by D. A. Stone
Horrendously long seconds went by.
“We are watching you,” the warrior finally said, each word stabbing out like sharpened steel.
Aldren felt a great relief as the man stepped away, but then was startled to find that the small girl he’d spied earlier was on the opposite side of him. Having climbed halfway up the fence, she was barefoot, with part of her hair in a braid and the rest of it loose and shining black. Swathed in layers of tunics and robes far too large for her, he saw that both her arms and hands were bandaged with what looked like a hundred bloodied pinpricks staining through the dressings. She was leaning over the fence, reaching out to the horses with a tiny hand.
“What are their names?” she asked, voice thin and curious. Aldren struggled to pull his thoughts together.
“Their names? The horses, you mean?”
She looked at him and nodded.
“Well, I don’t know actually,” he told her, quickly glancing around. Dershaw men had begun to gather nearby, but the guards were quick to send them off. “The older ones don’t have names. I’m sure the cavalry mounts do, but they aren’t ours so I wouldn’t know.” The girl giggled.
“Everything has a name,” she said.
Who was this child? She continued to reach out to the horses, clicking her tongue at the piebald mare as it passed. The mount spun around before trotting to her. The girl rubbed its head, giggling again as her fingers swept down its mane.
“Do you enjoy horses?” he asked, the question sounding awkward, unable to think of anything else. She shrugged.
“Maybe. They’re like people.”
Aldren watched her for a time before looking back at her men. They were her men, weren’t they? None of this made sense. He usually avoided Bodin, but would welcome the officer with open arms and a sloppy kiss if he could shine some light on all of this.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked quietly, unable to resist any longer. “Who are you?” She looked at him with more perplexity than he expected.
“I help people,” she said, returning her attention to the horse.
“Right. You help people.”
Perhaps she was some politician’s daughter, left behind at the outpost to await her father’s return? That would account for a few guards, but not so many. This was how royalty was protected or someone else of equal importance, but who? She waved the mare away.
“Off you go, Scarlet! Remember to save your energy!”
“Scarlet?”
“Do you think it’s a bad name?”
“No. Not at all,” he found himself quickly saying. “It suits her.” She nodded, resting her chin against bandaged hands, eyes following the horses. The wind ran lightly through her hair and her face grew serious. It made him want to put an arm around her but he didn’t dare such a move with the watching warriors so close.
“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” she said vacantly, not looking at him. “Fear is what keeps the living things alive.” Aldren scratched his head, laughing nervously.
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“People, horses, birds,” she went on. “I bet if trees could move they would take up roots and run away before anyone could chop them down. Nothing that breathes would want to be chopped down.”
“I…guess that makes sense.” She giggled again.
“Of course it does.” Turning around, the girl waved one of the soldiers over. The Amorian with the scar approached and lifted her gently, taking her in his arms. “It‘s him,” she said, pointing at Aldren. His eyes met the soldier’s, but nothing could be read from his face. The man hardly seemed to take notice of his presence.
“What is she talking about?” he demanded as they walked, the others turning to follow. “What am I? Hey! Hey, I‘m talking to you!” She looked over the warrior’s shoulder as she was carried away.
“When he gets here, you’ll go with him,” she said. “You’ll protect him. You’ll help him.”
“What? Who’s coming here? Hey! Who’s coming here?”
The guards and the girl returned to their wagon outside the wall, and his questions went unanswered.
Aldren was left next to the fence in his socks, pondering what had just occurred.
***
A small crowd had grown near the outpost’s entrance gate as Bodin spoke with the unfamiliar Amorian guards. The young girl had retreated back into the wagon, but Aldren would occasionally see her head stick out from the canvas, smiling widely each time before being ordered back inside. The surly officer returned from the green-cloaked men, his walk stiff and face blank.
“What is going on?” Aldren asked.
“Damned if I know,” Bodin bit back, adjusting his belt and glancing over to the warriors. “They seem intent on your involvement, though. I tried to warn them you would be of very little value, but their minds appear to be set.” Aldren ignored the intended insult, having far larger issues to deal with.
“But their minds are set on what?”
Bodin turned to the gawking Dershaw men who had gathered.
“Back to your posts!” he snapped, scowling at them through the dark. “Go!” He took an angry step in their direction.
Dejected, the pack of Amorians dispersed back into the camp, or at least beyond Bodin’s eyesight.
The officer took a calming breath and rubbed his eyes. Aldren could sense that whatever had transpired between he and the men at the wagon had not gone well. Bodin was irritated and more so than usual.
The man then turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I must wake the Senior Officer,” Bodin said wearily. “He’ll want to be informed of what’s happening.”
“What is happening?”
“I don’t know!” Bodin’s voice cracked as he turned in mid-step.
Aldren’s face must have reflected his despair for the angry officer spread his hands then, almost apologetically.
“I don’t know,” Bodin said again, though more softly this time. The words could almost have been spoken by a sorrowful friend, which frightened Aldren even more.
Looking to the men at the wagon, he saw they had removed long torches from compartments beneath the axles and thrust them into the sand. Soon they were sparked to life, with orange flames that licked the night air and splashed the desert with orbs of warm color.
Aldren watched the warrior with the scar lift the little girl from the wagon and they walked off to the side a ways, following her pointing finger. Two others unfolded a woolen blanket where she indicated and they spread it out on the sand, placing small stones at each corner so that it would stay stretched out.
The girl looked down at it for a moment, adjusting her sleeves. Shaking her head, she pointed a few paces to the right.
The men grabbed the stones and moved the blanket again.
Before Aldren could wrap his mind around any of it, far-off horse hooves could be heard pounding against the sand, growing louder through the night. The sound of it pushed him into motion. Quickly he smacked the dust from his socks and pulled his boots on, then gathered his weapons. Walking as far as the outpost gate, he stopped, fearing to go any further. There he waited.
Soon Bodin and First Officer Manais emerged through the dimness behind him.
Manais’s green cloak was almost as ancient as the man himself, frayed at the tail and thinning at the shoulders. The elder officer raised a calloused hand as he passed, snapping Aldren’s mouth shut before he even had a chance to explain or question any of the events that had occurred. Silver-haired and face creased with wrinkles, Manais was a soldier from the days of old when Dontanos was king and Draxakis short-of-horns. A veteran of the phalanx and light cavalry, he was heavily scarred, having killed a great many men in combat. Awarded the Silver Eagle for gallantry in the Calconian conflicts, Manais seemed intent to die in his cloak, even if that meant of ancient old age. He still walked with purpose and as far as Aldren could tell was hard as an iron hammer.
And where else but here could a man of his years still serve? Dershaw was the edge of the world for him, too, it seemed.
Soon the unknown rider approached at speed, bursting into the torchlight with a great disturbance of dust. The torch-flame painted his cloak with the same shadows as the other Amorian warriors, so Aldren knew it to be a matching green. Two swords were strapped to his back, both hilts positioned off the right shoulder, and as he swung a leg over the mount his cloak spread, exposing a long dagger that hung from his belt. His right arm was wrapped in some sort of dark sleeve, his left, bare and muscled. A heavy saber and scabbard could also be seen on his saddle, with a short spear that stuck up from behind like a naked flagstaff.
As soon as the rider’s boots touched the sand he moved to the young girl, releasing the horse’s reins.
His mount was clearly agitated, stomping at the sand and pacing erratically, head darting all about, breaths labored and strained. Its coat was shiny and lathered with sweat, and with such pitiful sounds coming from the beast Aldren knew it was dying. Nothing would save it. The horse had been pushed too hard and death just hadn’t had a chance to catch up to it yet, but it would fall, and soon.
The guards gave the rider room as he dropped to a knee before the girl. Her bandaged hands wrapped around his neck and brought him in close, whispering into his ear. Backlit against the torches, Aldren could only see the outline of the two while the other soldiers stood rigid in the glow of the flames, their own cloaks swaying gently.
Finally, the girl took a step back. She pointed across the sand at Aldren, and the newcomer’s gaze followed.
Aldren suddenly felt like a rabbit beneath the hawk’s shadow. The rider rose, ordering something to the men and pointing at his horse. Quickly one of the guards moved to calm the terrified beast while another unbuckled the saddle and slid it off. The horse stumbled but caught itself, legs quivering like a newborn.
Manais and Bodin stepped out to approach the new arrival.
They met halfway between the wagon and Dershaw’s gate, speaking beneath the light of moon and stars, but Aldren couldn’t hear a word of it. A scroll was handed to Manais, which he read against the torch’s glow. Whatever the Senior Officer read, it spun him about and all three moved towards Aldren.
The failing mount attempted to follow, frantically bolting from the Amorian guards. Kicking up sand, it swung to the right and turned in a sharp circle before its strength finally gave out. Collapsing with a wild snort, it rolled over heavily, chest heaving with its final gasps.
Upon seeing the horse fall, the girl ran to its side and dropped down to her knees, stroking its neck. The guards circled her and the dying beast, but none made to move her.
Manais, Bodin, and the rider approached the gate.
“Gather your kit at once,” the First Officer ordered, pointing at him. “You’re going out after the column.”
The three walked past him without another word, the rider not even looking in his direction.
Aldren stood there, head buzzing with nervous excitement. The envoy? But they were almost three days out!
Once the horse had died, the girl was carried back to the wagon. The other Amorians began gathering their gear and saddling their own mounts. Stools and crates were loaded into the wagon and armor was donned and tightened. It wasn’t until they began drawing the torches from the sand and snuffing out the flames that Aldren noticed something odd.
The girl’s blanket was right where she had indicated earlier and by some strange bit of chance, the dying horse had landed directly on it. The beast had bolted free of any guidance and circled with panic before coming to a final rest atop the blanket. It was as if the girl knew where the horse would fall.
But how could she have known?
Aldren heard a light snap of the driver’s whip and the wagon lurched forward beneath the waning moon. The remainder of the guards were on horseback, flanking either side of the wagon, while two others galloped ahead toward a rising dune of sand.
As the wagon rolled north toward Corda, the back flap opened and he saw the little girl peek out, looking in his direction.
She waved, and, oddly enough, Aldren found himself waving back.
Suddenly remembering Manais’s order, he darted off to his barracks.
***
The two of them rode at a hard gallop through the night, Aldren atop Scarlet, the piebald mare, and the rider mounted on a lively gray gelding. No words were spoken, nor any names exchanged. The stranger had refused to let anyone but Aldren accompany him on his journey to connect with the envoy, much to Manais’s disapproval, though the aging officer put up little in the way of an argument. Whoever the man was Aldren rode with, he was to be obeyed; that much was made clear.
They had left Dershaw with speed, putting the tiny outpost behind them in minutes. It was always a little frightening how fast the walls and buildings could disappear from sight, and equally humbling in a way. They truly were an island amidst an ocean of sand. Swim out a few waves and you could end up anywhere, or nowhere, to be precise.
The night air was cool for a time and Aldren knew they were heading south by way of the stars. The sky was cloudless, the moon’s glow lighting their path. The only sound was the muted rhythm of horse hooves against the ground.
Aldren tried to relax and enjoy the ride but could do neither. His gear bounced and jolted all around and he inwardly scolded himself. He should’ve fixed everything down much more securely, especially after witnessing what had happened to the horse his new partner had arrived on. The man had ridden the first poor beast to death and now seemed intent on sending both of theirs straight to the grave in pursuit. Aldren wasn’t used to such a frantic pace and hoped none of his supplies would jostle loose. He was armed with sword and dagger, a bit of food, and a great deal of water. Water was life when you traveled this far from the outpost, and Aldren would gladly be burdened by too much of it than be cursed by too little.
Long hours they rode, until the eastern sky grew pink and warm. Keeping the morning light on their left flank, they pressed on. Aldren wasn’t expecting to stop for a breakfast and he wasn’t given one. Forward they went, deeper south, deeper than he’d ever been before.
The sun soon burned angrily, lying against them in relentless waves of heat. Pulling up their hoods and covering their faces, they raced through barren canyons of dust and climbed unstable mountains of loose sand. By mid-afternoon Aldren began seeing discarded litter left behind by the envoy, already half-buried by the desert. A thousand men passing through any landscape would be hard to miss, and for a few days before the wind and sand had its way, this wasteland was no exception. Broken crates and split barrels lay strewn across a wide path. They passed a discarded wagon wheel, then a mile later an abandoned wagon, front axle buried, its canvas cover ripped and beating in the wind.
So intent was Aldren on following the envoy’s debris that he’d nearly missed a worrying sight to the west. Between the dunes along the distant horizon was a moving mountain of dust and shadows. Reaching high as the Amorian ranges, the sandstorm was dark and bulging at places, alive, heaving with an unhurried advance. For the moment it was too far off to be of any danger, but Aldren knew they were at the mercy of the wind, and the desert wind could be an unmerciful slag when you needed it otherwise. Such storms were beyond blinding, and without shelter one would surely perish from the swirling and suffocating dust before being devoured by the desert entirely.
Aldren leaned into the saddle, catching up to the rider.
“Do you see that?” he called out over the pounding hooves, pointing west to the mammoth cloud of dust.
“All morning,” the man answered, mouth muffled by a scarf.
They dropped down into a low gorge with walls of sand that gradually rose on either side.
Aldren saw for the first time that the stranger’s right arm wasn’t actually covered by a sleeve of fabric, but a twisting collection of tattoos. The colors wrapped around his arm, blending together all t
he way to his knuckles.
Very few soldiers were allowed to have such markings, only the most elite. Even then it was usually to signify an award of extreme merit, but never before had Aldren heard of someone with so many.
The man’s green cloak rippled out as he pushed forward, climbing the rise. As Aldren dropped behind, something happened to the other as he neared the crest. The stranger tugged the reins to the side, slowing the gelding. Pulling the spear from his saddle, he then gently kicked onward, though much slower and more carefully.
Aldren caught up to him quickly and wondered what had set him off, but soon discovered the reason as he crowned the sandy ridgeline. He looked out in awe for a moment before carefully following the rider down the hill and into a wide depression.
On the eastern bank of the rise lay the great mass of Rezin. Big as a house at his widest and long as ten wagons, his once mighty copper-red scales had turned an ugly brown in death. The largest of his curved ribs protruded from rent blankets of scales and flesh, soot-covered and splintered like twisted branches after a storm. Wisps of smoke curled off his remains when the wind allowed it, black and putrid-smelling.
“What happened to him?” Aldren asked the rider. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dead beast. Dragons were even bigger than he’d imagined.
The green-clad Amorian didn’t answer, instead charging past Rezin at a great gallop once reaching the base of the depression. Aldren pursued, all the while trying to catch a glimpse of Rezin’s head and horns.
Already a pack of scrawny yellow-striped foxes were having their way with any flesh exposed outside of the dragon’s armored scales, jumping and biting, hanging from heavy flaps of meat before ripping off a mouthful and tumbling to the dust. Finally riding all the way around, he was disturbed to realize that there was no head, and that the claws were missing as well. Only the stumps of a forearm and hind-leg were left, with nothing at the end of a long narrow neck. Whether as a trophy or for the riches paid by eager mages for dragon bones, Aldren could not say, but parts of the dragon had been harvested.