“Keep him still.” Eranor swiped his beard across his shoulder. “This will hurt him.”
“Who is he?” Jeid asked. The young man relaxed in his grip; he shivered upon the rug, his skin the color of the cave walls.
Eranor replied calmly. “A Vir Requis.”
Jeid lost his breath. He stared down at the injured man. “You are . . . you can become a dragon.”
The young man looked up at him. He managed to nod wanly. “I’ve heard of you.” His voice was weak and hoarse. “You are Jeid Blacksmith of Oldforge. The whole north is speaking of you.” He coughed, licked his lips, and managed to keep talking, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m from the Redbone tribe. When they discovered my curse, they chained my ankle to our totem. I shifted into a dragon. When my body grew, the chain dug through me. I rose as a dragon.” He managed a wry smile. “My human foot remained behind. I—“ Coughs overcame his words, and it was a moment before he could speak again. “I heard of the escarpment. I had to find you. I had to . . .”
His eyes rolled back, his body became limp, and he fell silent.
“Keep him down,” Eranor said. He reached for a bronze saw and a bowl of boiling water. “He’s unconscious, not dead, and he might wake. It’s best if he sleeps through this part.”
When Eranor raised the saw, Jeid felt himself pale. “By the stars, what . . .”
“It’s not a clean cut.” Eranor squinted at the wound. “The bone is jagged. If I sew shut the stump, the bone would only cut through it. I must file it down.”
Jeid grimaced as his father worked, sawing through bone, filing the edges down, and cutting out infected flesh. The young man woke once and screamed, and Jeid held him pinned down. When the man fainted again, Eranor pulled skin over the wound and stitched it shut.
“Will he live?” Jeid asked, kneeling above the stranger.
Eranor wiped his hands on a rug. “I pray to our stars that he does.”
Jeid’s fingers trembled. He stared down at the pale young man, and strangely, despite the blood and horror, joy kindled in him. His eyes stung.
We are not alone.
He was about to speak again when he felt warm wetness against his knee. He looked down to see blood seeping from under the young man’s back. When he raised the man to a sitting position, he saw it there—a broken arrow beneath his shoulder blade, sunken deep into his torso.
Dawn spilled into the cave when the young man died.
Jeid held him in his arms, remembering the night Requiem had died in his embrace, and here he was a father again; all these cursed, lost souls were his children now.
“Rise, friend,” he whispered and kissed the man’s forehead. “Rise to the Draco stars. Their light will guide you home.”
That evening, Jeid buried the young man in the valley beside his daughter, and he placed a boulder above his grave. Eranor stood beside him, his beard flowing in the wind, and prayed the old prayers of druids.
Two fallen Vir Requis, Jeid thought, staring at the twin graves. Two more burdens to bear. He looked up at the sunset. The first stars emerged, and the dragon constellation glowed above. Two more souls to guide me.
“Who am I, Father?” he asked softly.
Eranor placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are a son. You are a father. And you are not alone.” The old man stared south across the plains of swaying grass. “Others are blessed. Others need you. You will build them the tribe that you dream of. They will find you, or we will find them, and we—the Vir Requis—will gather here. We will have a home.”
That night Jeid did not fly again. He sat in the cave by his father, and he stared at the embers in their brazier, and he thought of Tanin and Maev who were flying south, and he thought of those who had died.
I will fly on, he thought. But I will no longer fly lost in darkness. Our lights shine across the world. I will be a beacon to them until we shine together.
LAIRA
“SO THIS IS HOW I end my first hunt,” Laira muttered to herself as she crawled through the forest. “Bruised, bound, and covered in mammoth shite.”
She sighed, then winced with pain; even sighing hurt now. She supposed it could have been worse. If those rocs caught her, it would be worse.
Laira could still hear the birds above. It had been a full day and night since she had escaped the pyre, and the sun was rising again, yet still they hunted her, scanning the skies in pairs. Every few moments, she heard the fetid vultures fly above the canopy, and the oil they secreted fell like foul rain. Thankfully the trees were thick and autumn leaves still covered the branches, shielding her from view. Even in areas where the canopy broke, Laira—covered in mud, dung, and dry leaves—appeared like nothing but a clump of dirt.
Zerra always said I was nothing but filth, she thought, a wry smile twisting her lips.
The latest roc vanished overhead, leaving his stench—like moldy meat—to waft down upon her, mingling with her own smell, which was no more appealing. Laira crawled under a tilted oak, rummaged in a pile of fallen leaves, and finally found a stone the right size. She smashed it against another stone, chipping it into a blade. She sat upright, her head dizzy, and worked for a while, rubbing the sharp stone against her bonds. Finally the rope tore, and she brought her arms back forward and examined her wrists.
They were a bloody, muddy mess, and her hands blazed as fresh blood pumped into them. She cut the ropes around her ankles next and winced. Her feet were in even worse shape. Not only had the ropes chafed her ankles, the fire had burned her soles; ugly welts now rose there. She didn’t know what was worse: her burns, bruises, cuts, or the foul paste coating her, but she thought it was the burns. She needed speed now more than anything, and with burnt feet, how could she walk or run? Even with her ropes cut, was she still bound to crawl to whatever safety she could find?
Laira sighed. Was there even safety in this world for her? Even if she did escape the Goldtusk tribe—the only home she’d ever known—would she starve in the wilderness or freeze once the snows began to fall? As a babe, she had lived in a distant land, a sunny kingdom named Eteer, but they had banished her. Eteer too hated and hunted weredragons. Even if she could find her way back, no home awaited her across the sea.
A roc’s cry sounded above, and Laira flattened herself down. When it had passed, she winced and bit her lip, spat out the foul taste, and attempted to stand.
Her soles blazed as if new fires burned them. She fell into the dry leaves, moaning and dizzy.
“Maybe I’ll just crawl for a while longer.”
She crawled until she reached a stream, the shallow water gurgling over smooth, mossy stones. She ached to wash off the dung, which had dried into a flaky paste, but dared not; the rocs could return anytime, and without the stench to mask her scent, they could sniff her out. She couldn’t resist washing her feet, however. Dipping them into the stream shot a bolt through her, but soon the cold water soothed her. They had tied her barefooted to the pyre, and so she ripped off squares from her fur cloak, washed them in the stream, then tied them around her feet with vines.
When she stood up gingerly on the riverbank, she did not fall. She took one step, wobbled, and then another. She held a tree for support and limped a few more steps. It hurt and her head still swam, but she could walk.
Probably looking like some evil spirit from a fireside tale, covered in filth and leaves, she wobbled onward. There was only one place she could go now.
“The escarpment,” she whispered.
For years, she had dreamed of traveling there. Her mother had claimed it was just a legend, yet it had to be true. The rocs dared not fly near the cliffs. Even Zerra never dared hunt in its shadow. Why else would they fear the place if not because . . .
“Dragons live there,” Laira whispered, and tears stung her eyes. “Others with my disease. Other banished, cursed souls. I can find a home there.”
Her head felt full of fog, and she struggled to remember the last movements of her tribe. Goldtusk had been traveling south thro
ughout the fall, planning to spend the winter in the warm, southern coast. That meant the escarpment would be northwest from here—many days away.
“I can walk,” she whispered, shivering. “I can survive the journey. I can drink from streams and I can gather berries and mushrooms. I can make it.”
A roc dived overhead, and Laira pressed herself against a tree and remained still until it passed. Then she moved again, limping but trudging on. Using the rising sun’s location, she could determine north easily enough. The moss grew on only one side of the trees, another marker to guide her.
“Step by step, Laira,” she told herself. “Just keep going and you’ll find the others.”
A small voice inside her whispered that she was mad, that she could never find a humble escarpment in the endless world. In the vastness of the wilderness, even creatures as large as dragons were small. But walking—even limping—was better than curling up and dying, and so she kept going.
“I will always keep going,” she promised herself. “If I die, I die moving.”
She kept walking until the sun reached its zenith, its heat dispersing the mist. Dapples of light revealed mushrooms, berries, and fallen pine cones. Laira spent a while collecting a meal upon a flat rock. She had not eaten since . . . she couldn’t even remember the last time; it had been at least two days, maybe twice that long. She dared wash her hands and face in a nearby stream, sit down, and eat. The food tasted like the dung. She had hoped the meal would invigorate her, but it only made her belly swirl, and she gagged.
For long moments, she lay on her back, struggling to breathe. She wasn’t sure how many scrapes and cuts covered her. It felt like dozens, some mild—mere scratches from brambles—others deeper, like the cuts along her wrists and ankles. She didn’t mind the pain, but as she lay watching the rustling leaves, she began to worry about infection. The tribe warriors sometimes rubbed their arrowheads with mammoth dung; they claimed that it would spread rot through a wound. After her splash in the mammoth’s waste to conceal her scent, had she doomed herself to slow death by disease? Had she fought, fled, and gone through this pain simply for a lingering demise in the wilderness?
If no more rocs arrive by afternoon, I’ll wash myself in the nearest stream, she decided.
For now she had to keep moving. The farther she walked from the tribe, the safer she’d be. She knew Zerra. Sooner or later, he would spit, curse her name, and give up the chase. He would claim she had died in the wilderness, then keep traveling south with his tribe, not willing to abandon his journey for a mere maggot like her.
“But I won’t die in the wilderness,” she whispered, rising to her feet. “I will find others like me. I will live through this.”
She kept walking, every part of her aching, until the sun dipped into the afternoon. Only three times did she hear rocs, and they were farther away, still hunting her but confused, not sure where to look. Slowly Laira’s fear of them eased, but her fear of infection kept growing, and her dizziness would not leave her. She needed healing herbs but didn’t know the craft. Back at Goldtusk, only the crone Shedah knew healing, and she would share the art with none.
Goldtusk. The very thought of the word made her eyes sting and iciness wash her belly. The tribe had been her only home since she’d been a toddler. Laira had often dreamed of fleeing, of finding others like her, other cursed ones, able to become dragons. Yet now that she had truly fled, the fear would not leave her.
She sucked in breath and tightened her lips.
You can do this, Laira. You are ready. You are strong. You have dreamed of this all your life, and now the day is here.
“Freedom,” she whispered. “A chance for a new, better life. All I must do is live.”
When evening fell, she came upon another stream. She had not heard pursuit since the afternoon, and she deemed the filth covering her a greater danger than rocs. She had been coated in the mammoth dung for two days now; if the rocs didn’t kill her, this poison would.
Wincing, she undressed and stepped into the water. It was so cold it hurt like fire, and Laira cried out in pain. Shivering, she submerged herself and bathed as best she could. Teeth chattering, she then scrubbed her filthy furs between smooth stones to clean out the dried flakes.
She climbed onto the riverbank—trembling, naked, her skin pale blue. After hanging her wet cloak upon a branch, she examined her wounds and grimaced. Brambles had painted her with a network of raw, red scratches. The fall through the canopy had covered her with bruises; some were as large as apples, their blue centers fading into black rings. Cuts surrounded her wrists and ankles, carved by the ropes. The worst wounds were on her feet; the heat had raised welts on her soles and toes, white and swollen.
The sun was sinking rapidly and Laira yawned. It was an action so mundane, so comforting, that it filled her with a little bit of warmth even as she still shivered. Yawning was good. Yawning was healthy. Yawning was normal. Her furs wouldn’t dry until tomorrow, not in this cold weather, but she could curl up under dry leaves. She could sleep, regain some strength, wake up and search for more food, then walk some more.
Tomorrow she would hum a little tune as she walked, she told herself. She would remember all the old jokes her mother had told her. It would be a happy day—a day free from all the old pain. Zerra wouldn’t be around to beat her. Shedah wouldn’t scratch her, spit upon her, or leech her for potions. Laira would live—perhaps for the first time in her life. She would find a new home and this nightmare would be over. She wiped tears from her eyes, allowing herself a shaky smile.
“I will be all r—“
A roc cried above. Laira froze.
Stars, oh stars, I had just washed off the stench, and they’re back.
She clenched her fists.
There is only one above, she told herself. I can fight one. I can shift into a dragon and burn it. I—
More shrieks answered. Three rocs, maybe four—no more than a dozen. Laira’s head throbbed. She was too weary, too hurt to fight that many, even in dragon form.
The shrieks sounded again, and she took a shuddering breath. The rocs were still far—a mark away, maybe farther. They could not smell her from that distance. She only had to remain silent, to remain hidden, to—
A growl sounded in the shadows behind her.
Laira spun around.
Yellow eyes gleamed in the brush.
The growl rose again in the darkness.
Behind her, the sun vanished behind the trees.
A shadow slunk forward, and in the dying light, Laira saw the creature, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
The saber-toothed cat bristled, muscular and hulking, several times Laira’s size. Its fangs shone, large and sharp as swords. The beast took another step toward her and growled again.
Laira gasped and took a step back.
In the distance, the rocs cried; they were moving closer.
Shift into a dragon! Laira told herself. Become a dragon and burn it!
Yet how could she? If she flew or blew fire, the rocs would see her. Even just shifting would rattle the trees like a mammoth stampede, raise a ruckus of clattering scales, and reveal her location.
The saber-toothed cat growled louder and crouched, ready to pounce.
Never removing her eyes from its gaze, Laira knelt and grabbed a stone.
With a roar, the great cat leaped.
Laira tossed her stone, hurtling it forward with all her might. The projectile crashed into the cat’s forehead, and Laira leaped aside.
The cat stumbled backward into a tree trunk, shook its head wildly, and faced her again. It padded forward, a bleeding gash on its forehead.
Couched in the dry leaves, Laira grabbed a fallen branch. She snapped it across her knee, then waved the sharp end at the cat.
“Be gone!” She bared her own teeth—pathetically small compared to its fangs. “Go! Go!”
If she ran, it would chase. If she showed weakness, it would pounce again. She waved the stick
and hopped around, trying to seem as menacing as possible. Naked, scrawny, and wounded, she doubted she appeared like much of a threat.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the cat leaped again.
Laira thrust her stick.
The cat brushed it aside with its paw and slammed into her, knocking her down.
Laira grimaced. The saber teeth shone and drove down.
I have no choice.
With a hiss, Laira summoned her magic.
Scales rose across her. The cat’s fangs slammed against them and bounced back.
As her body began to grow, Laira shoved the beast off. She swiped her own paw, lashing her sprouting claws against the animal. The saber-toothed cat whimpered and fell.
The rocs shrieked above, and her body was still growing. A tail sprouted behind her, her neck kept lengthening, and the trees shook as she banged against them. Laira growled, baring her fangs, still only half-dragon.
The saber-toothed cat growled back, then whimpered, turned tail, and fled into the shadows.
An instant before cracking the trunks around her in a ruckus, Laira released her magic.
She shrank back into human form and lay shivering.
The cries of rocs moved farther away, and the last light faded.
Laira lay, enveloped in blackness, shivering in the cold, naked and wounded. Around her in the forest, she heard things stir and move, and a growl rose somewhere to her left, and paws padded to her right.
She hugged herself, unable to stop shaking.
“Please, stars of the dragon, please,” she prayed. “Look after me. Don’t let me die this night.”
She dared not light a fire, not in case the rocs returned. So weak she could barely move, she felt around for her stick and used it to dig a little burrow. She curled up inside and pulled dry leaves over her, hugging her knees for warmth. She had never felt so cold, lost, and afraid.
“I won’t die this night, Mother,” she whispered between chattering teeth. “I will live. I will live.”
She lay trembling and awake, staring into the darkness as growls, snorts, and glowing eyes filled the forest around her.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 131