The Dragonlord's Call Short Story Collection

by K. S. Villoso

  Margga uttered a low sigh, a woman resigned to her fate.

  “Civil unrest, and mad dragons everywhere,” she murmured. “Truly this land is doomed.”

  “If it’s doomed, why do you keep fighting?” Namra croaked out.

  “Fighting is all that’s left,” Margga murmured. “What else are we supposed to do? Curl up and hope they leave us alone? It doesn’t work that way.”

  “There’s still hope. Prince Rayyel and his princess…they could unite us.”

  Margga gave her a look of scrutiny. “What part of that do you think is a good idea?” she asked. “To ask enemies to bed together in the hopes that it cures whatever ails us…”

  The dragon roared again. It had finished consuming the soldiers and was walking towards them, lifting its legs like a high-stepping horse, a predator assured of its prey. A mad light danced in its yellow eyes.

  Margga seemed to come to a decision and drew her grasscutter blade. It was barely longer than the dragon’s fangs. But she tore down the road, unafraid. She couldn’t have believed she stood a chance against it. It was a death sentence, one last act of rebellion against the gods who bore her into a land of suffering and strife. The dragon took her head off with one bite.

  Now only Namra remained. A thin waif of a girl, hair blowing with the wind, facing a dragon from her father’s stories. It didn’t occur to her to run. She knew they used to ride dragons in Jin-Sayeng. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  The dragon approached her without hesitation, its wings tucked behind it as it dashed forward. A foot away, it opened its mouth and roared, its tongue pulsating, saliva dripping from its red-stained jaws. The ground shook. And then, out of nowhere, it turned its head and took to the sky.

  Namra, still alive, looked down. Her hands were glowing blue.

  Namra spent the rest of the afternoon hiding whatever was left of the soldiers and making sure they were stripped off their Oren-yaro armour. Later, she found the field where the Ikessars and the Oren-yaro had clashed, now a field of bloated bodies. She did the same thing, hiding every banner, every armour, every sigil in the bushes, where she hoped no one would stumble upon them for a long, long time.

  The dead, after all, do not speak. If she was careful, no one would know about the dragon, or the Oren-yaro’s attempt to assassinate the prince. The survivors would keep quiet—they had to. If it was a mistake, then best it stay that way. The land didn’t need another war. They had barely recovered from the last one. Royals could fight and kill to their hearts’ content, but ultimately it was the people who starved. Famine, pestilence, and plague dogged the heels of arrogant pride. They always did.

  She returned to the village two days later, a frail shadow of the girl who had left. She fended off the curious questions by hiding out in Margga’s hut and pretending she was ill. A few more days later, she learned that the prince had arrived safely in Oren-yaro, and that celebrations were underway for his first meeting with his princess. People spoke of it with joy on their faces, bright expressions that she would be loath to drive away with the truth. Her father had been like that, too, and she wanted to be like him. Believe in hope, and the future. Maybe the betrothal wouldn’t be doomed.

  Her mother’s letter arrived at the turn of the season—a battered, flimsy thing that looked like it had been sent to at least two other villages before finding its way to her hands. She stared at it with trepidation, her lip trembling. Her mother had picked a good envelope, the kind of paper her father would’ve loved. She found a knife to open the seal with, so that it wouldn’t get damaged.

  Inside was a ticket for a ship back to Dageis and a simple note:

  “My Dearest Namra,

  Your studies start in the spring. I’ll see you soon.

  With Love,

  Mama.”

  She left the village that very same day.

  The High King’s Blizzard

  (Aina’s Breath Prologue)

  Sweat formed on Hyougen’s palms at the first sight of the white sails on the rim of the horizon, but he tried not to panic. It was unbecoming for a king to panic. Sechuu, he knew, was watching him, and the boy wrote everything down in those accursed journals of his. He did not want the books to read that Hyougen Shirahe-sa-Shi-uin’s knees turned to jelly when he saw the Dageian army on his shores.

  “Someone told them about the agan wells. Why else would they send an army?” he grumbled under his breath. “Ab help us. There are children down there.” He held his breath and tried to squint. He was too far away to see the city, but he hoped that his generals were making preparations. No one brought an army to trade words. Least of all Dageis. History knew…

  History. He swallowed. He had eight hundred soldiers in the city below. They were good men, but untested. He could have three thousand and it wouldn’t matter. A Dageian warship could hold twenty or thirty mages—ruthless, battle-honed mages trained to kill, not sparring partners or straw-men. There were more warships on the horizon than he could count.

  “Why so many?” he gasped. The sound of despair in his voice frightened him.

  “Maybe they don’t want to take prisoners,” Sechuu said. “I’m sorry,” he added, noting Hyougen’s glare. “I’m frightened, my king.”

  Hyougen glanced at the sword in his hand. It was a simple thing, with an unadorned hilt. He had always detested flashy swords. The blade was forged with a wave pattern; looking at it, he could see his eyes reflected off the surface of the steel.

  He took a deep breath. “We have little time. There is no chance they will spare the children, is there?”

  Sechuu glanced in the distance, uncertainty stirring in his eyes.

  Hyougen felt his fingers twitch. He was suddenly convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that if that whole army was in front of him right now he could slaughter them without hesitation. The moment passed. The fear returned. He swallowed and murmured, “Let’s return to the others.”

  Izo, the blacksmith’s youngest son, was standing guard by the longhouse when he arrived. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old, yet he was standing as straight as a spear, his hands gripped around the hilt of his small sword. His face lit up when he saw Hyougen cross the courtyard. “The men are gathering by the walls,” he said. “We thought you’d know.”

  Hyougen placed his hand on the boy’s shaggy black hair. Dead to the agan, Izo had long ago given up the prospect of ever being considered a shiar soldier. It had not tampered with his enthusiasm one bit. His father must have joined the men by the walls to outfit them.

  “Is your queen inside?” he asked.

  “She was looking for you. I told her not to worry. I’m here—I won’t let those Dageians come close!” He thumped his chest with his fist.

  “So you are.” Hyougen pushed the sliding door open and stepped inside. The hall was empty, items left as if in the middle of tasks undone: a broom by the stairs, half-eaten food on plates on the communal table, rags in the corner, smelling strongly of the spiced wax they used on the floors. He turned back at Izo. “Where are the rest of them? The women?”

  The sound of his voice made Izo jump. “The queen sent them off. The ones who can carry a sword are to be with the men. Those who can’t took the elders and the little children up the hill in case…” He swallowed, his hands shaking a little. “In case they break through. But that won’t happen, will it? We’ll kill them at the shore. We’re strong.”

  “We are,” Hyougen murmured. He looked at Izo’s bright-eyed face. The Dageians could use someone like him as a slave. He was tall for his age, with wide shoulders that promised a good size if he lived long enough to be a man. But the rest of them? The younger ones would be useless at the oar. Did Dageians need house slaves, bed slaves, even? If that was what it took to save them…

  He shuddered at the thought. He glanced past Izo to stare at the empty yard, where the children used to play-fight with wooden swords and brooms. The memory of one summer, when Izo chased Sechuu into the pig-pen, retur
ned to him. That night had been full of raucous laughter from his soldiers, who always found his protégé on the weak side.

  He swallowed. The truth, of course, was that young Izo would fight to the death. So would the rest of his people. He continued inside. Up on the stairwell leading to their bedroom, he picked up a doll from the ground—a brown, ragged thing, made of cloth—dusted it, and returned it to the shelf. He didn’t know why, but being tidy at a time like this made him feel like they would all still be home by tomorrow.

  Queen Aliahe was packing a trunk when he arrived. “I’m sorry if I don’t stop to kiss you,” she said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Hyougen came up to her and placed a hand on her elbow. He felt her freeze. “We have a little,” he murmured. “It may be all we have left.”

  She turned to him and placed her head on his chest. A soft sob escaped her. “Oh, Hyougen,” she whispered. “Are they only here for the agan wells? Could we not give them access and live?”

  “What good would that do? The Dageians don’t take colonies.”

  “Yes, they do. The Gorenten…”

  He pushed her aside. “That’s what you want for our people? To have our land sucked dry, to become beggars with less rights than Dageian slaves? Alia, the Dageians took Gentigen for themselves and exiled the Gorenten to the outlying islands to live like animals. Once in a blue moon, they would return to remove children gifted with the agan and smash their heads against the rocks. Gentigen now crawls with Dageian thieves and merchants, its temples and buildings abandoned while their people fight each other with sticks over a lizard carcass. This is the future you would give us?” He didn’t realize how much his voice had risen until he stopped.

  Aliahe took his hands in hers. “I understand, my dear. I know we have to uphold our pride as Shi-uin. But love…” She caressed his cheek. “Pride won’t keep our children alive.”

  Hyougen stepped towards the window and she returned to the trunk. A blue glow hovered over her hands as she sealed it. Over in the distance, where the walls stood, he heard another series of horn blasts. The Dageians were drawing nearer. The ships would hit the shores by noon.

  “Why did you ask Izo to stay behind?” he asked, turning his gaze to the courtyard below. Izo had not moved where he had left him. In another time and place, the boy would’ve cut an amusing figure as he stood there, soldier-like at his post, his brow furrowed with determination. Now, Hyougen couldn’t feel anything beyond the weight of sorrow. That the boy might never grow up to be a soldier and serve Kazfian…

  His thoughts were broken by the sound of Aliahe’s voice. “He insisted. Mahe was crying. She didn’t want to leave without me, so he volunteered to stay with us. He kept her entertained until she fell asleep again.” She glanced at the adjoining room.

  Hyougen parted the curtains. His daughter Mahe slept in a corner of the big mattress, her thumb in her mouth. He sat next to her and placed his hand on her red cheeks. They were still damp with tears.

  She stirred. “Go back to sleep, little love,” he murmured. “Everything will be all right.” He patted her leg and hummed her a song he had sung to her most nights since she was born. Her eyes began to droop closed again. He watched the curve of her nose and her long eyelashes, and thought about not being able to watch her grow up—of sunrises and sunsets, and how many other fathers would still have what he would lose by the end of this day. A lump welled up in his throat. He wanted to take her in his arms and run away.

  Hyougen turned his head and saw Aliahe looking at him from the doorway. She knew what he was thinking—she always did. He felt helpless, and a moment passed where he thought he would just march down to that shore and beg the Dageians to spare his family, at least. He would do anything to hold on to that moment in that room, basking in the warm breeze and orange glow of the sunlight, with the three of them alive and a touch away from each other—anything. A coward’s thought, and he killed it as soon as it passed, but it left his knees shaking all the same.

  “I am ready,” Aliahe said. “I will take her and join the others at the hill.”

  “There are more of them than we can fight.” He hadn’t meant to speak at all. He struggled to find better words and found that he could not. “So much more. It will take them all but ten minutes to smash our defenses. She is my heir. They won’t let her live to see sunrise. I would…I would sooner end her life myself.” He looked at his own, trembling fingers, and shook his head. “But so Ab help me, I don’t know if I can. I don’t know what to do.” A sob escaped him.

  He heard Aliahe draw closer and reached for her. Her fingers curled into his hair as he laid his head against her belly and closed his eyes. He could feel her every breath and wanted nothing more than to wrap himself in the certainty of it, to be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of her pulse and then wake up to the sweet silence of a morning that was theirs alone.

  “You are right, of course,” she said, after what felt like forever. She drew away from him to wrap her arms around Mahe’s sleeping form. “We are blood of this land. We cannot let the Dageians taint what we are. Our people will fight and die trying. We must join them.”

  “We will.” Hyougen forced himself to his feet, placed his hand under her jaw and kissed her. “Say your goodbyes,” he said.

  He watched her kiss their daughter’s cheeks, her forehead, her lips—watched her with the ache of a man who knew it was the last time he would ever see such things. And then his brave queen stood up, wiping the few tears in her eyes, and told him to take her away. “Don’t let the Dageians hurt her,” she said. She had never looked more beautiful in his life.

  Hyougen took the long path around the city, along the beach. Izo, ever-faithful, trotted behind him like a dog.

  “Have you ever killed someone, Izo?” he asked, at length. He adjusted Mahe’s arms around his neck. She was still fast asleep.

  “My king?”

  “Don’t take offense.” He pointed at Izo’s sword. “You seem adamant at waving that thing around.”

  He saw Izo’s cheeks colour. “No,” the boy admitted. “I’ve never had the chance.”

  “But you could? For me?”

  “Without hesitation, my king.”

  He smiled at that. It was a shame the boy had no connection to the agan. He would have made a good shiar, a true warrior. “And for your princess?”

  “You need not ask, my king. I would kill for you or for her, or die trying.”

  They were at the edge of the beach. There was a small dock behind an outcrop of rocks. A fishing boat was anchored to a post. He stepped into the boat, bracing himself as it shook, and placed Mahe next to a seat. He tightened the woolen cloak around her.

  Izo joined him. “We’re escaping?”

  “I’ve seen you race the other lads over the harbour. You know how to handle the oars, don’t you?”

  Izo nodded briskly. “Yes, sir. Of course I do. But are we escaping?” The boy couldn’t hide the look of outrage in his eyes.

  Hyougen placed his hand on Izo’s shoulder. “Sheathe that weapon, Izo, and grab the oars.” He unclasped the bag around his back and dropped it beside Mahe. “The sleeping draught will last a few hours. Enough time for you to make it to one of the nearby islands. There’s provisions for the both of you.”

  The boy realized what he meant. Hyougen saw him force a nod, though his knuckles had gone white. Hyougen’s face softened. “Protect her, Izo. She is the last princess of Shi-uin. Give your life, if you must.”

  Izo sheathed his sword and placed it in the bottom of the boat. He looked like he was mulling over Hyougen’s words. But before he could speak what was on his mind, they heard one long, drawn-out horn. The Dageians had arrived.

  “There is one last thing I have to do,” Hyougen said. He glanced at his daughter. “Protect her,” he said again, his voice trembling a little. It was the plea of a father, not an order from a king.

  Izo grabbed his hand and pressed his forehead against the back of it. “Until we
meet again.”

  “On the other shore, my boy. But not yet, Ab willing. Not for a long time yet.” He drew a deep breath and forced himself to turn away. The time for mourning was past; all he needed now was courage. He was King of the Shi-uin, the last male of his bloodline, and he was not going to let his people down.

  His feet took him past the dock and then up a path, but not the one that led back to the city. He took the trail leading back to the mountain.

  It was a long walk, one he had to steady his nerves for as he imagined the fighting beginning to break out at the shore. At some point, he stopped on the second bluff overlooking the sea. A tall cairn stood on this edge, marked with a broken sword from which a skull hung. Parts of the skull’s brow and its jaw were missing.

  “Hello, old friend,” Hyougen said, venturing close to the cairn. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be out of your way in a moment.” He stabbed his sword into the soil. He glanced out to the sea and waited until he could see the tiny boat out in the distance—a speck in a sea of blue. “Goodbye, my love,” he murmured. Then he uttered a single spell, and the blizzard came.

  The Architect and the Fork

  The shaft of sunlight broke through the cracked window like a valiant king, crowned with dust as it danced on the yellowed parchment on the wooden desk. It revealed drops of black ink splattered on the surface, which were marred by a trail of congealed red ink from an upturned jar. There were dots on the parchment, too, both red and black, giving the drawing underneath the impression of a castle to be built on a battlefield. Black and red, mud and blood. Mud and blood.

  Portia’s eyes opened to the sight of this, and her first thought was that the cat had sneaked into her room again and ruined all her work. But then she remembered that he had taken the cat with him. Her mind cleared. The wound reopened.

  She remembered Nerian’s hard eyes and taut jaw as he stuffed the few items he had in her apartment into a leather bag. “I just can’t see how we could make this work,” he had said. She remembered wondering how he could be so calm—how he could say these things with the same voice he had once caressed her with. “You’re too…you, Portia. Try to understand.”