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A LIFE IN SERVICE IS a life well spent. To be part of something greater than yourself is to strive for virtue, and the gods smile upon the virtuous.
—Prendor, teacher at Scaleback Academy
* * *
WITHIN A FEW DAYS, Onin found himself at the dragon pier with Torreg and Bolg. The cargo baskets looked different up close. When carried by a dragon in the distance, they looked fragile and thin. Up close, Onin could see the thick timbers and sturdy lashings, like what they used on the barges that carried cargo along the river. In the center and above the basket, a log thick enough to be a ship’s mainmast ran parallel to the ground, providing a claw-hold for the dragon as it flew past.
The dragon appeared as a dot near the horizon, at first obscured by the view of the Heights behind it. It grew and eventually took shape, looking magnificent as it glided smoothly through the air, its four legs dangling lazily underneath it. As always, the apparent grace of the huge creatures impressed.
As it drew nearer, Onin felt his knees weaken. The verdant dragon’s true scale became apparent to him, and he had second thoughts. The reptilian head was so huge, he thought it could swallow a horse whole. It could crush an entire cottage within a single massive claw. Onin had always believed the stories of dragons hollowing out entire mountains for nests to be fables. In the moment of the dragon’s approach, he believed the fables. Even a mountain couldn’t resist such a beast.
For the first time, Onin wondered why this had seemed like such a good idea.
"Cargo, ready!" came the cry of the cargo master from her perch on the loading dock set to the side of the cargo basket. In response to her cry, passengers double-checked the ropes securing them in place. Each man had a rope tied around the waist and attached to the hull of the cargo basket. The knots had been tied for them by the cargo master’s crew—a slipknot made to release with a single pull.
"Best you sit down now, lad," cried Bolg. The ugly sergeant sat on his posterior, as did Torreg. Onin let his own knees buckle and virtually collapsed where he stood.
"You look a bit peaked, my boy." Torreg laughed.
Onin tried to think of a witty retort but could only gulp.
Turning back, Onin looked at the approaching dragon. Darkness invaded as its shadow fell over them. He heard the whoosh of air passing over the dragon’s sleek form and the rasping crunch of the claw as it grabbed the pole of the basket. Onin felt himself pressed to the wood beneath as his stomach dropped away. His hair whipped about with the sudden wind, and the breath escaped his lungs for a moment.
Then, as abruptly as it began, the chaos ended. There was still a strong breeze, but the cargo basket settled into a gentle sway, not unlike the rocking of a boat.
"Ha!" cried Bolg. "Didn’t even throw up this time!"
"Thank the gods for small favors," said Torreg over the wind. Both men stood and pulled the release on their safety ropes. After catching his breath for a moment, Onin did likewise. The high walls blocked their view, so they clambered atop the crates on board to peer over the edge.
Bright blue sky and surrounding landscape stunned Onin with its beauty. His entire homeland spread out before him, a vast expanse of green and brown, of pastures and fields and structures and people, but they looked miniature, like wooden toys from his childhood. The sky stretched away, pale and blue, in all directions, an endless, open expanse. Onin marveled at the true size of the world. To the south, he could see the miles of marsh and even make out the dark expanse of the Jaga. To the west, he could see their destination, the Heights, the city within a great hollow mountain, surrounded at its base by the Cloud Forest, itself a land of legendary dangers. Onin’s anxiety melted into excitement then exultation.
The voices of men shouting from above called his attention. As he looked up at the majestic form of the dragon, he could make out the shapes of men, dragon riders, clambering down the beast’s leg and onto the claw that held the cargo basket. Onin squinted and noticed a rope mesh winding its way down the dragon’s leg, providing a sort of ladder for the last part of the climb.
The first dragon rider had reached the claw and lowered a rope for the men. Torreg went first, climbing hand over hand until he grasped the outstretched hand offered to him. In moments, he continued over the dragon's claw to climb the foreleg.
"You’re next, lad," cried Bolg.
Onin grabbed the rope and began his ascent. He kept his pace measured and careful and made steady progress. His strength didn’t fail him. Soon he grasped an outstretched hand and clambered onto the back of the dragon’s claw. The scaly dragon hide was slick like mossy stone. Onin was thankful for the ropes serving as handholds.
Torreg had already climbed halfway up the foreleg along the rope harness. The wind was strong but nothing to be feared, and Onin was already beginning to feel more relaxed. He climbed along the foreleg and risked a look down. The ground was so far below him, he could no longer judge the distance. The once toylike figures and structures became dark specks on a patchwork tapestry of green and brown. His stomach quailed at the sight, but it was more excitement than fear.
He climbed the rest of the distance, without rushing, carefully picking his handholds as he went. There was one moment where the wind gusted and threatened to pull him away from the ropes, but his tight grip held him in place. After a deep breath, he resumed his ascent.
When he reached the base of the tierre, another dragonrider awaited him, hand outstretched. He accepted the hand gratefully and was hoisted over the edge to land in a heap. The tierre was arranged with chairs, about twenty in all, bolted to the floorboards. Each seat sported a pair of ropes. Torreg sat nearby and the ropes secured him in place with a simple knot across the midsection. Onin clambered to his feet and tied himself into the seat next to the captain. The tierre was empty, except for the half dozen dragon riders serving as crew.
Torreg offered a flask to Onin. The young man accepted it wordlessly and took a long draw from it. Onin immediately descended into a coughing fit but refused to relinquish the flask to Torreg until the fit had subsided and he’d had a second drink.
Bolg arrived a few minutes later. He rose to his feet and strapped himself in then accepted the flask from Torreg and finished it in one swig. “Best settle in for the long flight, my friends. There’ll be no stopovers. If by chance we end up in the swamp, chances are that’s where we’ll remain.
"It’s a wonder more people don’t travel by dragon," commented Torreg.
* * *
THE FLIGHT ON THE VERDANT dragon was more glorious than any of Onin’s childhood imaginings. Once the warmth from the contents of the flask had spread throughout his body, he relaxed, and he felt soothed by the wind in his face, despite the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. The ride was surprisingly smooth, and Onin felt secure with the rope holding him to the seat, even when the dragon turned sharply to one side as it swung about gracefully to avoid a bank of clouds. Onin’s heart felt as light as the clouds they passed on either side.
Bolg and Torreg looked much less comfortable, Onin noticed. Bolg had produced his own flask, and the two old comrades passed it back and forth between them. Onin politely declined when offered the flask, as he still felt the effects of his previous indulgence. Bolg and Torreg continued to talk, mostly about places they planned on visiting in the Heights, but Onin hardly paid attention. Lost in the wonder of the experience, he alternated between watching the clouds scroll past and peering over the edge to see the landscape below. It was a fairy tale come true for him—flying on the back of a dragon on his way to the Heights to enroll in Scaleback Academy and one day join the Guard.
Onin thought once again of his friend, but it was more than sadness and regret; there was a sense Flea would have been proud of him. He silently promised Flea’s spirit he would continue to strive and live up to this opportunity.
Onin lost track of time, his mind drifting as they soared, but the sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the destination. Onin watched it grow over a long time, the mountain beginning to dominate his view. Blue sky beyond was visible through the massive holes carved in the mountain. Other dragons flew about, following right behind one another as they entered or left the hollow mountain through one of the enormous chambers. It was not unlike a giant beehive, thought Onin, as he took in the sight on their approach.
The dragon they rode upon swooped in majestically, furling its wings slightly to slow itself as it entered the interior of the mountain. Onin noticed how the wind was strong inside the mountain, and to his amazement, the giant verdant came to a complete but gentle stop, allowing the currents of air under its wings to keep it aloft. Long wooden docks protruded from the mountain’s cavernous interior, and the dragon came to a rest beside one of them.
A pier extended to the tierre, and the dragon riders ushered them across to the waiting dock after they hurriedly untied themselves. Looking about, Onin could see other dragons hovering in place near other docks, and a long wooden arm with two immense iron hooks attached to it extended from beneath the dock they stood upon. The dragon, with a casual, almost offhand air, hung the cargo basket on the iron hooks. The thick log it held in its claw fit neatly inside the two hooks, and the wooden arm creaked and bowed slightly as the weight of the cargo basket settled on it. The arm slowly retracted to its space below the dock, along with the cargo basket. The other docks had similar cargo platforms and arms, and Onin could see they alternated between receiving cargo baskets from the arriving dragons and presenting outgoing baskets for dragons about to exit the mountain.
The Heights were as magnificent as any description Onin had heard. Whereas Sparrowport contained sturdy wooden structures and the occasional stone building, the Heights were carved from the stone itself. The smooth walls displayed decorative stencils but followed the mountain's natural contours. Wide steps, pavilions, and staircases allowed for movement up and down, while the streets flowed like rivers of cobbled stone, only running with people and animals, instead of water. But water wasn’t absent; on the contrary, it appeared in abundance with a system of channels and fountains fed by the mountain peaks. Several lakes could be seen, each with palatial dwellings ringing the shore. The place smelled clean, as the mountain breeze constantly cleared away the stink of unwashed bodies and animal refuse he associated with towns in the Midlands.
Onin took in everything he could as they walked, trying to look everywhere at once. He almost got separated from the two Guardsmen twice in the press of bodies, but after the second close call, he became more mindful of following in their wake. They stopped for a meal at a well-appointed tavern, finer than any in Sparrowport. Onin had been so enthralled by the sights and sounds of the Heights, he hadn't realized how famished he was until food was in front of him. He greedily ate the dish of cold lamb, cheese, and bread. Even the foods here tasted different than what he was accustomed to in the Midlands.
After the meal, Torreg led them down another series of cobbled streets and into a tunnel that descended into the depths of the mountain. It was like being lost in a catacomb. The wide corridors served as streets with dwellings on either side. Families went about the daily business of cooking and cleaning. The passages often opened into wide halls with tall ceilings. Street vendors hawked their wares at blatantly inflated prices. The life of the city spilled into these corridors and halls and continued unabated, despite the lack of sunlight.
Walking the corridors of the city for an hour or more, they eventually came to an expansive round chamber with a fountain in the center. Two other corridors led away from the room, but on the fourth side was a tall archway. Hanging over the archway was a stone placard with ornate letters filled in with gold filigree carved into it.
Scaleback Academy, the sign read. Onin could hardly believe the fact of his presence. Not for the first time, he wondered if this entire experience was an elaborate dream.
They crossed the threshold of the arch and entered the academy’s reception area. A flamboyantly carved table stood in the center of the room, and two circular staircases rose from the left and right sides to merge into a balcony that held a set of double doors, apparently constructed of thick oak and stained so dark as to be almost black. There was a second door below the landing where the two staircases came together, similar in style and construction to the double doors above. Two guards stood at the base of each staircase, resplendent in shining breastplate and holding well-polished halberds.
Seated behind the table was an old, white-haired man dressed in simple but clean and well-maintained robes. He scribbled on a parchment with a quill, an inkpot within reach. Stacks of parchments rested on either side of him, and as they watched, he finished with the document in front of him, placed it in the pile to his right, and picked up the top sheet from the left pile. His movements were meticulous and neat, and his fingers were clean and free of ink; he never seemed to need the ink blotter resting to one side. His eyes did not rise from his work as they entered and approached him.
"Honored scribe," said Torreg by way of greeting.
The old man looked up and squinted at the captain. His eyes lit up with surprised recognition. A grin split the wrinkled face, showing many missing teeth.
"Torreg!" cried the scribe. "I thought you were stationed in the Midlands. What brings you here?" The old man rose creakily to his feet and extended a hand, which Torreg grasped warmly.
"I am here to sponsor a student into the academy," said Torreg, indicating Onin. "I was only just released from my duties in the Midlands and appointed here. It’s good to be home, I can tell you that."
The old man squinted at Onin, looking him up and down, and frowned.
"Midlander," he said with a grimace but extended his hand to the lad all the same. Despite his age and frailty, Onin was surprised at his firm grip.
"Not exactly," said Torreg. "Or not completely. Is Headmaster Belond present today?"
"Oh, yes," cackled the old scribe. He picked up the pile on his right and leafed through them, finally holding one up to his face to squint at the writing on it. "He has his schedule filled with meetings. Most of them are with nonexistent dignitaries and officials. It’s how he makes time for his poetry. Let’s see . . . We’ll just shift the appointment with the cobblestone guildmaster to next week. Since he is one of the imaginary, then he will hopefully not be offended by the delay." The old man scribbled a note on the parchment. "Just got transferred back, you say? That didn’t take long. Only took what? Ten years?"
"Fifteen," corrected Torreg.
"My, time rushes by faster at my age," muttered the old man. "Seems like only yesterday that you and this miscreant"—the old scribe pointed at Bolg, who looked at the ceiling innocently—"bribed me with sugared nuts so that you could sneak back into the academy at night. You didn’t happen to bring any sugared nuts today?" The old man looked at them slyly.
Torreg began to mumble an apology and excuses, but Bolg produced a simple cloth pouch and handed it to the old man.
"I’d never forget those, honored scribe," said the ugly sergeant with obvious but subdued affection.
"Ah, my favorite rascals never fail me," cackled the old man as he stuffed some of the sweets into his toothless maw. "Can’t crunch like I used to, so I just suck on them now. I’ve never understood why the students most keen to break the rules were always so reliable when it came to bribes." Torreg and Bolg cast sidelong glances at Onin, looking more than a little sheepish. Onin couldn't help but smile, picturing these two as adolescent troublemakers. It wasn’t really difficult to imagine.
"Let’s go see the headmaster, then," said the old scribe.
* * *
THE HEADMASTER’S OFFICE was opulent while managing to be understated. The stone walls and floors appeared to be frequently scrubbed, and the room was lit by a chandelier of candles hanging above, as well as some oil lamps on the solid wooden desk that dominated the chamber.
Headmaster Belond sat behind the table, and just like the old scribe, bent over a parchment with quill in hand, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Again, just like the old scribe, he didn’t look up when they first entered the room. However, unlike the scribe, Belond was broad shouldered and thick fingered. The headmaster was as stout as Onin, if not quite as tall. His age showed through graying beard and lines about the eyes, but he was strong and vibrant looking. Onin could easily picture him in full battle regalia.
"And to the autumn leaves, I pledge," the headmaster said loud in a well-defined cadence, "when the summer comes again, live again, you will, you will . . ."
The headmaster then put the quill down and lifted the page up to his eyes, judging the words written there. His bearded face was set in a frown.
"By the gods," said Belond. "That’s the worst poetry I’ve ever heard. It’s simply dreadful."
With a sigh, the headmaster put the parchment down and put his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the table, as if a great weight rested on his shoulders. It seemed to dawn on him that he wasn’t alone, and he wearily peered over his hands at them.
"How did you get in here? Did that desiccated husk of a scribe bring you?" demanded the headmaster. Onin turned to look where the old man had just been standing, none stood there.
"Pardon the interruption, Headmaster," said Torreg. "I am Torreg, a graduate of Scaleback—"
"I remember you," said Belond, cutting the captain off with a wave of his hand. "You graduated in one of the early years I assumed my position. Quite disappointed about your deployment to the Midlands." The headmaster looked at Bolg. "I remember you too. That face is unforgettable." The sergeant managed to look pleased with himself. The headmaster’s eyes fell on Onin next and looked him up and down with a critical eye.
"A Midlander," snorted the headmaster. Then he turned his gaze back to Torreg. "So what brings you here, Captain?"
"I am here to sponsor this lad. His name is Onin. He deserves a place here."
"Midlanders can’t be accepted into the academies. You know that. Or have you forgotten your lessons so soon?" said Belond. The headmaster stood, showing he was massive, even by Onin’s standards. He was thick bodied but also tall, standing a full hand over Onin, despite his earlier impression.
"I have forgotten nothing, Headmaster," Torreg said, looking slightly offended at the statement. "This young man is the son of Zorot Durantis, trade ambassador to Sparrowport. Durantis is not one of the Great Families, but they are in good standing nonetheless, and can enter the academy with the patronage of one of the Great Families. I will sponsor this lad."
The headmaster stroked his beard and walked around the table. He stood before Onin, inspecting him like a prize piece of horseflesh. Belond stopped in front of the young man and looked him directly in the eyes, holding the stare for many long moments. Onin met his gaze as evenly as he could, but he found the older man’s stare unsettling. The headmaster spoke again, but his gaze never left Onin’s eyes.
"Is he capable?" asked the gray-haired man.
Onin felt distinctly left out of the conversation.
"He has fought with my men in battle," said the captain. "It is why I’ve brought him here. My sergeant will attest to his abilities."
"Aye," chimed in Bolg. "Right tough lad he is, mind and body both."
Seemingly satisfied by what he found there, Belond finally broke the locked gaze. Onin breathed a sigh of relief, though he hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. The headmaster turned back to Torreg.
"Just returned from the Midlands, and you want to sponsor this Midland lad into the academies?" asked the headmaster skeptically. "Did you enjoy your time there so much, you want to go back immediately?"
"No offense to the boy’s homeland, but I’ve no intention of ever returning there," said Torreg. "Still, I must do what I think is right. I have seen the measure of this boy—no, this man—and I tell you he will make a fine Guard. To do anything else would be to waste his potential."
"You have ever been a slave to what you think is right, eh, Torreg?" asked Belond. Before waiting for a reply, though, he relented. "Fine."
Belond turned to Onin.
"Onin, son of Zorot Durantis, you are hereby accepted into Scaleback Academy. Long live the king."