Stormrise

by Jillian Boehme

  Quickly, I peeled off my second, almost equally dirty shirt and rolled it with the first one. I lifted the tent flap and peeked out to make sure Forest had walked away before hastily unwrapping my bindings. They could have used a washing, too, but that was a luxury I couldn’t risk. I rebound them as quickly as I could. Then I pulled out the shirt I’d arrived in—Storm’s shirt—and put it on. I wrapped myself, and the shirt, in a brief hug.

  I remembered the time Storm and I had to wait out a sudden hailstorm in the barn. He had squeezed me into a lung-crushing embrace and told me, over and over, that he would keep me safe, as though the hailstones meant certain death.

  I miss you, twin.

  I caught up with Forest and River near the tree line. Dalen was a few paces in front of them, talking with—or rather, listening to—Sedge. I lengthened my stride to keep up.

  “Upstream’s best,” River said. “We won’t get the runoff from everyone else’s dirt.”

  He was right, but apparently most of the others had already thought the same thing. We meandered along the bank for a while until we found an open clearing. Sedge pushed ahead, and Dalen slowed his pace to join us—gratefully, I thought.

  As soon as we’d claimed our spot, the others peeled off their shirts and, after pulling off their boots and socks, stepped out of their pants as well. I pulled off my own boots and socks and stepped out of my pants. Luckily, men’s undergarments were thickly padded in the front, creating an illusion of maleness. The shirt hung almost to my knees, giving me enough coverage to feel safe.

  Almost safe. As soon as my legs were exposed, they felt slender and vulnerable. Girls’ legs.

  Not for the first time, I scanned the tree line for any sign of a dragon—a glimpse of long neck wreathed in dun-colored fur or hulking, scaled body—but saw nothing. Then I grabbed the bucket of soft oil soap that River had carried from the camp and brought it near the water’s edge. Without making eye contact with anyone, I carried my muddiest shirt—the one I was wearing when I fell numerous times off the rope—into the water until I was in up to my knees, and plunged it in.

  “You going to wash that shirt while you’re wearing it?” Dalen asked.

  “No, this is my extra.” I trailed the soaking shirt behind me in the water as I walked back to the bucket and scooped up a squishy handful of soap.

  “You afraid someone will notice your lack of chest hair?” Dalen teased.

  “Something like that.”

  “We’re all in this together, Storm,” Forest said, scrubbing his own shirt not far from me. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I shrugged, trying desperately to act like I wasn’t fazed. “It matters to me.”

  “Looks like the water’s too cold for the midget,” Sedge called from his spot slightly upstream. “Maybe he needs a good dunking to help him get used to it.”

  He laughed, and Coast and Flint, who were near him, laughed, too. I ignored them, scrubbing the mud from my shirt and rinsing it well before bringing it up to the bank. After finding a clean place for it, I reached for the second shirt.

  I had just returned to the knee-deep water with another handful of soap when someone shoved me hard from behind, knocking me off-balance. I fell sideways into the water and went under. When I came up, Sedge’s laughter was the first thing to greet me.

  The water streaming into my eyes did nothing to cool my rage. I rose slowly, forcing myself to look Sedge in the eye. My face was as still and expressionless as I could make it.

  “That shirt keep you warm in the water?” he said.

  “Go wash your clothes,” Forest said behind him.

  Sedge gave him a sideways glance. “He deserved it. Besides, if he can’t take a little dunking, how’s he going to carry his weight on the mission?”

  “That’s not for you to say.”

  “You’re right.” Sedge returned his attention to me. “The midget should speak for himself.”

  With my toes curled into the rocks on the bottom of the stream, I assumed the second stance—legs spread, knees bent. I moved subtly, letting my arms hang free and relaxed. “Back off.”

  “You’re the one who threw the prune at my face in front of Commander Jasper.”

  Slow breaths. Stay centered. “You questioned my aim.”

  “Your aim cost me twenty laps.” He took a step toward me. “Have another bath, midget.”

  His arm shot out to push me, but I was faster, blocking his arm and sending the heel of my knife hand into his forehead. He staggered, and I twisted onto my left leg and kicked him in the chest, just hard enough to send him sprawling backward, his arms flailing as he hit the water.

  Sedge didn’t share the laughter that assaulted him. He rose, his eyes hard coals that bored into me as he waded toward me, each step deliberate. I returned to the second stance, ready for whatever Sedge would try next.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and offered a stiff bow. “As the sun rises.” The words felt like coiled springs squeezing past his jaw.

  “So it sets.” I stayed ready, unwilling to believe that he would be so quick to honor a Neshu defeat.

  He glared at me for too many breaths. Then he grabbed his floating shirt from the water, his gaze still pulling on mine.

  “I’ll give you this one, midget.” He turned away and waded back to his spot upstream.

  “Good move, Storm,” River said.

  I tried to brush it off. “He’s an oaf.”

  “You caught him unaware,” Forest said. “I was watching you the whole time, and I didn’t see it coming, either.”

  “Why does he call you ‘midget,’ anyway?” Dalen asked. “He’s shorter than all the rest of us.”

  I rolled my eyes. “But taller than I am.”

  “You move like a grandmaster,” Dalen said. “Even in the water.”

  Their praise warmed me, and for a moment I stopped worrying about my shirt and the very real girl parts underneath it. “Thanks.”

  I glanced at Forest, who nodded. Admiration shone from his eyes, and a wave of delicious warmth crept through my middle, despite the weight that always tugged at me—the undeniable truth that, if he knew I was a girl, the admiration would turn to scorn.

  * * *

  “We’re going to push ourselves to the edge of endurance until the order comes for us to march north,” Jasper said.

  We stood, the twelve of us, in a ring around him—a barely dressed, shirtless unit, save for me, in my too-long shirt. He turned slowly as he spoke, addressing us around the circle, making eye contact with each of us.

  “First order of business, rebuilding the rope climb,” Jasper said. “When it’s done, we’ll start our drills, including knife-throwing for hunting. There’s limited food in the wagon, which means we’ll soon get used to living off the land. Now’s the time to prepare your bodies and minds for what lies ahead.”

  True to his word, Jasper pushed us hard all day. For the first hour, surrounded by shirtless men in their undergarments, I felt I would melt from embarrassment, but I soon grew accustomed to their near-nakedness. Which was rather disconcerting.

  It was nearing dusk by the time we were able to return for our now-dry clothing, spread in the grass near the creek bank. It felt good to gather up my sun-warmed shirts and pants and socks, though it was a reminder that a young soldier’s modesty would only last so long. Probably Forest and the others expected that I’d soon be tossing my clothes off with the rest of them.

  But I wouldn’t be. And at that point, I didn’t know how I would keep their suspicions at bay.

  We cooked salted pork and beetroot on skewers over the fire while Jasper told us everything he knew about Tan Vey and his army of united nomads.

  “As soon as we get our orders, we’ll head to the military outpost at Chancory, south of Ylanda City. You should recognize it from the maps I gave you.”

  “Wasn’t the outpost abandoned generations ago?” Cedar asked.

  “Once Stonewall was completed, yes,” Jasper said. “B
ut since Tan Vey’s invasion, the army’s first priority was to establish the outpost as a command base. It’s from there that our intelligence will come.”

  “Aren’t we wasting time here?” Flint was our best swordsman and the only one in the unit who still intimidated me.

  Jasper’s face grew hard. “I will not send you untested.”

  He drilled us on our map study as we ate, though exhaustion made it seem impossible to think. After, I drew lines and circles in the dirt with my empty stick, trying without success to create a map.

  Forest made an exasperated sound. When I looked up, his expression was dark, his mouth clenched. He threw a stone at the fire.

  “Forest?”

  He glanced at me before lowering his gaze to the map half-crumpled in his hand. “I can’t keep it straight.”

  “It’ll come.” I smiled, but he shook his head, and my smile melted. “Are you always this hard on yourself?”

  He shrugged and said nothing. I stared at the play of light and shadow on his face, wishing I could rub my palm against his cheek and feel the strength of his jaw, the scratch of day-old stubble against my skin.

  Then, appalled, I looked away, determined to wrench those thoughts from my brain.

  From my heart.

  Conversation was sparse as the fire crackled low. Cedar carved a chunk of wood into the shape of a chipmunk, the wood curls falling onto his lap like snow. Dalen stretched out his legs and lowered himself onto his side, as though he might fall asleep right there.

  “We’re just east of the commune, eh, Kendel?” he said, eyes closed.

  “Several miles east.” Kendel was from Province Ytel, like Dalen.

  “What commune?” I asked.

  “The Commune of Mennek the Lesser,” Kendel said.

  Something around his neck caught the light of the fire, and I frowned, thinking at first I’d imagined it. “What’s that?” I asked, gesturing with my chin.

  “Oh. An amulet from home.” He seemed embarrassed as he tucked it hastily inside his shirt.

  I caught a glimpse of it as it disappeared beneath the fabric; it reminded me of the amulets I had seen in Madam S’dora’s shop.

  “Dragon’s blood,” Dalen said, his eyes still closed. “That’s what’s inside it.”

  “Inside what?” Apparently I was missing something.

  “The amulet,” he said. “It’s good luck.”

  “Leave it, Dalen, s’da?” Kendel folded his arms across his chest.

  “So, where’s the commune, exactly?” I asked, hoping to ease Kendel’s embarrassment.

  “In the finger of Ytel that cuts through Tenema from the west,” he said. “Just a few miles, and we’d be in our own province, Dalen.”

  “Still far from home,” Dalen said.

  Home wasn’t something I allowed myself to dwell on. I tossed my stick into the fire and decided I would catch Dalen alone as soon as possible and ask him to tell me everything he knew about the Lament. And dragons in general.

  * * *

  I caught up with Dalen after our morning warm-ups. We were both out of breath, so I walked alongside him for several paces, until speaking became easier.

  “Can I talk with you?”

  “I need to piss.”

  I was so used to boy talk that I didn’t even blush. “I’ll walk with you.”

  We headed toward the latrine, and I tried to think of a way to bring up the dragons without making myself sound insane. A bit of casual chatter might be a better way to start the conversation, but I couldn’t think of any.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Dalen asked.

  “Remember when we were talking about dragons? The Lament of Nuaga and all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was wondering if you could teach it to me. The Lament.”

  Dalen narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “I’m not ridiculing you,” I said quickly. “It’s just … I’ve been having some bad dreams.”

  “About dragons?”

  Time to choose my words carefully. “Sometimes. I’m sure they’re just nightmares, but…”

  “Just nightmares.” Mild disbelief danced in his eyes.

  “Yes. Maybe if I learn a little more about the dragons, the nightmares will stop.”

  Dalen stopped by a tree behind the latrine; I averted my eyes. “Or maybe you’ve had a taste of dragon magic. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so worried about bad dreams.”

  His words brushed too close to the truth. With great effort, I gave a sort of half-laugh, hoping I sounded casual. I scrambled for something to say while he finished peeing, but words stumbled against each other, afraid to come out. I couldn’t let him know about the dragon powder.

  “I’m not worried,” I said at last. “I’d just rather sleep well.”

  Dalen finished his business, then dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a small, tightly wound scroll. He held it out to me.

  “Read it for yourself.”

  My heart caught. “You carry it with you?”

  He nodded. “Keep it as long as you want, s’da? Just don’t lose it.”

  “Thank you.” I curled the scroll into my palm, strands of excitement weaving through my stomach.

  “It’s just a copy, of course,” he went on. “One of hundreds, I’m sure.”

  “Where’s the original?” Or perhaps it no longer existed.

  “In the Commune of Mennek.” Dalen’s words became more animated. Passionate, even. “Kendel and I were talking about it last night.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “They’re faithful to the dragons, and they keep a library of dragon lore,” Dalen went on. “The Archives, it’s called.”

  “They believe in Nuaga’s return?”

  “Yes. Same as Kendel and I do. They’re said to be very protective of their Archives.” He gazed in the direction of the commune. “I wish I could see it. The original Lament.”

  His reverence wrapped around me, warm and real. “This is important to you.”

  “It’s important to everyone in Ylanda,” he said. “But most folks don’t realize it.”

  “I think I’m starting to.”

  Dalen looked, for a moment, as though he didn’t quite believe me. But then his expression relaxed, and a slight nod of his head told me, in a way I had no words for, that he had accepted me as an ally.

  “It’s no small thing, dreaming about dragons,” he said.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. But … don’t tell anyone just the same, s’da?”

  “S’da.” He turned to walk back toward camp. “I’ll give you my ale ration if you think an extra mug would help you sleep.”

  I smiled—Dalen had keenly felt the tightening of our ale supply. “I’ll be fine.”

  It wasn’t until almost dusk that I had a private moment to read the scroll. I slipped away from the others and sat behind my tent, shielded from view. Pulse fluttering, I unrolled the parchment and read The Lament of Nuaga, my lips moving silently as I savored each word.

  From the Great God, ever breathing,

  Came the Dragons.

  Heat of sun and strength of thousands,

  Came the Mighty Dragons.

  Fiery red, the pride of heaven,

  Fierce T’Gonnen.

  Bowing to her lord and master,

  Loyal, brave Nuaga.

  By his side and never failing,

  Never shirking.

  She-king to the Clan of Dragons,

  Lovely, strong Nuaga.

  Long their vigilant protection,

  Through the ages.

  Faithful to their charge and calling—

  Faithful to the faithless.

  From the north, in tribes disjointed,

  Came the nomads

  Lusting for the strength and magic

  Of the mighty Dragons.

  “Build no walls; create no borders!”

  Cried the Dragons.

  “Ours, this land, and yours, our power,

&n
bsp; Ever to protect you.”

  Foolish people of Ylanda,

  Self-important.

  “By our might and with your blessing,

  We shall build defenses.”

  Clan of Dragons, ever faithful,

  Gave no blessing.

  Seeds of enmity thus planted,

  Tearing them asunder.

  By the sweat of brows and bosoms

  Over decades,

  Miles of stone, the wall assembled,

  Solid, vast, defiant.

  Soft, the Dragons crept, retreating

  To their caverns.

  Thus betrayed by those they honored,

  Sent to endless slumber.

  “Join them in their resting places,

  Dear Nuaga.

  “Flesh and bone I now must offer,”

  Spoke the bold T’Gonnen.

  Grave of heart and torn in spirit,

  Wailed Nuaga,

  “Sleep with us in rest eternal—

  Suffer not this torture!”

  Yet despite impassioned pleading,

  Fierce T’Gonnen

  Gave himself for all Ylanda

  And the Clan of Dragons.

  Took he neither food nor water,

  So to languish.

  On the eighteenth day, his spirit

  Finally departed.

  Tears of Nuaga flowing, pouring,

  Grief unending,

  As she watched his body plundered,

  Bone and flesh together.

  Now dispersed, the great one’s power,

  To the peoples.

  Satisfied, the mourning she-king

  Joined the sleeping Dragons.

  By his sacrifice, the power

  Of the Dragons,

  Wends its way through dale and village

  Calling to his people.

  Fair Nuaga waits in slumber

  Intermittent.

  When T’Gonnen’s magic wakes her,

  She will speak and beckon.

  Where is Onen?

  Each breath was loud in my ears as I reread the final verse, its meaning unmistakable. T’Gonnen’s magic would wake Nuaga, and she would beckon.

  But why? And who was Onen?

  Nuaga had said the Lament contained the words I would need to wake the dragons. Did she mean that I needed to know the entire thing? Be able to recite it? I could certainly do that. But I still didn’t understand how that would help me wake any dragons.