by Kay Murky
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Marteen struggled up through the mists to consciousness. Bad luck he might have, but he was no quitter. He had not gotten this far fighting that luck, just to give up on life in a foreign country on a miserable piece of rock. Memories came and went in flashes through his muddled mind.
It had been more than bad luck that had drawn him into the troops that had accompanied Lord Rikkelan, the Imperial Adept. Once again, his abilities had been noticed by the wrong people. He had picked up Essian and the Ranmorian Trade Language from one of the Essian officers who had been sent to the Empire for further training, and someone had mentioned it to the superior officers. That he was already unpopular with said officers because of his tendency to question orders, had him on the first ship out to the continent of Ranmor.
When would he learn to shut up?
That same bad habit he had of questioning orders he did not agree with had him in conflict with the Adept within a few hours of their meeting. In fact, it had happened as soon as the man had joined them at the border to take over command from the Junior Adept who had travelled with the Imperial soldiers. Marteen had not agreed with the way that they had damaged the captured dragon, and had said so. That had brought him immediately to the attention of Lord Rikkelan. And not in a good way.
What a beautiful creature the grey dragon had been. Even broken, there had been a grace about the beast that he had to admire. The only thing that was not bad luck about this whole situation was that Lord Rikkelan, like most of the Imperial Mages, was head blind. No natural telepathy at all. The mage had to rely on very involved, energy consuming spells to be able to get into anyone’s mind.
Marteen had watched the mage crudely break someone’s mind, to get the smallest bit of information from the poor victim. That Rikkelan intended to do the same to the captured dragon had incensed Marteen to the point where he was willing to go against orders. When his protests had fallen on deaf ears, and had earned him a dressing down by his Commander with a threat of demotion from his rank, he had tried to find another way to help the poor beast.
That the beast was intelligent was no surprise. Among his people they had legends of the Wise Winged Ones of the north. That he had been able to contact the mind of the dragon had been a surprise. The poor thing had been gibbering in pain and fear, fighting to keep control of her mind away from the mages. All Marteen could do was to keep telling her not to give up, to keep fighting. He had not done so in words but in emotions, as best as he could. That was until the enemy mages had taken control of their dragon’s mind, and shielded the beast.
He had enjoyed watching from the shadows as the Adept had struggled to break through the shield that had protected the dragon. And now the junior Adept had said the dragon had been freed. If he was not semi conscious and half delirious, he would have been rejoicing.
And just there lay his biggest problem. He would probably one day be hanged as a traitor, as his sentiments definitely lay with the enemy here. The Emperor wanted the northern continent, the one the locals called Ranmor. And the empire would treat these people just as it had treated those of Marteen’s country. Slavery without shackles, his father had called it.
Slowly he swam to the surface of full consciousness, only to once more be overpowered by the emotional chaos around him. In his weakened state, he did not even realise that the shields that he had maintained so vigilantly over the years had disintegrated, his energy draining away into the rocky hill. All he knew was that he was drowning… disappearing. Anxiously he clung to semi-consciousness, calling out for help in the mists between this world and the next one.
Someone heard his calls. On a hilltop much further north, the injured grey dragon lifted her head and tried to rise up on her legs, only to be prevented from moving by the splints and bandages keeping her recently repaired flesh and bone in place. She whimpered softly and then bugled, calling her partner.
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