I thought I’d post the first ever snippet of DOG AND DRAGON here

DOG AND DRAGON

DAVE FREER

Dedication:
This one is for my Old English Sheepdog Roland, loyal companion, faithful friend.

CHAPTER 1

Back to the sunset bound of Lyonesse–
A land of old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
And the long mountains ended in a coast
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
    Idylls of the King, Tennyson

“Who are you?” hissed the lithe, dark-eyed man with the drawn sword.

    Meb blinked at him. Her transition from the green forests of Arcady to this dark, stone-flagged hall, hung with displays of arms and the horns of stags, had been instantaneous. There she had known just who she was: Scrap, apprentice to the Black Dragon, the destroyer of the world.  You could call her anything else, but that was who she had been. Now…

    “Cat got your tongue, wench?” he said quietly. “Well, no matter, I’ll have to kill you anyway.”

    He swung the sword at her in a vicious arc.

    Moments ago she’d been thinking she might be better off dead than missing them. Missing him.

    Now she discovered that her body didn’t want to die just yet. She threw herself backwards, not caring where she landed. Just out of reach of the sword.

    She screamed. And then swore as the blade shaved across her arm to thud into the kist she had fallen over. She kicked out, hard, catching her attacker in the midriff, knocking the breath out of him in an explosive gasp.  Trying to find breath, he still pulled weakly at the sword now a good two finger-widths deep into the polished timber of the kist. Meb wasn’t going to wait.

    But it looked as if she wasn’t going to run very far either. Her scream, and possibly the swearing, had called others and they burst in, flinging the great iron studded doors open.  Men-at-arms, with bright swords and scale-armor rushed in.

    And as she turned to run the other way, her passage there was blocked too by a sleepy-looking man — also with a sword, emerging from the only other doorway.

    There wasn’t a window to be seen.

    She wanted one, badly.

    And then she saw one, just in the embrasure to her left. She just plainly hadn’t spotted it before.

    She ran to it, and realized it wasn’t going to help much.  In the moonlight she could see that it opened onto a hundred feet of jagged cliff, to an angry sea, frothing around sharp rock teeth far below.

    The soldiers had surrounded the man she’d kicked. They’d blocked her escape too, but you couldn’t really call it surrounding her. Not unless that included ‘getting as far from her as possible, while not leaving the other prisoner, or the room’.

    The man who had looked so sleepy moments before didn’t any more.  His sword was up, ready… but he also looked very wary.

    “Who are you?” he asked.

    There was something weasely about him that made her very wary about answering, in case her words were twisted against her.

    And why did they all want to know something she wasn’t too sure of herself?
***
There was a narrow bridge across the void. Along it walked a black and white sheepdog, followed by a black dragon. The dog never looked back at the dragon, just forward, his questing written into every line of his body, from the mobile pointed ears, to the feathered tail.
The bridge itself is narrow — made of vast, interlocking blocks of adamantine, — or at least that is the way it looked.  Reality might be somewhat different, at least to the eyes of a Planomancer. Such eyes would see deeper than the ordinary spectra of light, and could see patterns energy.  Fionn, the black dragon, saw it all as the weave of magics that made the bridge between the planes of existence.  He knew the bridge was fragile and fraught with danger. That did not stop him walking along it, any more than it stopped Díleas the sheepdog.
The bridge was barely two cubits wide and had no rail. Far, far below seethed the tumult of primal chaos. The only way the dog could go was straight ahead. He kept looking left though.
That was where he wanted to go. Sometimes he would raise his nose and sniff.
Fionn knew there was nothing to smell out here. The air that surrounded the bridge was drawn and melded by the magics of it, from the raw chaos.  It was new air, and Fionn knew that it did not exist a few paces behind them, or a few paces ahead.
He was still sure Díleas was following the faint trail of something. A something which even a very clever dog could best understand as scent… even if there was nothing to smell.
At least he hoped that was the case.
Hoped with ever fibre of his very ancient being.
Fionn had long since given up on caring too much. He was not immortal, as far as he knew. He could certainly be killed. But compared to others, even of his own kind, the black dragon was long lived. Time passed, and so did friends. His work was never done, fixing the balance, keeping the planes stable. He moved on.
He’d been hated. He’d been worshiped, though it irritated him. He’d been laughed at and reviled. He’d been feared.
He’d even been loved.
He had never loved before, though.
The black and white sheepdog was more experienced at love than the dragon, and he was a young dog still, maybe eight months old. Barely more than a pup. But Díleas — whose name was ‘faithful’ in an old tongue, long forgotten by most men — would go to ends of the world, and, as now, beyond, for her. His mistress was his all and he would search for her until he died, or he found her.
Fionn knew that he’d do the same. His Scrap, Meb, his inept apprentice, Anghared, had been plucked from them by magic. Her own magic and her own choice, made freely for them, and for Tasmarin, the place of dragons. Fionn knew however, that it had cost her dearly. And for him, without her, it was a worthless sacrifice.
So now, somewhere, back in some place that she’d been torn from as a babe, they had to find her again.
Fionn had no idea where that might be. A place of magics, where human magery ran strong in the blood, that much he could be sure of. But there were many such places in the interlinking chain of worlds, and they themselves were large and complex places.
It was a good thing that Díleas seemed to have some idea where to go, because Fionn didn’t know where to even start, except by trying everywhere. He would do that, if need be. He had time. He would never give up.
The only problem was that she was human and very mortal. And, if he had to be truthful with himself, she was able to attract disaster toward herself, just by being there.
Fionn had never known love. He’d never known worry really either. Pain, and the avoidance of it, yes, fear, yes, but now he was afraid for her. Worried.
The end of the bridge was now visible, if wreathed in smoke or mist.
Fionn wondered if it would be guarded, or if the bridge was too new. The transit points often had their watchers, or barriers.
As the other side of the void came closer, Fionn realized this place would not need such things.
Most travelers would turn around and go back just as quickly as they could.
Gylve was a place of fire and black glass.
Fionn had been there before, and wouldn’t have minded if he’d never had to go there again. A planomancer needed to visit such places and straighten things out. Last time it had glowed in the dark, and he’d had to do some serious adjustment. He was pleased to see the that radiation levels at least had dropped. Still, you could see fire dancing across the sky as the methane jets caught.
On the silver collar on Díleas’s neck hung a bauble. A little part of the primal fire, enclosed in what merely appeared to be crystal. It should keep the dog safe from demons and from actually freezing.  It wouldn’t keep his feet safe on the broken volcanic glass in the place they were coming to. Only dragon-hide would do for that.
Fortunately, he had some with him, available without the discomfort of slicing it off himself. He could have done that. Dragons were tough… even if they really didn’t like making holes in themselves any more than the next creature. But every now and again a dragon died or was killed. If a dragon was sharp about it, they could get a piece of hide before the humans did. Honestly, thought Fionn, for a species that was afraid of dragons, they had a habit of sticking their necks out.
It was one of the things that he liked about them.
The bridge was beginning to widen… to open onto the jet-black clinkers of one of the fire-worlds.  Fionn stopped.
Díleas didn’t.
“Díleas, come here!”
The dog did turn and look at him, with a ‘what do you think you’re wasting time at?’ look. And then began to pace forward.
“This muck will cut your feet to ribbons. And then you won’t be able to walk to her.” Fionn had to smile wryly at himself. Talking to the dog. Just like his Scrap-of-humanity had.
The dog turned around and came back to him. Lifted a foot.
Fionn’s eye’s widened. He’d have to do some serious re-evaluation. And yes, now he could see that the dog was substantially magically… enhanced. Curse the Dvergar and their tricksy magics. He was supposed to be the practical joker, not them. She’d wanted Díleas to understand her. And she wore a very powerful piece of enchanted jewellery, which bound the magics of earth, stone, wood, fire and worked metals to her will.
Not surprising really that her power worked on sheepdogs. They were clever and loyal anyway, or so he’d been told.
“It won’t be elegant,” he said, “but then there won’t be other dogs out here to see you.  He took the section of dragon leather from his pouch and rent it into four pieces, and then made a neat row of talon-punctures around the edge, before  transforming his own shape. Humans form was one of those he knew best, and it allowed him to wield a needle well.  It was of course partly a matter of appearances, and a useful disguise. He was far to heavy and too strong for a human — but hands were easier to sew with than clawed talons.  A piece of thong threaded through the holes and Díleas had four baggy boots.
Díleas looked critically at the things on his feet. Sniffed them.
“Dragon hide,” said Fionn. “I wouldn’t show them to any dragons you happen to meet, but otherwise they’ll do. And really, scarlet boots match the bauble on your collar.”
Díleas cocked an ear at him. Fionn wasn’t ready to bet the dog didn’t grasp sarcasm, so he merely said, “Well, let’s go. The only thing we’re likely to meet are demondim, and they like red anyway.”