Chapter Six

Danv

Since returning west, the stories of dragons have been set been further and further in the past, despite Fenna’s assurances. But Orsie has continued until the shores of the Marra. From there, he meanders through Uvalhort, following a sinuous path through villages. Some reports make no sense, being told as if the dragon had passed by years ago. The closer Orsie gets to the southern border, the stranger the tales become. One old man tells him about a dragon being slain in Danv last century. It’s unlikely, the kingdom has always been a friend to dragons, but Orsie’s been in hiding for longer than that. He can’t confirm these rumors, and the dragon of the stories is not always red. Orsie needs a hint whether to go south or search for a ship that would take him west over the sea. The latter would mean he wouldn’t be able to return by the time his last scale fades, and he won’t make a rash decision again.

His questions remain unanswered, and Orsie grows more and more worried. Luck finally smiles on him in a village at the border between Uvalhort and Danv, where a blacksmith tells him a red dragon had been seen almost twenty-two years back, flying over Crinidava. The timeframe is wrong, but the dragon is red, so there has to be at least an ounce of truth to it. Orsie’s hopes replenish even more when he learns the place is famous for its plenitude of rubies, and he wonders if perhaps Nevmis has settled there, living as an overlord of unsuspecting humans. Perhaps she’s been hiding her own presence with magic; it would explain the contrary accounts of her passage.

With a trembling exhale, Orsie presses his palm over the four remaining black scales on his left forearm, then reminds himself there are six more on his right, fingers tapping over his sleeve. His journey has been long, too long. He thinks back to how many times he chose the wrong turn and shakes his head. It’s been a year since he left the icy peak that used to be his home, but he’s nearing his anaskett.

He hopes.

At least he’s closer to the last place a red dragon was seen. He surveys the northern hills of Danv with concern. Here, next to the border, the land is still smooth, but after a few days’ worth of travel south, it becomes peppered with rocks and hills that swiftly grow into mountains. They’re not as high as the Ahrissals, but tall enough and covered with thick pine forests that slow any journey along the winding roads.

So Orsie straps his backpack on tighter and starts toward Crinidava. It will take him two weeks to reach on foot, but short of stealing a horse, there is nothing he can do. He doesn’t have the gems to buy one, and as down on his luck as Orsie seems to be lately, he doesn’t want to cause some poor soul to lose their plowing horse just because Orsie is in a hurry.

*

With vast mountains at its core, Danv opens to the Wolf Lands to the west and the southern parts of Sesgrond to the east. Farther to the south, before the roads reach the Fire Lakes, lies the deserted Kingdom of Graves, a foul and dry place. Orsie went there once. Mountains of fire on one side, cascades of glass on the other, filling the air with fragments of flames. The landscape caused his breath to stutter, enough that he considered settling there, if only the air weren’t so stifling hot.

For now, Orsie travels through the pine forest of the wide pass cutting between Danv’s northernmost peaks. The low valley has only a few steep ascents here and there, and Orsie is grateful. The place brims with wildlife, the sound of burbling creeks strong in his ears. Orsie imagines the weather is part of spring’s return to life instead of autumn’s goodbye to summer. September is past its midway point, but the valley retains some lingering warmth. Between that and the smells of the forest, Orsie allows the fantasy. He dreams the forest is waking into spring, as if he hasn’t wasted the entire summer in useless travel.

Today, the whisperer is clearer than ever, his mind accompanying Orsie as he walks under the canopy. Over these past months, Orsie has learned much about the man, yet Orsie’s never felt this much enjoyment of the forest coming from the other. But Orsie hasn’t been among pine trees before, and hope swells in his chest until—

Orsie freezes, sharp frost filling his being. His eyes sting.

It’s not possible; he’s imagining things.

Slowly, he shifts back, one step, then two. His gasp is loud enough to echo, and Orsie forces himself to breathe slower. It’s gone.

No reason to panic, this is why he moved backward—to test it. With a careful exhale, he walks forward again, his senses stretched.

His knees give out when he feels it again.

His soul.

Its draw.

The whisperer croons, and Orsie realizes his cheeks are wet. Finally, he’s close enough to feel it.

He wills his tired mind to recall the landscape of Danv, one he’s seen from high above in the past, mind working fast to estimate distances. If the magic’s edge reaches here, then the anaskett must be somewhere around Crinidava. His guesses have been confirmed, and Orsie shakes in relief.

*

Orsie finds strength in his legs to continue the journey only two days later. He’s missed the sensation so direly that he needed to bask in it for a while. Needed to reconnect.

Now that he knows he’s close, Orsie feels reinvigorated. On the other hand, his body protests his sudden hurry, worn down by his continued sickness. So Orsie forces himself to slow a little, places one step in front of the next carefully. He rests as usual, even though sometimes he doesn’t want to pause. Fortunately, the whisperer helps Orsie pace himself, their connection filled with anticipation.

Orsie walks, listening to the whisperer speaking to his dragonsoul, sensing the black anaskett pulsing somewhere beyond the horizon. He is closer with every step, with every hour.

*

Crinidava sits nestled in a valley at the crossing of six major roads, which meet there from all the surrounding mountains. An old, washed-out sign covered in overgrown plants tells travelers they’re about to reach it, just before the road winds down into the valley.

Orsie makes his way into the village, keeping to the outskirts for a while until he can slip into a tavern cheap enough to afford. There seem to be many of those, explained by the considerable size of the garrison and the number of visitors milling about. As if they’ve been drawn here, and Orsie puts this observation aside for later use.

He’s almost out of supplies again, but he has some quartz shards left. Food, a room for a few nights, and then some provisions to appease his hunger while he searches. If his efforts prove fruitless by the time winter rolls in, there are plenty of places hiring around here. And since he’s sure the anaskett is somewhere close, he won’t have to travel again. He can keep exploring the surroundings while having a warm place to sleep.

First, though, he asks about the red dragon, because the mountains are large and Orsie can’t just walk around aimlessly. A drunk old man in a corner becomes chattier with the ale Orsie buys him. He mutters about a dragonslayer, not a dragon, and all attempts by Orsie to reach the truth fall short. The same skewed perspective affects this man who claims when he was but a boy, a dragon fell onto his house. And these events apparently happened last year. Orsie leaves him to his drinking.

He moves to another tavern, and then another, spending his lodging funds for the night, but the answers he gets are just as confusing. His excitement is too great to sleep anyway, so he walks around the mostly empty streets. The closer he gets to the center of Crinidava, the more people he passes by, until, right after he rounds a corner, he runs into a bunch of merry soldiers sharing stories around a fire in a small square. They let Orsie linger while telling boisterous tales, even give him some food. Orsie whispers about dragons a few times, and soon enough, they’re all talking about the dragonslayer.

“I swear,” an older archer stutters, slurring his words. “I was on the tower at the garri—garrison when I saw it. With my own two eyes, swear.”

The younger ones laugh in disbelief. “Nobody saw the dragon; Flitz killed it.”

“No, I did. And—and—what’s his name, the patrol saw it.”

The drunken soldier’s agitation increases, and Orsie doesn’t find out anything more than the fact that apparently a dragon flew over here some amount of time ago and an archer named Flitz shot it down with one carefully aimed arrow. Nobody knows, however, where Flitz came from or what happened to the dragon afterward. The story itself doesn’t really make sense. A dragon as large and powerful as Nevmis couldn’t be so easily killed, not by a single arrow. Not by a mortal. There must be something else at play here, surely some magic protection unweaving the memories of the locals. What that magic really hides, however, Orsie can’t tell.

*

Orsie spends a few more days asking about the archer and the red dragon, but the answers he gets are no different.

The dragonslayer, famed in these parts, is a creature living somewhere near the village. Some say he’s human, some disagree, but most of those Orsie has talked to haven’t even meet this Flitz. Most avoid his land, their stories of curses abundant. With those also come legends that the dragonslayer would shower rubies upon those brave enough to breach the borders of his domain. His castle is outside the village, people say, not too far up the mountain, but on the west slope, nestled inside a thick forest. It’s not visible from the village, not even from the road leading there, and one could wander unknowingly all the way to the gates if not careful.

The lack of rumors about Nevmis is strange, but she is a dragon, after all, so it’s more likely she’s watching over her oblivious subjects from the height of the surrounding peaks. Perhaps she hired this dragonslayer to keep the masses unaware. Orsie can’t be sure Nevmis is still alive either. If the tales are true and she died, then Orsie’s anaskett is somewhere in the forest. Fallen, hidden, perhaps found by a solitary mountain man. It’s less likely—Nevmis cannot be defeated that easily—so Orsie discards these assumptions.

In the end, one thing is evident. He won’t find more answers here, among the villagers, but up in the forest. It’s a little funny and a little sad how Orsie’s future depends on a man famous for killing a dragon. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t wary of visiting the Dragonslayer of Crinidava, but he locks his fear away. It’s his last resort, the place most likely to hold answers. Orsie must do what is necessary. Besides, nobody can tell he’s even a dragon, not in this body. Perhaps the perceived youth of his face will work to his advantage. And if Flitz is unhelpful, Orsie will return to Crinidava to work for more supplies before he climbs higher, starting with the tallest peak. It might not be the best plan, but it’s something to focus his dwindling reserves of strength on.

First, though, he needs a market. He estimates the trip to the castle to be half a day on healthy legs. So he should make it in two. Orsie’s the most tired he’s ever been, and he forces himself not to dwell on it. His last gem only buys him enough bread and dried fruit to last to the dragonslayer and back, if he rations carefully. Judging by the cold wind gracing the last few evenings, Orsie should return to the village as quickly as possible. If snow catches him on the mountain, he doubts he’ll—

Orsie shakes his head and stops thinking about it.

*

A mere half a day into his trip, another scale fades, bringing back the memory of his first loss at that cabin on the mountain. Orsie stops in a clearing at the side of the road, taking the night and most of next day to soothe this pain, even though sleeping outside has brought back the ache in his chest. The whisperer has stayed awake with him for long hours, but now he slumbers while Orsie spends the afternoon reinforcing his hope.

The air is humid under the thick canopy and, after a long bout of coughing, Orsie settles against a tree, eyes closed. A creek gurgles close by as it passes over rocks and roots, filling Orsie’s ears with the recollection of snow melting off ravine edges during the hotter summers in the Ahrissal peaks. That’s how deep the frost is up there. He misses his lands of stone and ice fiercely, and the sob escaping his throat is covered by the growling of his empty stomach.

Before Orsie can search in his bag for crumbs, the clatter of hooves reaches him, and Orsie scowls at the forest as he hides. The trees disturb the echoes, and one can easily get sneaked up on. His concern, however, is mildly alleviated as a caravan advances into the clearing. Orsie counts eight merchants, rich by the looks of it, with more servants than strictly necessary and too many laden carts. Perhaps they’re transporting something to trade, but it’s curious they’d be on this road.

One of the young guards sees him as they’re setting up camp, fires ablaze in the lowering light. He offers Orsie a bit of food and shelter from the cold. It’s quite pleasant to sit and listen to their chat, broth hot and bread still fresh from the village.

“My, I heard we had a visitor,” a voice calls, causing the servants to scramble to their feet.

Orsie turns to see one of the merchants approach, and he jumps up as well, but the man waves them all back down.

“Welcome, traveler, to our humble caravan,” he says with exaggerated humility, as is the habit of merchants. “I am Vogoria. Surely, you’ve heard of me and my fine silks.”

Uncertain, Orsie shrugs, and Vogoria’s mouth twists with displeasure.

“In any case,” Vogoria mutters, “what is a young man like you doing out here in the woods? Visiting the dragonslayer perhaps?”

Orsie says nothing, again, and Vogoria seems to interpret it as confirmation because he clasps his hands together with a smile.

“So are we!” he exclaims. “Sit then, eat, join us in the morning. Do you have a horse? If not, we’ll find you a ride.”

“I have no means to pay,” Orsie tells him.

“Think nothing of it,” Vogoria counters before he waves around the camp. “Plenty to share.”

He leaves without another word, but with a smile for Orsie, and Orsie is grateful for the reprieve. He has many to reward after he recovers his magic and this merchant is one of them. For now, though, all he can do is call a “thank you.”

Later, as he chats with the servants, Orsie learns the merchants have traveled a long way to pay their respects to the dragonslayer in hopes of wealth. More wealth than they already seem to have, actually. Orsie wrinkles his nose, but it’s not his place to impart judgment, so he remains silent. They are being hospitable, after all.

*

The next day, the road up to the dragonslayer’s castle is easy on Orsie’s feet as he is offered a spot in the back of a cart. The caravan moves slowly, though, and it takes them until dusk to reach their destination. They camp on the road, the place surrounded by dense trees. Orsie keeps out of the way while the servants mill about lighting fires, feeding horses, and looking for water. The ruckus is loud and the helpers are rushing every which way, so Orsie doesn’t have a chance to approach the gates he sees peeking from between trees and tents and thick bushes. Dinner preparations, however, are being ignored as the merchants don what Orsie can only assume are their most ornate attires.

Then they start. One by one, they recite their homages—long speeches of intricate words and crafty poetry read from old parchments—well into the night.

Orsie stands back among the trees, observing, waiting for a way in. He doesn’t dare go closer, not at first, but by the time darkness has fully settled, nothing has stirred from the castle. So Orsie, intent on knocking on the gates himself, makes his way past where Vogoria, having already had his turn, is watching his fellow merchants sing in awful dissonance.

“Where do you think you’re going, vagrant?”

The singing stops, and the only sound left is the cadence of Vogoria’s steps behind Orsie.

“Now, now, Morko, be nice to the pretty boy,” Vogoria says.

Orsie turns to thank him, but the grim set of Vogoria’s face stops him in his tracks, and his skin breaks out in goose bumps.

“Maybe you can pay, after all.”

“I don’t have any—”

“You have plenty of yourself.” Vogoria waves to a guard.

Orsie tries, he really tries to run, but the sickness slows him down. Someone grabs his arm right before sharp pain runs through his skull, radiating from the back of his head, bringing darkness in its wake.

*

A swinging lantern bathes Orsie’s fluttering eyelids in harsh light while the laughter of the merchants and their men surrounds him. He tries to cover his face, or at least his ears, or maybe rub at his head where an ache blooms, but his arms don’t budge. Orsie twitches, blinking against the light, but he can’t move his lips either. He’s gagged, his hands and legs bound together.

He struggles, drowsy enough to make his head spin, and gets a painful smack across his back.

“Don’t you worry, boy,” Vogoria tells him as he leans over. He pulls on Orsie’s long hair to look at him. “I’m sure the dragonslayer will appreciate your beauty.”

Orsie has seen such vileness before. Why would some prey on others? It makes no sense; all creatures feel hurt and pain and sadness. Just his luck to be captured so close to the end of his journey. Just his fate to have his trust betrayed when least expected. He growls at the merchants, eyes glaring, but all he gets in return is laughter. So, instead of struggling, he tries to untie his hands, but the ropes are too thick and his limbs too sluggish.

Orsie is disgusted, but soon fear starts seeping into his bones. There’s no immediate escape, not as far as he can tell. The warning of that young apprentice echoes in his head, about stolen youths and traded bodies, like objects to be used. If the dragonslayer is as vile as these merchants, if he’s the sort of man who accepts gifts of beings abducted against their will, then Orsie is finished.

Captivity awaits him, eventually death, so close to the magic of his soul.

Vogoria signals his men, and Orsie tries to kick against the hands grabbing at him, without avail, before he is unceremoniously dumped back on the cold ground against the wet wood of great gates. From where he lies bound, the castle looms above him. Shivering, he dares look up at the vines of red ivy crawling along the sides of the walls, and he stifles a bark of laughter. He’s had his anaskett stolen by a red dragon; it figures he’d also find his end in a land that seems prone to a red blanketing.

The recitations start again as Orsie is offered like some sort of prize, if only the dragonslayer would grace them with his benevolence. But it isn’t until the stars are shining high above and the moon is lowering over the mountain peaks that the gates open. As the wood moves behind him and he slides backward, unabated sighs of relief reach Orsie’s ears. With difficulty, he manages to keep his balance, even though he is tired, and hungry, and cold.

Booted feet step carefully around Orsie as a man walks out, clad in a long, hooded coat, face covered. His eyes are the only things piercing the darkness that seems to spread out with him from the courtyard. His footsteps are heavy in the sudden silence, his gait dangerous as he approaches the line of merchants, causing them to huddle back. He stands there, watching, and Orsie takes a deep, resigned breath. Chances of escape are slim, considering how this man is taller and wider than Orsie’s weakened frame. If he’s a mere servant, then how much stronger would his master be?

Orsie spares one more look around himself, as if the shadows will reveal some secret passage he hasn’t seen in the past hours. A gloved hand surprises him by gripping the rope around his wrists, and Orsie finds himself being dragged inside.

The merchants yell suddenly for their treasure until the hooded man lets go of Orsie to pick up the bow balanced on top of its quiver on the other side of the gates. Four arrows are plucked in rapid succession and released all at once. From where he’s lying on the pavement, Orsie can’t see what is happening, but the panicked screams of the merchants tell him the arrows found their targets. If Orsie could smile around the gag, he would. But his joy quickly subsides when the gates close with a bang.

The man stands tall, watching, and Orsie’s heart pumps frantically against his ribs. Moments pass in utter stillness before he’s being dragged again, but— No, his back isn’t scraping painfully against the stone tiles. Instead, the man carries him, and Orsie resists squirming lest he gets dropped. He’s sure he already has enough bruises to last a year.

They soon enter a large hall, and Orsie is set down against one of the stone columns lining the space. A torch burns somewhere ahead, bathing the room in scarlet shadows. The man doesn’t wait a heartbeat before he crouches next to him, drawing a knife from his boot, and Orsie kicks.

He isn’t going without a fight.

His feet, however, are still tied to his wrists, and all Orsie manages is to miss gracelessly. Even so, the man drops his knife and pulls off both his hood and the cloth covering his mouth. His hair is dark, but not as dark as Orsie’s, neatly tied out of the way, eyes sparkling amber in the dancing flames of the torch, mouth set in a grimace.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, voice raspy and crackly—habitually unused, much like Orsie’s.

Something in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the poise of his body makes Orsie relax. Perhaps this isn’t his demise, after all. So he blinks, and soon the bindings are cut off, the gag eased out of his mouth. The man stands then, sheathing his knife. He’s gone back out before Orsie can take a full breath.

Orsie rubs at his ankles and wrists as he takes in the place. The hall is indeed as large as it appeared at first glance, its tall ceiling supported by columns. Several wooden doors line the walls, ornate with carvings of ivy and curling iron braces, some of them open, others closed. The man returns then, his steps quick and a lot more silent than they were outside the gates. He halts next to Orsie, bow and quiver now strapped to his back. He is even more impressive in this dim light than in the darkness of the courtyard, and Orsie shivers.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asks.

For long moments, the man regards him, face unmoving. “You are free to go anytime you want,” he finally says, pointing toward the front doors. “But I’d wait for those idiots to go away. I reckon they’ll camp out there until I give them rubies.” He growls this in the direction of the gates before turning back to Orsie. “Unless you want to be captured again. Then you can leave now.”

Orsie very much does not want that, and he shakes his head.

“Very well.” The man raises his arm to gesture at a door to the right. “Kitchen is there; go through and up the stairs for the sleeping chambers. You’re free to roam, but never there.” He points to a large set of doors straight ahead, the only ones undecorated. “Otherwise, help yourself to anything you want,” he finishes, already striding away.

“Wait,” Orsie calls, causing the man to stop but not turn. “Are you the dragonslayer?”

Another pause follows, but a heavier one this time, the man’s shoulders tensing beneath his long coat as if the question pains him. He nods.

“I am Flitz. The dragonslayer.”