Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Shera’s appetite—and size—grew until she was as large as the horse they had left behind. She learned to swoop down on unsuspecting prey, and Armaila took small sections of the carcasses to cook for herself. The lack of variety grew tiring but it was better than an empty stomach.

Armaila paused as she crested yet another hill. Glaciers on the highest peaks of a mountain range to the east shone like fine jewelry, and below, a proud city was nestled in their foothills. Normar.

“Wait here,” she told Shera once they reached the bottom. Her voice was dry at first—it had been days since she had last spoken out loud.

Most of the land was cleared and turned into fields with only the odd patches of forest remaining. There would be people now, and Shera was her secret. She walked alone on a dusty path until she reached a massive stone wall with an equally impressive gate.

The thought of giving up the dragon suddenly struck Armaila, but she pushed it out of her mind. It was the king’s job to provide a proper home for the creature.

Two guards were stationed at the gate. “Good day, miss,” the one on the right said. His uniform was unbuttoned on the top, giving the impression of someone who would rather be fishing than working. “What business do you have in Normar?”

“I’m visiting relatives,” she answered, not entirely lying.

The man motioned for her to continue. “Enjoy your stay.”

Shops and inns lined the cobble pathway and the road was perfectly strait, which afforded her a clear view of the castle. Perhaps once her mother was free, she could have a bath and shower. She had washed in streams along the way, but there was grime only warmth and soap could remove.

As a little girl she had once admired the lives bards lived, but now she pitied them. Always traveling with no place to call home.

Unlike the rest of the city, was road to the castle was curved. It spiraled upwards on well-used stones, with grass and moss in between giving the appearance of the cracks being larger than they were. Like the city gate, the entrance to the castle was barred.

“I wish to speak with His Majesty King Theodore,” Armaila said.

The guard was a serious looking man in his later years with graying hair and a long, thin nose. He eyed her critically, raising an eyebrow at the sight of her dirty breeches. “His Majesty is not holding attendance with the public today.”

“Please, it's very urgent.”

“His Majesty is at a trial,” the man said firmly. “It is a matter of great importance.”

“Is it an open court?”

“Yes, but you would not be permitted to speak with the king, and it’s no place for a young woman. There will be a hanging after.”

“You don't know that!” Armaila said. “That's why they're having a trial. You can't decide what the outcome will be first.”

The man laughed. “You've never been to court before, miss. It’s no more than a formality for a treason case like this.” He paused, seeing the distressed look on her face. “You can watch if you keep your mouth shut.”

Armaila pushed her way inside before the man changed his mind. The ceiling was higher than any she had seen, and a large statue of a man on a horse stood in the middle of the entrance. The statue's arm was raised with a sword in hand, ready to charge into battle. Halls branched off in many directions, lined with dozens of doorways and stairwells, but guards ensured that Armaila would not wander in the wrong direction.

Inside the courtroom, a middle-aged man in dark blue sat on a throne twice his size. Rubies in his crown glinted dazzling red when they caught the sunlight and Mikayla stood below him with her head bowed.

A firm hand clamped down on Armaila’s shoulder.

“I’m happy to see you alive,” Florine said.

Armaila gave a small smile at the sight of the fairy, but it quickly faded. “You must help my mother.”

“Have patience. In a few minutes, your mother will explain all of this to you herself.”

Florine’s calmness helped somewhat to put Armaila at ease. “I found the egg.”

The fairy raised an eyebrow in shock. “Where is it?” she demanded. “Do you know how dangerous it is to leave it unattended?”

“It hatched.” Armaila glanced back at the courtroom. “If you convince the king to free my mother, I'll take you to her.”

Florine sighed, revealing the extent of her exhaustion. “I promise that your mother will not be harmed,” she said. “There is little time to waste, you must take me to the dragon now.”

“Fine,” Armaila agreed.

“We can't afford for it to be seen.” Florine led her down a flight of stairs, into what Armaila could only guess was the dungeon. The dark air smelled of mold and other things Armaila tried not to think about.

Florine uttered a word softly under her breath and a ball of light sprang to life in her hand. A yellow orb hovered just above her palm. She pulled on the ancient handles of a stone door with her free hand, and it slid open.

Armaila watched the orb as she followed Florine down the tunnel, eyeing the magic light warily. It looked like fire but the flesh on the fairy’s hand was unharmed.

Armaila was surprised by the distance the tunnel spanned. By the time Florine unlocked the large door barring access to the castle and they stepped out into the sunlight, her feet were sore from the walk on hard stone. They were a good distance from where she had left Shera, and she reached out with her mind to explain to the dragon where they were.

I will come, Shera replied.

Within minutes, the dragon burst through the tree line.

“All these years...” Florine fell to one knee and inclined her head. “I never thought you would hatch.”

Shera stepped forward and pressed her muzzle against Florine’s forehead, as if to say thank you for the time they had spent together.

“We must return to the trial,” Armaila pressed. “I kept my part of the deal.”

Florine frowned “I don't think you understand, Armaila. You are Shera’s rider.”

“No, I—”

“Have you felt her thoughts, her emotions? That is a privilege of the rider. There is no other human she will ever share that connection with.”

This is true, Shera said.

Armaila found it difficult to breath. “We must return to the trial.”

Florine relented. Shera managed to fit herself inside the tunnel, though her wings pressed against the walls. Her claws clicked against the stone as she walked. By the time they emerged on the other side, Armaila had chewed the inside of her mouth raw. Tasting blood, she switched to wringing her hands.

“Guard,” Florine called. The man’s face palled at the sight of Shera. “Have the stables cleaned and give the dragon the largest stall without being seen. If you tell anyone, I will deal with you personally.”

The courtroom was now an empty sea of tables and chairs. Through the window, Armaila saw a hastily constructed gallows. Her mother stood on the wooden platform with a rope around her neck.

“No…” Armaila watched in horror as King Theodore gave a command and her mother plunged into the depths of the structure.

“It’s important that you speak to Theodore,” Florine said delicately.

“I would not speak to that tyrant for all the gold in Erithor,” Armaila said. Those words could get her arrested for treason, but she didn’t care.

Florine ignored her answer and Armaila allowed herself to be guided down the hall and into the king's chambers. The fairy spoke to him outside for several moments.

“So Erithor has a dragon rider once more?” The pride in King Theodore’s voice only served to inflame Armaila's temper further.

“My mother was innocent!”

The king laughed. “Armaila, follow me.”

He walked to the edge of the room and pulled back a large curtain that covered the wall. What appeared to be a decorative tapestry concealed a door, not unlike the one in the tunnel. It opened with more effort, as if it hadn't been used for some time.

At the king's insistence, Armaila warily stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim torch lit room. The floor was finely carpeted, but the walls were all but bare, covered only with a few pieces of parchment: maps and other important looking documents. A long table filled the center of the room. A half dozen or so people sat around it, but Armaila's eyes fell on the person on the end. Her mother.

“You're alive.”

“Armaila?” Mikayla pushed back her chair and rose.

“I don't understand,” Armaila said. “I saw you die.”

“You saw me fall,” her mother corrected. “I was never in any danger of dying, at least not at that moment.”

“Then why did you let me believe you were in danger?” Armaila struggled to speak through the range of emotions that flooded her. “Do you know what I went through for you?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I told you to stay home,” Mikayla said. “You should have listened for once in your life.”

Armaila’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “I listened when you told me to wear dress. I listened when you told me not to play in the forest. I listened when you told me to marry Gregory.”

Mikayla’s head drooped and she looked worn as her façade melted away. “The world is dangerous and I wanted to protect you. Perhaps I made an error in judgement.”

“Tell me the truth now.”

“You father and I both worked as part of a group known as the Ravens, to monitor Azghar’s movements. We disbanded when we believed he was no longer a threat and… I wanted to leave that part of my life behind.”

Armaila let her gaze focus on the floor. The rug was woven from fine thread, so delicately that she wondered if by magic. It was new, unadulterated by soil or stain.

“The dragon hatched.”

“That can’t be…” Mikayla’s voice trailed off and she turned to Florine. “You promised you would keep her away from it.”

“I don't need your protection.” Armaila stormed out of the chamber and down the hall and no one stopped her. Some distance away, she dropped to the floor with her back against the wall, exhausted. She felt Shera’s concern but she pushed it away.

“Armaila?” Florine said. “I thought you would be relieved to know your mother is alive.”

“She lied to me and tried to force me to marry Gregory.”

“Family can be complicated.” Florine folded her arms with a small frown. “My father left when I was a child and mother had great responsibility, and therefor little time for me. Your mother did not lie when she said there are terrible things in this world, and you should be grateful that she cared enough to spare you from them for so long.”

Armaila didn’t reply.

Florine waved a serving woman over and instructed her to show Armaila to a room. “You will feel better after a warm bath and full meal.”

The fairy was correct. After the bath, Armaila closed her eyes and lay across the bed, grateful for the feeling of fresh linen against her skin. She was given a dress with a skirt down to her ankles and sleeves that ended at the elbow.

A soft knock startled her. “Yes?” she called.

“His Majesty wishes to speak with you,” a female servant said through the heavy oak door.

Armaila ran a hand through her hair, attempting to manage the wavy brown locks that weren’t yet dry, and opened the door.

The servant was a woman who had seen many years. In many parts of Erithor, she would have been considered old, but the lifestyle of Normar was rich. People could afford food and clothing and the other necessities of life on a regular basis, especially when in service to the king. Their lifespan was considerably longer.

“Follow me,” the woman commanded. Her voice was soft, but carried the sternness and authority of one who had raised many children.

Armaila obeyed and a nervous pit formed in her stomach at the thought of seeing the king again. She was unsure of him. It was not him who had lied to her about her mother, but there were many stories about how he seized the throne from his family. Some said he wore a crown of blood.

The doors to the throne room bore carvings of flowers and birds inlaid with threads of silver. Two guards—she recognized one as the man who had let her enter the castle—stood at attention in front. Both stepped to the side and saluted.

Armaila stood unsure of what to do until the woman whispered in her ear that she was supposed to curtsy in return of their gesture.

The air inside was fresh and sweet. Several large vases of flowers were strategically placed throughout the room, most of them blue and silvery-white to match the king’s robes.

“Your Majesty,” she said with a bow.

“Armaila, thank you for coming.” King Theodore flashed a bright smile that revealed a row of straight teeth. He stood beside his throne, a magnificent piece of carved wood embedded with jewels and cushioned with blue velvet.

“You wish to speak with me on some matter, Your Majesty?”

“Please, sit.” Theodore motioned to a chair below the throne.

Armaila sat quietly and folded her hands in her lap, feeling very small. She was reminded of the many uncomfortable nights she had spent at Baron Josef’s house while her mother saw to her wedding plans.

“What do you know of Erithor’s circumstances?” the king asked.

“Florine told me of the Legion,” Armaila said. She explained what little she knew of dragons and Azghar.

The king nodded slowly, clasped hands covering his mouth. “It is good that your parents kept these things from you,” he said. “It is not right for a young girl to worry about them.”

“Knowing would have saved me a great deal of trouble, Your Majesty.”

“Keeping secrets is a tradition far older than my time on the throne.” A slight amount of irritation edged the king’s voice. “It has prevented many wars.”

“With respect, sir, what does this have to do with me?”

The king smiled and brought a drink red wine to his lips. “While it is not in our customs to allow women on the battlefield, fate has left us little choice.” Crimson stains were visible on his teeth as he spoke. “Your fate is now tied to that of this kingdom.”

“I should think there are far better choices than me, Your Majesty.” It felt unnatural to repeat the title so often, but she didn’t dare stop. The king was known to have hung men for less.

“Loyalty is a rare thing worth more than gold or silver,” he said. “Will you pledge yours to me?”

The question was one Armaila did not wish to answer. She wanted to return home to Greenfields, and perhaps being married to Gregory would be tolerable.

“I see your hesitation.” The king set down his wine and leaned forward. “This dragon is yours and you cannot abandon it.”

“I will pledge my service to you,” she said. The words sent a shiver down her spine.

“And your loyalty?”

“I pledge my loyalty to the kingdom of Erithor.”

Theodore frowned and, for a moment, she was afraid of what he would do. The displeasure soon melted and was replaced by another bright smile. “Very well.”

Theodore rose from the throne and rolled out a large scroll on his table. “Can you write your name, Armaila?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She had continued school when many children had not, and she doubted half the young women in Greenfields could manage a quill well enough to write more than their initials. Education was something her parents had both prized.

The king offered her a quill dipped in black ink. She placed the tip on the place he indicated, she etched her name into the paper.

He smiled and poured a small drop of blue wax beside the writing. He pressed his signet ring against it and it left an imprint of a dragon curled around a crescent moon.

“Florine will arrange for your training as a dragon rider. She will meet you at the entrance to your room late tonight.” The king rolled the scroll tightly, much like the raven drawing that had summoned Armaila’s mother to Normar. “In the meantime, there is much to see. All I ask is that you do not leave the castle grounds.”

The idea of being held captive did not sit well with Armaila, but she had lost many such arguments against her own mother—she was not foolish enough to try it with King Theodore.

“How is Shera?” she asked.

“She is safe and secure in the royal stables with as much mutton as ten dragons could eat.” The king cleared his throat. “Now, on to other important matters: my lunch.”

Armaila followed him down a flight of stairs and a short balding man brandishing a spatula ushered them into a grand dining room, no less lavish than the rest of the castle.

There was a single empty chair beside King Theodore’s and he motioned for Armaila to sit. His chair was significantly larger than the rest, only slightly less opulent than the throne. Florine sat across from her and her mother was some distance down the table with other members of the Ravens.

Servers came and placed piles of sausage, green salads, bread, cakes, and other food on the table. Beginning with the king, everyone heaped their plates tall with food.

Once everyone had eaten their fill, Theodore took a swig from a jug of mead and stood. “Today marks the seventeenth annual Royal Jousting Tournament,” he said. His booming voice carried well across the table, much like Baron Josef’s. “Lord Archean will be challenged by six young knights. The victor shall call himself high knight commander. And I should remind you, Archean has held that name for himself for three years running now.”

A polite round of clapping went around the room. There were eleven people in total, if Armaila did not count the servants that bustled in and out.

“Unless I have instructed you otherwise, I expect you to be in attendance for the duration of this match, which will begin shortly, and to attend the celebration feast this evening.”

The courtyard was beautiful, now that Armaila had time to observe it. It reminded her in a small way of the garden by the cottage Gregory had prepared, with silky flowers and carefully pruned trees. Theodore was a man who liked order.

The field was larger than most farmers’. It was nearly level with very few weeds, and Armaila wondered how many servants it took to maintain it in such condition. Rugged mountain tops to the east gave the impression that they were far from civilization, if they did not look at the city behind them.

A small crowd had already formed. A loud bell rang from somewhere high in the castle, and soon more people poured in.

The six knights presented themselves by riding in a line and circling the field. They each wore glistening armor bearing the same symbol as Theodore’s ring. Their parade came to an end and they fell back to the far edge.

A horn blew and another knight showed himself. His armor was partially concealed by a trailing blue cape and a matching plume, far more extravagant than what the other knights wore.

He rode past the crowd several times, holding his lance high and shouting while they cheered him on. A thick, black beard peeked through his open visor.

Armaila knew of the high knight commander—it was no easy feat to gain such a position. Knights were trained soldiers that protected Normar at all costs, and the high knight commander would stay beside the king until death.

One of the six knights urged his horse forward and the crowd fell silent. The two men charged at each other with raised lances.

The objective was to break the lance on their opponent’s body, or else to dislodge them from their horse. The end of the lance was blunter than one used in battled, and Armaila had heard they were made in such a way that they splintered easily. A sharp and sturdy lance could cut right through an opponent or skewer his horse.

The horses covered the distance quickly, sending chunks of dirt and grass flying up with their hooves. Knights would not intentionally hurt each other in mock battle, but it often happened. Stories of it reached Greenfields through bards and travelers, welcome entertainment for bored townsfolk with little else to occupy them but toiling in fields. Armaila had been scolded more than once for listening to such tales.

The lances hit with a loud crack, followed by cheers from the crowd. Lord Archean was victorious. The other knight lay on the ground with a deep dint in the chest of his armor. The horn sounded again, and a young page ran to help his master. Archean moved back into position as another knight readied himself.

The horn blew and the events repeated themselves, though this time the tip of the high knight commander’s lance splintered in the effort. A new one was brought to him, and the spectacle continued.

The next knight to challenge Archean rode a horse of pure black. Its coat glistened like polished stone. The men charged toward each other with haste. At the last second, Archean lowered his lance and, despite the blunt tip, it pierced through the chest of the horse.

The knight fell to the ground as his mount stumbled. As the animal lay bleeding out, he drew his sword and advanced.

A collective gasp sounded from the crowd.

“Your Majesty…” Armaila began, but the king took no notice.

Archean dismounted and drew his own weapon. In an instant, the other man lay bleeding and dead beside his horse.

This was unlike the stories she knew. Theodore watched and cheered along with the crowd.

There are young boys who dream doing this, Armaila thought, sick to her stomach. She had heard of more than one young man who left for Normar to vie for the position—when they didn’t return home, it was assumed they became heroes.

The sun drug across the sky and the second to last knight rode onto the field.

They charged at each other. This time though, the lance of the Archean’s opponent found its mark. The sound of metal against wood rang out. Armaila winced, watching the high knight commander fall off his horse and tumble to the ground in a heap of metal and limbs.

Not as many cheers rang out this time, but those that did where all the louder. A man jumped up from the crowd and hollered, dancing as he collected money from men with scowls.

The fifth knight that had displaced Lord Archean now had to face the final knight in the tournament.

Their lances met head on. The six knight’s lance split down the middle with a thunderous crack. He moved his horse to the side, and using what remained of his lance, he swung it. It stuck the back of the fifth knight but it failed to shake him from his horse.

He jabbed his lance at the gut of the other. It landed squarely, denting the armor. The sixth knight slumped and fell to the ground, clutching his stomach with a loud groan.

The horn sounded once more, this time singling the end of the match. The fifth knight was victorious.

King Theodore walked out to the field, carrying a fine sword, though it paled in comparison to the one hiding under Armaila’s bed. The knight rode close, then dismounted and bowed on one knee before the king with his helmet removed.

In a voice loud enough for the crowd to hear, the king spoke.

“Eric Elif, son of Lanstron Elif. It is my great honor to knight you Eric the Protector, Royal Knight of Erithor and high knight commander.” Theodore ceremoniously touched the sword to Eric’s shoulders.

Armaila breathed a sigh of relief when the crowd began dispersing and she made her way back inside the castle. The king had not specifically made any part of it off limits to her, and she resolved to explore the halls with what time she had left. Few ever had such an opportunity.

Thoughts of her upcoming training raced through her mind.

Will I fight in the war?

She had seen a small taste of battle, and she did not wish for more.