Conquests and Crowns

by S E Meliers

Whilst Praise clung desperately with arms, thighs and feet, the dragon had gained height. She was thankful she had landed on the dragon’s neck rather than lower on its back as she was above the wings rather than below where the air flow would have simply blown her off. The muscle power required to operate those magnificent wings was incredible, the hide beneath her body undulating with each stroke.

  The dragon’s hide was covered in scales of all sizes, and each scale layered with smaller scales. From the head back, the scales sat smooth and blunt, however from the tail to the head, they were coarse and rough – a defence mechanism from attack from behind. The smaller scales layered on the larger scales provided a textured surface to help cling to the dragon’s back, whilst the larger scales provided grips against which to brace hands, feet and knees.

  Only once she had ascertained that her perch was actually quite secure could she pay attention to her surrounds, and she realised that Amori lay far, far below. She was flying - flying a dragon. People were like ants on a wonderful patchwork quilt of different shades of green, brown, and grey. She was astonished by how regular the fields actually were, straight lines of square and rectangle, and how irregular the roads, meandering in erratic wavering snakes. The beautiful shining curve of beach and the sparkling shades of the ocean waters that looked so smooth from this height.

  And it was glorious to fly.

  At that moment the dragon dove, and she narrowed her eyes against the tear of air, and felt her stomach lurch into her throat with the downward, headfirst pressure. Just as it seemed the dragon meant to collide with the city rooftops, and a scream built in her throat that she could not utter, it pulled up, rolling through the air before regaining height. The roll seemed as if it would dislodge her from its back, but she found the speed of the motion pinioned her to the scaly hide rather then threw her loose.

  From the cliff top soared a rainbow of dragons. Seven in varying hues of gold, green, red and blue – many of which carried on their backs riders flat on their bellies between the spiny ridges. The dragons met in the air, in a wilderness of wind, wings, shouts and bugles, before turning on their wingtips and plunging down, down into the ocean. Praise screamed at the sudden chill before swallowing a mouthful of salt water. The water dragged on her as the dragon surged horizontally in long strokes deep below the surface. Just as she thought it meant to drown her, it crested, shedding sparkling drops like jewels behind them and allowing her to draw in a deep gasping breath of wonderful air.

  The dragons meandered through the waves to the beach like some great herd of amphibious beasts returning to roost. ‘You fly well,’ her dragon purred satisfaction like cream in its voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed; her throat raw from the gulp of salt water and her lungs aching. ‘May I get off now before I vomit up the water I swallowed?’

  ‘By all means,’ the dragon shook itself, dislodging her so that she slithered and slid, landing onto a surprisingly hard bed of sand. The other riders had also dismounted and walked across the sand towards her. They wore leather pants, jackets, gloves and masked helms, making one indistinguishable from another until the helms were removed. All, she realised with surprise, were female. Some wore their hair short – a concession to the helms – others wore their hair braided tight to their skulls. They were all small and lean, necessary to fit between the dragon spines. One, a brunette with an overbite and scars on her chin and cheek, wore her authority like a sombre cloak. She took Praise’s chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her face to the gathering riders. ‘You wear the mark well.’

  ‘Mark?’ Praise touched her chin. Her fingers came away sticky with blood. She noted that all the faces around her bore scars.

  ‘Your dragon’s mark,’ the brunette touched her own cheek where her scar rode prominent. ‘Caused by grazing against the scales. A mark of the honour of selection. I am Edge, rider of Cobalt.’

  ‘Praise,’ Praise watched the dragons settle onto the curve of the beach like giant multihued sand-dunes. ‘I do not know the name of the dragon I rode.’

  ‘He is Ember,’ Edge supplied.

  ‘Is he going to eat me?’ Praise whispered.

  Edge shook her head. ‘No. It is not your fate to become dragon fodder. Who has the Ardur?’ she asked the small assembly of riders. A small red leather pouch was passed forward. Edge opened it reverently. ‘This is Ardur,’ she showed Praise a finger full of shining silver. ‘It is made from shed dragon scale. Dragon scale is almost indestructible. It takes hundreds of years and great duress for scale to powder like this. Rubbed into your wounds it will cause scarring to permanently mark you as a dragon rider. It also has the side effect of preventing infection, and numbing pain.

  ‘Take a finger full of Ardur and rub it into the wound on your chin and cheek,’ Edge spoke, but the riders all watched intently. ‘I would help, but you have to do it yourself to prove you are not coerced or the magic will not work. It will sting. You will feel dizzy. There is a slight… Well,’ she grinned suddenly, darkly amused. ‘You will see.’

  ‘I am not sure I want – ' Praise started.

  ‘If you refuse, you will be killed,’ Edge said grimly, and held out the bag.

  Praise hesitated, but the look in Edge’s eyes decided her. ‘I do not want to die,’ she said, and dipped her finger into the powder. It felt like cold, dry sand. She smeared it blindly onto her chin and cheek.

  ‘Wise choice,’ Edge pulled the drawstrings closed sharply.

  Praise cried out in sudden sharp pain. ‘It burns!’ she started towards the ocean meaning to wash her face clean of the stinging powder, but the riders restrained her. ‘What are you doing? It hurts!’

  ‘It will pass,’ Edge’s face wavered before her. ‘It is passing already. You see. It is already hurting less.’

  It was, but something else was happening. The world was watery, faces and details blurred as if seen through tears. She wiped at her eyes, but her vision did not improve. ‘Everything looks…’ she began to laugh, found it odd that she laughed considering the direness of her situation, but the more she tried to think, the more ludicrous everything seemed, and the more she shook with laughter. ‘What is happening to me?’

  ‘The Ardur has an intoxicating effect,’ Edge helped her to her feet. ‘Do not fight it; it is actually quite pleasant if you just relax. Come, bathe in the ocean and we will braid your hair for you.’ The riders helped her out of the rags of her clothing and into the ocean.

  Normally she would have been modest and awkward about her nudity however combined with the pleasant buzz of the intoxicating Ardur was a disembodiment and a feeling of unity with these women. She was overwhelmed with a sense of eternity of spirit: that she had been in this moment before. The air bore the magic of spring and all the promise and rhythm of new life; the water felt like silk against her skin and sparkled like gemstones; and all the colours and hues of the world were as glorious as creation could make them.

  There was a ponderousness of ceremony to the bathing, a shedding of previous self with the shedding of rags and filth into the water. She sat on the sun warmed sand and sipped wine from a wineskin, ate fresh mussels dug up from the beach, and had her hair braided by a rider called Radiant.

  She dreamt that as the sun set riders and dragons formed a ring around the small fire, and a red haired god appeared from the shadows beyond the reach of the flames and laid her back onto the sand. He tasted of salt and foreign spice, and wore the scent of the ocean in his waist length blood hued hair. His skin was as warm as the sand beneath her back. He was as naked as a new babe, as naked as she, and as perfectly formed as any carven idol.

  She had never craved anything as much as she craved the taste of his skin, not even during the long weeks of hunger. She devoured him with eyes, hands and tongue, tracing the contour of cheek to jaw, and jaw to neck. Her hands sculpted wide shoulders and bicep, across pectorals and down the smooth landscape of flesh. In her dream, she was bold, invincible, and empowered. She took his manhood in
to her hands, explored the contrast of hard and soft, velvet and steel. He drew in a shuddering breath and moaned her name as she learnt the texture of engorged veins beneath silken skin, the hollows and dips around the mushroomed head. She tasted the honey-like liquid that beaded on its tip, before taking as much of his length into her mouth as she could to feel that sleek skin against her tongue.

  At last he pulled from her grasp and instead caught her up against him, exposing the column of her throat to his kisses by pulling back her braided hair. She gasped as he turned her onto her hands and knees and entered her in one swift, slick stroke. The suddenly tearing of her maidenhead broke the illusion of dream, pulling into reality briefly the sand beneath her hands and knees, the circle of onlookers, and for a moment, she fought, and then surrendered as heat flooded her and with it pleasure.

  He wrapped an arm around her belly and pressed a fingertip in glorious circles against her clitoris as he began to move deep and slow. ‘Mine,’ he growled into her ear, his body a curve over her own. ‘Mine.’

  Chapter Two

  Cedar

  Cedar followed Charity to a pub in the slums on the outskirts of Amori. He watched the Lord down a jug of what the barkeep laughingly called ale and winced in sympathy for Charity’s stomach. After his salt water dip, followed by being dressed in homespun and having his hair dyed, and walking back into Amori and then around the city itself, Charity was looking far from Lordly: his feet were filthy to the ankles, his face darkened by dust, his hair and garb unkempt. He looked perfectly in keeping for the premise. He did not engage any of the other bar patrons in discussion, which in itself was a relief to Cedar who had feared the Lord would betray himself in his drunkenness, but Charity seemed disinclined to anything other than the consumption of more gut-rot ale.

  Charity purchased a second jug of ale.

  ‘You know they pretty much piss in that stuff, do you not?’ Cedar commented coming to sit across the scarred table top from the morose lord.

  Charity looked up, blearily squinted to focus. ‘You!’ he said, frowning. ‘I could almost think you were, or are, a dream! What are you doing here?’

  Cedar shrugged. ‘Not drinking, that is for sure; I am kinder to my body than to deliberately poison it. Nor dreaming: my dreams tend to run on more pleasant lines than this – Chastity Lakesdaughter, naked and feeling amorous, for example, though if you were to ever mention it to Lake, I would deny it. The question is: what are you doing here?’

  Charity sighed and studied the dregs of his mug. ‘Are you married?’ He threw back the last mouthfuls and refilled from the jug.

  ‘No,’ Cedar shifted on the hard bench. ‘I almost was once, though, and that was enough to cause a lifetime of woe.’

  ‘What happened?’ the Lord looked mildly intrigued.

  ‘It was an arranged marriage. When the girl turned up, she and my brother fell in love,’ Cedar lifted the jug, sniffed at the ale within and finding it unpalatable as expected put it back down. ‘So I defied my father, who very much wanted the marriage, and refused to wed her. I was disinherited, and my brother got the land, the girl, and my father’s favour.’

  Charity blinked. ‘You do not sound angry about it.’

  Cedar shrugged. ‘It was my choice.’

  ‘Your brother did not look after you?’ Charity eyed Cedar over, taking stock of the other man’s well-worn clothing. ‘Surely, he was grateful to you for stepping aside?’

  Cedar shrugged. ‘At first my father was still alive, so my brother had no power to aid me. Then, his wife and child died in childbirth, and he had other things to worry about, I guess. By that time, anyway, I had moved on.’ He surreptitiously emptied the lord’s mug under the table. ‘So – why do you ask about marriage?’

  Charity raised his mug to his lips, found it empty; looked into it in surprise, than refilled it again from the jug. ‘I have been married for several years. Mine was not an arranged marriage. I courted and won my wife. She was not an easily win,’ he laughed. ‘She held out for almost half a year, during which I thought we got to know each other very well. Then, we lost our first child, and I thought I knew her even more after sharing in her grief. It took us a while, but now we have two beautiful children, and, if you had asked me a week ago, I would have told you that I knew my wife, very, very well indeed.’

  ‘But, you do not know her as well as you thought?’ Cedar guessed.

  ‘No,’ Charity found solace in his ale. ‘No, I do not know that deceitful, backstabbing, lying whore at all, it appears.’

  Cedar was so startled by the viciousness of the statement that he laughed.

  Charity, in the manner of drunks, lingered between ire and wry amusement at Cedar’s laughter, before joining in. ‘Yes,’ Charity shook his head. ‘I am flummoxed, my friend. Cuckolded. Betrayed. Not only, not only,’ he leaned over the table conspiratorially and lowered his voice. ‘Not only has she publically declared for them, the rumour is that she is sharing one of their beds!’

  Cedar had seen the Lady Patience address the public square. He had heard her publically declare her husband dead and declare her fervent wish for the populace to support the invaders and convert to their religion; but he had been close enough to see the shadows beneath her eyes, and the tightness of her shoulders and jaw. He had seen the way her eyes had constantly monitored the movements of the armed soldiers and the red robed Priests that surrounded her; the preternatural alertness of one under threat. He thought the lady acted to save her own skin, and maybe that of her children, if they were even still alive, and for a moment opened his mouth to speak in her defence. But he shrugged, what did he care? And the Lord’s ire with his wife’s apparent unfaithfulness served to get him to follow the Prophet’s direction. ‘Come, my friend,’ he said to lord. ‘I am a sorry for your difficulties, but, as you can see, our guide was right: you are best to go West. There is nothing you can do here, is there?’

  ‘No,’ Charity rubbed his temples. ‘No, there is not. My wife is in no danger; that much is for sure. My children, it is said that they have not suffered regardless of the changes to their environs. I suppose I can thank my wife for that much: her lasciviousness has probably provided for their safety,’ he grimaced. ‘My friends have turned cowards and would betray me. My men are lost. There is nothing that I can do here; I am without ally, without power.’

  ‘Well, then, let us go West,’ Cedar stood.

  Charity threw back the last of his ale and pushed up from the table. He stood swaying. ‘West it is then,’ he said, but almost fell in taking his first step. ‘Hmmm,’ the Lord grumbled as Cedar propped him up. ‘That piss was stronger then I warranted it to be.’

  ‘Walk it off,’ Cedar encouraged, holding most of the Lord’s weight on his shoulders. They took a few lurching steps.

  ‘Ha!’ Charity snorted suddenly. Cedar frowned, puzzled. ‘This seems to be your new occupation, my friend,’ Charity elaborated, amused. ‘Holding me up.’

  Cedar laughed. ‘Well, do not get used to it,’ he warned. ‘I do not plan on making a habit of it.’ They managed to exit the pub. Cedar breathed in the fresher air with relief. The street was busy with rag pickers, pie sellers, whores, and the detritus of Amori society. They faded into the scenery, a couple of early afternoon drunks staggering their way home. ‘We are not going to get far very fast, with you like this,’ Cedar realised as they made very slow progress towards the outer wall of the city.

  ‘A horse,’ Charity slurred.

  ‘Ha, very funny,’ Cedar watched a couple of soldiers pass them by. They displayed no interest in the drunken Charity, so he relaxed. ‘A wheelbarrow might be more affordable,’ he said, spying a rag picker wheeling a dilapidated barrow passed them. ‘Stay here,’ he left Charity propped up against a wall and gave the rag picker chase. The wretch was wily, and Cedar ended up paying more then he’d have liked. ‘Cretin,’ he cursed under his breath pushing the unwieldy thing back to where he’d left Charity.

  The Lord had tossed most of t
he contents of his stomach out onto the road, before passing out. Cedar stood for a moment with his eyes closed. ‘Why am I cursed?’ he wondered aloud. Thankfully Charity had not fallen into his own vomit when he had collapsed, so it was not quite the task Cedar had first imagined upon finding him sprawled on the road. He managed to get the Lord conscious enough to stand, and manoeuvred him into the barrow.

  ‘This is very undignified,’ Charity slurred as Cedar began pushing the barrow down the rutted dirt road.

  ‘You should try being on this end,’ Cedar puffed. His companion’s drunkenness and the jocosity of their appearance served to pass them through the city gates without suspicion, however. ‘May be co-incidence,’ Cedar noted to himself. ‘May be fated.’

  ‘What is that?’ Charity squinted. ‘By the gods, I feel ill.’

  ‘There is a stream about an hour from here. We will stop there for the night. The water will ease you,’ Cedar replied. ‘As to the other: have you ever noticed that sometimes you take a path and all you seem to get is hurdles whilst at other times, when all should go wrong, everything seems to just go right? A friend told me once that it is life trying to tell you the direction you should be taking. A fated road is smoother than an ill-fated one, although it may appear to be the rockier when you first set out upon it.’

  ‘Then how do you ever know what road to take? Do you always take the one that looks rockier hoping it turns out smoother? Blah, rot and nonsense,’ Charity spoke with his eyes closed. ‘Fate is just one person trying to manipulate another into their belief system. You use the word fate and suddenly the unexplainable is explained, the immoral permissible, and your own failings not your own fault. ‘I was fated to do it,’’ he spoke in falsetto, surprising another laugh from Cedar. ‘Bah.’

  ‘I used to think that way,’ Cedar replied. ‘But then I met Calico, and I had no choice but to change my mind.’

  ‘Women,’ was Charity’s wisdom. ‘They muck with your head.’