Call of the Dragonbonded_Book of Fire_The Dragonbonded Return

by JD Hart

  Completing another roll, the human rounded on him and screamed. “What are you doing? Are you crazy? Stop it!”

  The dragon’s eyes flared a vivid blue. “Demonstrating we are bonded!” he snapped back. “You say you are not a fighter, yet I cannot harm you with my most formidable attacks. And still I easily bested your three seasoned captors.” Skye-Anyar-Bello rocked back smugly, certain the human could not resist this logic.

  Instead, the human gestured at his head angrily. “And who was it that caused the rock to drop on my head?”

  The dragon blinked, unable to find a good explanation for that.

  The human’s head bobbed. “Uh-huh! Well, I’ve had enough. Either you are legitimately insane or I am for imagining all this. I’m heading north to find some peace and serenity until my head stops pounding. I just need to think straight enough to get my bearings again. Then I am heading home with my bond to live a quiet, tranquil life.” The human snatched up his pack and, without even a good-bye, stormed away.

  Skye-Anyar-Bello watched the rude human’s back recede into the trees. He could feel emotions he had never sensed before. He was reminded of a few hunts when he could not finish the kill swiftly, leaving his wounded prey cornered. His new bond had that same look in its eyes.

  Without hesitation, the dragon winged westerly up the mountain slope, then dipped, taking a route parallel to the human. Recalling the dragonsong verses his father had added about the Dragonbonded, he did not remember any trouble he had to work out with his bond.

  Conner walked briskly north, well, except for stopping occasionally to kick whatever would not bruise his foot. He was going mad. The trauma of Cravenrock had been too much. That was it. Coupled with lack of sleep, too long alone in the wilderness, a body long past its physical limits, and a nasty crack to the skull—it was beyond any human’s ability to handle. It brought a whole new meaning to the term “bat crazy.” He laughed out loud. “See? Crazy!” he yelled at a tree.

  Besides, when had he become so cynical? No, that he knew. It was when he realized that Assassins were not only in childhood nightmares and campfire stories. He kicked at a finger-thin oak, which retaliated with a slap to his face.

  Conner glanced about, struggling with how to let his anger go. Pauli once told him, No trouble is ever so big you can’t walk away. Conner was no longer sure. He gazed south through the wake of his destruction. The clearing was hidden through the trees, yet he could sense that the creature was no longer there. His eyes darted westward at the thought of the black beast. Doubt was seeping into his bones. What if he was bonded to a dragon? He desperately wanted to cling to any other possibility, but he was no longer sure he could. Was it any more insane to accept an impossible reality over one he knew to be false?

  He continued walking north, letting the rhythm of his stride mark his thoughts, struggling to find flaws in the black creature’s logic. But he could concoct no more rationalizations. Conner shuffled to a stop, staring at nothing specific. Then, leaning his forearm and bandaged head against the nearest tree, he whispered as if casting a spell to waken from a dream. “Why me?”

  The Aradorm

  On their third day out of Graystone, still tracking northeast along the southern edge of the Dragon’s Back Mountains, Veressa and Annabelle arrived at an immense river. Fed most of the year by melting snowcaps and frequent spring rains, the Aradorm ran swiftly south from deep in the majestic central mountains. Spanning fifty paces at the base of the mountain range, the river wove southward through the middle of the Narwalen Plains into the thick, lush Stonewell Forests more than two hundred miles to the south. The river was the lifeblood for half of Griffinrock’s people.

  The two riders had traveled hard for most of the afternoon to reach the river before sunset, occasionally dismounting and jogging alongside their horses to keep their mounts from overheating in the dry air. By the time they reached the edge of the raging torrent, Hemera was dipping near the mountain peaks at their backs. For the third time in the past hour, Veressa scanned the horizon to the west as Hemera vanished behind an encroaching line of dark clouds.

  Annabelle also turned her gaze behind them. “It will be a bad storm,” she stated with confidence. The Ranger dismounted her sorrel mare, Karra, with a renewed sense of purpose. “We will ford the river before we make camp. The river will be swollen by morning, and we’d be forced to travel south to Bell’s Ferry.”

  The Calling was becoming more urgent with each day for Veressa. The thought of traveling forty miles out of the way was all she needed to find the energy to make the crossing. She dismounted her gray gelding, Toran, and began preparing.

  Each rider had a watertight skin large enough to hold their food and one set of clothes. Once packed and sealed, the skins were strapped securely to the only place that might remain dry—above their horses’ withers. Annabelle checked Veressa’s knots and buckles, then nodded approvingly.

  Mounting Karra again with a pat on her neck, the Ranger proceeded to the river’s edge, guiding her seasoned mare into the swift waters while Peron dipped and fluttered nervously overhead. The mare’s first tentative step into the river brought a snort as she sank halfway to her knees. But with soothing words and gentle nudges from her rider’s heels, Karra stepped into the current.

  Veressa followed. At first, Toran ignored his rider’s urgings, refusing to pass the rocky shore. But once he realized Karra was leaving him behind, he reluctantly forged ahead. Moments later, Veressa understood the horses’ hesitation. The water was ice cold. The frigid water soaked through Veressa’s warm Ranger leggings and up her calves and she gasped, feet and ankles already numb. Something struck her knee and she watched a chunk of ice spin past.

  Nearing the middle of the river, Karra’s back sank below the water and Annabelle slipped from the mare’s back to give her horse the buoyancy to swim the deep river. Karra curled her lip and snorted to keep icy water from her nostrils.

  A moment later, Toran’s barrel sank, forcing the princess to follow Annabelle’s lead. The shift from hot to cold forced all air from Veressa’s lungs. She tightened her grip on Toran’s mane, letting him pull her toward the safety of the far shore. She closed her eyes, giving over completely to her steed.

  Toran’s hooves found river bedrock once more. Veressa slipped her numbing thigh over his back. Finally, the winded horse stepped from the river, but Veressa continued to cling tight to her mount. Energy sucked from her, she found the gentle rock of his panting body soothing. The air was cool against her wet clothes. Veressa shivered against Toran’s warmth as she slipped in and out of consciousness.

  Annabelle’s firm grip upon the princess’s shoulder broke her trance. “Veressa, you need to climb down and change clothing quickly. And we must wick the horses or they may come down sick.” The Ranger made sure the princess’s feet found solid ground before releasing her.

  Veressa opened her eyes and was greeted with her preceptor’s caring face. She beamed back weakly, then gave the Ranger a soggy hug of gratitude. Annabelle did not approve, but she would have to live with it.

  Lightning flashed along the dark western sky, followed by reports of rolling thunder echoing through the mountains to the north. Each rumble marked a shorter delay from the flashes of light. A chill wind had picked up, stirring sparks from the modest fire the Ranger had built to dry their clothes and inject some warmth into their bodies. Veressa pulled her knees tight to her chest and drank from the hot tea cradled between her palms. She leaned toward the fire, charmed by the orange sparks dancing and spinning upward, fleeing into the starry eastern sky, drawn to the only semblance of serenity in a landscape going wild. Still, it was a welcome distraction from the constant tugging from the east. Anticipating whatever awaited the next day on the plains, she had never felt so alive or content.

  At the edge of the fire’s glow, the horses nodded and nickered, ears pulled back as the wind gusted through the creaking oak branches overhead. Annabelle went to check on them for the third time s
ince dinner, then returned just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The preceptor squatted and studied the smile on the princess’s face. “Yes, it has been a good day, Veressa. I am pleased with your progress in Ranger skills. You showed true fortitude crossing the Aradorm. But it is time to retire. Put out the fire. Let’s get some sleep.” Without another word, she snagged the dry clothes from the tent line and disappeared into her tent.

  Veressa focused on the fire, watching the flames within the glowing logs lick skyward. Slowly, she drew on Air elemental and sucked the air from around the flames. “Aetha energi pnigofotia,” she spoke softly. The fire snuffed out, casting the camp into darkness. The last sparks followed their brethren into the night sky and were gone. Rain growing steadily heavier, Toran nickered his uneasiness. “You’ll be fine, Toran,” she reassured him, then slipped into her tent. The sounds of wind and large droplets pelting her tent, she pulled her blanket tight around her. Sleep came swiftly.

  Veressa crouched next to the stag’s fresh track. Fingers trembled with exhilaration, lightly tracing the broken oval. He was close, moving fast, and knew he was being followed. She took up the chase once more, eyes adjusting to the darkness of a cloud-shrouded Erebus. She sprinted without sound over fallen trees and protruding rocks on legs meant for the hunt, never winded, closing in on her meal. She danced effortlessly between two trees, the rush of wind in her ears, and caught the wild motion of the stag bounding ahead. Each powerful stride, she gained on her prey, until she could feel the heat from his trembling body. She sprang at the bobbing white tail. Her claws dug deep into its flanks. The stag’s hind end buckled from the impact of her weight. The momentum of the two forms at full speed carried predator and prey careening into the thick undergrowth with a thunderous crash. She gripped the stag as they rolled, feeling the slap of brush across her face, the snapping of dried branches under their combined weight. The full bulk of the stag bore down on her as they tumbled. Veressa roared.

  Veressa’s arms flailing against her collapsed tent. And the tent fought back. Wind pushed at her back while raindrops battered her arms and head. The night sky flickered bright, turning her soggy tent a brilliant brown. Thunder and the sharp sound of wood cracking and splintering was her only warning before something heavy crushed her to the ground. The residual vision of the dream stag crashing down on her confused her and she panicked. She cut at the side of the tent with a knife that had somehow made its way into her palm. Struggling through the gaping hole, she swam through a sea of branches and wet leaves. Rain pelted her face.

  Something grabbed her from behind. She spun on the apparition. But the cold, hard slap of a hand across her cheek stunned her. The next bright flash of lightning brought the image of a drenched Annabelle gripping her shoulders. Before anything sensible could form, the Ranger shoved Veressa hard into her own tent and quickly followed.

  The tents they used for the trek were small and lightweight, comfortably fitted for one person with supplies. They were not designed for two. Peron squawked his indignation at the uninvited guest, but then moved to the side when it was clear the girl was not going to leave.

  The princess shivered uncontrollably. Mistaking the girl’s shakes as chills, Annabelle hugged her close to give her warmth. Veressa found comfort in the welcoming arms and, releasing the fear she held bottled up, she wept.

  The Ranger understood and hugged her tighter.

  Hope’s Surrender

  Throughout the morning following his liberation from the three trackers, Conner ambled, stopping frequently to eat and rest, or more accurately, to contemplate his situation. He had taken a southerly direction until he stumbled upon another narrow trail going east-west. Still not feeling the pull of the Calling, even though his head had stopped throbbing, he walked west, sensing he was moving closer to the black beast that had aided in his escape. By early afternoon, he was resigned to the fact that he had bonded with the creature, though he remained skeptical it was a dragon. Whatever it was, the two needed to work out what to do next about the situation.

  He tried to imagine going back to Creeg’s Point with the winged creature in tow, but whatever stories he concocted, the only reasonable effect he envisioned was one of town folk running, screaming in total panic at their approach. The image of the beast pulling his dad’s plow, effortlessly digging deep furrows while Conner scrambled behind to keep up, brought out a sharp chuckle. But others sucked the humor from him—studying under Master Cleaverbrook while the bored and curious creature ripped the guildmaster’s apothecary apart, an angry farmer demanding retribution for a cow the beast could not resist eating, and the creature accidentally burning down the Stonefield barn because it had an allergy to hay. Conner was so deep in thought that he nearly ran headlong into the creature balled up in the middle of the trail. He pulled to a stop.

  The creature raised its head to study him. “So, have you come to your senses, or are you back to argue some more?” Conner could sense its annoyance, but it smacked its mouth anyway, showing two full sets of gleaming white teeth.

  “Any arguing we do is clearly at my peril,” he shot back at the black wall.

  The creature only grunted in response, blue eyes measuring him.

  Conner sighed, but took a formidable stance with arms crossed. “Yes, I accept that we are bonded. There is no other reasonable explanation. But that leaves us with a very perplexing situation. Since I don’t have any idea what it means to be bonded to a creature such as you, I am at a loss for what to do next. So what exactly do you suggest?”

  The creature rose and stretched legs and wings as though it had all the time in the world to consider the question. “We find a cave.”

  Conner blinked. “We what?”

  “Find a cave.” The long, snakelike neck swiveled, its nose pointing to the northwest. “There is a storm approaching. It will be upon us tonight. I would prefer to stay dry if possible.”

  Conner craned his head over the beast’s back, making out a line of dark clouds above the mountain ridges to the west. He responded skeptically, “I have been walking all day. I haven’t seen a cave or cavern. How do you suggest we find one big enough to keep both of us dry while making sure you don’t crush me against the wall?”

  The creature closed its eyes and snorted several times. Conner sensed amusement from the creature. “Let me start again. You should at least know the name of the creature that might crush you against a cavern wall.” It lowered its chest to the trail, wings spread wide. “I am Skye-Anyar-Bello of the family Cloudbender.”

  Conner tried to repeat back. “Skye An ... Anyor ...” But Conner stopped when he sensed a flash of the beast’s irritation.

  “Skye-Anyar-Bello of the family Cloudbender,” it repeated.

  Not ready to try handling the name again or the beast’s annoyance, he diverted the discussion. “That is quite a name. I am Conner Stonefield.” Assuming the beast’s gesture had been a bow, Conner afforded the beast his best imitation at one, though as a freeman Eastlander, it felt awkward. However, the attempt appeased the creature.

  “With homage, I greet you, Conner of the family Stonefield. May your days add honorable verses to your humansong.” It declared in a singsong voice.

  “Please, call me Conner. And I will call you Skye,” Conner suggested quickly.

  “That is not my name,” appealing to Conner’s good senses with an emphatic wag of its head. “I am Skye-Anyar-Bello.”

  “Are we going to argue over everything we talk about?”

  Skye blinked.

  “Because if we are, this is going to be a very long evening.”

  Conner’s stance seemed to have convinced Skye it was best to return to Conner’s question. “We look for mountain’s breath, Conner of the fam ... Conner.” Noting Conner staring blankly, Skye continued. “All living things breathe.”

  Conner laughed. “Mountains aren’t alive,” he stated, and waited for the punch line to the joke.

  “Are all humans as sure as you about thin
gs they do not understand?” Skye grumbled back. It sniffed a yellow flower growing by the side of the trail. “How do you know this flower is alive?”

  Conner answered as if to a child. “It grows. It responds to light and dark, cold and heat. Therefore, it is alive.” He was confused about where this was going.

  Skye pressed on. “So then, if a mountain also responded, let us say, from being dug open with the sharp picks you humans seem to enjoy using? Would you say it is alive?”

  “But mountains don’t respond to such things. They are inert. They are neither alive nor dead.”

  Skye sighed. “A human’s life is on a scale that prevents you from seeing these things, so you believe they cannot be so. The mountains come from somewhere; one day, they will return. In the time between, they are infused with Earth, giving them their unique breath of life. The Ancients in my family have seen such wonders.” Rolling thunder echoed through the rocky canyon. “Consciousness is not limited to those who think or feel like you. One day, we will discuss this more. But for now, trust that I can find a cavern. I shall return shortly.” Skye kicked up hard. Several strong beats of his leathery wings sent him off to the east.

  Mouth agape, Conner stared until the creature was a small, black dot. Grumbling about what he had done to deserve being bonded to such an annoying, egocentric beast, he pulled off his pack and leaned against a warm rock. He tried to understand what Skye had been talking about, but realized it was useless thinking about such nonsense. Instead, for the third time that day, he napped.