Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir

by Sam Farren

  Michael had written to our father several times. I'd contributed, but whenever I asked Michael to write something, he put down far more than I'd dictated, and would often screw up the parchment and start over again, distorting what I'd wanted to convey.

  “Right,” I said, doing what I could to act as though I hadn't asked the question. Thinking about any of this being over made my chest tighten; for all of Felheim and Kastelir that I'd seen, the moment Sir Ightham and Rán were done with us, I was certain I'd snap straight back to my village. If there were other options open to me, I couldn't see them. I couldn't carve out my own place in the world without my necromancy.

  I tried not to think about it. Isin was still weeks away.

  Back at the camp, Sir Ightham and Rán pointedly weren't looking at one another. They were sat on the ground, doing nothing; the fire hadn't even been started in order to heat the pan for dinner.

  “Oh dear,” Michael said, unwilling to wade through an uncomfortable atmosphere. “Is everything alright here? Didn't interrupt anything, did we?”

  Rán growled dismissively. Sir Ightham took the change from Michael, pocketed it, and didn't ask what we'd managed to procure. I pulled the chunk of meat from the bag and showed it to Rán, hoping it would cheer her up. Not that she'd had to rely on us for food at any point. She was perfectly capable of hunting for herself, and had pounced on no small number of rabbits, goats, foxes and sheep, needing to eat more than Michael, Sir Ightham and myself put together.

  She held out a hand, and I sat by her side, leant against an arched knee while she made short work of what was supposed to be everyone's dinner.

  “Rowan,” Sir Ightham said, holding a sword in each hand. I thought better of asking if we weren't going to eat first.

  I got to my feet, squeezing Rán's hand as I went. Sir Ightham wandered further from the camp than she tended to, though I was usually the one trying to put distance between us and the others. I'd asked if we couldn't practise somewhere out of sight the night after we'd crossed into Kastelir, behind a row of trees or over the crest of a hill, but Sir Ightham had told me that if I was to use a sword when it mattered, I had to learn to deal with distractions.

  “Is everything alright?” I asked once we were a safe distance from the camp. “You didn't have an argument with Rán, did you?”

  “It was nothing personal.” Sir Ightham was more forthcoming than I'd expected her to be. “A disagreement about which route to take. The both of us have too much pride.”

  I took my sword from her, relieved to know that things would be back to a semblance of normality by the morning. If nothing else, I'd grown accustomed to holding the blade. It still felt unnatural between my fingers, but I'd learnt not to grip it so tightly that my wrist ached with the strain.

  I was not, however, so proficient when it came to swinging the blade. Michael said something about imagining the sword as an extension of my arm, but to me, it was more of a growth than anything that belonged. I tried. It couldn't be said that I didn't try, but my movements were clunky and uncoordinated. Sir Ightham favoured her left hand when it came to swordplay and writing alike, and though I tried mimicking her, I had even less luck that way.

  The sword was getting in my way. I couldn't find a balance between my body and the blade to throw against Sir Ightham, and for the first time since I'd picked up a sword, Sir Ightham resigned to failure before I did.

  “I don't understand why you aren't making progress,” she said, viewing my inability to parry a blow as a reflection on her teaching, rather than my natural ineptitude. If her disagreement with Rán earlier had shortened her temper, I was glad of it. “Your brother tells me that you were never one to be antagonised, in your village. And you yourself said you were wont to wrestle wolves—something that takes no small degree of skill, I'm sure.”

  “I'm glad my brother sees fit to share these things with you,” I grumbled, letting the sword fall to my side. It was no secret that I let my frustration get the better of me throughout our sparring sessions.

  “How would you fight, had I not given you the sword?” Sir Ightham asked, sheathing her own blade.

  I'd used an assortment of tools to fight off wolves, but I wasn't certain any of them could be considered actual weapons. Shovels and rakes, a fallen branch; and then there was my knife, less for fighting and more concerned with delivering the final blow.

  “With my hands, I guess,” I said, settling my sword down in the grass. “Unless there was something lying around I could use.”

  “Very well,” Sir Ightham said.

  I stared at her, needing a moment to realise that she meant to fight me. She fell into a stance that made me want to take wide strides back, and bundling my hands into fists was about all I could do. I might've been a necromancer, might've been able to heal from anything, but that didn't mean that she couldn't hurt me, didn't mean that my heart didn't hammer in my chest.

  But I was determined to prove myself. I'd wasted her time with the sword, and thought that if I could only picture her as a wolf, a snarling, hungry thing, teeth bared, then I might be able to make that up to her. I nodded, letting her know I was ready.

  Sir Ightham was better than me. I'd known she would be, but had thought she'd go easy on me in order to see what I could do. She moved faster than I expected, didn't lunge as a wolf would, catching me off-guard. I was on the ground within seconds, ribs and elbow slamming against the dirt, knocking the breath out of me.

  I sprang back to my feet, bruises healing over before they could form, pushed on by the energy suddenly surging through me.

  I circled her, trying to predict her next move, searching for a way to use her height against her. It didn't work: she deflected the punches I threw, returned the strikes in kind, and didn't hesitate to knock me against the ground over and over.

  But it wasn't like sword fighting. No matter how much was happening around me, no matter how heavy my breathing became, I saw through the movement, through the rush, and peeled it back layer by layer.

  I got lucky.

  Sir Ightham hit me in the ribs but I caught her nose with the heel of my palm. I struck too hard: Sir Ightham fell back, landing more gracefully against the grass than I'd managed to the last seven or eight times. She looked up at me, surprised, not angry. Blood ran from her nose, and she lifted a hand to wipe it away before it reached her lips.

  “Sorry,” I blurted out, as though she hadn't done the same to me time and time again. As though it hadn't been her idea. “I'm sorry, Sir.”

  “Claire,” she said, holding out her other hand to me. I took it and pulled her to her feet, but stared blankly, brow creased. “My name is Claire.”

  “Oh.” Colour rose in my cheeks as she smiled. I continued to stare, not certain why I was faltering; it was hardly the first time I'd been entrusted with something as simple as a name. I started when I realised I was still holding onto her hand, quickly pulled it back and said, “... I didn't break your nose, did I?”

  “Far from it,” Sir Ightham – Claire – said, dusting down the front of her coat. “You are good, though. Undisciplined, but good. Perhaps your brother would have more luck with the sword.”

  “Or maybe we could melt it down and make another pan,” I suggested, relieved that I'd never have to touch it again.

  Claire let out a breathy laugh, and said, “I'm not certain why I didn't think of that.”

  A few nights later, we left behind open fields for forest. Kastelir as a whole was more open than Felheim, and the ground became rockier as we headed further and further from the wall. But there was a point, beyond a city Rán told me was famous for its baked almonds, where spring had gathered, leaving a rush of blossoming apple trees leading onto sturdy evergreens, mossy rocks surrounding a winding river.

  The overgrowth worked in our favour and against it. While we were hidden from the elements and any passing travellers too curious for their own good, we wouldn't have been able to see anyone tracking us until it was too late. I ha
d no idea who could possibly be after us. Claire – who I was easing myself out of the habit of thinking of as Sir Ightham – was as paranoid as I'd once been about the imaginary monsters pane certainly weren't.

  She'd always walk the perimeter whenever we settled down, taking Rán along with her, and every night, they took it in turns to keep watch over us. Michael and I both offered to stand vigil, but we'd been told – as kindly as was possible – that we had no idea what we were doing and would hurt more than we helped.

  That evening, Rán had me patrol the area with her. Claire had nothing of importance to discuss with her, and so stayed behind to tend to the cooking. I hurried along to Rán's side, amazed that horns and teeth could have ever frightened me.

  “We're getting there, aren't we?” I asked, not bothering to look around in earnest when Rán was there to scare off any supposed assailants. “It's been weeks!”

  I wondered how big Kastelir could be. How big Bosma was beyond that. We'd been walking and riding for so long I was convinced we should've had time to wander through Canth and Ridgeth alike, and stop in on the Bloodless Lands on the way back. I was starting to suspect we were going in circles; from a distance, one city looked like another, and I couldn't be expected to distinguish between every tree, rock and river.

  “A week and a half,” Rán said, smirking down at me. “Reckon we've got as long to go again before we get near Isin. Not enjoying the company?”

  I bumped my shoulder against her side, wrapping an arm around one of hers.

  I shouldn't have been complaining. I didn't want to reach Isin. It was the end of the journey for Claire and Rán, but there was no resolution awaiting me. When I thought about it, time seemed to slip from my grasp and through my fingers. I grit my teeth, willing the next week and a half to never end.

  “Once we get to Isin, what are you going to do... ?” I tried. I hadn't asked before, knowing that Rán's plans were entwined with Claire's, but we were alone, and I wouldn't ask her to tell me anything Claire didn't want her sharing. “Are you staying there? If you need help with anything...”

  “Might stay. Might be heading back to Canth,” Rán said, rubbing her chin.

  “Depending on what?”

  “Depending on who,” she clarified, and continued on her way, snapping a branch as thick as my arm underfoot.

  She wasn't dismissing me. She hummed to herself as we continued around the outskirts of the forest, mulling something over.

  “All clear,” she decided, when we'd run into a handful of rabbits and nothing more. “That should keep your dragon-slayer happy. And as for what you were saying—don't want you to be worrying about anything, yrval. There'll be a place for you with me, if you want it.”

  I lowered my head, smiling at the ground. Rán placed a hand on the top of my head, ruffling my hair, and together we made our way back through the forest, to the clearing where Claire and Michael were waiting for us. They were discussing something that went over my head – the use of repetition in some book or another – and dinner was just about ready.

  “Any problems?” Claire asked, idly stirring the stew.

  “No one's hunting you down,” Rán told her, falling to the ground and propping herself against a sturdy oak. “How's that feeling, anyway? Being the one to be hounded after, when usually you're tracking down dragons?”

  Claire frowned and I saw her chest rise, as though she was debating whether or not it was worth answering.

  “A-anyway, Sir, I was wondering if you might've perused Singer's Myrosi Compilation at some point...” Michael said jarringly loud, trying to head off a confrontation that wouldn't have had any bite behind it.

  Claire held eye contact with Rán for a beat longer, and turned to Michael, saying, “One of my favourites.”

  He brightened and went on a tirade about an age-old debate regarding historical accuracy. Michael never asked Claire what any of this was about, though I knew he had his suspicions; he'd become delighted by the concepts of duty and honour, and decided it was of the utmost importance that he lent his aid until Claire inevitably told him all that he wanted to know.

  Michael kept himself occupied with the talk of books and the worlds they tried to encompass, and would often attempt to learn more about Rán's language. Thus far, I'd manage to gather that it was called Svargan, but most of their impromptu lessons took place while Claire and I sparred.

  Like that, with Claire ladling up the stew and Rán letting me lean against her as Michael babbled on, I was just sleepy enough to believe that there was nothing bad in this at all; that we were all travelling for the sake of travelling, and would know what we were looking for once we found it.

  But I couldn't help but notice that I knew less about Rán than I did about Claire, reserved as she was. Rán spoke plenty about her adventures with Reis and her time in Canth, but her stories felt like Michael's tales; entertaining, but not about the speaker.

  “How old are you?” I abruptly asked her, blowing on a spoonful of stew.

  “How old do you think I am?” Rán bounced back, enjoying what had once been part of a deer. I assumed.

  I hummed, looking between her, Michael and Claire, but the only guess I could give was, “A few years older than Claire?”

  “And how old might the dragon-slayer be?”

  I looked to Claire for an answer. Michael too was eager for a response; it seemed he'd learnt to hold back some of the more prying questions he usually dealt out.

  “Thirty-one,” Claire said, once she realised everyone was turned towards her.

  “Then I suppose I'm a few years older than that,” Rán declared cheerfully, licking a streak of something off her palm.

  In truth, I was probably irritated by Michael's current complaints regarding our sleeping situation because I had an unfair advantage. One night, when Rán had seen me shuffling on the spot, trying to get comfortable against the gnarled ground, she'd snatched me up in her arms. Her chest was broad and tough, as though she wore armour beneath her leathers, but that armour was her skin itself, and I slept peacefully with one of her arms draped across my back.

  I drifted off with Rán's chest rising and falling beneath me, lulled to sleep by the thought of Isin not being the end. Perhaps I'd cross into Canth with her. I'd endure months on the Uncharted Sea if it meant having the chance to find out if what she'd said about necromancy there was true; if it meant avoiding my village.

  Rán moved in the night. It wasn't unusual; she always had to rise to take over the night's watch from Claire, and though I stirred, I never woke all the way. As large as she was, all teeth and claws and curved horns, Rán was surprisingly gentle. When the time came for her to stand guard, I was in a thick of enough sleep that the ground didn't trouble me.

  But that night, something did disturb me. A twig snapped beyond the border of my dreams, not loudly enough for Rán to have crushed it. Claire always moved as silently as a shadow. I doubted any of the horses were to blame – they needed more sleep than the rest of us – which meant that Michael was causing a fuss.

  I grumbled myself half awake, turned onto my side so that I could hiss at him to be quiet, but it wasn't Michael stood above me.

  A woman froze, eyes fixed on mine. Against the backdrop of the fire's dying embers, I saw the shape of an axe hanging from her hand. There was no chance I could screw my eyes shut and pretend I hadn't seen her: the blade didn't gleam, but it was headed for me regardless, swung swiftly in a strong, panicked blow.

  My mind reeled but my body reacted. I scrambled back through the dirt, grit and stones pressing into the heel of my palms, feet scoring ruts in the ground. The axe came down, embedding itself into a tree root in lieu of my skull.

  My mouth wouldn't open. My jaw trembled but it was lodged in place, and I reached out to the side, clawing against a tree trunk, trying to hoist myself up.

  But the rest of my body was shaking, too. The woman lifted her axe again, held it high above her head between both hands, and I held out an arm t
o shield myself—

  For a single, solitary second, the woman didn't move. A statue stood over me in place of anything warm and yielding, axe and hands carved of the same stone.

  The moonlight caught Claire's sword, pushed clean through the axewoman's back.

  I finally moved in a way that wasn't to tremble, pushed myself up into a sitting position and saw Claire standing behind her, eyes hard like steel, fixed on me.

  She pulled her blade free. The woman whined, but no sound followed as she crumpled to the ground. She clawed desperately at her chest, trying to hold the torrent of blood back as it pooled from the twin wounds through her torso.

  She gurgled on the blood that rushed between her teeth, convulsing on the floor. Life rattled its way out of her. Claire became a statue in the axewoman's place: she stared at me, bloodied sword in hand, and the pounding in my chest rose between my temples.

  I tore my eyes away from her. A hundred miles away, Michael was ripped from his dreams and jumped around the camp, blurting out, “Fuck! Are you—is she—?”. It faded into the distance. The gushing of blood slowed and the last few weak, failing beats of the axewoman's heart made the air thrum.

  Something guided me.

  Tendrils of dark in the black, wrapped around my wrists, leading my hands towards the wound.

  “Rowan,” Claire said sternly. “What are you doing?”

  “She's bleeding out,” I murmured, fingers becoming slick as they slid under skin.

  “She tried to kill you,” she said coldly, dropping her sword and stepping forward.

  “Tried,” I said, and it didn't matter if Claire wanted me to stop.

  I'd already started.

  The wound closed. Rent muscle knitted itself together, skin sealing shut as new blood filled the woman's veins, rushing into her heart, forcing it back into a rhythm. The wound echoed in my own chest. My body buzzed as I worked, but a jolt tore through me as I pushed death back, like I'd plunged my hands into ice-cold water.