The Horsk Dragon

by A. R. Wilson

  She walked toward Arnya’s house then stopped. The dallest wouldn’t be expecting her for at least an hour or more.

  Arnya’s voice came softly from behind. “You’re up early.”

  Tascana turned around. “Back home, I was always an early riser. Like my father.”

  “A noble quality. Would you like to join me for breakfast? Nothing special, just bread and jam.”

  “Sweet and simple.”

  Arnya grinned. “Lead the way.”

  They walked to Arnya’s home and enjoyed a quick meal. As soon as they finished, Arnya guided Tascana back to their circle of tree stumps.

  “Is this your little home away from home?” Tascana sat in her usual spot.

  “In a way. The others know this is where I come to meditate. For the most part, no one disturbs me when I’m here.”

  “Are we going to meditate again today?”

  “I think it is best.”

  “You told me you intended to teach me a safe magic. The magic that will protect me from The Master. When do we start those lessons?”

  That previous glimmer of a spark flashed behind Arnya’s eyes. It dissipated the moment it appeared. As had happened the day before, tears gathered in the corner of her eyes.

  “What? Is it another memory of The Master?”

  Tension rippled along Arnya’s lips as though she wanted to speak but feared opening her mouth. She rubbed her leathery hands over her eyes then ruffled the short fur on her cheeks.

  “Arnya...?”

  “It is not time to begin such things.”

  Tascana stared at the dallest for a while, wondering what she might be holding back.

  “What is his name?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Master, what is his name?”

  “I was never allowed to know.”

  “Does Jerricoh?”

  She pulled up her shoulders. “Not to my knowledge. The Master thrives on power and control, which is why he changed Jerricoh’s name when he began to serve in the castle. Never knowing The Master’s name, only his title, gives him power over the ones he wishes to subject. No one can speak to him as an equal. Every attempt to communicate with him demands the use of the title he gave himself.”

  “Is he really some kind of master?”

  Arnya’s lips parted, then sucked back in hesitation. “H-he believes himself to be and insists all within the castle do as well.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not in the castle, so what I believe is irrelevant.”

  “If you’re going to be my teacher then what you believe is very relevant.”

  The dallest gave a half-grin. “More than I believe the sun will rise in the morning, I believe you are safe as long as you stay in this valley. That should matter to you more than anything else I believe.”

  Why did she avoid the question? Did Arnya think The Master had great power? And if so, what was the harm in admitting it? She folded her arms. Only people who feared exposure kept secrets. Arnya’s evasive answer meant one of two things: she feared admitting The Master’s true power, or she feared the consequences of claiming the limits of his rule.

  Which one was it?

  Arnya reached into her sack to pull out a small pouch. “If you’re ready to begin, please gather the stones into a circle.”

  Tascana did as she was told. Arnya tossed in a handful of sand and blue-green flames leapt two-feet high.

  “Let’s try to focus on nothing again.”

  Watching the dallest close her eyes, Tascana studied her face. The lines of crinkled fur smoothed around her eyes. She seemed to be meditating. Shifting her eyes to the flames, Tascana tried to think of nothing.

  The world peeled inward. Her thoughts drifted to that first night in the castle. Waking tied to a chair and praying for an escape.

  Don’t think. Focus on nothing.

  Then one evening, Rothar untied her feet and carried her downstairs to meet Jerricoh for dinner. She could still smell the charred organs of the rabbit splayed across her plate. Wind swirled around her, unraveling her clothing into a white dress.

  Clear your head. Empty it of all thought.

  In her mind’s eye, she stood before that door with the elven toddler staring menacingly at the magical creatures below him. Those haunting, malevolent eyes carved into the slab of wood separating her from the guards posted in the hall. Even now, she pulled her face to the side, trying to avoid that stare as the smell of musty earth filled her nose. Jerricoh’s warning echoed from the blue-green flames.

  “These tunnels lead wherever The Master desires them to lead you. If you choose to return to your room, you will find it. Otherwise, you will find... something else.”

  Cold water rushed along her skin, followed by a leathery hand pulling her into empty darkness.

  “Do what you’re told, when you’re told.”

  No! I won’t be controlled. No one can force me to do anything!

  Light broke through the nothingness. A wide valley spilled out before her, lush and green. Safety, as though it were a tangible force, wrapped around her, pushing the source of the voices far, far away.

  The blue-green flames sputtered, fizzled, then disappeared.

  Arnya tilted her head as she looked up. “You’ve had a vision.”

  “What?” Tascana blinked hard, pulling out of the imagery.

  “The flames only die if one receives a vision. Since I did not see anything, I assume the vision was yours.”

  Tascana gazed at the empty ring of stones.

  “What did you see in your vision, child?”

  “Fear. And safety.”

  “Those do not usually appear together.”

  “Maybe I —” Did she dare clarify the extent of what she saw? “Maybe I just fear that my safety means losing everyone I love.”

  Arnya nodded. “A difficult price, I am sure. Come along, it’s almost time for dinner.”

  How did this keep happening? Meditating never stole the day away from her in the past. “I’m not really all that hungry. I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

  “Not even a little hungry?”

  The seedling of dread sprouted another set of leaves, triggering a thought. Or perhaps the thought caused the vine to produce another shoot.

  “How did Zander know to find me in the tunnels that night?”

  “You are not the first to find their way out.”

  “Revel and Chalance.”

  “Exactly. Knowing there is a chance for us to spare one more person from the wrath of The Master motivates all of us to keep watch.”

  Tascana shifted off the stump and onto the ground. Picking at a few pieces of grass, she nodded. “I guess that’s a good enough answer.”

  “What is it, child?”

  “I only have to stay in this valley, I don’t have to like it.”

  That did it. Arnya shook her head and walked away. Good. Who needed a liar for a teacher anyway? That vision probably came from Arnya. Like a spell meant to trick her into believing the only way in the world she could be safe was staying here. But it wouldn’t work. There had to be a way out.

  She looked up at the trees blanketing the mountains. Standing, brushing the dirt from her pants, she glanced at the dimming sky. How long would it take to walk to the trees and back? Knowing she already had an hour’s walk ahead of her to get to Dellia’s made the venture daunting. Then again, returning to have dinner with her roommates might result in going through the mealtime routine again. Unless Dellia followed through with her threat to reveal their story.

  Obnoxious twits.

  Cutting through the far side of the grove, she headed for the Soldiers. The remaining daylight quickly faded. In a way, it felt like being back in the ghostwoods. Picking through the undergrowth, moving silently under starlight, hoping not to be seen. Some of the seedling’s hot, oily fear lessened as she pressed on alone.

  The grove opened at the edge of a meadow. Her feet broke into a run without even thinking o
f the action. Stretching her arms out, she ran her hands along the tops of the waist-high flowers growing among the grasses. It felt so much like the freedom of home. Going where she wanted, when she wanted, without a soul in the world telling her what to do. The way life was supposed to be: self-guided.

  Grasses thinned to hard-packed dirt littered with rocks, and she slowed to a walk again. Beyond the mini-desert stood thick shadows of cascading tree boughs. She craned her neck to find where the trees stopped and the stars began.

  It felt as though the mountain stared down at her. Arnya’s words of the Soldiers being a witness to someone performing magic danced along her mind. Looking back and forth along the wall of leaves and branches, she waited for a glint of something, anything, that might warn her to stay back.

  She took a few steps forward. The nearest tree stood arm’s length away. Should she touch it? Moving one step closer, she held out a hand inches from the trunk.

  Nothing.

  A light touch of the bark. Still nothing.

  She turned this way and that, eyes wide for the slightest hint of light or movement. Placing her fingertips on the bark, she paused, then pressed her palm against the tree. It felt ordinary.

  Suddenly, oily heat pooled into her hand, igniting the seed of dread. Snapping her arm back, she grabbed her hand. Nothing. No oil or heat. The vine within calmed. Stepping forward, she placed her hand on the trunk again. Oily heat swelled into her palm, running up her forearm, gushed into her middle. Pulling her hand back caused the sensation to stop.

  Curious.

  With both hands, she grabbed the trunk. Slimy warmth slithered under her skin, pooling into her armpits and spilling along her chest. The vine cinched around her lungs, unwilling to permit a single breath.

  She pulled her hands back, bending over to shake off the sensation. Vines slithered back into place in the pit of her stomach.

  So that’s how they wanted to play? Easy enough; don’t touch anything.

  Sidestepping the tree, she moved into the forest, staying mindful to give each tree a wide berth. Within moments, warmth seeped into the soles of her boots. Something wet and squishy pressed up around her toes.

  It’s not real. It’s a spell to trick me.

  The ground tugged at her feet. In the dim twilight, she noticed her feet sinking into the earth. She pulled a foot out only to have the other one sink further in. Gasping, she fell back. Her foot popped out as her hands splayed to regain her balance. The feeling of warm oil slithered up her arms, wrapping around her torso. Her lungs clenched. Breathing ceased. To the left, she saw a gap between the trees leading to the barren sand at the edge of the forest. Crawling on her elbows, begging against the spell, she hoped for a miracle. With each pull of her arms, her lungs prickled in warning.

  Please, oh please, oh please.

  Firm, cold dirt scratched her cheek. She rolled onto her back, ignoring the jabs of rock, grateful to start breathing. After several inhales, she wriggled a few more feet away from the Soldiers. Whatever secret they guarded would stay safe tonight.

  She turned her back to the trees. Walking to Dellia’s house, she thought about the glimmering spark in Arnya’s eyes when the dallest recalled certain events about The Master. Was it something that all dallests did? Or was it the aftermath of a spell placed on her? Probably the latter, especially since Arnya had started holding back details. There must be something The Master doesn’t want her to say. But this place was supposed to be outside his reach. No one hesitated to insist this valley was a realm inside a realm beyond The Master’s influence. But when questioned about The Master’s strength and motives, the answers became less certain.

  By the time she reached the edge of the village, most of the lamps sitting in the windows had gone out. A light stayed burning in the front window of Dellia’s home. Tascana opened the door. The table was cleared of dishes, and the fire in the hearth had been allowed to die down. She blew out the lamp on the stand and, ignoring the sensation of horse manure squeezing between her toes, went upstairs.

  Thinking about the Soldiers of Basagic helped to keep the memory of her mother at bay. Why were they called soldiers? Was their primary task to defend or attack? Preventing any trespassers from breathing was an effective means of defense. No one could scale that entire hillside without breath. Only permission from an oracle would allow safe passage. But since no oracle existed in Tretchin Valley that meant escape was impossible. But perhaps someone on the outside might be able to provide a way out. Was there a way to send out a message? Like through a spell or maybe a vision?

  Like the way Arnya gave me a vision.

  She grinned. Being the student of a liar apparently had its perks.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jurren practiced throwing his daggers while Arkose finished another set of push-ups. When were they going to get word about Kidelar? Two days had passed since they last saw Amador. Jurren guessed that since Lord Marvae gave him a ring to provide all their food and the dragons had stopped fighting the trees, the people of this land did not see a reason to further their hospitality. Twice Jurren had called out for someone, anyone, to give them an update on Kidelar. Both times he received only silence.

  “I wish I at least knew if he was improving.” Jurren flung a dagger at one of the tree roots embedded into the wall.

  “How long do we wait?”

  With a shrug, Jurren threw another blade, dislodging the first one. It was a question he, too, was beginning to ponder. Every day spent waiting in Chlopahn was another day Tascana remained trapped with that warlock.

  “He’s my friend. I don’t want to leave him behind. But my daughter... What if one more day means we’re one day too late?”

  A single tap sounded at the door. Jurren met Arkose’s eyes then went to answer the call. Opening the door revealed no visitor. A pebble lay on the ground in the middle of the path.

  “Psst.” The whisper came from somewhere to Jurren’s right.

  Scanning the trees, he saw a set of eyes. A hand appeared near the obscured face, gesturing for Jurren to follow.

  Arkose leaned in. “What do you see out there?”

  “Someone wants us to follow them.”

  “Amador?”

  A wave of vision ripped through Jurren. Trees, dirt paths, and a terrifyingly familiar cave.

  “No,” Jurren managed to say through the nausea. “This is someone else.”

  Lowering his voice, Arkose leaned closer still. “What did your vision show you?”

  Jurren released the clenched grip he had on the doorway. “To follow him.”

  Scrambling over roots, Jurren maneuvered in the direction of the hiding eyes. A figure wrapped in a drab gray robe slipped out of view once they arrived. Jurren pursued. Several minutes later, they came to a clearing just wide enough for the three of them to speak face to face.

  The newcomer pulled back his hood to reveal long, dark brown hair framed around pointed ears. A hot lump formed in Jurren’s throat. Elves!

  The other man put a fist to his chest. “Jurren, son of Raynen. I have longed for this day. My name is Azredan, and we do not have much time.”

  “What do you want?” Jurren clenched his jaw to keep from balling his fists.

  “I want to help you find your daughter. And in order to gain your trust, I will need to show you something you may find difficult to see.”

  Jurren did not ask Azredan what he meant. The point of his ears was all the proof Jurren needed to distrust this man. Elves helped to maintain the terrible secrets on Jurren’s home island of Orison. The reason for his own banishment! And elves were the reason Einiko came into existence, the reason for Tascana’s disappearance.

  Azredan continued. “Do you remember the quick paths, back in the Highlands?”

  The man’s question bore a searing coal into Jurren’s heart. Even after all these years, how could he forget? Neywan, his former mentor, had shown Jurren the paths Highlanders used to hurry from one place to the next. Several days travel cou
ld be accomplished within a few hours for those who knew the secrets.

  “Those paths exist here.” Azredan held out his hand. “There is something I must show you.”

  Arkose folded his arms. “Jurren, what is he talking about?”

  “My homeland. It is a terrain unlike anything in Bondurant.” Jurren closed his eyes a moment, warring between the caution of his gut instinct and the insistence of his vision. Taking a step back, he looked at Azredan. “I cannot go back to that life.”

  “You misunderstand. I am asking you to betray the Elven Lords who wronged you.”

  The searing coals within Jurren began to grate against each other. Neywan had spoken of Elven Lords. All those decades ago, they were unconcerned when the guardian of the Predator’s Den sent them word of goblins coming forth and heading north.

  Burning spread into Jurren’s throat.

  “Jurren, I am not asking you to trust me.” Azredan kept his hand extended. “All I want to do is show you something. You are free to choose what happens after that.”

  “I am waiting for my friend to be healed.” It was a pitiful excuse, but it was the only logical argument he had against the vision nudging him forward.

  “He is healing slow but well. It will be at least another day.”

  “You have spoken to Amador?”

  Azredan grinned and shook his head, finally lowering his hand. “I have been his adversary for many years. The only words we exchange are in battle.”

  “Most people in these hills are easy to dislike.”

  The newcomer tensed, looking into the trees. “I must leave, now. Please come with me.”

  Trees, dirt paths, a cave. The vision slammed through Jurren’s brain, momentarily blinding him. He needed to follow this stranger. Discomfort awaited, but it was necessary.

  He took a step forward. Snatching his cloak up close, Azredan retreated into the trees. Jurren glanced back to ensure Arkose followed.

  For several minutes they climbed and stumbled. Without a word spoken from Azredan, Jurren somehow knew to stay as silent as possible. Arkose must have had the same premonition for he did not even grunt when a branch whacked him in the face.