by Anna Rose
Aya had nearly taken every small mammal in her immediate vicinity as she stocked up for the winter months. Between their smoked and dried meat, and the fruits, edible fungi, and vegetables she had managed to collect before the first freeze made them inedible, she knew she should do reasonably well until perhaps a month after the winter solstice.
She had stacked all the firewood she was able to collect up against the far side of the cottage, where someone randomly coming by would not see it unless they were looking for it. It came to the edge of the roof, and all the way down the length of the cottage, so, if she was wise, and slept under her soft, deer hide lined cloak for additional warmth, it should last her throughout her stay.
The cookpot had required over an hour of hard scrubbing to remove the unidentifiable crusts and rust from its interior, but once it was clean, Aya was pleased with the result. Having it to use made it feel more as though she was home, rather than being a sort of vagabond.
Over time, she moved most of the surviving books and scrolls from the town hall into her snug little cottage, sliding them into the empty shelves that lined the east wall. She felt as though they needed a caretaker, and assumed that mantle on their behalf.
One of the scrolls had revealed a map, although Aya did not know how current it might be. It seemed to show the village and the great forest though, and roads leading to the east and west, with the village shown in its center. Assuming it showed correct information, Aya decided to use it as her guide, when the time came that she moved on.
Everything was fine the first six weeks or so after the snows began to fall, but one morning, Aya awoke with a clogged, snotty nose, and a tremendous headache that made it nearly impossible to open her eyes, the brightness of the light against the snow hurt her eyes so badly.
The old black hen had died two days earlier when it was attacked by a starving weasel that had found a way into the otherwise snug cottage, and Aya had barely been able to retrieve as much of the bird’s carcass as she had. Forced into action by this tragedy, Aya had turned the ragged corpse into a meat broth. She took advantage of an unexpected pair of not-yet-shelled eggs she found inside the hen while gutting the thing as a tasty treat to add to the soup.
The thieving weasel’s hide had been set to dry, near the sparse fire she kept. At least the beast had not been able to reach the more productive and younger Freckles, who had flapped up to an inset shelf in one wall and waited there, safe and sound, as the older bird, unable to flap one of her wings, had died.
A small amount of broth remained in the cooking pot, so she ladled it out carefully and drank it down, enjoying the thick richness of it all. Then, dipping into her precious water supply, she started a new pot of soup, using some of her dried meat and a few of the root vegetables she had dug up before the snow fell.
She knew it would have tasted better with salt, but she had to settle for using only the herbs she had managed to collect, including the surprising discovery of a small hot pepper bush, whose fruits burned her tongue, but which added so much more excitement to what would have otherwise been bland fare.
The illness lasted nearly a week, during which time she heard activity outside her small hideaway. Unhappily, she banked her fire to conceal her presence and waited in the cooling cottage, wrapped up in every bit of clothing she possessed to stay warm until the sounds of the interloper went away. The last thing she wanted was some fool bringing her back to her father, or worse, to the baker.
Aya was sick of soup to her very bones by the time the illness passed. She would have consumed more solid fare, but her mother had taught Aya that soups were best when one was ill, and she had never forgotten that lesson.
From time to time, Aya would indulge in a long bout of crying for her mother. She felt ashamed that she had ever felt that her mother loved her brother more than her. It was clear that her mother had only her best interests in mind when the end came. That thought just brought on more tears, and Aya was surprised that she did not simply wither up and dry out from as much as she cried.
While she waited for the snows to recede, Aya planned what she would do, once she left the not-so-abandoned village. She knew she needed to find some civilization, as she could not live the life of a nomad forever, and did not want to.
8
Bored from being stuck inside for several days during the snowstorm, Aya took advantage of the first break in the weather to escape from the cottage and do some more exploring of her domain.
Previous forays had resulted in the acquisition of various bits and pieces that made her solitary life in the cottage more bearable. Things that looters seeking treasure might otherwise overlook, as they had no real meaning for them. But for Aya, a wooden spoon, an unbroken mug, a small knife, all of those were of immediate use to her.
They were treasure enough for her when she did not have any of her own when she arrived.
She knew the town hall had been well looted, but curiosity made her head back in to see what she might find that escaped the notice of previous treasure hunters. They had already demonstrated a profound disinterest in the books and scrolls located there, so who knew what else might have been dismissed as lacking value. She would not know until she took the time to look.
There were two stories aboveground to the building, and a basement, from what she had been able to determine. With no windows to the outside world, the basement remained in darkness, unless one brought their light source with them. There were wall sconces down there, but their lamp oil was long since burned away. Aya needed to find an alternative light source before she could assay any exploration of the building’s depths.
To that end, Aya had collected and rendered all the fat she could from the carcasses of the animals she trapped and kept it against the day that she had enough to make a decent foray into that foreboding basement. In the absence of wax and tallow, it was all she could use.
Aya soaked strips of rag in the precious melted fat, wrung the excess from them, and then wrapped the fat-impregnated rags around a short, thick branch to be used as a torch. She had learned the trick from her mother, years ago, when they had unexpectedly run out of tallow candles due to the depredations of rats and mice.
With luck, the torchlight would last long enough for her to make a decent foray into the basement. With even better luck, she might find something else that would make her life at least a little bit easier.
The inside of the town hall had become very familiar to her, with her frequent incursions in search of new books and scrolls to admire. She had found the single mug she now possessed lying in a dark corner beneath what must have been the town clerk’s desk. Its otherwise brown clay substance was shot through with streaks of some mysterious green clay, adding character to what might otherwise have been something ordinary and otherwise forgettable.
The door to the basement had long ago been broken open, and what little of the door that remained hung limply from the sole iron hinge that barely remained affixed to the door’s frame. Aya had gathered the broken and splintered bits of wood from the floor and used them for her fire. It only made sense to take advantage of what was most easily available.
The torch burned with an oily, black smoke, but put out enough light that Aya was able to slowly make her way down the stairway into the depths of the basement.
It provided just enough light to keep her from tripping and falling over the skeletal remains of some unidentifiable person who had never made it back up that stairway and into the light. Whoever it was had been dead a very long time, as the stench of decay was long gone. What little flesh remained on the body had dried to the point of mummification, its thin lips drawn back from half-rotted teeth in a horrible rictus of a grin.
Aya imagined that however the man had died, it had not been a peaceful passing. The skeleton’s posture was not relaxed but suggested some great agony.
Not more than five feet further on, and she discovered two more sets of human remains, although these were no more than skeletons at this late date. What c
ould have happened that would result in such obvious violence?
The flickering light of the rude torch did not illuminate the chamber fully, so Aya’s exploration required close inspection of anything she wanted to explore. If the deceased had worn jewelry, it was long gone at this point; either taken by earlier adventurers, or fallen off and tumbled into the shadows as the skeletons slowly lost their cohesion and fell apart.
It was readily apparent that loose bricks had been pulled away from their settings so that the spaces behind could be checked for treasure secreted within. After seeing a fat, well-fed spider tucked inside one of those revealed spaces, Aya was a bit more careful in her exploration.
By the time the torch’s flame was becoming more fitful, Aya had explored most of the basement area, and had uncovered nothing that was very helpful to her. She was disappointed, of course, after having gone to the trouble of hoarding fat for the torch, but knew that if she had not done so, so would always regret it.
She misjudged how much time she had left, and so was quite surprised when the torch’s flame failed and went out completely, leaving her in the absolute blackness of the chilly underground chamber. It was frightening, and Aya fancied she could hear things moving around her in the dark.
Trying to orient herself as to her location, Aya stepped forward and tripped over one of the skeletons at the base of the stairs, falling into it, hard. Fragile bones crunched beneath the force of her landing, and Aya felt her gorge rise in response.
When Aya fell, she had instinctively put out her hands and was surprised to find her fingers curled around a slender stick that must have lain beneath the skeleton upon which she had tripped. Keeping it at hand to help feel her way back up the stairs, Aya rose, brushing dust and bone fragments away.
The stick turned out to be just what she needed, and with its aid, was able to make her way back up into the blessed light of day, such as there was, as the sun was now making its descent to the horizon. A light snow was falling, and Aya dashed back to her cottage, not wanting to be out in the cold temperatures any longer than she must.
Over a steaming mug of broth, Aya examined the mysterious stick she had picked up. It was no simple piece of wood, but something more than that, though she had no idea what that something might be.
It was about ten millimeters in diameter, and a meter and a half long. Despite its length, it was very light in Aya’s hand, its weight almost negligible. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that it possessed a metal tip on one end, and a metal cap on the other, with a metal collar at its neck that featured a delicate loop that would be perfect for a wrist strap.
With a bit of rubbing, Aya discovered that the metal furnishings seemed to be a kind of silver that was nearly white in color. As she cleared the accumulated grime from the thing, she also found delicate etchings of dragons along its length, flying nose to tail like a magnificent aerial parade. She wondered how anyone could leave such a glorious piece of artwork behind and then realized its past owner could be among the skeletons whose acquaintance she had so recently made.
Aya had no desire to go back into the dark basement, so that would remain a mystery unless, by some twist of fate, she discovered more about it out in the sunlit world. While she was willing to do a lot, she had reached the point where she had had enough.
Using a short, greasy piece of rag that had not been used on the now extinct torch Aya had used in her ill-fated expedition, she rubbed the stick up and down. As she carefully worked, she discovered an almost translucent black object that covered in etchings of dragons, capped and footed with fine silver.
It was clear that the object was not made of wood, as she had never seen translucent wood, but then, it was also too light to be stone, either. The thing felt oddly warm and comfortable in her hand. It felt right in her grasp.
9
She had finally slaughtered the remaining hen and was down to her last small stack of dried meat by the time the snows finally began to melt, and her jaws were sore from having to chew through the thick slabs of protein. The vegetables she had so carefully tucked away had been gone for at least a month, and the monotonous fare was taking its toll on her.
Packing everything she could into the carry-sacks she had made with the skins that had not gone into making her cloak, she left the cottage for good on the first day the ground was clear of snow. Aya could not leave it soon enough, as far as she was concerned.
Unable to leave a mess behind, she had taken the time to clear the place of any trash remaining, in the event someone else might need a place to stay in the future. It was her way of saying ‘thank you’ to what god or gods had put the cottage in her path when she needed a place to stay over the winter months.
She had deliberately dirtied up the surface of the mysterious stick to disguise it, as it would have been too difficult to conceal otherwise, as it was so very long. For now, it appeared to be a well-used walking stick, and in case she needed to defend herself, it would be right at hand.
She began to wonder if other people shunned the abandoned village much as her father and brother would have done. She had lived there for several months and, other than herself, she had only noted one incursion in that time.
Perhaps plague had taken the village and its inhabitants, and by some miracle, she had not contracted it. The plague had taken the only other village she had ever heard of that had ultimately been burned to the ground. The inhabitants, living and dead, had been pushed back into the homes by monitors and the doors boarded up to keep the unfortunate victims from escaping the flames and certain death. Aya determined never to tell anyone she had spent any time in this eerie town.
She pretended to herself that she had not gone back and taken the heavy illustrated volume she had discovered on her first day in the village. While she had enjoyed many of the other books she had scavenged, this one was special to her. It was much too beautiful to leave to rot, and perhaps one day she would learn to read and find out what magic lived within its pages.
Aya had walked for days before she encountered another human being. When she first heard him speak, the unfamiliarity of the experience made her jump.
“And what are you doing out here, all alone, little missy?” said a voice from above. “Not at all normal to see a young woman out on her own in this part of the world.”
Squeaking a bit, Aya looked up and saw a blood-red dragon and its rider a short distance from her, hovering silently. The swarthy-faced human grinned down at her, clearly pleased that he had surprised her. She noted in passing that rather than sitting directly on the dragon’s hide, the Dragonguard sat atop a large blanket that was spread across the beast’s massive shoulders and appeared to have been fastened in place with leather strapping. The blanket was decorated with a simple repeated pattern of swirling lines.
“I’m traveling,” she replied stoutly, gesturing vaguely with the stick. “I want to find my way in the world.”
“Oh, you do, do you,” he asked her, a smirk playing about his lips. “And do you propose to walk wherever that may be?”
“If I must. I do not have a beast to ride, nor anything as grand as a dragon,” she dared. “If I had a dragon of my own, I would go wherever I wished!”
“Oh-ho!” the dragonman chortled. “Yes, aim high whenever you can.”
The dragon in question snorted at her words, and Aya’s eyes widened. Had she said something wrong?
“Don’t give him so much praise, little girl,” the dragonman said. “It will go to his head, and then I won’t be able to do anything with him!”
The dragon snorted again, but this time, it seemed that it was aimed at his rider.
“The dragon understands my words?”
“Of course he does. He does not speak, himself, but does make himself understood.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, dragon,” she told the great beast politely. The dragon landed and folded its great wings at its sides, regarding her with his gigantic blue eyes, which, she saw, were
the same color as his rider’s. She also noted that the dragon’s landing was almost silent. “I did not mean to do so.”
The dragon licked at Aya’s face, and it was all she could do not to scream and jump backward. Oddly, beast’s long, red, forked tongue had been dry, rather than moist, which was unexpected. The Dragonguard laughed.
The dragon made a strange noise, and Aya turned her attention to the rider.
“He’s not offended by anything you’ve said or done, little girl,” he replied, an odd expression on his face. “However, I know, and I would think you do not, that there will be more snow overnight, and I do not think you will have a safe place to be when that happens. May I offer you a ride somewhere?”
Aya stammered a response, not sure what she said in reply, but whatever it was, the rider took it as an affirmative, and the dragon reached out a paw to gently pick her up and hand up her to his rider. It was so sudden a movement that Aya did not have a chance to avoid it.
The skin of the dragon’s taloned paw felt soft as it closed about her, which was something she had not expected. Aya had always thought of dragons as being hard-scaled, but this was very different.
The next thing she knew, Aya was astride the dragon’s broad shoulders, sitting in front of his rider, who looped one arm around her belly to keep her from falling off. There was nothing inappropriate in his grasp, only necessity. She noticed that the arm which held her seemed damaged, and on closer examination, she saw that he was missing some fingers.
Not knowing if asking about it would offend him, she did not ask about the arm.
“Are you comfortable where you are? Here we go!”
With that, the dragon leaped into the air with a massive downbeat of his wings, the action surprisingly smooth for a beast that must easily weigh over three thousand pounds. Aya stared down at the ground, startled by their speed and watching the ground move away at a surprising pace.