by Resa Nelson
This merchant reminded Mandulane of his favorite horse, a dark beauty that eventually allowed him to ride but never let anyone break its spirit. Such a man, if loyal, could have great value. This thought inspired Mandulane to do something rare. “What is your name?” he asked.
Allowing himself a thin-lipped smile and a smirking glance at the still bristling guard, the merchant offered a bow and said, “I am known as TeaTree, my lord.”
“My Krystr Warrior King,” Mandulane said, correcting the merchant.
TeaTree nodded his understanding and bowed again. “I am known as TeaTree, my Krystr Warrior King.”
“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,” Mandulane said. “Send any foodstuffs to the cooks. Surely you have brought some kind of new fashion for me.”
TeaTree hopped inside the cart and puttered around, lifting and shifting the placement of cooking pots and animal pelts and weapons. “I traveled keeping a keen eye on the latest trends in the Far East.” TeaTree paused, looking up at Mandulane. “You realize they do marvelous things with fashion, and it’s constantly changing.”
Mandulane’s heart beat faster in anticipation of seeing exciting, glorious things. “Yes. So I’ve heard.”
TeaTree sighed in delight. “Here we are.” He held up each item for Mandulane to examine, one at a time. “A silken tunic from the easternmost region. This shade of red suits your coloring, I think.”
Mandulane nodded his approval.
TeaTree handed the tunic to a guard, who draped it over one arm. “Next, we have a warm cloak, good for winter when it comes. Notice the intricacy of the stitching along the edge of the hood and the strip of fur attached inside the collar to keep your neck warm.”
“Yes,” Mandulane said. “I need that.”
TeaTree handed it to the guard, letting go so that the guard had to act quickly and catch the cloak before it fell to the ground. Glaring at TeaTree, the guard draped the cloak on top of the tunic.
“Carefully,” Mandulane admonished the guard. “Or everything will wrinkle.”
The guard rearranged the cloak.
“These cream-colored linen shirts make nice underthings.” TeaTree held one up to his chest to display it. “The flax comes from an island in the Southlands that spins much finer than I’ve found elsewhere.”
Mandulane nodded his approval and TeaTree placed five of them over the guard’s free arm. “We must keep the underthings separate,” TeaTree said. “They don’t deserve to brush up against finer clothes just yet.”
He reached toward his cart and held up several belts. “These are quite fine examples of the craftsmanship of the Midland leather-makers.”
Again, Mandulane nodded, and TeaTree hung them across the linen shirts.
The guard’s face flushed and beaded with sweat while he tried to hold both overloaded arms straight out to his sides.
TeaTree took a step closer to Mandulane.
Suddenly, Mandulane realized his guard had become as good as unarmed. “Guards!” Mandulane cried out, relieved to see a handful of armed men rush to his side. “Take those clothes inside my tent.” Pointing at the overburdened guard, Mandulane said, “And have him join the women to scrub potatoes!”
“But my Lord!” the guard protested when his colleagues relieved him of the clothing and wrapped strong arms around his own.
Mandulane’s look silenced him.
TeaTree smiled sweetly at the reprimanded guard while the others escorted him away.
Stepping back toward the cart, TeaTree said, “Let me show you my favorite. It’s something I saw on the streets on Zangcheen, and I thought of you immediately. First, we have the trousers.” With great care, the merchant held up a pair of wide-legged pants.
Breathless with wonder, Mandulane leaned over the rail of the cart to touch the trousers, their surface covered with pale and short yellow hairs that looked as if a kitten had walked across it and left muddy paw prints. “What are they made of?”
TeaTree beamed. “The skin of an animal from the Far South. Isn’t it lovely and exotic? They might be somewhat large, but with a little work I believe we can make them fit.”
Enraptured with the trousers, Mandulane removed his own without hesitation, beckoning for TeaTree to hand over the wonderful new pants. Once in his hands, Mandulane eased his legs into them. He had to hold onto the waist to keep the pants from falling down.
“Better too large than too small,” TeaTree said, climbing out of the cart and joining Mandulane’s side. “I have a knack for tailoring. Let’s see how much work will be required to make these fit like a glove.”
Mandulane stood still while TeaTree’s soft touch darted from his waist to his hips to his thighs, pinching the exotic animal skin together here and there to test a better fit.
Dropping to his knees, TeaTree examined the length. “Not too short and not too long. That’s one thing we won’t have to change.” Still on his knees, TeaTree ran a gentle hand slowly up the side of one leg, still checking the fit.
Mandulane felt his manhood stiffen, shocked and confused to sense it happening. These things only happened when he chose to use women to pleasure him.
It had to be the seductiveness of TeaTree’s soft touch. The merchant’s touch reminded Mandulane of the touch of a woman.
Mandulane slapped the merchant’s hand away. “Watch yourself!” he said, a rush of anger making his face burn hot.
TeaTree flinched and let the weight of Mandulane’s slap push him on his heels. He sat hard on the ground, dust rising around him.
“Would you act like a woman?” Mandulane spat with disgust. “Would you join them in pleasuring me? Would you have your skin colored blue to identify you as the lowest of the low?”
“My Lord,” TeaTree said and then corrected himself. “My Krystr Warrior King. I meant no disrespect. I meant no harm.” The merchant’s face sagged with surprise and disappointment. “I will act only as you wish.”
Again, he reminded Mandulane of his favorite horse. Months ago, Mandulane held an apple in his hand that he meant for himself. While giving instructions to a group of soldiers, Mandulane’s horse ate the apple right out of his hand, and Mandulane smacked the horse in the mouth. The horse reared and backed away, mindful of the sharp weapon Mandulane held in his other hand. It took weeks before the horse let Mandulane near him again. Weeks and bushels of apples.
TeaTree consistently brought the most delicious clothes from all corners of the world, making Mandulane look like the global leader he so richly deserved to be. TeaTree’s eyes watered. He looked as if his best friend had betrayed him.
I will do him no harm. He is far too valuable to punish.
Looking away from TeaTree’s hurt expression, Mandulane dropped the beautiful new trousers and tossed them at TeaTree while hurriedly putting his own back on. “Make the changes and deliver them to my guards.” Mandulane focused on his own hands while he arranged his pants, having no desire to look at TeaTree again. Not today, at least. “Leave your goods and be gone.”
“Yes, my Krystr Warrior King.”
Mandulane’s blood pulsed against his temples. He needed the use of a woman to clear his head.
When he looked up and turned toward his tent, he found TeaTree had vanished. A Krystr clerk now stood in his place.
Mandulane held up a hand to warn the clerk to stay away, but the man paid no heed.
“Please,” the clerk said. “I have news of the Northlanders who lie in wait for you.”
Mandulane’s head pounded, and he sighed. He’d be foolish to allow pleasure to come before work.
And Mandulane was no fool.
CHAPTER 27
By the day’s end, Astrid prepared to leave the Boglands. She joined the people gathered in the village center to say her goodbyes.
A woman stepped forward and held out a cloth bundle. “You should have food in your belly,” the woman said.
Astrid accepted and unwrapped the linen bundle, delighted to find a generous helping of warm,
fragrant bread inside.
“Winter’s coming,” Peppa said, stepping forward and handing a folded stack of vibrant green cloth to Astrid. “This should keep you good and warm. A merchant brought it from the Far East to trade for iron.”
Unfolding it, Astrid discovered a richly decorated cloak, the type worn by a woman of great wealth. Shining threads of gold swirled in patterns forming dragons and snakes and horses along every edge of the garment. “I can’t accept this,” she said, handing it back to Peppa.
But Peppa stepped away, refusing to take the cloak. “We have no need for such things. You might. If nothing else, it will keep you warm this winter. But if you find yourself in need of anything else before winter comes, the cloak should fetch a good price.”
Nodding her thanks, Astrid tried on the cloak, amazed to discover herself feeling warm and cozy despite its light weight. But with a clear sky above and the sun now rising above the horizon, the day would soon be warm. She removed the cloak and folded it.
Lumpy stepped forward from the crowd of Boglanders, receiving an encouraging pat on the back from his wife, who cradled their baby. The former brigand cleared his throat several times, but his voice still broke when he spoke. “You be having no dragonish sword any more, but I notice you still got a dagger at your side.” He raised a clenched fist and opened it to reveal a whetstone. “Keep it sharp every day, even if you think there be no more dragons.”
He jammed the whetstone into her hand and sniffed. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around Astrid and held her close, whispering, “Take good care, my pretty pony girl.”
Too stunned to move, Astrid wondered if she might still be asleep and dreaming.
Letting go of her, Lumpy backed away and burst into tears. His wife wrapped her free arm around his shoulders to comfort him.
The faces of the other Boglanders tightened in distress, and most of them looked at the ground or the sunrise or anywhere else but at Astrid.
“What if the Krystr soldiers kill her?” Lumpy wailed. His shoulders heaved while he wept. “Here she be saving the lives of all Northlanders! She should live, too!”
Astrid stared at him in astonishment. The brigand who had once captured her and sold her into slavery for his own gain cared far more about her than she’d ever dreamed. Aware of a growing lump in the back of her throat, Astrid realized she’d come to care about him just as much.
She took her sole weapon from under her belt and held it out for Lumpy to see. “This is Falling Star,” she said to introduce the dagger. “It’s made in the same way as my dragonslayer’s sword. See its beauty?”
Just like Randim had done with Starlight years ago, she breathed on the iron blade. And just as she’d hoped would happen, her breath fogged up the blade, revealing the bluish pattern of tiny dragons and dragon scales created by the way in which it had been forged.
Lumpy gazed at the dagger, and his sobs subsided. Wiping a sleeve across his wet nose, he said, “It be a little sister to the dragonish sword. Your Starlight. What be this little one’s name again?”
“Falling Star,” Astrid said, remembering the day Donel had given it to her. “And whatever comes my way, whether it’s lizard or thief or Krystr soldier, I’ll have Falling Star at my side.” She grinned and held up the whetstone in her other hand. “And thanks to you, I’ll keep it sharp every day.”
Lumpy dared to look into her eyes, and a flicker of hope crossed his face. “You promise to sharpen it, morning and night?”
Astrid nodded. “Morning and night. And noon if need be.” She put Falling Star back in its sheath.
“Dragonslayer,” a huskier voice said.
He stood deeper in the crowd of Boglanders, but Astrid recognized his voice immediately. “Keep a sharp eye about you,” Broken Nose said.
Astrid smiled and nodded her thanks.
After exchanging more goodbyes with the Boglanders, Astrid made sure she had her whetstone, cloak, and bread in hand before beginning the journey on the path that the stone of light now illuminated, showing Astrid the way to her destiny.
CHAPTER 28
Trep continued his hike through the Far Northlands. He found a narrow animal trail, most likely used by deer. It wound through the steep mountains, where the scent of pine hung heavy in the air. Despite an increasing chill in the temperature, he continued to wear light clothing because walking kept him on the verge of sweat. Apparently, summer had little meaning this far north.
The little dragon hatched days ago. Trep couldn’t tell if it was male or female, so he waited to name it. He’d always scoffed at Astrid coming up with names for the young dragons that followed her around like puppies, but a new understanding dawned on him.
Of course, this dragon should have a name. It would just have to wait until Trep could figure out what to call it.
Most of the time it slept curled up inside the pouch hanging from Trep’s belt, even though its body stretched the limits of that pouch. Once awake, which it happened to be at the moment, it would poke its head out, gaze at Trep for a while and then take in the world surrounding them.
“It’s still the Far Northlands we’re in,” Trep told the dragon, although he doubted it understood anything he said. “We ought to come upon the Boglands soon, once these mountains flatten out.”
The dragon looked up at the sound of Trep’s voice and yawned. Its mouth hung slack, making the animal look like it was grinning.
“You want a tune, do you?” Trep thought he recognized certain things the hatchling did that seemed to have meaning. It acted as if it liked hearing him sing. “All right then. I’ll sing your favorite.”
Trep cleared his throat. The night he’d spent with Astrid, she’d told him about her adventures in the Midlands and Southlands. She’d told him about the people she’d met and the things she’d learned from them. One such thing was a children’s rhyme about Astrid.
Trep knew parts of it from his own childhood but had never heard the entire rhyme until Astrid said it for him. He’d asked her to say it again and again so he could learn it for himself.
And while walking the Far Northlands with a hatchling dragon inside his pouch, Trep decided to turn the rhyme about Astrid into a song, which he sang a few times a day. Winking at the hatchling, Trep sang:
Benzel the mighty warrior
Set Tower Island free.
The Scaldings gave it to him
As his slaughter fee.
Many years he lived alone
Happy as a dove.
But when a woman crossed his path
He recognized true love.
She gave to him his only child
When she passed away.
Benzel cared and loved his son
Until his dying day.
A small child on an island
Cannot live alone.
Thus the Scaldings took him in
And reclaimed their home.
The boy sang songs of dragons,
Which no one did believe.
They say the boy did not go mad;
It's simply how he grieved.
They gave the boy their Scalding name
And treated him like kin.
He played with other Scalding boys
Until they grew to men.
A dragonslayer he did become
With two children of his own.
A Scalding boy and girl who claim
The island as their home.
Now you know the story
Of island and tower.
Children sing of danger
Where the dragons glower.
“And then,” Trep said, “this is the part that children sing.”
Mind yourself
Mind your thoughts
Or Scaldings
Tie you into knots
They take you
Into their tower
Walk inside
Where dragons glower
Rip your head
Leave you for dead
Making sure
The dragons get fed
The hatchling made a squeaking noise.
“Hungry again?” Heeding Kikita’s advice, Trep wore his leather blacksmithing gloves all the day and night to protect his hands and arms in case the hatchling nipped him. He gently scratched the top of its head, and the tiny dragon looked up with hopeful eyes.
Again, following Kikita’s instructions, Trep walked with his gaze on the path and his surroundings. He turned over every small stone and grabbed the insects beneath it, mashing them between his gloved fingers before feeding them to the hatchling. Trep fed the dragon until it fell asleep with its head hanging over the edge of his pouch.
Days later, Trep hiked down a steep mountain path leading into a forest. He noticed a smoky scent drifting in the wind that mingled with the earthy, clean smell of the forest below. A wisp of black smoke hovered above the opposite edge of the forest.
Trep stopped, opened the flap to his pouch, and lifted the hatchling out of it, holding it up in front of his face. “Act your best,” Trep said with the most serious tone he could muster. “There’s no telling what we’ll walk into, and I have no thoughts about how to explain you yet. Kikita told me to take great care should we run into people, and I take her at her word. You must do the same with me.”
The hatchling dropped its jaw open, seeming to grin at Trep.
He stared into its eyes. “This is no time to jest!”
The hatchling stretched its jaw wide and yawned, squeezing its eyes shut. Its mouth closed, and a tiny yellow tongue flicked out at Trep.
His voice softened. “Just let me protect you, is all,” he said.
The little dragon’s eyes stared into Trep’s until they slowly shut and it dozed off.
Sighing, Trep placed the hatchling back in his pouch, careful not to wake it.
He walked through the forest. By the end of the day, he found himself at the edge of the iron bogs. Like everyone else, Trep knew of them, but this was his first time to see them. He first noticed the brackish smell hanging heavy in the air. He gazed at the swampy land divided by flat black stone paths and the stout trees alongside them.
Trep walked toward the smoke rising above the tree line to his left, knowing that’s where he’d find the smelters. Glancing down, he saw the hatchling still slept with its head poked outside the pouch. Trep tucked its head out of sight without waking the creature.