WIND RIPPLED ACROSS the thick grass on the treeless slope of the split-peak mountain of Dragons’ Summit. A flock of birds picked through the grass peacefully. They startled at as growing shadow fell across them, sending them into the air a heartbeat before a green object slammed into the ground. A reddish brown dragon back-winged and landed near, maintaining an outward air of nonchalance though his eyes reflected concern. “Today’s lesson was dodging, not falling, Thrahx Vaug.”
The gromek pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of dirt and grass. Annoyance flashed in his yellow eyes as he glared at the dragon. “Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me, Marchen! How silly of me to forget.” He stretched his wings out to their full extension, then folded them back as he shoved himself up to his feet. “At least I didn’t land on my wings this time. The healers should be grateful.”
The dragon’s form melted, changing to that of an ogre-sized human male garbed in an elegant red outfit edged in gold and browns. He reached up to brush away other remnants of dirt, picking off a clod of dirt and grass hanging off the tip of the gromek’s horn. “Judging by the level of sarcasm in your tones, I do not believe more flight training would be prudent. You are too distracted. We can continue with less hazardous lessons.”
Doom growled, his green skin flushing darker. “I cannot help being distracted!”
“Don’t bristle at me,” Marchen scolded, though sympathy blunted any sharpness in his rebuke. Their path wound their way to a doorway leading to a tunnel into the temple’s mountain complex. “We are all concerned about the Temple Daughter. And many of us have volunteered to search for her.” He pointed out blandly, “You are the one who keeps declining our offers.”
“I want nothing more than to go find her.” He paused within the archway, staring into the distance before he turned with a sigh and shut the door behind him. “It has been two years, two months and seventeen days since I last saw them.”
Marchen arched an eyebrow, glancing sideways at the gromek. “Not that you’re counting.”
“Not that I’m counting,” he agreed with a weak chuckle. Worry replaced his short-lived attempt at humor. “I want her to know that I have faith in her. She promised she would return. Ky-Lar said it would be no longer than two years.”
“Thrahx…Doom,” the young, man-shaped dragon chided, putting a hand on the gromek’s shoulder. “Everyone knows that Tiwaz has the favor of Keth, Sulnar and Veridian all. If they have not whispered to even one person about trouble, then she is safe. No one can put an exact length of time on how long it would take to learn something like one’s own racial nature. Shape-shifters are the most reclusive of all races. It stands to reason she would need time.”
“It feels like it has been a lifetime. We have never been apart for longer than a month.” He reached up to pull off a remnant of grass stuck behind his horn. “Never this long.”
Marchen chuckled. “I keep forgetting how young you both are. You have only seen little more than two decades, so years will seem interminable. When you are as old as Drathmor, centuries will flutter by like minutes to you.”
Doom snorted. “I am a gromek, not a dragon. And you can’t deny Drathmor is ancient even by dragon standards.”
“How long do gromeks live for?” Marchen asked. Doom stopped abruptly at the question. The dragon acolyte turned to regard him with sympathy. “You don’t know?” he stated more than asked.
“I don’t remember how old the oldest gromeks were.” He punched the wall, the rock crumbling slightly around his knuckles. “I do not remember much of anything before Alimar.”
Marchen put his hand on the wall, the cracks melting and repairing themselves. “It is common for older memories to fade over the course of time. I hope that one day your days of slavery will be as dim.” He clapped a hand to Doom’s shoulder. “Come. The central temple’s library is quite extensive. We can see if there is any information about your people in the library somewhere.” Doom nodded mutely and fell in step with Marchen.