One Cannot Deny a Blood Oath with a Dragon

by T P Sheehan

  Jael kept her focus. In desperation, she whispered a powerful spell in an Airisth dialect to override the enchantment. It was a turbulent spell she swore never to divulge and she knew could have side effects, but she was desperate, and it worked.

  The bracelet fell free from the Astermeer’s leg and into the palm of her hand. Jael fastened it to her own wrist. She whispered another potent enchantment of the same tongue to secure the bracelet once again—the bracelet that would reveal the identity of the one who inherited the power of the Fire Realm, the one who would shape the history of Allumbreve and the war with the Quag. “The Electus.”

  With the encroaching sound almost upon her, Jael spun about to face a most horrific sight—a sight she knew meant she had made a dreadful mistake. She stood fast and ignited her lance. A large pack of worgriels stared at her with their ghostly, pearlescent eyes and then, screeching their dreadful cry, lunged at her.

  SOUTHERN PLAINS

  The southern border of Froughton Forest came at last and with it, Realms End.

  “Finally.”

  Magnus slowed to a comfortable walk. He was twenty leagues from the Cliffs of Overpell and the border of his homelands. It was the dawn of a new day and Magnus could see across the southern plains to the Corville Mountains. At their centre was the break known as the Corville Pass. Through here, Magnus hoped to pass into the southern wastelands.

  “There has to be another way through.” Magnus scratched his head. He looked at his nails and examined the dirt lodged under them, prising it out with opposing thumbnails. He kept walking while he was thinking, listening to the chirping wrens and robins making their dawn call from the outer reaches of the forest. A different sound began to emerge from around the hill to his right where a road from the Uydferlands led to the junction where he stood. At first he heard voices but as it got closer to the foot of the hill he could hear the striking of horses hooves and cracking of whips.

  Magnus ran and dropped behind a small group of boulders at the base of the hill a short way back from the road. He watched as a slow moving convoy of Quagmen on horseback moved into view. Magnus peered through a thin slit between the rocks. Behind the Quagmen came a procession of six prison carriages. They were filled with prisoners. Their clothes were torn, and many of their backs were bare and bloodied from whips. Most had their wrists and ankles bound together, with the exception of five pairs of prisoners behind the last carriage who were chained to one another and forced to walk. At the rear of the procession were more Quagmen on horseback and two wyverns that snarled at the heels of the walking prisoners.

  Magnus looked at each one of the people in the carts. On the one hand he hoped not to see anyone he knew, but on the other, he was curious to see if he would. And then, he did. At the rear of the final carriage, almost hidden among the many expressionless faces, was Sarah. Her curling locks of blonde hair covered half her face, but it was unmistakably her. She wore the same purple dress she had worn when last Magnus saw her, although it was now as torn and tattered as her companions’ clothes. The entourage trundled past heading south for the Corville Pass.

  “Think Magnus, think…” he muttered. There had to be a way to help Sarah. Perhaps hide beneath one of the carriages, he thought. But the more he thought, the more futile the idea seemed.

  Unless—Magnus had an absurd idea—perhaps I could turn myself in? He knew it would have nothing but negative consequences. But the alternative was challenging the dozen or so Quag guards and the wyverns that had now grown to four in number. That could only result in his death. But giving himself up? If they took him prisoner, rather than killing him, he would have passage into Ba’rrat and even, perhaps, into the prison where his parents were being held. It was a truly absurd option—that much he knew. But, he realised, I have no other choice.

  Magnus removed his sword and scabbard. Aside from his clothing, the sword was the only thing he possessed and the only thing of value to him. He slid it carefully into an opening between two large rocks, knowing no one would find it without deliberately searching for it. Then he walked out into the open field, behind the four wyverns. His heart raced. He waited for one of them to turn and spot him. However, something was not right. Magnus’s vision became shaky and his body hot. He began to sweat and nausea came over him worse than it had the previous night.

  “No… not now,” Magnus mumbled. He turned, knowing he had to get back to the rocks and hide himself again while he still could. But it was too late. Two of the wyverns at the rear of the train had spotted him and were immediately upon him, hissing and spitting. Magnus fell to his knees shaking and just before he passed out, the wyverns’ awful screeches pierced through him.

  “Magnus!” a voice whispered sternly. The sickness for him was bad this time. He still shook with fever and struggled to see straight. “My boy, you’re burning up.” The whispering continued. It was Sarah.

  “Sarah…” he replied weakly.

  “What on earth were you thinking? I hardly recognised you at first. You’ve changed… put on weight if anything… what in all of Allumbreve?” And then her voice fell silent. Magnus felt her grab his right wrist, rubbing his scar with her thumb. “Oh my…” she exclaimed aloud.

  “Shut it!” one of the guards shouted. Magnus tried to sit up but Sarah held him in her lap.

  “Stay where you are,” Sarah whispered again. “You’ll avoid the whip if they think you’re too weak to stand.”

  “I said, shut it woman, or you’ll take to walking.”

  “Sorry,” Sarah replied politely.

  Magnus grimaced as waves of heat and nausea worked in unison, twisting and turning through his body more so than before. It was as though this sickness of Anunya was getting worse. No wonder the dragon made such a point of it. He held tight to Sarah, welcoming the comfort of her touch. Everything about her seemed wonderful—her familiar smell, her reassuring voice… It all seemed to meld into his feverish dreams and he let himself imagine they were safe and sound back home at the western margins. She had always been as a second mother to him and so he allowed himself to rest in her company for perhaps the last time.

  The carriage rolled on all through the day and into the night that followed. Magnus’s sickness never abated and Sarah never let him out of her arms. On the occasion that he awoke, often only for minutes at a time, she would whisper in his ear. Her words were always of reassurance and never told of the nightmare they were facing. At one stage during the night he woke and saw they were passing through a deep, narrow ravine with cliff walls hundreds of feet tall.

  “The Corville Pass,” Sarah had explained.

  Finally, some time during the second day of travel, Magnus’s fever broke and he was able to see clearly again. He was wet through from perspiration, yet craved no drink. He had not eaten since he shared fish with Thioci many days past, yet craved no food. Magnus looked at the people in his company who were faring far worse than him. All of them were suffering from exhaustion, hunger and thirst. Most of them were Uydfermen and women, with their characteristic olive complexion, dark hair and brown eyes. There were a few others that Magnus could not place—most likely people who lived on the outskirts of the Fire Realm, like he and his family.

  Looking about, Magnus saw they had travelled far beyond the Corville Mountains and were deep into the southern wastelands. The four wyverns had taken position at the front of the prison train, forming a buffer against the sand storms that blew mercilessly. Visibility was poor and Magnus shielded his eyes and mouth with his arms from the assaulting sand. Still they pushed on southward.

  Magnus was yet to be bound like the other prisoners. He gathered the Quagmen thought he was too sick to pose a threat. Shifting closer to Sarah, he removed his leather jacket and used it to shield both their heads from the wind. Sarah looked exhausted. Her cheeks had lost their plumpness and her eyes their cheeky sparkle. She smiled a deliberate smile but he could see there was no joy in it. He was not sure how to explain what Lucas had gone through, ye
t knew she would be dying to know.

  “Sarah, when last I saw Lucas he was fine. I left him with the Uydfer clan, near the northern border.” He knew his words were half-truths, for he was yet to learn that Lucas had recovered from the wyvern’s poison.

  “I am glad to hear that,” Sarah replied, staring at Magnus. He knew she was sizing him up, deciding if what he said was true. Magnus questioned his decision not to return to the Uydferlands to find his friend.

  “Look at yourself, Magnus,” Sarah spoke quietly beneath the jacket. “Despite the illness, you’re the picture of health. I have known you a long time and you are not the same. Something stirs inside you and going by the scar on your wrist I believe I know what it is. But I’ll not speak of it here.”

  Her words trailed off as a Quag guard whipped her through the bars of the prison carriage, catching her across her upper back. She arched back with the pain before slumping forward into Magnus’s arms. Magnus scowled at the guard who pointed his whip at him in return.

  “Speak again boy and you’ll be flogged far worse.” Magnus gritted his teeth and looked away.

  Night fell again, the winds died down and the carriages drew to a halt. The guards dismounted their horses and helped themselves to food and drink. The wyverns skulked about, sniffing the ground in search of prey. Magnus looked at the people in the other carriages who were all starving and thirsty. Many of them were children. In the carriage ahead was a young boy of about eight who began to whimper. The guard with the whip shouted at him to be quiet. The boy stopped, fear written across his face, and his mother comforted him all she could. Magnus saw red with anger and envisioned himself breaking down the carriage bars and attacking the guards with his bare hands. The guard then turned and came toward his carriage, immediately spotting Magnus.

  “I see you have recovered from your illness,” he scorned. “You can come join your kinsmen and walk.” Another guard opened a door at the leading end of the carriage, grabbed Magnus by the hair and dragged him out. Magnus did not object, but Sarah did. She shouted obscenities at the guard only to be silenced by the whip once again.

  “Leave her be! If you have a grievance, have it with me,” Magnus shouted.

  Several of the guards whooped in excitement.

  “Hahaha, yes!” the guard with the whip revelled as Magnus was deposited at his feet, his shirt torn from his back. The guard raised his whip to strike when a Quagman astride a wyvern approached.

  “What goes on here?” the wyvern rider asked.

  “This one is in need of a lesson.”

  “Then give him a proper one and learn one for yourself,” demanded the wyvern rider. “Smaggard—give the boy one of your swords.”

  The guard who pulled Magnus from the carriage grunted, drew a black sword and handed it to Magnus. “Get up,” Smaggard shouted, forcing Magnus to take his sword. Magnus looked to the guard with the whip, who looked as confused as he was.

  “If you’re gonna teach the boy a lesson, teach every other slave scum the same,” the rider shouted so that everyone would hear him. “If you answer back to a Quagman, you face death, not just a whipping.”

  The surrounding guards laughed with approval.

  “Very well then,” the first guard replied, throwing down his whip and drawing his two black blades.

  Magnus eyed the Quagman who stepped toward him. The now familiar feeling of heat coursed through his body. His vision sharpened and the blade felt light within his grip. He recalled his fight with Crugion—how he had landed a blow across his face. He was much stronger now—Thioci had seen to that.

  The guard came to him swinging, but with predictability and not nearly the skill he himself had learned under Ganister all these years. Magnus sidestepped the attacker’s falling blade, making the Quagman overextend himself. His comrades laughed loudly, embarrassing the Quagman.

  Turning back to Magnus, he came again and swung his blade crosswise. Magnus caught the blow with his sword firmly extended and with lightning reflexes he twisted his blade free and swung it sideways directly at the Quagman’s neck. Magnus leapt back, unsure of the effect of his blow. The Quagman fell to his knees, dropping his swords to his sides and stared in shock at Magnus. He then fell forward to the ground, choking as his neck bled out.

  There was absolute silence. Quagmen, slaves and wyverns alike were staring at the dead Quagman. But the silence lasted for just a moment. Every Quagman drew his sword and came at Magnus.

  “Enough!” yelled the wyvern rider. “This one stays alive.” His fellow Quagmen stopped and looked at him, as did Magnus—keen for an explanation. “With skills like that, I know someone who’ll pay handsomely for him in Ba’rrat.”

  “What happened to ‘facing death for answering back’? ” Smaggard spat, holding his one remaining sword. Magnus gripped hard to Smaggard’s other sword, waiting the final decision. He was seething with anger. Smaggard was closest to him, so he decided he would go for him first if the fight continued.

  “He’s worth more than half of these slaves together. Killing him profits no one.” The wyvern rider eyed Magnus. “Drop the sword and you’ll live this day.” Grumbling in protest, the Quagmen backed down. Magnus dropped the sword.

  Five guards brought Magnus to the ground and bound his hands. He was taken to the back of the last carriage and chained in line with the other prisoners. Magnus was grinding his teeth, tensing his muscles and burning with rage. It has to be the dragon blood… Magnus could think of no other reason for his aggression. He imagined a dragon would feel the same under these circumstances. He thought of Thioci, brimming with anger at the Quagmen even when death was certain.

  Once he calmed himself, Magnus could think a little clearer about what had just passed. He could not believe he bested the Quag Warrior. Even though he was chained up with little chance of escape, hope had returned. If I can best one I can best them all!

  The carriages started moving again and he looked to the other walking prisoners. He wondered where and when they were captured. Have Xavier’s men lost to the Quag in the South? Has Csilla held fast to the lands in the North? He hoped they were well and Lucas was safe with them.

  Magnus saw Sarah watching over him like a hawk. He smiled back, wanting her to know he was unharmed. The carriage moved at an infuriatingly slow pace. Magnus never lost his footing nor protested and so avoided the guard’s whip. However, his companions did not fare so well, with many receiving a beating past the point of recovery, at which point they were thrown into a carriage and another took their place.

  There was one among the prisoners walking beside Magnus who seemed able to keep pace. He was about Magnus’s age, tall and wiry with curly black hair. He looked to Magnus frequently.

  “Do I know you?” Magnus whispered, after one of many such looks, leaning toward the other prisoner as discretely as possible.

  “Aye,” the man responded with a whisper but dared say no more. Later, the guards behind them were distracted in conversation among themselves and so the man spoke further. “I am Walt. I am a healer and understudy to Kriser. I helped your friend purge the wyvern poison.” He spoke fast and nervously. Magnus thought back, remembering Kriser’s two helpers in the healing tent.

  “You healed Lucas’s broken arm.” Magnus remembered.

  “Aye.” Walt smiled.

  “Is he well?”

  “He is recovered if that’s what you mean, but well? That’s a matter of perspective.” Magnus stared at Walt, waiting for him to elaborate. “Did your friend have…” he took a breath, considering his words carefully. “What I mean is, did your friend have an aggressive personality as you knew him?”

  “Aggressive?” Magnus shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “Once Lucas was recovered, he fought alongside Csilla and her men. He fought well and bravely. But as days passed, something changed. His temper began to get the better of him and he began bickering and fighting with our people. The men could do nothing to appease him and eventually called for him
to be banished. Csilla intervened, asking Kriser to examine him in case the wyvern had poisoned his mind. But before he got the chance, Lucas disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Magnus asked.

  “Aye. About four days ago,” Walt concluded.

  Magnus opened his mouth to speak but the Quagman’s whip came down upon both their backs—first Magnus and then Walt. They both fell under the sting of its bite but were fortunate enough to only receive one lick each. The Quagmen rode closely behind them from here on making further conversation impossible.

  Lucas is alive, but something is wrong… Magnus wondered where he would have gone. Perhaps he tried to follow me to Guame, or travelled back home to find Sarah.

  Magnus looked to Sarah, who had fallen asleep in the back of the carriage. He felt all the more sorry for her. He considered Walt and wondered what circumstances led to him being captured. Magnus had so many questions for him and hoped he would have the opportunity to ask them.

  BA’RRAT

  It was mid-morning the following day when the sandy wastelands gave way to hard granite. The granite itself soon ended at a cliff top with a spectacular view across the southern coast.

  “The Black Cliffs of Ba’rrat,” one of the prisoners walking beside Magnus murmured in a raspy voice.

  “Out of the carts, all of you,” a guard ordered.

  The steel doors to all six of the carriages opened and the prisoners spilled out under the constant shoving and threat of the guards. Sarah was slow to move but shuffled herself out when prompted. Magnus and the other walking wounded were freed of their shackles and shoved into ordered lines with the other prisoners. They were herding all prisoners toward the cliff edge. Some of them began to cry, fearing the worst. A Quagman atop a horse rode between the prisoners and the cliff’s edge.