by James Maxey
Almost before he knew it, his purse was two coins lighter and his belly was many pounds fuller. His tongue repeatedly flickered across the gaps between his teeth, searching for any remaining essence of the meat that lingered there.
Feeling fat and happy, Graxen moved along the docks, browsing the various wares. He lingered at shops where the local women sold their specialty, tiny flat beads carefully carved from opalescent mother of pearl and shaped in to a variety of bracelets, necklaces, belts, and capes.
At last, Graxen found the item he sought. It was a belt made of the pearly shells, with each bead carved into the shape of a curved sword. The hips of a sky-dragon were similar in size to the hips of a human female. He tried it on himself and found it fit snuggly, given that his belly was swollen with fish. He knew Nadala wouldn't be allowed to wear it openly; indeed, she might find the gift trivial and pointless.
Still, Graxen couldn't resist. The belt was a lovely thing made from blades; Nadala was a lovely thing who used blades. He could write her a letter explaining the symbolism. Or, would that be insulting to her intelligence? Every time he thought about the contents of the letters he wanted to write her, his mind quickly locked as doubts and possibilities slid against one another and ground to a halt.
The hours he'd spent in Hampton resisting the pitches of hawkers left him weary by mid-afternoon. The flight back to the palace felt especially long. He wondered if Nadala would be standing guard. It was nearly nightfall when he caught sight of the palace. The first things that captured his attention were several earth-dragon guards rushing back and forth in the courtyard. The fringes on the back of his neck rose as he sensed something terrible had happened in his absence.
Graxen swooped into the Peace Hall and found a chaotic scene. Humans were shouting at humans in one corner of the room, biologians were bickering in an opposite corner, and the valkyries were nowhere to be seen. Charkon and the other earth-dragons were filing from the room. Charkon glanced back with a look of disgust in his one good eye as Graxen's claws touched down on the marble. For an instant, Graxen wondered if his arrival had somehow offended the elderly earth-dragon; it took a few seconds to realize the disgust wasn't directed at him, but toward the bickering humans.
Shandrazel looked glum as he sat perched on the golden cushion at the head of the room. All the optimism and energy that normally animated him had vanished. Behind him, a tapestry depicted the face of his father, Albekizan, glowering down at the room. The emerald green threading of the eyes shimmered against the blood red scales, making the eyes look almost alive.
"Sire," Graxen said, approaching Shandrazel. "What has transpired? Did Blasphet attack again?"
"No," Shandrazel said. "A gang of assassins would be relatively easy to deal with. Zorasta and her contingent flew away, saying the talks are over. The humans won't agree on anything, and now even Charkon has left angry. Why is this proving so difficult?"
"What was the point of contention? What caused the crisis?"
"I'll tell you what caused the crisis," the young Bitterwood called out, having noticed Graxen's arrival. The tall blond man looked quite agitated, completely unlike the wise and fatherly friend who had counseled him on how to approach Nadala.
Bitterwood walked before Shandrazel, addressing his words to both Graxen and the king. "Zorasta condones human slavery. She wasn't here to discuss freedom. She wants to keep all men in chains!"
Shandrazel sighed. "That really wasn't the issue being discussed. Zorasta merely proposed that bows be outlawed. It is the weapon of choice for a human to use against a dragon. Her proposal shouldn't have produced such a violent reaction from you humans, if you'd only stopped to consider the point. My brother was killed with a bow, as was my father. It strikes me as a reasonable item to be discussed."
"Are dragons being asked to give up their teeth and claws? Are they being asked to stop flying above us with spears? A bow is the only weapon that gives a human a chance of defense!" The young Bitterwood was shouting in a most disrespectful tone, Graxen thought. Perhaps the matriarch was correct in saying humans couldn't control their emotions.
"There will be nothing to defend against," said Shandrazel, sounding weary, as if he'd repeated the words many times before Graxen's arrival. "Dragons will no longer hunt humans under the new laws. What need do you have you for arms that have no use other than killing dragons?"
"Most bows have never been raised against dragons," Bitterwood said. "We use them for hunting, or to-"
"Hunting?" Shandrazel scoffed, incredulous. "Humans plant crops. You fish. You herd cattle and sheep. Hunting plays no real role in your diet."
"You called this meeting to grant humans rights. On the second day you're already talking about taking a right away."
Graxen leaned forward and interrupted the argument. He didn't care whether humans had bows or not. He did care that Nadala might no longer be in the palace.
"Sire, did you say the valkyries flew away? Did they return to the Nest?"
"I assume that is their destination," said Shandrazel.
"With your permission, sire, I'll give chase to their party. Perhaps I can persuade them to return."
"Zorasta doesn't want to return," Bitterwood said. "She arrived wanting to thwart these talks. We should just move ahead without her."
Shandrazel thought the matter over. Graxen waited impatiently, feeling the miles between Nadala and himself growing by the second.
"I doubt you can change her mind, but if you choose to try, I wish you good fortune," Shandrazel said. "Go."
Graxen dashed toward the balcony, the weight of the bead-belt heavy in the satchel slung over his shoulder. If he didn't catch Nadala before she made it to the Nest, he might never see her again. Though he was already tired from his trip to the coast, he threw himself into the air beyond the balcony and beat his wings with all his strength, flying as fast as he had ever flown before.
Graxen never caught sight of Nadala and her party as he chased after them. He'd hoped that a group of armored sky-dragons might stop frequently to rest. Despite sky-dragons' prowess in the air, flying could be an exhausting endeavor. While a dragon with Graxen's youth and stamina might cover a hundred miles without stopping for rest or water, the average sky-dragon seldom put their endurance to the test. Flying to the point of exhaustion was dangerous-a muscle cramp striking a human runner might cause a stumble; a similar seizure in a dragon even a few dozen feet above the earth could prove fatal. Combined with the facts that male sky-dragons often led sedentary lives of study, and female sky-dragons seldom strayed out of sight of the Nest, this meant that most sky-dragons broke long journeys into smaller flights of ten or twenty miles at most.
Unfortunately, while the need to rest apparently wasn't slowing the valkyries, Graxen himself was trembling with weariness. When he'd returned to the palace, he'd already flown over three hundred miles that day. Adding another hundred fifty to it meant that as he neared Dragon Forge he was pushing a limit he'd never fully tested. At what point would his wings simply fail?
His heart wanted nothing more than to see Nadala again, but his mind was wracked with doubt. He was too late. If they'd already made it to the island, there would be fresh guards preventing his entrance. His earlier stunt of invading the island was one he doubted he could duplicate. He'd caught the guards unaware, and surprised them with his speed. Now that they knew how fast and agile he was, they would take no chances, and simply overwhelm him with numbers.
His lungs burned. His shoulders felt as if the muscles were riddled with fish hooks, tearing deeper with each flap of his wings. The day was now long gone, and he found it difficult to judge his distance above the earth in the dark. Several times he'd been forced to pull upward as he discovered himself only a few feet above the treetops.
Ahead, he could see the glow of the foundries, still some miles distant. The air carried the faint trace of burning coal, which mingled with the more woodsy smoke of the hundreds of campfires dotting the landscape beneath
him. Graxen grew curious. He knew that human gleaners lived near Dragon Forge, but were they truly so numerous? The campfires below spread across the hilly landscape for the better part of a mile. Was this some human festival he was unaware of?
Curiosity combined with his exhaustion finally drove Graxen to find a place to land. His keen eyes located the main road beneath him. His wings wobbled as he attempted to hold them steady. The ground came up faster than he'd anticipated and his hind-talons buckled as they slammed against the hard-packed earth. He tumbled tail over snout, skidding to a halt on ground worn bare by generations of travelers. He landed on his back, his wings spread limply to his sides.
Dragons didn't normally lie upon their backs, but Graxen found the position unexpectedly comfortable. He stared up into the stars, which twinkled softly behind the haze of smoke. Rocks polished by countless footsteps pressed into his shoulders and hips, but this discomfort was outweighed by the relief of absolute surrender to gravity after a long day in the air. He felt as if it would be a welcome sensation simply to sink deeper into the earth.
He closed his eyes, feeling lost and alone. What was he doing out here in the darkness, pushing himself beyond all safety and sanity on such a hopeless mission?
"Nadala," he whispered. "Where are you?"
He listened to the night, as if expecting a reply.
There was a crunching sound from the nearby brush. Someone was moving. Several someones. Humans? They sounded like human males as they spoke in soft hisses. Graxen could only catch ever other word: Dead? Fell. Spy? Kill?
Realizing there was the very real possibility that he was the subject of their conversation, Graxen opened his eyes. Why would gleaners be worried about anyone spying on them? Was there some especially valuable chunk of rust left unclaimed this close to Dragon Forge?
Graxen rolled over, his body stiff and protesting. He tried to rise, and found sudden motivation as the nearby whispers turned to shouts.
"Get him!" a man commanded. Footsteps slapped against the ground all around him. In the darkness, Graxen counted two-three-four-five shadows rushing toward him.
Graxen instinctively whipped his tail toward the men. The gambit worked, tripping the man who led the charging quintet. The second human stumbled over the first, dropping a jagged sword as he fell. The third man leapt over his brothers, looking quite athletic and heroic as he sailed though the air, brandishing a pitchfork overhead, preparing to drive the sharp prongs into Graxen's brain.
Graxen jumped forward, leaning toward the man, allowing the pitchfork to pass over his head. The prongs scraped along the scales of his back as he sank his teeth into the man's stomach. The man gave a gurgling howl as Graxen pushed him aside in time to see his fourth assailant swinging a club in a swift arc toward his snout. Graxen jerked backward, the wind from the blow filling his nostrils. He jumped up and flapped his wings, kicking out with his hind-claws, tearing a long and messy strip of flesh from the clubber's rib cage.
The fifth man never reached him, wheeling in the space of a single step to dart back toward the woods shouting, "Spy! A blue one! We need bows!"
The two humans he had tripped were almost back on their feet, though one was still unarmed. Graxen skipped backwards, getting clear, before tilting his head up and jumping toward the stars. He wanted to be well out of range before the archers were ready. The adrenaline that surged through him from the brief stint of combat proved a perfect remedy for his exhaustion.
A blue one? thought Graxen, climbing higher. In the dark, all sky-dragons must look alike. He took a deep breath, the oxygen clearing his mind and renewing his spirit. He decided on a new destination. He would no longer try to reach the Nest. But he would find the abandoned tower and rest for the night. When morning came, he would write Nadala her letter.
The night turned crisp and cold by the time he located the tower. The structure wasn't terribly imposing: four vine-draped walls of ancient red brick, perhaps forty feet high. Back at the palace there were single rooms in which this "tower" could have fit. The walls looked as if a hard wind could topple them. Graxen picked the most solid-looking point on the walls and glided to a landing. His muscles had stopped burning-they'd stopped feeling anything at all. He was numb with weariness.
The tower was built on a square floor plan, about half as wide as it was tall. The roof of the structure had long since caved in. Peering down, he could see in the tangled darkness faint hints of what had once been stairs and wooden floors long succumbed to rot. Dim light seeped through windows lined with jagged shards of glass. Graxen guessed the tower was the handiwork of humans, but what purpose the building had served he couldn't deduce. The landscape surrounding the structure was nothing but wilderness. It was as if the building had wandered off from a more developed setting and gone feral.
As Nadala had described, at the southwestern corner of the building a single stone gargoyle was perched, staring down at the weeds below. Its jaws were opened to reveal lichen-covered fangs, with just enough of a gap between them to allow a folded note to be tucked into the mouth where it would be protected from the elements.
The gargoyle looked like large cat with a mane, with wings sprouting from its back in a way that made no sense to Graxen. Did this sculpture depict an actual animal? Sky-dragons usually engaged in representational art, depicting creatures and events found in reality. It seemed unsettling to think that someone had deliberately carved an animal that so obviously had no place in the physical world. What kind of mind would be moved to construct such an impractical hybrid?
However, the longer he studied the sculpture, the more he felt a sense that it wasn't so alien after all. This thing should not have existed; it was the product of unknown creators that had long since abandoned it to a world that cared nothing of its existence. Graxen placed a fore-talon on the creature's stony mane, suddenly feeling a sense of kinship.
He reached into his satchel and produced a small bound book. Like most biologians, he never traveled without a notebook. He opened it, seeking a sheet of fresh parchment. He produced a jar of ink and a quill made from one of his own feather scales and used the gargoyle's back to form an impromptu desk.
He uncapped the ink, releasing the pleasing aroma of walnut and vinegar. He dipped the quill into the jar, and then placed the tip against the parchment.
He stood there without moving a muscle, the seconds passing into minutes, the minutes building into what must surely have been an hour, unable to scribble the first letter. His mind became a maze that not even the simplest thought could navigate.
Dearest Nadala? Dear? Was "dear" a presumptuous greeting for a soldier who was still in so many ways a stranger? Perhaps just start with her name. Nadala? Was Nadala spelled n-a-d-a-l-a? It sounded like it should be spelled that way. But Graxen sounded like it should be spelled g-r-a-k-s-i-n, and it wasn't.
Part of him wanted to toss aside all caution and fear. Beloved Nadala? No, that bordered on insanity. Love was an emotion of sun-dragons and humans; as a verb it was normally employed by sky-dragons only when discussing books. What was he doing here? This was an exercise in futility. A sane dragon would go to sleep and reconsider this whole matter in the morning. Of course a sane dragon wouldn't have flown so far in the darkness, beyond all exhaustion and hope. He'd already established his lack of sanity. My darling Nadala? Perhaps he should let her see the madness that consumed him. If she became frightened, so be it. Better she should know the truth.
He noticed, as the night grew ever colder, that he was shivering.
He remembered the first words he'd said to her.
He wrote, in shaky, uneven letters, "It's chilly tonight."
A moment later, he ripped the page from the book and crumpled it, before tossing it away. He watched the white ball of paper fall. In the first second of its flight, he realized how much the wad of paper served as an adequate representation of himself-a thing filled with meaningless words, falling through the air toward the litter of the forest floor. If words wer
e written and never read did the words ever exist?
The paper fell in a slight arc away from the wall for a few more seconds. Inches from the ground, a large dark shape swooped in and snatched the paper from its fall. The leaves on the forest floor swirled as the winged creature pulled up from its dive. Graxen's heart skipped as the dark shape took on recognizable form, a beat of long blue wings pushing it higher, up above the roof of the building. The stars were suddenly blotted by the distinctive profile of a sky-dragon passing overhead.
The dragon swerved and spun, dropping down to a landing crouch on the opposite corner of the building. Even in the darkness, he recognized her scale patterns, her sleek and symmetrical musculature. She had shed all her armor and carried only a small leather pouch hanging from a cord around her neck.
"Nadala?" he asked, feeling as if he might have slipped into a dream.
Nadala didn't answer. She unfolded the crumpled ball of paper and studied it. Her brow wrinkled.
"It's chilly tonight?" she said. "Perhaps, in your future letters, you can write of more significant topics than the weather?"
"I… in all fairness, I had discarded that," he said. "I've yet to write your true letter."
"You've flown all this way without bothering to write the letter first?" she asked.
"I didn't know you would be here," he said.
"I didn't know you would be here," she said, "but I wrote you a proper letter before I arrived." She patted the leather pouch with her fore-talon.
"I was hoping to catch your party before you made it to the Nest," he explained. "I gave chase, wanting to convince Zorasta to return."
"She'll go back eventually," said Nadala. "Our leaving will throw the talks into chaos. Shandrazel will expend much of his diplomatic capital convincing Zorasta to take part. Then, just as he gives up and proceeds without her, Zorasta will return to the talks and once more obstruct the process. She can delay progress for months, even years with this tactic."