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The next morning was not unusual. Mihr rose as always as the Dardans ate a light breakfast. Abarōz awoke next to her father, smiling at his ruffled grey hair. Across the sputtering fire from them, Shāhpuhr tossed in his sleep.
The ebrens were down at the river, though Bükrek remained to oversee her warriors. Her coils were messy, sprawled casually across the grass. The only smell in the air wafted from burning cookfires.
That’s when it began.
At first, they were just pinpricks, small splotches of color drifting over the clouds. As they approached, a few details emerged: a curving neck; an outflung tail. Then, as they continued their westward flight, Abarōz saw what they were: Sangal’s horde, some two-hundred strong, wheeling over the forest. At this rate, they would be over the clearing in minutes!
“Aswārs!” Bükrek called out, her coils now tightly strung. “Put on your plate, take your weapons, and mount your ebren immediately! Do not pause for anything!”
Shāhpuhr, now wide awake, sprang to his feet to help Abarōz. Once he and Rastag were ready, the three of them merged with a crowd as fluid as a gold tide.
“Catanes!” Shāhpuhr shouted.
“Iotapa!” Abarōz cried.
Her father ran for his own ebren as their two dragons found them amidst the frantic flapping. They slithered over and flattened, permitting their riders to mount.
“Let’s go!” yelled Shāhpuhr as the two settled in. The dragons’ claws left the ground, leaving the river behind. Once they reached treetop level, Abarōz saw they were surrounded by their own flight and its riders. There was just one thing missing.
“Where are they?” she called, searching the sky for Sangal’s horde. They had seemingly vanished, leaving only Bükrek’s ebrens.
Abarōz was no general, but she figured it wasn’t good to lose sight of the enemy. Her stomach clenched as she glanced at her fellow Aswārs: They were doing their best, but most sat at an angle.
Ugh, she thought, after Shāhpuhr, I might be the best rider up here. It was a sobering truth, made worse as the horde reappeared, twisting over treetops. They screamed out Sangal’s anger while maintaining a disciplined “V.”
Outnumbered. Recalling their last fraught battle, Abarōz felt ill. Again, their side would lose. Go down to flaming defeat. And, with dragons and riders unready, the toll would be catastrophic!
Almost by instinct, Abarōz steered by spike to help out Shāhpuhr with two ebrens.
“Ha!” she yelled, as a purple beast flapped toward her, spewing a spigot of fire. Happily, due to her plate, she emerged without a smudge.
Now his grey friend joined him, grey scales striped with red, the two of them hemming her in by flanking Iotapa.
“No!” she yelled and felt her dragon shake. Then, she screamed, white wings charred and smoking.
Abarōz hung onto that spike as time seemed to slow, then stop, letting her observe her own legs kick up, followed by the rest of her, but the new direction was down.
I’m going to die, she thought, and so will everyone else. She tumbled, near-weightless, her eyes heavy with sights: first was a camel-shaped cloud, then the Rōd, and, rising to meet her, the triangular tops of trees. How sad. She, “the Hero of Dardan” to be crushed by wood.
As her muscles tensed, Abarōz was vaguely aware of the absence of a spike. This had barely registered when the trees below her bent, forming a leafy hammock to set her down gently. From her spot on the ground, Abarōz shook her head. What had just happened? Did the trees work together? Whisper to each other before enacting a plan?
She groaned to her feet, amazed to be unhurt. Iotapa was not to be seen, and Abarōz feared the worst. Was she just bad luck to dragons? Should she end her stint as a rider? In any case, she approached her two woody saviors and embraced their trunks.
“Thank you,” she whispered, to hear a rustling, “You’re welcome.”
Abarōz knew who that voice belonged to and it wasn’t Archura: It was Şahmeran, queen of snakes and nature, who had saved her life today!
“Queen,” Abarōz muttered, “I believe it now—you really are everywhere.”
Turning in every direction to see nothing but trees, Abarōz wondered where she was. Somewhere near the river, she thought, but without Shāhpuhr, she was completely lost. Should she try to find her way out of these woods even if that made her more lost? Or sit at the foot of the trees who’d saved her, imploring Şahmeran for help? Just as she’d decided on the latter, Abarōz heard a faint call—sounding strangely like her name.
“Hello!” she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth. “I’m over here!”
She realized this was foolish since she might be alerting the enemy, so she hid behind a trunk.
“Abarōz!” she heard again and the voice seemed even closer.
Abarōz wondered what to do: Should she answer? She could have sworn she now heard flapping and it was coming from above. Looking up through a net of leaves, she might have seen a hint of black . . . which resolved into a dragon that landed in the dense thicket. Abarōz blinked, but the dragon was still there.
“Shāhpuhr?” she whispered.
From Catanes’ back, he vaulted to the ground.
“Abarōz,” he said softly, throwing his arms around her although they both wore plate. “I was so frightened. I saw Iotapa fall.”
She pursed her lips, tears forming. If only she hadn’t picked the blue dragon, she’d still be alive right now . . .
“It is all right,” said Shāhpuhr, stepping back to regard her face. “Like Az, Iotapa chose this fight. They are both great ebren heroes.”
Removing her helmet, Abarōz wiped her cheeks. War, she’d discovered, was not all glory and honor.
“We should go,” Shāhpuhr told her, motioning to Catanes. Abarōz got on first, Shāhpuhr swinging behind her. With little room to take off, the black dragon pumped his wings.
Soon, they soared over the trees while Abarōz replaced her helmet.
“What’s happening?” she called back. “How is our side faring?”
“Not well,” he said. “There are simply too many.”
She nodded. This was no surprise, but a small part of her had hoped . . .
She forced herself to refocus on the two ebrens flying for them, screaming their intent to kill.
But with two swords and two lances, not to mention their plate, the two Aswārs were rewarded by their foes’ dual tumble.
“Oh well,” Abarōz mumbled, “what a shame for Sangal.”
“Thank Tengri!”
Abarōz had no need to steer as Catanes streaked past Mihr. Then, she saw something beside her which made her cry out.
“Look!” she said, pointing.
There was her father, joined by two Axwaš, bullying three of Sangal’s horde until they turned and fled.
“Such courage!” Abarōz yelled, flashing Rastag a sign. She couldn’t believe how he’d grown: from a meek Ōšmurdan to a man who dared ride a dragon!
Though her pride held her up, the sheer number of enemy ebrens began to gnaw at Abarōz. What’s more, many Aswārs had been unseated, presenting a tasty target as they formed a troop on the ground.
Scatter and run! Abarōz wanted to scream. At least some could survive. But before she could get out the words, she was met by an eerie sight: a host of dragons, wingless, with the heads of wolves. They were more frightening than the Erbörü as they slithered out of vines, directly toward the warriors. These bunched up, shields over heads and flanks, to form a giant turtle. But the wolf heads merely snarled, tongues lolling over their fangs.
Abarōz turned away, hearing the first sounds of the onslaught. Howling, growls, and the cries of men broke the calm of the forest. What Abarōz heard was a massacre and she didn’t know what do.
“Shāhpuhr!” she cried. “Can we help them from the air?”
“I don’t see how,” he sighed. “It is too dense for us to swoop. And if we land, we’ll become more prey.”
Abarōz snuck a look groundward. She was revulsed by horror, seeing the wolf heads claw aside metal as if it were made of sand. Creeping red pools, the blood of Axwaš, spilled over the ground in a second unthinkable sacrifice.
Had Bükrek rescued these souls only to have them die again?
Thoughts of the green dragon led Abarōz’s mind to wander down the path of who else could help them. Their own dragons were scattered, so there could be no unified flames; and Catanes couldn’t prevail alone against so many wolf heads. They had no other allies, unlike the clever Sangal—no one to swarm the ground and attack this vicious foe.
“Wait,” Abarōz said, her voice surprisingly steadily. Şahmeran. The snake queen had just helped her—would she be willing to do so again? Abarōz closed her eyes and pictured the garden cave: white Marans crawling everywhere; the two-headed queen on her throne.
Şahmeran, she thought, I know it’s asking a lot but we desperately need you. Please! Don’t let the Axwaš die.
“Did you say something?” asked Shāhpuhr.
“No, I–I don’t think so.”
But someone must have heard her. As both riders looked on, the ferns and plants below them became a writhing mass, snaring most of the wolf heads in a symmetrical green net. Abarōz shook, resting her head on Catanes’ neck.
Şahmeran was everywhere.
Now, the sounds from the ground became high-pitched whimpers. The warriors, reprieved, hefted their swords and lances to slash at their ensnared foe. In minutes, it was over, the still-free wolf heads slinking away in defeat.
“Thank Tengri!” Shāhpuhr cried.
“No, thank Şahmeran!” corrected Abarōz.
The triumph below brought forth a swarm of Aswārs. They steered their dragons toward Sangal’s with renewed vigor. Both riders and dragons were fierce, taking on two to their every one.
Abarōz wheeled Catanes toward an opposing flight, the sky now so full of ebrens that Mihr’s light was diluted. These four soldiers of Sangal didn’t seem very bright: rather than flaming Catanes, they aimed for his two riders. Abarōz thrust out her sword, stabbing upward until she reached a belly. There was a roar and a rush of wind as one ebren went down. The other three looked startled but continued their assault. Catanes didn’t take kindly to this as he opened his mouth, biting down on an orange neck. His friends took the hint, wheeling swiftly to find a less deadly opponent.
“That was good!” Abarōz yelled, trying to lift their spirits.
“Yes,” said Shāhpuhr wearily, “but look at how many are left.”
Abarōz looked. He was right. Despite their valiant efforts, Bükrek’s side was simply too small. Though Abarōz saw swords fly, lances strike, flames bouncing from plate, she knew from experience that sheer will wasn’t enough. She and Shāhpuhr remained in the air, repelling the foes that came at them, but she could tell from Catanes’ pants that the dragon was weary. How long would it be before he lost his strength and fell twisting to the ground?
She inadvertently looked down to see the unwelcome sight of more wolf heads slinking in! How many did Sangal have? In any case, no green barrier formed to protect the dragonless warriors. Abarōz placed both hands over her ears to drown out the screams.
In her state and theirs, she felt it was too late to call on Şahmeran. Since nature remained unmoving, the snake queen must have moved on. How many disasters a day did she have to deal with on Gehān? Abarōz’s head swam.
Just as it seemed that the Axwaš would die again, Abarōz saw a flight of five dragons flapping toward them—led by a much larger green one.
Bükrek! She had finally come. Though she herself couldn’t fight, those behind her dropped down like arrows, pelting the wolf heads with flame. When a stray wolf dragon was dragged off by sturdy black claws, the rest, who numbered some twenty, went crying back to the vines.
Now Abarōz felt some hope. That was one enemy vanquished. But another, unexpected, was soon to torment them.
At first, she heard only a whistle, high and shrill against the clouds. Then the red form of Sangal emerged to soar over his horde. He seemed to be taking a count, looking unhappy as he flamed from head and tail. He pointed his snout at Mihr and let out a piercing scream, inspiring his followers to decamp with him toward the north.
That rare emotion—joy—coursed through Abarōz like the heat she felt for Shāhpuhr. Had they really . . . won? Defeated Sangal’s forces and sent them winging home? The notion seemed so farfetched she didn’t think it was real.
Once Catanes circled to land on the bank of Rōd, she and Shāhpuhr jumped off.
“Did that just . . . happen?” she asked, shaking her head to clear it.
“Yes,” he said, eyes gleaming. “We did it. We beat Sangal back to his lair!”
