Havesskadi

by Ava Kelly

  Ark smiles at the memory.

  They were both archers, just like he is. He’s been learning ever since he could hold a bow in his little hands, and now he’s the best in the garrison. If he makes it to the Baurin lands on the Sal’s northern shores, he might even come across one of the greatships, and perhaps his skill will be enough to convince the Thjudinn to take him in.

  *

  The sun is high by the time Ark makes his way back. Commotion stirs in front of the main hall, but Ark doesn’t get to find out what it’s about before a young recruit runs to him. Ark can’t remember his name.

  “Archer Flitz,” he calls, “Captain Geren sent for you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  The boy shrugs. “A messenger came from the camps out west.”

  Ark nods and heads to the hall, making his way through grim faces. The battle must’ve had losses. With a weary sigh, he steps into Geren’s office just as one of the lieutenants walks out. The door closes behind him, and Ark waits as Geren writes at his desk. A biting feeling grows in his chest, an apprehension Ark doesn’t know how to contain, not today of all days.

  “We lost eight archers,” Geren says without looking up.

  Ark was expecting it, and he stands at attention. “When do I leave?”

  A snort resounds, loud in the large room, before Geren rises from his his chair. “You?” he asks with such derision Ark almost tastes it. “You’re nothing but a maid.”

  “Sir,” Ark starts, but Geren cuts him off with a wave.

  “I’m tired of your games, Flitz. All you do around here is shovel horseshit and cook. You even dodged being sent on patrol. How’d you manage that, hm?”

  Ark staggers back, frowning. “Those are all tasks you assigned me, sir.” His heart quickens its pace in his chest as his mind reels around the absurdity of the conversation.

  “Because of your incompetence,” Geren spits.

  A moment of silence drags out between them. Geren crosses his arms as he leans on his desk, and Ark tries to come up with an answer. It sounds like a trap.

  “Nothing to say?” Geren taunts. “Right, then. Because of your poor service of late, your mothers’ payments will be held indefinitely. Perhaps even go to the families of our recently departed soldiers. They deserve it more than you.”

  Ark’s knuckles crack as he makes a fist, hand already rising in front of him, but he takes the few steps separating them. Geren lifts his chin, puffing out his chest, and the corner of his mouth twitches with an aborted smirk. Ark halts.

  It’s all clear, suddenly. Geren is challenging him. Spewing nonsense, especially on this dreaded day, threatening to take away the remittances he deserves. Geren has no cause, not legally, unless he can prove Ark’s insubordination. Ark sucks air through his teeth, forcing his arm back down at his side, and Geren’s countenance falls away to reveal spite.

  “I won’t hit you,” Ark grits. “I never broke any rules, and now that I know what you’re doing, I can assure you, you won’t make me. Sir.” He adds the last bit with as much politeness he can muster, but it’s worth it because Geren snarls at him like an animal.

  “Fine. You want to see battle? You’re going. Next group leaves in four days. Get ready.”

  Ark mutters his acknowledgement, ready to leave, but Geren rounds back toward him.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “When you die out there, I’ll still get to keep all your wages.”

  An ache forms in the back of Ark’s neck as he makes his way out, despite the numbness spreading through his body. He needs to get out of here, clear his head, consider his options. Near the gates, Dekin catches up to him.

  “Arkeva, what happened?”

  “He’s sending me out,” Ark says, and Dekin’s face falls.

  “I’ll try talking to him.”

  “No.” Ark shakes his head. “I want to go,” he growls between his teeth. At least this way he won’t have to see Geren’s despicable mug until his service is up. He hurries out the gate before Dekin has a chance to say anything else, heading for the forest.

  *

  A clearing opens a short way up the mountain, not too far from the village, but remote enough that Ark won’t be disturbed. There, the smell of pine trees surrounds him, overlaying the coolness under the canopy. The day is already cold, autumn preparing for winter, and the ground is still wet from morning dew.

  Ark nocks an arrow, draws, and with a long exhale, releases. He does so again, and again, and again, until the sun is high in the sky. The rhythm of his heart is quick in his chest, breaths short and rapid, his brows sweaty, but he finally calms.

  He washes his hands and face in the nearby creek before collapsing against a tree. He doesn’t want to return, not yet. At the garrison only misery awaits him.

  Not much later, the sound of voices and the clatter of hooves mingled with creaking wheels draws his attention. Up ahead, a narrow road cuts through the forest, heading to the other side of the mountain. It’s impassable in winter, and this late in autumn, surely the peaks are already closed with snow. Nor are there any other villages along the way, so there shouldn’t be any travelers on the path. Ark ponders letting them get stuck, but he can’t; he was raised better than that. With a sigh, he draws himself to his feet and walks through the trees until he reaches the road, just as a merchant’s small caravan rounds a corner.

  “Hey there.” Ark waves and he approaches. “Turn around.”

  The caravan slows to a halt as the front guide nears Ark. He looks cranky.

  “Turn around, the pass is closed.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the snow.” Ark huffs. Thickheaded plainsman, by the cadence of his words.

  “Move out of the way.”

  “Look, by the time you reach the pass I think you’re going for, it will be blocked already, and by the time you realize it, you won’t be able to get back. There’s going to be snow everywhere.”

  “Maybe at the mountaintops,” one of the merchant’s aides says, steering his horse closer. “We’re in a valley here.”

  “That might be, but we’re still high up, and the pass is higher. Don’t be stupid; there’s going to be too much snow,” Ark insists. “You haven’t traveled through here before, have you?”

  The aide makes a sour face and the guide’s grumpiness increases.

  “What’s the hold?” the merchant asks from his horse.

  “Just a crazy meddler,” the guide yells back.

  “Listen,” Ark starts, but sudden noise interrupts him.

  An owl flies in a flurry of wings, its sleep disturbed. Then another bird, and a different one. A flock follows high above, coming from the north, right before whining echoes through the trees along with the sound of paws frantically shuffling over the ground.

  Wolves? Running?

  Whatever is scaring wolves must be dangerous. It’s heading this way, or nearby already, so Ark readies his bow as he surveys the forest around them.

  A horse neighs, another stirs, then two more shuffle with agitation. The pack Ark heard rushes out of the trees, crosses the road, and is gone again before he can release his breath. In their wake, however, screams and noise arise as the merchant and his men scramble for shelter under carts and behind trees, leaving their horses unattended in the rush. A couple of the neglected animals escape down the road, the thundering of their hooves loud and distracting. It’s why Ark doesn’t notice it until it’s right above them. A massive shadow, with wings wide and larger than anything Ark’s ever seen, covered in scales.

  A dragon, Ark realizes, the air rushing out of his chest, and he stumbles back. He steps on a rock, wobbles as he tries to keep his eyes on the flying creature. The movement of its wings lets the sunlight shine through from farther above, stabbing Ark right in the eye, and he loses his balance.

  His arrow escapes his hold, shooting straight up.

  That’s surely bound to anger the dragon, because what else could a bow do against such a majestic being? Aiti used t
o be adamant that dragons were worthy of more respect than mortals gave them, and not just because of their fickle tempers. Mana used to laugh and tell Ark, should he ever cross a dragon, it was best to apologize immediately no matter who was at fault. Fickle, indeed.

  Behind him, the men of the caravan keep hidden, and Ark waves at them with a rushed “stay here” before he runs after the dragon. It flew south around the mountain slope, so Ark follows the ever-narrowing path. He hurries, unwilling to bring the wrath of magic onto the valley, even though most of its dwellers deserve it.

  Ark comes to a halt as he turns a sharp corner. Where did the dragon go? A wide clearing appears up ahead, to the side of the road and behind a thicker patch of pines, so maybe it landed there. Ark takes off that way, wondering what best honorific to start with. He doesn’t know anything else about dragons; Aiti never had time to teach him.

  The clearing opens under the midday sun, surrounded in a haze of golden light, stopping Ark’s run and stealing his breath. No sign of the dragon, but something is lying in the grass.

  Something that draws him.

  A perfect sphere, like an ember in a dying fire. Waiting. It hums, the charcoal surface streaked with a fiery glow, pulsing, calling.

  Ark kneels, fingers extended.

  His.

  The world fades, stretching and compressing until nothing remains but the wisps and strings and twines of things. He slides at the edges of time, magic a swirl around him.

  It’s his, to cherish.

  *

  Ark’s head is pounding. Even the groan escaping his lips hurts. What was he— Running, he was running after— With a gasp, Ark opens his eyes, only to close them immediately. The light makes the world spin.

  A dragon, that’s what he was running after. To apologize.

  With effort, Ark squints, letting the sunshine filter through his eyelashes until the spinning slows and he can properly look around. He’s in the courtyard of a castle. Strange, he doesn’t remember there being such a construction on the mountain. Perhaps a wizard came by. With a huff, Ark shakes his head slowly. Everybody knows how boisterous wizards are; if one built a large castle, it would’ve been where people could be properly impressed by their prowess.

  “Hello?” Ark calls.

  Nothing stirs, not even a bird. Silence feels deep here, weighing in a way it never has before. Ark rubs at his eyes and prods at his ears. Something glints in the light on one of the stone benches in the courtyard near a large wooden door, and Ark moves closer. Well, he crawls more than walks for a bit before his balance returns fully.

  He finds a ruby, small and almost round but clearly uncut, rough against his fingers. Who would leave such a stone unattended? Rubies have been scarce for centuries; they’re almost as rare as jade.

  Carefully, Ark sets it back down. It’s not his.

  He turns, knocks on the door, but his efforts aren’t answered. He does the same to the other door across the courtyard and is again rewarded with silence.

  Ark looks up. The sun is lowering, so some time must have already passed. He shouldn’t linger. The dragon is long gone, it seems, and hopefully not angered by Ark’s mishap. With one last glance around, Ark moves toward the gate, only to halt unexpectedly.

  The ruby now sits on the pavement, right at his feet. Ark turns to the bench. Empty. And the ruby is still at his feet. Ark spins around one more time. Yes, the stone is moving with him.

  “No,” he tells it as if it’s a living creature before he catches himself.

  He walks away, but immediately steps on the reappearing ruby. Next thing he knows, the ground is rapidly approaching his face, and Ark barely has time to brace and roll. He glares at the stone.

  “Stop that.”

  Naturally, the gem doesn’t answer, and Ark rubs his palms on his face. Well, if it wants to be taken, Ark won’t refuse. He snatches it before making his way outside, thankfully unencumbered.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he mutters as he pats the stone where it sits inside his pocket.

  Things are too strange to make much sense, and Ark’s head demands medicine, perhaps a nap, because the pounding pain returns with every step he takes.

  He’s almost halfway back to where he left the caravan when he sees his stray arrow lying on the side of the road. A reddish-brown dust covers it, and it sticks to Ark’s fingers. He wipes his hands on his thighs, but the irritating rust clings to the cloth, as well as his skin. Great, now he has to wash his breeches.

  Wait.

  Ark twists, pats at himself. Where is his—

  He forgot something.

  What was he doing in the forest—? Ah. A dragon. He was running after a dragon to apologize. An arrow lies in his hand, rusted with smelly dust.

  He’d sent it toward the dragon. An accident.

  Something, however, doesn’t make sense. How could an arrow fly on its own? He’s forgetting—

  What is he doing in the forest? He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. He should go home; it’s almost time to prepare supper. Yes, that’s right, home is calling.

  *

  Ark stands in the stone courtyard, eyebrows raised as he looks around.

  For a moment, he doesn’t understand how and why he is back here. As he blinks the confusion away, he remembers he was in the forest, running after a dragon, to apologize, but had to return for something he misplaced. His bow and quiver are resting against the wall near a wooden door, and Ark retrieves them before leaving.

  Apparently that’s what he forgot.

  His head feels light and heavy at the same time, like an invisible fog surrounds him, even though the afternoon is clear and bright. As he walks on the narrow road back toward the village, he notices the arrow in his hand.

  Why is he holding—? Ugh, it’s covered in rust. And it smells. Ark holds it away from himself with a grimace. Great, it already got on his tunic and sleeves. That’s not important, however. There are more pressing things at the moment, like… Like what? He needs to go home. Why is he in the forest?

  He picks up his pace, an increasing urgency swirling inside him. After a while, he stops, satisfied as he realizes where he is. Ark draws breath as slowly as he can before releasing it.

  The courtyard is silent around him.

  When he stands here, his head is fine, if a little achy. If he leaves, he forgets himself. No, that’s not true, he forgets.

  It can only mean that magic lives here.

  First the ruby, now this. If it were only the gem, he wouldn’t be drawn back here, to where he needs to be, with—

  “If I promise to return, will you let me go?” he asks the air.

  He feels foolish, but not for long as more rubies, some polished, some not, spring at his feet.

  “Do you want me to take more?”

  The stones roll toward Ark, gathering in a small pile. Fine, if that’s what it takes. He picks them up, one by one until they’re all gone, surprised to find there are just enough to fill his pockets. Nothing less, nothing more.

  Ark scratches at his head. It doesn’t feel like he’s stealing them. No, on the contrary, he’s convinced by now that they’re his.

  His.

  A flash of heat passes from the top of his head to the back of his neck. Something glows, red arcs spreading at the edge of his vision like lightning strikes through the dry and dusty bones of—

  Ark blinks.

  Now he’s seeing things too. He really needs a nap.

  *

  Ark is nearing the halfway point between the castle and the caravan he left behind, carefully waiting for his mind to fog and his memory to fail. It doesn’t happen this time, so he walks on.

  What he doesn’t understand, however, is why he keeps holding fast to the ruined arrow. All it does is spread foul dust everywhere.

  He hears the ruckus before he sees it. Voices overlap, some shouting, others just talking in between neighs and the clatter of hooves. Sounds like more people than Ark remembers being in the
caravan, but what does he know. Maybe he imagined the whole thing. Hm, no, the rubies are still in his pockets, and the arrow is still dirty.

  Someone must have alerted the garrison because there are now as many soldiers gathered around the carts as there are frightened travelers.

  “Hey,” Ark says with a wave as he approaches. “Don’t worry; the dragon’s gone.”

  Why is he waving with the arrow? Stupid thing. Ark glowers at it. When he looks back, he’s met with two dozen pairs of surprised eyes.

  The surly guide from before is the first to move. He yells, pointing a finger at Ark.

  “Dragonslayer!”

  Chapter Three

  Sorrow

  Orsie coughs, shivering. From where he’s curled on a platform, he can see both the peak shooting up through the clouds and, downward, the ravines streaking through the descending slope. From his vantage point, he tries to plan out a path. First straight, then to the left for at least an hour, then hopefully a way to move onto the other side of the narrowing edge of a rock formation. He doesn’t know how he’ll make it there; he can barely stand up as it is. His entire body burns hot from the inside, his skin freezing from the air outside. The sensations war within him, leaving him drained.

  His sleeve moves up as he shifts, revealing one of the scales on the back of his wrist, and that’s what gives him strength to push to his knees. He crawls to his backpack before he manages to pull himself to his feet. He wets his lips with snow, follows the edge of the platform to the right, slips and scrapes his hand as he climbs down, but places one foot in front of the other. Swallowing hurts his throat, breathing stings all the way down his chest.His nose is useless.

  Thick clouds are gathering above as Orsie reaches the end of the trail and finds, with relief, that there is indeed a way across the ravine. A flatter portion of the ground winds down around a large jagged rock, turning into an actual path. Littered with pebbles, it angles downward, first left, then right, then back again, in such a way that is obviously not nature-made. Orsie pauses midway to catch his breath, head spinning.

  He must’ve fallen asleep where he stood, leaning against stones, because next he knows, snow is falling on his face. For a moment he wants to stop. Sit down and never… Instead, he keeps his eyes firmly on the scale peeking out from under the edge of the sleeve. He walks, breaths wheezing, and almost falls into the pit gaping open to his right.