Chapter 12
“Vaska is in mourning for another failed hatch. The departure of her sister, Inakara, only deepens her grief. I cannot help but think why now, of all times, did Inakara decide to leave the mountains?”
Excerpt, Queen Evanya’s personal diary.
The city rose from the morning mist, rising up with stone spires tipped with glittering tops, like jewelled hands reaching for the morning sun. As the sun inched a little higher the light swept over the lower towers, staggering down into the lower buildings erected of the same pale stone. From every window, every door and tower they saw, colourful flags of resplendent gold and red fluttered in a breeze that stirred below. Lowering her gaze to the wall that rimmed the city, to the several towers that disrupted it, and finally, down to the large gate that marked the entrance to the city.
A long line, heavy with wagons and horses and beasts Wren had never seen before, stretched from the gate and down the hill that sloped upwards to the city. Never before had she seen such buildings with life, nor of so many people. She imagined that was what the Dragonair’s empire might’ve looked like, full of life and splendour, of magic and energy.
“I’ve never seen so many people before in my life,” she said aloud. “Is it to be like this everywhere? If this land’s ruler has so many people why even bother with our remote village?”
“Why indeed,” said Lorca, standing up. “Well, I don’t spy the guards at the gate checking for papers. I’d advise us procuring some supplies, though, before entry.”
“Stealing, I presume,” she said, looking up. “Where do we start?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re a little excited at this idea.”
“No but we can’t look how we are now going in. It will look suspicious and I don’t plan on getting captured before I find my village,” she said fiercely. “Unfortunately, I’ve never done anything like this before, obviously.”
“You think I have?” Lorca glanced back at the city. “The last time I was here I was a young child and this city was little more than a large village. I’ve never stolen before.”
Wren got to her feet and started off down the low slope to the main road below. “Then this will be a learning experience for both of us – coming?”
Lorca followed her down through the thin forest, the dappled light spilling across them in lazy bands of pale gold. He said nothing until they hunkered down behind a low line of bushes edging the main road.
“You go out first, act like the crying girl, then I’ll come in,” he said quietly. “If we do this quickly I can use magic without attracting attention.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t cry.”
“There is a first for everything,” he declared and sat down on the ground.
To some relief they didn’t have to wait too long for an ideal target. The first few that passed were groups too large or had another large group behind them. When finally two simply dressed men atop horses, swords at their hips, as well oas supply sacks fastened to their saddles, approached Wren drew in a deep breath, then drew her sword. As she passed it over she yanked her hand across the blade, slicing it. With a hiss, her tears burned with tears. Lorca opened his mouth in shock but she was already off, wiping the blood on her face and clothes, crying loudly.
She stumbled out onto the road, wailing as loudly as she could without sounding forced. She tried to force the terror into her voice as she stopped, pretending to be shocked, then relieved, as she saw the men. The two of them yanked their horses to a stop. One was off his horse, rushing to her.
“Miss, you’re hurt! What has happened?”
“Oh!” She wailed. “A beast! It attacked our camp. I-“
She threw herself into the man’s embrace, sobbing. As she pretended to burrow her face into his chest she caught sight of the other man dismounting. Lorca crept from the trees, low at first, then with a burst of speed, swept forward and put one hand on the side of the man’s face. He dropped, out cold – or dead. Wren wasn’t sure.
The man whose arms were around her suddenly dropped and he turned, hearing the fall of the other. Confusion flashed in his face but Wren was fast. She yanked out a dagger from his hip, then held it to his throat as Lorca advanced, his own hands alight with ribbons of magic.
“Sorry but don’t take this personally. You have something we need,” she said.
Lorca strode forward and slammed his flattened palm into the stranger. Seconds later he was on the ground. Wren looked down.
“Is he dead?”
“No but I scrambled his mind, so hopefully they will not remember this – or us,” he said, a little uncertainly.
“You don’t sound sure,” said Wren.
“I’m not but I didn’t think you’d want them dead,” he said coolly.
She glanced at them, uneasy at leaving two people behind to raise the alarm into the city. Still, she hadn’t come to the decision to start leaving bodies behind, certainly not civilians. Slavers, however, she might be so inclined.
“Let’s tie them up in the shade…and leave a knife just within reach, so they have to work at it. That should buy us enough time to slip into the city. We should probably find a way to get up onto a roof, if we need a quick escape,” she said, studying the city in the distance.
Lorca examined the city with a critical eye. After a pause he looked back at the men, then sighed.
“Let us get on with this,” he said impatiently.
She watched him for a second, wondering what caused his shift in mood. Then she realised. The city. An enclosed space, too busy for him to shift. It must’ve felt like walking into a trap. Well, she felt similar. Her comfort zone was exposed on the side of a cliff, not cramped with people all around, no true breeze to dispel what she expected would be a rancid stench.
They tied the men up quickly, just out of immediate sight from the road, under the solid shade of a large tree. Then they amended their clothes, donning the cloaks the soldiers wore, and then quickly checking the packs. Wren reluctantly handed her sword over to Lorca, then climbed up onto the saddle of the restless horse. Lorca followed suit, though somewhat awkwardly and grasped the reins uneasily.
“What’s the matter?” She asked, reigning her horse over to him.
“I do not like riding,” he said stiffly. “I’d much rather fly.”
She smiled. “Come on. The sooner we’re at the city, the sooner we can get the information and leave.”
He nodded and clumsily nudged the horse on after hers. She kept a slower pace, if only for him and they reached the end of the line outside the city without issue. They were a little way off the gate yet the smell was carried to them on a lazy breeze, thick even in the cool mid-morning. Her nose wrinkled.
“Let us find my village and return to the mountains as soon as possible,” she said under her breath.
She prayed her people were still safe, as much as they might be, that they were still alive. All that mattered was finding them and if that meant heading into a city, digging around in unsavoury places in order to learn the right information, then so be it. She’d been too slow getting Lorca’s help she owed them, all of them.
If Lorca noticed her wandering mind he didn’t comment on it. In fact, he was silent, his eyes on the gate, edgy, as the line slowly shrank and they neared the gate. Once they were only a few people away she reached across and touched his shoulder, jolting him back to reality.
“Mind looking a little less suspicious? Just a thought,” she said. “You look like you’re going to cause trouble.”
He frowned for a moment, then nodded. She held his gaze until his face softened, a practised look of calm settled instead, his eyes fastened firmly on hers. She stared too long, then hurriedly looked away, clearing her throat.
“Our story again? We’re married bounty hunters, no lands of our own, seeking work for criminals and runaway slaves,” she recounted quietly beneath her breath, knowing Lorca’s sharp hearing would get every word.
He nodded and at the gate he repeated the exact story to the guards, whom only half-heartedly inquired. The larger of the two guards, a balding man with a ruddy complexion and squinting eyes, glanced at Wren’s sword at Lorca’s side.
“Pretty sword for a bounty hunter,” he remarked, greedily looking at the sword.
“My bride price,” cut in Wren possessively. “A family heirloom, pretty to look at, sufficiently sharp but scarcely valuable. Not good steel, my father said, but does the job.”
The guard glanced at her, as if seeing her for the first time and scarcely impressed by what he saw. “And what job is that?”
“Running it through wayward men,” she said casually. “Isn’t that right, dear? I track the beasts, he slays them.”
Someone behind them shouted impatiently. Lorca reached out and set a hand on Wren’s hand, like an adoring husband might, or a scolding one for her insolence. Then he glanced at the guard, all warmth gone, replaced by impatience.
“Our travel has been long. Might we continue on inside?”
The guards finally nodded and only once they passed inside did Wren release the breath she’d apparently been holding, as well as the tension in her shoulders. She looked ahead down the fairly busy road and looked to Lorca.
“Dismount?”
He was already sliding off his saddle, stretching out his legs. Rolling her eyes, she did the same and looked at him for direction. He’d dealt with cities and people and more of the low lands than she had, so she deferred to him, though somewhat reluctantly.
“We need to find an inn to stay, somewhere to saddle the horses and, if we’re lucky, to speak to someone at the bar,” he said, then a small smile curled his mouth. “Drunk folk talk loose and sing truths, as my mother used to say. That was how she met my father.”
They set off down the busy street, thick with people, smelling sour and fetid, with the cacophony of noise dizzying. She shifted the side she led her horse from, so that both their horses were on the outside, and they walked side by side.
“There aren’t any stories about your father – why?”
A shadow fell across his face. “He died when I was young. It nearly broke my mother’s heart. She said even the dragons cried for several days.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged. “It was many years ago. Now they’re all gone. That doesn’t matter, though. When we’ve rescued your village and we return you owe me a favour – remember?”
“Yes, you never did say what you’d want, however,” she replied carefully. “Decided on what you want, though?”
“I have but I need to be sure. It doesn’t matter for now, though. What does is finding information about where slaves are mainly sold, then heading there. Hopefully, given it was a whole village taken, we might find out where they are,” he paused for a moment, stopping, then looked at her grimly. “They may be split up when we find them, however. This journey may not be a quick one.”
She nodded. In her heart she’d known it was always a chance. She’d heard stories about what they did with pretty girls…and boys, where they sent strong men – what they did with the rest. It seemed likely they might be split by the time she found them. Still, she had to try, had to fight until she found them and brought everyone she could home. That was the vow she swore, one she intended to keep.
“I know, so let us not waste time,” she said, gently leading her horse on.
He didn’t say anything further.
They went on from there, heading deeper into the city, walking along with the busy crowds, their eyes trained for signs they recognised. In truth, she could read the signs, which was a relief. Her mother had been determined that the merchant brought books in the low land tongue, if only so future generations might learn the local tongues for trade purposes. She’d pass for no well-bred girl but she’d do well enough.
When it seemed like they’d walked for an eternity, and Wren felt frustratingly lost in the labyrinth of streets that she swore all looked the same, Lorca stopped and pointed to a nearby building. She saw the sign and looked to him, relieved.
“Finally.”
They approached and found a boy out the front, whom led them down a narrow alley to the back where the stables were. Lorca fished out the required coin for the boy, instructed the horses to be fed and watered, then gathered the bags. He handed Wren back her sword, which she returned to her back, and took her bag, slinging it over one shoulder.
Through the back door from the stables they went inside and found the inn keeper, whom offered them a room. He gave them a key, though may no promises for goods within, as locks could be picked. Lorca assured him that was fine, then gestured for him to lead on. Up a short staircase to the next floor, then down a little hall, they arrived at their room.
Room was a generous term, as it turned out. It had a bed, though scarcely big enough for two people, and nothing else. The inn keeper informed them that bathing was done down the street at the bath house, which charged two copper coins per person. Thievery, the man said with a sniff, why, I’d only charge one!
Once they were left alone Wren turned to Lorca. “We made it inside.”
“You seem surprised,” he remarked.
“A little, to be honest. You seemed so on edge I thought the guards might refuse us, then we’d have to fly in, which I know you’d hate,” she said and sat down on the bed.
It was lumpy and uncomfortable. Still, it was better than the hard ground of the forest. She may’ve slept on the ground in the mountains before, didn’t mean she liked it. Suddenly, the weight of what she was doing hit her like a storm; sudden, crushing, and she was totally exposed to it. She was a Climber, the best, the fastest on the cliff. That was who she was. Could she really be some sort of warrior from her mother’s stories, ready to take on an entire empire with an army?
She looked at Lorca, whom she realised was watching her with guarded eyes. A Dragonair. Gods, she could scarcely believe it happened at all, that he’d agreed so easily and hadn’t complained at all. She looked away, down to her feet, as if they were more interesting.
“Am I a fool?” She asked quietly. “I’m taking on a bloody empire with only a Dragonair as aid.”
She hadn’t heard him move but suddenly he was kneeling in front of her, one calloused hand on her knee. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his and froze, the intensity of her gaze stealing all thought from her head.
“I was bound to those mountains under a curse, trapped there. I never thought I’d leave them but then you came. I felt my curse shatter in an instant and I was free. Then you came to me and all you asked was to rehome your village. I couldn’t say no, even though I made you swear that you’d help me with a favour when I asked. For that trickery, I’m sorry but I had no choice. You are too rare.”
She snorted. “I’m not rare.”
“Yes, you are. Give me your hand, I’ll prove it,” he said with a determination she hadn’t heard yet.
Shyly, she gave him her hand and he took it with both of his. He leant close, so that his lips hovered just above his hands, and he whispered something into them. Entranced, she could only watch as his hands suddenly began to glow, as though a fire lit within. She tried to yank her hand away but he held firm and met her gaze.
“Trust me,” he said softly.
When she stopped struggling he lifted his hands and she looked down, freezing. Green fire danced across her hand, warm on her skin but not burning. She twisted her hand and the flame twirled about her fingers elegantly.
“What-“
“Magic, Wren.” He set his hands over hers, the flame was gone, and she met his gaze. “That was dragon fire and only two races have ever been able to touch it – Dragonairs…and Dragons. So, you see there is magic in your blood.”
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