Dragon Kindred_And The Gyr Worshipers

by Marshall Drews

  “Varrult!” Nerr cried, having witnessed the gyrfalcon take the fall. “V-Varrult, are you alright!”

  “I’m fine, little Nerr,” Varrult huffed in agony, for the rest of his body ached from the harsh descent and battering of branches. As the dragon looked on from one tree over, Varrult tried his best to push himself up to sit straight, yet he lacked the strength. “Come here, Nerr,” he muttered. “I need you to listen and obey.”

  “W-what is it, Varrult?” he asked as he hopped from one branch to the next with ease before he came to Varrult and the one he sat upon. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “No, Nerr, I’m not. Not if we don’t act in haste that is. I need you to listen and understand.”

  “I-I will,” Nerr nervously assured.

  Huffing and panting, Varrult took a short moment to gather his words before addressing the dragon, speaking to him carefully. “I’ve been poisoned and my wing has gone stiff, rendering me unable to take flight. Can you smell the aroma? That beast’s retched ichor has got a tracking scent on me and will come in the near future.”

  “Wh-what…”

  “I want you…” he interjected, giving Nerr no time for questions, “…to abandon me, Nerr. It was my job to see to your safety, now it will be yours to see to my rescue. Go find your protector, cry and panic to the best of your distress so that Trent may know I am in need of aid. Do this, Nerr, and save me from this fate.”

  “Will you…die?” Nerr asked.

  This prompted Varrult to let loose with a short laugh. “Heh, no. I saw my fate and it wasn’t among woods. It was among men who fought over a dead field seeded by corpses of the fallen as I surveyed about, spying the contenders to be of feathers and of scales before being struck by a poor, poor whistle.” As glorious as he felt in saying this, he knew telling this tale to be counterproductive to his efforts. “But now I’ve wasted enough time keeping you here. My chances of survival decline by the minute. Begone, Nerr, and Save Me!” he suddenly shouted.

  “B-but, Varrult…”

  “Begone!” he screeched, scaring Nerr for good, compelling the dragon to take to his word and brave the forest alone as he headed for Venneith, his protector. In the distance, a roaring could be heard, long after the flash of a glorious light. The winds began to blow softly as they may have been carrying the distinct smell of dew that came with the fall of a light rain. “A storm’s coming,” he muttered as he took to relaxing and conserving his energy that no doubt would come to use in the near future. “I pray to Lynthre for you be hasty. Pray to Lynthre…”

  Across the trees and over the stagnant pools of water Nerr traveled, hardly ceasing and never faltering in his bounds. He knew the way, the world seemed to once again direct him to that familiar location in which Venneith would be. He would bring protection and save Varrult from whatever lurked within the shadows of the forest.

  Patiently Varrult waited atop the branch as he stirred very little for his own comfort and safety. He listened for any sounds of a predator, and signs that the beast of a hundred legs might be near. Yet meer moments dragged on into minutes, which in turn grew to a collection of minutes before time passed into tens of minutes. Yet in the amount of time Varrult had waited, he knew falling to comfort was beyond his current circumstances. As his circumstances sat as of now, Varrult had been marked by the tracking scent of the paralysis poison, and unless his wing thawed he’d be flying no time soon.

  There was a buzz of a nearby bug, driving Varrult to irritation before attempting to snap at it and silence it for good. When he did, a distinct rustling could be heard not before him like he had been observing and expecting the creature to come from, but behind him.

  “Wh-what?” he muttered as he glanced back to the trunk of the tree only to find himself frozen in fear. There before him stalked the creature of a hundred legs along the course of its long, fluorescent orange body as it eased itself down the trunk, eyeing the stranded gyrfalcon with its black-dotted spectacles, the two antennae exploring and assessing the distinct odor of its marked prey as it became clear to the creature that before him lay his marked pray.

  Varrult could only wonder how enticing he must’ve looked to this contender. As a predator he knew these aspects to be the callsigns of a suitable victim; does it bleed? Does it cry in pain? Is it immobile and can it fend for itself? At least two of these applied to Varrult, and although he could have been in a much worse state he indeed was ideal prey. Varrult couldn’t deny that but he wasn’t going to be helpless. Already the creature creeped, easing closer ever so timidly as its delicate antennae lingered, feeling the bark just before Varrult as each of its numerous legs scooted it just that much closer to the gyrfalcon.

  “No, no, no,” Varrult half giggled to himself as he struggled to stand, only to gasp in pain when his wing felt like a knot in his back. For a brief moment the creature seemed to withdraw due to Varrult’s sudden activity, but then his cry of pain seemed to spur the creature on. “Oh, you fancy me a meal?” Varrult jested as he stood-off with the creature before him. “I te-tell you, Lythre n-never revealed to me this fate. I died among men, I say. Among a dead field r-rent by fire, water…. and earth as men… died to one another between two contenders of s-scale and — ah! — feather. I was str-struck by a whistle,” he panted as he struggled to extend or contract his wing to or from his body. He needed to take flight, to escape from this nightmarish abomination of a fiend. “A-a poor…poor whistle it was, and a poor…poor whistle it’ll be that I last hear upon this earth.”

  Yet the creature wasn’t deterred as it sensed Varrult was cornered, unable to fly, let alone escape by any conventional means. “Away!” Varrult screeched, yielding no relief from the creature’s pursuit. With no other alternative only one laid before the gyrfalcon, however far the fall now seemed to one so experienced in flight and grand heights. “R-right then…”

  Just one fall. It shouldn’t have been hard for it wasn’t that far down, yet being flightless Varrult found it harder to take the leap now than when he had a pair of perfectly functional wings. If he fell, he’d be grounded. How far would be be able to crawl across the forest floor through brush, thicket and various other debris before this foul thing would catch up to him?

  “Right then,” he muttered as he once more glanced down. “I’ll take this fall.”

  Just one fall, that’s all it was. A rather short, harrowing fall before crashing to the ground, crying out in sheer terror and agony for Varrult had the misfortune of landing upon the stiffness of his wing. The pain then was overwhelming as his wing now dangled uselessly, radiating with a fury rivaled only by the fires Deuth. It felt as though he couldn’t endure and he cried, calling out to his master, screech after agonising screech, hoping Trent could hear, praying that this wasn’t the end as he struggled to overcome the infliction born upon him by the creature of a hundred legs.

  Yet as the injured gyrfalcon glanced up, he knew at once he could stay where he was now, for the creature had vanished from the branch, no doubt lurking in the thicket waiting for just the right opportunity to strike. The questions were, where had it gone and when would it strike? Varrult wouldn’t know, yet he couldn’t idle any longer for every moment he did was another advantageous second for the beast.

  “To the southeast,” he murmured to himself between gasps of agony before he attempted to drag himself with nothing more than his beak and one good wing as he couldn’t balance himself any longer. Again he’d call out for Trent as his stalker hissed and lurked out of sight. “Master! Please! Help Me!”

  One glance and there it was, looming just above him, circling down the trunk as it bided its time before it would eventually fall upon Varrult. It was as if it knew the gyrfalcon was injured and unable to defend itself; it was as if Varrult was in his control and that no matter how hard he’d struggle or how ferociously he’d fight, the beast would overcome and kill off the gyrfalcon with ease.

  It was a hard reality to accept and come to terms with, but Varrult was in
denial as he persisted in his poor escape attempt. The beast could do nothing more than stalk from behind as it gained on the gyrfalcon fast. Varrult could feel the creature, each of its pin-like legs as they wrapped themselves around his body, clinging to every inch as the creature thrashed Varrult, for the gyrfalcon had fallen into its grip, its mercy and power. Again he’d call, calling for Trent, his master, but no return was heard as his screeches descended into nothing more than incoherent wailing as pain became the only registered sensation shooting through his mind.

  It was strange as Varrult didn’t recognise these feelings. The first was fear, and it had been with him ever since he had been bitten on the wing by the hundred-legged creature and its needle-like mandibles. Not long after fear did doubt begin to invade his mind. It was doubt that he could last any longer and doubt that his master would come. Doubt in turn openly welcomed abandonment, as he was left alone in the midst of the forest at the whim of some beast as it began to destroy him. Confusion then came into his mind as he wondered how this all could have gone so wrong, before loneliness was the last emotion registered and remembered before the liberation when flesh overcame chitin.

  Chapter thirteen

  Waiting. That was all this had become, just waiting for the return of the gyrfalcon and dragon. Worry and concern were to be had but Trent would give in to neither as each second dwindled away into minutes, which soon would give way to the first hour of their wait. An unusually long time that would be, for Varrult was a capable flier and never stayed away or prolonged any flight without returning to assure his master he was fine.

  Yet even as Trent began to worry for his friend, a new, deeper worry began to well up within him. What if Nerr too was lost, what if he was even dead? What would the knight think of him then? What would he do? A myriad of things indeed, death being the most prevalent of them all, for the knight could strike him down if as he wished, if ever he found Trent to have done wrong by him.

  Already the falconer began to shun himself, wondering why he’d ever thought it a good idea to go through with his plan. Yet whenever he did he’d be reminded of the many other times he did the very same thing, only for Varrult to show up with the avian he was to look over unhurt with prey in tow. It had always been a success, but why not now? Why did Varrult delay like this for so long? Perhaps it was just the task. Was it too complicated? No, no, Varrult had done more in the past, and if it was he’d be back by now, confused and at a loss but safe nonetheless. So what was it? Why did he worry Trent like this by dwelling longer within the wilderness and thickness of the forest? Varrult knew better.

  “Should I be concerned…master?” It was the voice of Venneith and Trent turned to see the knight standing, arms folded, looking down the path where the infantry and horses could be seen with the Narrovinian tending to them. “You wear a particular air of concern ’round you from the way you fidget about. It must be for your gyrfalcon, Varrult, yes?”

  Air of Concern… It may have been true. Yes, Trent was quite concerned and trying his best to hide that concern, but Venneith was as stoic as ever, seeming to be as carefree as a hermit alone in his abode. “Are…are you not concerned for Nerr?”

  “Should I appear so?” the knight asked, his tone rather flat as usual.

  “Well, Nerr…he’s your dragon, and you brought him here to train and—”

  “That dragon was the only bounty gained from the raid on that den four nights ago,” Venneith began. “Nerr was the only thing to be salvaged, the only thing to show for the ten men that fell that day. I’ve learned not to grow attached to petty things, yet here I am, in ownership of some dragon, hoping it can be something more and yet I still fail to see what for. That dragon…” he muttered, raising a clenched fist, struggling to make sense of the conflicting emotions. “Perhaps I let it grow too close. I gazed too long that day within the cave. My eyes never pierced his; in truth his must’ve pierced mine.”

  “Venneith, what are you s—” Trent began before cutting himself off when he heard a distant cry, faint and hardly heard but enough to catch his attention, compelling him to gaze northwest. Within he felt something clench, something he couldn’t quite explain, but somehow recognised. Within the thicket he spied something dark yet small as it lurched from tree to tree until finally it revealed itself as it burst from the forest. “Nerr?”

  The dragon seemed to be in a panic as it scurried across the dirt, squawking and crying about before leaping to Venneith to climb his armor and fall into his arms quite distressed. It seemed something was wrong, but Nerr couldn’t convey exactly what that was for he lacked a human tongue. Yet still he tried in his efforts as he cried to Venneith and his visor hoping he would somehow understand and send help to the gyrfalcon in distress.

  With Nerr in his arms Venneith looked to the falconer saying, “your gyrfalcon hasn’t returned.” Trent said nothing as a look of despair fell upon his face. Venneith marched forward down the path to Astregra his steed. The wind blew and the leaves rustled, compelling Venneith to remark, “Seems a storm is coming.”

  “Where are you going, Venneith?” Trent asked, his being looking more pale as time eased on.

  “To find the bandits,” he answered as he cradled his dragon, waving a hand to the Narrovinnian before whistling for Astregra to come. Of course she was hesitant while the dragon was held within his care, yet she obeyed shortly thereafter.

  “Wait,” Trent began, compelling the knight to pause very shortly. “You’re leaving? What about Varrult? How will I find him?”

  Turning to the boy, Venneith answered simply, “In the same manner in which I’ll find the bandits. By heeding to those who wish to be discovered.”

  In that instant, when the knight turned his back once more to travel north, did Trent hear the same cry, a screech still distant yet this time it was different and much more distinct. Where the last was accompanied by doubt this one carried no more than a lead ball that settled the very pit of his stomach, and before he could even think he’d disappeared into the forest after Varrult who, without a doubt in his mind, was in dire distress.

  Having only witnessed the final moment before Trent disappeared, Joshien rose as the knight galloped atop his horse with Nerr packed away within the side bag. “That kid just ran off, Venneith!” he stated with perplexion.

  “Indeed,” Venneith nonchalantly affirmed. “Seems he’ll need aid. After him, and be speedy about it, for that gyrfalcon is in dire distress and will hold valuable information vital to our mission.”

  Gathering himself up as Maven pulled himself to his feet, Joshein muttered, “Now we’re to chase after children.” He hadn’t meant for it to be heard but he couldn’t help but let it slip out. Yet Venneith seemed patient, choosing not to retort. “Come on, Maven, before the storm gets here!”

  “Amyth,” Venneith nodded as the infantryman disappeared after Trent. “Follow in my stride, aye!”

  Dashing through the forest with hardly an ounce of thought, Trent became bent on finding Varrult. With every cry that led him deeper into the forest came the even greater amounts of grief and worry. What had gotten to Varrult, he’d question as he ducked under branches and vaulted over logs, caring not for his own wellbeing as twigs scratched at his clothing, catching his skin to scratch and cut him deeply, yet he persisted through the thick forest.

  “Varrult!” he called before it became drowned out by yet another horrid screech just within that thicket of trees. Without a second thought he sprang into action, parting bushes and branches until he breached the foliage to reveal a losing battle between feather and chitin.

  There before him lay Varrult, enveloped in the segmented beast as its legs crawled and wrapped themselves around his friend, turning him over and about ruthlessly as it toyed with the gyrfalcon that struggled in its grasp.

  Trent hardly had the time to think before acting for all he could muster in the moment was the phrase, “Get Off Him!” before rushing over to grab the beast by the body. He hoisted it up, causing it
to drop Varrult, and tossed it away to a tree. Trent couldn’t help but shiver; the very touch was slimy and moist as it wriggled and struggled in his grasp for that brief moment, yet the beast wasn’t done.

  It let loose a hiss that stunned the boy before darting across the ground to him. It was terrifying, the way it moved with great precision and accuracy with more than one hundred legs carrying it across the dirt as if it floated upon a magic carpet. Trent had backed himself against a tree as the beast rushed him, wrapping itself around Trent’s leg with quite the inescapable grip.

  In a futile effort he kicked and screamed as he rammed his leg into the base of a tree to no effect. In fact the only thing the counter-attack garnered was quite a sinister hiss as the beast’s multitude of legs began to bore through the fabric and pearce the skin of his leg as it crawled about frantically. Now it seemed he was in need of aid and he desperately called for it as he once again tried grappling with the beast, only for his grip to fail across its silky smooth chitin.

  Falling back on himself, he called for help. And quick did it come as both Joshein and Maven burst through the thicket. In shock, Maven shouted, “By Lythre!”

  Joshein was the first to act as he sprung forward at Trent and the beast, turning the blade of his sword to take it in both hands. Reeling back both arms he let loose with a powerful blunt swing as the crossguard struck hardened chitin, causing the creature to fly off, landing on its back as Trent scurried away, scooping Varrult into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry, friend,” he pleaded as he reached into his pocket to withdraw a blinder. “I’ll take care of you and we’ll find Nerr,” he whispered before placing it over Varrult’s eyes to keep him calm and tame before he again reached into his bag to withdraw a wing bracer and some bandages, specifically brought if anything so bad should happen.