Hatchling’s Guardian
Through the power of love,
eyes can see what magic obscures.
Helen B. Henderson
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
Copyright © 2013 Helen B. Henderson.
All rights reserved.
Freelance Words and Stories
www.helenhenderson-author.webs.com
August 2013
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of authors.
Acknowledgements
I gratefully recognize the following for their assistance with this work and all things writing.
Judy Gill for her editing par excellence and
support in all things writing;
Carol McPhee, the Nova Scotian pixie who helped
romance learn to take its place with adventure;
And, Karen, my final reader who might claim to be blind as a bat, but can see the clearest of all.
Lastly my husband, Tom, for his patience and support over the years.
Hatchling’s Guardian
Unshed tears burned Deneae’s eyes. She paid no more attention to the yells of her fellow villagers than she did the wooden splinters that pricked her skin. Swinging the heavy sledge, she knocked out the last wall panel. Eager hands grabbed the section and carried it away.
So much had changed since the day’s dawning. The summons to appear before the elders had been unexpected, as was their edict. Old Caldar’s voice as he stood before the six gathered gray-beards held not sorrow, but another emotion with darker overtones. “A dream came to the Seer. He saw a dragon, and it took human form.” His finger stabbed toward Deneae’s chest. “Yours!”
Before Deneae could protest the implied charge of witchery, Caldar raised a hand to silence her. Fanaticism glittered from his eyes. “Slayer Candidate Deneae, you have been chosen.” The words boomed off the stone walls. “You leave in three days. Do not return until you destroy the evil creature devouring our land.”
Although she did not expect help from that quarter, Deneae searched the faces of her former teachers. Their stoic expressions offered no reprieve. Fire burned up her spine. She had done nothing to deserve this punishment. Not a single lamb or calf had been lost to a dragon in the two decades since her birth. Yet these men were sending her to a certain death.
“Kneel, Slayer Deneae,” Caldar ordered.
Numb and unable to resist, Deneae dropped to her knees and bowed her head for a final benediction.
Caldar’s voice rang out. “Know this. If you fall, your name will be carved in the tunnel along the walk of the honored faithful.”
His cold hand on her head turned her rage into a wall of ice around her soul. Her mumbled response to the formal parting must have satisfied the men, because they did not reprimand her as they did in her youth. Fingers clenched against the urge to leap up and strangle those who pronounced her death sentence, she had risen and without a backward glance strode from the room.
Deneae pulled herself from the memory and blinked. Several hours had passed. Instead of the blaze of the noon-day sun, sunset painted the sky bright crimson and shades of orange—and the house built by her mother now lay in ruins. Cold satisfaction took the sting from the view. Good, she thought. My mother would be pleased that the house she built is now making life easier for young Geren and his new wife. Caldar wanted the home for his son, but now the lazy dimwit would have to find another house to confiscate. “Or,” she added with a smirk, “build his own.” The thought of the fat youth wielding an axe brought a chuckle.
Hefting the strap of the bedroll over her shoulder, Deneae took one final look at the empty spot that just hours earlier had comprised her entire world. Everything she needed to do was now accomplished.
Instead of the three days allotted me, I will leave now. On my terms.
Determined she spun on a heel and headed towards the stone wall surrounding the village. Save Geren and his wife, not a single man or woman spoke to her on the short walk through the center of town. Their stone-hard expressions or turned backs made the same statement: Witch.
Her spine stiff, her chin lifted with pride, Deneae met their gazes head-on. Only when she was hours beyond the sentry stones and far out into the surrounding desert did she allow herself the luxury of shedding tears.
Rivulets ran down her face, but she did not stop. Not even the throbbing in her shoulders slowed her leaden footsteps. Although accustomed to the weight of the sword and bow strapped across her back, her travel roll felt heavier than warranted by a single blanket and few meager belongings. No, she admitted, the load did not slow her steps. Knowledge did. The knowledge of the cavalier way the elders dismissed not only her, but her mother and their contributions to the village.
She touched the engraved medallion lying against her skin. The pendant and a leather notebook had fallen from the roof thatches during the demolition. Deneae smiled in remembrance at the discovery of her hidden legacy. “The elders didn't know my mother's secret,” she hissed. “And never will.”
The closer she came to the sanctuary, her destination for the night, the more her steps slowed. Trelleir was her sole friend, and she had come to say a final farewell.
~ * ~
Trelleir stood in the shadows on the high ledge watching Deneae climb the steep trail, noting how effortlessly she skirted the deadfalls and other traps laid for the unwary. At the usual spot, she turned and looked out over the verdant valley to the notch at the far end. Her movements revealed she carried weapons and full travel pack... and her mother’s pendant. Unlike the other visits, the kernel of magic he had placed in the necklace years earlier called out to him. Her possession of the gift awarded to her mother, Adais, merited investigation. Adais had kept his gift to her safe until Deneae came of age.
Realization that the villagers now sent Deneae out on another of their endless quests to destroy every last remnant of dragonkind darkened his soul. He waited in silence until, her face grim, she climbed the final distance, and stood before him. “So, it is done,” he said.
Deneae’s frame tensed, and she gave a slow nod.
“Then come inside,” Trelleir said. “We will share a meal while we talk.”
The food turned to ash in his mouth. Across the table, Deneae mechanically ate the bread and roast. She sopped up the last of the juice, popped the piece of bread into her mouth, then pushed the plate away. Determination stiffened her frame. There was but one question left unanswered. And, he acknowledged, he owed it to Deneae and her mother to speak the truth. No matter the cost.
“You knew my mother, Adais,” Deneae whispered. “And my father.”
“Yes,” Trelleir said in an equally soft tone. “I knew them both.” The image of a slender, brown-haired woman, her belly not yet showing the unborn child within, shifted to a man whose hair color mirrored the ivory of winter ice. His arm wrapped around the woman’s waist held her close while he smiled down at her.
Her voice roughened with emotion, Deneae spoke into the silence. “Mother never spoke of my father
. All I know is that he died before my birth. A dragon killed him.”
“Who told you that?” Trelleir allowed anger to add a harsh edge to his tone. “It could not be your mother. Adais would not speak such a lie. No dragon killed Eneae.” He thrust his chin forward. “Let me guess. Elder Caldar of the Council told you.”
Without words, Deneae confirmed his suspicion.
“A chieftain’s son, your father Eneae journeyed from his distant home on a quest for knowledge.” Trelleir softened his expression. “Den, like you he sought to make life better for his people.” For several long moments, silence unbroken by even a slight sound of a breath filled the cave. “Your mother and he met when she too was sent on the quest of a slayer. They traveled long months together.” Hesitantly, Trelleir lifted a finger toward a stray lock. “Your father came from a land where the sun burnished the skin to a deep bronze and lightened hair to almost white. In winter you have your mother’s color, and in summer...”
“My father’s,” Deneae finished. “You say a dragon did not kill him. Then what—or who?”
Unable to avoid answering, Trelleir took a deep breath. The earlier images of a happy couple shattered, replaced by that of broken bodies. “One night, many months after she left on her quest, your mother returned. Covered in blood from several deep slashes, she stumbled over my threshold. She supported your father who was even more grievously wounded. A pride of mountain cats had attacked them and Adais came here asking for my help. I bound their wounds, did what healing I could.”
Years of suppressed sadness surged forward. “Your mother recovered and with the scars as proof of the success of her mission, returned to the village saying there was work undone. Something drove her. Still, each new moon she came back to spend time with Eneae. When he died, in the custom of his people, we carried him to the crater rim and gave him into the Goddess’s care.”
Digging into the pack, Deneae pulled out a book. The worn leather cover reflected years of use while the embroidered ribbon holding the volume closed showed love and care. She looked at the book, then held it out to Trelleir. “This contains the last of my mother’s notes. I want you to have it.”
He stood, making no effort to take the offering. “I cannot. That was your mother’s, her legacy to you.”
The girl in front of him tightened tightened her lips in a manner Trelleir remembered as reminiscent of the way another had refused a gift. “No,” Deneae persisted. “My mother often spoke of you. That was why I was so pleased when the elders selected you for my community service.”
“I bet they selected you because no one else would climb the switchback to my cave,” Trelleir answered, heat in his tone. “Deny it. None of the other candidates in slayer training wanted a posting so far from the comforts of the village.”
Deneae dropped her gaze to the book in her hands. “Please, Trell, my mother kept this safe for many years. I know you will do the same.” At his continued refusal she pulled a chain from beneath her tunic. Light glittered off the pendant that dangled from her hand. “She also gave me this. So you see, the journal is not all I have of her.”
“That explains it,” Trelleir muttered. Praying she did not catch his slip of the tongue, he hastily added, “Why you would wear it today, when you leave on your great mission.”
She closed her fingers around the warmed metal as if it would bring back her mother, then with a sigh returned it to the hiding place between her breasts.
Trelleir kept a tight hold on the truth that wanted to be whispered. He did not tell her the dragon stone secreted in the necklace was filled with his magic. Instead, he took the book and opened it. The tight script he remembered so well flowed across the page. Flipping to the last entry, he sucked down a deep breath. There in the ancient language he had taught Deneae’s mother lay a message that could only be intended for him. Once again he cursed those who had stolen so much from him.
~ * ~
The next morning, her parting from Trelleir added to the sorrow in Deneae’s heart. She wondered at the flash in his eyes and his quickly hooded gaze. Whatever secrets he kept hidden, one fact emerged. He recognizes me as an adult. With the knowledge came another revelation. “He did not try to keep me,” she whispered. Unbidden, an old maxim rose. If you love someone, first set them free. If they return, your joining was meant to be.
The image in Deneae's mind shifted. No longer was Trelleir her mother’s friend, but hers. Somewhere in the past day, her relationship to him had changed. The man in her mind no longer belonged to her parent's generation. Virile and in his prime, he seemed no more than a few seasons older than her. Warmth crept up her spine.
Pondering the change in her perception occupied Deneae for the rest of that day and the one after, until the necessities of tracking her prey forced out all other considerations. Nightfall came, bringing with it more danger than just the wild creatures of the desert.
The shape of a dragon glided across the stars, blocking their dim light.
Crouching amidst the rocks, knife in hand, Deneae held her breath until the shadow retreated in the distance. For once she was glad she had made a cold camp. No smoke gave away her position. The breeze from the dragon’s passing ruffled her hair. When she was sure the creature had left and was not circling overhead, she stood and scrambled across the rocks. The last of the setting sun provided enough light for her to track the dragon's path until its shape merged with the maw of a great cave.
Each night when the dragon flew, she hid beneath her mottled gray and brown cloak that blended into the sand.
Witz should have made a cloak like this, she mused, rather than trading his knife for a gaudy red one. Maybe then his bones, stripped of flesh and the marrow sucked dry, wouldn’t have been found two days hike outside the valley. Deneae fought the memory and stilled into an undistinguishable ripple on the surface of the great desert.
Beneath the steep cliff face, she made a meal with the last of her supplies. On the morrow, she would either die or have to start living off the land. Even if she killed the dragon and survived, in her heart she knew she would not return to the village of her childhood. There was nothing and no one there for her. Roiling thoughts prevented sleep, but after a period of meditation she drifted off into a light battle rest to recharge her physical body.
A faint memory demanded Deneae's attention. The darkness of the desert shifted to the moonless night when the elders summoned her mother. A meeting from which Adais never returned. In a heartbeat, what had been suppressed crystallized into a vivid recollection of her mother's light touch. "Be safe, my daughter. The Goddess and Trelleir will watch over you." Pain of loss surged through Deneae. Rivulets of tears, chilled by the night air, ran down her cheeks. Each drop took with it the sorrow, leaving only an empty void.
Whispers danced just outside her grasp. Their voices pulled her from the memory down the path of her own possible future. Her mind surged from one vision to the next. The elders’ heroe's welcome of her as the savior of the village turned dark. Heady with the successes of the age-old plan and the destruction of their enemy, the meeting of the tribunal and declaration of Deneae a witch. One night, as they did to my mother, they would come and drag me to the place of cleaning. She heard old Caldar, "Only a witch can kill a dragon.” No matter the logic that every child was trained from birth for such a task.
An unwanted—and unearned—fate overwhelmed Deneae and a low moan escaped into the darkness. Her spirit self shifted to the place of cleaning. A long finger of molten rock snaked from the goddess’s crater, flowing down the hillside towards four iron stakes, pounded into the hard rock an arm's-length apart. The short length of chains attached to metal rods glittered in the light of torches.
The villager declared a witch would be shackled spread-eagled on their back into the restraints. By tradition, the head of the one being tested faced down-slope to allow the mountain goddess the maximum time to make her decision of life or death. If the molten rock flowed over t
he captive and left them unharmed, the prisoner would be released and all possessions returned.
Although she had seen the vision many times over the years, until tonight the face of the villager was always obscured. Now, the glow of the torches revealed the one being tested. No, murdered. Deneae silently cursed. The amorphous features solidified first into those of her mother, then shifted to those of her own. Tears unshed for years streamed down her cheeks until, exhausted, she dropped into a sleep uninterrupted by dreams.
The next morning, Deneae awoke with the sun's first painting of the rocks. This dawn, unlike the others, came with the knowledge that the elders lied. They had not saved her from the dragon. Although the creature passed so close over the village, everyone felt the air moved by his wings, Trelleir was the one who held the elders and the armed men of the village at bay. It was his and Geren's blades that prevented the confiscation of her home. The comfort she felt at just the mere thought of him warmed her. She would slay the dragon, not because the elders ordered it, but for the safety of Trelleir and the other innocents.
In the first silvery rays of dawn, she scanned the rocky crag. A dark slash high up the slope caught her attention. The trail she picked out was steeper than the one to Trelleir’s cave. However, without her bow and quiver, she could just make it. Foothold by foothold, she climbed from one rock to another, ignoring the sharp edges biting into her palms. Her gaze never wavered from her destination.
With a grunt she pulled herself over the edge into the narrow tube and evaluated the space. “Wide enough to climb through,” she muttered. A strange scent wafted out on the cool air that teased her skin. A shrug and her pack dropped soundlessly at her feet. Flintstone and torches with pitch-soaked rags at the end soon lay in a pile. Silently she looped the string of the soft leather pouch holding the flintstone through her belt. Swift movements slid a dagger into her boot.
“Ancestors beyond the veil, guard and guide me this night,” Deneae whispered in ritual prayer. “And if I fall this day, welcome me into the eternal clanhold.”
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