by C S Vass
It was nonsense to look, regardless. She had seen the constellation almost appear more times than she could count, but only on the rarest occasion did it shift in just the right way…
“Faela!”
Paetrick’s urgent whisper tore her from her thoughts.
“Hm?”
“Prayers are done. What were you thinking about?”
“How I’m going to keep myself sane with your constant questions.”
“Sorry.”
She sighed. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean that.” She kept forgetting how sensitive and how young the boy was.
“Faela. Can I ask you something?”
She resisted the urge to put her head in her hands. “Of course.”
“Do you ever worry about leaving Tallium?”
“Why would I worry about something silly like that?”
“I guess it is sill—”
“What are you worried about?”
“Well,” he put his hands together. “It’s hard. Sometimes I think about duty. I think that my duty is to the Temple. To the gods of ice and shadow. But then I think it’s to Tallium too, which isn’t so bad. But what if it also has to be to Iryllium? How can someone be loyal to so many different entities at the same time?”
“You mistake me for a sage.” Faela wanted to leave it there, but she could tell that something was truly troubling the young monk.
“Listen,” she continued. “When I was a girl I had a special kind of doll. It opened up. Inside was the same doll, just smaller. Inside that, another. It went on like that. Your loyalty will be like that. Each one nestled inside the other. All of them in perfect alignment. Everything in order.”
“Will it really be so easy?”
“Of course it will,” she lied.
Paetrick smiled and a warm sleepy look came over his face. Faela regretted nothing. The world would unfold before him the way it would. Finding a little kindness before it came to him would do no harm. Soon after, the group drifted off into an easy sleep by the fire.
Faela awoke before dawn. To Monk Dellio’s screams. A long blue-feathered arrow was lodged in his belly.
Screaming. Terror. Predawn madness.
Chaos had fallen on them. There was fighting. And dying. Faela’s vision swarmed over the scene that played out before her. They were under attack. The monks were being butchered. She seemed to be spared for the moment for no other reason than that she had chosen to sleep as far away from them as possible.
Urgently, she scanned the scene as best as she was able for Paetrick. She found him along with two other monks huddled against a rocky cliff as two assailants stepped towards them with steel and fire. She felt the familiar feeling of metal sliding on leather. Naked iron glittered in her hand. The blade was cheap craftsmanship sharpened beyond the point it was meant to be, a shortsword for the purpose of being used just a handful of times before giving out.
“Don’t hurt them!” Paetrick yelled to her.
She almost laughed. What else would she expect from a monk?
The two men glanced behind themselves, perhaps expecting that Paetrick’s plea was a cry to get them to spare his fellow monks. Turning, they saw a slim woman with a flimsy blade, and they laughed contemptuously.
One of the raiders leapt at her without hesitation. A sharp ax flew for her neck. He was fast—much faster than she expected. She barely jumped to the side before being cut. This was no food to play with.
Faela reached deep inside herself, into her stomach and the bottomless void of energy it was connected to. She felt as if every nerve in her body was both on fire and sweltering with bliss. There was nothing but tension. The bandit, grinning like a maniac, swung for her head.
Release.
A blast of fire exploded from Faela’s mouth. The assailant was swallowed by it. She didn’t hear him scream. She didn’t look at the wreckage that was left of his body. She even knew enough by now to push the smell of charred flesh from her nostrils before it had a chance to settle.
To his credit the dead man’s comrade didn’t flee, though he was as white as snow. He came at her sword in hand but had none of his dead ally’s skill.
She swatted away the sword that came for her with her own. Her attacker’s blade spun from his hand, and she ended him quickly.
Paetrick simply stared at her open-mouthed. The monk next to him was wide-eyed. “So that is the power of a Dragon,” he whispered. He stared into her silver eyes with awe.
“You’ve never seen a Dragon?” she asked with contempt.
Faela had no time to hear whatever answer the old monk might have given because another raider sprinted towards her. She slashed at him diagonally, but he rolled to avoid the blow and tapped her leg. She felt a sudden chill spread throughout her body.
Cursing, she saw he put some piece of sticky paper on her. She wiped it off and charged. The man was broad-shouldered with a thick, red beard that fell to his waist. Drawing a sword, he defended himself from her torrent of blows while laughing through chipped yellow teeth all the while.
“Stop this insanity!” Paetrick pleaded with them.
To Faela’s surprise, they did. For a moment.
She took in the surrounding scene. Half a dozen of the monks lay dead or grievously wounded. The others were hiding where they could. The bandits had fared better so far, but surely they would be shaken now that they realized there was a Dragon amongst their prey.
“Leave now!” Paetrick cried. “She’s a Dragon. She’ll kill you all! Don’t you see?”
The raider with the red beard laughed.
“Go ahead then, Dragon,” he sneered. “Burn me up!” He pointed his sword directly at her.
Provoked to rage, Faela intended to do just that. She reached back inside of herself and prepared to roast the man.
A pain unlike any she had experienced rushed through her body. She felt a terrible chill. A disconnect. There was no void of power within her.
A deep fear welled in the pit of her stomach.
“What did you do to me?” she demanded.
The raider laughed again. A gust of wind swept the Chillway.
“Not familiar with runes, are you Dragon? How unusual for an elf. I would have thought you’d know more about the old ways.”
She ground her teeth together in anger. The arrogance. Such men were all the same.
“I suppose they don’t have red monkey flower where you’re from. It’s a rare plant from the East with incredible magical potency and an extreme ability to resist fire. Crushed and mixed with ink, it can block even the fire of a Dragon when drawn into the right rune.”
Faela felt panic begin to rise in her chest as her heart pounded. She had never heard of such a thing, but there was no doubting what was plain before her.
Her fire was gone.
The surrounding bandits laughed and stepped in. They seemed unconcerned with the monks. They knew there were no warriors among them. Faela would be the next to die.
“You seem highly pleased with yourself,” Faela said, desperately searching for a way to buy some time. “Tell me, how long did it take you to cook up this bit of treachery?”
The bandit smirked. “Delaying won’t help you. Your fire won’t be back for days. Maybe weeks. Not that it will matter to a corpse.”
She flew at him. If that was true, then her only hope was to fight her way out of this, and she still knew how to use a blade.
The bandit was caught off guard but still managed to block the first blow as he stumbled backwards. Before she could land the next one, the rest of her enemies fell upon her.
She had to spin her sword like a windmill in a storm to keep from being speared. Four of the bandits were on her, sending jabs at every inch of her body. She deflected most of them—but not all. A cut to her right shoulder. Her left knee. Then one that just scraped the surface of her neck so lightly it drew only the thinnest line of blood.
This was no good. They were going to wear her down, but she couldn’t stop defending herself. With
four warriors on her, the smallest hesitation would mean death.
Mud slid under her right boot. She fell backwards, landing hard on a stone with her elbow that sent shockwaves up her arm and throughout her body. Her sword flew from her hand.
They moved in for the kill.
The bandit who took her fire stopped. Without warning he dropped to his knees. The hatchet they had used to chop the firewood last night was embedded in the back of his skull. Behind him, Paetrick’s green eyes shone with horror, and his hands trembled.
Without much regard for their fallen comrade, the bandits turned to Paetrick. “Well done, boy,” one of them said. “Who knew a monk would be able to kill a man like Jereh? Even if you did kill him like a sneaking woman!”
They hooted with laughter. “I have an idea!” One of them said slapping Paetrick hard on the back. “How’d you like to be a legend, monk?”
To Faela’s shock the bandit put a sword in his hand.
“Monk Dragon-slayer. That’s what you’ll be. Kill the Dragon and we’ll let you live. How does that sound?”
Faela’s jaw clenched with anger. How could any living being be so cruel? She knew if she had her fire she would be unable to control the explosion that would devour these beasts.
Paetrick gave a high-pitched battle shriek and tried to take the nearest bandits head. The man dodged the clumsy blow with ease and punched Paetrick so hard in the stomach that the wind left his body, and he dropped like a stone.
“Guess we’re not all meant to be the stuff of legends, boy,” he spat.
Poor fool, Faela thought. She knew if Paetrick had done it she would have let him. Better one of them live than nobody. But she also knew the reason she felt that way was because Paetrick was the type of person who would never do it.
“Enough already!” The bandit roared. He turned his attention to Faela. “Know Dragon, that you brought this on—”
He couldn’t finish his thought because a thick, black arrow with ghostly white feathers had sprouted from the center of his forehead.
The world froze for just one moment.
Then chaos.
A group of wolves descended upon them. The bandits were stumbling over themselves trying to flee, but they were cut down by the sharp, steel blades of the defenders of King Boldfrost’s realm.
Faela grabbed Paetrick and pulled him away from the fighting that had broken out. It was pure slaughter. The wolves were not taking prisoners and not asking questions. She supposed that was the advantage of traveling with monks of the Temple of Ice and Shadow. The support of these troops fell to them by default.
It was over within a minute. The remaining bandits lay still over piles of red snow. A commander with a wolf-skin headdress that fell over his eyes and an ink-black paw print on his chest approached her.
“What’s happened here?” he asked.
“We were attacked in the night,” she said. “They came from nowhere.”
“Filthy bandits,” the commander sneered. “These bastards prowl the Chillway from here to the Southlands. I should not have thought them bold or sinful enough to attack a group of monks, but the evils of men will never surprise me.”
Faela frowned. For bandits the men seemed well-off. Their thick black cloaks were warm and looked new. Their steel was sharp. It appeared to be forged by a capable blacksmith.
She held her tongue.
The wolves quickly surveyed the situation and were on their way. They had little interest in attending to the corpses of highway murderers and said they had important work to do elsewhere. The remaining monks gave their thanks to the wolves, said prayers for the fallen, and attended to their injured.
Faela knew something wasn’t quite right.
These men, they were no ordinary bandits. To wield magic from the far East that could stop the power of a Dragon—just as they happened to encounter a Dragon. It was too unlikely.
While the monks were distracted by tending to their own, she carefully searched the bodies of the dead bandits. Each one of them had a fair bit of silver, which she had no qualms of relieving them of. Each of them had expertly-crafted blades with uniquely designed hilts. She found one that had a large red ruby in its pommel and took it for herself.
If the wolves had stopped to take the time to really look at who they had just defeated, they certainly would have stripped them bare.
Then she found a rolled up parchment that caught her attention in the cloak of the bandit who took her fire.
“What are you doing?” Paetrick shouted as he approached her. “Are you robbing these men?”
She furrowed her brow. “Do you really have a problem with robbing the corpses of men who tried to kill us?”
“Yes! It’s…it’s…ungodly!”
“Ungodly? Then it’s a good thing I’m traveling with a group of monks. I trust you’ll pray for my forgiveness.”
Ignoring his stammered protests she opened the scroll
Your aid has been most appreciated. In due time, I suspect we shall have even grander purposes to put you to. For now however, stopping Boldfrost’s plan is of the highest importance. Every Dragon that can be killed before reaching Iryllium will earn you another taste of our lord’s favor.
Do this work until it is complete, and then we will speak in the same manner to which you are accustomed.
Remember, there will be those of fickle loyalty in your group who may seek to stop you. Remind the men that loyalty to a false king is akin to treason. There has, and only ever will be, one true ruler of a united Gaellos.
I look forward to hearing of your success.
There was no signature.
“My gods,” Paetrick breathed. “What could it mean? One true ruler of a united Gaellos?”
Faela’s eyes narrowed. She could have told Paetrick many things about what the cryptic message meant.
She simply said, “It means more men will die.”
Chapter 4
Godwin stumbled backwards.
Stunned, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. As soon as his fingers brushed it, they went limp.
“Going to draw your blade on me, are you?”
Her voice was as merciless as ever.
“Yaura…”
She stood before him watching with hawkish hazel eyes. Ringlets of black hair fell to her shoulders. Her whole body was carefully covered in thick leather armor underneath a sky-blue tunic sewn from lamb’s wool.
Godwin attempted to make some sort of apology, but his words failed him.
Yaura’s fingers stroked the thrygta that formed the pommel of the blade at her waist.
“That’s all you can say to me? My name?”
Her voice was venom.
The Warden, finally discovering his own voice, began barking like a little dog. “What’s the meaning of this? Who is this woman? She’s not authorized to be in this facility!”
“Calm yourself, old man,” Yaura said dismissively without glancing at him. “You’re whistling like a teakettle.”
Her eyes never left Godwin. Not even to blink.
“It’s okay,” Godwin said to the Warden, not wanting to cause more of a scene than was already unfolding. “She’s Shigata, as you can plainly tell from the dragon-in-chains pommel on her sword. Now…”
He turned his full attention to her. She should have been whistling like a teakettle as well. He could see all the rage that was seething beneath the surface. But Yaura was discipline incarnate. If any steam hissed from her ears, it would be because she wanted to heat the room.
He knew he had to say something.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you in…has it been ten months?” His voice was shaky.
“Thirteen and a half. Glad you’ve been keeping a diligent track of the time. If only you could have kept track of me half so well when we were crawling through Jagjaw.”
“Yaura, I didn’t have a choice…”
“Ho!” The Warden tittered obnoxiously, his heavy, fat cheeks puffed like a fireplace bellow. �
�What have we here? A lover’s quarrel? Well this isn’t the time for it!”
Yaura gave him a look that would have shattered ice, and the old man immediately fell silent. “I assure you, Warden, you would greatly advance your own interests by biting your tongue. Now be quiet.” She turned her gaze back to Godwin. “How could you, Godwin? I never thought you one to act so cravenly. We were alone, in the mountains, surrounded by bandits and marauders. And you left me.”
Godwin ground his teeth. “This really isn’t the time, Yaura. Besides, you should understand. I didn’t leave you because I was scared. We were on a mission. I had to go after the clan leader. He was terrorizing half the Southlands, and he was getting away. There was only an instant that I had to act, or I would have lost the trail.”
She huffed. “I see. What’s a little collateral damage so long as you get your kill? I trust you did? The oafs at Unduyo wouldn’t say a word to me about it. They seemed to be under the impression that I had abandoned my contract and therefore any right to know the outcome.”
Godwin’s face immediately reddened. He knew when he next saw Yaura it was going to be bad, but he never imagined that the Sages would have refused to tell her the outcome of the contract.
“It was that terrible, was it?” she pressed.
“It would…well, it appeared that—”
“Will you stop your babbling and tell me what great victory you won by leaving me alone in the mountains surrounded by thugs and rapists?”
“No further action on my part was required. The clan leader was killed by his own men by the time I caught up to them.”
Godwin said all of it very quickly and became incredibly interested in his boots after the words tumbled out.
“No further action?”
She annunciated each syllable sharply as she spoke. “In other words, you left me alone to die for no fucking reason whatsoever?”
“Yaura—”
She struck him again.
Godwin stared at her. She was positively fuming.
“Did that make you feel better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He snorted. She smiled.