Chapter 4: Chapter Four

“Why do you stay?” Armaila asked. Night had fallen but a waning moon provided enough light for the horses to pick their way through the forest. “With a bounty on your head, wouldn’t it be easier to start fresh somewhere else?”

“I thought about it, once.” Burn sighed. “I can’t run, not when I can make a difference by staying.”

They were close to the camp, and to Armaila’s surprise, she nearly found herself looking forward to it. A warm meal and soft cot were an enticing thought. Burn was a man she could respect, even if the same did not hold true for the men who followed him.

As they drew near, there were sounds of metal and yelling. They approached carefully and peered down from the top of a ridge.

Gray cloaks. Hooded faces.

Weapons.

“Stay here.” Burn disappeared into the brush as he circled around to the backside of the tents.

Armaila held the reins tightly until her knuckles showed white. Florine was her best chance to save her mother.

Ignoring Burn’s request, she tethered the horses and made her way toward the tent with her bow drawn. Hot blood covered the ground in pools that glimmered black in the moonlight. Some of the men had managed to find weapons, but mostly they were caught unaware.

Inside the tent a lantern burned, and Florine was conscious and struggling to fastened the buckle on her sheath. Her pale skin and the dark circles around her eyes made it clear she was in no condition to fight.

“The Legion,” Florine hissed. She took a pained step forward and looked in the sack, followed by a sharp word in another language that Armaila could only guess was a curse.

“What’s wrong?” Armaila kept her voice hushed.

Florine took her sword and handed Armaila the second one from the sack. “The egg is gone,” she said.

They stumbled outside together, but Florine could not run. A man in a gray cloak spotted them, shouting and waving for more figures in gray to aid him.

The man hesitated long enough for Florine to throw the lantern at him. It burst with a brilliant flash of light and he ran screaming.

Three more of the Legion pursued them as they hobbled toward the tree line. An arrow brought one down.

Armaila's head whipped in the direction it had been shot from, and she saw Burn standing between two of the tents.

The two remaining men in gray cloaks threw themselves behind a large tree. One had his own bow, which he pulled out with haste. Armaila reached for hers and sent an arrow flying towards his chest.

The sound was wet, followed by a loud snap of cracking vertebrae. Blood gushed as the man struggled with the shaft, trying to pull it from his flesh. He fell over within moments and his skin grew pale, still hands clutching the arrow.

The sudden action afforded Burn the time he needed to remove the final threat.

Armaila took in the sight. “I killed him...”

“That was instinct,” Florine said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Keep moving.”

Burn lingered behind a few moments before joining them. He gave Florine the nightleaf and she chewed it as they pressed on.

"Clara is dead.” Those were the first words spoken when they stopped to rest.

Florine leaned against a tree as she caught breath. “Where is the egg?”

Burn's frown deepened. “Clara is dead and I'd bet my last coin they were hunting for that bloody thing.” He shook his head, unable to say more through his anger.

“My duty is to see that the dragon hatches.” Florine struggled to stand freely from the tree. “I owe you my life but not the fate of this kingdom.”

Burn clenched his jaw and folded his arms, but said nothing.

“And my mother?” Armaila asked. A knot formed in her stomach at the thought of whatever trial she would have to endure. “You promised to intercede.”

“If I return to Normar without the egg, my standing with the king will be little to none. I cannot abandon it.”

“Then I will help you search until we find it.”

“You have no training and no knowledge of how the Legion works. You would be dead by sundown tomorrow.” Florine set her jaw. “Continue to Normar and many of your questions will be answered, this much I can promise you.”

Armaila frowned but nodded her agreement.

They made camp for the night with Burn and Florine both keeping watch, and Armaila fell asleep sometime before dawn. When she woke, Florine was gone.

“I will go with you as far as Stonebrook,” Burn said. “But first, we must bury the dead.”

“What if the Legion is still there?”

“They have better things to hunt.”

When they came upon Clara's body in the open, Armaila stayed back. The girl was maybe twelve or thirteen, still a child.

“I wouldn't be alive today if it wasn't for her,” Burn said as he closed her eyes.

Armaila helped dig the graves. There wasn’t enough time to give them all a proper burial, so the bodies that remained were heaped together with branches and logs doused with oil. A single spark from a piece of flint and a solemn goodbye were the only ceremonies performed.

It was better than letting crows peck out their eyes and wild animals ravage their flesh.

The horses were untouched. They took the two they had ridden and released the others.

They stopped for lunch midday, a simple meal of dried meat and fresh wild berries.

“Do you think Florine will find the dragon egg?” Armaila asked as she sat. She tore a strip of meat and chewed it slowly to savor its saltiness.

“Maybe. I wouldn't bet my horse on it, though.”

Travel through parts of the road that had fallen into disarray was painfully slow, and in areas they abandoned it altogether. A large, rugged formation of shale loomed over their camp for the night, illuminated in the last few rays of falling sun. A small grassy field surrounded it, giving them a good view of anyone who might approach.

“Do you ever miss home?” Armaila asked as she moved closer to the fire to fend off a night chill. She stroked the flat edge of her new blade, admiring the way the color changed with the rhyme of the flames.

Burn was silent for a long while before answering. He sat with his hands resting over his knees, his expression far away. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “I don't have many good memories of my home.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No need to be. I left while I was still a boy.” He stretched his arms skyward and yawned. “What about you?”

“I missed my home long before I left,” she said. The honesty felt good.

“When you find your mother, will you go back?”

She slid the sword back into its sheath. “If I do, I must wed. If I don’t, I must leave behind everything I know, and I can’t bear the thought of either.”

“There are worse choices to have,” Burn said. “You must find the one you can live with.”

“Can I ask you something?” A cold chill crept over Armaila’s, even though she risked being burned if she moved any closer to the fire. “What is it like for you when you kill someone?”

Burn stared at the dirt in front of his toes, his hands clasped tightly together. “I was fourteen when I first killed a man. All I could feel was anger, eating away at my soul like a rabid dog.”

Armaila could still smell blood in the air and the tickle of fletching against her cheek, but not regret. “I feel nothing.”

“It was a necessary action. If you feel nothing, you are far luckier than most.” He untied his horse and handed Armaila the reins to her own. “If you truly felt nothing, you would not have asked me.”

The words brought her some comfort.

Burn’s attention turned to something behind Armaila and he drew his sword. Armaila turned to follow his gaze into the forest. At first, she saw nothing but a tangle of branches and leaves, but then a small amount of movement caught her eye.

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A man on a horse leered at them from between two swaying pines.

“Show yourself,” Burn demanded.

The man guided his horse forward, cloak swaying in the wind. Relief washed over Armaila when she saw it was brown, not gray. Then her heart sunk when she recognized the face, swollen and purple, as Turoc's.

“I heard a commotion up your way,” Turoc said, motioning in the general direction of the camp. “Couldn't handle things without me?”

“If you say one more word, I will kill you where you stand.”

Turoc nodded, as if he had expected as much. “That might be a problem, seeing as I had a proposition to make that involves your future.”

Burn’s expression was unchanged. “Speak.”

“Grisham sent me to kill you.” Turoc smiled, revealing his missing tooth. “The girl and an apology, and we both go our separate ways.”

Armaila squeezed her bow tightly. She would not let him touch her again.

“I have a counter offer,” Burn said. “Leave before I put my sword through your chest.”

“What a shame.” Turoc clicked his tongue. “In that case, I'd best be going. See you around, friend.” The trail of his cloak shifted as he turned, and a brown canvas sack peaked out. The round bulge of a heavy object inside was unmistakable.

“Wait!” Armaila called. “He took the egg.”

Turoc’s eyes widened when he realized his mistake in not covering it properly. With a cruel jab, he forced the horse into a run.

Armaila drew her bow against a man for the second time in her life. The arrow landed in the tree she had aimed for, a few handbreadths above his head.

“Stop, or the next one will be in your skull.”

To her surprise, he reigned in his horse and raised his hands. “I was going to give it back.”

“You were always a coward,” Burn said as he tore the sack loose. He looked inside and nodded. “It’s here.”

Armaila lowered her bow, but didn't put it away. She would do that after Turoc was out of sight. “Give it to me,” she asked, reaching out to Burn with her free hand.

She struggled to lift the weight with one arm, and eventually gave in and slung the bow over her shoulder to gain the use of both hands.

“I'd recommend for your health that our paths don't cross again, friend,” Burn said.

Turoc snorted. “This isn’t over.”

Burn shook his head as he rode off. “He always was an arrogant fool.”

“What will you do about Grisham?” she asked.

“I’ll manage.”

Armaila realized her hands were shaking, so she placed them under the egg so Burn wouldn’t see.

It was warmer than the last time she had touched it.

Stonebrook came into view at dusk, a shimmering orange gem on a silhouetted hill.

“If you want my advice,” Burn said, “I recommend avoiding it entirely. Even the warmest of flames cannot shake the chill that place gives me.”

“I can manage without fresh supplies.” Armaila fought back a yawn. “And you? Where will you go now?

“I will find what’s left on my people and we will rebuild.”

“And if the Legion returns?”

“We will not be caught unaware.”

Armaila hoisted the saddle off her horse's back and tethered the animal to a sturdy pine. She then made a small fire out of dry branches that scattered the river bank. The Nui River flowed to the south-west, between her and the city. There was no bridge but the water looked low enough to cross without much difficulty.

Burn left with the dragon egg and she examined it. It was still warm and tiny veins had appeared on its shell, a light red color in contrast with the otherwise dull appearance. Why had her mother insisted she stay away from it?

Afraid of damaging it, Armaila put it back into the sack and set it behind her saddle. She unfurled her blanket beside the fire, and tried to get some sleep. Memories of the past days made that difficult, and every small sound she heard caused her to jump in fear. Eventually, sometime in the early morning, she drifted into a fitful sleep.

A heavy fog settled along the river by morning, making it impossible to see more than a few paces. The air was cold enough she almost expected frost, but there was only dew, the heavy kind that had plagued her journey for the past several days. The fire had gone out during the night and the dying embers burned dull red amongst the ash.

Something had changed. There was something new, an extra set of sensations. Armaila forced a laughed at the thought, realizing how absurd it sounded. Still, somewhere deep in the back of her mind, almost unconsciously, she could feel emotions that were not her own. Cold. Hungry. Wet.

Yes, she was cold and hungry, and slightly damp from the dew and fog, but the thoughts were foreign. She pushed them aside and went to work rolling up her bedding. After saddling the horse, she tied the bedroll to the backside of the saddle. She snuffed out the remaining bit of fire with her boots and reached for the sack.

Something was very wrong.

It was far too light, and made a strange clinking sound when she lifted it. Opening the sack wide, she saw the reason.

The egg lay in a pile of broken shards. There was no sign of the dragon inside, only jagged pieces of dark gray shell.

A sickening feeling creeped in Armaila's gut. Either the Legion had already come and destroyed the egg, and for some reason didn't kill her, or the dragon had hatched.

None of the answers made sense. The Legion would not spare her, and… something so old hatching?

Armaila held her bow close, and glanced nervously around. Perhaps if the dragon had hatched, it could serve as a bargaining chip to save her mother.

Armaila chewed her lip and let the horse trail close behind by the lead rope as she looked, in case the dragon was not quite as small or friendly as she hoped. The few tales she had heard told of mighty beasts with hides like armor and teeth like swords. But this dragon had not yet grown.

“Here, dragon, dragon...” The call was meant to be loud, but came out hardly more than a muffled whisper. The hair on her neck stood on end.

The thoughts in the back of her mind were still there. A twig cracked behind her, and she spun around so fast that her brown hair whipped her in the face and into her open mouth. Her horse had stepped on a dry branch. Muttering some half-felt insult to the animal, she turned back to the forest.

A dark gray creature stood on the sandy bank, scales glistening brilliantly.

“Back!” Armaila yelled, stepping back herself and pointing an arrow at it. The horse snorted and tugged on the reins.

The creature crooked its head sideways and stared at her curiously. Thick scales covered its body, not unlike the ones she had seen on the captron. Two horns rested above fiery orange eyes and small spikes covered the neck and tail.

Armaila immediately discarded the idea of returning it to the sack. It would be like carrying unsheathed knives. She climbed up onto the saddle, still holding the bow firmly in one hand. “Come here,” she coaxed.

The dragon followed a few paces, then stopped. Armaila felt a sudden unexpected dread at the sight of the water. For as long as she could remember she had loved water, swimming and splashing around in the small pond outside of Greenfields. Some of her best memories with her father were there.

It dawned on her that it was the dragon who was afraid. The dragon's tail swished back and forth in agitation. She reluctantly acknowledged the dragon would not be able to swim.

Curse it all, she thought angrily. According to the map she had taken from Florine, she would have to go at least a league downriver to the Two Forks crossing. That wasted time she did not have.

Armaila nudged the horse southwards sullenly. She rode along the river bank, close enough to the tree line that she could escape from prying eyes if needed. The fog, although cold and damp, was welcome.

The dragon followed at a distance, a gray shadow.

Armaila could see herself standing before the king. “I have the dragon,” she would say, “and I will give it to you when you release my mother.” Then she would get her answers. It must have been a misunderstanding—her mother was difficult, yes, but she couldn't have been involved in a traitorous plot.

The dragon's stamina surprised Armaila. When she stopped to let the horse rest and drink, it showed no signs of weariness. It sat a few paces downstream, holding out its wings and staring at them curiously as it moved them up and down, testing them out for the first time.

“Can you fly?” Armaila asked.

The dragon looked at her, turning its head to the side again. It fanned its wings, and the horse spooked, tugging on the reins until they almost broke. Armaila soothed the animal, rubbing her hands over its shoulders. It lowered its muzzle to the water again.

With a powerful leap, the dragon jumped forwards, pushing off with its strong back legs. It flew a few good paces, gliding with its wings before landing again on solid ground. The dragon looked at Armaila, making an odd chirping sound. In the back of her mind, she felt the dragon’s excitement.

It was hard to deny: she could communicate with the dragon. Or, at least, it could with her.

Does that make me a rider?

No. She could not be. Women were not allowed into battle and all of the legends were about men.

Armaila wrapped the horse’s reins around a slender trunk. Carefully, she moved towards the dragon, her right hand extended. “I won't hurt you.”

She sensed the dragon's apprehension, the natural fear all animals were born with. Carefully, it stuck out its head far enough to sniff her hand. It recoiled slightly at her touch, but Armaila knew it was no longer as terrified. It reached its head out again, this time lettering her stroke it gently. The scales were hard and cold, as smooth as ice.

She looked the dragon over. Its strong but slender frame and fierce eyes suggested the creature was female. Something about the thoughts—she couldn't quite put her finger on it—told her that too.

“I guess we need to find a name for you, little girl,” she said. The dragon had come closer, and was now gently pawing at her with its claws safely retracted.

Armaila thought about possible name options. “Ash?” she suggested, thinking of the dragon's color. It didn't seem right. “Firebreather? Deathwing? Night Shadow?” None of them were right.

Shera. It came to her as a thought. She wasn't sure if it was her own, or the dragon's, but it seemed appropriate.

“How about Shera?” she asked.

The dragon chirped excitedly.

A deep hunger suddenly filled Armaila, yet she knew she had eaten only hours ago. It was Shera who needed to eat, she realized.

It was noon when they reached the crossing. The sun had burned away all the fog, creating a view of muddy hoof-prints and animal droppings.

The bridge was in disarray. The top part of the bridge was wood that rested upon giant pieces of natural stone along the bank, and it had been burned until only a few charred and brittle boards remained.

Armaila kicked away a splintered board and winced at the pain that immediately spread throughout her toe.

Above the ruins, two smaller rivers joined. Armaila didn't remember the name of the second, and she couldn't be bothered to check the map. They were both far too deep and swift to cross safely. Rains from the night before had caused the entire river to rise, making a suitable crossing even more difficult to find.

Shera’s hunger continued to grow and Armaila caught her staring at the horse more than once.

By early evening they came to a place where the river narrowed. Muddy water rushed between the stone, but the gap was manageable.

“We have to jump,” Armaila said.

Jump?

Armaila stared at the dragon in stunned silence. “Did you talk to me?”

The dragon blinked. Jump.

The word was no verbal, but rather a specific thought in Armaila’s head, one she didn’t place there herself.

If either she or the dragon faltered, her plans of saving her mother were gone. Yes, we must jump.

She untied her belongings and threw them across. They landed with a dull thud on the other side and rolled a short distance before stopping in the damp grass.

It was too risky to jump with the horse. The animal had no training and could react poorly, killing them both.

A twisted pine grew out over the small canyon, and she hoped it would give her the distance she needed. The branches were gnarled and rough, misshapen from years of wind and poor soil, but the tree was strong. She breathed deep and propelled herself forward.

Now you must jump, she told Shera.

The dragon paced uneasily, eyeing the water below. She let out a small, frightened chirp, sounding something like a songbird. After several moments of coaxing, she finally climbed the tree and glided across with her wings spread wide.

“You did it!” Armaila shouted with pride.

The dragon held her head high and chirped again.

Armaila regretted leaving the horse, but she had no other option. She hoped someone would find it before the onset of winter. A horse could survive in the wilds until the grass was covered by snow and ice, but any later and his future would be unsure.

She grunted under the weight of her things she now had to carry.