Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

Days passed and Armaila saw herself improve greatly at swordsmanship and sensing the world around her as a dragon rider. Veral began to include Shera in training more, forcing the dragon to learn difficult maneuvers and precise control over her fire.

“You’ve done well,” Veral said as he sipped his morning tea.

It was damp from rain the night before, but the rising sun brought warmth. Birds sang from perches high in the trees and squirrels flited on branches, storing away nuts for winter. Even the ground beneath their feet was filled with life, and Armaila wondered how she had lived so long without being aware.

“Let’s review your vocabulary,” he continued. “Tree?”

“Rbii.”

“Battle?”

“Yernni.”

“Fire?”

“Wubi.”

“Very good.”

Veral poured his unfinished drink on the fire, causing a wave of sparks and peppermint smoke. Armaila followed him into the woods to their normal training ground, and waited for instruction.

“It will be some time before you truly master common fairy,” he said, “but you know enough to begin simple spellcasting.”

The thought was intimidating, but Armaila was eager to try. Bending her tongue around such strange words had been a challenge and she was relieved to have progressed enough to be trusted using them.

“A spell takes twice the energy it would take to do the task by hand. It is only for things that cannot be done by hand that magic is useful.” Veral gave a command and a small flame sparked on a pile of logs. “This takes little energy, and can be extremely useful if you have misplaced your flint.”

He continued to explain more rules and limitations, and then instructed Armaila to gather her own logs to repeat the spell with. She selected several small, dry branches and arranged them in a neat pile that would easily catch with a small spark.

“Mnenn wubi,” she commanded. A tiny flame sprang to life, enveloping the dry tinder in seconds.

Veral nodded with a smile. “Well done.”

The morning continued with more simple spells, often taking breaks to rest and discuss the history of riders.

“Was it common for women to be riders?” Armaila asked. Her most recent spell—making her cloak float through the air in a way that mimicked someone walking as a means of distraction—had left her feeling drained.

“Dragons did not discriminate in who they hatched to. Although the exact magic that bonds dragons and differentiates them from wild dragons has been lost, it is believed to be based on complimentary features. A dragon who is strong and hotheaded might seek a cool and collected rider, for example.”

“And how did dragons benefit? It’s obvious they were a great advantage to humans, but why did they agree to be tamed and bonded in the first place?”

“Those are good questions to ask,” Veral said. “Bonded dragons were given a life of comfort and security they could not obtain in the wild. Food they did not need to hunt, warm shelter, and most importantly, respect.”

A clap of thunder sounded in the distance, and Armaila looked to see dark clouds on the horizon.

“That is enough today.” The old man stretched his limbs and yawned. “You may visit your friend if you wish, but be mindful of the weather and don’t try spellcasting.”

Armaila was grateful for the break in her usual routine of training, and she had only briefly seen Gregory since shooting apples. A light drizzle began to fall as she and Shera made their way through the forest. She wondered what words would create magical barrier from the water—likely it would involve “ferib” or “efei”—but she refrained attempting it. Veral had stressed many times that other spellcasters could sense her ability while using magic. She could sense Veral’s use of spells herself, but only weakly, and it grew stronger with practice.

Worry clouded Gregory’s face when he opened the door.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“Veral let me finish early. What’s wrong?”

“It’s that obvious?”

Armaila rolled her eyes. “I’m no stranger to fake smiles, and yours is the most pathetic attempt I’ve seen in some time.”

They left the front door open for Shera to stick her massive head through, and Gregory brought two chairs to the foyer. Armaila knew the dragon would not tolerate being excluded from their conversation.

“Father still hasn’t returned,” Gregory began once they were seated comfortably. “I’ve taken on most of his duties, which is far more responsibility than I anticipated. I recently received a letter from your mother, under the seal of King Theodore. Normar was attacked.”

“Attacked?” Armaila’s stomach twisted. “Is there any word on casualties? Did the city fall?”

“She said we won but many soldiers died, and she expects the Legion to launch another offense. From what I’ve heard, many of the ports are now under Azghar’s control, and it will be difficult to hold out against him.”

Armaila turned to Shera, but she already knew what the dragon was thinking. They did not have time to train as long as tradition dictated. The war was now.

“I must go,” she said.

Gregory’s frown deepened but he nodded. “I’ve decided it is time for me to leave, too. I believe my father is in Stonebrook and I have questions only he can answer.”

“What will Greenfields do without you?”

“I hope it will be a short trip, and I’m afraid it may be my only opportunity.”

Armaila understood. Everything seemed so fragile, where a single day could change the course of history.

We can’t tell Veral. He wouldn’t let us go.

Shera recoiled at the suggestion. That would betray his trust.

Would you rather wait and do nothing?

The dragon growled but didn’t argue.

Gregory excused himself to pack, leaving them alone downstairs. It was strange, how the posh furniture and expensive décor was no longer as intimidating as it had once been, and almost had a sense of familiarity about it. A layer of dust had settled over the mural of Dorothea Smith. She had black hair and striking cool blue eyes. Gregory favored his father’s side, with blonde hair and a sense of warmth in his completion, but he had his mother’s high cheekbones.

Armaila had been so sure she didn’t want to marry him. Now that she could choose, doubt had creeped into the back of her mind. She did know him well and he was kind and handsome, and he had been accepting of Shera.

She blushed, realizing Shera could sense her confusion. Thankfully, Gregory reappeared with his belongings, letting her avoid a conversation with the dragon about it. Or, at least, postponing a conversation.

“I think Shera can support both of our weight,” Armaila said.

Both the dragon and Gregory gave her a skeptical glance.

“It’ll be faster,” she insisted.

The storm still hung on the horizon, but the rain had stopped and claps of thunder were heard several moments after flashes of lightning. Shera knelt to allow them both to climb on, with Armaila in front. She stretched her wings and leapt for the sky, and fortunately, she was able to support both of their weight.

Flying was considerably faster than horseback. Armaila marveled as entire forests and mountains disappeared underneath them, and by evening the reached Stonebrook. Despite the relatively quick journey, the motion of flying had caused a strap on her bag to rub her neck raw.

Armaila had had heard many stories about the fabled City of Fire. The people of Stonebrook worshipped flames as their gods and decorated their homes with it, and they had an inordinate number of residents with hues of red and orange in their hair.

They landed some distance from the city where Shera wouldn’t draw attention.

Wait here.

The dragon let out a small puff of smoke and lay down beside a tree. Gregory was pale and it took him a moment to regain his footing after dismounting, and Armaila didn’t attempt to restrain her laughter.

They walked through tall grass and thick underbrush until they reached the city gate. It had been painted brilliant red some time past and was in desperate need of another coat, with large pieces peeling off and exposing dull metal underneath. A large crowed flowed into the city, peddlers and bards and weary travelers alike. Strange, given that Erithor was at war. They appeared too well-dressed and happy to be refuges.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Would you like a ribbon?”

Armaila turned. A young, redhaired girl held several brightly colored strips of cloth in a basket. Frills adorned an orange dress and her own hair was tied up with one of the ribbons.

“What is this?” Armaila asked, motioning to the crowd around. Even during the Harvest Festival in Greenfields, she had never seen so many people.

“The Celebration of Sheer,” the girl replied, holding up a red ribbon for each of them. “He is the greatest god of fire and these ribbons are to honor him. I’ll sell you two for the price of one.”

“I’ll take one,” Gregory said.

As soon as he pinned the ribbon to his collar, the girl informed him of the price.

“That’ll be three coins,” she said.

“Three?” Gregory shook his head. “I’ll give you one.”

“Two.”

He huffed and dug in his pockets for the amount.

Armaila declined a ribbon for herself and the girl shrugged. “Everyone needs a ribbon. You know where to find me.”

As they passed through the streets, she glimpsed the small castle on the top of the hill, but her view was partially barred by a stone wall and failing light. Like most things in Stonebrook, it was painted with brilliant colors.

A sudden sense of excitement washed over Armaila, followed by relief as the gnawing hunger went away. Shera had found food.

Oh no.

Armaila fought her way through the flow of people with Gregory struggling to follow her, a thousand thoughts of the trouble the dragon might have caused racing through her mind. If anyone saw her…

The crowd ground to a halt and she found it impossible to continue. Her attempts to shove her way through their arms was ignored, and she realized Gregory was no longer by her side. A thick, ominous hazy hung over the city, and a dozen cloaked figures held torches at the base of a tall pillar. Each flame burned a distinct color.

A soft chant began at the pillar and spread through the crowd. The words were soft, almost whispered, and the ended when a deep male voice spoke. His words were dark and foreign with no semblance to the chant.

A red glow shot up from atop the pillar and burst into angry red flame.

“There is one here who does not please Sheer.”

The cloaked man, a fire priest, let his gaze wander across the crowd, staying longer on some than others. The people murmured and moved close together, some bending down.

His eyes fell on Armaila. “Where is your ribbon?”

Armaila tried again to escape the crowd, but they tightened around her. The priests figures advanced and drug her up the hill toward the large structure she had seen earlier. They did not take her sword, but they pinned her arms behind her back so she could not use it.

Shera!

The dragon was far away and their connection was faint.

Wood and metal statues filled the hall inside. Each was fashioned to look like some form of fire, and she wondered which one represented Sheer. They forced her into a small, dark room.

Armaila considered a spell, but she doubted any she knew could help her escape, and it would likely make it worse.

She felt her way along the walls. They were hard, unforgiving stone, as was the rest of the building. Every few paces there was a small hole, less than the width of her thumb. The floor beneath her feet was uneven, with the lowest point in the center like a bowl. An odd odor hung in the air, familiar but out of place, and she felt something warm and wet pour from the holes. Rancid oil.

The flow increased and it became difficult to maintain her footing on the sloped floor.

Armaila’s hand passed over something on the floor, slender and smelling of soot. A human bone. She grimaced and used it to pry against the door, but it splintered as she put her weight against it.

The dripping stopped and something bright dropped to the floor, igniting it.

Armaila fell backward and slammed into cold stone. Shera lay on top of her, and her thick scales protected them from the flame.

They rose several moments later when the fire had burned itself out. There was a gaping hole in the wall, and through it, Armaila saw that the celebration had continued unimpeded. She heard faint cheers and music.

“By the mountains, I’m glad you’re alive.” Gregory stood on the wet grass, visibly shaken.

“We must go.” Armaila crawled through the opening with her hand on her sword.

Shera growled and turned toward the western side of the city, urging Armaila to do the same. It was a valley between to hills, covered with thick forests and a large road used as a trade route between Stonebrook and port cities such as Holden.

Armaila strained her eyes to see and allowed herself to relax enough to use her abilities. The Legion was approaching.

We must fight, Shera said.

Fight? Armaila gestured the broken wall. After what they did to me?

Protecting Erithor is our reasonability, and it will prove that they were wrong.

Armaila informed Gregory of the plan and he frowned, but didn’t object.

The music stopped as Shera swooped above the crowd and landed on their burning pillar. She snuffed out the flame with her paw.

“Dragon riders have returned,” Armaila shouted. “The Legion is approaching and we must work together to drive them away from the city.”

Like Normar, Stonebrook was well-situated by being on a hill and having thick walls. If they could prevent the Legion from entering the city, they could wait for reinforcements if they lay siege.

They pointed at Shera and laughter broke out. It was slow and nervous at first, but grew until the music and drinking resumed.

Bloody idiots, they’re drunk.

Shera flew to the front gate and they waited. The army was small, perhaps one or two hundred foot soldiers, and they only carried swords. That was not what Veral had taught her to expect.

Their leader wore a gray cloak embellished with golden shoulder pads and a helmet with a large matching plume. He reigned in his horse. “Good evening.”

Armaila remained stiff. “I will not let you in this city.”

The man removed his helmet, revealing a jagged scar that stretched the length of his jaw and left cheek. He was thin with sunken eyes. “I am Vincent Ergath, the commanding officer of the third regiment of the Legion. I have come to bring word of Azghar’s approach and to offer the good citizens of Erithor a chance to choose their side.”

“You will not step foot past this gate.”

Vicent gave a slight bow. “Very well.”

The Legion continued and Armaila watched dumbfounded.

Shera let her claws dig into the metal. This isn’t good.

We must tell the King that Azghar is coming.

They returned to Gregory and Armaila repeated their encounter with the Legion. “There is no time to waste,” she said. “I must continue to Normar.”

“I understand.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the heart of the city. “I have not found the answers I came for.”

“Be careful.”

The robbed figures had gathered around the pillar once more, and Armaila heard them chant. The flame returned and the chanting continued. The fire grew, twisting and waving despite the still air, and there was no smoke. A priest moved his hand and the fire waved, moving from side to side in command.

Armaila gasped. They were not dragon riders or fairies—how did they posses such ability?

The flame morphed into a shape unnatural for fire, with flaming limbs and the semblance of wings shrouded in smoke. The creature circled Stonebrook, moving more like a wisp of smoke than a living thing.

We need to leave.

Shera took to the air and the fire wove through cobblestone streets in pursuit. She turned her head and released a stream of flame from her own mouth, but it did not deter the creature. Armaila notched her bow—a difficult task at the speed they were moving—but the arrows burst into flame. It was like trying to stop a house from burning with parchment.

The creature was terrifyingly fast, maneuvering at angles that should not have been possible. Shera passed under a leaning tree, and it set the forest on fire as it followed, turning the sky bright red.

The river! Armaila pointed to the rushing water below.

No.

She felt Shera’s overwhelming sense of fear, the same as when she was a small hatchling.

The creature rammed into Shera’s side. Armaila fell to the ground and screamed as fire touched her leg, causing the flesh to throb with more pain than she had ever felt.

Something cool wrapped around her waist. Shera’s claws. The dragon reversed her direction toward the river, though the smoke from the burning forest had grown so thick it was difficult to breathe. The world turned into a blur as Armaila struggled to remain conscious.

Shera plunged into the water head first. The water soothed Armaila’s leg, but panic gripped Shera and the dragon separated from her in a panic with limbs flailing wildly.

Armaila knew how to swim from years spent with her father by the lake, but the current was strong and it was difficult to move her leg. She struggled to the surface gasping for air.

Shera was several paces downstream, crouching in the shallows with only her head visible. Armaila made her way close enough to the shore to be able to hobble toward her. Began hobbling toward her.

The creature made of fire hovered over Shera. Its face was featureless, yet it stared at them. She leapt suddenly and fanned the water with her wings, creating a giant wave that splashed the creature.

It died with a hiss, and the ash and smoke disappeared in the wind.

“What was that thing?” Armaila wondered aloud.

She inspected her leg and grimaced—fortunately, it was only a small section of her calf that had burned. She murmured a spell to reknit the skin, and feeling drained, allowed herself to sleep as Shera continued for Normar.

She woke later, when they were still in the air. The night was cool and autumn would arrive soon, but it felt good for her leg. She had only healed the surface and it still throbbed underneath.

We’re here, Shera said.

The night was dark with a waning moon partially obscured by clouds, but Armaila wondered how many had seen the dragon. Word would certainly spread from Stonebrook, at least.

They landed in the palace courtyard, and she found it difficult to walk after sleeping so long on Shera’s back. The castle sprang to life in minutes, with lanterns and servants and guards shouting to one another. Most hadn’t seen Shera before.

King Theodore appeared several minutes later, half garbed with his night clothes and magnificent blue robe. The crown sat crookedly on his head and the gems sparkled in the lantern-light.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Where is Lord Eric? And Veral? You were supposed to return more than fortnight ago.”

“Veral insisted I be taken to Greenfields to train, Your Majesty,” Armaila said. “I heard of the attack on Normar and I left by myself.”

The king frowned. “I had not planned for Shera’s presence to be public this soon.”

“With all due respect, there is little choice, Your Majesty.” She told him of her experience in Stonebrook. “Azghar is on his way.”

Theodore pinched the bridge of his nose and ordered away most of the guards. “I know of this already,” he said. “His ship hasn’t docked yet, and we have some time to prepare. I will arrange a meeting with my generals tomorrow and I will make some announcement about Shera, but for now, I’m returning to bed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And you will see a doctor about your leg.”

“It’s nothing, Your—”

The king ignored her protest as he ordered guards to escort Shera to the stables and Armaila to his personal doctor.

The doctor’s office was a large chamber in the center of the castle, not far from the kitchen. It smelled strongly of herbs and liquor. It had a sense of warmth, with tapestries and rugs covering most of the stone, and a cabinet full of colorful bottles sat beside a table covered in parchment. A large tub of water in the corner gave off a strange, pale blue glow.

A door connected the office to a chamber beside, and the guard knocked. A curse came from inside, followed by the sound of objects falling.

“Someone better be dying…” A middle-aged man muttered as he opened the door.

“Kings orders,” the guard said.

The man continued to mutter complaints as he instructed Armaila to take a seat.

“Well, what is the problem?”

“I burned my leg.” Armaila rolled up her trousers to show the patch of angry pink skin—the layer she had healed was thin enough to see the damage beneath.

The doctor leaned forward, stroking his beard. “I’ve never seen a wound quite like this.”

“I partially healed it with magic.”

“I see.” The doctor turned to his cabinet and selected a bottle with a blue tinge, similar to the glow from the water. “Take a spoonful of this with bread twice a day until the pain is gone.”

Armaila accepted the bottle cautiously. It smelled of fish.

“The bread will help cover the taste,” the doctor insisted. He patted his large belly and added, “I recommend the honey cakes Teryn makes. I already ate all of mine or I’d offer you one.”

The guard led her to the same chambers she had stayed in last time she was in Normar, and once alone, she tried a drop of the medicine. It tasted worse than it smelled and she used the washbasin for her tongue.

“That’s wretched.”

As she settled into bed, its effect began to take hold, and the pain in her leg melted away.