Dragonoak

by Sam Farren

  White met my eyes. Not the pure white of dragon-bone, but white nonetheless.

  And more importantly, it was bone.

  The sort of bone I'd spent hours staring at while at sea, lost in the pages of a tome dedicated to the phoenixes.

  CHAPTER XII

  My father had grown and raised much of his own food, bought anything he needed from Birchbridge, and though there was a small stockpile in the cellar, he hadn't been expecting company of any sort. The supplies he had didn't stand a chance against a pane's stomach – or indeed against Akela's – and began to dwindle noticeably within a fortnight.

  Not wanting to get this far only to starve, Akela and I headed to Eaglestone. Our plan was to walk there, buy all we could with a portion of the gold Atthis was holding onto, and pay someone to take us back by cart as close to the village as we could get without drawing suspicion. We could walk the rest of the way, and no one would know where we were going.

  Half a day into our journey, a woman taking cages of chickens to a farm beyond Eaglestone rolled past us, glanced back, and said if we didn't want to walk, we'd better hurry up. Beaming, Akela jogged after the cart, hopped into the back, and held out a hand to help me up.

  It was a far cry from the carriage I'd taken to Chandaran, as worn as it'd been. Akela and I sat on the same level as the chickens and the sides of the cart groaned as we leant against them.

  “Ah, yes. Much better. I am thinking we are getting to Eaglestone a lot faster now!” Akela declared, pushing a finger through the bars of a cage to scratching a chicken atop the head. “Once again, I am directing all my thanks your way, kindest of strangers.”

  The coins chimed together in my pocket with every bump in the road, and I kept my mind busy by going over all the things we needed. More flour, for a start; Akela and my father's joint efforts hadn't yet been enough to teach Atthis to bake what they considered to be a worthy cake. Kouris was happy to hunt within the forest, so we didn't have to worry about transporting livestock home. It was a shame she couldn't have come with us, but we were rightly cautious after what had happened on the way back from Praxis.

  Eaglestone was a shadow of the town it'd once been, but none within remarked on any changes.

  I squinted at the wall around the town, worried I'd come to the wrong place, and Akela waved the woman and her chickens off. She'd insisted on giving her a few coins for her troubles, but we still had more money than I rightly knew what to do with.

  “You know, Northwood, I am thinking to myself, I am thinking that once we are being done with all this nonsense, once it is being finished, I am buying a nice house, and I am raising chickens,” Akela told me as we strolled into Eaglestone. “What are you thinking? I am making quite the farmer, yes?”

  “I'm not sure having chickens and nothing else makes you a farmer,” I said, stepping onto the busiest street around, heading for the market.

  “Then I am also growing apple trees, yes. They are not taking much care, no?”

  “Less than chickens,” I said, and she nudged me in the side, almost knocking me into someone.

  Two years ago, I'd thought all the world had come to gather in Eaglestone. Now, I was disappointed by what little the market had to offer. There were dozens of stalls, merchants struggling to raise their voices over one another, but it was nothing compared to Mahon in the early evening, goods brought from distant lands in ships that didn't quite remember where they'd been. Everything in Eaglestone repeated itself: the clothes were all the same, only dyed in different shades, and the only variation within the food came in the form of a few coppers.

  “I am telling you, Northwood, I am carrying this all myself,” Akela insisted, swinging a sack of potatoes big enough to hide a body in over her shoulder.

  “It'll take us days to walk back,” I said, half-tempted to see how far she'd get before buckling. “And if we get a cart, we can get more food.”

  Akela hummed, carefully picked out slabs of butter like house bricks, and dropped them into the bag I was holding open.

  A flash of gold passed behind the far stalls, and I knew immediately that it wasn't the armour of the city guards. There was no way they'd pick me out from the crowd – I wasn't with a pane, and even if they stumbled across me, I really was Felheimish – but I fought back the urge to hurry out of Eaglestone. The only bags I had were full of food, I reminded myself. It didn't matter if they wanted to look through those.

  The soldiers moved towards the outskirts of the market, and I let Akela's curiosity get the better of me.

  “We're looking for volunteers,” one of them announced to an audience that was half-listening. People glanced over from their shopping, and having heard it all before, went back to bartering. “The restoration of Kastelir isn't an easy process. We're looking for people willing to help those less fortunate. Your time and hard-work will, of course, be compensated in the form of food and shelter.”

  It didn't take much to figure out which people their offer was directed to.

  Akela grinned, liking this option a lot more than hoping a dragon knocked another hole in the wall, and held her hand up in the air.

  “Yes?” the second soldier asked.

  A few in the crowd looked back towards us, hoping Akela was asking the same question they were mulling over.

  “Where are we signing up?” she asked.

  “In Benkor, five days from now. Groups will be organised and taken into Kastelir from dawn until dusk,” the soldier called over, and Akela patted me on the shoulder, grin not yet fading.

  The soldiers didn't seem thrilled by the prospect of dealing with a barrage of questions, and eager to get back to their previous patrol, hurried to conclude the announcement. Those who had listened began to murmur amongst themselves, and I bit back a smile; I didn't want anyone thinking I was too eager to march into a wasteland.

  Akela and I kept bumping each other's shoulders as we finished up shopping, buying a few things we didn't need, and behind us, people were muttering about the soldiers' announcement, on the verge of being utterly disinterested by it all.

  “Wouldn't wanna be stepping into Kastelir. I hear Prince Rylan's having all sorts of problems with the Agadians, and that's not to speak of all the dragons,” one man said. “If they knocked our wall clean through, imagine what they've done to Kastelir.”

  “Mm,” his companion agreed. “But those poor sods on the streets would probably go into the Bloodless Lands, if it meant food and somewhere to sleep for the night.”

  “Maybe. But you know what everyone says about the Agadian King. Don't pity the Prince one bit, having to deal with that.”

  I would've spun around and asked them what they meant and how Prince Rylan was involved in it all, but if I'd been in Felheim these past few years, I would've known for myself. It was of no matter, I thought. We had a way into Kastelir and we knew where to go; the resistance would be able to fill us in better than any marketplace gossip could.

  Arms full, Akela and I dragged all we'd bought over to the town gates. Akela puffed as she went, carrying the bulk of our purchases, already grateful that she wasn't being made to walk home.

  We waited by the stables, where travelling merchants gathered to attach their carts back to their horses, looking out for someone heading in the direction of my village. The first man we asked said he was passing Briarfeld, a village a handful of miles from my own, but the people there had often trekked to my room in the apothecary’s, and I didn't want to risk being recognised. We thanked the man and went back to waiting.

  “What do they say about the Agadian King?” I asked Akela, leaning close.

  “Hm. Well, as I am a proud Kastelirian, I am only able to repeat the rumours I am hearing,” she said, barely holding back a smirk. “But they are saying that the King of Agados, he is being very, very old. And I am not comparing him to Atthis, no! Older than all that! Centuries, perhaps. Of course, it is only a rumour, so who is able to say what is true?”

  “Centuries old? What do
you think?”

  “I am thinking that no one in living memory is remembering the last King, the last coronation, and I am thinking that no one is ever seeing him,” Akela said, and with a shrug, added, “It is explaining why nothing is ever seeming to change, if nothing else, yes?”

  A year back, Atthis had told me that he expected Agados had found a way to involve themselves. The assassination of a King had been enough to draw them out once, so surely the devastation of an entire Kingdom would do the same. We'd all worked hard putting that possibility out of our minds, already having more than enough to worry about.

  Two merchants heading for Ironash allowed us to lug our things into the back of their cart. They were transporting a range of rugs, which meant we weren't accompanied by the constant sound of clucking, and we said our goodbyes on the path winding around the valley. It took us three trips to carry all of our things to the farm house, and by the end of it, I'd worked up the sort of sweat that merely existing in Canth demanded.

  Kouris was behind the house, replacing the parts of the stable that were worse for wear. She held nails between her lips as she hammered newly carved planks into place, tearing the old, brittle ones away with her claws. Kouris had a way of seeming content no matter where she was, whether that meant threatening pirates in Canth or helping out around a farm, and I watched her work for a few moments, well aware she'd heard me approach.

  Climbing onto the hay bales against the stable made me slightly taller than her, horns notwithstanding, and I draped my arms over her shoulders, once I had her attention. She smiled at me, a little puzzled to see me in such high spirits.

  “Get everything you were after?” she asked, pulling a nail from between her fangs.

  “More. We figured out how to get into Kastelir,” I said, buzzing with excitement.

  Raising an eyebrow, she said, “I'm not about to carry you over that wall, yrval.”

  Kouris was far too pleased by the way I rolled my eyes, but I was in no mood to keep her in suspense as a punishment.

  “Oh, it's better than that. We won't have half the army chasing us!” I told her. “They'll take us into Kastelir. They're looking for volunteers, people to help restore Kastelir. If we can get to Benkor in a few days, then all we have to do is head for Orinhal once we're in.”

  Kouris knelt, dropped her hammer onto a hay bale, then wrapped her arms around my waist, lifting me clean into the air.

  “We'll be allowed to wander in, just like that?” she asked. “It's that easy?”

  “I think so! Unless you've changed your mind. I mean, you can still carry me over the wall, if you want.”

  Akela gave Atthis and my father the news, and we spent the evening making a feast of what we'd brought back from market. Kouris ensured that our glasses were always full, and we celebrated as though we weren't fully aware of what awaited us. I was uncomfortable with the thought of leaving my father alone again, but would never put him at risk by taking him along, and he didn't once try to make a place in our plans.

  I spent that night packing. No one had asked what'd been in the bags, and I wasn't about to bring it up of my own volition, but I took what I could, hoping I'd start to feel some manner of comfort in having it close. I left the gauntlets in the top drawer of my cabinet, tucked the chains between layers of old clothes, and placed the book, the knife and the box within my bag, hidden under clean shirts.

  My father knocked at my door as I was fastening the straps of the bag, and when I grunted in the affirmative, he came in and perched on the edge of the bed.

  “I know you don't want me to leave,” I pre-empted him. “But I have to. And I know it won't be safe, but that's why I have Kouris and Akela.”

  “That's not what I was going to say,” he said, leaning forward and placing a hand on my shoulder. “I just wanted you to know that I'll be here. That there's a place for you – for you and your friends – no matter what happens in Kastelir.”

  Swaying to the side, I leant against his knee. Neither of us said anything, but I stayed like that until I was ready to sleep.

  In the morning, my father saw Atthis, Akela and myself off. Kouris had gone on ahead with Katja, leading her out of the valley, leaving me minutes away from having to face her again. Akela said her goodbyes by slapping my father on the back and Atthis spent far too long shaking his hand. My father implored him to write, should he find the time, and I waved as we left, turning back every few minutes to keep waving, until my father was out of sight.

  We regrouped at the border of the forest.

  Wherever Katja'd been kept, she'd had access to a bed, bath and hairbrush, and was on the verge of looking like her old self. We'd all been eager to leave, but once Katja was amongst us, she was the only one who managed to look cheerful.

  “Might I have permission to speak in your presence once again?” Katja asked, as though what I'd said to her in the inn had been nothing but a light-hearted joke.

  “No,” I snapped, eyes fixed on hers, waiting for her to say another word. Waiting for her to give me a reason to ball my hands into fists, to lash out against her.

  Katja blinked first, turning her head away with a click of her tongue.

  The trip to Benkor took less time than I'd expected it to. I'd only approached it from Praxis in the past and hadn't accounted for how much closer we were. Making the journey on foot made me feel as though I'd wasted those first twenty-three years of my life, convinced the rest of the world was out of reach to someone like me, when I could've walked to cities big enough to swallow my village whole a dozen times over.

  Along the road we stopped to eat but rarely talked, and passing travellers would look back warily at us, alarmed by the pane, mouthing to ask if we were alright. I found that my village wasn't the only one that'd been hollowed out. The plague had spread far without a healer to temper it, and entire settlements stood abandoned, doors and windows sealed shut, keeping the putrid air inside.

  But it was Benkor that had changed more than anywhere I'd yet to see within Felheim. Trade was controlled more strictly than ever, and supplies only made their way over from Kastelir through Praxis' gate. With their way of life disrupted, the Benkorians had fallen on hard times; shops had been driven out of business and what work there was left to be done had been squabbled over.

  Refugees from Kastelir hadn't been able to get into Felheim – we'd tried all we could, pounding on the barricaded gates included – but the city was cramped with those who'd survived the plague, houses full to the brim, streets overflowing.

  I made my way to the centre of town without catching anyone's eye. Benkor reeked of disease more than it ever had, and I wondered if I could cleanse the entire city with a single burst of what was building up in my chest. In spite of the poverty riddling the city, there were more staying behind than offering themselves up to the Kastelirian restoration project, which should've been my first indication of what lied beyond the wall.

  “Here we are,” Atthis said, stopping to take it all in. “Remember: we break off into groups, and under no circumstances do you use your real names. Understood?”

  Aliases were being employed for the benefit of the others, whose names had once held some weight within Kastelir, but there was always the chance that neighbouring villages had whispered the name of the necromancer who'd deceived them far and wide.

  “Understood,” I said, speaking for everyone. “We'll meet up in Orinhal. No matter how many detours we have to take, that's where we have to go.”

  Akela wrapped an arm around my shoulders, lugging me off towards the gathering group of volunteers, and I smiled at Kouris and Atthis, silently wishing them luck. We were barely a hundred feet away from Kastelir. If there was ever a time for things to go wrong, this seemed like it.

  Only a few hours had passed since dawn, and people were still slowly trickling into the city. Akela and I joined a queue of dozens, winding around a severe looking column in the centre of the square, sans any sort of statue atop it. Deciding that it was t
he perfect opportunity to mull over how terribly things were going to end, I couldn't help but picture myself bursting into light, giving us all away.

  Patting me on the shoulder, Akela said, “There, there, Northwood. I am sure we are finding plenty of chances for me to bake more cakes!”

  Free of my thoughts, I focused on the line ahead of me. It led into a tent that had been hastily assembled for this very reason, desks strewn across the width of it. Four people were working behind them, taking down the names of those who filtered in without much regard for them as people. None of those around me had a home to call their own, and half hadn't eaten in far too long; I got the impression that they were being sent to Kastelir to be kept out of the way, rather than to help.

  Those taking down names did so with their faces pressed closed to their books, and when I was called over, I almost didn't recognise the woman I was stood in front of.

  She looked up by chance, brushing her hair out of her eyes and froze at the sight of me. She realised she knew me before she could say from where, and when it suddenly hit her, she leant back in her seat, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “You're... you're the healer,” she murmured. “You saved my child, didn't you?”

  “I—yes,” I said in a panicked whisper, leaning forward. It'd been years since that day, since I took her baby from her arms and eased the rot out of him. “Please don't say anything. I just want to go to Kastelir to help people, but if they know I'm a healer before I get there, the soldiers will want me to stay in Felheim.”

  The woman nodded, eyes flashing as if she owed me so much more than her silence, and said, “Do you remember who I am? I'm sure you've helped countless people, so...”

  “I remember! I helped your son, back when he was a baby. His name is James, isn't it?”

  She blinked back something dangerously close to tears and shifted to the side, so that I could see behind her. James, almost three years old now, was sat on the ground, eating a sticky bun. I waved to him and he stared blankly, shoving more of the bun into his mouth.