The Dragons' Chosen

by Gwen Dandridge

  In that moment I grew alert, more so than I had been in weeks. All warm thoughts were pushed to the side as my mind circled and re-circled the discordance here. Many uncomfortable questions leapt into my mind, none of which I could bear to ask the man seated across from me. But even without the wolves, I was positive that I did not wish to be alone. And though his face was bare, masked somewhat by his hood, he felt familiar to me—the turn of his head, the slope of his shoulders, those long, callused fingers, his voice. They all called to something in my memory, something that fostered a sense of comfort, of familiarity. I waved my hand before me to dispel the smoke that rose from the fire, and another scent drifted in the smoke—foreign spice, his scent. I leaned toward him, drinking it in. I’d smelled it before, but where?

  He offered me some dried meat, and we chewed in a peculiar camaraderie. While I felt oddly comfortable, given the circumstances, he seemed shy or perhaps on his guard. It was an evening of silence—me, shaken and exhausted; he, obviously ill at ease, retreating into the mundane rituals of cleaning his sword and feeding the fire. Yet he still didn’t ask me anything, not my name, not why I was here.

  Explanations could wait until the light of day. I could barely keep my eyes open as he shifted things around to arrange a space for me to sleep.

  “You’re about to fall over. I’ll keep watch.”

  I slept so deeply that I may truly have passed out. I awoke at first light to hear George shouting my name over and over. The fire embers still glowed, the remaining coals carefully banked to keep me warm. I lay between the fire and the radiating stone wall, warm and safe. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My torn snood lay near me, rolling my memory back to the night before. As I was falling asleep, had I felt his finger brush across my face? And heard words spoken softly. “If only. I regret how this must end.”

  I dismissed my fantasy as I tucked my hair back into the snood and straightened my clothing as best as possible, oddly feeling bereft of his presence and trying not to imagine how I must have looked during the night. My knife lay near me, cleaned.

  Lucinda raced to my side, muttering threats about my horse. She and George had found dead wolf bodies, a half-mile away—nowhere near where I was. Markers had been burned into the trees leading the way to my shelter. And Chris’s horse and mine tied down nearby.

  It wasn’t possible for my rescuer to have moved the wolves that far by himself. And, like Chris, he too had disappeared.

  Chapter 17

  The questions came and I had no answers.

  “Where is Chris?” Captain Markus asked.

  “Gone.” I closed my eyes, praying to the Goddess that Chris lived.

  George looked at me quizzically. “Who killed the wolves?”

  “A strange man, a warrior.”

  Lucinda spoke then. “Alone, with a warrior, all night?”

  I hesitated, trying to recall the half-remembered caress, was it real? “Yes.” And though nothing improper had occurred, part of me wished it might have.

  Lucinda must have seen my hesitation as she almost had apoplexy. If I weren’t sick with despair, I might have inquired if she would have preferred that I spent the night with the wolves.

  No, I didn’t see any blazon, no coat of arms. No, I didn’t know where he went. Yes, I was fine.

  I refused to answer any more questions. My heart was weary. Chris was gone and I didn’t know if she still lived. Nothing more mattered.

  George looked as if he wished to ask me something more but reconsidered, falling back on saying, “There’s a brave girl.” I wanted to stamp my foot and say I wasn’t brave. That I wished there were no dragons, that my only challenge was managing my entourage. I longed for the comforts of my castle room with its soft bed and thick carpets, but I was too tired, too exhausted to make a fuss.

  I could sense them looking at me, looking at my scratched arms and broken fingernails, sure that something must have happened, something I wasn’t willing to mention. My hair broke loose from my snood as I turned away, strands of the frayed netting hanging limp against my neck. I pulled the ragged remains of the net from my nape, feeling my hair fall in a tangle down my back. Though nothing untoward had occurred, how could they think otherwise?

  My mind went back to the man from last night. Did he truly say something about my end or was that a dream?

  The captain barked out orders to his men to search for my rescuer. Though he spent half the morning, the man wasn’t found. Neither was our pig. Eventually, we had to leave and continue our journey. I forced myself not to search the sky for emerald scales and wings, not to listen for that bugling trumpet or the leathery whoosh of wings. Nor look for a sword-wielding stranger.

  The next day, the land changed and we slowed to a crawl. I had almost recovered from the night before, but was always worrying about Chris and mulling over the man who protected me. I could still see in my mind’s eye the flash of his sword. My thoughts kept circling back to it, round and round, something I should have noted. I was sure it would come to me once I had a restful night’s sleep.

  We traveled that day through pines and thick shrubby brush into low marsh lands, the fens. Each of us followed single file on a narrow elusive pathway, walking our horses carefully so as not to disappear into the water with its sinkholes and snakes. It was a land so covered with midges and small flying insects that the ground seemed to vibrate if stared at too long.

  There were many things of beauty. The fens had a splendor of its own. Through mists that covered the ground, one could see trailing moss hanging from the few straggling trees that clung on low earthen mounds. There were birds, large wading birds—herons, ibis and storks, some that I had only read about—stalking about in the low water or standing like statues waiting for careless fish to come their way. In the occasional clump of brush, I heard the grunting of stoat and the accompanying squeal of piglets. Once, cloaked within the reeds, I spied a fox carrying a small water bird in its mouth.

  After inhaling one too many small insects, I put a veil of netting across my face. The whine as they hovered around my head was almost intolerable. The horses had it worst of all, constantly harried by the creatures. I wiped off little flecks of blood from Winter’s neck. He fidgeted beneath me, rippling his withers and swishing his tail, as we slogged across the spongy ground.

  Tom grunted, speaking over my head to the captain. “We’ll be out from this by late afternoon. It’s only twenty miles at this crossing. Once we head up into the mountain pass, we leave the midges behind.”

  Our cart creaked along in front of me, bumping over uneven ground as it was dutifully pulled by a pack horse. It rumbled over a ditch, landing on the other side with a crunch, then lumbered on like a drunkard, tipping precariously side to side. Something was wrong. I opened my mouth to speak when Jonathan swore. “Captain, the cart looks like it’s not going to make it.”

  The axle was broken.

  I could hear Captain Markus telling me that all the cart really did, now that the pig was gone, was hold my chair. His mouth moved but I refused to hear him. They unstrapped the chair, abandoning it on the side of the path. Spikes of despair combed through my brain as I watched water lap its base.

  I dismounted and walked over to it. My courage abandoned me.

  The chair had empowered me, a thread of stability that led back to home and family and self. It had given me a sense of hope and held me to who I was. A symbol of all that was and would never be again—and there it lay, discarded like an old piece of clothing that no longer held its splendor. Lucinda came up behind me and hugged me to her ample bosom. I lay my head on her shoulder for a moment before turning and preparing to remount.

  George awkwardly patted my back as if I were a horse to be quieted. Lucinda offered to brush my hair into the elaborate swirls I had worn since I was turned out at sixteen, but I refused. I couldn’t bring myself to care.

  I longed for Chris, yearned for her presence. I knew she would return if it were possible. But what i
f she was dead? Once again I remembered the crack as she hit the rock. I started listing the princesses again: Teresa, Anisette, Ophelia, Isabelle,

  Nicolette, Chantal, Alexandra, Penelope,

  Sophia, Elsbeth,

  Rosalind, Willa,

  Lynette, Victoria.

  I paused, then named, Genevieve.

  And, lastly, I named Chris, wondering if she too were lost.

  Chapter 18

  Late that evening, after I said my goodnights to everyone, I lay awake in my tent. It seemed that as my remaining days and nights dwindled, my questions multiplied like court petitioners. Where did the dragons come from? Who was the man from the previous night? Where had I seen him before? Would I be able to meet my fate with courage and honor? Was there not a possible way out? Where, oh where was Chris? Was she hurt? Even alive?

  The men were quiet. Since the wolves, the captain had increased the night sentries. All the men looked worn. The captain’s face was drawn, Michael had bags under his eyes that could hold water. As the silence of the evening settled, I heard tree frogs and cicadas, and the various noises of sleeping men. Round and round my mind circled with questions.

  Nearby I heard lowered voices, but they rang clear for me. Captain Markus’s low bass pounded though my thin tent wall, “What do you think you’re doing? You know what’s going to happen. This isn’t a simple ride in the country.”

  I couldn’t hear George’s response, a whispered answer, too low to catch.

  “Your coddling her is not doing her any favors.”

  George raised his voice a notch. “She’s but a young girl, the same age as my Molly. There’s no need to make this journey any rougher than it already is. She’s never complained, not once. Each morning I see her arise, her face pale as my arse, with that look in her eyes. Can’t you see the terror? She knows. She’s not stupid. How can you deny her the least bit of kindness?”

  “It isn’t being kind to her that I worry about. It’s you. We are going to have to leave her in three days. To a fate that none of us can bear to think about, much less mention. You saw the beasts flying above us the other day. Not one of us is going to come out of this unscathed. Do you really believe that you can cavort with her all these days and then calmly walk away after leaving her to the dragons? I can’t. I know that. I’ll keep my distance and…” there was a pause “—I strongly recommend that you do, too.”

  I lay unmoving for the next hour. Ice pulsing, dams breaking in my veins. Sleep was not possible. Finally, I got up and went to sit at the fire. George was there staring into the night. He looked up as I approached.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

  I smiled. “I needed to talk with you.” I prodded another log into the fire. “I overheard you and the captain.”

  He watched me for some moments before responding. “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  He blew out a sigh. “Hard enough to know, isn’t it, without hearing us creeping around arguing about it.”

  “True. Still, it’s a good thing for me to acknowledge.” I leaned my elbows on my knees and turned my head toward him. “You’ve been wonderful to me and made this trip endurable. You, and the others. I can appreciate the captain’s feelings on this, but I’ve had an opportunity that few royals have. And I want you to know that I am very grateful.”

  He sat silent, attending me, still as the night.

  I drew a breath. “But he is right. I hadn’t thought how hard this would be for you and the men. You must carry no guilt back, no remorse.” I hesitated, swallowing, beating down a sob. “You have all done a service to me and I am charging you with making them understand, after….” I stopped as my voice started to waver. I waited until I could speak once again. “Thank them, and thank you, for befriending me.”

  Chapter 19

  A single day remained, one last sunset and sunrise. Tomorrow we would be at the dragons’ hold, and Chris had not returned. I had no doubt that if she lived, she would be here.

  We climbed a trail that clung to the mountain much like a burr upon the hem of my gown. The slightest misstep sent rocks raveling down the mountain path, merging with trickles of silver waterfalls that appeared and disappeared as we rounded corners. Fern crouching in crevices stuck their fronds up through the mosses and bracken that blanketed the path. We stopped often now, letting the horses breathe. Winter hung his head as he walked, blowing through his nose.

  Captain Markus called a halt at an outcrop of rock where we pressed away from the mountain’s edge. Here he directed the men to unload all supplies not needed for the last steep push over the mountain’s crest, for the next day, my last day, and cache them for when they returned. The captain spoke to Malcolm, and he shot a quick startled look at me before dismounting and hobbling Janis.

  I walked over to him, “No, that’s Chris’s horse. She’ll need something to ride.”

  He looked at me with sympathy. “We all need to accept the fact that she is not coming back.” After staring at him for too long, I spun and walked away. Above, three buzzards circled. I turned my head to the stone wall and willed myself not to cry. I didn’t offer my help as my men pulled out food for our midday meal.

  Once we had eaten our cold luncheon of cheese and dry hard tack, the captain determined the horses were sufficiently rested. He seemed anxious to put this rocky promontory behind us, as was I. The ground dropped into the open space below us into the mists that hugged the land. Keeping my head turned from the edge, I mounted, urging Winter forward.

  The air whirled. Winter reared. Dust rose, rocks scattered. A figure tumbled near me. It was Chris, sliding off the path, down the mountain. She screamed, grabbing for a small scrubby black pine that clung to the cliff’s edge. Captain Markus was nearest. He leapt off his horse, tying a rope from his waist to his saddle as he moved, then flung himself face down at the cliff’s edge and wrapped his hand around Chris’s wrist. Her hand slipped from the tree and another scream echoed across the mountain. Markus slid forward, now dangling off the edge, holding tight to one wrist while reaching for Chris’s other hand. “Back, back, Pumpkin.” The big roan dug his feet in the ground and stepped back. Stones sprayed as the horse fought for purchase. Markus cursed, fingers stretching for Chris’s other hand as she hung out over the precipice. Michael and Lawrence dismounted and stood on either side of the captain’s horse, steadying him. “Forward one more step and I’ll have her.” The horse took a careful step, then dug his heels into the stone and dirt as the captain launched himself downward, latching onto Chris’s arm. “Now back, damn it! Back!”

  I hadn’t noticed that I had dismounted, nor had I felt Lucinda’s hands on my shoulders. I shook her off, racing to their side, overcoming my fear of the abyss, as Markus pulled Chris over the canyon’s rim to safety. Markus looked shaken and white beneath his normal stony facade.

  “Thank you for saving her,” I whispered.

  Lawrence gently led Chris to safer ground as the captain undid the rope from his waist. Chris bent over, palms on her knees, breathing deep gulps of air. She stood and faced Captain Markus, holding out her hand. He clasped it; the lines on his face seemed etched even deeper than they had been.

  “Thank you, thank you.” They both seemed uncomfortable with any further conversation.

  The captain insisted that we leave immediately. The day was passing and we had to be over this ridge by evening. George unhobbled and saddled Janis before I had steadied myself. Lucinda hastily shoved Chris into a large sack-like jacket and skirt, covering her chemise that stated in bold lettering, “Hell, no. We won’t go.”

  Tom watched Chris with a sullen look on his face, but never spoke.

  We were mounted and moving before I had a moment of privacy with Chris.

  As we single filed up the trail, I closed the distance between us. “Are you well?”

  A funny expression crossed her face. “Well, enough. It’s been pretty exciting over in Berkeley also.”

  “What happened after you
disappeared?”

  “Ah, well…my friends heard me groaning in my dorm. They called the campus nurse. I had a mild concussion, or so they insisted. Then my dorm roommate called my mother. Big mistake. I’d been telling people that I had gone home to Fresno when I was here.” Her nose wrinkled as she said, “It was getting very complicated over there. Now my mom thinks I’m involved with some radical group and got the concussion during a protest in Berkeley. Mom wanted to call the newspapers to register a police brutality complaint. My friends don’t know what to think.”

  Perhaps it was frayed nerves or perhaps it was the rush from her fall as she rattled on to me about her adventures, with nary a breath between her words. I couldn’t understand a single piece of what she said, but I was so grateful she was back.

  I gave her what I hoped was my most sympathetic expression. She went on, throwing up her hands. “I’m not a good liar, Genny. Dissembling and redirecting is getting more and more difficult, but the truth would get me locked up in some padded ward, pumped up with drugs.” She arched her eyebrow at me. “Not how I want to spend my winter break.”

  She swept her hands out at my questioning look. “No matter, I’m caught between two worlds and not quite sure how to deal with it.”

  I opened my mouth to ask a question when Chris got an odd light in her eyes and spoke yet again, spilling forth words in what seemed an attempt to ease her discomfort.

  She looked down at her hand as if inspecting her nails. “In some odd ways it has been very useful. I wrote a paper about this place for my Women’s Studies class a week ago. I got an A plus on it for creativity and the use of metaphors. It was titled ‘Fantasy World Images to Explicate Sexual Politics.’ But this is more like something out of The Hobbit.” She frowned over at the men as if re-assessing. “Only there’s no Gandalf and no hobbits either.” She jerked her head over toward Tom with an evil grin, “Well, maybe there’s a goblin.”