He came to stand beside her. He gazed into the sea with her, silent, staring. "They're leaving tomorrow." His voice was soft. "Five hundred of them. Recruitment day. And… Tilla will be among them."
Erry raised an eyebrow. "Ropemaker's daughter? Tall girl? One that walks like she got a stick up her arse?"
Rune winced. "She's my friend."
"You just like her teats." Erry snickered. "Got your own stick burning in your breeches, I reckon. Let 'em recruit her. Army would be better for her. Better than being stuck in this piss-pot of a town."
"Not when they're shipped off to war. Not when they'll face the Resistance in battle. Not when I'll lose my friend, when—"
Erry reeled toward him. "Soldiers get beds to sleep on. Soldiers get food to eat. Soldiers get to become dragons, Rune. Real dragons who can fly, blow fire, be strong." She grabbed the boy's shoulders, sneering at him. "That's better than this life we live, crawling here on the boardwalk like cockroaches, the emperor grinding us to sand. I don't feel sorry for Tilla. I envy her." She shoved him. "So stop your whining, kid. Go shove your stick into a loaf of bread and forget about the girl. Soon enough they'll draft you too, and you can both die together in battle. Better than slow death here. Better than this. Than eating shite. Than shivering in the cold. Than being weak."
She expected to see Rune rage, but his eyes remained soft. He looked down at the bruises on her limbs.
"I heard you fought Getya and her gang." He sighed. "Erry, you can't keep fighting them. They're bigger than you. There's more of them. I can't keep seeing more bruises on you."
She snorted. "Rich boy in his rich home. I don't look for fights, but I ain't gonna run from 'em either."
"Come into my 'rich home' then." He looked up at the clouds. "Hard rain's gonna fall. Come into the Old Wheel. Let me give you some breakfast. We got eggs and sausages. Real eggs! And cheese too."
Erry tilted her head. "Where you get cheese and eggs from? You're rich, but not that rich. Only soldiers get cheese and eggs."
"We had a soldier stay last night. Paid for his ale and bed with a basket of cheese and eggs. I'll share them."
She grabbed his arm and bared her teeth at him. "This ain't charity. I don't take no charity."
He shook his head. "A meal between friends."
"I don't got no friends."
"Erry!" Rune groaned. "Just come and eat the damn eggs, or I'll have to drag you into my tavern, tie you down, and force feed you."
They left the beach together and stepped back onto the boardwalk. Erry glanced around nervously. She rarely walked here during the day. The other urchins were gone, as were the beggars and whores. A scrawny dog ran into an alleyway. A few children played with a barrel hoop. An old priest tapped his cane. Erry followed Rune past empty buildings, once shops selling wool and porcelain, until they reached the Old Wheel Tavern.
The building rose three stories tall, built of wattle and daub. The timber foundation was rotting like everything else in this town, and the roof was missing several tiles. But the chimney still pumped out smoke, and life still filled this place, guttering like a candle but still casting light.
They stepped into the common room. Several empty tables stood on a scratched wooden floor. A wagon wheel hung from the ceiling, holding unlit candles—a makeshift chandelier. Casks of ale stood along a wall behind the bar, and a staircase led to an upper floor.
A black dog lay on a rug by the hearth, lazily flicking his tail. When he noticed them, he leaped up and ran toward them. Erry patted his head.
"Hello, Scraggles."
The mutt leaped up, tail wagging, and licked her. He was as tall as she was when he stood up like this, and he probably weighed more. She laughed, gently pushing him down.
"Don't knock me over, Scraggles!"
He licked her again, his entire body wagging. Erry couldn't help but laugh. Humans hurt her. Humans beat her, desired her, scorned her. But animals were still Erry's friends.
While she patted Scraggles, Rune stepped into the kitchen, then returned with a tray of food. As promised, he brought hardboiled eggs—real chicken eggs!—and cheese. They sat at a table and ate. Unlike the meal last night in the castle, Erry tried to savor every bite, to let the tangy cheese roll across her tongue, to let the rich yolk fill her mouth.
Rune ate too, only picking at his food. Silent. Hesitating.
"What the Abyss is wrong with you?" Erry glared at him. "Why are you moping?"
He put down his fork and stared at her. "I told you, Docker. Tomorrow. Five hundred youths drafted, all those who turned eighteen. Tilla among them. My best friend. It's hard to lose somebody."
Erry let out a groan so loud Scraggles started. She rose to her feet, pulled off her rags, and tossed them down. She walked toward the hearth, naked, and lay on the rug.
"Well, come on. Just pull out your stick and put it here. You'll soon forget about Tilla."
Rune stared at her, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. As if he had never seen a naked woman before. Perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps the boy was just a green virgin who knew nothing about hunger, about sex, about loss.
He rose from his seat, walked toward her, and knelt, awkwardly looking away from her nakedness.
"You don't have to do this. I didn't bring you here for that."
She raised an eyebrow. "You know what they say about me in the town. You know what they call me. You know what Getya called me, why she cut me. You gave me food. You offered me shelter in a storm. Here's my payment. Here's what I always pay."
Such sadness seemed to fill Rune that Erry herself wanted to cry. He walked toward a wall, took a coat off a peg, and draped it across her skinny, battered frame.
"You don't have to be this person." He touched her hair. "You can be somebody else, Erry Docker. You can stay here with us, with me and Scraggles. You can work in the kitchen. You can—"
"I can't do those things!" Now her tears did fall, and she rose to her feet, shaking. "I can't be that person! I can't… I can't stay anywhere. I can't love anyone. I can't have a home. I can't have people in my life."
"Why?" he whispered.
"Because it hurts! It hurts too much when they leave you. When they sail away. When they spit on you, beat you, kick you out into the cold. Do you know how many men offered this to me?" She laughed bitterly, tears on her lips. "How many offered me a home, a life with them, safety? How many then hurt me? My own father, Rune! My own father left us. My own mother, Rune! She took the coward's way out. Cut up her damn wrists and left me too." She was sobbing now, hating herself for showing this weakness. "You'd just hurt me too. I'd be here for a few days. Maybe a month. Only to get kicked out again. I can't love people. I'll just hurt you too. I'll lash out. I'll drink too much or scream or cry, and—"
She bit down on her words. He was staring at her with so much pity that Erry couldn't take it. She shoved past him, still wearing his coat. She burst out of the tavern. And she ran. She ran along the boardwalk, and she ran along the beach, and she ran until she finally fell to her knees in the sand.
I can't do this. I can't. I can't.
She crawled along the sand into the water, and she swam.
Welcome, Erry, whispered the waves. We've been waiting.
She let the water claim her. She sank.
She opened her eyes in the stinging saltwater, and she saw swaying seaweed, a fish, beads of light. It was peaceful down here. Her own kingdom. A place where she could be a queen, free of the pain, of the loss. The kingdom that had awaited her all her life, calling to her.
She took the coward's way out! Erry's own voice echoed in her mind. Coward. Coward.
Erry trembled, sinking in the water. Her mother had sunk into her own sea of despair, had fled too to death. Her mother had left her here.
Erry's voice echoed again.
I don't look for fights, but I ain't gonna run from 'em either.
Her lungs ached for breath. She felt herself weakening, the water tugging her, the waves welcoming her. She
swam. She fought them.
She would not run. She would win this fight, too.
She kicked, swung her arms, rose higher… and her head burst out from the water. She gulped down air.
The sun shone above her—the full daylight, golden, beautiful, the sunlight she had hidden from for so many years. She had always been a child of shadows.
You don't have to be this person, Rune had said. You can be somebody else, Erry Docker.
That goddamn boy.
She swam and crawled back onto the beach, shuddering. Just a weak girl. Just a dock rat. Just the half-breed daughter of a dead whore.
A girl who could become a dragon.
She knelt in the sand, and she stared up at that fortress on the hill. The fort where soldiers lived, where they could become dragons. Where she herself could serve.
She rose to her feet, and her hands balled into fists.
They came the next day, the soldiers from the north.
They flew in as dragons, and they herded the youths of the city into the square. They stood clad in steel, swords at their sides, shouting out names. Between them, five hundred youths shuffled forward, glancing around nervously, some weeping. Cannon fodder. Recruits for the northern war.
Youths who were escaping this place.
Erry knelt on a rooftop, staring down at them. They would be sent to a northern fortress, trained in grueling conditions. They would be shipped off to battle, maybe to death. They would see blood, war, fire on the front lines.
They would fly as dragons.
"And I will fly among them," Erry whispered.
She leaped off the roof. She ran barefoot along the cobbled streets. She had never run from a fight. Never. She would not run from this one either.
You don't have to be this person.
I will be a dragon.
In the square, the soldiers of the city turned toward her, gripping their swords. The recruits stared with wide, frightened eyes. Erry skidded to a halt, smirked, and raised her chin.
"My name is Erry Docker," she said. "I believe that you forgot me."
In the cold morning, wagons rolled out of the city, holding five hundred whispering, shivering youths… and one dock rat fleeing the sea.
A Word from Daniel Arenson
A few years ago, I began writing fantasy novels set in Requiem, an ancient kingdom whose people can turn into dragons. Requiem slowly grew, with five trilogies currently released and two more (at least) planned.
One of the Requiem trilogies is titled The Dragon War. In it, a tyrant has taken over Requiem, allowing only himself and his soldiers to become dragons. For all others, the magic is outlawed.
The trilogy tells of two childhood friends--Rune and Tilla--who find themselves fighting on opposite sides of a civil war. Rune joins a rebellion, while Tilla serves the emperor as a soldier.
One of the secondary characters in The Dragon War is named Erry. She's an orphan girl who lives on a boardwalk of a crumbling town, struggling to survive. Her role slowly grows throughout the trilogy, and while her past is hinted at, it's never fully explored.
I wrote "Of Sand and Starlight" as a prequel to The Dragon War, focusing on Erry and where she came from. If you haven't yet read Requiem, this story can give you a taste of that world. If you're already familiar with the series, this will fill out a little blank.
You can learn more about Requiem at
www.DanielArenson.com/Requiem
Tasty Dragon Meat
by K.J. Colt
NO ONE EVER THOUGHT that dragon meat could be tasty. Oh no, not those ugly lizard things with blood-red eyes, fiery breath, and demonic tempers. And perhaps the secret of their delicious flesh would have remained undiscovered if Nogdo, a butcher from the quaint town of Bolopsy, hadn't been brave enough—or desperate enough—to taste some.
One day, Nogdo fractured a beloved meat cleaver while carving prime rump off a prized cow. The butcher decided to take six days off work and make the long journey south to Krowtogor—a small hamlet just outside of Ashos, the capital of the Kingdom—to get the knife fixed by a renowned blacksmith. He set off at noon the following day with Pumpkin, a good-for-nothing draught horse with a lazy eye, and a carefully crafted buggy—his pride and joy—that Nogdo had built himself.
Spring's newly hatched birds, butterflies, and blooming blossoms made for a delightful journey. While Nogdo happily hummed a tune of tulips, a dragon the size of a house tumbled out of the sky and smashed the rear end of his buggy. Nogdo was catapulted into the air, and landed with a hard thump.
Stunned for a moment, he gathered his wits and, terrified of being eaten, scampered across the dirt to hide behind the nearest tree. Pumpkin whinnied and thrashed against the restraints keeping her tied to the useless cart. The straps broke, and she galloped away, dragging bits of the broken buggy behind her.
Afraid the dragon was still alive, Nogdo sat trembling behind the trunk, trying to mimic the stillness of a rock. Heartbeats later, when not a sound was heard, he slowly edged around the tree to peek at the dragon.
Only a youngling, Nogdo thought, examining the mass of glossy, triangular scales and stunted horns. Its jaw, strong and square, was fit to grate bones to powder. Dragons were known for eating slowly and ageing even slower. He guessed the beast's age at three hundred years, give or take fifty years.
The butcher shifted his foot, the toe of his boot snapping a twig. The dragon's eyes flicked open and fixed Nogdo with a murderous glare. I'm dead, Nogdo thought, a lump swelling in his throat. As the dragon rolled onto its feet, the butcher said a silent farewell to his current life and prayed for a pleasant journey to the next one.
Nogdo jumped when fifty or so dragon hunters burst out of the woodlands, brandishing swords and maces. The injured dragon hobbled back, one wing drooping lifelessly at its side. The warriors cast a net, which missed its target, so they flung themselves onto the lizard’s back from their horses.
Seeing bows being drawn and arrows nocked, the dragon made an effort to fly away with some hunters still on its back. But the wounded wing prevented the beast from gaining height, and the arrows pierced its chest. The dragon spluttered and fell lifelessly to the earth, causing the ground to shudder.
Satisfied with their kill, the hunters put away their weapons and pulled out hatchets and skinning knives. They hacked off the horns, yanked out teeth, pried off scales, and stripped the wing-flesh. The hunters would use these parts for oils and other salves. The horns were used to decorate the hunters’ shields. After filling large sacks with their bounty, they turned their attention to ransacking Nogdo's cart. Once every item was plundered, the hunters departed in a cloud of dust.
The butcher allowed several minutes to pass before venturing out from his hiding place. With no food or horse, Nogdo despaired. He was three days’ walk from Bolopsy and Krowtogor, and he had no tools for hunting. As the sun fell, Nogdo’s stomach quivered with hunger, and the dry air cooled his skin. A chunk of flint lay near a broken cartwheel, and he was thankful the hunters had overlooked it. Gathering twigs and dead leaves into a mound, he set fire to them using flint and stone. As he added on branches and logs, the flames grew higher and the warmth soothed his misery.
Nogdo was not a man used to being hungry, so when the bubbling emptiness turned to sharp pangs of pain, he cried out with self-pity. Rubbing his belly, he glanced curiously at the heap of dragon flesh the hunters had left behind. Out of all the meats—white, black, pink, grey—listed in his butcher’s book, the terrifying and legendary dragons were not among them. Nogdo grasped his sharp rock and wandered over to the fresh carcass. After hacking off a sample of thigh, wing, and breast, he twisted off a metal hinge from his buggy to create a makeshift cooking pan.
He placed the samples side-by-side on the hot tray and licked his lips with desire as the moist meat popped and sizzled. When the flesh was cooked brown and crispy, Nogdo inhaled the aromatic, savoury fragrance until his mouth watered. Using two twigs, he transferred the sinewy meat to coo
l on a piece of broken wood and waited. Minutes passed. Unable to wait another moment, he surrendered to his instincts and tipped his head back a little, shovelling the meat into his mouth.
The warm juices from the cooked meat dribbled over his tongue and down his throat. Elation and joy consumed him in a flurry of spice, tang, and sweetness. His eyes closed involuntarily, and he drifted along the blissful journey of taste. After stoking the fire and reheating the crude pan, the butcher ran back to the dead dragon to procure more of the delicious flesh.
Moments passed in a blur of bliss and tears. Nogdo realised he'd found the secret to a fortune. The land he could buy with his riches would bring him titles and prestige. When his stomach had stretched to bursting and his eyes drooped with overwhelming exhaustion, Nogdo drifted into imaginings of his wondrous new world where, for once, his dreams would come true.
* * *
Dragons and humans usually avoided each other, but in recent years, the increasing numbers of dragons had seen a staunch competition for food. Fortunately, dragons didn’t like the taste of men.
The lord of Bolopsy, a generally fair master, employed barbarian dragon hunters to kill the beasts. Up to three dragons were killed each day, and their foul corpses were left for the local Poop Scoopers—those that disposed of unwanted waste—to clean up.
After a couple of days being stranded by the side of the road, a passing merchant found Nogdo and delivered him home. The butcher thanked the trader and immediately sought out the Poop Scoopers, offering them two hundred silver coins—all his hard-earned savings—if they discreetly supplied him with dragon flesh for two weeks. The men were gobsmacked. Divided between the four men, fifty silvers apiece equalled two months’ wages for a Poop Scooper. Poor sods. They struck their secret deal, and for a time, Nogdo had a constant supply of dragon meat.
Of course, it wouldn’t be right to promote ‘Dragon Meat’ on his shop’s menu, and so the butcher renamed it ‘Mountain Ox’, and priced it according to its rarity. Only two days were needed for news of the delicious meat to spread across the lands. Its popularity soared, as did Nogdo’s prices and his hunger for the flesh. The butcher found himself thinking more about eating the meat than loving his wife or taking care of himself. Frightened he would soon lose control over his hunger, he stopped eating it altogether—but with no such concerns for his patrons, he continued selling.
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