Dragon Child

by Elana A. Mugdan

  In his desperation to escape the cruel elements, he landed on a ridge and fled into a thicket of bamboo. He got stuck, and didn’t have the willpower to fight his way free. Battered and bruised, he lay between the stalks, fearing the Galantrian winter would kill him before the darksalm got the chance.

  The cold made him numb and torpid, and he fell into a trance-like sleep. When next he opened his eyes, he was met with clear skies and the smell of a fire. It put him on guard. He struggled out of the bamboo, straining to catch any sounds of approaching humans.

  Something was cooking on that fire. Though his brain convinced himself that he was searching for a suitable place to leap into the sky, his nose led him to a campsite where a jungle cat—a whole jungle cat—was roasting untended over the flames.

  Oh, how he longed to lie by that fire! And what he wouldn’t give for a bite of that cat. But the human campers couldn’t be far, and that meant he wasn’t safe. Still, he couldn’t hear anyone, and he didn’t smell anyone . . . though his nostrils were currently overwhelmed with the savory scent of meat.

  So unwise, he screamed at himself as he crept into the clearing and hunkered down by the crackling flames. You can find your own food! Don’t do it!

  He did it.

  Glancing furtively into the trees, he lifted the cat off the fire. It was too raw by human standards, but to Thorion it tasted like the best thing he’d ever eaten. He tore into it without abandon.

  He jolted out of his feeding when the murmur of voices reached him. Panicking, he looked up—was this clearing wide enough for him to launch? Was he strong enough to get airborne? And he’d eaten so much of the delicious cat . . . it would surely weigh him down.

  There was no choice but to flee into the forest. He ducked and weaved amongst the trees, and though his stomach was cramping, he doubled his pace when he heard angry shouts in the camp.

  He burst into the open and found himself at the edge of a cliff overlooking a valley. To the right, a vast waterfall dominated the horizon, tumbling into a broad river. He’d reached the northern shore of the Galantrian Lake, and the edge of the rainforest.

  The shouts grew louder behind him and he leapt from the precipice, spreading his wings to catch the air. He forced himself to soar all day. The upshot of it was that he made good time.

  When the dawn broke on his eighth day of travel, he woke to find the sun cresting a jagged smudge crouched on the edge of the world. The spine of the mountain range rose into spear-like peaks, not unlike a dragon’s spikes.

  As Thorion drew nearer, he cloaked his mind—Not that it will make a difference in the end, he thought—and soared higher. Mist lurked in the valleys and canyons of Shivnath’s Mountains, white puddles caught between bony protrusions of rock.

  South he flew, until a great shadow materialized through the clouds. It rose higher than the other peaks, its dark sides glazed with sheets of silver-blue ice. It pierced the sky, sinister and cruel, gleaming like an uncut diamond in the weak morning light.

  Argos Moor.

  He was nearly there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Whoever has the gold makes the rules.”

  ~ Gervus Trindleroot, Eighth Age

  “. . . more trouble than it’s worth, what you did.”

  Keriya stirred in her sleep. A deep voice was rumbling somewhere far away. Her body ached and it hurt when she breathed. She wanted the voice to be quiet so she could get some rest.

  “What’s the trouble?” A second voice joined the first, a snappish and impatient tenor with a hint of command to it. “They were a bunch of no-good suckbloods. Windscoure’ll probably be pleased they’re gone.”

  “I still say we coulda done it without killin’ them. His men will give us hell when we report.”

  Keriya’s heart, which felt like it was pressed against the edge of a sword, began to race. She tried to dredge up memories of her last conscious moments.

  “I ain’t reporting nothing! Not until we talk to her, at least.” There was something familiar about that second voice. Where had she heard it before?

  “She been sleepin’ an awful long time, en’t she?” asked a third voice, which was scratchy and higher-pitched than the others, and also vaguely familiar. “How long we gotta wait?”

  “No need to wait at all,” said the deep rumble. “She’s listenin’ in on us right now.”

  Keriya frowned before she could stop herself. Since that gave her away, she opened her eyes. She was staring at the ceiling of a shabby canvas tent. Her muscles screamed in protest when she twisted her head to stare at the three men by the entrance. The tallest of the trio was a massive Fironian with a shaved head. The shortest was a scrawny, rat-faced Galantrian with mean eyes and a sorry excuse for a goatee. And the man in the middle . . .

  “Cezon Skyriver,” she rasped, staring at the first Allentrian she’d ever met. His dark hair was longer and more untidy than she remembered, but the rest of him was the same, down to the eyepatch which she knew concealed a second perfectly good blue eye. “Fletcher told me you were dead.”

  Keriya had mixed feelings about Cezon. He’d helped her get to Noryk, but he’d only done it to hand her to the government. Fletcher had met him again last autumn, and together they’d rescued Thorion from three Imperial Guards. Of course, it also appeared that Cezon had given Thorion to the Imperials in the first place.

  “Looks like Fletcher was wrong, wasn’t he?” said Cezon. At his side, the Galantrian nodded and grinned, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth.

  “Officer Blackwater,” said Keriya, pointing at him. He jumped when she addressed him. He had good reason to be nervous—she knew he’d worked for Tanthflame and Necrovar. She looked at the Fironian next. “I don’t know you.”

  “Endred Faerburn,” he said, bending to offer her a bow. His heavily muscled body was intimidating, but his dark eyes were soft and kind.

  “Who did you kill?” Keriya asked Cezon. “Where are my friends?”

  “Never you mind about that,” said Cezon. “We wanna know where you sent your little pet.”

  Keriya let out a breath. Thorion had escaped—but Cezon’s refusal to answer sent her heart skipping in panic again. “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me who you killed.”

  “Oh, for Naero’s sake—your friends are fine!”

  “I want to see them.”

  Cezon growled and gnashed his teeth, but Endred obligingly ducked through the tent flap. A few moments later he returned, pushing Max and Seba ahead of him. They had metal cuffs strapped around their wrists, binding their hands together.

  Keriya tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness and nausea hit her and she collapsed onto her bedroll.

  Max gave her a fleeting smile before addressing his captors: “As I’ve told you, this is an act of high treason. If you don’t release us, you will pay with your lives.”

  “Bah,” scoffed Cezon. “We’re the Border Patrol, trog. We got orders from the king to protect our state from shifters who try to sneak in illegally. And you lot were tryin’ to sneak in with a dragon, a dragon wanted by the empress herself for . . . what was it again? Oh yeah—high treason.”

  Blackwater giggled sycophantically.

  “We get twenty silver derlei for every criminal we catch crossin’ borders. Imagine how much we’ll get for the traitorest traitor of them all?” Cezon jabbed his thumb at Keriya.

  “Keriya isn’t a traitor, nor am I,” said Max. “I am Prince Maxton Windharte, firstborn son of Harvim Windscoure, rightful heir to the Sky Throne.”

  “I seen about twenty Prince Maxtons lookin’ to cross the border,” Cezon sneered. “Prove you’re the real one.”

  “I would, but you’ve already gone through my personal belongings so you must know the truth. You took the rings bearing my father’s crest and the crest of House Ishira. You took my amulet, which alone is wor
th more than all of your lives combined.”

  Keriya wished Max hadn’t admitted that. She saw a greedy gleam illuminate Cezon’s visible eye.

  “If you don’t recognize me, surely you Galantrians must recognize your princess.” Max nodded to Seba, who was staring at her feet.

  Cezon’s smile widened. “That’s the best part,” he said, digging in a pocket of his white and beige garments and producing a crumpled paper. He unfolded it and brandished it beneath Max’s nose. Keriya couldn’t read the Allentrian runes, but she saw images of herself, Fletcher, Roxanne, and Effrax. “The Council of Nine put a ten-thousand derlei bounty on anyone involved in kidnapping the Galantrian princess from Irongarde.”

  “Why’d you bother to save us if you’re planning to turn us over to the empire?” asked Keriya.

  “You’re wanted alive,” Cezon told her, as if he thought her foolish for having to ask. “And we didn’t save you. You’re our prisoners, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Who shot the riders, then?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, that was us.” Cezon shrugged. “They was part of the Border Patrol, but we always knew there was somethin’ funny going on with ’em. Real shady group of characters.”

  Keriya snorted. It was rich of Cezon to be calling anyone shady.

  “They was always scheming. Always knew things ahead of time, somehow. We figured they was tryin’ to catch shifters on their own so they could claim the rewards for themselves. That’s why I had Iako watch ‘em.”

  “That’s right.” Blackwater puffed out his chest in a self-impressed fashion. “I seen ’em sneak off in the dead of night. So we followed ’em!”

  “And lucky we did,” Cezon continued, “because it turns out they was followin’ you.”

  “What are you planning to do with us?” Max demanded.

  “We’re takin’ you to King Windscoure to claim the bounty,” Blackwater said happily.

  Keriya allowed herself to relax slightly. It seemed Iako and Cezon were no longer working for Necrovar, but she didn’t think much of being given to the Erastatian king, either. He was one of the members of the Council of Nine . . . and from the sound of it, she was in more danger from the Council than she’d realized.

  “You do that,” said Max. “My father will free us and throw you in the prison cells where you belong—assuming he doesn’t hang you straightaway.”

  “See, Cezon?” Endred murmured. “I think it’s worth listenin’ to what they have to say, or at least reporting this to our Patrol officers.”

  “I ain’t reporting nothing to them,” said Cezon. “They’ll just steal our find and take a cut of our hard-earned rewards. Besides, he’s bluffing!”

  “He don’t sound like he’s bluffing.”

  “He’s gotta be. Why would they try to sneak into the state illegally, eh? Why was they skulking around the mountains, trying to avoid the Patrol? No real Prince Maxton would’ve done that!”

  “He’s with the Dragon Speaker, and the real Prince Maxton was last seen with—”

  “That’s another thing! Windscoure has a separate price on the Dragon Speaker,” Cezon interrupted. “Nothin’ to do with the Council. He wants her for his own purposes. So we’d do better to bring her in quick.”

  Keriya’s stomach swooped, an unpleasant sensation since she was still nauseous from the evasdrin. She thought back to her conversation with Max in the tavern—it seemed like a lifetime ago—when he’d told her his father believed the Galantrians were planning to use her and Thorion as weapons against the Erastate. Whatever Windscoure wanted with her, it couldn’t be good.

  On the other side of the tent, Cezon and Endred were still arguing the point.

  “Ask her,” Cezon blustered. He turned to Seba and fixed her with a beady glare. “Were you kidnapped by these hoodlums?” He pointed at Keriya and Max.

  Seba’s eyes flickered up to Cezon. She shook her head.

  “There,” said Endred.

  “That don’t prove nothing,” Cezon insisted. “Do you know this person? Is he Prince Maxton of the Erastate?”

  Seba glanced at Max. He nodded encouragingly at her, and she nodded to Cezon in turn.

  “He told her to say yes,” Blackwater tittered. “I seen it! He told her!”

  “Why would he tell her to say yes if he wasn’t the real prince?” asked Endred. “We’d take them to the authorities and he’d be punished worse for the added crime of impersonating royalty.”

  This question stumped Blackwater, who screwed up his face as if it were causing him pain to think. “Maybe she en’t the real princess,” he said.

  “‘Course she’s the real princess, look at her bleedin’ nose,” snapped Cezon. He was now pacing in a circle, drumming his fingers on his chin. He paused to flip up his eyepatch and squint at Max.

  “Alright. I can believe it. You are the prince. So I know what we gotta do.”

  “I should hope so,” said Max.

  “We’ll ransom you,” Cezon cried jubilantly.

  “Cezon, you can’t—”

  “Not a real ransom, mind,” Cezon added, speaking over Endred’s protest. “We’ll escort him to the palace. Windscoure’ll be so happy to get his son and his son’s betrothed that he’ll have no choice but to reward us for our great service to the kingdom.”

  “I don’t think it’ll work like that—”

  “Plus, we know Windscoure wants the Dragon Speaker no matter what else happens,” Cezon plowed on, ignoring Endred. “And if we can get information about the dragon, imagine how much that’ll be worth!”

  Keriya glowered at Cezon. Even if he kept her poisoned with evasdrin, even if he starved and beat and tortured her, she would never reveal Thorion’s whereabouts.

  Not that I know where he is.

  She prayed he was safe. She hoped he was working on a cure—if there was a cure.

  “It ain’t a good idea,” said Endred, folding his arms over his wide chest.

  “Let’s vote. How many think we oughta take ’em to Windscoure?” Cezon put his hand up and Iako mimicked him at once.

  Endred shook his head. “It’ll backfire.”

  “I think not.” Cezon rubbed his hands together and stared around at his captives. “I think these young felons are about to make us very, very rich!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Everyone has a price.”

  ~ Livira Norestym, Fourth Age

  Prisoners though Keriya and her friends were, Cezon was convinced of Max and Seba’s credentials enough to treat them well—or at least, slightly better.

  “Your belongings,” said Cezon, leading them to a pile of items on a burlap sack. “Take what’s yours and be done with it.”

  Cezon’s crew had also raided the other patrolmen. The pile had their crossbows and weapons, along with seven black hand mirrors, Max’s amulet and rings, and the packet of laesabrel. Keriya stuffed that into an inside pocket of her cloak. If she kept getting poisoned and shot at—which, in her experience, was quite likely—the healing buds would prove useful.

  “Things are missing,” said Max. “Where’s my sword and Seba’s knives?”

  “Confiscated,” Cezon said snippily. “And you ain’t gettin’ them back.”

  There were only three horses between the six of them, one of whom was Winni, Cezon’s old sorrel mare. Endred gave his steed to Seba. He cleared his throat and glared at Iako. The Galantrian reluctantly offered the reins of his horse—a sorry-looking gelding with patches of fur missing from his flanks—to Keriya.

  “Not her, dolt,” Cezon snapped, intercepting the reins. He gave Max an insincere bow. “Royalty first.”

  “Let Keriya ride,” said Max, straightening from the loot pile as he tucked the last of his things into his satchel.

  “I don’t know how,” she muttered. “I’m fine on foot.”


  They set out, a hodgepodge caravan traversing the northern plains of the Erastate, with the royals handcuffed to the pommels of their saddles. They turned south and came to a wide road. Keriya recognized a stone outpost that marked it as one of the Imperial highways.

  Cezon noticed how nervously she eyed the path. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. We ain’t lettin’ you anywhere near the Imperials. Your bounty is mine, ’specially since you cheated me outta my payment in Noryk. I ain’t forgotten that.”

  “I didn’t cheat you out of anything,” Keriya growled. “You brought us in because you thought we might be worth some money. It’s your own fault you were stupid enough to get caught.”

  Endred, who was leading Seba’s horse on foot, stifled a chuckle.

  “Obviously I wasn’t stupid, ’cause I was right.” Cezon leaned down from his saddle to fix her with a calculating glare. “The government had some use for you after all, didn’t they? Pretty keen to get you back now, ain’t they? If you ain’t Moorfainian, how come you been consortin’ with dragons and demons and whatnot?”

  Keriya refused to respond to this.

  “Whatever happened to those pals of yours?” he went on. Maybe it was a trick of the weak winter light, but she could have sworn Cezon’s expression softened. “Fletcher and the good-looking one. They manage to make it out of your mess alive?”

  “Why do you care?” She tried to hide the quaver in her voice, because the truth was she didn’t know if they were alive. If there were wanted posters for them circulating throughout Allentria, they probably hadn’t lasted long in Noryk.

  Cezon straightened and hitched his rough attitude back in place. “I don’t. I mostly care about where you sent your dragon. Nobody’s specified a price for him, but I bet he’s worth his weight in gold.”

  “You’ll never get your hands on him. Nor is this the first time you’ve tried to sell him, from what I hear. You do realize that if anything happens to Thorion, you’re paving the way for Necrovar to conquer Allentria?”

  Cezon’s features clouded and a subtle shiver passed through him. “I heard rumors and rumors about that, Soulstar. First I heard you killed the Shadow, then I heard you was workin’ with him.” His blue eye glinted with judgement. “So, which is it?”