by Marc Secchia
Where were the other two skulking?
If he could surprise those rogues, attack from an unexpected angle …
Keir dashed up a snowdrift and leaped from there onto the lower eaves of Jamsor the Leather Artisan’s place. Scrambling up to the roof ridge in a flurry of dislodged azure snow, he found his footing and then sprinted along the row of close-set houses, leaping from roof to roof. Elven agility; thanks Mom. As he had told the girls, the distance was not far – less than a quarter-mile. He feared the worst. Surely grown men could outrun fleet-footed children, even Elven children? Relief speared into his belly as he identified the blacksmith’s chimney, pouring out heat that shimmered and steamed into the chill, clear afternoon sky. The main forge doors opened to the back, because Alaxar had always said he liked the view of fields while he worked. The neighbours grumbled that he was unsociable.
Alaxar was one of his parents’ oldest friends.
As he made the leap to the blacksmith’s roof, one of the men passed beneath his flying boots, dashing along the alleyway between Alaxar’s house and his workshop. Lightest footsteps, Keir! It would not do to give his position away.
He heard muffled shouts over the usual roaring of the forge. His heart clanged off the top of his boots. No! His sisters! Dashing to the edge, he looked down. The assassin hesitated in the doorway, possibly needing to give his eyes a second to adjust, and that was his downfall.
He sprang!
The man’s last-instant reaction almost saw Keir skewered through a part of him that he would very much prefer to retain intact, but the upraised blade snagged in the back of his jacket as he swung his legs, twisting them about the man’s neck. As the momentum carried him downward, that grip tightened like an unnatural tree root. A bone-cracking sound made him shudder. He landed awkwardly in the snow, tucking in his shoulder to prevent injury. Not pausing to consider his surprise that the manoeuvre had actually worked, Keir gathered his feet beneath him and charged into the forge building. A wave of heat, smoke and the tang of acrid smelted metals made his eyes water.
Two more! One rogue struggled in Alaxar’s mighty grip, having lost his weapon somehow. Despite the low, flickering lighting mostly emanating from the arched opening of the forge, Keir saw his face turning purple as the V formed by the blacksmith’s massive biceps and his steely forearm steadily crushed the windpipe. His compatriot waved a short sword threateningly at Alaxar’s daughter and apprentice, Tarmari, who had placed herself between the children and danger, her weapon of choice, glowing forge tongs.
Where was Auroral –
Flash!
Brilliant lightning lit up the tall room, but the effect was surprisingly minor. The armed rogue yelped, fumbling his blade, before kicking out low and hard, catching the charging hatchling flush in the belly with a heavy boot. She made a terrible, winded wheeze and staggered sideways against a table leg.
At the same time as Keir rushed forward, Tarmari reached out with the tongs, missing the man’s neck but catching his left wrist instead.
He raised his sword. “Say yer Darkfall prayers, lassie …”
Continuing her motion, she pulled his arm smoothly into the blazing orange forge mouth.
The man vented a scream that Keir knew he would never forget, not as long as he lived. Alaxar’s hammer rose and fell, putting the man out of his pain – perhaps forever. The blacksmith ran the other would-be assassin’s head firmly into the side of a handy anvil, before releasing the flaccid body with a disgusted grunt.
“Keir, ye came!” Arami shouted.
“Keir, Keir, I did stick him some good!” Narini cried, waving his ska’etaz around haphazardly. He quickly rescued it before more damage was done. Blood on the blade. She had definitely done as he had ordered. Brave lass!
Keee-irr. Krrrr-krrrr Keee-irr!
“I’m fine, sweet-fires. All good.” The hatchling checked over each person in turn – the twins, Tarmari, the blacksmith, even the unconscious man – although he received a hostile growl. “Everyone alright? Alaxar, how can I thank ye enough?”
“ ’Twas now’t, son,” he said gruffly.
“Yer hurt, Dad!” Tarmari said.
He glanced at his forearm. “This scratch? Had worse from the sparks of my forge. How’s yer … Dragon? Girl Dragon? Must be a she when she comes clad in these glorious scales, like the most splendid armour ye ever did see.” Dropping to one knee, the heavyset blacksmith ran his hand beneath her belly. “Maybe a cracked rib? Cannae rightly tell, as I ken Damask Yaks better than yer kind, brave little one. Aren’t ye just every inch as majestic as yer ancestors were ever said to be?”
Evidently, this comment, or at least Alaxar’s tone, was most pleasing to the hatchling, because she purred up a diminutive storm of pleasure as he caressed her neck and scratched her ears.
He said, “She would now’t let them near yer sisters. Quick as a spark, she was. But they got us separated, and then Narini stabbed that one in the leg, and Arami tripped the other, and then ye came … too close, that was. Cannae say how yer Dad knew. Battle bones?”
“Aye, they were bad.”
“Come on, we’ll walk ye home. Dinnae ken if there are more of these brutes about.”
Narini shrank into his shadow. “Keir …”
He picked her up in one arm, and Auroral Storm Diamond in the other. “Yer both the bravest lasses I ken.”
“And me?” Arami demanded.
“Och aye, mistook ye for the crown jewels, I surely did.” He added, “Alaxar, once we’re safely home, could ye make sure to warn the other Elven families up at the castle? I think King Daryan will want to ken this news.”
“I surely will, son,” he said. “Tarmari, can ye tie these – fellows – up? I think it’s the King’s finest accommodations for such as they.” He spat on the ground. “Deep and dark.”
“Aye,” said Arami. “Toss them in the dungeons and throw the key in after!”
Narini giggled, “But then they’ll just escape.”
“Then, burn the key!”
“Metal dinnae burn, Arami,” the dark-haired sister laughed. “What happened, did ye become me today?”
All at once, the twins burst into peals of laughter.
How could children do that? Nausea churned in his gut at the knowledge of what could have gone wrong, but they were already rebounding, somehow, from the deep terror of this experience. Perhaps this was a blessing peculiar to childhood.
* * * *
Nothing under Mauve could scare the wits out of a seasoned soldier like a five anna-old’s rendition of a running battle. Keir had never seen his father turn quite the colour of an old dishrag. Impressive. Apparently, Keir had blockaded the school door with ten desks, fought like a Dwarven dervish and pounced from the sky like a snow leopard, while Narini had carved up a man ‘like that yummy Christmas veal, it was!’ Complete with a demonstration plus sound effects. The hatchling had also shredded the enemy’s trousers. Nobody had the heart to tell the overexcited twins off for stretching the truth a touch.
What did happen was a glance between his parents that Keir had dubbed The Parental Look.
They unobtrusively dispatched the twins to go feed the kittens. Shanryssill checked Auroral Storm Diamond as best she could, as she was clearly moving with great discomfort. Kalar moved around the house, packing last-minute effects and favourite toys into bags. His hands shook, but he worked with military precision, as if this were a campaign he had long since planned down to the tiniest detail. Or, was it his way of dealing with the visceral fear of what had transpired this afternoon?
Under guise of doing odd jobs, Keir both tidied up and kept watch outside.
As the Winterfall evening fell early and crisp, he slipped inside for a few minutes to find his hatchling lying so close to the hearth, her scales had to be smoking. “And what are ye doing here, my bonny beauty?” he cooed, bending to stroke her fondly. “Ouch, are we being a Dragon? Practising our volcano-sitting skills?”
Keee-irr, she
gurgled, stretching gingerly. She licked his hand.
“We tried a few herbs for the pain,” Rhyl said drily. “Recipes the General found in the archives. Then we ran Her Scaly Highness a hot bath, but that was now’t to her royal satisfaction, och nae indeed. We had to be installed here right beside a blazing fire, to our required standards of luxury.”
“I see. Long day?”
Rhyl nodded, her green eyes shadowed. “And a long night ahead, Santazathiar’s truth.”
“Can I help?”
“How? Keir, I’ve been so happy here.”
He debated giving his cousin a hug, but he had no wish to be labelled a creep again. In the end, he said, “It’s a terrible loss for ye, and I’m sorry. I think Prince Zyran –”
“Zyran?” she exploded. “Dinnae ye see, Keir – nae, nae, ye dinnae see now’t! Yer all like – oh, I dinnae ken, like life’s full of roses and wide vistas and fragrant mountain meadows! Cannae ye understand that I’ve lost everything I ever hoped for, and I’ve now’t to go home to, either? My Mom’s – well, she’s – and my Dad! Ugh.”
“Ye dinnae want to come with me to the Giant –”
“Keir, ye stupid – read my lips. Princes and simple girls like me, we dinnae get to ride into sunsets together. That’s now’t how the tale ends. Ever.”
Mutinously, he muttered, “Well then, maybe we need to rewrite the stupid ending for ye both! What do those pitiful poets ken about real life anyways? Now’t, nought and nothing! Look. Look over here. Insanely impossible exhibit number one, warming herself on top of the ruddy coals!”
He had lapsed into High Elven again, as often happened when he grew agitated. They both stared at the dragonet, who had made herself quite comfortable perched on top of a glowing orange-black log she must have raked out of the fireplace. No pain? No problem, apparently – no burn marks had developed on her scales either, so far.
Rhyl gaped at him as if he had gone completely barmy.
Maybe he had.
Twitching away from the unbearable angst in her gaze, he muttered irritably, Everyone agrees that Dragons are dead and gone, right? Eighty-four anna dead. And then they’ve all been proven dead wrong because here’s a miracle of diamonds and scales, sitting on live coals! And you know what? That makes me laugh!
Except, he sounded angry. Sad, angry and frustrated.
After a very long time, her arms stole around him from behind. Hey cousin, alright there? You keep rewriting those tales and making new endings, Keirthynal-my-inspiration. You know what else?
Uh …
You aren’t half bad as a cousin, but as a friend – you’re the Dragon’s prize. So just you drill that into whatever kind of rock you usually wear atop those shoulders. Catch the drift of my snows?
He supposed his answering smile was goofy at best. Somehow, his expression did not matter. Maybe it even helped.
Her tiny fingers received a squeeze. He whispered, Thanks. I needed that.
The evening wore on. Rhyl, and then Kalar and Shanryssill each kept several hours’ watch. Keir tried to sleep, but it was pointless. Far too keyed up. He took over at midnight. Outside, the weather was gloomy and windy, a moonless, overcast night which made it difficult to see one’s hand in front of one’s face. Perfect for nefarious dealings. If those four assassins had friends, then they would be extremely difficult to spot. On the other hand, his family’s movements would be equally challenging to track until they reached the open snowfields. That would be the most dangerous time.
The wily Commander had a plan. Naturally.
It involved a dummy called Keir.
That was a point he was still rather sore about. Literally, his father’s key idea was to use a white-haired dummy dressed like him, which would ride up toward where the first pass narrowed, north of Royal Amarinthe, upon a pony. Meantime, the family would wait in concealment and the real Keir would sneak around with bow in hand, waiting to see if anyone took the bait. The fact that the whole family nearly fell apart laughing when Kalar announced the exact nature of the plan, would be the source of said soreness. Even the hatchling had put on her amused expression, which was becoming more expressive and more comically lopsided by the day. Rhyl called him ‘irresistible bait.’ His mother ruffled his spiky hair fondly.
He had to quell a decidedly Dragonish desire to bite that hand.
Keir pitied the pony that was meant to be carrying fake him. It could easily get caught in the crossfire. Nobody wanted an arrow in the haunches, did they?
All too soon, he spied stealthy movement at the back door. Kalar loaded two very, very sleepy twins onto the first thick-furred zaribar mountain pony, which had a pair of pannier-style goods baskets slung across its back. The pony would carry one twin either side, in a cosy nook protected by layers of foodstuffs, supplies and bedding. In went the kittens too, one to either side. His father’s eyes crinkled into a smile as he tucked his daughters in deep. He kissed each forehead tenderly.
His own heart sort of crinkled, too.
A very masculine, muscular sort of crinkling, of course.
The second pony would carry more supplies, and Auroral Storm Diamond.
He really needed to do something about that name. It could not just be Aurora, because although it was a girl’s name, it did not, in the Human tongue at least, convey the same connotations of lucence and brilliance. Auroral – reluctantly dredging up his grammar learned at school – was an adjective. It needed to describe something. Rhyl must be right. Her name was probably a single word or concept in the draconic tongue, which did not translate easily into Human or Elven.
Grr. Self-imposed grammar lessons? Thought he had left school last anna!
Ready. After checking the tension of his Elven longbow for the twentieth time, Keir slipped down into the darkness beside their barn, scanning the area with his Elven sight. All quiet. Too quiet?
Kalar pressed the back door closed. He would walk or ride, as the motion of skiing had proven too painful for his knees and thighs when he had attempted to learn the skill. Shanryssill, Rhyl and Keir had skis. One of their jobs upon reaching the Northern Pentate would be to try to source a great many more skis for King Daryan, and to set up an agreement with the Northern Tundra Elves to bring or provide the right technology for making them, plus convince the Elves to send a few teachers for the clumsy Humans. Spend that Dragon gold, right? No worries about weird curses that might have made all the Dragons vanish overnight …
No worries whatsoever.
Skirting the houses, the family headed up to the road and the gloomy pine treeline right beside it. Father steadily swept away their tracks with a small tree branch. Shortly, they vanished into the deeper shadows beneath the dark boughs.
Fleeing Amarinthe.
Keir scouted several hundred yards ahead, able to move much more quickly and cover more ground than the ponies. It had not snowed for three days now. He took note of plenty of animal tracks and a few tracks of people who had walked up to the woods in search of deadfall for firewood. How could one even hear an enemy in this blustering wind? If he were setting an ambush, where would he do it? Up where the dark ridge loomed above the road? There, half a mile ahead, where the deep green, spiky heads of the coniferous forest grew so closely together, it looked as if a huge shaggy rug had been thrown over the landscape? Farther out of town? The Commander’s pick was the far side of this four-mile stretch of forest. The terrain out there was all open snow and rock, offering not a shred of cover until one crested the pass and headed down the far slope.
Silently, he ghosted across the packed snowfields, hunting.
If he was a ruthless monster who liked using young girls for target practice, where would he hide himself? Keir slipped between the tall, narrow conifers. Hmm. He might set a lookout further back here, to alert those waiting ahead. Now, could he spy any tree which looked oddly fatter than the others? Might a man have climbed up high? Another mile passed. He began to relax a little. Maybe those four were it. Four paid swords, or se
llswords, some called them. Where had they come from? Who had spent the coin of their hire – one of the Councillors? The Queen herself?
When he found the next man, he almost stumbled over him. The enemy lay in a roadside ditch, covered in a light azure cloak the exact colouration of the snows. The only reason Keir spotted him was because he noticed the difference in texture. He rose much faster than anticipated. A reflexive arrow shot only grazed the enemy’s thigh, and then the man charged him in eerie silence with a short, curved blade glinting in his right hand. No time to blink. Three paces! Hurling the longbow into his face, Keir executed a ska’etaz fast draw and in one fluid movement, whispered aside from the path of that blade before whirling and stabbing the man from behind. One blade scraped off hidden body armour, but the other stabbed deep into his hard-muscled left shoulder.
He hesitated. Was that a killing blow?
Whirling, the adversary flicked a throwing knife at him, fast underarm, but it only nicked his upper left arm as Elven reactions saved his blushes and his life. Fool! Finish the fight, father had instructed in no uncertain terms, and here he was dilly-dallying like a village idiot, wondering if his blow had been clean or not. Tall, light of skin and hooked of nose, the man circled him slowly in the snow, clearly feeling the pain of that deep wound, but somehow – his nostrils wrinkled. What a weird smell. Had the man drugged himself – leap! The fellow was Human, but his speed was inhuman. Another small cut materialised as if by magic on Keir’s left hip.
“What d’ye want?” he snarled.
“Coin for yer pretty nose, Elf boy,” snapped the other in a thick accent, closing with him again.
Clashing in a brutal flurry of blows, all was reaction and instinct. He blocked twice with his twin blades before a third intended block intersected the man’s sword arm, shearing it off near the elbow. Still he came on, roaring like a wounded beast, somehow driven beyond mortal flesh or fear, and he had to slash the throat twice in quick succession before the man finally face-planted in the snow in a spreading, congealing pool of blood.
