“It’s official: we’re out of everything,” Seba announced as she rummaged through their supply packs, now woefully empty. She shot a glare in Fletcher’s direction. “If someone had gotten even half as much as we needed—”
“Don’t blame him,” said Roxanne, who was irritable and itching for a fight. “He didn’t know any better.”
“You’re worse than he is,” said Seba. “Why don’t you wield and call us a bird or a rabbit to eat? We’ll starve to death because of you!”
Roxanne’s hands curled into fists. “Why don’t I wield and call these rocks down on your head?” She’d firmly stated that she wouldn’t use her gift to kill animals, yet Seba insisted on badgering her about it every time they stopped.
“Now Tigress, no need to get violent,” said Effrax. “Besides, we still have plenty of the most important thing we need, and we’re in no danger of running low.”
“Oh?” Seba directed her piercing gaze at him. “What is that?”
He lifted a canteen that he’d filled with snow. “Water.”
Seba huffed and muttered something about him being useless. The crooked smile slid from Effrax’s face.
“Sorry, Princess, I forgot. Never had to deal with this sort of thing inside that bubble of yours, did you? Lucky we have a mule to carry the useful members of the group. Valaan forbid you should get a blister on those dainty feet of yours.”
“You will not speak to me like that, Nameless!”
“If you have a problem with how I speak, Your Grace, may I suggest taking it up with your soldiers? Or perhaps your father? I’m sure they’d be happy to sort me out.”
“Excuse me.” A soft voice silenced Effrax and Seba. “I’ll take some water, please.”
It was Thorion. He rose from where he lay and plodded toward Effrax. The Fironian offered him the canteen of freshly melted water, tipping it sideways so Thorion could lap at the liquid with his tongue.
Roxanne slowly unclenched her fists. They were all hungry and exhausted; of course tempers were running high. For Thorion’s sake, she would behave.
Things were better the next morning. They were heading downhill, which put everyone in good spirits. After a few solid hours of hiking, they rounded a bend in the jagged boulders and emerged onto a plateau. A river snaked through the valley below. It split the land, branching in two directions, and its smaller fork led into a narrow lake ringed by a small town. Roxanne’s heart leapt at the sight of smoke curling from distant chimneys.
“There you go,” said Max. “Sairal.”
Farmsteads sprawled to the west of Sairal and steep hills rose north of the village. These sloped into a high ridge that was long and thin, like the blade of a serrated knife.
“We can rest in Sairal and head to the mountains in the morning,” Max told them. “We should reach the town before nightfall.”
“Thank the gods,” Seba sighed.
“Wait,” said Thorion. “Is it wise for us to enter Sairal? We have no way of knowing what the people have heard about us.”
Roxanne paused to consider this. Though the trek through the rainforest had been arduous, it had given them the illusion of safety. They’d been alone in the middle of nowhere. In the real world, they were wanted criminals.
“I don’t think we have much choice,” said Effrax. “We need supplies.”
“Well,” said Seba, “we should send someone who—”
“Doesn’t stand out,” Fletcher finished in a tired voice. “I’ll go.”
“And waste the last of our derlei? I think not. Max, you go with him and make sure he doesn’t spend all your gold pieces on a canvas sack of dirt.”
“Here’s a thought,” said Keriya. “Why don’t you leave Fletcher alone and stop being a shrew?”
That was the last straw for Seba. She dismounted and started shouting about being a princess and deserving respect. Max took hold of Keriya’s arm to pull her away from the screaming match—and that set Seba off like nothing else had.
“Why are you taking her side, this peasant you’ve known less than half a year?” she demanded, pointing a finger in Keriya’s face.
“I’m not taking sides, I’m trying to keep you from murdering each other,” said Max.
“I’m not the one she’s going to murder,” Seba spat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Keriya demanded.
Before Seba could respond, a brassy note reverberated through the misty hills. Everyone froze. Roxanne lifted her head to the wind, then quickly lowered it when she realized she’d been trying to smell the air. As if communicating with animals wasn’t enough, she had to start acting like one, too. Now that they’d stopped arguing, she could hear voices. She wheeled to face Thorion.
“Hide,” she told him. He flattened his ears to his skull and his protective inner eyelids rose. He crouched at the edge of the cliff, preparing to launch into the sky.
Something bright winked at the corner of Roxanne’s vision. The rounded edge of a shield was peeking out behind a nearby boulder. Thorion’s head snapped around as he, too, spotted the metallic flash. Without a sound or sign of warning, he vanished.
Roxanne gaped at the place where, moments before, a relatively large dragon had stood. She heard several gasps, not all of which came from the members of their group. Turning, she found the owner of the shield was stepping into view.
He wore white garments fringed with brown fur—perfect camouflage for his wintry surroundings. A white helmet covered his head, and his face was hidden by an opaque, crystalline visor. The shield was strapped to his left arm and he clutched a thin, curved blade in his right hand.
Roxanne reached within herself, becoming one with her magicsource. She mentally grasped a group of threads and drew them out of her body, snaking strands of energy into the ground beneath the man’s feet. Coldness seeped through her as she siphoned energy from her body. After such a grueling hike, she didn’t have the strength to battle, but she wasn’t about to roll over and show her belly to her enemies. If they wanted Thorion, they’d have to go through her.
Before she could complete her spell, the man dropped his sword. He removed his helmet with shaking hands. The face he revealed was youthful with striking blue eyes, short-cropped black hair, and an awestruck expression.
“That,” he said in a breathless voice, pointing at the spot where Thorion had disappeared, “was a dragon.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“The foundations of idolatry are rotted and weak.”
~ Illistriel Alenciae, Eleventh Age
The enemy soldier’s name was Cai Alvpond, and it transpired that he wasn’t an enemy at all. He and three other men were now clumped around Thorion on the small plateau. Once the Galantrians has asserted that they meant no harm, Thorion had dropped the spell he’d wielded. Rather, he had lost his grasp on it—bending light around his body to become invisible was not a simple spell to weave.
That was what he told himself. He refused to entertain the notion that his wielding abilities were weakening because of the darksalm in his soul.
“We never meant you any harm, Lord Dragon,” Alvpond was saying. “We patrol for precaution since the bogspectre’s been attacking people all over. And there’ve been creatures roaming the forests that you wouldn’t believe, creatures darker than a moonless night.”
“We don’t want them coming anywhere near the town,” Alvpond continued. “Poison the land, they do, so we patrol the mountains as often as we can to hold them off. We’ve got a theory that they eat corpses. Our graveyard’s been torn up, and freshly buried bodies have gone missing from their plots.”
Keriya looked away from Alvpond to meet Thorion’s gaze.
A pointed cough from Fletcher interrupted Thorion and Keriya. It seemed Alvpond had addressed her during their private conversation.
“Sorry, what?” she said, staring at her friends.
“We heard of your triumph over the Shadow, Dragon Speaker,” Alvpond repeated. “Your presence honors us.”
“As does the presence of our princess,” a female soldier added, turning to Seba almost as an afterthought and bowing. Seba’s lips thinned, but she managed a stiff nod to her subjects.
“We’re sure you’re on important business,” said Alvpond, fidgeting nervously, “but would you consider stopping in Sairal as you pass through? Just to boost morale, mind. We don’t get much traffic, and times have been hard since the bogspectre went on its rampage. No one wants to travel anymore. We get no peddlers, no minstrels or players, nothing.”
Keriya exchanged furtive glances with her companions, inviting input. Each one of them looked to Thorion to decide.
Alvpond escorted the group into the valley, babbling all the while. His chatter was the perfect cover for a whispered conversation.
“What in Shivnath’s name is going on?” Roxanne muttered in Keriya’s ear. “How come they’re not arresting us?”
“If Sairal doesn’t get much traffic, maybe they haven’t heard what happened in Irongarde,” Keriya said under her breath.
“They heard about you and Necrovar.”
“The whole world heard about that. It was important news.”
“Whatever the reason, this works to our advantage,” said Fletcher. “If they haven’t heard anything, it gives us a chance to tell our side of the story. We can show them Thorion’s alright.”
“But I’m not,” Thorion interjected without thinking.
Fletcher’s smile faded and the humans grew somber, their momentary cheer suffocated by the dark weight of reality. Ahead, Alvpond cheerily hacked through a patch of evergreen ferns with his katana as he rambled on about the bogspectre.
“You know, they were worried about the bogspectre in Edora, too,” Fletcher whispered, clearly trying to change the subject. “The butcher thought it was searching for something.”
“The sword,” Keriya guessed. “Why, though? It gave the sword to me.”
“Yeah, but isn’t the bogspectre a little crazy?”
“The bogspectre’s probably the one who stole the sword from Irongarde in the first place,” said Roxanne. “Probably dropped it in that mud puddle and forgot about it.”
Keriya opened her mouth, then sighed and shook her head. She lapsed into stony silence, scowling at the ground.
Thorion reminded her, his mindvoice dark.
Thorion wanted to reassure Keriya about the weapon. There was so much to say, but now wasn’t the time. They were approaching the bridge to Sairal and, although these people hadn’t heard about the attack on Irongarde, Thorion felt a stirring in his gut and a prickling along his spine—sensations he associated with the state of unease.
The village was ringed by a wall of logs sharpened to fine points. It was clear the barrier was a recent addition, for the wood was bright and clean. Rickety watchtowers on stilt-legs stood on either side of the main gate, and Thorion could see armed humans inside the structures.
“Who goes there?” someone called through the dusk.
“Cai Alvpond, and I come with glorious news—the dragon is here to visit Sairal!”
Thorion heard voices rise and fall in patterns of excitement and disbelief. Lanterns were lit behind the wall, their light shafting through gaps between the sharpened pikes. People shouted when they spotted him.
“The dragon has come! I can see him, he’s really here!”
The gate opened at once. Alvpond marched before Thorion as a guard of honor, announcing his arrival.
The young warrior led them down a wooden boardwalk that stretched out over the lake. The houses and shops closest to shore were built on stilts, sitting like ducks on the surface of the placid water. More people emerged from the depths of the village to gawp at Thorion. Children hindered his movement, darting underfoot, staring in unabashed awe until their mothers dragged them back with admonishments about showing respect.
“It’s no trouble,” he told one woman, who looked like she was about to cry as she apologized for her son’s behavior.
“He speaks Allentrian,” the surrounding people gasped. They showered him with praise and admiration, commending him on his communication skills.
Thorion pulled his scaly lips into a smile, but it felt insincere. Something had broken inside him after the incident in Irongarde, and it had nothing to do with the darksalm. He’d seen how quickly humans could turn from adoration to hatred. And though the Sairali had done nothing to deserve his distrust—yet—his muscles tightened and his smile deteriorated into something closer to a snarl.
“Look,” squealed a young girl perched on her father’s shoulders to get a better view. “It’s the Dragon Speaker!”
Keriya’s presence drew further gasps. Whispers flitted among the onlookers as they strained to catch a glimpse of her. She smiled and waved at the child, causing the girl to laugh in delight. But Thorion felt coldness drifting through their bond—it was an echo of what Keriya was feeling, and it did not match her smile. She, too, was uneasy.
“Here we are,” said Alvpond, stopping before a large building lined with ornately carved pillars. “The town hall.”
Waiting on the steps was a middle-aged man draped in a blue cloak. “Welcome, Lord Dragon,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “I am the Mayor of Sairal. We are humbled by your presence.”
He bowed to Thorion, and the crowd followed his example. “Are these your servants?” he asked, squinting at Thorion’s companions.
“Certainly not!” Seba slid from Emyr’s saddle and planted her hands on her hips with a flourish. Apparently she would tolerate being ignored in light of Thorion’s presence, but she couldn’t abide to be taken as a commoner.
“This is Princess Sebaris Wavewould, sir,” Alvpond said quickly. The gasps of awe from the onlookers were fewer than they had been for Thorion or Keriya, which seemed to irk Seba.
“A thousand apologies, Your Grace,” said the mayor, pressing his hands together beneath his chin and doubling over in a bow. “Rest assured, we’ll provide you with our best accommodations. You shall have the finest of feasts laid before you a
nd the softest linens to sleep on. Alvpond, go and fetch . . .”
The mayor’s instructions were drowned in the hubbub that sprang up as the mayor brought them to a rustic inn. Its wooden sides were worn and weathered, but its shingled roof looked bright and new. The innkeeper nearly had a fit when he learned that Thorion, Keriya, and Princess Sebaris were going to stay there that night.
“My inn is not worthy,” he said as he ushered the group into the common room and sat them at a table by a stately fireplace.
“Your inn is adequate,” Seba told him, in a tone which plainly indicated it was not.
As the mayor had promised, a feast was brought before them. It was by no means fine—at least, it was far less fine than the rich food Thorion had grown accustomed to in Irongarde—but the famished travelers dug in eagerly. There was rice bread, a lakeweed dish, and smoked trout from the river. The finest dish, a roast pig, was reserved for Thorion. Forgetting his misgivings, he tore at it. Prey was scarce in the winter, and he had subsisted on birds and rodents during their trek. He was famished from the journey.
As it grew late, the fire crystals in sconces on the walls dimmed, wrapping the room in cozy, warm darkness. Outside, people who crowded around the windows to gawk at Thorion began to retire to their own homes. The serving staff, who’d been hovering nearby to offer refills of spiced cider, disappeared one by one.
Thorion finished the pig and licked the bones clean. His human friends ate until they could eat no more. When they were finished, a peaceful stillness descended. Thorion sighed and rolled onto his side, closer to the crackling blaze in the hearth. He soaked up the warmth from the smooth, black stones surrounding the fireplace, and slipped into a light doze.
“So,” said a small voice. Thorion’s eyes sprang open at once and found Keriya. She perched rigidly on the edge of her chair, the only one who didn’t look relaxed. “What do we do now?”
She looked at Max, but he remained silent.
“Really? No ideas?” she said with a touch of anger. When it became clear Max wasn’t going to offer anything, Effrax sighed and folded his hands over his dinner plate.
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