by Ben Galley
Dragons cut through the foliage with brutal swings. She fired off another arrow as she backpedalled, then turned and ran, hopping from dry patch to dry patch in the quagmire.
Reeds and long grass parted ahead of her and she panicked, thinking the dragons had flanked her already. But it was a trio of cu-sih that came bounding out, teeth bared and snarling.
Elsie screamed, scrambled for more arrows, and tried to stop running all at once. She skidded along the mushy earth, falling flat on her back, her head smacking against a rock lodged in the mud. Colours exploded in her vision. She groaned, thinking this would be her end.
Hunters were calling to each other. Death cries and screeches of pain burst in between the calls. A dragon came stomping into her vision, smiling cruelly at her before an arrow took him through the neck. He fell face down with a splash nearby her.
Elsie tried to focus, expected the cu-sih to pounce on her while she was down. But nothing happened. She flexed her stomach and hoisted herself to a sitting position, and there, watching her with glowing green stares, were three hounds. Only their eyes moved, from her to the dead dragon then back to her, and then the beasts looked at each other in some silent communication. Then, quite bizarrely, the hounds lowered their heads, ears drooping. A heartbeat passed, then the cu-sih tore off, vanishing against the landscape before even entering the long grass.
Getting to her feet, she still heard the clear thrums of bowstrings. A horrible thought occurred to her that the call for retreat had not been heeded, or her hunters had been unable to get away. If they died, it would be her failure, cu-sih or no. That boy’s death would be heavy enough on her conscience, let alone her entire squad.
She ran back, bow out and arrow ready, guided by the sounds of an ongoing skirmish. Why were the fools still fighting?
Pushing through wall after wall of grass, she ended up in a clearing where five dragons stood huddled together, surrounded by dead humans and dragons. Arrows covered the dragon corpses as though blooded, bronzed hedgehogs had sprouted from the ground.
“You must run, my Prince,” a dragon called, before an arrow found his waist. Another dragon fell, and the leader in the middle, the one without a helmet, looked livid.
He caught Elsie’s eye, and she realised she was the only human visible to them. “Dragons do not flee,” he bellowed, then charged straight for her. His comrades were picked off, but he did not stop.
Elsie dug in her feet, took aim—
Someone screamed, “No!” from within the grass.
Elsie loosed, and the arrow impaled the dragon near his collar, sending him spinning to the dirt.
“Elsie no,” the voice called, and a full squad of hunters emerged from the grass. It was the Boreac hunters. Their captain, Elsha, was sprinting over to the body of the fallen dragon leader. She knelt by the dragon’s side, rolled him over and pressed her ear to his mouth to check for life. Her expression was, in Elsie’s opinion, entirely too fraught.
“What’s the matter?” Elsie asked. “We’re out here to kill them, aren’t we?”
Elsha glared back in frustration and threw her braided blond hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t you hear them? They called him ‘Prince’. This is him.”
“Dronithir?” Elsie said, her words sounding distant to her. As it began to sink in, she smiled. “Good.”
Elsha ignored her, waving several of her Boreac fellows over. They began pulling clean linens, stitching silk and scissors out of their sacks. Elsha grasped the shaft of the arrow in two hands and pulled it free, though the tip remained in his flesh.
Elsie had seen enough. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Elsha snapped.
“Why save him?”
“You think his father will give up the war if we kill his son?”
“You don’t know for sure that it’s him,” Elsie said.
Elsha flicked out a skinning knife from her belt. “I won’t take the risk.” She took her bearings, then began to cut out the arrow head. Unfortunately, he remained unconscious during the seconds of surgery.
“Got it,” Elsha announced. She chucked the metal away. “Needle sap?”
“Right here, captain,” a hunter said, handing her a vial containing the precious silver liquid. Elsha took it, popped the cork, and carefully poured the substance onto Dronithir’s wound. It smoked and hissed, and Elsha withdrew the vial having barely spent five drops. The Boreac captain placed a hand over the dragon’s nose and sighed in relief. “We must take him to Farlen to recover.”
Delegating the task of stitching and binding the wound to others, she got up and rounded on Elsie. “Why didn’t you wait for us?” she asked in a hushed undertone.
Elsie had to look up at her. All of the mountain hunters were taller. Elsie blamed the diet of lean game and mountain-goat milk, yet she stepped towards her counterpart defiantly.
“You were the one who lost contact. I did try to explain that you’d need my guides, but—”
Elsha threw up a hand. “We can’t have been far behind.”
“I didn’t think I had a choice,” Elsie said. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You’re acting rashly. We might have lost Dronithir.”
Elsie snorted with rage. “You didn’t know it was him until a minute ago. Are you sipping that silver goo on the sly?”
“That wasn’t my point,” said Elsha. “My point is you would have let him die, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Elsie said bluntly. “He’s the enemy. He’s invading our lands. He’s kill—”
“Killed someone dear to you, I kn—”
“Don’t,” Elsie seethed. “Don’t you dare,” she added in a whisper. “You haven’t lost – you don’t underst—” She was shaking now. She didn’t have to take this. So she turned, intending to try and find signs of her squad.
“I need a fellow captain I can rely upon,” Elsha shouted after her.
But Elsie did not look back. There were new tears in her eyes.
The Boreac Mountains were named for the family who had controlled their rugged peaks long before the Kingdom had become a twinkle in the eye of rich northern lords. These lands weren’t invaded lightly. Only one sizeable road entered the range at the edge of the Cairlav Marshes, leading to a town called Farlen. Elsha had claimed this town as her mustering point for the disparate bands of hunters scattered throughout the Boreac range. It was here she had brought Dronithir to heal.
And place under guard, of course.
Elsie hadn’t been allowed to visit the Prince. Elsha didn’t trust her to be alone with him. It might have been an issue in the early days, when he mostly slept and she might have gotten her knife to his throat. Two weeks after their arrival in Farlen, she wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway.
It wasn’t a shock to Elsie that he’d healed quickly. He was a dragon after all. What was curious was why he remained so cooperative. Another week on and Elsie had her suspicions as to why.
Every day, she’d watched Elsha enter Dronithir’s makeshift prison house in the early morning. Every day since, she’d left a little later and smiling that bit wider.
Beyond Farlen, Dronithir’s capture had brought a tense cessation of hostilities. Elsha thought there could be peace. Elsie thought otherwise.
“You just want revenge,” Elsha would accuse.
“You’re being naïve,” Elsie would retort.
“You’re blinded by hate.”
“You’re blinded in a different way,” Elsie would say.
One day, rumour came that fresh legions had landed in the Dales. Elsha explained, via Dronithir, that the leader would be Norbanus, who was titled the Guardian, whatever that was. Something to do with their religion, Elsha said, but Elsie had heard enough. More legions meant the full invasion was underway, and no matter how many hunters they hid in the marshes or woods,
the dragons would trample humanity to dust. The king had sat on his throne in the north and had done nothing.
Elsha announced she would take action. She would leave on patrol and take a message from Dronithir, demanding Norbanus stand down and make peace. They argued some more about that, but Elsha was determined. She waved farewell to them as she left town. Elsie gathered a dozen trusted hunters to keep arrows trained on Dronithir as he stood in the square to see Elsha away.
He stood brazenly, all perfectly chiselled and self-assured, his white shirt loosened artfully from his collar. He smiled warmly at Elsie. She narrowed her eyes and frowned.
“Back to your hut,” she said. “And if he so much as pokes his head around the doorway,” she called to the assembled hunters. “Put an arrow in his eye.” And that was how things stood.
Until the night that everything changed.
Elsie sat at her desk. She called it her desk, but it was really just the corner table by the window in Farlen’s inn. A faint buzz of chatter and the odd chinking tankard occasionally broke the strained atmosphere. It was the perfect level of noise to drown out the world and enter one’s own thoughts.
Elsie’s mind was brooding of late, keeping one eye fixed on Dronithir’s door whenever she could. He’d make some move, she was sure. Perhaps his dragons would try to rescue him one night. And how would poor Elsha feel when she discovered he’d betrayed her?
“Room for another?” a voice barked.
“What?” Elsie said, turning to find none other than Marshal Balliol carrying two flagons and a bulky package under one arm.
“Aye, sit,” she said absentmindedly, pushing a chair out for him with her foot.
“Much obliged,” Balliol said. He sat down with a great sigh and passed the fresh ale over to her. Her previous drink sat stale and neglected.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. The bitter taste hit her hard and she shook her head, suddenly alert. “Any luck in rallying the other regions?”
“Hunters from the Golden Crescent and Hinterlands will be with you shortly, but a new army is harder to find. All of Lord Heath’s hunters are with you now.”
Elsie had worried about that. “Have the towns and villages been safe?”
“Wolves learned their lesson years ago and don’t come so close these days,” said Balliol. “And the cu-sih seemed to have cleared off n’all. Whole bunch of ‘em seen heading east a while back. No one hears their cries anymore.”
“I see,” Elsie said. She paused and took a larger sip, feeling she might need it. “How’s Aleck?” Balliol was close enough to the Heaths to know of the whole sordid mess, as he saw it. At least she could speak to him about it. It had been torture not hearing news.
Balliol didn’t answer immediately. He took a long draught to excuse his lack of reply. “Aye, he’s good lass,” he said at last. “Right little fighter,” he added more jovially. “Good set o’ lungs on him.”
“That’s – that’s good.” She bit her lip, raw emotion mixed with exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her again. Her eyes stung. When had she last slept?
“Look,” Balliol said, “I came to bring a report back to Lord Heath and to give you this.” He pushed the package over to her. She unwrapped it. On top was a set of hardened leather armour, shaped to suit her figure and dyed shades of dark green and ruddy-brown. A note jutted out from under a vambrace:
Custom crafted as per your request, Captain. Wynda did indeed have your measurements. You’re doing an excellent job.
Kenneth Heath, Lord of the Cairlav Marshes.
A seal was stamped below, an outline of a crannog over water.
Elsie crumpled the short letter. Not even a mention of my son’s health, she thought. Even with Balliol bringing the message, it would have been the decent thing for Heath to reassure her himself. Still, she had her new leathers, and that was something. In fact, she was quite excited to try them. With any luck she’d be able to blend in better with the environment, just like the cu-sih did.
There was another item beneath the leathers. Something pale blue.
Balliol’s gaze followed her own. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Elsie pulled out Aleck’s blue swaddling suit. The material was still rather soft, as though it hadn’t been worn much. Another note, more hastily written, was pinned to the breast of the clothing:
Aleck has outgrown this, but I thought you would wish to keep it.
Lord Heath
Elsie didn’t know how to feel. It was too much. She looked from her son’s clothes to her new hunter gear. He had already outgrown them? Well, of course that would happen. It was inevitable. He’d grow, and learn, and play; take his first steps, speak his first word; but what word would that be? And who would he say it to?
She squeezed on the vambrace still in her hand and placed it on top of the other pieces of leather. The more she became the huntress, the less she was a mother. She didn’t feel like putting on that armour anymore.
A flurry of movement blurred in the corner of her eye. She looked up to find a commotion outside. Hunters and townsfolk were gathering around two grim-faced dragons trudging unarmed up the streets, flanked by hunters with primed bows. Both still wore armour: one a standard legionary, the other the same save for a strange symbol emblazoned on his tall shield. The symbol was painted in bright yellow, a rough sword cutting through a sun formed of spiralling lines. The dragon with the mysterious symbol carried something else.
He carried a long braid of blond hair.
Elsie jumped to her feet, knocking the table and upending her new flagon of ale. She snatched up her bow and strapped on her hip quiver as she wove through the maze of chairs and baffled hunters who had not yet seen the horror she had.
By the time she made it outside, it was already too late.
A roar, not quite like an animal, but not quite like a man, bellowed from Dronithir’s hut. Then the door burst open and the dragon bearing the symbol hurtled backwards. Dronithir leapt after him, landing astride the dragon, bringing his fists down in hammering blows.
“You laugh?” Dronithir cried. “Norbanus will never laugh again when this is over. He dares… Why? Why?” He descended into sobs.
Elsie blinked. She’d never seen a dragon cry before, not even when they suffered the most terrible wounds. She’d wondered whether they were even capable. Every hunter looked from Dronithir to her, but she signalled they hold for now.
The plain legionary remained standing pale-faced in the doorway.
“Why?” Dronithir said hoarsely.
The beaten dragon spat dark blood. “The Lord Guardian felt she had placed the taint of the Shadow upon you. Seems he was right.”
“Norbanus’ words have been poison. The Black Dragons hold no sway over them. It’s all lies,” he seethed, then he raised his bloodied fist again, a look to kill in his eye.
Elsie’s morals tugged at her. She couldn’t allow plain murder. She nocked an arrow, drew it back to her cheek. “Stop this,” she yelled. Amazingly, Dronithir did, though his fist remained shaking in mid-air. “I don’t know how dragons do things, but here we don’t kill messengers.”
“Nor do we,” Dronithir snarled.
“Then let him go.”
Dronithir hesitated, then grabbed the dragon’s head and smacked it off the ground. The dragon’s eyes closed over.
“He’ll wake up later,” Dronithir said, panting. That was also new. She’d never seen one of them breathless before. As he calmed, Elsie lowered her bow and the rest of the hunters followed.
“Back inside,” she told him.
Dronithir ignored her, but beckoned the plain-uniformed dragon to his side. “Legionnaire, I have a task for you. Return to camp and tell our men what happened here. Tell them their Prince denies the Guardian Norbanus, his Light Bearers, his beliefs. He is leading our people down a blood-soaked path from whic
h we cannot return. We must prevent the slaughter of the human race. My orders are to break camp and march here in haste. I would go myself but there are… things. Things I must do…” he trailed off, peering with glassy eyes to the high peaks of the Boreacs.
If the legionnaire was confused by these orders, or worried how one legion was to defy so many others, he did not show it. He simply snapped to attention, thumped his shield off the ground, raised his arm in salute and barked, “At once, my Prince.”
Elsie wavered between burying the pair of them under a hail of arrows or, as mad as it might be, letting the messenger go.
Dronithir took several steps forwards, still fixated upon the distant mountains.
Elsie huffed and raised her bow again. “Back in your hut.”
“I must go,” he said, vacantly. “I must go to them.”
Without warning, he dashed forwards in a run that would have shamed a mountain lynx.
Elsie loosed her arrow, aiming for his leg. She didn’t come close. He was too fast. Everyone else had been caught off-guard, and each arrow that chased him fell by the wayside. Unhindered by armour, Dronithir quickly ascended the road leading deeper into the range, disappearing from sight.
Elsie rounded on the legionnaire. “Deliver your message. But add this: any dragon who approaches in armour will be shot on sight. Your legion will come unarmoured or it won’t come at all.”
She stormed back inside the inn, found Balliol standing wide-eyed in the doorway, ripped the flagon from his hands and downed the entire contents.
Balliol scarpered the morning after Dronithir’s departure with hurried words of seeking aid, but she didn’t hold her hopes up. Still no word came from the king in Brevia. Perhaps humanity was to surrender to the inevitable.
The chase of Dronithir also ended abruptly. According to each group of hunters, his tracks simply vanished from the snow. One step they were there and the next it was pure white velvet, so she ordered the hunt to end. Unarmed and unarmoured, lacking clothing and provisions, he’d likely die. And they had a legion to prepare for. She didn’t think dragons would accept the absence of their prince lightly.
