Holt left the dragon asleep, covering it with the sack he’d brought from the kitchens. If he didn’t leave for home his father would return before he did and then there would be serious questions. He resolved to come back early in the morning, with proper blankets and more food before his father woke. But what he did after that, he did not know. Nor did he much want to think about it.
He managed to make it home just before his father arrived.
“You’re even warmer than before,” Jonah said with a worried frown. “How are you feeling?”
Holt considered this. He didn’t feel hot, other than the strange beating deep inside him, although it had grown fainter since he’d left the dragon. At this point, however, the ruse of sickness might do more harm than good. Alarm over his health would draw too much unwanted attention.
“I feel fine.”
“Hmm,” Jonah intoned. “Get some sleep and we’ll see how you are in the morning.”
Once again, Holt tried to sleep but it eluded him. He tossed and turned for hours until the palest light of pre-dawn shimmered through his window. Quiet as he could, he got up, pulled out his spare blanket and swiped three cured sausages before hurrying off.
Mercifully, the dragon was still fast asleep when he arrived. It seemed to sense his arrival, waking the moment he approached, opening its dazzlingly blue eyes wide. The beat inside Holt quickened and a powerful hunger gripped him, although it did not feel wholly his own.
“I have some more food for you.”
The baby cooed softly then got up, stretched its neck and wobbled over to Holt. He fed the first sausage to the dragon and at once the feeling of hunger within himself died down, replaced with a sort of primal happiness. It was the most peculiar thing to observe these sensations within himself. When Ysera had affected him he’d been consumed completely, whereas these emotions coming from the baby sat alongside his own.
Lost in thought, Holt didn’t reach for the second sausage. The baby squeaked and pressed its nose into his hand as though accusing Holt of holding back on it.
“Hey, shhh,” Holt said. He tapped the baby on the nose. When it quietened down, he fed it another piece of sausage. “Now stay quiet.” The dragon did and he fed it another bite. “Good, boy,” he said, giving the baby a stroke along its neck.
Now he considered it, he wasn’t sure whether the dragon was a boy or not. And you couldn’t check dragons in the usual way. He listened to the beating inside him and decided it was a boy. He couldn’t say why. It was just the way it felt, and he could barely comprehend what was happening to him at any rate.
The remainder of the second sausage vanished in one great mouthful, and between the broken rafters the sun rise was now in full flow.
“I have to go again,” he told the baby.
It opened its mouth, then seemed to remember that it was supposed to remain quiet and closed it again. How it could understand him already was incredible. Maybe it sensed his intentions and tone more so than his words. Rather than voice its sadness, the dragon pressed forward, fumbling in trying to find his torso. Once it did, it tried to curl up beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Holt said. He scooped the dragon up and put it back down on the straw, feeling a lump form in his throat. “I’ll come back tonight. The very moment I can.”
The baby tilted its head at him, its gaze focusing somewhere over his shoulder.
Holt felt like a terrible person. He was going to leave this poor blind baby here all day on its own. But what other choice did he have? Maybe there was a way to let it know he was still nearby, some way to give it comfort?
Holt closed his eyes and concentrated with all his might on feeling the rhythmic beat. He strained, clenching his fists as he did so and willed the dragon to understand that he wasn’t going far and that he would return. A great deal of energy seemed to leave his body. He swayed and rubbed at his eyes.
Just as he worried it hadn’t worked, the knot of warmth flared inside him. For a moment it was as though he were warming his hands by the fire and the beating rang loud and true. Holt took that for an affirmative.
He opened his eyes and looked to the dragon. It seemed calm and settled. Perhaps Holt’s experiment had worked after all?
The baby yawned. Holt laid down the spare blankets he’d taken from his house and moved the dragon to them. It began padding around in an awkward circle, treading out a spot where it would sleep. He placed the third sausage by its nest in case it woke up again.
And with that, he left, off back home for breakfast, trying to pretend like this was just any other day.
As if life hadn’t become uncertain enough, things got worse the very next day. A mounted messenger came from Fort Kennet, bearing fresh news from the capital.
The king was dead.
Holt was in the middle of collecting dishes from the midday meal when he overheard some squires talking about it.
“I recall him from banquets I attended in Sidastra; he rarely danced.” “Stomach plagued him, or so they say. He didn’t join the war either.” “I heard he wanted to ride but King Godric forbade it.”
“Just as well he didn’t, I suppose; not that it’s helped him in the end.” “Bad timing, though.”
“Is it? Hear me out, will you? Tragic though this is, his uncle will make for a better leader in the battles ahead. I recall last year—”
One of the squires slapped the table in mock astonishment. “What’s this, Edmund?” Did you fight under Osric and Ealdor Harroway in the war? Gracious you should have mentioned it before!”
“Very funny. But seriously, Osric Agravain is something else. Every soldier stood straighter in his mere presence. I’ve not seen respect like that other than for the riders. He’s traveled everywhere, fought on every front. With him in charge—”
The group noticed Holt lingering nearby then. They shot him dark looks and hurried off, leaving their mess for him to clean up. He groaned, added their plates to his tottering pile and made to leave the great hall. No sooner had he stepped out into the corridor than someone collided with him in a swirl of red.
Knocked backwards, Holt lost control of the plates. They crashed to the floor with a piercing, echoing ring.
“Hey, watch—” He caught himself at the last second, but the disrespect had already been done. Everyone inside the Order Hall would be far above his station.
When he saw who it was, he dropped to his knees.
Princess Talia. Only she didn’t look like herself. Her face and eyes were puffy, her cheeks flushed as red as her hair. She opened her mouth, choked back a breath, then closed it. A fresh tear rolled down her cheek. Then she turned and ran, her sobs audible as she sprinted for the front courtyard of the Crag where Pyra, her purple dragon, waited for her.
Holt’s own dragon seemed distraught by the incident. A feeling of worry washed across the strange connection they held. Holt tried to convey that he was fine, and after a while the dragon settled back down. When the beating returned to a deep slow gong, he guessed the baby had gone back to sleep.
That evening was a quiet one in the Crag. King Leofric’s death and his uncle’s regency was the talk of the Crag for days to come. The riders sequestered themselves in long meetings, demanding additional provisions well after dark. Exhausted and worn, each night Holt and his father walked with sore feet back home. Each evening, when his father fell asleep, Holt snuck back out and down the now familiar route to the abandoned store house by the Muckers’ hut.
He fed and played with the dragon and was surprised to find that it had already grown. He couldn’t be certain, for he was half-delirious from tiredness and worry, but he reckoned it had. It was now comparable to the largest cats he’d ever seen but that meant it wasn’t beyond curling up with him, which it seemed to want to do the most.
As he sat there one night, with the rhythmic beat thumping alongside his own heartbeat, Holt nodded off.
He awoke in the morning light. Dawn was long past. His head ached from lying on stone, and the baby dragon lay sprawled across his chest.
Voices reached him. A horse whinnied. “Calm, girl, what’s got into you?” “Been like that for days she has.”
Holt gritted his teeth. The Muckers were already at their hut. His father might already be awake and wondering where he was.
Groaning, Holt pushed himself up and caught the dragon as it slid off him. It remained steadfastly asleep as he put it down on the blankets, its little tail swishing from some dream.
The horse snorted and whinnied again. As the Muckers fought to control her, Holt took his chance and darted out, rushing home as fast as he could. Had the horse sensed or smelled the dragon nearby? How long until another dragon realized what was going on?
I can’t keep this up for long.
He knew he’d have to try and think of a way to get the dragon out of town. At the least, he needed to learn more about dragon hatchlings in case he was in for a nasty surprise.
Yet a full week passed, and Holt was none the wiser.
One day, Silas Silverstrike gathered the senior riders and left the Crag. Word spread that Silas, Commander Denna and the eldest, most experienced riders, were heading to the capital of Sidastra to prepare the defenses. Of those riders at Champion rank, only Mirk remained as temporary head of the Crag.
Their departure reduced the number of riders at the Crag to ten, with only nine dragons as old Brode did not have one. Except for the hatchlings of course, and Holt’s own dragon, although he still had not thought of a name – if it was even his place to choose a name. The remaining riders were still Novices in training or were at the middling rank of Ascendant like Princess Talia. They would be summoned later. The upcoming battle with the swarm would be their first great test.
Holt had never seen one of the monstrous insects for himself. There were enough vivid descriptions in stories told to children, and great murals and paintings within the Order Hall depicted the creatures too – clashing in battle with the riders upon grim battlefields of ages past.
Now the Crag had fewer riders, Holt lingered in the front hall to look at the largest painting, balancing a pile of dishes stacked between his hands. Portrayed were great horn-headed bugs, larger than war horses; tall, wiry insects with blade like arms; oversized, deformed skeletons towering over the smaller foot soldiers of the scourge – the part human, part insectoid ghouls. Giant wasp-like creatures blotted the skyline.
Yet at the heart of the swarm, the worst of the monsters reigned. It stood upright on four great legs beneath a pinched waist and a torso of hardened carapace. A giant set of dark wings folded around the bug like a travelling cloak. Holt’s mistaking the wings for a cloak could be forgiven, for the face of the creature – if it had one – was obscured beneath a hood of shell, as though the bug thought to garb itself like a thief. Under that cowl of carapace there was only darkness; darkness and eyes like bleeding stars.
The queen of the swarm.
Thump. Thump. Thump. His bond with the baby dragon quickened as he looked upon the painting, as though some inherent fear was shared between them. Holt understood little of things beyond the Crag and its town, but he hoped dearly that the kingdom was ready for such an attack. Holt had to agree with the squires’ assessment of the situation. Osric Agravain was a hero from the war against Risalia the previous year. He’d won the Toll Pass in a fierce battle, although he had arrived too late to save Talia’s father. That aside, Osric was a renowned warrior and adventurer in his own right. The kingdom was surely in more capable hands now than it had been with Talia’s sickly brother.
“Shouldn’t you be washing those?”
Holt turned to find Brode. He had a bright red apple in his gnarled hand and took a bite as he approached.
“I should, Lord Brode. Forgive my tardiness.” He was about to leave when something about the painting caught his eye. A dragon, a deep red scaled dragon, was bleeding out and surrounded by enemies. Its face was one of sheer terror. He hadn’t thought of the riders as capable of fear, never mind the dragons themselves. A fresh pang of worry for the baby rose in him, met with a sympathetic pulse across their bond.
The question left his lips before he’d really thought it through. “Must all dragons fight the scourge?”
Brode sniffed, considered Holt, then took another bite from his apple.
He swallowed and then finally answered, “No.”
Holt gulped; fearful he’d given something away. If it was anyone other than Brode he wouldn’t risk taking up their time.
“There are dragons out in the wild, aren’t there?” Holt asked. “Dragons not part of the order?”
“There are wild flights, yes.” “And they do not fight?”
“They’ll defend themselves if it comes to it, but must they fight? No. They could fly away and let others deal with it. In the past they have. Such was The Pact. The riders were formed to repel the scourge, and both the humans and dragons who commit to that cause must do so willingly.” Brode’s gaze fell upon the painting. “Or else how could anyone accept that as their fate?” His focus snapped back to Holt. “Why do you ask, pot boy?”
“I’m sorry to ask such trifling questions, Lord Brode. I should not be concerned. Especially with Silas Silverstrike fighting with us. They say he’s worth ten Champions.”
Brode’s eyes rolled again at the mention of Silverstrike. “You believe every story you hear, don’t you?”
Holt only just realized his lack of tact. Brode was one of the eldest riders at the Crag yet he had been left behind.
“Is it as awful as folk say?” Holt asked. “To face the scourge?”
Brode’s face darkened. “Words cannot convey how terrible it is, Holt.
These paintings you admire make it too pretty.”
“Do you think the kingdom is prepared?” Holt asked. Brode shrugged, returning to his apple.
“I suppose if Princess Talia became queen,” Holt began, “then the Order would be able to direct our armies even better.”
Brode spat out a pip. Holt watched it sail to the floor and spared a thought for the servant who would clean it up.
“For someone who listens to every tale he hears, you understand little.
Talia can never become queen.” “Why?”
“Because rider neutrality is sacrosanct. Or at least it was. The fact that Talia is a rider at all is controversial, something you might know if you’d traveled more than a day beyond the town walls.” Brode checked himself and cleared his throat. “Look,” he said in a hurried voice, “people like the riders when the scourge threatens them but when there is peace and calm, they grumble about paying taxes for our upkeep. And they worry we might
start to overreach, as they see it. Nobles and merchants might have armies and castles, but we have dragons. If the riders wanted to, they could seize power and there are some who would even support it. So, the nobles fear us, as much as they depend on us.”
“But all riders are noble,” Holt said. This was confusing for him. Riders were above all in station, equal to royalty in some eyes. “How can the nobles both fear the riders and also form their ranks?”
“Ah, you’ve discovered the only thing the nobles fear more than the riders taking power. And that’s giving their lessers more.” He waved a hand over Holt to indicate such a person. “At least if the noble families make up the riders, then family love and ties will hinder bloodshed. Or so it goes in theory. There are also the sworn oaths of the Order, to stay neutral; to never marry and have children; to keep our attention always on the dangers of the scourge. If Talia became queen, it would break not only her own vows but the delicate relationship of the Order with each nation from the Skarl Empire to the Free City of Mithra. They would see it as the riders taking the reins of power. Of course, some believe the royal line should remain intact no matter what — she should never have joined us,” he added as a final dark thought.
By the sounds of it, Holt thought Brode had a point. Then again, he, Holt, had recently made a decision that broke all the rules, so he could hardly judge Talia himself.
“They should have taken you with them,” Holt said. “Commander Denna and the others. It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’ll be making a little trip soon,” Brode growled. “Not that it is your place to talk ill of our Flight Commander, pot boy.”
“No, Lord Brode. Of course, I forgot myself. I shall leave you now.” He scurried off but Brode called out after him.
“As payment for our chat, I’ll take two boiled eggs with runny yolks. And thick dark bread, mind, none of that fluffy white slop. Now, if you please.”
Holt trotted off, thinking it odd that Brode requested brown bread. Riders, being noble, tended to eat the more expensive, sweeter white loafs when they could, which was virtually all the time. Brode really was an oddity.
When Holt reached the kitchens, he fulfilled Brode’s order and then tended to the dishes. Scrubbing every cup, plate and piece of cutlery, he
kept his mind on the night ahead with the dragon.
For night was their time. When the world slept.
When, moreover, his father slept.
One night, Holt thought it best to let the baby find its way to him just from the sound of his voice. It would need to get used to doing such things. He stood a few feet away, and then he moved farther back. Each time the dragon found him, he stroked its neck, fed it some food, and then stepped back again. Eventually, the dragon could move from one side of the store house to the other without falling over or bumping into anything, albeit slowly.
“You’re quite clever, aren’t you?”
It nipped playfully at his finger without leaving a mark.
Holt walked back to where its nest of blankets lay. He called to the dragon and after a few attempts it turned and began making its way to him. The beating deep inside his chest grew louder, and louder. And then Holt heard a voice in his mind. It was not his own.
“Boy…”
The voice was high and young; it echoed lightly and sounded half formed as though the person was struggling with the word. No, not a person. The dragon.
Holt stared bug-eyed at the baby. Was it talking to him? Older dragons could do that, as Ysera had spoken to Brode in the hatchery. But dragons seldom spoke to anyone but their rider or someone of equal standing.
“Boy…” the voice called again. The dragon moved gingerly, sniffing the
air.
“I’m here,” Holt said.
The dragon drew closer. “Boy…” “Come to me. You can do it.”
“Boy!” The voice in Holt’s head rang clear and true as the dragon found
him and nuzzled into his palm.
Holt understood then that he was truly stuck. The idea of parting with the dragon would be like parting with one of his limbs. Ripping a piece of his heart away would be easier.
Whatever happened now, they’d have to be together. For better or worse.
“My name is Holt,” he told the baby.
“Hhhooww—” the dragon attempted, its squeaky tone unable to wrap around the word. “Hoowwooo… howot.”
Holt grinned and rubbed the dragon’s back. “We can work on that.” “Food,” the dragon said.
Holt gave it the last of the smoked fish he’d snuck out of the kitchens that evening. Now the dragon was beginning to speak to him – sort of – he might find out which meat it liked the best. That would help narrow down its magic type. For now, it was happy to guzzle down anything.
Him, Holt reminded himself. I should come up with a name.
It might not be the way things were usually done but nothing about this situation was the way things were done.
Despite himself, Holt fell asleep again that night with the dragon.
Waking up early this time, he trudged back up the road to home, skirting the edge of the backstreets and alleys to avoid detection. Despite his worries, there was something tranquil about the world at this time of day that Holt enjoyed.
Soft smoke rose from the Muckers’ mounds outside of town, unmoving in the still air. Only the waves could be heard. The air smelled fresher somehow, as though the whole world slept at night and awoke rested in the morning.
This day was different, however, as the distinct sound of beating wings cut through the skies. With his nerves heightened at being caught, Holt ducked down beside a water barrel as though that would conceal him from a patrolling rider. Feeling foolish, he glanced up and saw a purple dragon flying east away from the Crag.
Only Princess Talia’s dragon was of that color. Where was she going? Sidastra was to the south-east and he doubted she would have been summoned there alone ahead of the other Ascendants. He thought he could see more than one person upon the dragon’s back, but it was so hard to tell and the distance between him and Talia grew with each second. Fleeing the Crag would be breaking her oath, but maybe she didn’t care anymore with the deaths of her father and brother coming so close together.
Whatever she was doing, it wasn’t his business. Holt had enough on his mind.
