Chapter Three
He had been so close. The map they had bartered for at the husky encampment told them that the heart of the Wolfen lands lay scant few days away. The had but to take respite in one small village, and then they would draw ever closer to their goal.
So close. They had, of course, never expected a patrol this far out. Much less a contingent of those savages that populated the dragon army's grunt regiments. Tradition held that a young dragon recruit would be put in a unit with other initiates. This unit would be tested in the way history dictated: each recruit would bring back a trophy of conquest after being newly blooded. Small bands of marauders released on surrounding lands, they represented the height of danger to the small township, but they crumbled before a well disciplined force.
The truncated yelps that starkly pierced the night woke him from the first real rest he had gotten in days. He had heard the stories; a new batch of initiates would sack a city, then retreat back to bask in their conquest. He had wondered how the dragons had remained such a powerful force, even as they exposed the rawest of soldiers to combat. He had been told the answer that the dragons themselves didn't seek to hide; the strongest would prevail, only the worthy could serve the Highlords. The dragons looked down in contempt on the soft and grounded races, with their wanton pity that served only to weaken their children. Each generation of weaklings, of cowards, of the unfit would spawn only another brood of mewling cubs, unfit to share the same earth as the battle-hardened Highlords.
He had heard death only once before. He had been told that his father had given his life to save his only son, that he had placed all hope in this lone cub. Galatai did not remember his father, but he did remember hiding under a bed as death leered mockingly upon his homeland. He had never again returned to his home. His brothers and sisters in the resistance had told him of his rescue, of how he would be killed, or worse, if he ever tried to return. He remembered the nights of sobbing bitterly for the life he would never have, for the family he would never know.
Then came the second disappointment. Galatai had attended all the training. He knew that the foxes had abandoned martial might long ago, but retained a rich history of performers. The last methods left for them to fight were their natural litheness, the silence of their motions, and their newly found ability of espionage. But time and time again, he had been refused participation in any real operations. He had heard a veritable palette of excuses; he was not ready, he had other work to do, another was better suited to the task...
One day he simply ignored protocol. His friend had been given fresh orders to petition the Kingdom of Aróese for aid, and he had convinced them to let him come along. It felt good to stretch his legs after years kept in the small camps of the resistance. He had finally felt he would accomplish something.
Adrenaline filled his body. He scampered about the room clumsily, retrieving his effects. He had left for a diplomatic mission, but his training had not been lost on him. He had brought the set of daggers that they had told him belonged to his father, as well as the set of lockpicks that he had learned to make as a young fox. Last he retrieved the small carved case that held his prized possession; a flute that he found himself unable to be without. He understood that at some point he had a mother that wished him to have the flute, but others became reticent when he asked too many questions. He had simply accepted the masterfully crafted instrument as a great gift from a family that loved him greatly.
Direct confrontations against prepared dragons, even recruits, is highly dangerous. Once they build momentum of claw and sword and flame, few there are that can stand against them. The villagers Galatai had found had been kind folk, the sort that had never known conflict, the sort that had perfected the art of the quaint hamlet. These were no soldiers. The enemy were bloodthirsty dragons, eager to earn their first kill, to take their first slaves and to prove their worth. The kind villagers simply crumbled before the onslaught. As he stood in horror in the frame of the small hut, he saw what appeared to be the director of the assault strut over. The leering grin on the dragon told quarry that it had met its hunter, and then he knew only blackness.
Few were the times that Galatai regained consciousness in the prison of the dragons. Even in his delirious state, he could see the numbers his fellow inmates dwindling. He had noticed upon attempting to stand the sad state of his legs. Still, he tried to stand each time he awoke, earning him pitying glances from his fellows. It was in this state that he had heard the impending triumph of his saviors, but as he tried to rush to them to deliver his message, his legs gave way once again and he dwelt once again in darkness.