by Sam Austin
“The soldiers took Ness five days ago, after your father…” Mrs Moore’s voice trails away into tears. Neven moves quickly to wrap his arms around her. She clings to him like she’s drowning, her sobs ragged and heavy.
Bonnie shifts from foot to foot. Tears had never been something she’d been good at. Both Ness and Neven had been better at comforting children after scraped knees than her, and this is a lot more painful than a scraped knee. Mr Moore had been her protector for four years. He hadn’t been her father, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t love him in her own way.
Alice stands with her arms half raised, like she wants to help comfort but knows it’s not her place. Gelert raises his head from the dirt with a questioning whine.
“I don’t - I don’t think he’s gone far,” Bonnie says once the tears die down to quiet sniffs. She feels weak limbed and empty. Useless. The enormity of the past few days hits her, and she hates it. She can’t act the woman and find a way to ease Neven’s mother’s pain. She can’t play the man and use her sword to end this farce. "Dragons nest in the north. If one somehow made it through the barrier, that's where it should've come from. The north guardian stones are manned by druids. One of them must've sent a message to the city. That's why they were gathering the army."
Neven pulls away from his mother. "I get it. The city is ten days march away, and if they're recruiting at every town and village it's going to take a lot longer. Why lead your soldiers away when the war is already at their feet?"
Find Ness. Kill the dragon. That's what all this was for, right? Her parents will finally be avenged, and she'll have her knighthood. So why does she feel so bad?
***
"They were dead," Alice says again. "Really dead. Real life dead."
Bonnie winces. The memory of burying the twins with the rest of their family is sore enough, yet Alice keeps poking at it. "You've seen dead before. I saw Gelert's field of bones."
They walk together across grass and through sparse woods. There's no road to Porthdon, but it's not so bad. Though the ground is uneven, full of little holes that can break your ankle if you're not careful, most of the way is free of quick mud.
"I didn't look at the bones," Alice says, shuddering. "And I didn't watch when he - killed." She's changed a lot from the spotless girl she's found in that tower. She still wears Bonnie's woollen dress over her own, but both are shredded and caked in dirt. She's lost one of her silk slippers and the other is worn through. Her hair is more frizzy than curled, and mud is smeared all over her face and limbs.
She's easily more ragged than all of them, and that's saying something. For the first time Bonnie wonders if Alice knows how to wash. It's not like she'd have the opportunity with a magic tower cleaning up her messes. She makes a note to watch her the next time they come to a water source.
"Your dragon is being weird again!" Neven shouts from ahead of them.
Gelert is walking behind the boy, his massive stomach parallel with the girls. His head hovers over Neven's head, sniffing at the boy's hair and causing his clothes to flap with every exhale of breath. Being friendly? Tasting his future dinner? Bonnie's not sure. The thought makes her as uneasy as her still numb arm.
"Throw him a stick," she says, trying to shake off the feeling. Fetch would distract him. He's always liked the game.
Mrs Moore walks far ahead, almost out of sight. She'd been the one to insist they wouldn't ride Gelert to the town. "Imagine their faces," she'd said. "Every one of them would brand you as a witch on sight."
Bonnie can't see how that matters when you're riding on the back of a DRAGON. She'd like to see them try to drag her off Gelert's back to burn her. They'd need to build a tower to reach.
Gelert jumps out into the vast expanse of green after the stick.
"It's strange how you know so much about him," Alice says, looking down at her curiously. "What he likes, his real name."
Bonnie turns away, watching as Gelert trots back to Neven with a stick. Not the right stick, but he seems proud of himself all the same. Her teeth clench together tight. "Gelert's not his name. It's something I made up."
"He seems to think it's his name." Alice pushes a limp strand of hair away from her face. Her green eyes are wide and earnest. She thinks she's onto something.
Gelert runs away after the new stick.
Anger spikes inside her. They may be around the same age, but Alice knows nothing of pain. She's a child. She finds something interesting, then she pokes at it, again and again with no mind to what she's really asking.
Alice must see something on her face, because she shrinks back, eyes fixing on the ground. "I'm sorry," she says quickly. "It's not my place."
Bonnie sighs, all the anger draining out of her at once. She remembers when it wasn't her place either. "It's fine. I just don't want to talk about that."
Alice nods, but she doesn't speak or look up.
Neven has stopped moving, looking into the distance where Mrs Moore is walking back toward them. Glad for the distraction Bonnie rushes to meet them. Alice follows behind her.
Gelert comes back, his tail held high. He drops the tree trunk he's holding, then nudges it delicately toward Neven with his nose. A pair of squirrels dart out of the branches, clambering over each other in their hurry to get away.
"No way," Neven says, eyeing the tree. It's bigger than he is. Bonnie doubts even a giant could throw it. "No how."
Gelert's tail droops until it rests on the grass. His black pools of eyes somehow manage to achieve a pleading look that would outdo most puppies. He nudges the tree again, branches scraping harshly across the ground, his chin flat on the grass.
"We can't throw that, Gelert," Bonnie says once she reaches them. "Go find a smaller stick."
Gelert slowly turns away, head down low, and tail dragging behind him.
"Your soldiers are camped out in Porthdon," Mrs Moore says, watching the dragon leave. "I didn't get close enough to pick out faces, but there are enough of them that it's likely Innes is down there. Kingdom or no kingdom. Riches or no riches. I want you both to fix this soon. Standing out in this world will get you burned, and I see no better way to stand out than a giant dragon following on your heels like an over-sized dog."
"So we need to get down there," Bonnie says.
"Without being seen," Neven adds.
"And without getting any heroic notions," Mrs Moore says. "I don't know why, but your father died so you wouldn't become a soldier. So don't have any sudden calling to do your duty."
It's odd to see a mother talk to her son so fiercely. Bonnie decides she might like it if it were anyone else but Neven. Neven is too quick to be cowed and agree, even to a woman. Ness might be good though. She'd like to see a woman get the better of Ness.
"This is going to take planning," Bonnie says, making an effort to catch all of their eyes, including Alice's. The girl looks up at her with dumb surprise at being included. "We'll have to go under the cover of night, and we need a story. They're sore for more men, so it'll have to be a convincing one or we'll get recruited."
Mrs Moore flinches back.
Gelert runs over to them, not sparing a glance at the woman. His tail twitches back and forth. Opening his mouth wide - enough to see they could all stretch out in there, fingertip to fingertip and never touch the sides - he sticks out his tongue and drops a large object at their feet.
He backs away to let them inspect his offering, those row upon row of sword teeth looking very much like a grin.
It's not a stick. It's not a tree either. It, Bonnie realises slower than should be necessary, is a human covered head to toe in spit. A sodden red cloak tangles around its body. Not just any human either. A knight.
"Oh," Neven says.
Bonnie nods. That about sums it up. So much for that plan.
The knight groans, but the sound is almost lost under another noise: horses galloping toward them. A lot of horses.
As they crest over the hill some of those horses balk, spinning ar
ound and sprinting away. Some of their riders argue, kicking their legs and flapping their arms. Others do not.
Enough carry on coming, the soldiers on their backs letting out a war cry that sounds more of a desperate scream. The noise crashes over them, making her ears feel as if they might burst.
Gelert watches them, his pink carpet of a tongue almost hanging out of his mouth in anticipation.
"Go!" Bonnie shouts at him. Before they left the village Neven had swapped her scabbard over to her other shoulder. She draws it now, awkwardly. "Fly away!"
Gelert huffs, the resulting gale of wind comes close to knocking her flat. Panic turns her body almost as numb as her arm. She steels her feet, lifts her sword and swings. The flat hits his knee with a solid thump. Pain reverberates up her good arm. It's like hitting a stone wall.
Gelert jerks his head back, watching her intensely.
"Go on, get!" She shouts. There's a burning behind her eyes, and her tongue feels thick and clumsy. "You have to go or they'll..." They'll what? Kill him? Isn't that the point of this?
Gelert watches her a second longer, then spreads his dark red wings and flies away. Well, it's more a progressive set of leaps than flying, but it does the job.
The soldiers stop just short of running them down, trotting around until the horses gather in a rough circle, Bonnie and the others at the centre. Alice squeaks and hides behind Neven. Neven swallows heavily, but seems to do his best to stand tall. After a moment Bonnie sheaths her sword. It's not like it would be much use.
"Which one of you is the witch?" comes a rough voice.
A black horse, at least twice as large as any other, shoves its way to the interior of the circle. It walks with the self-importance of a king, nipping at one horse that stands too close, and kicking another. It snorts down at Bonnie, making her regret putting away her sword.
Its rider leans down, and she muses that he doesn't look that different from his horse. He's huge. Eight feet with hands as big as spades. A thick black beard covers most of his face and breast plate, and his eyes are small and mean. He's clad in black from head to toe, except for the bright red cloak hanging behind him. "Out with it. There are ways of finding out. Magic leaves a mark. Tell me now, and maybe I'll spare the others."
Bonnie's heart jumps into her throat. Magic leaves a mark. She's never heard of that. She thinks back to the locating spell Neven cast, not to mention the fire. Head thudding, she steps forward. "You don't need magic when you have a sword."
The man laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "And you expect me to believe a little brat like you scared away a dragon with that toothpick of yours?"
"It's no toothpick," Bonnie says, her good hand shaking, though whether from anger or fear she can't tell. "It's dragon forged steel, and I can wield it better than any man." Or she could, before she lost her arm.
"Dragons are magic," Neven says hurriedly, his voice squeaking. "It could be it sensed what would happen if it stayed and flew off. You are an army. What dragon would stay and face an army when it could pick you off one by one like your friend?"
The man's expression turns bored. "I've heard enough. Someone drag Sir Julius back to camp. Someone else secure the woman and the children. We'll light a fire tonight and be done with it."
"And burn my saviours?" The man Gelert fetched steps out from behind them, still dripping saliva. He's limping a little, but other than that seems almost cheery. "I think not."
Chapter 16
Porthdon is no longer Porthdon. It had never really been much of a town by city standards. It's mostly run down inns, pubs Mr Moore told her to stay clear of, and a few shacks for local fishermen. Not many people live in Porthdon, but plenty come to trade or to pass through to the King's road.
It was a different place back then, the cobbled square filled with carts and voices calling out wares. Fishermen hauling back their catches. Performers hoping for a few stray coins. Ragged kids running around or watching everything hungrily.
Now the voices are soldier's voices. The square is filled with boys running drills, hitting each other with wooden swords and sticks. The only children running around are those following orders. Tents are everywhere, and horses are tied to anything that looks like it might have even the faintest of possibility of holding them.
"Fetch two practice swords and show me how you wield a sword better than any man."
Bonnie blinks at the knight, not sure if she'd heard right. "Sir?"
"You heard me," he waves her away, reaching for the bucket Mrs Moore holds out to him. He dumps it over his head and clothes, unflinching as it drenches him. It must be freezing, yet he seems not to feel it. "Go on. Get. Tell them Sir Julius sent you if they give you any trouble."
Bonnie hesitates, then dashes away as Neven helps Alice draw up another bucket from the well. At first she thinks the grizzled instructor will give her trouble, but it takes only one mention of the name Sir Julius and the man pales and hands her the swords.
She jogs back, nerves buzzing around like flies in her belly. Frustrated she pokes her dead arm with one of the practice swords. Nothing. This is her chance to prove herself. Excepting witches and lost ones, no one but her father and Neven has seen her with a sword. She’s good. She knows she is. No one could not be after wielding a sword every day since they could walk.
“My arm,” she stammers out, stalling in front of the well. She clutches the two wooden swords between her good arm and her body. “I hurt it last night. It won’t move.”
He’s a handsome man, though not as much as some of the rich she's seen. Smooth brown skin, with pleasing features, and a smile that seems supernaturally bright. He moves like a jaguar, full of grace and lithe strength. A dangerous man, she thinks, despite his bright smile and relatively short height. Strangest of all is his hair. It’s as long as a woman’s, tied into dozens of dark brown braids that hang half way down his waist. His face his clean shaven. Other than her father, she’s never heard a knight choose to keep his cheeks smooth. Boys have smooth cheeks, not men.
“You have two arms, don’t you?” He asks with a cock of his head. He takes one of the wooden swords, spinning it casually in one hand as he turns toward an empty corner of the square.
Bonnie hesitates a moment, then follows. She spares Neven and the others a backward glance, but they’ve already peeled away into the bustling group of people. To find Ness she assumes.
The sword feels wrong in her hand. It wants the heavy bulk of a shield, not the clunky wood of a sword. Her father had mentioned once or twice about the advantage of using both hands with a sword. His left hand was his sword hand, but he’d used his right more often in their spars as that’s what he said she’d be up against. She’d tried, but soon gotten frustrated with the clumsy movements of her left arm and switched to her right. Now she wishes she’d listened.
Sir Julius turns around, every movement graceful. They’re on the edge of the square, the crumbled wall of a collapsed stables on their left draping them in shadow. It’s a fair distance from the middle of the square where most of the men and boys practice, dancing in the sunlight around the statue, so old it’s unidentifiable.
His eyes are a cool olive that don’t match his smile. He tosses his wooden sword up in the air with his left hand, and catches it with his right. “My left is my sword-hand, so I’ll fight you with my right. I’ll even put one hand behind my back. Give you a fair chance.”
Something inside Bonnie boils. “I don’t need you to cripple yourself for me to beat you.”
Sir Julius laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, but it doesn’t decrease the tension buzzing through her body. “There’s that fire. Now let’s see how much of it is hot air.”
He darts forward so quickly she has to scramble back to give herself more room to manoeuvre. She gets her sword up at the same moment he brings his sword down. They clash with jarring force inches from her face. Then in the time it takes to blink her sword is sailing across the square, bouncing off the cobble stones.
Sir Julius lightly touches her nose with the end of his sword. “Where did you go wrong?”
“My grip.” She scowls at her worn through shoes. “My grip was all wrong.”
“So? Go and get the sword. Try again. Do better. A mistake is only a failure if you don’t learn from it.” He taps his foot. “Well, hurry up. Right now I’m not seeing this skill you claim.”
Her stomach rolls as she picks up the sword. This is her chance to prove herself, not just as a woman good with a sword, but a person good with a sword. She knows she’s good. Her father always said she was just as skilled with a sword as any of his squires. If this was yesterday and she had her right arm, then she’d show him. But this is today, and she’s getting increasingly scared that she’ll never use her right arm again. “I’m good,” she says, more for herself than him. “I am.”
“Cocky maybe,” he says. “Good, I’m not so sure about. Show me.”
She does. She charges forward, sword ready. If she had her shield she might get in close, try to push him back and catch him off guard. He’s taller than her by eight inches, if it came down to a shoving match she’d lose, but catch him at the right angle and she could back him up enough to use her sword while he’s still recovering. But she’s no stranger to only having her sword, it makes things more interesting.
Making sure her grip is firm, she uses her decreased height to her advantage, ducking under one blow and delivering one of her own to his kidneys. It doesn’t connect. Somehow his sword is there, shoving hers backward. She stumbles, but manages to keep hold of her sword.
The knight spins the wooden sword by the hilt, as composed as if they’d been resting instead of sparring. “Try again.”
She tries to keep her breathing as smooth as his, but it doesn’t work. Sweat is spreading fresh stains on her soiled clothing. She’s fighting with her unpractised hand, but for the first time she’s not sure she could beat him even if her right hand were well. He’s fast, and the way he moves is different to anything she’s seen before - not, that’s not true - there was one guy glimpsed years ago in the practice yard at the palace, and at a tournament. He’d been quick, but not as smooth, and he had a tendency to lose his temper and make poorly thought out moves.