Chapter 3
“May I be forgiven for what I must do.”
Excerpt from Litania’s diary
Wren was running before she knew it, flying down the steps two at a time, sword in hand. She wasn’t sure what she’d do against a wyvern, let alone why she was running out to do…to do what? Save a dragon that just as might kill her, too? Shaking off that thought she sprinted out, releasing a feral cry that startled the wyvern. It stopped dead and flicked its head to her. Its nostrils flared, likely sensing the blood on her clothes, the traces of its kin in her skin. A low snarl peeled from its bared teeth as it barrelled towards her, the dragon temporarily forgotten.
She held firm, despite her heart slamming explosively in her chest, then at the last second, rolled the side. There was barely any time to react before it was on her again. She swung the sword blindly. Blood sprayed, warm and thick on her skin. The wyvern screamed and came at her again, slamming its tail straight into her, sending her flying.
Pain exploded as she crashed into rock, darkness splashed across her vision. The world blurred, blood roaring in her ears. Groggily, she struggled to feet, swayed but a force slammed into her, pinning her to the ground. Her vision cleared a little, the snarling jaws poised above her. The world froze as she stared up into its mouth, rigid with terror, her limbs locked. The wyvern’s mouth descended –
A force slammed into it, sending it flying off her. She rolled to her side, her head spinning, as she looked up, seeing the dragon and wyvern in a tangle of scale and limbs. Blood sprayed across the stone, painting it red, a trail of carnage as they wrestled.
She staggered to her feet, holding the cliff for support; still, she swayed, dimly aware she was bleeding. Her back burned like fire and it felt sticky, too, her furs clinging painfully. She blinked but one eye was hard to open. Blood, she realised, had closed it.
Before her the dragon found its way on top, pinning the wyvern to the ground. It snapped at the wyvern’s neck, trying to sink its teeth in but the wyvern struggled, battling to free itself. Then, as it tried to roll to the side, the dragon got its chance and sunk its teeth in, deep, then ripped to the side, tearing the wyvern’s throat out. The wyvern went limp beneath and the dragon spat out the throat, as if it was distasteful. It limped off the wyvern and lifted its head to her, regarding her cautiously with dark, jewel-black eyes.
The world lurched suddenly, sending her staggering forward, spiralling into darkness.
Acrid smoke touched her nose, drawing with it, the salted smell of roasting meat. It wound through her mind, those dreamy, half-conceived thoughts, and bled with a feint crackling sound, a fire close by. She felt its warmth, even as her eyes refused to open, to let her find it. Instead, she slowly tried to find the pain that had consumed before. There was only the dull ache in her back.
An eternity seemed to pass as she willed her eyes over and over again to open; then, slowly, they did. First, a slit of light cut in – dim, burnished red. It softened, warmed and bled to the dull amber glow on grey stone. Her eyes opened further, seeing the glow set against a stone ceiling.
As she lay there she willed her fingers to move, wiggled them, touched her leg instinctively. She lifted her hand to her face, ran them over, checking for damage. Finding nothing, she ran it over the rest of her body, finding no ache or stinging sensation. Slowly, she sat up, feeling thick furs fall to her side and looked around, warily. She was in a living area, much like the one she’d found, though arguably twice the size, with a burning fire close by. Beyond it she spied a table adorned with weapons – the sword she had, included – and books, piled high, messily arranged. There was a tapestry on the wall above it, tattered at the edges, depicting a woman with long golden hair and eyes like jewels. She was hauntingly beautiful but there was a sadness to her eyes, one that made Wren feel uneasy, restless even. Tearing her gaze away she spied a bedroll nearby, absent of person, and a trunk at the foot of it, fastened with a heavy lock. She advanced her gaze around the room, saw the entrance, then opposite it, the doorway that led to an outcrop that looked twice the size of the one she’d found.
That was where she saw someone standing there. A man, broad shoulders that tapered to a thin waist, dressed in a simple black tunic, pants and matching boots. Curly black hair was cut short, revealing a thick neck that sloped to the shoulders, then down to the well-muscled arms held firm at the side.
As if sensing her stare, he turned. Dark olive skin, a strong face with a stern expression, thick lips, a strong nose, dark eyes, greeted her. He strode over.
Instinctively, she yanked the furs up, realising she had been stripped from the waist up and her chest was bandaged. Heat burned her cheeks as she braced herself, caution in her eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
“The dragon brought you to me, told me you saved him. I tended to your wounds as payment. Consider the debt repaid and when you’re ready I will escort you down from this place,” he said calmly, as if what he said explained everything.
Flashes of the fight darted through her mind. “The dragon! He was injured – oh my gods, I saw a dragon! They are meant to be gone, stories!”
His eyes hardened. “Speak nothing of what you saw today.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who would believe me anyway?”
“Good. In the morning I will take you down. Do not return here,” he said stiffly and turned to walk back to the outcrop.
She wobbled up to her knees. “Wait! I didn’t come here by choice. A wyvern grabbed me.”
He froze, turned slowly. “You were taken? What happened to the beast?”
“I…I killed it.”
Slowly, he considered her, studied her from top to bottom. “You? You killed a wyvern? You’re a child.”
“I am eighteen summers,” she replied stiffly.
He snorted. “A child. Well, I suppose the blood accounts for the other wyvern’s fury at you. It must’ve smelt the blood. So, that was your kill by the pond?” She nodded slowly and he went on. “You returned and cut it up?”
“I am from the village below this place. There, we do not waste. Besides, I had no food and the beast was dead,” she said stubbornly.
“Ease your temper I make no judgement,” he said with a small, ghost-like smile.
She lowered her gaze, saw her bandages again, then looked sharply up. “You undressed me.”
“I had to stitch your wounds. You were bleeding quite badly,” he said, as if seeing her unclothed meant nothing, and walked calmly back out to the out crop.
She watched him kneel on the ground, then press his forehead to the ground. He was praying…but to whom? Any of the gods she knew were not prayed to at night, out in the open. Watching him, she was filled with questions. He said he saved her, healed her, stitched her wounds and that he knew the dragon she saw. Yet he offered nor name, no further explanation beyond what she asked.
Curious, she rose with a stiff groan and wrapped a blanket about her body, aware her midriff peeked out. Not that she was ashamed. Climbing had bled any softness from her, much to her mother’s dismay. She walked over softly, lingering at the threshold, leaning against the doorway, waiting patiently until he rose up onto his knees and exhaled softly.
“Yes?” He asked softly.
“What is your name? Mine is Wren.”
There was silence for a moment, then his reply: “Lorca.”
“How did you come to live here? Amongst all these ruins?”
He stood abruptly, turned and pinned his inscrutable gaze on her, faintly impatient. “You need to rest for the journey tomorrow.”
The story, she realised, would not be hers that night. She held her ground, deliberating pushing him but she sensed it was unwelcome territory. With a sigh she retreated back inside and lay down, curling towards the fire, drawn by its warmth. Her mind drifted away to all the events that had occurred and she wondered how she’d return, having seen what she had, knowing what she did.
A door had opened and she wasn’t sure how to close it, let alone if she even wanted to.
The soft footsteps of Lorca stirred through her ear as she woke up, the soft dappled light of morning spilling into the living area, brushing over her. She rose, found a fresh set of clothes laid out for her; a plain shirt, black pants and a matching coat, a faded golden rose embroidered on it. The clothes were finer than anything she’d ever owned before, far too nice to reappear in.
Lorca walked in from the outcrop, his jacket banished, revealing a sleeveless shirt that clung to his well-muscled frame. Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his and frowned.
“The clothes, I can’t wear them.”
He stopped, glanced at them, then back at her, one brow lifted. “They should fit you well enough.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
She grabbed the coat and gestured to the symbol. “This is very fine clothes. How do I explain I found them?”
“Say you came across some abandoned ruins, that you stumbled on some clothes and, given yours were torn in the attack, found these suitable,” he explained rationally.
He strode into a nearby room before she could argue. With a sigh she grabbed the clothes and stalked into what seemed to be another room, then shut the door and carefully shed her clothes. As he said the clothes he offered fit snugly, if only a little tightly. The boots were also a size too big but she laced them tight and they comfortable. She finished it off with her fur-lined gloves, which had been thoroughly scrubbed clean from blood and dried. Then she braided her hair again down over one shoulder. As she looked up she saw a tall strip of polished metal hung on the wall, a mirror of sorts. She saw her reflection and paused. It was like a stranger stared back at her in such finery. She ran her hands down over the clothes, feeling how soft it was, how neat the stitching was. Nothing like anything she owned or had seen before.
When she came back out he had a bag packed and slung over his back. A strap and sheath and sword lay on the table – her sword. Well, the one she found. She hadn’t really thought about it but, seeing the sword, she wondered if he was letting her keep it. Seeing her look at it he grabbed it and held it to her.
“My friend said you fought well with it. Consider it an extra gift,” he said quietly.
Somewhat shyly she took the belt and fastened it on her back, then sheathed the sword carefully. Then she took the bag he offered, which she found contained her climbing daggers, her water skin, plus some supplies. She looked up, surprised at the contents.
“This is…generous.”
“You’re surprised?”
“A little. I have heard only stories about dragons. I didn’t imagine them so…generous. I didn’t even do much, just distract the wyvern really. He made the kill.”
“You gave him the opening he needed,” he said. “Now, we must be off. It will take us the day to get down and I wish to reach the village before dark.”
The thought of arriving with a stranger at her side brought with it images of her family, of assumptions of lost purity. Not something she was overly concerned with but the result would be shame, plus a risk of being thrown out of the village. Sensing her hesitation, he laughed a little.
“I will depart your company before we arrive. You need not say anything of me or our mutual friend. In fact, it would be best you did not,” he said with a smile.
She nodded. “That would be…best.”
Something lit his face and he walked off suddenly, vanishing into one of the rooms. When he returned he was holding something in his hand. He stopped before her and took her hand, then deposited something cold into her hand. When he removed his hand, she saw what was there – a pendant on a leather chain. It was a small blue stone wrapped in silver. She looked up, startled.
“What is this?”
“My thanks.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My thanks for saving my friend.”
She pushed it back to him. “I cannot take it. They will think I have stolen it from the dead.”
“You must,” he insisted, then softened his intensity. “Hide it but do not deny this gift. It is enchanted. It will protect you if a wyvern comes for you again. Please, take it. I cannot wear it and it belonged to someone I once knew. She would be honoured if someone like you wore it.”
She swallowed again, met his smouldering gaze, her heart racing. “You do not know me.”
“I do not need to,” he said simply.
A distant cry split the air – a wyvern’s call. A shadow darkened across his face and he sighed, then grabbed his bag and slung it over his back. Curiously, she noticed, he held no weapons. Not even a staff. He brushed past her on the way to the exit, lingering only at the door to usher her.
“We best be off. It is a hard journey down,” he said gruffly.
Reluctantly, she followed the man she barely knew, trusting him.
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