A Plague of Dragons (A Dragon Anthology)

by Jason LaVelle

  “Quaelle tath ulcan, Brienne?”

  His voice was pitched low and thick. Brie shivered, but, to her surprise, not in trepidation.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted a hand to tuck a stray curl of pale hair behind her ear.

  “I’m fine,” she managed. “Just dark memories.”

  She tried on a smile and made a waving gesture at her head. Dorran must have sensed her mood easing for he relaxed and ducked his own head once before returning to his task.

  Brienne let out a bigger breath, not realizing she had been holding it. Dear gods, had she been a woman with less self control she may have pressed herself to that naked chest and let events unfold as they may. Fortunately, she had the menial tasks of setting up camp and constructing a ring of stones for the fire to keep her busy the rest of the afternoon.

  The evening, like the one before, remained clear. Again, conversation was sparse while they sat around the fire, partaking from Brienne’s provisions since no one had managed to catch anything to eat that night. The next morning, they were upon the road once more just as the sun crested the eastern horizon.

  As had become his habit, Dorran took up the rear, with Brie leading the horse now that the trail had grown more narrow and unstable underfoot. Mynne, never shaking her suspicion of the foreigner, stepped as far away from him as she could without creating too much distance between herself and Brienne.

  Mynne, I really don’t think he means any harm, Brienne tried to tell her again.

  Even with those reassuring words, Brie could not help but cast a glance over her shoulder at their enigmatic companion from time to time. If Dorran wasn’t watching her with those smoldering eyes, his head was swiveling, his body tense, as if stretching all his senses outward to assess their surroundings for danger. He was behaving as a fellow soldier on guard. As a protector. Brienne fought back the shiver of pleasure threatening to course through her. She mustn’t allow herself to read into things. That, too, was its own kind of danger.

  He smells strange, the spirit guide sent, drawing Brienne back into the silent conversation.

  Brie chuckled. He doesn’t smell strange to me.

  You aren’t a wolf. And, you are distracted by his appearance.

  Brienne’s humor fled, and she scowled as heat crept up her neck.

  I am not, she insisted.

  Mynne, who had been several feet ahead of her on the trail, stopped and tilted her head in her friend’s direction. If she still had her eyes, they would be glittering with mischief then.

  Say what you will, but I can sense it. And it is more than his appearance that has you beguiled.

  Brienne drew in a mental breath to argue, but there was no point. Not only would Mynne stick stubbornly to her observations, but she was right. Another glance over her shoulder found Dorran standing just behind Dair, his expression flat except for the infinitesimal lift of one dark brow.

  Brienne clenched her teeth before letting out her breath. “We’ll travel a few hours more, then camp early.”

  She gestured with her hands, trying to sketch out a campsite and what she thought was an imitation of the sun setting. She had no idea if any of it made sense to the Firiehn man, but he nodded his head once, and she turned back around to continue their journey.

  Late that afternoon, the travelers settled down in the bottom of a small canyon wedged between two mountains. Dorran, still proving to be helpful on many fronts, disappeared for a spell and returned with some wild birds that turned out to be quite tasty once plucked and roasted.

  After their meal was consumed, both the Firiehn man and Faelorehn woman reclined on opposite sides of the fire as had become their custom. Brienne watched the flames dance, her mind wandering once more to a past she tried so desperately to forget. Frustrated that her demons refused to let her be, she glanced up to find Dorran watching her. She clenched her jaw.

  She wished she knew why he studied her so closely. Definitely curiosity, she assumed, for did she not sneak glimpses of him? But her own observations were most often fleeting. If he turned to find her watching him, she immediately glanced away. Dorran, however, seemed to have no qualms about getting caught staring. As if he had the right to do as he pleased. She didn’t dare think it was because he wished to get to know her better. Or that he might find her attractive. She snorted softly and rolled her eyes back to the fire.

  As if any man would want you after learning you’ve spent the past few years as the plaything of the Morrigan’s top general. Or once they set eyes upon your scars.

  Unconsciously, Brie lifted her hand and stroked her fingers over the raised and warped skin running down the right side of her face, wishing she had possessed healing glamour to mend it. Too late for any of that now. And if she was being truly honest with herself, she’d admit it was probably for the best that the scars remained. It encouraged people to keep their distance.

  Brienne had been so consumed with her dismal musings that she hadn’t realized Dorran was speaking to her. She blinked up at him.

  “What?”

  He gestured to her face, where her fingers were still stroking the patch of blemished skin beneath her ear. Brienne snatched her hand away, flushing.

  “Vello?” he asked, his tone calm, almost soothing. “Mohstral?” He made a clawing motion with his hand. “Fieriehl?” The fingers loosened and danced, but Brienne knew that last word.

  She sighed. She didn’t like to speak of her scars to anyone, but what was the harm in telling the story now? Besides, it might actually do her some good to talk to someone about this, to lessen the ache clenching her heart by sharing the words with another. Mynne, although her closest friend, didn’t count, for the spirit guide had been there, gone through the same horrors as her familiar.

  Brie drew in a deep breath and picked up one of the smaller branches nearby, tossing it into the fire.

  As the sparks thrown by her actions lifted and winked out of existence, she began.

  “I am on my own now,” she said, forcing the words past her tight lips, “but I once belonged to the Morrigan’s most trusted general, Raghnall O’Gadhra. A few weeks ago, I managed to slip away in the night, and now, I’m on the run. I got these scars,” Brie paused, the words clogging in her throat, as she drew upon memories she’d rather forget.

  This was going to be more difficult than she thought, and there was so much more to the story than a simple fall into the fire pit. But she wasn’t ready to give over all the details. Not yet.

  Clenching her eyes tight, she continued, despite the tremor in her voice, “I got these scars when I was thrown to the ground while trying to take Mynne away from them. I had done something to anger the Morrigan, and I was to be punished, as well as my spirit guide. They started with her. She was only a few weeks old, and they carved out her eyes while some of the other soldiers held me back. They would have done the same to me, but I managed to break loose and fall beside the campfire.”

  Shivers wracked her body as she recalled the horrible memory. The pure agony of hot coals pressed into her face and side, the choking scent of burning flesh and hair, the screams that tore her throat raw. With clenched teeth, Brienne managed to finish what she needed to get out. The first splinter removed in the process of freeing an arrow shaft lodged into her heart.

  “Instead of taking my eyes, they held me against the hot coals of the fire, branding me instead.”

  She finished her story with a gasp, then straightened, meeting the cru-athru man’s eyes. Brie thought they reflected the firelight, or maybe they simply matched the hue of the flames. Either way, his entire focus was on her, honed and sharpened like a well-made sword ready to taste blood. Not just his eyes, but his whole body, his entire being. She didn’t know much about the races of Firiehn, but she wondered if they all listened as intently as this man. It was often unnerving, but in this moment, it felt like the pressure of strong hands upon a bleeding wound. His attention was meant to staunch the pain which poured from her, not enhance it.


  “This,” she finally continued, her voice ragged as she gestured to her scars, “is what happens when you refuse to do what you are told by those far more powerful than you. But what they wanted me to do was wrong. It is a reminder to me that there are terrible things in this world, but there are also those things still worth fighting for.”

  That last part came out so quietly, the gentle whisper of the campfire nearly captured and whisked the words away. Dorran heard it anyway. Maybe it was his draghan hearing, or perhaps he hadn’t picked up her words, but her body language instead.

  A calm, heavy silence fell between them. An owl called out, it’s forlorn voice floating across the clear, cold night like the dull peal of a bell. Another answered, then another, their chorus matching Brienne’s mood. Tired of her melancholy, she sat up and shook off the clinging talons of her dark memories and glanced across the fire once more. Dorran watched her carefully, and she realized, too often, she was the one speaking and not him. Perhaps he had demons to air as well. Brienne decided to invite him to do so, though she started with what she hoped was a more pleasant topic.

  “Those tattoos,” she managed, sliding the fingers of one hand down her opposite arm, “what do they mean?”

  Dorran tilted his head, his eyes taking on a pensive gleam. He held his forearms out before him, studying the dark ink upon his tanned skin, then drew breath and dove into what Brie decided was a grand saga. For the next several minutes, she merely listened to his voice, imagining what each word might mean. He spoke very animatedly, using his hands, fingers, and facial expressions to paint a picture. By the time he finished his story, Brienne had drawn the conclusion that the tattoos were part of a ritual every young Firiehn man went through. She had no idea if this was true, but she liked that story, nonetheless.

  Mynne, who had been snoozing between Brienne and the place where Dair the horse had been settled for the night, drew in a snorting breath, then settled back down.

  Dorran picked up a few logs and added them to the fire, the sudden leap of flames illuminating his well-formed face. His eyes seemed heavy, and he sighed wearily. Only then did Brienne realize just how tired she was. She barely managed to cover a yawn before bidding Dorran a good night, then curled up under her blankets where she sat and fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Six

  Three days later, Brienne and Dorran found themselves on the final leg of their journey. In the west, Brie could just make out the dark green sea of trees that was Dorcha Forest, and to the north and east the mountains continued to rise.

  “There is a pass a few days ahead of us that will bring us over the mountains and into a part of Eile belonging to none of the Tuatha De lords or ladies,” she told Dorran as they stopped for the evening.

  The party had moved higher up along the mountainside, the trees more scarce than they had been before. Still, Brienne thought there was plenty of cover to guard them from possible enemies. Not that she had seen or sensed anyone since leaving the small village behind almost a fortnight ago. Even Mynne had relaxed her constant vigilance, though she still pretended as if Dorran did not exist.

  After the horse was settled and firewood had been gathered, Dorran approached Brienne and, using his hands and a few polite words she had decided meant ‘please’ and ‘bow’, he was traipsing off into the forest to hunt for their meal. For the past few nights, he had done this, either going off with no weapon at all or gently asking to borrow the bow.

  Do not give him any weapons to use against us, Mynne had snarled.

  When you can be reliable enough to feed us every night, Brienne had snapped back, I will be a little more guarded.

  At the pang of hurt coursing down their bond, Brienne had gentled her words. Forgive me, Mynne. I know you only mean to protect me, but surely, you must know he means us no harm?

  The wolf only returned tersely, I will believe it when I can read his thoughts or understand his words.

  Brienne grit her teeth but let the conversation drop. There was no arguing with Mynne, and she could only imagine she might feel the same way if she was blind. Dorran communicated so much with his eyes and actions, both of which Mynne could not detect. Perhaps Brie could encourage the wolf to watch Dorran through her own eyes, but then again, she might accuse her of impressing too much of her clouded opinion on the scene set before her. Mynne didn’t just distrust Dorran, but she felt her friend had been charmed by him as well.

  Sighing, Brienne pulled her sword free of the scabbard tied to Dair’s saddle. She then sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, tending to her weapon until Dorran returned to camp nearly an hour later. He had draped over his broad shoulders the carcass of a boar, blood oozing from an arrow wound through its chest. Brienne set aside her blade and raised her eyebrows.

  “In Eile,” she felt compelled to say, “boar are dangerous to hunt. Even when injured, they will charge you and gouge you with their tusks.”

  And this one, though not the largest she’d seen, had some wicked tusks Brienne couldn’t help but notice.

  Dorran only smiled at her, orange flames flickering in his eyes. She drew in a sharp breath. It was hard to think clearly when he looked at her that way. He meant nothing by it, she was sure. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it.

  Mynne’s self-satisfied comment, Beguiled, scrawled across her mind, and she batted it away.

  Unaware of the secret conversation between the spirit guide and her master, the Firiehn hunter set the boar aside and gestured toward Brienne’s sword.

  “Tatha syra anohr madtha?”

  Brienne furrowed her brow, recognizing only a few of those words, even if she still had no concept of their meaning. As had become her habit, she shrugged and gave an answer to her version of his question, “If I don’t keep it oiled and sharp, it might fail me the next time I need it.”

  Dorran nodded once, a quick jerk of his chin, and then turned and traipsed back to the edge of the pines and firs. Curious, Brienne stood and peered after him. He had disappeared from sight, but she could hear the sound of cracking wood and forest debris being brushed aside.

  Mynne, who had settled down for a snooze in the late afternoon sun, lifted her head and swiveled her ears in the man’s direction.

  Now what is the great oaf doing?

  Brienne glared at the white wolf. He is no oaf. Just because we do not speak the same language does not make him stupid.

  Mynne yawned. Forgive me. I shall try to be more kind in the future.

  “Right,” Brienne grumbled, as her companion got back to her nap.

  Dorran reappeared from the woods with two sturdy sticks in his hands. Walking sticks? That’s what they looked like, though they were a bit short. Why would he be making walking sticks now? Or did he mean to break them down into kindling?

  “What are these for?” Brienne asked, pointing at the one he held out to her.

  Dorran adopted a look of confusion, then his eyes lit up. He grinned, thrusting the stick forward and forcing Brie to take it from him. She pursed her lips and studied the branch. It only came up to mid arm if she stood it upon the ground. A good walking stick should be the same height as it’s wielder, in her opinion.

  When she glanced back up at Dorran, his purpose dawned upon her. He had taken a defensive stance and held the branch the way one might hold a sword in a high guard position.

  “Oh!” Brienne said in surprise. “You want to practice sword play?”

  He must have understood some portion of what she said because he nodded slowly.

  Brienne almost laughed in glee. She hadn’t had anyone to practice with in ages, and she had a feeling Dorran would be much kinder than the soldiers in the Morrigan’s army. This would be a treat, for sure. Even if he bested her, perhaps he would have some trick moves only the Firiehn warriors knew.

  Grinning like a fool, Brienne lifted her wooden sword and adopted her own guard, a low one. They would both end up with a lot of splinters and bruises without a crossguard, but that was a risk she was willi
ng to take. Already her blood heated and pumped through her veins, adrenaline giving it an extra kick.

  For a few moments, the two of them circled one another, eyes locked on each other’s faces looking for the most minute twitches that would give away an impending attack. Brienne bent her knees slightly and stayed on the balls of her feet, careful to keep her torso straight and her abdominal muscles strong. She breathed slowly, trying to sense Dorran’s movements as much as watch them.

  Eventually, the draghan man lunged forward with incredible speed. Brienne sidestepped just in time, lifting her sword into a higher guard to keep his from cracking against the side of her head. The sound snapped Mynne from her nap, and the white wolf was immediately on her feet, growling.

  Stand down, Mynne! Brienne managed, as she deflected another of Dorran’s blows. We are only sparring!

  The wolf could scent her master’s excitement and had only reacted on instinct. She stood for several moments more, hackles raised, as she listened to the mock fight progress. Only when she heard Brienne laugh and croon, “Didn’t expect that, did you?”, did she fall back onto her haunches. She remained awake, just in case this was some sort of trick, but the fur down her back lowered and she relaxed a little.

  Five minutes into the battle, Brienne was sweating and her breath was coming more swiftly. She had managed a few strikes, most of them blocked by Dorran, but one or two had scraped skin or left abrasions behind. Her next move cracked the wood against his knuckles, and he flinched, but stayed his ground. That would leave a nasty bruise, and Brienne had the sudden, inexplicable desire to end their match so she might tend to the injuries she caused him if only to get a chance to touch him, to feel the warmth radiating off his body. She had thought him an attractive man from the first time she saw him in his current form. Now that she had seen his skill as a swordsman, that attraction only burned brighter.