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“I’ll take a line,” the Copper said.
“You’re a courier. You needn’t—”
The Copper stiffened, extending his neck as though getting ready to issue a challenge.
“If you want the fatigue, have it. I’m riding in a cart, as befits a commander.”
The men went to knotted lines and threw loops across their shoulders, padding them with bunched clothing. The Copper let the sweat-stained leather ring—it smelled deliciously of equine—fall about his shoulders. It fit better than the Tyr’s emblem.
“Set…step…off!” SiDrakkon shouted.
“Take the strain. The start’s the worst,” Nivom shouted.
The carts set up a chorus of metallic screeching, and the chickens clucked in alarm and the sheep hurried out of the way, but the procession lurched into motion.
“Sorry, lads, it’s mostly uphill to Bant,” SiDrakkon said as he lowered his head to watch the wheels on their iron ruts.
The Copper liked the challenge of the pull; you could lose yourself in the effort. He did most of the work with his saa, just hopping forward on his bad leg during a strain.
When a thrall slipped and fell so that he lay dangerously facedown across the rail, the Copper quickly hooked him under the arm with his tail and helped lift him to his feet again before the grinding wheels could take off a leg. The thrall looked at him wide-eyed from behind his shaggy hair.
Fourfang clapped the thrall upon the back and grunted out a few hominid words, pointing at the Copper. The Copper had earned little enough honor among Drakwatch and Firemaidens, but even the respect of his thralls counted for something.
They took their first rest at a cave spring. The thralls instantly fouled the tunnel with their waste; the grains and roots they ate resulted in enormous quantities of excrement that rivaled bat guano in its unwholesomeness.
Nivom came to check on him.
“Ride for the next quarter.”
“I’m well enough.”
“I don’t want the Tyr’s courier dropping of heart seizure. Water or blood?”
“Blood.” He thirsted for the salty taste. Fourfang made a nuisance of himself, pulling up his saa and applying some kind of ointment that smelled like sheep fat.
“There’s a pan. SiDrakkon’s already shared a pair of sheep with his duelists. Better hurry, or your fellow line drakes will have had it all.”
He walked while the pullers were changed, but as soon as they took another break, went back to the traces.
“No. Drake ride. Fourfang pull,” Fourfang protested.
“I like it,” the Copper said, settling into the collar.
“Only unimportant drake pull,” Fourfang said. “Unimportant drake have unimportant thrall.”
“Is that so?” the Copper said. It hadn’t occurred to him that the thralls had some kind of clan system of their own.
“Pride of place.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll walk beside. If you get tired, let me know.”
The blighter planted his short, bandy legs. The column squealed into motion again.
“These carts need tinkering,” Nivom said, looking at the wheels of a particularly noisy contraption in front of the Copper. “If only dwarves didn’t starve themselves so quickly when enthralled. Get some fat drippings over here. That helps.”
At a widening of the tunnel SiDrakkon had found a rock pile to rest upon and watch the column as it passed. “That’s it, Rugaard. Work ’em hard and they’re too tired to make trouble. True for scales as well as hair.”
They had to leave the carts on the fourth “day”—as measured by sleep periods—and go on foot.
