Now the corpses of Bellgart houses gaped through yawning doors and broken windows, the crops were torn from the fields as if by giant claws and no person or beast moved on the face of the land. Here the emissary could have rested for a spell, and he did check several of the houses for habitation but, finding none, flew on to the city, where the devastation, though not as dramatic as that in the outlying lands, nonetheless appeared to have been as fatal.
No spires or towers stood to mark the skyline he remembered from his childhood. Where the markets had roared with animals and vehicles of all descriptions, the clink of coins, the brilliance of lines full of freshly dyed yarns draped between buildings, the patchwork of laundry spread on the rooftops to dry, the pleasant smell of well-washed, well-fed people who had discovered the magic of a well-engineered sewage system, now there was nothing. Or rather, there were many things but so thoroughly digested by whatever great calamity had overtaken Northworld that it was impossible to say what was cloth and what was wood or metal or what any item or being had been. The pleasant smell had been succeeded by the stench of death and rot and over all, the choking miasma of smoke that darkened the skies and blotted out the sun.
Wind whipped the rubble around the emissary’s feet as he landed on the stonework of what must have once been the palace. He folded his wings and sat upon the remnants of a wall, and wept himself to sleep.
He awoke, shivering, later, to a sound distinguished from the wind by its rhythm, a little jiggling, rattling sound that seemed to be coming from debris trembling beneath his feet.
Though his hands were cold and his pin feathers fluffed with the chill of the sun-bereft land, he dug into the debris. Maybe he would find a survivor someone, anyone, to explain what had befallen half of the world.
The warmth reached him first; warmth, vibration, and, as he cleared away more layers of filth, light. A soft, golden light humming with a heat like beach sand in summer.
As he uncovered its opalescent top, the object vibrated more strongly, working its way up from the ashes and filth toward him, a flower opening to the day.
The object was smooth, rounded, golden in hue but fired with flashes of red, blue and green and swirled with pearl. He thought it must be a rare treasure from the King’s hoard. He thought it must be the priceless offering of some great artisan. He thought it must be—an egg. A very large egg, as large as a buckler, nesting in the ruins around it, vibrating expectantly.
An egg, of course. The dragon’s egg. The dragon had died defending it from—what? Some monstrous attack? The dragon and the city and all of these lands had perished in the battle and only this egg remained.
The emissary laid his cheek against the glowing shell and said softly, “I understand, little orphan. Never fear. I will carry you back with me to the High Queen and there you will be cared for so that you may warm and protect our lands as once you protected—”
“H-hold,” croaked a voice as rusty as unoiled chain. The emissary looked up from the egg, though he did not unhand it, and saw that the rubble a few feet away, where the debris had slid down the opening blasted in the wall, also stirred. Perhaps there was more than one survivor after all.
The emissary steadied the egg and scrambled down the welter of cloth and metal, bone and splintered wood, to where the mess moved, and again began to dig his way to what lay below.
His hand was grasped suddenly by what seemed to be a clawed band of iron and the whole mountain of debris slipped further down as a section of rubble an arm’s length from him rose and faced him, a hole opening in it to plead, “Drink?”
From the top of the pile the vibrating grew louder and the egg teetered. The emissary fluttered his wings and swooped under the egg just as it started to roll, then carried it to the bottom of the pile. He set the egg down carefully before returning to the creature still unearthing itself. The warmth of the egg at his back comforted him as he unstrapped his pack and drew forth his flask to slake the creature’s thirst.
“Easy, friend,” he said as the survivor gulped half his flask. “This must last us until we find an unsullied atoll with fresh water and that may be days from here.”
The survivor shook its head and rasped, “Can’t leave. Egg. Must find the egg.”
“Don’t worry, my friend. It’s safe,” the emissary assured him and felt the egg purr at his back.
“Ah,” the survivor said and wiped its mouth with its wrist. It had only one wrist on one very long arm, the emissary saw, and its legs were quite short. A dwarf then? “The—others?”
“I’m sorry. There don’t seem to be any others. I am Dolhal, Emissary of the High Queen of Southworld. I must rest for a time, and then if you will ride between my wings, I can carry the egg and thus bear us both back to Her Majesty.”
“Southworld?” asked the halfling.
“Onlyworld, perhaps I should say,” Dolhal answered him. “I fear the north is all dead.”
The halfling nodded and, crawling forward on his knees and one elbow, found the egg and curled against it and slept. Perhaps he had more right, Dolhal thought, but he, Dolhal, had found the egg first and he experienced an unaccustomed spasm of revulsion at the idea of lying in the muck next to such a foul-visaged creature. But there was the egg, beautiful and warm despite its burial and disinterment, despite the filth below it and around it, promising, somehow, safety and comfort if only Dolhal would cherish it and keep it whole until it hatched.
He noticed before he slept that the halfling’s stump seemed to have been cauterized, and that a flat red scar covered it and one side of the creature’s face so that the ear, neck and jaw were all one line and the coarse black hair burned away.
Dolhal awoke suddenly, immediately alert, as if a shock had gone through him. He rose to see the halfling drop a large rock. Surely the creature couldn’t have meant to harm him? His wings were the only escape from this place.
The halfling grimaced painfully from the whole side of his face and laid his hand palm up on his knee. He looked somewhat cleaner and stronger than he had when they fell asleep. Dolhal, who felt completely refreshed himself, said aloud, “I feel much improved and you look it. Are you well enough to travel while our supplies last?”
A melodious voice welled up from that ruined face like fresh water from rock. “Soon. Give the dragon magic a little more time and we’ll both feel ready to dance all night.”
“I think not,” said Dolhal, feeling the cold wind billow from the roiling clouds. “I think after seeing this I will never feel like dancing again.”
“Ah, well. I suppose it could take a body like that, if you hadn’t time to get used to it. But from my viewpoint, it makes me feel like dancing just to be able to see this, you understand.”
“Who are you and how did you survive?” asked Dolhal.
“Someone had to be last,” the halfling answered, grimacing again. “And since I was first, in a manner of speaking, it’s fitting I suppose that I’m the last. Except for the egg, of course. I was called Sulinin the Halfling Harper until I found the first egg and thereafter I was Sulinin Dragonkeeper. I brought my discovery to the King shortly after the egg hatched into the dragonet and began to display its powers. The King was not so grateful for my loyalty in presenting him with the dragonet as to step down or give me his daughter and half his lands, you understand. That happens only in my stories. But he made my position permanent and I never had to wander again and saved my songs to cheer the dragon or to lull it to sleep as it grew.”