Dragon Child

by Elana A. Mugdan

  “For shame!”

  With a jump, Roxanne looked around at Brother Azrin, who had interrupted the commander-general’s speech.

  “Gohrbryn Tanthflame, you are bartering the blood of your people and the soul of your god to the Shadow,” said the monk. “You have forsaken the light of Valaan, you have turned your back on the empire you swore to serve and protect!”

  “On the contrary,” said Tanthflame, “everything I do is for the greater good of Allentria. If you won’t join us—”

  “I most certainly will not,” Azrin declared. “And I will ensure every citizen knows the truth of your treachery. The Valaani Order will never support you after I tell them what you’ve done. My brethren and I will fight your darkness. I will fight to my dying breath!”

  Roxanne was impressed. She had never seen this fiery side of Azrin, and she quite liked it.

  Tanthflame, however, was less than pleased. “If that is what you wish,” he hissed, his expression hardening, “so be it.”

  He nodded to his soldiers and the mage stepped forward. He had the same gaunt look about him that Rhudain had, though by his appearance Roxanne pegged him as an Erastatian. His pitiless blue gaze bored into Azrin. The monk opened his mouth, but no sound issued from him.

  Azrin’s eyes bulged eerily. It was then that Roxanne understood something was happening, something magical and terrible. It looked like Azrin was gasping for air, but still he emitted no sound. He sank to his knees, clutching at his throat.

  “No!” Roxanne dropped to Azrin’s side. She uselessly laid a hand on his chest, but there was nothing she could do to help. She didn’t even know what was being done to him, what sort of spell was killing him. All she could do was stare at the holy man as his dark face turned ruddy, as he struggled to breathe.

  In his desperation to save himself, Azrin tried to wield. He conjured a flame that sparked and swirled before him. The air mage twitched his skeletal fingers, and a puff of air expanded outwards around the flickering light. The fire evaporated, deprived of oxygen.

  “Stop it,” Roxanne screamed. “He’s innocent!”

  “He’s a liability.” Tanthflame’s icy voice reached Roxanne over the roar of blood pounding in her ears. “A liability who has made clear that he does not support our plans for a peaceful, balanced, unified Allentria.”

  After a few more awful moments of silent struggling, Brother Azrin went limp. Roxanne was left, quaking with shock, staring into the monk’s lifeless eyes.

  “You may not agree with my methods, Nameless,” Tanthflame was saying in the background, “but you cannot argue with my results. We punish the wicked and eliminate those who would stand in the way of progress. We will reshape the world for the better—and I can give you a place with us as we do it.”

  Roxanne looked up through a haze of tears. She sought Effrax, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. His arms were pressed tight to his sides and his face was frozen in a tight expression.

  “I accept.”

  “What?!” Suddenly Roxanne was on her feet. Her hands clenched and she reached for her magic.

  “I must stand with my family and my state, Roxanne,” Effrax explained, not meeting her gaze. He took a step toward Tanthflame. “From the beginning, I told you my only intention was to save the Fironem. Perhaps this is how it must be done.”

  The world spun around her. She felt feverish, hot and cold at the same time. She’d known Effrax’s morals were questionable at best, but never, never in a thousand ages would she have believed him capable of this. He hated Tanthflame, and he’d claimed time and again that he wanted to save Thorion.

  Or had he? He’d been keen on bringing Thorion to the Fironem, but maybe he’d always been planning something along these lines. Had he wanted to deliver Keriya and Thorion to his father, or Tanthflame, or whoever happened to be running the kingdom, in a misguided attempt to fix its problems?

  “You’re a traitor,” she spat.

  “Commander-General, I suggest you place our guest in the dungeons,” said Effrax, still too cowardly to look at her. “Best to keep her alive. She’s useful leverage—you can use her to lure the Dragon Speaker here.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” With a nod from Tanthflame, soldiers latched onto Roxanne. She struggled, but in a perfunctory way—her heart wasn’t in it, and her magic slipped out of her mental grasp. She had lost the will to wield.

  The Imperials dragged her toward a darkened hall. The last thing Roxanne saw before she rounded the corner was Tanthflame opening the door to the throne room. A band of ominous red light shafted from the chamber, spilling over the two Fironians like blood.

  “Welcome, Effrax Emberwill,” he said, his voice echoing down the long corridor. “Welcome home.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “No dream ever came true simply by dreaming.”

  ~ Xalan Arcavel, Sixth Age

  Fletcher stared into the snarling jaws of a jungle cat. Its face was inches from his own, so he could count its fangs and feel its warm breath on his cheeks.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Taeleia told him. “Saberfangs can smell fear.”

  “That’s making it worse,” Fletcher muttered. He gritted his teeth and offered a hand to the beast, allowing it to sniff him. Yellow eyes glinted at Fletcher from beneath a dusky mane, and he fought the urge to run screaming into the forest.

  This creature didn’t look like the tree cats that had roamed the Felwood in Aeria. For one thing, it was massive, as big as a warhorse. It could have fit Fletcher’s head in its mouth, and its two large cuspid fangs looked like they could crunch clean through his skull. Its feet were not quite paws and not quite hands—they each had six long, dexterous toes partly hidden by tufts of shaggy fur.

  “She likes you,” Taeleia said with a smile.

  Fletcher eyed the soft leather saddle strapped to the cat’s back. “I don’t know how to ride.”

  The elf’s smooth brow creased in thought. “Then you’ll ride with Danisan. Danisan, can you fetch a double-saddle from the tack room?”

  Danisan, who had been skulking in the darkest corner of the stable, glided off without a sound. Fletcher didn’t relish the idea of having to ride with Taeleia’s imposing advisor, but time was fleeting. When the black-eyed elf returned and re-saddled the saberfang, Fletcher clambered up behind him.

  “Ready?” asked Taeleia. She was riding a gray cat whose tufted tail swished as it stared at Fletcher, fixing him with unsettlingly green eyes.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He was reluctant to touch Danisan’s muscular shoulders or narrow waist, so he settled on grasping the straps of the elf’s travel pack.

  Taeleia shrilled a whistle, and the cats leapt through the stable door into the predawn haze. Fletcher was nearly thrown from his seat as they sprang into the open air. The cat’s spine was like a spring, and Fletcher couldn’t get used to the movement of its gait. Though Taeleia had graciously provided him with brand new riding pants, his skin still chafed against the saddle.

  They crossed a small river and turned north—“To avoid the Plague Barrens,” Taeleia said—following the shape of the waterway. When dusk fell, they stopped by the bank to make camp.

  “I’ll set up the tents,” Taeleia said as she rummaged through her saddlebags. “Fletcher, would you mind helping Danisan hunt? You can use my bow and arrows.” She produced a quiver and offered it to him.

  Fletcher stared miserably at the weapon. “I don’t know how to use that,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing. Feeling like he should be honest, he added, “I don’t know how to use any weapon.”

  She shouldered the quiver without judgement and said, “No matter. Danisan will set up and you and I will hunt.”

  “But . . . I can’t help you,” said Fletcher, wrinkling his nose.

  “Nonsense. You will assist me, and I will teach you how to use a bow. Then I
will teach you how to clean your kill, how to light a fire without firemagic, and how to cover your tracks if you don’t wish others to know where you’ve been.”

  Fletcher gaped at her. “You’d do that for me? Why?”

  “Because it is a dangerous, cruel, and lonely world,” she said. “And you should be prepared to face it.”

  Thus, Fletcher shortly found himself creeping through the underbrush with Taeleia, grasping the bow. She’d shown him how to string it and draw an arrow, and insisted he be the one to hunt their dinner. Fletcher felt this was a lot of pressure to put on someone who’d only held a bow once before in his life, but Taeleia’s quiet confidence made him determined not to let her down.

  “There,” she breathed, halting behind a leafy fern. “By the roots of the hyperion tree. Do you see it?”

  Fletcher wasn’t sure what a hyperion tree was, but he adjusted his glasses and scanned the forest. He spotted it after a few moments: a pheasant pecking at a rotting log.

  “Set your arrow and draw it back to your chin,” she whispered. Fletcher plucked an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to the bowstring, pulling it back until his left hand was brushing his cheek. His arms shook—partially from the effort of holding his position, partially from nerves.

  “Sight across the arrowhead, aligning it with your target,” Taeleia instructed. She repositioned him, lifting his left elbow and straightening his spine. “This is a short range but it’s a small bow, so you’ll want to aim slightly higher than your mark.”

  Fletcher raised the tip of the arrow until it was pointing a hair’s breadth above the pheasant.

  “And . . . release.”

  Fletcher let the arrow go. It flew crookedly and sank into the moss a few hands from the bird. The poor animal gave a frightened squawk and took to the air, flapping madly.

  “Helkryvt’s blood,” he swore under his breath.

  Taeleia took the bow from him. In one fluid movement she’d pulled an arrow from the quiver, drawn it taut against the string, and loosed the missile into the twilight. There was a soft thump, and Fletcher saw the body of the pheasant falling through the branches. It landed on the ground, struck through by Taeleia’s arrow.

  “How . . . how did you do that?” he gasped. “I’ll never be able to shoot like that.”

  “Don’t lose heart.” They left the cover of the fern, approaching the fallen bird. “I’ve had a hundred years to practice my aim. I’ve seen bad first attempts, and this was not a bad attempt. With practice, you’ll be a fair shot.”

  Fletcher was sure Taeleia was only saying that to be nice to him, but he continued to work with the bow. When they stopped in the evenings, she taught him the basics of sparring. He was working with Danisan—which was terrifying for a host of varied reasons—but Taeleia was the one instructing him.

  “Much of sword combat is about footwork, especially if you’re facing an opponent larger or stronger than you,” she said as she paced around Fletcher to critique his form. He glanced at Danisan, who loomed like a mountain in the middle of the woodland clearing, stoic and unblinking. “Outmaneuver your enemy and you will gain the upper hand.”

  “What if my enemy wields against me?” asked Fletcher. “Won’t close-combat weapons be useless if someone tries to fight with magic?”

  This question had been on his mind for some time. The Aerians hadn’t had many weapons—just wooden clubs and rudimentary knives, nothing like the advanced metal technology the Allentrians loved—but they hadn’t needed anything beyond their wielding abilities. It seemed to Fletcher that swords and spears were useless if you were fighting someone like Gohrbryn Tanthflame, who could wield fire from fifty heights away and burn you to a crisp.

  “Battles are about strategy,” said Taeleia, repositioning his front foot and forcing him to crouch lower. “Magic is a finite resource. Eventually either your enemy will tire of wielding, or you will. If and when that happens, you will be glad to have a sword at your side. And if you’re facing a wielder more powerful than you—”

  Which would be just about everyone in the world, Fletcher thought wryly.

  “—then you can gain the upper hand by attacking with a weapon. Any physical injury will hinder him, and if you make him bleed enough, you can prevent him from using his magic. People have died from tiny cuts, because active wielding increases your heart rate and thins your blood. Many a wielder has bled out on the battlefield. Many wars have been won on tactics rather than brute force.”

  These words inspired Fletcher to redouble his efforts. His progress was slow with stick-fighting, but he was getting better with the bow. They left the Eldenvald on their fourth day of travel and started across a vast plain. On the open grass, Fletcher had an easier time finding his targets, and on their seventh night he managed to fell a fox.

  “Excellent progress today, Fletcher,” Taeleia commended him as they sat around their campfire. Fletcher beamed at her over the dance of the flames. Even the fire was his design—though he still had Effrax’s gleed tucked in his pack, the elves had taught him to create fire from practically nothing, using only rocks and twigs.

  He slept well that night and rose early the next morning. They were approaching another forest and he found himself eager to reach it. He wanted to test his improved archery skills in the more difficult terrain of the Smarlindian woods.

  Over the next two days he experienced a downturn in his progress. Taeleia said this was natural, as snap-shooting was more difficult when branches and trees were in the way. He concentrated on form and told himself not to get discouraged.

  When they stopped one afternoon to let the cats rest and drink from a pond, Fletcher took the bow and looked for a suitable practice target. A shrill cry drew his attention skyward, where a copper-plumed bird circled overhead.

  “Try it,” said Taeleia, following his gaze to the animal. “If you succeed, we can take a little extra time and have lunch.”

  Lunch was a rare luxury on the road. Fletcher nocked an arrow to the string and drew it back until the knuckles of his left hand brushed his cheek. He sighted across the arrowhead and exhaled slowly; then he let it fly.

  It missed. The bird shrieked and sped up. Fletcher figured that was the end of the prospect of lunch, but to his surprise, the bird didn’t flee. It continued to circle lower.

  “Try again,” Taeleia encouraged him.

  “I’ll lose another arrow if I miss.”

  “We can have a meal if you don’t.”

  Fletcher shrugged. They were her arrows; if she wanted to waste them, who was he to argue? The bird was closer, only a few heights away. Now that it was so close, he could see something attached to the bird’s leg. Without his glasses he’d never have spotted it, but the lenses made everything sharp.

  “I think that bird’s carrying something,” he said.

  “Interesting.” Taeleia frowned. “Perhaps you should set the bow aside and see what happens.”

  Fletcher did as she bade. The bird continued its descent, gliding to a tree and settling on a branch. It hopped toward them, making high-pitched peeping noises. The saberfangs, who were tethered nearby, watched it hungrily.

  “You don’t think . . . I mean, that can’t be for us, can it?” asked Fletcher, pointing at the canister.

  “Only one way to find out.” Taeleia took a few steps toward the bird. It shrieked and flapped its wings, making a terrible fuss. She froze, standing as still as a statue until the animal quieted.

  “Perhaps you should approach instead, Fletcher,” she suggested.

  “Me? I tried to shoot it.”

  “The message might be intended for you. You won’t know if you don’t try.”

  Feeling oddly nervous, Fletcher walked forward. The animal didn’t object to his approach, and when he reached the tree it extended its leg to him. He dropped the bow and reached for the canister. The bird stayed put, tho
ugh its sharp eyes tracked his every movement.

  “That’s it. I won’t hurt you,” he whispered as he fumbled with the clasp. The bird cheeped at him accusingly. “Er . . . yeah, sorry about earlier.”

  The latch sprang open and the top of the canister popped off. Fletcher reached in and withdrew a rolled-up parchment. The bird flapped its wings and took off. It skimmed across the pond, disappearing into the woods on the far side of the water.

  “What does it say?” asked Taeleia. Fletcher unrolled the paper and was shocked to find it was written in runes he could read.

  “It’s from my friend,” he breathed, scanning the brief message with a growing swell of excitement. “She’s alright! But—oh no. Something’s gone wrong.”

  Taeleia came to stand by his side. “May I?” Fletcher gave her the parchment and her silver eyes widened. “You can read the ancient runes, Master Earengale?”

  “Uh,” said Fletcher. He wasn’t sure if he should mention Aeria. Keriya and Roxanne had always been tight-lipped about it because they’d worried about the possibility of getting deported. That, and no one here believed Aeria existed. “Yes.”

  “Impressive,” she murmured, perusing the page. “And does this message make sense to you?”

  “Sort of. The place we said we’d meet is the Valaani Temple. The Fironian is our friend Effrax, but he never mentioned his father when—”

  “Effrax Nameless?” the elf interrupted.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I know his father,” she replied in a dark voice. “Salix Embersnag, King of the Fironem.”

  Fletcher was dumbfounded. He’d heard Effrax introduce himself with the name ‘Emberwill’ a fair few times, but he hadn’t expected this.

  “Is that who the message is referring to here?” Taeleia asked, pointing at the third line of the letter.

  “No, that’s referring to Keriya. She was an orphan, and she never had a family name. The people of our village called her ‘Nameless’ as a kind of . . . well, they meant it as an insult.”