Heir of the Dragon

by Anna Logan

  They all shook their heads. “Right, then, thank you.” She nodded to the messenger. “You’ve been out in the field for a while. Maybe you should go back to Calcaria.”

  “I have been, Arji, and there should be a fresh batch of messengers arriving shortly...so if I have your permission, I’ll return home.”

  “You most certainly do. Thank you again.”

  He rode north, toward the outpost, while they kept going west. Apparently Wylan’s note had given her mind something to mull, because she found it easier to stay awake as they traveled, but harder to remain optimistic or cheerful, or even just neutral. She kept telling herself it shouldn’t be bothering her. It was Wylan, through and through, and she loved Wylan...then she flinched at how romantic that sounded, and reminded herself that whether or not there was a romantic attachment involved, she loved him as a friend. And she appreciated him; his straightforward sincerity, his integrity, his morality—even when it made her uncomfortable. So shouldn’t she be comforted by those qualities in his words?

  She told herself it wasn’t just because she’d sent him nearly a page of a somewhat vulnerable expression of her feelings about the fighting and the war, and had only received four sentences in return. Because that was just how he was, and how she was—she rambled, she talked circles, she often needed a lot of words to convey her meaning. He could say everything he wanted to with half the words, he could put a whole sermon into one sentence.

  Maybe...maybe it was just that she wanted him there. She didn’t want his note—she wanted him. And she didn’t want his sympathy about the war, his gentle reminder of its importance...she wanted the war to be over. She wanted nothing to do with it.

  Dragons and Details

  Z OPER approached the massive double doors and the two men that guarded them with his thumbs in his pockets. “Grand entrance, please.”

  While he couldn’t confirm the suspicion because of the helmets the men wore, he suspected they must be regulars that were familiar with his antics, because they simply obliged him—they each thrust open a door and bowed as he walked through, one announcing into the room: “Zoper Veserron, Captain of the Tarragon.”

  Kaydor was slouched in his throne, forehead propped up by one hand with his elbow on the armrest. He dragged the hand down his face, positioning it under his chin instead to look at Zoper. “You and your grand entrances.”

  “One is afforded few pleasures as a royal snob.” He went to the steps of the raised section of floor the throne sat on and made himself comfortable, leaning back with his hands behind his head. It was the closest thing to a chair in the room, except the obnoxious throne, of course. “So they might as well enjoy those few. So! Am I grounded? In for a lecture? On time out? These mysterious summons have me all sorts of—”

  “You are exhausting.” Kaydor let out his breath heavily. “Nothing so pleasant. It’s about the rebels.”

  “Ah yes, the plague of San Quawr vermin. It’s all anyone talks about.”

  “They’ve started a war,” his uncle snarled, “of course we’re talking about it. I can’t ignore them anymore.”

  “Ignore them? You’re throwing metal-heads at them, aren’t you? That’s not ignoring them.”

  “I always forget how exasperating you are. Now. This is exactly what you and your men trained for—them. Meaning it’s time for you to stop running about the castle causing trouble.”

  Zoper put a hand to his chest dramatically. “How insulting. Alright. Which ones do you want me to deal with—the bunch clearing cities, or the four terrorizing the idiots outside?”

  “Those idiots are our men. Your men.”

  “Oh dear.” He bit his lip. “I certainly hope not. I thought mine were better trained.”

  Kaydor rolled his eyes. “That’s the point. It’s time for your men to deal with the problem. I want you to start with the four here—they’re the immediate threat. We can’t safely mobilize our forces with them hovering around the city like a hawk.”

  “Did we ever find out the source of their abilities?” Zoper traced a finger along the edge of a step. It was rimmed with gold. “Or are we still going with the ‘witchcraft’ theory?”

  “I don’t care about the source.” Kaydor’s gray eyes flashed. “I care that you put an end to it. Talk to the commanders. Explain to them the best tactics to avoid their electricity. Get your men together. And get those four in the ground or in my prison.”

  Zoper lifted himself onto his elbows, eyeing his uncle with raised eyebrows. “How bossy. What if I—”

  Kaydor’s face hardened. Zoper knew the look. “You’ve been avoiding this since they arrived. Don’t think I don’t know that’s the real reason you had an errand at the Black Mountain base.”

  The only way to possibly get out of it now was to provide an alternative solution. “Well...have you looked into finding a way to the inside? All those messengers they have, and they must have small bases of some sort here in Zentyre. If we find out how they recognize one another, we can get a man in there.”

  A slow, thoughtful nod. “Yes...I’ll look into it. Good idea.” His gaze was still keen on Zoper. “And what are you going to do?”

  Zoper wrinkled his nose. “I’d really rather not—”

  “Zoper.” Kaydor straightened in his throne, going from tired uncle to regal king in that simple action. “I oblige your preferences when I can, but here, I can’t. I need you to deal with this.”

  Knowing better than to press the issue, or continue with his bantering, Zoper forced a quick nod and left the throne room. Barbsit tails. If only the San Quawr had been smart enough to keep to their secret haven—wherever that was—rather than rattle the dragon’s cage. Because he was the dragon, sort of. The Tarragon, a band of 150 hand-picked, highly trained men, were the most elite warriors in Zentyre. And he was their captain.

  He and his men had trained together for just this—the lightning-throwing rebels.

  Outside the castle, Zoper cast an instinctive gaze over the barracks and arena visible to him. One never knew when lightning was going to turn one into a pile of ash these days. It was a clear sky, of both clouds and San Quawr witches. He still thought the witchcraft a silly idea...but then, he didn’t have a better explanation.

  Inside the stable the Tarragon kept their celiths in, he found who he was looking for. His marshal, Macquinn. “Mac!” He clapped the man on both shoulders and gave him a shake. “Haven’t you heard? The witches are here, it’s time for the Dragonets to wreathe them in flames as they were born to do!”

  With a disconcerted scowl, Mac weaseled out of Zoper’s grip and huffed. “Spend your fine-talking complaints somewhere else, Veserron, that’s all a person bloody does hear.” For a barrel-chested, stocky man built like a yuley—short and muscular—Macquinn had a voice that could easily be mistaken for a girl’s.

  Zoper leaned against one of the stalls. “So the Dragonets are taking insults, are they.” The Tarragon were named for the Old Zentyren word for dragon. Since Kaydor’s insignia was a dragon, and his reputation was of being as fierce as one, the soldiers often referred to him as the Dragon. As his top warriors, the prized pupils that doubled as his hirelings, the Tarragon had been nicknamed the Dragonets.

  “Bet your blasted boots we’re taking insults, idiot.” Mac crossed his arms. “If you hadn’t been hiding from the witches all this time I wouldn’t have to be telling it to ya, neither! Spend ten minutes in the barracks and you’ll hear it for yourself.”

  “I know.” Zoper abandoned some of his nonchalance, giving Mac an apologetic look. After all, he was the reason the Tarragon were being mocked—he’d been avoiding this war since it started six weeks ago. Those first few days of the newly initiate Eradication, before the rebels showed up, Zoper had led a force of Kaydorians to clear a nearby city of San Quawr.

  The events of that attack…they still haunted him.

  After that, he’d conjured up an “errand” that had taken him to their other military base, where he coul
d avoid further involvement in carrying out the Eradication. Even when the rebels had shown up and started wreaking havoc, he’d stayed away. Because of it, the Tarragon were given the appearance of cowards who refused to join the fight.

  He put his hands in his pockets as he spoke again. “And you know I’m sorry for how it affects you and the boys.”

  “All those tutors sure turned you into a sweet-talking princeling,” Mac growled. By the way he turned up his nose as if still offended, Zoper knew the man had already forgiven him.

  “Don’t call me that.” He glared at his marshal, even as he smiled. “Well, in any case, I don’t get to hide anymore, and the metal-heads will have to revoke their insults. We’re officially on duty. Round up the tops, will you? Meet me at the west gate for a ride.” While Mac left to do as bidden, Zoper went deeper into the stable to his celith’s stall. She was a tall, graceful mare, often mistaken for a stallion for her powerful build. When Zoper had come to live in the castle with his siblings three years ago, she’d been a filly that Kaydor was training to be his personal mount. But on the day his uncle appointed him as captain of the Tarragon one year ago, he’d also surprised him by giving the mare, aptly named Dragoness, to be his celith.

  She pranced like the noble steed she was as h e led her, saddled and bridled, into the warm sunlight outside the stable. Dragoness was well aware that she drew the eyes of every passerby and that she belonged to the royal family of Zentyre. Mounting, Zoper trotted her to the mess hall that also served as the main hub of the Kaydorian base. Any commanders and captains that weren’t at home or in the field would be there, strategizing, socializing, or drowning their sorrows at the bottom of a beer glass.

  Tying Dragoness with the dozens of other celiths outside, he entered the dark, crowded building with a smile. He didn’t spend much time there and didn’t feel the need to, but he didn’t mind small doses of the place. Within a few minutes he found four of the five men he was looking for. They were the top commanders of the metal-heads. Two over the infantry, one over the aerial division, one over the cavalry, and the absent second cavalry commander. One of the infantry commanders was none other than Dejer, famous for being the first to bring the news of the rebels to Kaydor three years ago. Later, he’d led the battle that had killed one of them. Even though it had only been one out of a couple dozen, and even though Dejer had been one of only a couple hundred to get out of it alive, he had played it up as quite the triumph.

  Zoper had never liked the man much.

  After extricating each of them from their respective occupations, he asked for them to get their mounts and meet him at the western gate. One of the infantry commanders was clearly drunk and probably would have little to offer to the discussion, so Zoper kindly excused him from the excursion.

  Fifteen minutes, and they were all there—the three commanders, Mac, and the top ten Tarragon, who each had partial responsibility for fifteen of the men and represented them when decisions were being made. “Alright boys.” Zoper waved his hand for the guards at the gate to open it. “The Dragon wants the witches dealt with, once and for all. For a start, let’s find where they’re sneaking in at.” He cued Dragoness through the gate. “I suspect I know where to look.”

  The fifteen men followed him with questioning glances as he started around the wall of Aydimor. Eventually they seemed to accept that they would learn his meaning whenever he felt like telling them, and fell into a handful of conversations throughout the group. Mac stayed beside Zoper, smirking some. “And this is why we call them metal-heads,” he said for Zoper’s ears only. Mac was no fool—he knew what Zoper was looking for.

  Along the northern side, he found it. A drainage tunnel with four bars split and bent to the side, creating an opening barely big enough for a man to get through. “You see gentlemen, the rats are coming in through the sewer.”

  “Ha!” The cavalry commander shook his head at the sight. “How the devil did they manage that? Those bars were supposed to be invincible against anything less than a dragon.”

  Dejer didn’t share his mirth at the situation. His small eyes were hard and cunning, just like the mind behind them. “If we’ve learned anything about these rebels, it’s that their abilities aren’t to be underestimated. We don’t know what all the lightning-throwers are capable of.”

  “Other than dropping bodies like the plague,” one of Zoper’s men, Gyndar, said.

  Dejer threw his shoulders back, chin up. “That ends now. We need to—”

  “Ahem.” Zoper gave him a friendly, patronizing smile. He didn’t usually take advantage of his rank to condescend to other men, but with Dejer, it was impossible not to. The man was so full of himself. “Kaydor has put me in charge of the matter.” Not in so many words, but since Kaydor generally put him in charge of every military matter that he could, it was a fair assumption. “To catch them, we need to know when they’re coming. My boys will handle that. We—”

  “There’s a less than two hundred of you.” Dejer was glaring at him. “Shouldn’t the infantry, with its thousands, be in charge of that?”

  “Hasn’t the infantry, with its thousands, been miserably failing thus far?” Zoper gave him a wink, knowing how it would infuriate him. “Your soldiers are like a club—good when you need to bash something to pieces, but for precision, useless. As I was saying. We will handle surveillance. Now, am I right that one of the rebels took down a few hundred men at once and passed out afterward, yesterday?”

  “Yes,” the cavalry commander nodded, “the others had to help her out of there, I understand.”

  “Then I imagine we have at least two days until they attack again. From what I’ve heard, she is their leader, so they won’t attack again until she’s fully recovered. That being the case,” he gave Dragoness’ neck a pat, “you have two days to prepare your divisions. I want three thousand infantry ready, the rest will guard the city in case anything goes wrong. I’d like a thousand cavalry read for offensive, too. Sound doable?”

  Nods. Dejer still looked arrogantly vexed.

  “Fabulous.” Zoper turned Dragoness back the way they’d come. “Let’s go talk details.”

  ~♦~

  There wasn’t much point lying on the cold, hard ground when sleep clearly wasn’t going to come. It must have been past five o’clock anyway, less than an hour from her usual rising time. Talea sat up, shivering at the cold air that crept up her arms. Terindi, though so often unable to sleep, was managing it for now. So Talea put on her boots and a coat as quietly as possible and left the tent.

  Rikky had the last watch. He sat on a rock with his shoulders hunched against the cold, looking up at her movement. “Good morning,” he said softly, to avoid disturbing either Terindi or Skyve. “Not sleeping?”

  She took the rock nearest him. “Not really. I think I got too pampered with feather beds and soft sheets in Calcaria.” It wasn’t the real reason, but it was easier to say. Not that it couldn’t be part of the reason. When they had traveled through Zentyre for months to gather the wards, sleeping on the ground hadn’t been much different than sleeping on a thin, flat “mattress” stuffed with straw, only a couple inches off the floor, like she had for her entire childhood in Vissler Village. Living in the woods, with a tent for a home, hadn’t been so different from living as a villager in a haliop. Now, sleeping on the ground in a tent was a far cry from the luxury she’d gotten used to in Calcaria.

  But it wasn’t the reason she couldn’t sleep. The fighting was the reason. The loneliness was the reason.

  “Do miss those beds and sheets.” Rikky smiled. “So are you feeling better?”

  If only she weren’t. “Yeah. We might as well head back to Aydimor, take another shot.”

  Rikky didn’t say anything for awhile. When he did speak, it wasn’t what she expected. “I’m not as dumb as Skyve makes me out for, you know. I know you’re…” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, as if trying to think of the right word. “Well, that you miss the others. And you don’t rea
lly like fighting.” He lowered his eyes briefly, then gave her something of a shy smile. “Just remember you aren’t actually alone. I’m always here for you.”

  His words put a sort of steadiness in her exhausted body. Talea looked at him, a snag in her throat. “I…” She shook her head, managing a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  Rikky leaned forward. The way his head tilted slightly, his eyes searching hers, falling, and lingering on her lips a moment…it was almost...

  It passed before she knew what to make of it. “Anyway.” He grinned sheepishly, standing up. “It would be awkward if I stayed now, so I’m going to see if there’s any game around here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah,” she forced herself out of the daze, “thanks.”

  Had she imagined the look? Rikky had always been prone to a little flirting, and not just with her. He was charming and attractive, he knew it, and he didn’t make much effort to hide his interest in girls. He and Ami were not so dissimilar. Except...unlike Ami...Rikky had never followed through. He’d never actually pursued a relationship with any of the girls that caught his eye.

  And he had always treated her differently than Terindi, or Kae, or Ami. Than anyone.

  What if he had only been keeping his distance because of Wylan?

  Stop it. Talea stood up, pacing a few steps. The likelihood of Rikky having feelings beyond friendship for her weren’t worth thinking about. All she was basing it off of was one look. Except...recollections of other times he’d looked at her almost the same way made her pause. No. Wylan had never looked at her like that, yet there was proof of his feelings.