Call of the Dragonbonded_Book of Fire

by JD Hart

  Veressa noticed Annabelle’s bandaged hand as she took the cup. “You are injured.”

  “Yes, someone got a bit zealous with a knife last night.”

  Veressa’s mouth fell open. Gripping the Ranger’s wrist, she slipped the bloody cloth from her preceptor’s hand to examine the deep gash across her palm. “I did that? Annabelle, I am sorry. A strange dream frightened me. My head was not clear ...”

  The Ranger ushered the princess to a rock near the warm fire. “It was as much my fault for not being more attentive.” She had no anger in her voice as she wrapped her hand again. “Now, no more until we have eaten.”

  They ate in silence, watching life return to the grasslands. A small flock of barn swallows swooped and fluttered over the open plains to the east, feasting on insects that were looking for drier summer grass. Peron squawked at the dizzying display of bright blue wings, but he had eaten and was content on his makeshift perch near Annabelle. To the west, the swift Aradorm had swollen to twice its normal size. Veressa finished her morning ration, appreciating the spectacle of life before her despite their recent setbacks.

  Their hunger satisfied, the two discussed their options. Based on their tracks, the horses had fled the storm at a dead run, southbound along the river. Karra was smart and would surely cross the river at the first opportunity, then head straight for Graystone. She was a good horse, but devotion to her rider did not supersede the draw of a good meal in a dry stall. Toran was generally obedient, as long as there was a bit in his mouth. A typical male, however, he was quite content to keep the mare’s hindquarters in his vision. He would follow her to the castle without so much as a grumble about their speed.

  This left the two women with a dilemma. Chasing after the horses on foot made no sense, since the two steeds would be at the castle gates by the morrow’s evening. Yet continuing the trek as they were meant the king would become extremely worried when the horses arrived without riders. Then he would, without question, dispatch runners to find the two. Veressa would end up in the predicament she had worked so hard to stay out of—escorted by a legion of royal guardsmen for the rest of their journey.

  Only one option remained.

  Annabelle stood and stretched as if all had been decided and there were things to do. “Salvage what supplies you can, but leave your saddle and anything burdensome. Pennington Point is more than twenty miles southeast. I want to reach it long before dusk. “Aetha energi pnigofotia,” the Ranger snuffed out the fire and began sorting her supplies, tossing more than half of the items under the oak branch covering Veressa’s tent.

  Veressa sat confused. “But isn’t Clovendale near Bell’s Ferry closer?”

  The preceptor studied the girl for a moment. “Pennington Point is the midpoint between Kallzwall Castle and Cravenrock Keep. Using the station is the only way to ensure we will get a message to the king before our horses arrive home. Knowing your mother, if our horses get to Graystone before the message, we will be surrounded by every Defender she can muster within two hundred miles.” The Ranger went to the river to refill their flasks, leaving the princess to consider her words. By the time she returned, Veressa was adjusting her lighter pack on her back, a renewed sense of urgency in her eyes.

  Annabelle smiled, quite pleased with having discovered a way to motivate the girl.

  A New Direction

  The first late morning rays of Hemera broke over the eastern rocky mountain crest. Conner sat studying Skye curled in a black ball on the other side of his fire’s ashy remains. Given their first encounter, he imagined it nearly impossible to sneak away from the sleeping dragon. But his impatience to get a start won out over any attempts to be polite. Eyeing the beast as it twitched and snorted, he reached for his backpack. He was so engrossed trying to be quiet that he forgot he had placed his tin cup and utensils on the pack the night before. The cavern walls resounded with the loud crash of supplies. Conner cringed as the cup rattled across the rocky floor, coming to rest against the dragon’s foot.

  Skye’s leg twitched. Then, with a long groaning exhale, the dragon listed to his side, coming to rest with legs and tail extended. He concluded the lethargic maneuver with a loud snort, the deep rhythm of sleep returning.

  Conner stared incredulously at the motionless black creature. “Of course! I get a dragon that sleeps through anything,” he exclaimed to the cavern ceiling, then stormed out the entrance. He wove his way across the rocky terrain to a clear, fast-moving creek. Following the water upstream, he came to a small waterfall where he bathed, changed into clean clothes, and scrubbed his dirty garments on smooth rocks from the riverbed. Before leaving, he checked his head wound and was encouraged to note that the knot was smaller.

  He returned to find Skye in the same position. Remembering how the beast had responded the first time he woke him from a deep sleep, he thought it best to let Skye wake on his own. He got comfortable near the entrance and watched the dragon snore contently as he considered his course of action.

  After nearly another hour, the dragon stretched and yawned several times. Blue eyes appeared through double eyelids. Lifting his head, he studied the human. “What is it, Conner?” he asked.

  Conner jumped at the question. He had forgotten Skye could sense his emotions. He would have to work harder at hiding his feelings. Not sure how to broach the discussion the two needed to have, he decided to dive straight in. He cautiously eyed the black creature. “We have to find a way to break our bond.”

  He could sense Skye’s reaction, a cascade of emotions—confusion, uncertainty, even remorse. But it was the dragon’s verbal response that helped Conner recognize the source of those feelings. “You are angry about my demonstration yesterday or about the fight in the cave the day before. I should not have done those things, but you should know I would never purposely harm you.”

  Conner smiled. It was difficult not to like the beast. “I know that, Skye. This has nothing to do with anything you have said or done.”

  Skye blinked sleep from his double eyelids. “Then what is it?”

  Conner sensed more emotions—disappointment, distress. The reasons were as clear to Conner as the morning after a storm, but Skye obviously saw their bonding differently. He just needed to explain his reasoning in a way the creature would understand. “Since leaving home a fortnight ago, I have felt like a kernel of corn in a field of hungry crows. I have discovered things about the world that should not be. I have seen things that should not exist. I have witnessed murder and have seen, even shamefully partaken in, the ugliest sides of being human. I do not like what these experiences have done to me.”

  He began to pace to give him mental fortitude as he pressed on. “The world is too big, too ... complex ... for me, Skye.” He wanted to say too scary but doubted the dragon would have understood. “The Realms have done quite fine without me for thirteen hundred years. They will do fine for another fifty or so. I need to go home, back to that quiet, simple corner of the world I can’t live without.”

  The more he talked, the more he could sense growing agitation in the dragon. So he tried to redirect his words. “I don’t think you want to live out your existence on an Eastland farm or in a small town while I practice my Apothecary arts and raise a family.”

  “I cannot say what I will want until that moment arrives. And you cannot run from what the Cosmos has given you because you do not find it convenient. It has been my experience that life will seek you out, no matter where you try to hide. All you can do is choose how to deal with what is given.” The dragon’s annoyance was palpable.

  Conner considered his decisions since leaving home. He could not recall having a choice in anything that had happened.

  Skye continued when he was certain Conner had nothing more to add. “Of course, you must do what you think is right.”

  Feeling Skye’s gloominess, Conner’s frustration churned into anger at his inability to get through to the creature. “I don’t know what is right, Skye. I don’t even know if it is p
ossible to break this bond. Or if so, what that means for the rest of my life. All I know is I cannot live like this,” gesturing at the dank cave they had slept in. “We have to find another way.”

  He paused before attempting to explain the wild idea he had contrived while watching the dragon sleep. Then taking a deep breath, Conner plunged in. “Last night, you said dragons were created by a great Shaman. I was thinking ...”

  “I said a Shaman God,” Skye corrected.

  “Yes, well, there are great Shamans still living today, Skye. I know of one such person, at least by reputation, among those of the Griffinrock Realm. He is my preceptor’s teacher and guide for the Apothecaries Guild, apparently a great physician of both humans and animals, and the greatest authority on herbology. His name is Grimmley Rollingsworth.”

  Skye grunted doubtfully. “You think this Shaman has the power it takes to break our bond?”

  “I don’t know. But if he doesn’t, maybe he can tell us who does. In either case, it seems worth spending the time to find out. I won’t put the plow away until I have dug every furrow. When I have done that, then we can decide what to do.”

  Skye gazed at the mountains outside. “Then you must find this great Shaman and see if he can help you.”

  “Yes.” Conner had been unsure what reaction he would get, but this was not what he had expected. “I was thinking of heading south out of the mountains, and finding someone I know who can give us directions to this Shaman. Then I will return here for you. We can travel to his home together.”

  “Of course,” Skye responded, his eyes never leaving the cave entrance.

  Conner struggled to think of something to add while packing his supplies, but nothing came that would help explain his decision. He was grateful when he had the weight of his pack adjusted on his back. The silence had been painful. He stepped to the cave entrance, and without looking back, mumbled, “I will return as quickly as possible.” He headed down the slope to pick up the trail they had taken to reach the cave.

  Skye-Anyar-Bello Cloudbender was unsure what to make of the recent shift in his relationship with Conner of the family Stonefield. According to dragonsongs, bonding with a human was a gift from the Cosmos, each link established for a unique purpose. It was unconscionable to even consider breaking such a link. It was for this that he had gone out of his way to seek some agreement, even giving on ground dragons did not naturally give. And last night, he had believed he was making progress.

  He lay gazing out of the cave, considering the human’s reactions that morning, and began to see that the human was right. Conner was not made for such a bonding. He would not force the human into a situation against his will, nor would he be the one the human blamed for the consequences of their bonding. He would rather not be bonded at all than to be bonded to a human who did not value such a connection. As the morning wore on, the dragon became convinced that he wanted nothing more to do with the selfish creature.

  Pennington Point

  The Anarchic War, also known as the Great War by those of the orders and the War of Breaking by the Anarchists, was not only sparked by growing contention within and among the six orders. For centuries, the orders had maintained a reasonable balance of power among the seven monarchies and the multitude of fiefdoms within each realm. With orders powerful enough to sway the outcome of a dispute, nobility vied for support with bribes of land and coin. And the crowns were well rewarded for their efforts. Town folk and freemen received valuable assistance from the orders in defense of their communities, and the orders were revered for their deeds, though ordermen seldom acted without personal or political gain.

  Those in the guilds relied on the arcane skills and close guidance of their parent orders to sustain their membership and provide goods and services vital for the health of the Realms. So when the Anarchic War broke out, the orders fragmented, their focus turning inward. The guilds suffered the worst. An entire social class nearly vanished. Sorcerers no longer trained those of the Scribes and Jewelers guilds. Warriors forgot their Blacksmiths, Architects, and Brickmasons guildsmen. Clergymen and Monks were abandoned by the Paladins. Horsemen and Fletchers were left by the Rangers. Mystics deserted the Astrologers, Engineers, and Glassblowers guilds. Even the enigmatic Shamans ignored the pleas for help from those in the Physicians and Apothecaries guilds. With the collapse of the guilds, prosperity turned to poverty. Chaos ensued, feeding the flames of war that ravaged the Realms like an autumn brushfire. The Anarchic War consumed everything.

  After the Treaty of Alignment was signed, the Harmonic orders struggled to return to their prior ways, including the reclamation of what remained of the guilds. Pennington Point was at the center of the Griffinrock Realm, a well-protected, thriving community in the western Narwalen Plains near the River Aradorm. So it was here the six orders chose as the birthplace and center for their guilds’ revival. As Griffinrock returned to the old ways, communities prospered once again; the city became Griffinrock’s hub for forging new guild alliances.

  Long caravans of supplies arrived nearly every day from all over Griffinrock and beyond, lumbering through a maze of dirt streets and alleyways dissecting the city into guild regions. Pelts, captured animals, uncut gems, and raw ores came from Pennington Point’s sister city, Cravenrock, to the northeast. Marble, granite, and other stones arrived from Loren Canyon along with crops raised by freemen farmers in the Eastlands. And stocks of oak, evergreen, and maple trees along with rare and important herbs and plants were hauled from the green Stonewell Forests from the Realm of Elvenstein far to the south. All converged here, where guildsmen and their overworked apprentices put skills to the test, creating the diverse and extraordinary goods sold at Pennington Point’s massive guild auction grounds.

  It was on one of the city’s primary arteries that two cloaked Rangers stood in Hemera’s late afternoon rays under a sign reading The Physicians Guild. A caravan rumbled sluggishly along the street, churning puddles into thick soup while draft horses fought against the earth sucking at massive hooves and the thin wheels of wagons laden with supplies.

  The taller figure flexed a bandaged hand and gave the other Ranger a tired but content smile while they waited. “For once, I am glad I listened to your suggestion, Caralynn. In a day, my hand will be good as new.”

  The second Ranger cringed at the first’s use of her name. The two had spent a great deal of time that morning, when they were not arguing, putting detailed touches on their story. Further, Annabelle had made Veressa repeat the entire litany of specifics several times before setting foot in Pennington Point. No further reminders were needed. After the two had picked their way across the street behind the caravan’s last wagon, Veressa asked hopefully, “Does that mean you will listen to my other suggestions as well?”

  Annabelle did not respond until she had successfully negotiated the muddy street and was under a large, brightly painted sign of a pewter mug and the words Dorry’s Alehouse. “With our message on its way to Graystone, our top priority is to not draw any undue attention to ourselves until we have safely acquired our supplies and are on our way in the morning. That includes behaving as two traveling ordermen would.” She worked at cleaning mud from her shoes and glanced up at the sign. Her eyes were bloodshot; her cheeks red from the sun. “That is why we are going to enjoy a few hours in conversation while we consume a hot meal and drink some fine local ale. Then we will retire to our night chambers. The inn we chose will do, but I’m afraid you will have to forego a hot bubble bath a few days longer.”

  Veressa gazed forlornly at the sign, then sighed before trailing the older Ranger through the tavern’s creaky wooden door. Maybe not all aspects of a Ranger’s life were so wonderful.

  The haggard bartender and owner of Dorry’s Alehouse glared at the heavy, middle-aged freeman fighter across the bar. “You haven’t paid your dues from yesterday, Bargo,” he hissed, unable to hide his frustration. A black raven eyed the fighter from a perch behind. “No more ale until your tab is settle
d.”

  Bargo Steerman leaned closer and met Dorry with his own scathing stare. The left side of his unkempt face twitched, a sign the freeman was growing irritable. He barked with his usual gruff voice. “Just give me two mugs without causing a ruckus, Dorry. I got something in the works to fill me purse. Yer will get paid soon enough.”

  The strong smell of skunk assailed Dorry’s nostrils. He involuntarily pulled away, giving the ex-Defender a foreboding look. A statement like this from Bargo meant there would be trouble soon. But such things were not his concern, as long as he was paid. Besides, he knew better than to push his luck too far with the unstable man. A few had grievously mistaken his tick for a wink, only to later find Bargo’s blade between their ribs. It was common knowledge Bargo had been washed out of the Queen’s Defenders for offenses no one in the community cared to know. Yet everyone acquainted with the man was sure he got off with leniency. Dorry nodded, then dropped two full pewter mugs in front of him. “Pay up soon.” He bolstered enough courage to meet the fighter in the eye, and was rewarded by another tick—or maybe that time it was a wink.

  Bargo turned triumphantly with trophies in large, callused hands. He surveyed the noisy room with an experienced eye before walking back to his round table, a pronounced swagger in his bulky frame accentuating the sway of the battle-ax dangling loose at his waist. He studied the thin, dark-skinned man in bright blue Sorcerer robes across the table and plopped into the chair he had vacated moments before. He offered the man a toothy grin, shoving one of the mugs at him. A small mouse near the thin man’s hand squeaked and disappeared up the Sorcerer’s sleeve.

  Bargo’s cold hazel eyes darted to the two female Rangers on the other side of the tavern. “So, what did yer find out?” He did not wait or take the time to offer the customary toast to his companion before drinking deep from his mug.