone to help me find him though.”

            “Oh?  The way you talked, it sounded like you knew where you might find him.”

            Galen shrugged.  “If I have to I’ll wait at his home until he returns again.”  He looked over at Eus.  “I was hoping Eus might help point me where he might be, though.”

            Eus, who had been leaning against the far wall, arms folded, head bent as if deep in thought, looked up, startled.  He straightened up and looked around, then at Galen.  He stared at Galen for a few seconds, a piercing look.  Then he nodded, once. 

            “We’ll head out in the morning then; I’ll meet you here in the town square.  You won’t need to come with me far, Eus.”

            “In the morning?” asked Ithid.  “What about now?  We can’t get through another night of this.  This needs to be taken care of!” 

            “I said tomorrow.  I’ve got God knows how many farms left to get to tonight.  I’m not going after John in the dark.  You stay inside tonight, you keep your flocks close.  And I’ll get to him tomorrow.”

            Shouts of outrage, as if Galen, in his promise to seek John out, had promised to keep him away from them and their flocks.  Shouts that their flocks could wait, they’d waited all day.  One woman shouted from the back, “How many more people have to die tonight?  How much more do we have to lose?!” 

            Morvran, seated near him, said just loud enough so Galen could hear, “If you want your chance to speak for John, you’d better do it tonight.  Any more deaths and we’ve got to kill him.  We’ve got no choice then, Galen, we’ve got to stop this.  I’m giving you your chance.”  Galen gave him a sharp look as everyone else in the hall shouted at him.  He exhaled, frustrated.  He felt too tired to be going out chasing after a dragon.  But, he’d gotten himself in it this deep…

            “All right, all right.  I’ll go out now, if Eus is willing.  I don’t like the thought of looking for him in the dark, though.  And I don’t like the thought of all these folks walking around out there in the dark either, Mayor, maybe everyone should stay here tonight.”

            “We’ll send people home in groups.  No fewer than 6 people together; and if ye have to stay at a neighbors house for the night, then do it.  I don’t want to give Wedrein any more work.”  Wedrein nodded vigorously. 

            “Right.”  Galen stood then and stretched, feeling a ripple of pops run up his spine.  Oh, he’d be regretting this day tomorrow.  “Eus.”  Galen tipped his head to the back door and Eus nodded, working his way through the crowd to the way out.  Several of the Daere stopped him, one at a time, on his way out, to whisper things in his ear, always holding him by an elbow, his hand, his shoulder, somehow always touching him.  He nodded thoughtfully at each one and smiled once when Ederyn told him something.  Mostly, though, Eus looked extremely serious. 

            Galen met him at the back of the hall and they pushed through the last bit of crowd.  A couple people wished Galen god-speed, and Mr. Dale shook his hand, but most of them were distracted by the mayor who was trying to give them instructions on getting home safely, and what they might be able to do to protect their flocks. 

            It was much quieter outside.  Much cooler, too; the town hall had been getting pretty warm there by the end.

            “Thanks for helping, Eus.  I’ll need to go home and get a couple things before we head out.”

            Eus nodded and looked at Galen’s small bike skeptically. 

            “Oh, I’ll go on alone.  I can’t expect you to be running around out there at night with just me.  When we do go out, I won’t take you far.  Stay here, and I’ll be back soon.”

            Eus looked like he was going to argue, but then closed his mouth and nodded, folding his arms and leaning back against the frame of the town hall.  “I’ll wait, then.” 

            Galen started his bike, not caring then if he made a lot of noise by the hall, and rode off towards his house. 

            When he got home, the dogs went nuts.  He’d left the three of them alone all day, and they were bored and hungry.  He hurriedly fed them and let them out, and then changed his filthy clothes and gathered the equipment he thought he might like to have.  Most of what he needed, he carried around in the bike all the time anyway; the carry-all had plenty of room.  A few things, though, he didn’t dare carry around all the time, and those things he carefully dug out of storage and slipped into his pockets.  

            One of those things was a light-bead.  He balanced it carefully on his palm, considering it.  Marble-sized, and shimmering, iridescent sunlight yellow.  He’d paid a lot for it, and unregistered possession was still considered illegal in many parts of Juncture… but he was in the Outskirts, now, and there were no laws here about possessing it.  It had been hard finding someone that could get one for him, though, and the whole thing had been a bit shady.  He put it in a pocket and patted it, glad he’d gone to the trouble. 

            Galen wrestled the unwilling dogs back inside and left, anxious to get this unpleasant job done.  He could hear them barking long after he had gone, and he wondered with faint amusement if his neighbors would have the audacity to complain this time. 

            When he roared back into the town square, Eus was waiting patiently, leaned up against the pedestal that Boot stood on, arms folded, watching Galen ride in.  He killed the motor and coasted to a stop next to him. 

            Eus took a step forward, glancing back at the hall, where lights were still on.

            “Aren’t they finished yet?” asked Galen.

            “Many of them decided to stay here tonight.  They think it is too dangerous to go home, to be walking on the roads and paths at night.  The Daere went home, but most other people that live far from here stayed.”

            Galen nodded.  “Good idea.  That’s probably a very good idea.  Are you ready, Eus?”

            “What do you need me to do, Doctor?”

            “Call me Galen.  Can you find John?”

            Eus shook his head.  “I’ve been trying not to.”

            “Hm?” 

            “You said he might be insane, or possessed.  I thought it would be dangerous to seek him.”

            Galen nodded.  “Aye, it might.  I’d like to ask you to try, but you don’t have to.” 

            Eus shrugged.  “I’ll try.”  And he leaned back against the pedestal, folded his arms back over his chest, and bent his head, listening to the call deep inside himself, searching with his mind for the far thoughts of the dragon that allowed himself to be called John.  Galen watched Eus closely, not knowing what to expect. 

            Eus shuddered, and clutched his arms tighter around himself.  Then he jerked and stepped over to the side, flinging an arm out against the pedestal and catching his balance before he fell.  He shook his head sharply and looked up at Galen.  “He’s up in the Haerdowne.  He’s up there, he’s asleep I think.”  He shook his head again, frowning.  “I couldn’t tell much; he was faint.  Something was really wrong though.”  He shook his head again.  “Really wrong.”

            “Wrong how?” 

            Eus shook his head again, frowning.  “I don’t know.  I’m kind of surprised I found him at all.  He’s so faint – but I could tell it was John.”  He gave Galen a worried look.  “But it wasn’t the John I know.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Eus shook his head, looked away, thinking.  He searched for a way to describe what he felt.  “It’s John, there’s no doubt, I know him.  But he has changed somehow.  There is a violence there, an unreasonable anger…  it’s not the John I know,” he repeated.  “He feels like… I don’t know, a volcano, a bomb.  An angry mob.  Battle.  It hurts to feel it, even this faint.”  Eus shook his head again.  “It’s so hard to describe.  He is asleep, now, and I still feel this.  I’ll not try again, Galen, I couldn’t handle that if he was awake.”

            “Hm.  That doesn’t sound very good.”  Galen hesitated, watching the lights shining out from the windows of the town hall.  A faint murmur of voices floated over the square to them.  Finally he shook himself.  “Guess I’d better be going up there, then.”

            “Don’t go, Galen.  It’s too dangerous.  We can tell from here it must be John.  Let the mayor know, and he can get a posse together tomorrow to catch him.”  Eus put out a hand to touch Galen’s arm, make him stop, but then pulled back, remembering humans did not like him to touch them. 

            Galen did not mind.  He had nothing to hide from Eus and his psi abilities.  He put his hand on Eus’ shoulder to show that, and said, “I have to go.  Said I would.  And I need to see if he is sick, why this has happened.  It’s not right.  What if he’s cursed or possessed?”

            “He’s not possessed.  He contains nothing but himself.”

            Galen nodded, relieved.  “Well, regardless, I need to see what I can do for him.”  Galen shrugged, not able to explain his need to confront John.  “I’m his doctor.  I need to do what I can for him before the town decides to kill him.”

            Eus nodded, looking Galen in the eye.  “I see.  You just don’t believe it is your friend doing this, and you must prove it to yourself.  You feel it is your duty to protect him.”

            Galen hesitated, returning Eus’ gaze.  Eus had pegged it, even though he hadn’t really thought of that as how he felt. With Eus’ words, he realized that was exactly what he was doing. “Aye,” Galen said finally, nodding.  He gave Eus a final quick squeeze on his shoulder, to let him know he didn’t mind how Eus had found all that out, and bent to start his bike. 

            Eus put out a hand to stop him.  “Galen, John will kill you,” he said quietly.  “He has no mercy left in him.”

            Galen paused again.  “He won’t kill me,” he said.  Eus backed up a step, then, watching as Galen started the bike.  As Galen threw a leg over and sat down, Eus climbed up behind him.  Galen half-turned to look at him.  “You’re not coming.  You told me where he was.”  Galen raised his voce to be heard over the bike. 

            “I’m coming.  What if he moves?  Besides, I promised many people that if you went, I would go with you.”

            Galen argued with him a bit more, but his heart wasn’t in it.  He was relieved Eus was coming.  He did not want to confront John alone.  And Eus knew it, and ignored his arguments.  With a final look at the people standing in the door of the town hall, watching them, they rode off.