by Colt, K. J.
When Issari was back in the palace, she entered her chambers—those chambers so empty without her brother—and stepped onto her balcony. Clad again in a fine tunic hemmed with gold, her raven braid upon her shoulder, she leaned against the railing and stared across the city to the distant sea.
“If you’re out there, Mother,” she whispered, “if you hear these tales, Laira . . . come back. Come back as dragons. Come back with claws, fangs, and fire . . . and save him.”
LAIRA
IN THE COLD DAWN, LAIRA mounted a roc, dug her heels into the beast, and soared into the sky on her first hunt.
The wind whipped her face, Neiva’s wings beat like drums, and Laira laughed upon the gargantuan vulture. She shouted wordlessly and raised her bow above her head.
“Goldtusk!” she cried, soaring so fast her ears popped and her head spun. “Blessed be the gilded ivory of Ka’altei!”
Around her, the other hunters raised javelins and bows and roared their prayers, calling out the name of their tribe and gods. All were men—beefy, clad in furs, wild of hair and beard. Bone beads hung around their necks and tattoos of their totem animals adorned their arms. Some riders sported tin rings in their ears, lips, and brows, the precious material stolen from the villages that knew the secrets of metallurgy. A few of the hunters were mere boys, the youngest among them thirteen.
I am twenty, old already, and this is my first hunt, Laira thought. Yet this is not the first time I’ve flown.
Heart wrenching, she remembered the only other time she had taken flight—a cold autumn day so long ago. As she soared now upon her roc, Laira could almost see her mother again, a proud white dragon on the wind. She could almost smell Mother’s burning flesh, hear her dying screams, see the rocs feast upon—
No, Laira told herself. Do not raise that memory now. Now you must be strong. Now you must prove you are a great huntress, as great as the men.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. Between her legs an ache still lived, the pain of Zerra’s thrusts, but as the roc moved below her, that pain faded into a comforting throb. It kept her alert, alive, hungry for the hunt. They left the camp far below upon the hill. Their tents, their tribesmen, their dogs, and even their totem pole seemed like toys from up here. Soon the camp vanished into the hazy distance, and Laira saw only the open wilderness: fields of swaying grass, fiery autumn forests of birches and maples, a rushing river, and distant blue mountains under white clouds. Geese and crows flew below her, and clouds streamed at her sides.
This is freedom, Laira thought. I missed this.
“Prove yourself today, and I will bed you again!” Zerra cried, flying his roc near hers.
His was a great beast, a terror named Ashoor, the largest roc in the tribe. Every flap of the animal’s oily black wings blasted out stench. Its gangly neck thrust out, ending with a bald head and cruel beak. Zerra was no prettier than his mount; his burned half faced her. Laira winced to remember his body pressing against her last night, wet and sticky.
“I will prove myself,” Laira shouted back from atop Neiva, though the thought of him invading her again made her queasy, and pain flared in her belly. She had allowed him into her once; would hunting game today not be enough? Would he demand this price before every hunt? Bile rose in Laira’s throat, but she swallowed it with a snarl.
I will prove myself the greatest hunter, and he will learn to respect me . . . to fear me.
Zerra smirked. He seemed ready to speak again when cries rose ahead from the other hunters.
“Mammoths! Mammoths upon the plains!”
Laira turned her head back forward, narrowed her eyes, and bared her teeth. She drew a stone-tipped arrow and nocked it. A herd of the great, woolly creatures raced across the plains below, making their way toward the cover of the forest. Laira spotted a dozen adults and several cubs; even the smallest was large enough to feed many men. The other hunters cried out wordlessly, nocked their own arrows, and swooped toward their prey.
“Neiva, go!” Laira shouted and dug her heels into the roc.
The dark bird, as large as a mammoth herself, shrieked, clawed the air, and began to dive.
Fur and feathers flashed.
Zerra and his roc swooped in beneath Neiva, blocking her descent.
The two rocs—a slim female and a burly male—slammed together. The beasts screeched and feathers flew.
“Zerra!” Laira shouted. In shock, she loosed her arrow. It drove down, just narrowly missing the chieftain’s head.
In the space of a heartbeat, thoughts raced through her mind. There had been an accident. She had flown her roc wrong. She had proven herself a failure. No—Zerra had meant to block her! He was sabotaging her. He—
Grinning, Zerra rose higher upon his roc, and the beast’s talons reached out.
Laira screamed as the talons closed around her. She drew another arrow from her quiver. Wielding it like a sword, she tried to stab Ashoor, but the fetid beast’s talons pinned her arms down. She screamed. Ashoor tugged, tearing Laira off her mount, and she kicked the open air.
Riding upon the beast, Zerra leaned across the saddle and spat. The glob splattered on Laira’s face. Amusement filled the chieftain’s voice as he spoke.
“We will now see, little piece of pig dung, if you can truly fly. Ashoor—release!”
As Laira screamed, Ashoor tossed her into the open air.
She tumbled through the sky.
She plummeted.
“Neiva!” she cried, flailing. “Neiva!”
She could see her roc above. The bird tried to dive and catch her, but Ashoor blocked her passage. The two rocs battled in the sky.
“Zerra!” she shouted, plunging down, the wind whipping her and stealing her voice.
She looked around, her cloak fluttering madly. She could see the other rocs; they now flew too far away, diving against the mammoths below. They did not see her fall, and Laira understood.
This had been a trap.
He invited me on this hunt not because I bedded him . . . but for this.
“Fly, weredragon!” the chieftain shouted, swooping above her. “Shift into a dragon and fly! I slew your mother for the curse. I know it fills you too.” He laughed, the wind in his hair. “Fly or hit the ground and my roc will feast upon what’s left.”
She looked down. The ground was only instants away. Heart thudding madly, Laira raised her bow and arrow.
If I die, you die with me.
She fired. The flint-tipped arrow scratched along Zerra’s roc, then vanished above, doing the chieftain no harm. The movement tossed Laira into a spin. She tumbled, earth and sky roiling around her. Her brain felt like water swirling around a shaken bowl. Whenever she faced the ground—spin after spin—it was closer. Her bow tore free from her grasp and vanished into the wind.
I will die here, she thought, eyes stinging. He killed me. Goodbye. I—
No.
Her eyes stung.
No.
She would not die here. Not like this.
If I die, I die in fire.
The ground rushed up toward her, Zerra laughed above, and for the first time in ten years, Laira—hurt, broken, grieving, a shell of a woman—summoned her magic.
Scales flowed and rattled across her, golden like the dawn. Fangs sprouted in her mouth and her body ballooned. Wings burst out of her back with a thud. Her claws grazed the grassy plains, her wings beat, and Laira soared, a dragon roaring fire.
The grass flattened under the beat of her wings, and she veered as she ascended, dodging Zerra and his roc. She burst into open sky, scattered flames, and roared—a roar that shook her body, that cut the sky, that burned in her eyes and soul—the roar of a girl exiled and cursed, of a girl who had watched her mother die, of a huntress who had given her body to her tormenter and now might give her life.
Zerra’s roc soared in pursuit. Farther away, above the fleeing herd of mammoths, the rest of the hunters shouted and flew toward her, nocking new arrows.
A
ttack them! cried a voice inside Laira. Blow your fire and slay them all!
A second voice shouted out, Flee! Flee into the forest, run, hide!
Flying toward her, Zerra fired an arrow. It shattered against her scales, blasting pain like one of his fists. Within another breath, he would slam into her.
Fight! Hide!
Laira roared, spewed flames, and turned to fly toward the forest.
Her flames rained down behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Zerra skirt the inferno and fly higher, unscathed. The rest of his hunters joined him. With battle cries and firing arrows, they flew in pursuit.
“Take her alive!” Zerra shouted. “Capture the reptile so she may burn before Ka’altei!”
Laira turned her eyes forward and beat her wings with all her strength.
She wobbled, dipped, and cried out.
She had not become a dragon since her mother had died; and even as a girl, she would shift only in secret caves and pools, afraid and ashamed and returning to human form within moments. She had never flown like this in the open, and every beat of her wings made her sway and nearly fall.
Arrows whistled. Several slammed into her, shattering against her scales. One arrow—tipped with flint—found its way under a scale and drove into her flesh like a splinter under a fingernail. She yowled but kept flying.
She streamed over the grassy plains. The mammoths trumpeted and ran below. She shot over them, ruffling their fur, and turned her neck back toward the chasing rocs. A hundred flew there, riders howling atop them—the men she had grown up with, the only men she knew, the men who would burn her now.
So I burn you.
She blew a curtain of fire. The inferno blazed across the sky, a storm of heat and smoke and crackling wrath, shielding her from the pursuit. She turned back toward the forest and kept flying. Behind her, she heard the rocs screech as they passed through the wall of fire.
Hoping the smoke and flame still hid her, she dived and crashed through a canopy of birches and oaks, scattering dry leaves. She slammed down onto the forest floor, her claws driving into the soil and shredding a twisting root. The rocs screamed above, and their wings bent the trees.
Laira released her magic. Her wings pulled into her body. Her scales melted into her skin. Her body shrank, leaving her a woman again.
She ran.
Behind her, she heard trees shatter and rocs shriek. She glanced over her shoulder to see the beasts barreling through the forest, slamming into boles, tearing up roots. The riders dismounted and fired arrows. The projectiles slammed into the trees around Laira, and one grazed her arm, drawing blood.
“Grab her!” Zerra shouted, his face red with rage.
I have to hide. I have to vanish between the trees.
She ran, arms pumping, breath ragged. She leaped over a fallen log, tripped, and rolled down a slope. Rocks jabbed her, cutting her skin, but she swallowed her cry. She slammed into a jutting root, leaped up, and ran again. The trees were thick here, and grass and reeds rose shoulder-high. Panting, Laira leaped into the brush. Brambles cut her. A thorn drove into her neck, and she winced and almost cried out. She crawled, feeling like a flea upon a shaggy dog’s back. The hunters’ cries rose behind her, and she kept moving, foot by foot, breath by breath.
They can’t hear you. They can’t see you. Just keep moving.
If she lived, she did not know what she would do. She could never return to her tribe; she knew that. She would have to survive alone in the wilderness, to find a new home before winter, to—
“Find the weredragon!” Zerra shouted behind.
He was close now. Laira bit her lip, banishing her thoughts. For now she had to focus only on fleeing, only on surviving every new breath. The grass, brambles, and reeds were thick and spread out for many marks. If she just kept crawling, the hunters would never find her.
Just keep moving, Laira, she told herself, bleeding and dizzy but crawling on. Her heart thrashed and her fingers trembled. Just keep breathing.
The sounds of pursuit faded behind. The hunters were still shouting, but they sounded farther away now; she could barely make out Zerra’s words. She was weak with hunger and the crone’s leeches, and her head would not stop spinning, but Laira forced herself to move onward, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat. She crawled around an oak and along a stream, moving between the reeds, and hope sprang within her. She wasn’t sure where to flee to, but right now, she just needed to find a quiet place, to nurse her wounds and think.
She heard shrieks and the batting of wings. Shadows raced above the trees, and Laira breathed out a sigh of relief.
“They’re leaving,” she whispered. She could just barely glimpse the swaying canopy past her cover of reeds and grass. “They’re flying away.”
She flipped over and lay on her back, feeling weaker than a trampled, dying worm. She gazed above between the blades of grass, seeing only shards of the sky. She only had to lie here, to wait, and they would fly away, and she would be free. Tears stung her eyes.
I will not burn like my mother.
But the wings kept beating.
The rocs were not leaving; they were circling above.
They no longer shrieked, and when the wind died, she heard it. Sniffs. Snorts. Silence and sniffs again. Fear shot through Laira.
They’re smelling for me.
She had seen rocs sniff back in the camp, raising their beaks whenever meals cooked, but she hadn’t known they hunted by smell. Their circles were growing smaller, closing in on her. Their sniffs rose louder, as discordant as stones crashing together.
“Down there!” rose a hoarse voice above—Zerra’s voice. “Grab her!”
Laira leaped up and shifted.
She rose from the forest, a golden dragon blowing fire.
Her flames spurted upward, and the rocs scattered . . . then swooped. Arrows slammed against Laira. One drove into her shoulder and she yowled. She sucked in breath, prepared to blow flames again, when the rocs crashed into her.
Laira screamed.
Talons crashed through her scales, digging at flesh. A beak drove into her shoulder, shedding blood, and an arrow shot through her wing, tearing open a hole.
Fly! cried a voice inside her. Fight through them! Fly to—
With a howl, Zerra charged upon his roc, and his spear dug into her shoulder, and Laira couldn’t even scream. Pain blasted through her. Her eyes rolled back, and all she could do was whimper.
In the agony, her magic left her.
She tumbled through the sky again, a mere human, a mere girl, afraid and alone.
Before she could hit the treetops, talons wrapped around her. Her eyelids fluttered. She thought it was Zerra’s roc that carried her. She thought she heard the chieftain marks away, voice muffled, slurred, his words impossible to grasp. She thought that countless other rocs flew around her, a sea of dank wings, scraggly necks, and cruel riders. Their blackness spread. She saw nothing but oily feathers, blazing yellow eyes, and blood.
MAEV
THE TATTOOED FIST DROVE INTO Maev’s face, and the world blazed with blood and white light.
Her back hit the ground.
“Gorn! Gorn!” The crowds spun around her, chanting her assailant’s name. Their faces were twisted with bloodlust, red in the torchlight. “Finish her!”
The fist drove down again, connecting with her temple, and blood splattered across the ground. Maev felt herself losing consciousness. She spat out a glob of saliva and blood.
Pain is strength, she told herself, repeating the mantra that had always run through her. Pain is life. Pain drives you.
She raised her arms. The fists fell left and right, blows that nearly shattered her bones. She blocked them. She screamed as her blood flew.
“Gorn! Gorn!”
Somewhere in the distance, her brother called out to her, the only voice in this crowd that wanted her to live.
“Maev! Get out of there!”
She blinked. Her one eye was swolle
n shut. The other peered between strands of her matted blond hair. She looked up at the man above—more a beast than a man, she thought. His face was leathery and covered with tattoos. Sweat dripped off his nose, and blood—shed by her own fist—fell from his mouth, splattering against her. He growled, pinning her down with his knees, driving his fists against her arms. A blow drove past her defenses, connecting with her cheek, and she could see no more, only white, only pain.
I can become a dragon, she thought in a haze. I am Vir Requis. I can fly, blow fire, kill him.
Through the blood in her mouth, she smiled.
But where is the fun in that?
She roared.
I am Maev Blacksmith. I am the Hammer. I will rise and triumph.
Screaming and spitting out blood, she kicked, flipped, and knocked Gorn over. The brawny man slammed into the earth. Maev was a powerful woman, but he was twice her size. She liked the sound he made falling. At once, she leaped upon him, wrapped her thighs around his neck, and twisted his head painfully downward. His spine ridge rose, ready to crack, and she rained blows upon him. Her fists drove into his kidneys, hard and fast as her old smithy’s hammers. She was raised a blacksmith’s daughter and she fought with the fury of metal hitting metal.
He screamed beneath her. Maev twisted harder, stretching her legs back, twisting his head, trying to rip it clean off. She managed to grin at the crowd. They surrounded the dirt square, pounding fists into palms, calling out.
And now they were calling her name.
“Hammer! Hammer!”
With a twist, she grabbed Gorn’s arm. She yanked him sideways, rolled across him, and landed hard in the mud. His arm gave a delightful pop as it dislocated from its socket.
Maev rose to her feet and licked the blood off her lips. She spat on him. “Had enough, little boy?”