“It is my duty and my honor to protect these people, Mayor Urel,” replied Rancor in a diplomatic tone. He motioned for the mayor to stand, uncomfortable that any man would show him such unbridled devotion. “It is always a pleasure to serve my people. Now, if I may introduce you to my two companions.”
Greetings were exchanged. Upon hearing he was in the presence of dragons, Mayor Urel doffed his cap, and bowed so low his stomach almost touched the ground.
“We will rest here for the night,” explained Rancor to the mayor. “My men are in need of provisions and lodging.”
The mayor clapped his hands, delighted by the opportunity to play host. “This will be done, but what more, we will have a dinner in your honor.” He began to bark out orders to his attendants, calling for music, food, wine, and competitions. Every imaginable element of revelry was listed. “A victory deserves celebration. A life well lost deserves due ceremony. My High Lord, we will do honor by your men; I will see to it personally.”
• • •
By dusk, numerous tents were raised and dozens of trestle tables packed to the brim with food and drinks were placed in a clearing just outside the palisade. The sun fell beneath the horizon and a massive bonfire was set aflame, illuminating the whole gathering in dancing light.
Baelac’s quick dragon eyes took in the gathering in a matter of seconds. A thousand elven souls, each one a point of light against the backdrop of evening. They jubilantly celebrated the defeat of the carrion menace, ignorantly unaware that the threat still loomed.
Beneath the canopy of the largest pavilion the mayor toasted Lord Rancor and his brave men, loudly showering accolades, real and imagined, on the high lord. He hoisted a chalice full of wine over his head to open the festivities. Nearby, a troupe of minstrels began to pluck at their harps while singing of the Fall of Eremor. The party began in earnest. Youths began to dance in a circle, their feet churning the soil with their fervent steps. A young soldier and maiden dashed off into the forest hand in hand, whispering and laughing as they went. Men took turns leaping over the bonfire, while others goaded their friends to go next. The only people who seemed at all displeased were a collection of Vacian Acolytes who sat on the outskirts of the gathering, clucking in disapproval at all they saw.
It is good that they can still revel in something, thought Baelac. Let them have their bliss a while longer. Her stomach burned with belching flame. The world was not right. She had sensed it for some time now. A storm on the periphery of her vision, slowly girding them in. The Shadow’s reach was expanding, and when the storm finally broke...
She shuddered at the thought. Men like Rancor would not be able to stem the tide. Too affable. Too soft.
She sighted Rancor, finding that he played the part of lord well. His face was handsome, albeit rather slim. His hazel eyes were piercing, and stood in stark contrast to the brown eyes possessed by most everyone else. His dirty blond hair was knotted and set through with an ivory pin. He still wore the scale leggings he had worn in battle, but he had cast aside his cuirass, revealing a purple tunic clasped by moonstone buttons. Still, there was nothing patronizing about his manners. He gladly set his noble decorum aside and hobnobbed with the mayor and the town elders, slapping men on the back and celebrating with them drink for drink.
Her ears honed in on the odd guttural screech of creaton tongues. “...Lord Nochman swung with all of his might, hewing the hand of the black knight.” A village elder was perched atop a stump recounting a tale from the War of Sundering in animated detail. A collection of cross-legged children leaned forward with mouths agape, eager to hear every word. The elder pinwheeled his arms over his head as if engaged in a duel. “All within the confines of Brothlo fell hushed in awe. But the all-powerful dark lord had great strength in magic, and he lashed out with searing lightning, disarming Lord Nochman of his Razorwind.”
The children cheered in delight and yelped in horror at the ebb and flow of the tale. Baelac smiled warmly. The balance was so fragile. Just a while longer, she prayed. Let the peace persevere a while longer. Grant one more generation a chance. The Creators mocked her devotion with silence, as they always did.
She caught up with Horan as he began to walk away from the gathering. Horan carried with him two plates stacked to the brim with food; sugared leeks, roasted meats, cheesecakes, and a number of other finely prepared dishes. A roasted leg of chicken was lodged firmly in his jaw.
“It is shocking to think that we have become legends in our own lifetimes,” said Baelac. She shook her head, awed by the passage of time.
“What could you possibly be referring to,” muttered Horan around a mouthful of meat.
“You and I, we had a part in that tale,” said Baelac, as she plucked a bloated berry from her mate’s plate and popped it in her mouth. The mixture of tart and sweet sat on her tongue. She closed her eyes, enraptured, and dropped down to the earth, feeling the chill from the dew-laden ground seep through to her bones. It was moments like this that made life worth living. “The demigods are dead. For now the people are free. Am I not entitled to stop and enjoy the fruits of my labor?”
Horan settled down beside her, huffing with disagreement. “We ought to be preparing. They ought to be preparing.”
Baelac pressed her brow into his forehead. His skin was like smoldering coals. The blissful flicker of fire and ice danced through her frame. She found the sensation oddly satisfying. So much was numbed by the hard bony plates that adorned her true body.
He pulled away, his stiff creaton face twisted into a smirk. “Don’t attempt to beguile me with your creaton wiles. You and I are not like them,” he whispered.
“Why do you despise the creatons so?” asked Baelac quietly, making sure her voice could not be heard by others.
“We were not the only ones who fought for them,” growled Horan. His temperament momentarily cut through his disguise and his eyes glowed as blue as flame. “There are many that we loved who are no longer here because of that cursed war.”
“You cannot resent them for that,” chided Baelac. “It was the Wyrm that led to those losses, not man, not elf. Do not forget that we each made the choice to fight.”
“That is what I regret, that choice,” said Horan resolutely. “For in that choice we risked all, and by the end many gave all. It was a waste. The creatons have shown through their actions they did not deserve our sacrifice.”
“How can you say such things?”
“Was today not proof enough? All of the death, all of the destruction, and what did they learn from it?” Horan shook his head in disgust. “What moments the creatons have are always numbered, but they are blind to this. They spend their lives enslaved in unrewarding labor, or even worse, bound by the bloodshed of war.”
“You miss so much,” countered Baelac. She cast her hand in a grand sweep across the feasting masses. “Look around you, there is such joy and merriment. The Nexus and Luthuania have become beacons of hope for learned minds. There is art and culture. There is sincere beauty in this world that must not be ignored. You say...” She trailed off, realizing that they were not alone.
A wide-eyed child stood beside them. She tugged upon her sleeve.
“And what can I do for you, my dear?” asked Baelac in as kind a voice as she could manage.
The small girl looked up at her for a moment, scanning her face closely. “My friends said you are a dragon. You don’t look like one.”
Baelac chuckled quietly to herself upon realizing there was a collection of several children hiding behind a stump not a dozen paces away. “Now, have you ever seen a dragon before?” asked Baelac.
“No.”
“Well, then how can you say I don’t look like one?”
She stood there for a moment, contemplating the question. “Can you breathe fire?”
“Most assuredly.”
“And him?” she pointed toward Horan.
“He has nothing but hot air,” said Baelac with a toothy grin.
; The small child looked confused, but suddenly her eyes widened and a smile stretched across her face. “Will you dance with me, Madam Dragon?”
Baelac looked over to Horan who was already flinching. He shook his head no. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I am quite old and lame in one leg,” replied Baelac. She flopped her left leg comically so as to prove her point. “But I do believe my companion here would be more than happy to accommodate your request. Would you not, Horan?”
“I would on any other occasion,” started Horan, lying through his teeth. “But we have adult matters to attend to. You must understand.”
“Hardly,” called out Baelac. She patted Horan’s back playfully. “Dance with the young lass. There will be time later to discuss the matter further.”
Without another word the little girl latched hold of Horan’s arm and pulled him toward the dancing circle. The children that were hiding behind the tree came flooding out, jumping and dancing around Horan. He stood frozen stiff, as if he had forgotten how to move his creaton limbs.
Horan shot Baelac an angry glance, only to be greeted by her grinning face.
Baelac called after him. “Spend time with the creatons, learn their ways. You will quickly realize that there are wonders to behold beyond those that come from their ovens.”
After several failed attempts and many songs later, Horan returned. His face was knotted in his best facsimile of a scowl.
“They’re not all that bad, are they?” asked Baelac.
Horan was about to retort, but discovered that Rancor was drawing near dressed in his full panoply of steel. The high lord seemed frustrated, and was loudly scolding the captain of his guard.
“Am I not high lord of this land? I will not walk in fear under the boughs of my trees while my lordship yet remains.” The reek of wine sat heavy on his breath.
“You’re in no shape to go traipsing about the woods, High Lord,” said Captain Nerso. Then he added sheepishly, “And in truth, I’m in no shape to provide you with proper protection.”
Rancor scowled. “Then find me a man who can control his drink.” He dismissed the captain with a wave of his hand and turned to the dragons. “We have a problem,” began Rancor. “One of the children never returned from a game in the forest. They’re sending out a search party now, and I offered up my services. I will be parting for the evening.”
“That is quite alright,” said Horan.
“We intend to see you safely to Luthuania,” said Baelac, rising to her feet. “I have a rather strong nose. Surely we could be of some help finding the child.”
“I could not ask anything else of you two,” said Rancor.
“We understand your duties,” said Horan. He began to bow in a gesture of parting.
Baelac corrected Horan’s disposition with a sidelong glance.
Horan stiffened, and nodded in forced agreement. “But it would be nothing at all for us to accompany you.” Horan’s false enthusiasm showed plainly through his creaton face. “I say we head off at once.”
• • •
The dim glow of the failing moon was cut to ribbons by the canopy of trees, allowing only slivers of light to reach them on the forest floor. For Baelac, the way was as clear as day, but she had to pause and remind herself it was not so for her creaton companions. The ground was thick with downed branches and tangled vines, and every dozen paces or so someone would stumble. Progress was slow.
Rancor’s guards were fanned out on either side of the trio, keeping their distance so that the three lords could speak with some privacy. Rancor prattled on about statecraft and the uneasy alliance he had managed to forge with King Johan during his short tenure as high lord. Horan walked in silence, periodically taking in great wafts of air.
Baelac smelled it, too. Scent contrails flowed through the forest on rivers of air. Something sat on the tip of her nose that unnerved her. A scent so old she had almost forgotten its taste. She pressed onward, keeping her concerns to herself, but with each passing step the fire in her stomach burned with greater intensity.
The missing child’s name was Jewel. They called out her name from time to time, halting to listen carefully for any response. There was none, only the oddly desolate quiet of the forest. They heard neither the chirps of crickets nor the call of night birds. The stillness of the forest only added to Baelac’s unease.
A sharp breeze from the north caused Horan to stop in his tracks. “Be quiet and listen, smell.” He jerked his head upward and sniffed the air.
“What is it?” asked Rancor. His hand was perched tentatively upon the hilt of his sword.
Horan made no response. Instead he leapt to the nearest tree and began to rapidly ascend it as if he were a wild cat, his hands and feet suddenly sprouting claws. The tree rustled and shook as he disappeared into the tangle of branches. “The scent is strong up here.” Two luminous orbs peered out from the darkness. “Creatures of the Wyserum, there are dragoons about.”
A surge of adrenaline shot through Baelac’s body.
“Are you sure?” said Rancor, his voice suddenly hushed. “Dark children south of the wall. How can this be?”
“It shouldn’t,” said Horan. He dropped down from the tree, landing in a squat. “I’ll scout ahead and make sure they’re not an immediate threat.”
Rancor motioned for his men to halt as Horan sprinted off in the direction of the scent.
Rancor settled upon a downed tree and unsheathed his sword, testing the edge. “My father spoke often of this enemy, but I never imagined I would meet one.”
“Let’s try and keep it that way,” said Baelac. “We’ll loop around to the east and try our best to avoid them for now. After the girl is found, Horan and I will return. Dragoons have no right to be south of the wall.” She shook her head as she paced. “These dragoons may have an association with the carrions, but I can hardly say how. Dragoons are incapable of higher magic; they would never be able to cast the spell of necromancy. Either way, we will find out why they are here. Those monsters were exiled to the northlands for good reason. My kin will have little tolerance for them venturing into Laveria.”
Horan returned as silently as he left, appearing at Baelac’s side. “The dragoons have a campsite half a league to the north. I spotted six near a campfire, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more lurking within the shadows.”
“At least they will be stationary for the night,” said Baelac. “The fire will make it easy to track them down later this evening.”
Horan shook his head. “Not an option. I spotted the girl with them.”
“They kidnapped one of my people?” hissed Rancor. He immediately turned to one of his men and ordered him to alert General Bailrich and round up the soldiers garrisoned at Palmera. “The additional soldiers will come soon enough, but I will not wait. I will lead my guard to deal with this matter immediately.”
“No,” said Baelac. “Dragoons are cunning. They will consider reason. We might be able to approach them now, few in number, and achieve a favorable outcome. But if you corner them, they will become as wild as beasts. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety then. You and your guard may come if you must, but please, stay hidden. Horan and I will deal with this. They may give up the child peacefully.”
“If they so much as lift their hand to a blade, I will not stay my sword,” insisted Rancor. “When the girl is safe, my archers will put them down.”
Baelac consented to Rancor’s final condition. It was deceitful and treacherous, but so were the dragoons. It was better they die quickly.
Horan led them through the forest, and within a few minutes they neared the dragoon camp. Rancor and his guard slid with stealth amongst the trees while Baelac and Horan pushed their way into the clearing. They made plenty of noise as they went. They had no intentions of sneaking up on the dragoons.
“Hail,” called Horan in a friendly voice. He held forth his hands with his palms facing outward to show he came for peaceful means.
Immediately the dragoo
n camp came to life. All rose to their feet, and a few reached for blades. There was a murmur of many voices speaking in a foreign tongue. Finally, one of the dragoons moved to meet them, walking with a long loping gait.
Illuminated by the light of the moon, the figure’s reptilian head came into view. His hands and feet were clawed. A pair of wing-like appendages sprouted from his back, but instead of being covered by membranes or feathers, the forceps were bare, save for a massive bony blade adorning the tip of each. He wore a black leather doublet and matching leggings. His exposed flesh was stippled with white dots that seemed to be in tracery of foreign runes. Baelac did not recognize the lettering. A myriad of colorful ribbons hung from his thighs, biceps, and wing blades. They accentuated his muscular frame, granting him a formidable appearance. His slit pupils flared like black pools as they honed upon Horan and Baelac.
“I greet you as a friend,” said the dragoon. He, too, held out his palms. “I am Tyronious, and these dragoons mean your people no harm.” His accent was strong, but with effort they made out his words. “I imagine you’re here in search of the young child.” He nodded, directing their gaze to a small bundle lying beside the campfire.
“Is that our elven child?” asked Baelac.
Tyronious nodded. “We found her in quite a fright. Cold and lost. She feared us only slightly less than the night, but take heart, we have comforted her, and now she sleeps. We heard the festivities off in the distance, but thought it would be foolish to bring her back in the dark. Your people are not welcoming to my kind.”
“Any that cares so kindly for our children is a friend of ours,” said Baelac, placing her hand over her heart. “We are in gratitude.”
“It’s the least we could do,” said Tyronious. His face contorted into what could best be described as a smile. “I’m truly shocked you approached us.” He looked to the forest, giving Baelac the intense impression that he knew of the elves lying in wait.
“It was more out of necessity than desire,” said Horan, doing nothing to hide his hostility.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 3