by Resa Nelson
A shaft of light from the dimly-lit hallway fell into the room. Frandulane made out a small satchel left open on the floor. Light glinted off the blade of a small ax. He’d heard somewhere that dragonslayers kept a variety of weapons in case their sword became damaged. That way, a dragonslayer could continue his business while waiting for a blacksmith to repair his sword.
Beyond the satchel, Frandulane made out the figure of a man asleep in a narrow bed.
What now?
In that moment, Frandulane realized he’d spent years imagining the moment he’d confront Skallagrim but hadn’t decided exactly what to say when that time actually arrived. He stood still, not knowing what to do.
Cousin Einarr nudged him.
All the rage and disappointment Frandulane had been nurturing came to a head and drove him into action.
Frandulane withdrew the sword sheathed at his side, strode into the room, and drove the sword into the figure on the bed.
The sword impaled the figure as if it were made of butter.
The sensation caught Frandulane off guard. He’d been expecting to meet the resistance of bone and muscle and sinew.
Why didn’t Skallagrim cry out in pain?
Frandulane first pulled his sword free and then ripped back the covers. Realizing his own body blocked the dim light spilling through the doorway, he stepped aside.
No blood sullied the bed because it held no mortal body. Instead, the covers had been drawn over crumpled sheets and pillows that he’d mistaken for the shape of a body.
Frandulane’s heart pounded at the thought that he would have murdered his own cousin had Skallagrim been in this bed.
What have I done?
His cousins entered the room with steps as timid as mice.
“He’s not there,” Cousin Tungu said. His breath sounded thin and wispy, as if he felt the same fright. “Nobody’s there.”
His cousin’s fright transformed Frandulane’s feelings into exhilaration. He felt proud of the way he’d rushed forward and stabbed the bed.
Next time, he’d make sure he found the right target.
“Here you are.”
Frandulane turned to see the woman standing in the doorway.
She stared at the sword in his hand until he put it back in the sheath. “I came to say we’re out of lamb shanks. The winter-root stew will have to do. I’ll have it at your table shortly.” She turned and walked away.
Frandulane smiled, realizing he’d worked up an unexpected appetite.
CHAPTER 10
Skallagrim rode throughout the night, grateful for the bright starlight but wishing he had the help of the absent moon as well. He rode one horse and led the other on the beach wherever he could find sand. When he encountered beaches full of sharp rocks, Skallagrim traveled through the marsh grasses beyond those rocks, mindful to stay away from bogs where the horses could become stuck in the muck.
By the break of dawn, he reached a wide and flat beach of soft, white sand. But when he tried to lead the horses onto it, they protested with snorts and whinnies.
Skallagrim remembered one of his earliest lessons in dragonslaying.
Be mindful of any animal in your presence that acts scared. It probably has good reason. A frightened animal can be your best first indication of a dragon lying in wait.
No trees grew this close to the ocean. Surrounded by sand dunes and beach grass, Skallagrim saw nothing to which he could tie the horses’ reins. He didn’t dare let go of them. “Easy,” he told the horses. “I won’t let anything harm you.”
The horses jerked their heads and took several steps back, dragging Skallagrim with them.
A sharp wind whipped in from the sea, and it lifted an empty dress of flowing red silk up from behind a dune jutting into the water. The dress floated through the air like a damselfly and then dropped onto the highest part of the beach, far away and safe from the incoming tide.
Startled, the horses wrenched their reins free from Skallagrim’s grip.
Before he could lunge toward them, he heard a woman scream.
Fiera’s sister!
Skallagrim turned toward the scream but saw no one.
Behind him, the horses bolted back toward Gott.
A dragon climbed from behind the dune jutting into the ocean. It stood on top of the dune and hissed as if marking its territory.
Where is the woman? Is she still alive? Can I find her?
Skallagrim ran toward the dune, which towered high above his head. He kept one hand on the pommel of the dragonslayer sword sheathed across his back, ready to draw it in an instant.
He’d never seen a dragon run on or through sand before. Its long, curved claws would give it all the purchase it needed. Skallagrim knew he had no advantage on this terrain.
But with another hiss, the dragon turned its back and disappeared over the crest of the dune, presumably running down its southern slope.
As soon as Skallagrim reached the dune, he slowed his pace to a careful walk.
The incoming tide crept near his feet, sliding over mortal footprints left in the wet sand.
Bare feet. The woman was here.
Skallagrim thought better of calling out. He didn’t want the dragon to know his position.
The sand displayed only the single set of mortal footprints and none that would have been made by the dragon.
Maybe she’s hiding. Maybe she’s still alive.
Skallagrim took out his sword and held it with both hands. He kept it pointed directly in front of his body, ready to deliver a blow if needed. He stole around the side of the dune, looking for signs of the woman or the dragon.
He felt the dragon strike him before he saw it. A wicked blow to his chest knocked the wind out of his lungs and the sword from his hands.
Gasping for breath, Skallagrim looked up to see the dragon’s tail swinging toward his head moments before it knocked him unconscious.
CHAPTER 11
“Are you alright?” a woman’s voice said. “Please tell me you’re alright.”
When Skallagrim cracked his eyes open, the first thing he noticed was the height of the sun directly overhead. He squinted in the harsh light. “It’s late,” he said. “It’s mid-day already.”
Finding his body splayed upon the beach where the dragon had felled him like a tree, Skallagrim felt the fine, soft sand beneath his hands. Tilting his head back, he saw the dune. Dragon claw marks covered its surface.
“Drink some water,” the woman said.
Still squinting, Skallagrim saw little more than a blurry figure kneeling next to him. He started at the touch of a skin full of water at his lips but then drank greedily.
A warm and gentle hand pulled it away. “Be careful. Too much too soon could make you ill.”
Skallagrim’s vision came into focus, and he gaped at the beauty of the woman kneeling by his side. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders like curls of smoke. Her pale skin glowed with a pink flush as if she were sitting close to a hot fire. Her eyes appeared to have a delicate slant that reminded him of Mistress Po. Skallagrim realized that this woman spoke with the same kind of accent as Mistress Po. “You’re from the Far East,” he said.
The woman became very still. “Is that a problem?” Her voice carried a slight ache, and the sound of it pierced Skallagrim’s heart.
Worried that he’d offended her, Skallagrim protested. “No! Not at all. I have a good friend from the Far East.”
The woman tilted her head as if not quite sure if she could believe him.
Her look made Skallagrim nervous. “To be more accurate, she was my teacher.” Remembering that he’d not only seen a dragon but that it had knocked him unconscious with its tail, Skallagrim searched the landscape of the beach to make sure the beast didn’t lurk somewhere nearby. “She taught me how to quell dragons.”
The woman gave a slight gasp. “Quell dragons? I know of no one in my country who can do that, much less teach it.”
Skallagrim thought back to his t
raining days at Bellesguard. “She wasn’t actually a dragon queller. She was a companion to my teacher.”
“He taught you how to quell dragons?”
“No,” Skallagrim said. “He taught me how to kill them.”
The warm pink flush faded from the woman’s face. “I see.”
“But his companion—Mistress Po—she was known as a demon queller.”
The woman regained her composure. She spoke with certainty. “Pingzi Po.”
“Yes! That’s her.”
“She honored you. Pingzi Po belongs to the royal house of Po. She’s related to Emperor Po, the great ruler of the city of Zangcheen in the Wulong Province of the Far East.”
Royalty? Mistress Po? Why didn’t anyone tell us?
“I didn’t know,” Skallagrim said. “But she was a good teacher and friend to me.”
The woman smiled. “Not everyone in the Northlands is welcoming to those from the Far East.”
Skallagrim chuckled. “We hardly ever see anyone from the Far East. Probably, people just don’t know what to make of you.”
She handed the skin of water back to Skallagrim. “Slow sips this time,” she said.
When he accepted the water from her, the woman’s hand grazed his skin.
Her touch felt like tiny sparks from a fire landing on Skallagrim’s skin. The sensation had a slight sting, but it also warmed and vibrated in such a pleasant way that it made Skallagrim feel as if he were coming alive, back from the dead.
When she looked into his eyes, Skallagrim felt as if she were staring straight into his soul in such a way that he felt truly seen for who he was and accepted for it. “My name,” the woman said, “is Lumara.”
Skallagrim swallowed hard and forgot to drink from the skin of water in his hand. “Skallagrim.” When he looked into her eyes, a feeling of hope and happiness washed over him. Skallagrim felt as if he’d come home to a place more welcoming than anything he’d ever known. Overwhelmed by the feeling, he became nervous and talked too much. “I’m a Scalding. From Tower Island.” He pointed inland. “It’s that way, but not on the land. It’s an island. It’s in the sea.” Not knowing what to do with his pointing hand, Skallagrim ran it through his hair, hoping the wind hadn’t already blown through it enough to make him look like a ragamuffin. “I’m a dragonslayer.”
Lumara looked at him with such intent that it made him tremble.
Even more nervous, Skallagrim kept rambling. “I trained at Bellesguard in the Southlands. That’s where I met Mistress Po, but she’s not the one who taught me how to kill dragons. That was Master Benzel.”
“Benzel of the Wolf.”
Skallagrim looked at her in astonishment. “You know of Master Benzel?”
“Everyone in the Far East knows of Benzel of the Wolf.”
Perplexed, Skallagrim said, “How? I mean, why? Are there dragonslayers in the Far East? Does he teach there, too?”
Lumara’s expression became forbidding. “No one kills dragons in the Far East. People honor them instead.”
Before Skallagrim could pepper her with questions, Lumara’s gaze lifted above and beyond his head.
Afraid the dragon that attacked him had returned, Skallagrim followed her gaze toward the sea.
A merchant ship sailed far from the shore in the direction of the Midlands.
Skallagrim forgot his nerves and jumped to his feet. He waved frantically and shouted. “Here! We’re over here!”
Lumara remained seated. “I don’t think they can hear you.”
Skallagrim continued waving and shouting, but the ship continued sailing without a sign that anyone on board noticed him. “No!” Skallagrim shouted. He paced, wracked with panic. “That’s the ship I bought passage on. It wasn’t supposed to sail until later.”
“I see no need to worry.”
“No need?” Skallagrim felt more helpless by the moment. “It’s my duty to follow the winter route. That means making a final pass through the Midlands to make sure no dragons straggled behind when they migrated through. It means making a pass through the Southlands to make sure the dragons have cleared out of there as well.”
Lumara stood and brushed the sand from her dress.
For the first time, Skallagrim noticed it was the same dress he’d seen floating empty through the air when he first arrived. He remembered watching it land on the high end of the beach near the grass line.
Why wasn’t she wearing it? Why did she leave the dress empty?
The incoming tide lapped up over his feet, and Skallagrim skittered away from it. At the same time, he saw how the seawater had been washing away all the footprints surrounding him.
In a heartbeat, Skallagrim noted the types of footprints. From the dune over which the dragon had climbed, he saw a steady stretch of clawed footprints. But he didn’t see any mortal footprints he’d expect to see if Lumara had come from behind the dune or the ocean or the grass line. The only mortal footprints he saw were the ones he’d made from the opposite direction and the ones surrounding them.
Skallagrim gave a sharp look at Lumara. “Where were you before you found me?”
She nodded back at the large dune reaching out to the ocean. “Back there. The wind blew my dress away when I was bathing in the ocean.”
Skallagrim looked back at the footprints on the beach, but they were completely covered by the tide. When it receded, the water had compromised all the footprints to a point where it was impossible to distinguish mortal footprints from dragon footprints.
Did I really see what I think I saw?
“Skallagrim?” Lumara said.
He looked at her, not sure what he saw.
Lumara gave him a warm smile. In a teasing voice, she said, “Skallagrim Scalding of Tower Island. Dragonslayer. Dragon queller. Don’t worry about that passing ship. I think it is a gift.”
Puzzled by her words, Skallagrim snapped out of his anxiety. “How’s that?”
Lumara took his hand in hers.
Once more, his skin prickled from the spark-like sensation.
“If you miss your winter route, will the world end?”
Skallagrim considered the question. He’d never missed the winter route before. “I don’t know.”
Lumara laughed. “Are there no other dragonslayers who check the Midlands and scour the Southlands?”
“All dragonslayers do it.”
“And what happens once they check the Southlands?”
Skallagrim began to understand her point. “Dragons migrate back to a rocky island off the southernmost coast of the Southlands. They swim there. After all dragonslayers check to make sure there aren’t any dragons left in the Southlands, some spend the winter keeping an eye on the countryside. Some go to Bellesguard to help train new dragonslayers.”
“Has any other dragonslayer ever missed the winter route?”
“Sometimes.”
“Has it ever caused any problems?”
“There was one time when a rogue dragon attacked a village.” Skallagrim paused at the memory. “But there were two dragonslayers staying there, so they made quick work of it.”
Lumara shuddered.
Skallagrim remembered how Mistress Po never liked hearing stories about dragonslayers’ conquests, much less seeing a dragon killed.
Far Easterners are sensitive to that kind of thing. And what was it that Lumara said? Something about the Far East honoring dragons instead of killing them?
No one had ever perplexed Skallagrim as much as Lumara.
“It seems to me,” Lumara said, “that with all the merchants and tourists gone for the season that there will be many empty beds in Gott. I see no reason why we couldn’t each find a place to stay in the same city to weather out the winter.”
Unlike the silly Northlander girls in the Gott tavern, Lumara gave no indication that she wanted to share a bed with Skallagrim. Nor even stay under the same roof.
That made Lumara all the more attractive.
Skallagrim didn’t have th
e shallow urges he normally felt toward women who caught his attention.
Instead, his desires extended to wanting to know and understand Lumara. Skallagrim could think of nothing more enticing than spending the winter with her.
“And if we live in the same city for the winter,” Lumara continued, “we would have the chance to get to know each other.”
Skallagrim beamed. He turned his back to the ocean and the sight of the ship he’d intended to board leaving him behind. For the first time in his calling to be a dragonslayer, he didn’t worry about missing the winter route.
CHAPTER 12
Up until the moment when the unexpected happened, Pingzi Po was having a good day.
She walked the hilly streets in her neighborhood, one of dozens that formed the outer ring of the city of Zangcheen in the Wulong Province of the Far East. The royal palace and complex sat like a jewel in the center of a brooch. Lush green parks, temples to the dragon gods, and buildings for officials stood around the royal complex, leaving the homes for the city’s residents to form the perimeter.
As a relative of the Emperor Po, Pingzi had every right to live in her own apartment inside the royal palace like all of her relatives.
But unlike everyone else in the Po family, Pingzi had no desire to live a royal life.
She preferred a life of adventure. Pingzi counted her blessings every day that she’d been lucky enough to be born with the power of portents.
Even better, years before her birth, the need for a demon queller had been foreseen, which made it easy to leave not only the royal complex but the entire country.
Pingzi loved spring in Zangcheen. While she strolled down the dirt street crammed with angular wooden houses, Pingzi breathed in the subtle and fruity scent of dragon berry blossoms. The sun warmed her skin. A few whirling pods from a neighbor’s dove-leaf tree flew through the air on wings as delicate and brown as parchment paper. When she looked toward the neighbor’s yard, it gave her a start to see Benzel of the Wolf pruning the dove-leaf tree.