Dragon’s Call: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  “Rowan? What are you doing up there?” Patrick’s voice drifted along the crumbling stairwell.

  I winced. Busted. Sort of. Maybe I could get away with not answering directly. I trotted down the risers and met him coming up. His blue eyes radiated concern. “Good. You’re in one piece. We weren’t certain where you came from. Or what was happening. Your magic blasted us from above.” He jerked his chin upward for emphasis.

  “It’s all right,” I aimed for an upbeat note. “I got worried when I didn’t find any of you in the garden, so I warded myself and investigated.”

  He patted my shoulder, and we walked slowly down the remaining stairs to the second floor. The other witches had gathered on the landing, apprehension stamped into their faces. Patrick said, “All is well. Rowan worries too much.”

  I grinned ruefully. “You’ve got my number.”

  “I should,” he retorted. “After all the years you’ve lived with us.”

  Everyone retreated to the lower chamber they’d designated as a common room. It had a hearth with stones to cook on and was large enough to accommodate everyone’s sleeping pallets. They’d collected the best of those from the remainder of the castle. Most had been eaten to shreds by mice intent on securing nest materials.

  “Look what we found.” Hilda sounded excited as she tugged out several full grain cannisters. “Rice and millet and barley. There’s even moldy wheat, but we can salvage it with magic.”

  “That’s wonderful.” I grinned. It was far from an endless supply, but it was a whole lot more than we had and would make larger meals possible.

  “It is, indeed,” she agreed.

  “Aye, and we’re far from done searching,” Leif said. His thick dark hair was streaked with gray, and his brown eyes glowed warmly. Thin like all the rest of us, he’d once been a large man. He was still tall, but not much meat was left on his bones. Threadbare trousers were covered by an ancient fisherman’s knit sweater. Once cream colored, now it was more of a dingy oatmeal shade.

  Something about the word “searching” pinged a warning. “Probably best if I do the searching,” I said. “Sometimes the Celts lay traps, and I’m less likely to spring them.”

  “So long as we get every scrap of whatever is here, I don’t care how it happens,” he said.

  I felt the same. My kin had food aplenty on their borderworld. They had no need for what they’d left behind.

  I shared a meal with the witches and listened to what progress they’d made. If what they’d planted cooperated, we could be out of the castle in a couple of months. This time around. Provided our strategy proved fruitful, we would repeat it again and again. It would ensure our survival.

  By the time I readied myself to leave, I was as excited as the rest of them, and I promised to pass the word along to the others who’d remained beneath Ben Nevis. The first thing I heard before the walls of my chamber had fully formed around me was Mort.

  He was still furious, and he meowed up a storm telling me what an ungrateful bitch I was for abandoning him. I crouched next to him; he turned his back on me. “I kept you safe,” I told my feline friend. “I’d do the same again.”

  Tail held high, he stalked from the room, apparently not appeased by my justification.

  I sank onto the edge of my mattress, too keyed up to think straight. My mind raced in tired circles as I considered the dragons’ message. My name wasn’t my name. I had to ferret out my real one.

  Somehow.

  My eyes snapped open; my stomach clenched. The food I’d eaten formed an indigestible lump in my belly. Bjorn had asked about my name. He wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t at least suspected I had a different one.

  “Damn it, Mother,” I snarled. “When will you be done fucking me over?”

  I didn’t have much of a plan, but my first stop had to be Bjorn. I’d ask him about my name, and I hoped to every deity who’d ever walked, he knew what it was. Maybe if he didn’t, he’d help me figure things out.

  He might not like me much, but he ate, lived, and breathed magic. This was a magical conundrum. Ergo, it should appeal to his wizardly spirit.

  Grabbing a scrap of paper and a pencil, I sketched out the good news from Inverlochy and tacked it outside my doorway. Someone would see it. I didn’t have time to run everyone down and initiate a general meeting.

  I crafted an incantation. When it failed, I shelved that approach and started over. Traveling to a borderworld was a different proposition from crossing into the Nine Worlds, of which Earth was one. I’d never thought much about Norse real estate despite Earth being separated from Odin’s realm by the thinnest of gossamer veils.

  I knew where Niflheim was since I’d been there. It was the only one of the Nine Worlds I’d visited. Except Midgard, of course. It scarcely counted since I lived here. Bjorn had mentioned Bifrost, the rainbow bridge running through the worlds. He’d also intimated I’d be fried alive if I tried to use it. I’d been considering returning to Niflheim—since I knew the way—but I decided against it.

  I didn’t want to waste time and magic bouncing about from place to place if my first efforts turned into dead ends. A headache throbbed behind one eye. I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed my temples as I sliced and diced my problem. Getting stuck in the wrong world wasn’t the end of things, but then I’d have to start over. I could try the bridge and hope for the best. I could also attempt to find my way by scaling Yggdrasil’s roots.

  Assuming I could even locate the One Tree.

  Out of all my potential solutions, that one was the worst. It might take me days to climb from world to world. The ash tree was enormous beyond comprehension.

  When a truly simple answer splatted in front of me, I grabbed hold of it. Blood spells were foolproof. All I needed was a miniscule amount of Bjorn’s blood, and I could teleport right to him. I’d dropped my bandage material in the wash kettle, but maybe I’d get lucky and find a drop or two of blood on the floor near where he’d been sitting.

  I bolted to my feet and raced out the door, mumbling entreaties to whoever might be out there rooting for me. Ha! Like I’d ever been that fortunate. Skidding around a corner, I hustled into the common room. Mort was hunched over the floor near where Bjorn had sat, licking it feverishly.

  “Mort. Stop!” I shouted. He kept on licking, so I immobilized him with magic. He might never forgive me, but I wouldn’t leave him that way very long. Only until I reached him and scanned the floor for what I sought.

  Excitement coursed through me once I got close enough to inspect the flagstones lining the floor. Mort hadn’t been thorough. Not yet. Another couple of minutes, and the stones would have been shiny clean and slick with his saliva. Maybe I had a guardian angel watching out for me after all. I bent and carefully lifted two large, congealed dollops of Bjorn’s blood onto a blade I’d just drawn from the thigh sheath I habitually wore.

  As soon as the precious goo was mine to command, I released the cat. He skinned back his lips and hissed at me. I eyed him and said, “I told you to stop. You didn’t listen.”

  More hissing.

  I balanced the blade on a nearby table and bent to his level. “I love you. You’re an amazing creature. I apologize for raising magic to control you.”

  Slowly, the hackles along his back relaxed. He regarded me with his amber eyes as if wondering whether trusting me again would be his undoing. Ever so slowly, I extended a hand. When he didn’t draw back—or bite me—I petted his head and scratched behind his ears.

  He didn’t exactly push into my touch, but neither did he stalk away as he’d done earlier. So long as we’d established an understanding, albeit a fragile one, I told him, “I’ll be gone for a little bit. It’s to another world, so I can’t take you with me.”

  I stroked him for a few more minutes before I straightened, glad I hadn’t completely destroyed the connection between us. He meowed plaintively and looked right at the remaining blood.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Once I’m
gone, it means I had enough to do the job. Then you’re welcome to whatever is left.”

  Sitting, he curled his tail around himself and watched me as if I was the most intriguing person on Earth, but I wasn’t fooled. He was making certain I didn’t remove any more blood than absolutely necessary.

  The next part went fast. Like I said, blood castings are infallible. I could find anyone anywhere, so long as I had a drop of their blood. Not everyone has the seeking gift, but it runs strong in me.

  Turned out the dollops on my knife were sufficient. I transferred them to my palm and summoned fire and air to activate them. Smoke shimmered around me, thick with the coppery smell of blood. Usually it has an acrid undertone, but not this time.

  The walls of the common room glistened and liquefied before they vanished entirely. Too late, I worried about bothering Bjorn. It was the middle of the night, assuming time flowed the same in Vanaheim as it did on Earth. What if he was with a woman?

  I smothered a groan. I’d cross that bridge if I had to. Maybe I could wait outside until daybreak? Not the most comfortable setup, but not impossible, either. I hoped me showing up out of the blue wouldn’t piss him off, but then he’d done the same to me. More than once.

  It wasn’t quite the same. He’d traveled to Earth, but not specifically to see me. Until this last time after the battle. Then he’d sought me out.

  To make certain I was safe.

  Perhaps this would have a better outcome than I anticipated. Regardless, I’d find out damned soon. My transport spell was developing a transparency around the edges that told me I’d arrive within seconds.

  He’d been standing with his back to the door when I arrived, but he spun so fast I missed the transition. I did my best to read his expression. He looked surprised, but not angry, and set down the scroll he held. A relieved breath rattled from between my teeth.

  “Apologies,” I stammered and moved my gaze to the stone floor of his hut. “For disturbing you. It’s not as easy as it might seem to get here, and I’d never have been able to locate you without the bits of blood you shed beneath Ben Nevis.” I was blithering, but I kept right on. “If it’s not a good time, I can wait outside. Or maybe not so close as that, but—”

  “Rowan!”

  Hearing my name, or not-my-name as the case might be, had the effect of shutting me up. Good thing. Goddess only knew what would spurt from my mouth next. I’d been staring at the floor, but now I looked at him. Impressions rolled through me. His cottage was one moderately sized room. Crowded, yet orderly. Everything seemed to have a place. The wall he’d been perusing held books and scrolls. More than I’d ever seen in one spot outside Mother’s library. A wooden table with four chairs ranged around it sat in front of a hearth. One corner held his neatly made bed.

  Lights crackling with magic were spaced at uneven intervals, and the fire burned with a will of its own. It must be powered with magic as well.

  “Do ye approve?” he asked me in an old form of Norse.

  My face heated. I was embarrassed my appraisal had been so obvious. I shook my head. “Not my intent,” I managed. “I’m always curious about, well about everything.”

  “Aye, I’ve guessed as much.”

  He was even more beautiful than in my memory. His face glowed in the flickering illumination from the many mage lights. They highlighted his sculpted cheekbones, regal forehead, and squared-off jaw. I tried not to look at his well-formed lips. It hadn’t been very long since I’d fantasized what they’d feel like pressed against my own. A small frisson that had nothing to do with being cold ran down my spine.

  He’d changed into fresh clothes that looked much the same as the trousers and shirt he’d worn into battle.

  Bjorn moved to the far side of the cottage. I felt his power kindle as he dropped leaves that smelled delicious into thick ceramic mugs. Water followed, and I understood he was preparing tea.

  “Do ye wish honey in your brew?” he asked, still speaking Norse.

  “Maybe a splash of mead,” I said. Hearing my voice reminded me I hadn’t added anything to my earlier rambling account.

  “Ye’re in luck. I happen to have some.” He reached to a shelf, retrieved a flask, and poured a healthy jot into both cups.

  I strode across the room and asked, “Which is mine?”

  “Either.”

  “Thank you.” Picking up the nearest one, I took a tentative swallow to assess if it needed to cool. Somehow, he’d managed to brew perfect tea without making it so hot it burned my tongue. Magic came in handy for the little tasks too.

  “Would you like to sit?” He angled his gaze at the table. I noted he’d returned to English.

  Grateful for the invitation, I made my way to the table and sat near the hearth. I looked to see if there were logs I could feed it with, but my initial impression—that the fire took care of itself—appeared to be accurate. For a while, we drank our spiked tea in a companionable silence.

  A sidelong glance—or two since I couldn’t seem to not look at him—told me he hadn’t recovered much since he left Earth. Guilt smote me. “I’m keeping you from your rest.”

  He waved me to silence. “You already apologized. Whatever you want with me, it must be urgent, or you’d not have used a blood vector to locate me. That’s one of the harder castings.”

  Not for me, it wasn’t, but I didn’t correct him. I set my cup down and placed my hands on the table on either side of it. “I have a problem.”

  “Only one? Consider yourself fortunate.” A corner of his mouth twisted into a wry grin.

  A snort blew past my lips. “Yeah, huh? I have problems aplenty, but after you left I visited the place where you fought.”

  He raised both blond brows in surprise. “You did? Why?”

  “I wanted the feel of it for myself.”

  “What did you find?”

  I grinned. “For starters, I’ll never believe you again when you say you’re not a warrior. Arawn’s balls, there must have been three hundred dead. Perhaps more. I didn’t take the time to count bodies.”

  His eyebrows shot up another notch. “That many, eh? It surprises me.”

  Now was a time to level up and be honest. “The whole thing surprised me. It’s why I went to the trouble to walk the battlefield. I know about gnomes and trolls and goblins, but they’ve never banded together to attack a single man before. They must have wanted you dead in the worst way.”

  “That part is true,” he agreed. “They did want my head on a pikestaff, but it’s not why I was there.”

  “You didn’t show up on Earth to fight?”

  He thinned his mouth into a grim line. “Not exactly.”

  I waited, but he stopped there. It seemed wrong to pry. His life. His business. If he’d wanted me to know more, he’d have told me.

  I took a few more sips of tea. The mead was warm, comforting, and the tea had a minty licorice aspect that lingered on my tongue. When I set the cup down, I said, “I appreciate you not pressing me for what the hell I’m doing here in the middle of the night.”

  “I figured you’d tell me eventually.” He drained his mug and plopped the flask on the table. I hadn’t realized he’d brought it with him.

  “I’ll do you one better and stop beating about the bush. After I was done on the battlefield, I was preparing to leave when two dragons showed up. They’d teleported from somewhere because they don’t live on Earth.”

  Bjorn’s expression sharpened. I felt the subtle weave of a truth spell settle over me. It hurt my feelings, but I didn’t blame him. For dragons to seek me out was improbable. I would have conjured a truth spell too. If I’d been in his place.

  I took a breath to settle my nerves and blew it out before I started up again. “Anyway, the gist of what they wanted was to tell me I had to find my true name.” The heat that had mostly left my face returned in a rush that swooshed over the top of my head.

  “Why come to me?” His question was smooth, too smooth.

  “Becau
se you all but told me my name wasn’t my own.” I slapped my palms on the table and skewered him with my eyes. “Please. If you know my name, tell me what it is.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I shall have to hunt for it the old-fashioned way. It might take months. Years.” I closed my teeth over my lower lip. “I can’t exactly articulate why, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “These dragons, did they mention what would happen after you unearthed your name?” Bjorn met my gaze unflinchingly.

  “No, but both of them said everything would fall into place.”

  He laughed. It was so unexpected I pushed my chair back half a meter. “And this is funny, why?”

  “Not funny, but typical of dragons. They might not live in Midgard, but plenty bide here.”

  I resurrected what he’d said so far, and he had not said he had no idea what my name was. I waited. I’d give this another few minutes. If he blew me off, I’d leave and figure things out another way.

  Mother. She was the logical next stop.

  I’d find her and jack her up until she answered me. Yeah, and I’d get Arianrhod and Bran and a few of the others involved. I’d tell them about the dragons and me not knowing my name. The other Celts might discount me, but they wouldn’t distrust dragons. Now that I was warming to the idea, I might even involve Dewi. More than one way to skin a possum.

  The corners of Bjorn’s mouth twitched. “I can see I’ve moved from important to dispensable.”

  “Yes, but how—?” I slapped my forehead with the butt of one hand. The truth spell. It would have given him easy access to my thoughts.

  He reached across the table and covered one of my hands with his. “The dragons told me to stay out of it, but I’ll tell you what you wish to know. And then, both of us will pay your mother a visit.”

  “If I know my name, I won’t need Mother,” I said tartly and winced. I should be falling all over myself thanking Bjorn, not contradicting him.

  He just looked at me, an unreadable expression on his face. I would have bet one of Mort’s paws he understood full well that despite all my bravado, the last person I wanted to deal with was Ceridwen.