Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  The Senior Delegate banged a gavel made of humanoid bones shaped like a fist to call the meeting to order.

  Two pairs of armed guards formed a square and entered the ceremonial chambers, flanking the now-darkened mirrored orb floating between them. After a ceremonial circle around the roundtable, the sentries stopped at Tudoriax’s seat.

  The Senior Delegate took the sphere from the air and set it on the table. With a push of his palms, he flattened the ball into a sheet of tiles. He slid the squares toward the Minister of Internal Affairs, who began sorting names into columns.

  With a dismissive wave of his pudgy fingers, Tudoriax sent the four sentinels on their way. In unison, they did an about-face and marched in the opposite direction to complete a circle around the table before they exited the council doors. The last two turned to bow and then closed the doors behind them.

  The council remained quiet for a full minute, broken at last when Tudoriax gave the bone gavel a sharp rap.

  Secretariat Rhymer Faticus pulled one of his cylindrical metal cuffs from his sleeves, ready to etch minutes of the meeting.

  After greeting his colleagues, Tudoriax stood and said, “We’re required to hold a joust to select a new ruler. This is an elimination competition, not a death-match. How many rounds occur will depend on how many entrants apply. In the preliminaries, competitors are paired in match-ups. The winner of each goes on to the next round, while the loser is eliminated from further competition. In the next round, those winners square off in another series of matches, and so on, until the final elimination match-up. That winner becomes tournament champion—and the Grand Sentinel of Mesolands.”

  “Does anyone remember how competitions were conducted?” Rhymer asked, peering into a scrying stone on his ring to look for records. “We’ve not had multi-round tournaments for eons. Most of the jousts we have now are to settle disputes between farmers whose stock has strayed over the line, or to determine who has the right to elements on a property. Even some of our very minor skirmishes have left someone dead over a petty difference. Think of the fervor with stakes as high as these.”

  Zelman slapped his hands on the flattened mirror tiles. “I’ve perused the list. Thirty-two contenders have declared. There are twenty-four Elementalists, nine Necromancers, and one Medja. And two Paragons. Before we do anything else, we should take into consideration these Paragons, our two most troublesome contenders.”

  “Yes?”

  “One is a Fire Elf. Rand Emberfang, Tudoriax.” Zelman winced as he glanced at the tiles.

  Tudoriax leaned forward, the rest of the council following suit. “From Piironious? How can someone from another kingdom enter?” His voice thundered.

  Rhymer twirled his cuffs to find the appropriate etchings in his records and shrugged. “A costly loophole that is out of our hands. Another obscure rule from the ancient past allows anyone from the eight kingdoms to enter our tournament if they have a challenge with one of our citizens. I know this Fire Elf, and he will be a threat. Who is the other Paragon?”

  Zelman cleared his throat. “Um…”

  “Speak up, fool!”

  “It is—Lady Siv Anemos, the High Priestess.”

  Anger surged through Tudoriax until his pale skin turned purple. “Siv, the Tempest of Mesolands? Our ‘Feisty Troublemaker?’” He shouted the nicknames with such vengeance that spittle sprayed from his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then held both arms to the side to maintain his balance on the saddle.

  A few snickers rose from the other council members but abated quickly as the Senior Delegate glared.

  “When this tournament is over, she will get her just rewards. She’s nothing but trouble. Here is what I think of the Tempest of Mesolands.” He rocked his hips on Siv’s retired saddle, grinding down. He wrapped his fingers around the pommel. With a lewd leer, he jerked his hand up and down in a suggestive manner.

  Laughter burst forth until Tudoriax reached for the gavel and pounded. He leaned his girth forward in the saddle.

  “She cannot win,” he said. “This meeting is called to order.”

  Zelman continued. “She’s the most skilled dragon rider in Mesolands and commands all the arts. Rand is the best from Piironious, and despite the loophole to enter, he can never attain the position. Chances are quite likely that he and Siv will face each other in the final competition. We can control the process by declaring that only one magical power shall be used during each stage of the competition.”

  “If Rand follows the path of his comrades who like to die a glorious death, he may meet that desired fate while fighting Siv, and we’ll be rid of his interference once and for all. But if Rand wins, Siv is eliminated and since he cannot take the position, we will select one ourselves.”

  “And if she wins?” Rhymer’s tone was insistent.

  Zelman gave an exasperated shake of the head, then said, “As the Senior Delegate Tudoriax has already said, she cannot win.”

  Murmurs rippled around the table as council members reacted.

  The Senior Delegate banged the gavel to silence the room.

  “We have thirty-two hours before the challengers assemble. I suggest we begin our strategy.”

  Chapter 2

  The Bonding

  “What! You’re wearing that?” asked an incredulous Nyrin. The pixie fluttered her wings to rise upward so that she could make eye contact with her taller friend.

  “I am.” Siv gave a defiant shrug that sent her white-silver hair billowing.

  “But, Lady Siv…” Despite their years of friendship, Nyrin often addressed the High Priestess by her noble title.

  “As the rules of our church decree, I’m covered from neck to toe. They don’t specify what constitutes a covering.” Siv unfolded the incandescent wings on her back and drifted to the ceiling. She twirled in a full circle, her delicate clothing shimmering with each move.

  Nyrin laughed. “Yes, you are indeed covered, as decreed, but it’s…transparent. The men will have a hard time focusing.”

  “Their problem, not mine.” Siv continued to float. With her command over air, she could add grace to any movement. Her armor was indeed translucent, save for the strategically-placed crystals covering her private parts.

  “And the males may look all they will, but these crystals can never fail and reveal what they protect. But I’ll also admit, I have a complete bodysuit under the sheer material. The translucency is intentional and serves my purpose.” Siv would not admit out loud that the translucency served to distract the males who only objectified women. She also intended to use the opportunity to rebel against the government decree requiring women to be covered from neck to toe at all public events. A ridiculous decree in her opinion, considering that the form-fitting clothing of both male and female citizens left little to the imagination.

  The only other solid materials Siv wore were the rings on each of her ten fingers, representing the dragons that had served her in battle. While most jousters bonded with one dragon until death, a few had seen service with two or more. Siv was the lone Mesolander who had bonded ten times before. Such a fact might convey to an outsider many poor dragons had bonded to a losing jouster. In reality, Siv was acquiring her eleventh dragon because she was the best of the best, outlasting the loyal creatures that served her.

  “This material is incredibly lustrous.” Nyrin reached to touch one of Siv’s arms. The sheer sleeve immediately changed to metallic mail. The pixie jumped in surprise. With a rapid sweep of her other arm, she raked her fingernails across Siv’s stomach. Before the tips could touch the fabric, her fingernails tapped against the metal chain as it formed.

  She stared in disbelief. After a few seconds, the armor covering Siv’s stomach returned to the original shimmery sheer material.

  “What just happened?” Nyrin asked. “Where did the armor come from?”

  “I’ve been working on this for eons with Livanth, the alchemist. I had the idea but not the knowledge to create a see-thro
ugh fabric that could be converted to armor. You should’ve seen some of the disastrous results before she discovered what would work.”

  “No one’s seen this in competition yet?” Nyrin asked.

  Siv shook her head. “No.”

  Moving in slow motion, Nyrin raised her hand to give a gentle poke to Siv’s collarbone, but once again, before she could make contact, the filmy fabric gorget near the jouster’s neck changed to the life-protecting shield.

  “It’s amazing, Siv. But jousts take all of six to eight seconds for two riders to pass each other. Will your suit become armor quick enough to protect you from a lance or sword? Will it protect your wings?”

  “Here, I’ll show you.” Siv tossed a sword to Nyrin. The nimble air sprite sprang upward and twisted gracefully, catching the handle. Despite her diminutive size, she was capable of lifting one hundred times her weight. Hefting the heavy weapon above her head, she drifted downward until her feet touched the ground.

  “Come at me, like you are attacking,” Siv demanded.

  “Oh, no, no.” Nyrin shook her head. “I’m a flight guard, not a jouster. My job is to guide you through the air.”

  “Hey, flight guards have to stave off attacks after their jousters become unseated, you know.” Siv unsheathed her majestic sword and sliced through the air. Ominous metallic vibrations resonated with her every swoosh.

  Nyrin backed up. “Not me. I know how to shift through the battle to guide you, but not how to fight.”

  Siv rolled her rounded eyes, then stared.

  Nyrin huffed and made lack-luster crosses with the sword.

  “Lunge, Nyrin!” Siv commanded.

  The pixie readied her position, aimed for Siv’s upper arm, and clamped her eyes shut. Wings flapping fiercely, she swung the blade with all her might and steeled for the impact of sword on armor—or the resulting cry of pain from her mentor.

  “Ayyyy!”

  The shriek came—not from Siv, but from Nyrin as the effect of metal meeting metal rippled through her body. She dropped the sword and opened her eyes.

  Siv stood before her, swathed in full armor, wings outstretched, unscathed by the attack. Seconds later, the chainmail returned to the sheer clothing.

  Nyrin shook her head. “You nearly rattled my brains out of my head. I’ve never seen anything so incredible.”

  Siv nodded. “I can turn my full armor on at will, or the suit forms an automatic shield if it senses the approach of danger.”

  “As long as your gems cover your jewels, there is little danger.” Nyrin giggled. “I wonder what Rand will think when he sees you.”

  Siv narrowed her eyes at the name of her chief competitor. “He shouldn’t be allowed to compete. He’s not even from Mesolands. How can he become Grand Sentinel?”

  “It’s because of some obscure rule. Someone from another kingdom can enter if he is involved in a complaint with another entrant. I’m sure you will face him in the final match. And we all know that the most important goal to a Fire Elf is to die a glorious death.”

  “Which I can give him.” Siv shoved her sword into its sheath.

  “And may you be the champion of this year’s competition, Siv,” Nyrin said with a bow.

  “Mark my words, Nyrin. I shall be this year’s champion and the first female Grand Sentinel of the Council Chambers. It’s time to free Mesolands from the corruption and bias incorporated by our ruling males.”

  Siv’s hair turned to a stormy silver as fiery air turmoiled around her head. Her eyes focused on some object indeterminable to Nyrin. With a flex of her shoulders, the Zeph’s expansive wings opened to their full width and breadth.

  With another shrug, Siv retracted her wings. She grabbed a long cloak and tossed it over her shoulders. She picked up her lance, made of the special green metal known as Havenium, which allowed memories to be stored in the spear. Each jouster had a similar weapon that remembered its every move from previous tournaments.

  She faced Nyrin. “Meet me in the stables.” Swiveling on one foot, she stormed toward the door, gale-force winds whirling around her.

  Along the walls of the rounded Council Chambers, workers prepared the elevated seats for V.I.P. spectators. A solid black line a foot wide cut the room in half, running across the floor and over the top of the mighty Round Table, down to the floor on the other side, dividing the bleachers. Two female Zephs in apprentice jouster suits polished the saddle seats. The backless chairs had stirrups to help the council members maintain balance, and on one side or the other had cradles that once held the lances of the dragon riders.

  “Esrala, look.” The taller of the two lowered her voice in awe in front of one seat. “This saddle once belonged to Lady Siv’s last dragon.”

  “Let me polish it, Giln.” Esrala floated in excitement as she neared the saddle.

  “I was here first.” Giln trailed her palms over the hide, fingers touching the etchings that identified the former rider and dragon as Siv and Brank.

  “Well, you’re done so it’s my turn. Lady Siv is my all-time idol.” Esrala rubbed the leather with the same reverence.

  “Mine too.” Giln sighed with anticipation. “Do you realize that if she wins the competition today, she’ll be the first female to not only have earned a spot on the High Council, but to become Grand Sentinel? That means she’ll represent Mesolands at the coronation of Elira as the first Ortu Saad in Paragonia. Imagine, our first female ruler attending the coronation of another first female ruler. What times we live in.”

  “Have you heard the rumors that Elira was in her last stages of pregnancy when she fought demons in a battle, and that her son Argon was born on the footsteps of the Netherworld?”

  “I heard she had one foot in the Netherworld and one at the Gateway, so her son could have been born either demon or angel. Siv is as brave as Elira is.”

  “Yes. I’m so excited. Siv will win. She must win. For all the progress this council claims to make, they still cast females as insignificant members of society. Lady Siv will win her place and make things right.”

  “They’ll fight dirty to do everything they can to prevent her from winning.”

  “But she’s the shrewdest competitor, has the best record, and her new dragon was a prized hatchling of her best dragon. They’re a force to which no others can compare.”

  “She will win,” Esrala repeated. “Let’s finish so we can watch history in the making.”

  Before heading back to the task at hand, the two pixies raised their right hands and tapped the tips of their first and middle fingers together three times—for the luck of all the females of Mesolands.

  Tightening the cloak around her, Siv made her way through the long corridor of the stables. Most of the stalls were empty, as riders had already claimed their dragons and reported to the staging area.

  Sporadic whirls of small dust dervishes sent loose straw and grass into her path as the cleaning imps did their chores. Nasty but necessary, the green-skinned creatures worked to keep the stables and animals free of vermin and crud. The dirtier the task, the more the ill-tempered creatures enjoyed their work.

  She stopped at the last stall. An iridescent ball of scales with limbs nestled on a pile of straw. Two gnarly imps were cleaning the beast’s rainbow-like scales.

  One shriveled Pica imp, sporting wild tufts of maroon hair over his body, balanced on the dragon’s back, using a long-handled brush to scrub along the dragon’s elongated graceful neck.

  The other, a gray-haired Pica imp layered in wrinkles, used the hollowed-out talon of a long-dead dragon to cover his fist. He scraped under the flexible but steel-hard scales.

  “Yum,” he said as he scooped a film of crust and mites. He stuck the talon in his mouth and sucked it clean. “They pays us in apples, but me would do it for free for all these tasty treats.”

  “Get out of here, you disgusting reprobate.” Nyrin buzzed the grizzled imp, hovering with angry wings flapping. “Go away! Get!”

  “Hey, me not done h
ere.” He reached up to try to peek under Nyrin’s tunic.

  “Yes, you are.” Siv raised her pinky and shot a spark of fire at the offender’s butt.

  “Yeeouch!” The imp danced a jig while fanning his behind. He farted, fueling the spark with a bit more energy than desired.

  “Begone, you two heathens.” Siv tossed apples from a barrel. The maroon-headed one caught the fruits as fast as she threw them and darted out the door. She turned and caught the grizzled gray using the talon to lift her cloak. She wiggled her pinky finger again and sent a bolt that looped around and struck the imp’s other butt cheek. He danced his way behind his comrade, his noxious gasses keeping the spark dancing.

  Nyrin held her nose as she fanned her wings.

  “Will you go after him and send him a healing zap?” Siv asked.

  “Oh, must I?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Grumbling, Nyrin held her nose and flew after the offending scamp.

  “How are you, Ghymugras?” Siv turned to her animal and cooed. The wyvern, a two-legged dragon with a barbed tail, was the first female Siv had trained, and her first Paragon dragon, gifted as Siv was with all eight arts. The creature unfurled her wings. Despite her massive size, she fluttered like a feather in the wind and lowered her long neck to nuzzle Siv’s neck.

  “I’m fine, Lady Siv.” The words came out in a melodic chiming, echoing in the air with a delicateness unexpected from a creature so large. Ghymugras, whose cumbersome name meant “Dragon of the Air,” could speak, a rare gift bestowed upon her when she was a baby. Wyverns could usually only communicate with their riders through mental dialogue.

  “Do I detect a quiver of nerves, Ghy?” Siv ran her knuckles gently along the wyvern’s jawline.

  The nickname soothed the worried creature. “Maybe a little. They told me we will fail, my Lady.”

  “Who did?”

  “The other dragons. And their riders. Even some of the females have teased me, telling me I will die because you are my rider and you have already bonded with ten before me.”