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The rescued warriors did not ride back to Razūr: They walked, half the dragons forming a cordon around them.
Abarōz watched from above as Shāhpuhr gripped her on Az. The airborne dragons flew slowly over the party on foot. As Abarōz grew impatient, both groups made it back to the Rōd where Bükrek perched on her rock.
“Welcome,” she told the newcomers. “Abarōz, Shāhpuhr—well done. We may now start to join two halves of a priceless coin: dragons, and their riders.” Though the dragons didn’t understand, she continued in Dardan. “This bodes well, though the path before us lies hidden.” Pabag nodded. “The warriors of Dardan must be trained as Aswārs.” She chuckled. “This means much more than not falling. Though your armor is flameproof, remember, your dragons are not. If yours is struck by fire, not one, but two, are lost.” Abarōz winced. That might be true, but it was grim. “What will take place in this forest is what you might call advanced lessons. In ancient times, it took two years to become an Aswār. We have but a few days.” She turned to Shāhpuhr. “Please translate into Dragon. Both species must be trained: the Dardans to sit an ebren, and the ebrens to carry a rider.”
The warriors, battle-hardened, struck their breasts with their fists. Abarōz saw in their eyes the glint of anticipation.
Bükrek issued one last command.
“We begin after food and rest, when Mihr is at her height.”
The company disbursed, its dragons taking flight in search of food. Shāhpuhr first looked bewildered at the sight of nine more guests, but then dragged three sacks of grain from behind his “secret” tree.
“I see,” Abarōz told him. “I must return to my prior life as a cook.”
Shāhpuhr laughed, ripping open the sacks.
“Something tells me,” he said, “you’ve outgrown your past.”
“Regardless,” Abarōz sighed, “I am here with my pestle.”
Wielding her branch, she honestly didn’t mind mixing, molding, and laying small mounds to dry. In fact, she enjoyed it, knowing it would help their side. When she finished, she brushed off her skirt, then ran to meet Pabag.
“Greetings,” she said, lowering her head from habit. “I am so glad to see you well. Can you tell me—in the zarr—what happened after we left?”
“Thankfully, not much.” He smoothed his wild grey hair. “The Perils were wonderful, conjuring us food and water. But we heard from whispers above that the aqueducts run alarmingly low. Of course, the S̆āh and his men and family get all the water they want. As for the other Hamwars: they say that drink is rationed, and some have already died.”
Abarōz balled her fists.
“The Perils—are they gone?”
“Yes. When the guards came for us, they vanished. Manuchehr feared that they would follow and destroy all Paristan.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Shāhpuhr leaned over to join them.
“My father,” he said, “will seize all that he can. His selfishness is bigger than my mother.”
“You learned quickly,” Pabag chuckled, “despite not living among us. I’m only surprised he didn’t attempt to turn you.”
“Oh, he did,” said Shāhpuhr, “but . . . a certain someone—” he winked at Abarōz, “risked her life to save me.”
Pabag fell silent, then turned to regard her with an Ōšmurdan’s sharp eye.
“Who would have thought,” he asked, “that my old friend Rastag would ever produce such a daughter?”
“I’d say no one,” Abarōz told him.
“Well, I should take my leave,” sighed Pabag. “You young people don’t need an old man around.”
Abarōz was about to protest when he stepped over grass to join the other warriors.
Shāhpuhr looked puzzled.
“What did he mean?” he asked.
“Simply,” said Abarōz, “that in this situation, three people is one too many.”
“Oh.”
Abarōz blushed. She felt shy as he took her hand, crouching with her under pretense of checking the bread where he kissed her cheek lightly.
“Shāhpuhr!” she cried. “Not in front of the Dardans!”
“I’m sure many have children. Why would a kiss cause them such grief?”
Abarōz put her face in her hands.
“Because such behavior is not allowed until marriage. Even then, signs of affection must be exchanged in private. Surely your mother told you?”
He vigorously shook his head.
“She taught me our zand’s language—but not all its customs. What was the chance of my ever having to know them?”
Abarōz’s face cooled.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said primly, rising without his help. “Just remember that we are Dardans and, er . . . when it comes to . . . things like kisses, easily shocked.”
He rose without effort.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank Tengri, those Dardans weren’t raised here! In the forest, they would see things they could never forget.”
Abarōz turned aside, clearing her throat.
“Shouldn’t we,” she asked, “be joining the others for training? I’m hoping that someday I can ride by myself.”
“Not me,” Shāhpuhr whispered, putting his hand on the small of her back to guide her back to the Rōd.
Abarōz shrugged. She knew she should say something, but . . .
By the time they got there, all the dragons were back. Bükrek flew over, settling at her son’s side. As she spoke in Dragon, he translated.
“She says,” he told Abarōz, “that since ebrens haven’t been ridden for centuries, the instinct has been lost. But it may be regained, starting with trust in their Aswār.” He cocked his head, listening. “She says they must always be aware of the precious life in their claws. Not to make too-sharp turns, or to plunge groundward too fast. If their Aswār falls, they must try to retrieve him. Or her.” Abarōz smiled. “She wants the ebrens to practice taking off, flying, and landing as if a rider were on their back. She says that when their Aswār first mounts, it will feel quite strange.”
Abarōz took all this in, watching as scales of every hue flashed and swirled above her. The dragons were being cautious: not flapping too fast or speeding like an arrow. Their turns were slow and deliberate; their landings soft and prolonged.
“Excellent!” Bükrek called, raising a claw in approval. “Now, in the midst of battle, you might have to move evasively, which brings us to our Aswārs.”
Abarōz saw them off to the side, where they’d been herded into a circle to be dwarfed by their future mounts. Without wanting to attract notice, she motioned to Shāhpuhr and joined the warriors. Surely, Bükrek would let them?
“I believe,” the dragon said, “that learning to be an Aswār is more difficult than learning to carry a rider.”
“Oh no,” Abarōz breathed.
“But,” Bükrek went on, “after training, I’m fairly confident that no one here will fall.”
Fairly?
Abarōz found her eagerness, as always, tempered with layers of fear.
This is not the time, she scolded herself. After all, you’ve ridden Az . . .
But never by yourself.
“Unlike the horse,” said their teacher, “an ebren will not stand for a bridle, bit, or saddle. That is why you must rely on your body alone.”
“What’s a horse?” Abarōz whispered to Shāhpuhr.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
She resisted the urge to grab his hand. So, they would have to fly with nothing: Apparently, Aswārs didn’t need help.
She tried to pay attention.
“Now,” said Bükrek, “the true art of the Aswār rests in their arms and legs. Arms to steer by spike, and legs to control speed. It’s quite simple: just a touch with the shins to slow, and a gentle kick to go faster.” Even though the banks of the river were cool, Abarōz started to sweat. After all, she’d lived her whole life where the biggest beast was a camel. And Bükrek expected her to control a whole dragon? One twenty times her size? “Shāhpuhr, Abarōz.” Abarōz snapped to attention when she heard her name. “Since you’ve already ridden, please demonstrate for the others. On two separate ebrens.”
By Tengri! Abarōz’s moment had come and she could barely move. How could she be an example when she was so clearly inept?
Abarōz stared after Shāhpuhr as he leapt atop a black dragon. She decided to stay with Az and made an attempt to mount. He had to lay flush against the dirt until she swung a leg over.
Long before she was ready, Az spread his wings and took off.
“Whoa!” Abarōz protested. “Aren’t I the one who steers?” She gripped his closest spike tight as Az roared off over the trees, and, without Shāhpuhr, Abarōz almost tumbled. “Slower!” she cried, kicking him with her heels. The dragon puffed white smoke. “I know,” Abarōz said, “that you know I don’t know what I’m doing. Sorry.”
Az shook his head, going wherever he pleased, but not, she had to admit, as fast as he usually did.
She saw a blurred black object from the corner of her eye: Shāhpuhr, applying just the right pressure as his dragon darted and soared.
If only . . . Abarōz sighed, testing her hold on the spike and the force of her kicks. As Az circled back to the river, she even relaxed a bit, until he thrust down his snout and sank like a Dardan stone! Trying to salvage her pride, Abarōz didn’t scream, but was not exactly aware when her dragon landed. She toppled to the ground, mixing her pride with dirt.
The gathered warriors clapped: surely, not for her? She pointed at Shāhpuhr, who’d jumped from his dragon’s back as if he were born to it. She had to face the truth: He was already an Aswār while she should crawl back to Dardan.
“Very nice,” Bükrek called. “From both of you.” Right. “Time for the rest to try.”
Abarōz looked up, her body drained of strength. She was grateful when Shāhpuhr helped her to her feet.
“You were amazing!” she told him, nearly brushing his hand. “And I . . . well, I could be the S̆āh’s entertainment.”
“Nonsense! The longer you rode, the more confidence you developed. Just get a feel for landing and you’ll be an Aswār yet.”
This made her feel slightly better as she turned to watch the warriors. They had all mounted an ebren and some even looked ill. Once the dragons and riders took off, she caught expressions of horror from the latter and even a tumbling body before Bükrek saved the day.
Abarōz had never felt joy at the misery of others, but she confessed to a sort of relief at not being the only bad Aswār. One or two of them in the air were hanging off their mount’s flank.
“Time to land!” Bükrek called, and the ebrens staggered in, hindered by novice riders. “We will continue our lessons today and through the night if we have to.” Abarōz sighed. “Sangal has not been idle. Archura informs me he plans another assault. That’s why we’ll train every minute until we’re called to the battlefield.”
Bükrek, Abarōz saw, was not one to exaggerate. For the next three days, she, Shāhpuhr, and the warriors barely touched Gehān as they spent their time in the sky. Though her backside was sore, she could feel herself untensing, even acquiring skill as she steered and prodded Az. The others too seemed more comfortable, with fewer falls and mistakes. Shāhpuhr was even bonding with his black dragon, whose name, he said, was Catanes.
Even though they were small in numbers, this time, Abarōz hoped, they’d be on more equal ground . . .
She was taking a rare break in the clearing, Shāhpuhr at her side, when Bükrek swooped over, calling them all to the river.
“It is time,” she told the assembled dragons and Aswārs. “Sangal grows tired of waiting for Dardans to perish from thirst. Şahmeran has sent word that he will besiege the city.”
Abarōz regarded her solemnly. If this had come from Şahmeran, it was assuredly true.
Shāhpuhr gave her a wink.
“We will be fine,” he told her, “now that we have dragons.”
But not enough riders, Abarōz’s mind whispered.
She tried to give him a smile, but her lips wouldn’t obey as she thought back to the last battle. Where over half their force had been slaughtered. Where she’d been carried off. But, Shāhpuhr was right. With ebrens of their own, they would present a much better front. But that might not be enough.
