With a cry of “Hyah!” the coach leapt forward, completing its tight turn and heading back down the road from whence it had come, the knights falling in behind it without so much as a backward glance.
She and Dostoy simply stood in silence for a minute watching the coach depart. Then, just as it began to move out of sight, they turned and looked at one another. A smile teased at her lips, and she could see Dostoy’s shoulders shaking.
Laughter exploded out of them like a storm, echoing across the clearing in the wake of the prince. She couldn’t say how long they laughed, only that she was clutching at her sides, tears leaking from her eyes and chest aching for breath by the time both of them settled down to small titters. “I suppose,” she said, her voice breaking for another giggle. “I suppose that he wasn’t the right one either.”
“No,” Dostoy said, his voice echoing between larger laughs. “Not at all.”
She took a deep breath as they finally quieted, glancing down at the disheveled state of her clothing. “So,” she said at last. “Shall we butcher the elk?”
“Butcher the elk,” Dostoy agreed, hitching up the sledge once more. “Let’s see to it.”
The rest of the day passed with light spirits.
Day Twelve
“Hah!” The loud shout echoed across the clearing. “I have you now, dragon!”
His opponent did, too, even she could see that. The knight had taken Dostoy by surprise, his cavalry charge a feint for his real strike. Unless Dostoy had a counter of some kind in store, the game would be over in several turns.
She could see his side of the board. He did not have any such plan at the ready. With a sigh, she turned away from Adricarle’s tome and moved to the bed, where her sword hung in its scabbard from the footboard. She changed quickly, and from down below she heard the knight’s triumphant cries as the game came to its forgone conclusion. She’d need to teach Dostoy how to read such a feint and react to it, assuming she still was a guest in his home after the next part of the challenge. But for some reason, she felt she would be.
“Victory is mine, dragon, though you fought well. And now for the third challenge!”
“The Lady Victoria will be here momentarily,” she heard Dostoy say. She left the window open as she strode out of the room. The day was warm enough that it wouldn’t matter.
“Ah,” the knight said as she strode out the front door. “The Lady Victoria.” He knelt, extending a hand toward her. “I long for the—”
“This is not a poetry competition, Sir Pendel,” she said, cutting him off. “There’s no sense in wasting time. Take up your blade.” Dostoy had already moved to one side, taking his board with him, so she raised her blade in challenge, waiting on the knight.
“You wish to proceed with haste?” The knight nodded, raising his own blade. “Very well. You’ve been here some time already. I can see why you would be impatient, lady.” He was wearing light armor for mobility, and she could see that he was exaggerating his own movements, playing at being slower than he was.
Two can play at that game, she thought. And I wager I can do it better than you, Sir Pendel. “Then let us begin,” she said, and moved forward.
Pendel charged, as she had expected he would, bringing his blade around in a flash. Like hers, the edge was covered in padded leather, to keep a blow from being truly dangerous, but the impact could still hurt. She blocked his probing slash, countering and sending out a probing poke of her own, which he pretended to appear almost too slow to block.
Almost, but she could see the way he held himself. The block was too neat, his footwork too precise. He was trying to goad her into being too aggressive.
She could work with that. She took the offensive, striking out and—like lightning, the knight retaliated, springing forward with sudden speed to batter her blade aside and make a killing blow.
Save that their blades never connected. At least, not as he had intended. Her sword was already out of reach, darting back and then forward to mirror his own strike, slapping it aside right when his balance was at its weakest point. He all but fell forward, the padded tip of her sword striking him right in the chest.
He froze there for a moment, on one knee, eyes locked in surprise first on her blade, then moving up to her. Then he smiled. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way, but . . .
“My admiration for your skill, Lady Victoria,” he said, recovering his balance and rising. He gave her a sheepish grin. “I don’t suppose two out of three would be appropriate?”
She considered it for a moment before shaking her head. “No,” she said. “My apologies, Knight Pendel, but you have failed this test.” The knight’s face fell, as did that of his squire’s, watching from the clearing. “You fought with honor, but you did not pass the third challenge.”
“Very well.” Pendel sheathed his sword at his hip and bowed. “You are an impressive sort, Lady Victoria. May your quest bring you what you seek. I shall return to the road.”
She watched him go, her sword sheathed at her side. After a few minutes, Dostoy spoke up. “I thought he might be the one, if I am honest, Victoria. I’m surprised you let it end so quickly.”
“I thought so too, at first,” she said, finally turning from the road. “But his character did not impress me.”
“Really?” The ridge of scales between Dostoy’s horns furrowed. “What was it that he did, if I may ask?”
“He wouldn’t call you by name,” she said, moving for the front doors. “That was all.”
Day Eighteen
She awoke to hear loud shouts, hand already grasping for her sword. The ground beneath her was hard but warm, where was she—?
Her mind caught up with her. Dostoy’s manor. The challenges. Her sleeping atop the rug due to the softness of her bed. And she had been dreaming something, though she couldn’t quite remember what. Only that she had felt safe and warm. And there had been the scent of cinnamon.
Shouts. Calls of alarm. They were not normal. She threw her bedding back, ignoring the chill of the room as she grasped her sword and ran to the window in her undergarments.
The front door had been thrown wide open, light spilling across the yard. Dostoy was silhouetted by it, hastily trying to calm whomever he was speaking to. She cracked the window.
“—wolves. Fell wolves, led by that bear. They’re slaughtering the flocks. They’ve killed four men already. They’re going to go for the homes!” The speaker was obviously out of breath, as was the wheezing horse standing behind him, both heaving for air.
The bear. She remembered Dostoy’s comments about the mountain. And now wolves. And it was Dostoy’s duty to protect his people. Already she could see him spreading his wings, preparing to take to the air.
“Dostoy!” she called. “Wait!”
“Victoria?” he cried, looking up at her. “Wolves and that bear have attacked!”
“I heard!” she called, her eyes catching a glimmer up the road. “My guard and I will help! Just wait!”
“The watchman will guide you!” he shouted, pointing at the man who’d brought the message and then launching himself into the sky with a mighty beat of his wings. He vanished into the dark in seconds.
She dressed in moments, her leather cuirass falling over her form with practiced ease. By the time she reached the door, hair waving behind her but sword and bow in hand, her guard were already almost at the clearing, thundering up the road in response to the commotion. She took one look at the farmer’s horse and discounted it immediately. It was a draft animal, heavily winded. Not a warhorse like she was familiar with.
“Lady Victoria,” the captain of her guard called as they neared. “What—!”
“Fell creatures!” she cried, running for them. “Attacking Dostoy’s people! We ride to their aide!” Just as she had expected, her guard had come with a spare horse and ready for combat. She swung herself into the saddle with practiced ease.
“You!” she shouted at the farmer as she urged her horse toward h
im. She held out a hand as she came close, pulling the man up behind her. “Guide us to your home!”
Then she turned, guard following with a cry. The wind whipped at her hair, and she took advantage of the ride to bind it down, out of the way. Her guide seemed hesitant to wrap his arms around her until she took one arm in hers and pulled it around her gut, urging her mount on faster. The road they were on wound through the forest, at times so narrow she doubted two wagons could pass one another, and at other times so twisting she thought the very act of turning would pull her from the saddle.
Soon she could hear roars ahead, and her blood began to pound even harder. Dostoy!
They burst free from the trees into what looked to be small pastures and farmland, though it was hard to tell in the dark. Ahead of them, she saw a small cluster of homes bunched together behind a low wall, lit only by scattered torches and lamps. And past that, Dostoy, breathing fire that burned against the night. Something howled in pain as his flames licked across the ground.
She could make out several groups of locals bunched together as well, trying to hold the wall against dark, twisted forms that darted in and out of the night, snarling. As she watched, one of them locked its jaws around someone and pulled them away, out into the darkness. Screams rent the air.
“Guard!” she called, eyes flicking over the village. “Five squads! Assist those defenders, get them to their homes, then hold those streets!” She brought her sword up, the hands around her waist vanishing as the watchman jumped from her charger. “For honor, and for victory!”
The company’s oath rang through the air after her as her horse leapt into motion, thundering down the road toward the village center. She sheathed her sword, switching to her bow and firing as soon as a target presented itself. A fell wolf that had been leaping for one of the villagers crashed to a stop, an arrow jutting from its throat.
Her guard roared as they swept down on the wolves, their horses crushing skulls beneath their hooves and the soldiers hacking with blades. A sharp explosion filled the air as one fired a pistol, the musket ball tearing through a wolf in a spray of hot gore.
She left them to their work, galloping for Dostoy’s position. He was surrounded by wolves on all sides, lashing out with claws, teeth and flame. Her charge caught them by surprise, and she let out a roar as her blade bit through a wolf’s flesh, cleaving its head from its body. Hot ichor, foul and wrong leaked out of its corpse, hissing smoke as it struck the air. Fell creatures indeed. It was magic. Evil magic.
“Haaah!” she cried, skewering another wolf on her blade. Claws tore at her mount’s sides, cutting deep wounds into its flank. She dove free before it could go down, landing atop one of the wolves and driving her blade through its skull with a sharp crack. Blackness stained the blade.
Then she was beside Dostoy, guarding his side as more wolves rushed forth out of the darkness. She’d never seen so many.
All of them would die. Her blade was a shimmer in the light of Dostoy’s flames. He fought with a ferocity she’d never seen him exhibit, claws tearing wolves asunder and flames burning them to ash. With each breath, she could feel the flash of heat even on his other side, and she gave the world a grim smile.
Ichor and blood in equal parts splattered her armor and her face, but she fought on, cutting and stabbing until the tide of wolves slowed. It had felt like hours, but her own experience told her that it had been a minute or two at most, the world slowing during the haze of battle.
Then something roared and crashed into Dostoy from the side, throwing him to the ground. His wing came out reflexively and slammed into her back, throwing her through the air to land in the baked soil. A bear of titanic size stood over Dostoy, roaring as it brought its front paws down on his head.
Dostoy slumped, dazed, and the bear opened its jaws, bending down toward Dostoy’s neck.
“Light!” The word tore free of her throat as she leapt to Dostoy’s defense, her open hand coming up with a white blaze so bright it made her eyes water. The bear recoiled, blinking and howling in agony as she blinded it. She stabbed with her sword, driving the blade deep into the bear’s gut, black ichor oozing around the hilt.
Something slammed into her shoulder with the force of a war-maul, throwing her into the air even as she cried out in pain. She hit the ground and rolled, her shoulder throbbing, sword torn from her hand by the force of the impact. The bear had hit her. She pushed herself up with her good arm as the beast fell to all fours, rushing toward her. First rule: Get your feet under you! But the bear was too close.
Dostoy’s entire weight slammed into it from behind, shoving it into the ground with an impact that made the world shake. He roared, driving his claws deep into the bear’s back and rending flesh. It tore at the earth, trying to push itself up and fight back, but Dostoy’s size held it down.
Victoria pulled her bow from her back, threaded an arrow in one smooth, practiced motion, and fired. It struck the thrashing beast in the cheek, drawing out another roar. She fired again, this time striking it in the neck. Still it fought, pushing up and rocking Dostoy back and forth.
Her next arrow found its mark, catching the bear in the eye with a spray of black goo. For a moment the bear slowed, in shock, surprise, or pain, she didn’t know, but it was all Dostoy needed. Flame spewed forth from his maw, bathing the bear’s head in flames and scorching it until nothing was left but a charred, brittle skull, shrouded in ash.
Silence fell across the battlefield for a brief moment, almost as if the fallen beast had been the standard-bearer of its army, and then with howls the remaining wolves began to flee. A series of shots from her guard said that none of them would make it very far, and as she watched one of the fleeing wolves was cut down, its leg shattered.
“You . . .” Dostoy moved off of the body of the bear, speaking as she turned toward him. “You did magic.”
“I . . . I did,” she said, looking down at her hand in shock. “It was all I could think of. That dumb light spell.”
“It might have just saved my life, Victoria,” Dostoy said as the last of the wolves was cut down. The farmers began to cheer, doors opening and light spilling over the ground as they hurried out with lamps and aid. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, before stepping over and pulling her blade free of the bear’s corpse. “Now let’s burn these bodies before they cause any more trouble.”
Day Twenty-three
Things had settled again, since she and her guard had rushed to the defense of Dostoy’s people. A few of her soldiers had been wounded, but not seriously, and the mount she’d ridden would need care for some time, as would her right arm where the bear had struck her. It was swollen, but a healer had pronounced nothing broken, and she’d returned to Dostoy’s manor to clean up and return to her wait.
Still, she thought as she sat in her room, eyes fixed on the darkness outside the window. We did a good thing. Her arm would be stiff and sore for another week or so, limiting her swordplay, but the collection of prospective suitors had slowed as well, only one beating Dostoy in the last week, and mostly by luck, before being easily bested by her, so it didn’t seem as though it would be a problem.
At least if the hunt for a suitor wasn’t going well, nothing else seemed to be going wrong. The locals had thrown her and her guard a celebration in thanks for their help in thwarting the fell attack. Her skill with her magic was growing, as if her sudden success had opened the dam in her mind to—not a flood, or even a river, but at least a creek. And Dostoy himself had been most appreciative of their aid, paying her guard handsomely for the help. She’d turned down her own part of the payment. Taking it had felt . . . wrong, and not just because she’d saved his life. He didn’t owe her. And besides . . . He saved my life as well, she thought.
The hour was late, and she turned from the window, about to draw her shirt over her head when a knock at the door brought her to a stop.
“Victoria?” It was Dostoy. She snapped her shirt back down.
He had been quieter than normal during their game of Stakes that night, though his performance had improved. Perhaps he felt guilty for something? Maybe I should have taken that payment, she thought. Or maybe he feels guilty over nearly losing a charge. Or he was starting to suspect as she was: that her search for a suitor wasn’t working.
Or maybe he was just quiet because I beat him so soundly when he thought he was winning, she thought as she moved to the door. “Yes?” she called, opening it.
Dostoy stood in the hall, looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “Are you busy? If you’re not, I would like to show you something. Dress warm.”
“That’s . . . cryptic,” she said. She gestured at her clothes. “But very well.” His face was neutral now, but she could see from the faint twitches of his wings and the way his tail was sweeping back and forth that he was hiding something. She had quickly learned that he often made the same motions when was setting up an ambush in Stakes. She still hadn’t told him.
She threw on another layer of clothing, and then at Dostoy’s urging, added a coat. “This is . . . quite warm,” she said as she followed him through the manor.
“Don’t worry,” came his reply. “It will be quite cool in a moment.” He led her out of the front door, out into the night. It was almost black outside, the sky overcast with low, heavy clouds, and the only light coming from the windows of the manor.
“All right,” he said kneeling. “Now, I’m going to have to ask you to climb onto my back.”
“What? Onto your back?”
“It’s a great honor I wouldn’t give to just anyone,” he said, still kneeling. “But you . . . You have earned it, Victoria.”
“I . . . Flying?”
“No,” he said, and smiled. “That’s not it. But we’ll need to in order to . . . Well, to get there, so . . .” Slowly, hardly believing what was about to happen, she climbed onto his shoulders, just forward of his wings. His scales were smooth and warm to the touch.
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