A Desperate Flight
The Hatchling had never been so tired in his life.
It had been three days since the skirmish with the Ashkar, and in all that time they hadn't seen a single traveller on the roads, nor any patrols from Westgard or sign of anyone at all- anyone with sense had long since gone to ground, though necessity forced them to press onwards. Each day and night he spent in their company drove splinters of guilt beep into his breast; after their encounter with the Ashkar the realisation of just what risk they were taking for his sake had hit home hard, and every morning now the signs of war became all the more obvious. An abandoned pasture here, a burned out homestead there, all scattered around like the detritus of some tempest. Now so close, they moved faster. There was no time for songs or play even if the mood had existed for such things; it was being quick or becoming corpses. Each morning Cynwise scoured the horizon for signs of men on the march, whispering assurances to herself that help would arrive soon, that the guard was making the villages safe from attack. Tracks and scents carried on the wind told a different, more violent story, and the stilled morning air was forbiddingly heavy. He suspected that if the stink of burning were not so strong, then it would be thick with the stink of blood.
And they were being followed.
Thrymja had nosed them out in the morning, following some ways behind and watching the cart warily; a pack of six or more much like the one that had tried to ambush them. The dogmen kept pace with them, always lurking in the trees and tall grass; unseen but for the spoor of their tracks and occasional fleeting glimpse of bleached hide and moving shadow. Fighting them would be madness; days on the road left them exhausted and they still carried wounds from their previous encounter. So they ran.
Terror set spurs to their pace, and there was no daring to look back. His young muscles felt the bite of overuse keenly, and quickly his entire body was wreathed in flames of agony barely extinguished by cold dread at what crept behind. Their pace was brutal but breathlessly he pressed on, terror pushing him past exhaustion and the crippling burn in his muscles, past the point he felt he must stop lest his heart would burst. After an eternity the thick fog of exhaustion rose high enough to dim his senses, permeating like a poison into his mind and allowing his body to work in a mechanically detached, not-quite-real seeming way, like a puppet at the end of a long string. The heavy, steady panting of Thrymja and stomp of the human's booted feet at his side became like a mantra that he could focus on and allow the terrible pain to fade to dull warmth, save when he stumbled and the rhythm was broken and it would come shooting agonisingly to the fore. Every moment he expected to hear again the unearthly, blood curdling howls as the Ashkar descended upon them in an orgy of slaughter, but the beasts seemed content simply to keep pace in the undergrowth, watching their prey tire itself out and delighting in their terror. There was no telling how much longer they would hold off; perhaps only caution at the scent of their dead fellow's flayed pelts, salted dry and stuffed into sacks kept them at bay.
Thrymja ran at his side, ears low and her eyes as cold and sharp as knives. The wolf was holding together perhaps the best of all of them, but even she showed signs of strain; her pelt was matted and she was silent, either through fatigue or shame at her flight from the fighting. She favoured her scarred leg- the ring where the snare had bitten deep long since healed over but still raw, and he wondered through a red haze of exhaustion if the injury wasn't still giving her trouble. She nudged him onwards when he looked set to falter, and by unspoken consent they kept close to Cynwise. The human seemed to know where she was heading, taking them on a trail that carried through the shallower parts of valleys and always through thick cover, hoping to reach a haven by nightfall. But the night was fast approaching, and with it came an impending sense of dread. Being caught out in the wilderness, with pursuit so close and in no fit state to fight would likely be a death sentence.
The world took on a dreamlike quality when it began to rain then; the ground warmed by the day casting up palls of vapour as it cooled, all scents taking on a damp, muted taste like meat left too long on the boil. The cart's wheels crushed through the crust of dead pine needles as the ground became more and more sodden, becoming a quagmire that gave way beneath their feet and splattered them with mud. The horse's breathing was laboured with the effort of dragging the cart through the mire, its hooves sliding around wildly as the animal struggled up a slope, stumbled, struggled again, then came to a sudden halt.
He didn't see the stationary cart until he ran face first into it, and collapsed there in a tangled heap, unable to do much more than lie in the cloying mud and suck the fetid air, without energy even to groan at the agony that consumed his limbs. His breath choked with a sickeningly coppery blood-like tang, and he retched, dirtying his scales with frothy bile. Cynwise and Roff lay face down in the mud, breathing hard, hands still tightly clutching unsheathed weapons; only Thrymja endured, darting between them all and whining piteously.
After what seemed like an eternity Roff hauled himself from the ground, sweat stained and mud spattered. He grabbed Cynwise roughly by her collar, jerking her upright and leaning her against the cart. As his vision slowly returned to focus the Hatchling could see why they had stopped; the cart's wheel was trapped between a root and a boulder and tipped precariously on its bearings, threatening to shear it from the axel. As the pain died away he began to take in more. The world had taken on a two-tone fuzziness of grey and black that told of low light, and with a creeping dread he recalled that humans were near blind in the darkness. A sickening sensation like a heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach as their peril became clear; night had descended and they could not go on.
"A brave try," Roff said eventually, after their breath had returned and an unnerving, far too-perfect silence had descended. "We're canned for it now. Any ideas?"
The silence returned, stronger than before. Thrymja growled low in her throat, her ears flicking at some unperceivable sound. The Hatchling thought he saw something moving in the trees.
"Light a fire, blind them in the dark." Thrymja said, her lips curling back to reveal yellowing teeth. The Hatchling translated for the human's benefit.
"If we're going to be run through then let's at least be warm when they do it." Roff replied grimly. "God's know we've time enough to be cold in the grave."
They resorted to using the splintered tracings of the horse that had died in the previous skirmish; the iron and riveted leather set into the wood smoked terribly and spat, but at least it was warm and dried the rain from their clothes. They occupied themselves each in their own detached, emotionless sort of way; Cynwise patted the side of the sweating horse, soothing the nervous creature whilst Roff sharpened his sword with a face so lost in concentration that in the dim firelight he looked like a statue. The steady rasp of the oilstone grated on everyone's nerves, but the Hatchling wasn't about to complain, not when he saw clearly the notches marked on the crossguard. Thrymja settled down near the fire, insisting on licking the Hatchling's wounds which had come open during the dash and leaked blood over his already stained hide, so that he looked as though her were wearing stripes. The Hatchling's fear mounted as the silence grew and curled around them until it was almost palpable; so thick that he doubted even Roff's stained sword could cut it. He buried his head in Thrymja's thick fur, heard Cynwise taking a stance behind them and felt the tender caress of her fingers on his wing. He drew on his last reserves of strength and courage, forcing himself to bury his fear, to stand beside his friends and confront the darkness. The Ashkar knew what to expect but if it was to be a slaughter the dogmen wouldn't have it all their own way; four against six wasn't good odds, but they had the high ground at least. There might yet be a chance.
"Well," Roff called into the darkness, setting aside his oilstone and brandishing his sword with solemn ceremony. "What are ye waiting for, you flea bitten bastards? I have some debts to collect of the gods!"
Silence answered.
"You suppose they want us to stand here all night waiting?" Cynwise said eventually, stretching her cramped legs.
"Or they want to tire us out even further." Roff grunted.
"Good luck with that." The Hatchling said, who was shaking and having difficulty remaining on his feet.
"I'm for a sup." Roff said, dropping his stance and fingering the hilt of his sword warily. "I'll not die sober when there's mead to be had. Rankles to let those spawn of lepers and rat hounds have it." He grunted.
One by one they broke off, careful to keep their back to the fire to preserve their nightsight and weapons close at hand, never dropping their guard. They dug deeply into their travel rations, and the Hatchling felt full for the first time since leaving the cabin on top of the mountain what seemed like an eon ago. With unspoken consent he ate every morsel offered, even the disgusting dried roots and tubers that a dragon's stomach would normally not handle. There was some discussion over whether they should slaughter the horse and eat that too, though by the time they were done with the rations no one had any room, and the thought of the surly creature cracking an Ashkar skull with its heavy shod hooves gave a stay of execution.
There was no thought of escape; even a brief examination of the cart forbade any possibility of it easily being freed, and the Ashkar would surely be on them the second their guard was dropped or they broke for the trees. So they ate the tasteless food mechanically, and then each drank of mead until they were soundly drunk and the cask was empty, and that too went upon the fire. Supplies to last another week consumed in a single hour, and Cynwise managed a few bawdy jokes, answered with heartfelt laughter. The Hatchling found himself genuinely amused by Roff's antics as the man juggled captured throwing axes, and Cynwise strutted before the fire extolling the unseen, lurking dogmen on the joys of a pious life with language that would have given a drill instructor apoplexy. He found himself caught up in it, donning one of the flayed Ashkar pelts and pretending to hump Thrymja, laughing, catcalling and spitting insults, expecting at any moment death to come whirling from the trees. It was an odd duality to stare so fixedly into their doom and yet celebrate. He laughed at the strangeness of it; the mad, frantic laughter of those who will laugh at anything, simply because they might never have a chance to laugh again.
And then there was no more laughter. And nothing more to do but wait.
***
When dawn came, it was no small surprise that they found themselves alive and lacking unnecessary cutlery in their ribs.
Incredulous at first, Roff and Cynwise refused to move, thinking it some sort of trap or perhaps a cruel game as Ashkar were known to enjoy; playing their prey like an angler and letting them think there was a chance before the final pounce. Through hangovers they argued bitterly for an hour over their next course of action; Roff wanting to meet his end in glory charging into their midst, and Cynwise counselling to slink off stealthily into the undergrowth and kill as many as they could before their demise. Eventually, his digestion distressed by the vegetables and strong drink of last night, the Hatchling wandered into the woods to squat and returned without detecting anything but a lingering trace of their pursuit.
"Well that is damned odd." The Huntress muttered to herself, scanning the trees with a jaundiced eye. "You're entirely sure?"
"Certain," he said, flicking a pebble from between his talons, hardly comprehending. "The trail is fresh, but moving away. They went off sometime earlier in the morning, before sunrise."
"Perhaps they didn't care to lurk downwind of dragon shit." She chuckled. "Or maybe they're just toying with us. I suppose all we can do is find out."
They took stock of their position, finding themselves half way up the side of a valley and tracked the Ashkar down towards the stream running at its base. Not wanting to risk sacrificing the high ground, Cynwise decided to press upwards and crest the lip of the valley before the Ashkar had a chance to circumnavigate it and come at them from the advantageous position. In the early morning light the humans could work by eye to try and free the wheel of the cart, which was soundly wedged and took a full hour of work with an axe-haft as a lever and much cursing to free. It sat loosely on its bearings and was inclined to wobble, but Roff who had once been a farrier before taking up the sword pronounced that it would hold for the time being.
The uphill climb was hard after yesterday's exertions, and the heavily laden cart required much pushing up the steep slope and careful manoeuvring between trees to make any progress. The Hatchling at least was acclimatised to this sort of work, having helped push a sled across a mountain range and set to the labour with gusto, even if his muscles were inclined to twinge and complain. Thrymja ran scout, roving through the woods ahead of their path and reporting back occasionally that it was all clear. Cynwise dispatched her to scout the other side of the valley spur whilst the three pushers took a brief respite and lamented their zeal in disposing of their supplies last night.
The wolf reported back an hour later, virtually dancing from paw to paw in excitement as she related what she had seen there; great pillars of smoke and a battle underway not ten miles distant.
"Hah! I knew it!" Cynwise shouted exultantly, slamming her fist into the palm of her hand. "Bloody Westgarders are prissy little lordlings but they can fight like hell when they set their hearts to it! That's where those bastards went; they'd rather have better sport on a battlefield than terrorising a poor lot like us!"
Spurred on by her words they redoubled their efforts; the tang of smoke even thicker in the air as they reached the summit, finding themselves upon a great spur of rock overlooking the wide expanse of a glacial valley below. They broke cover, rushing to their vantage, well placed to better observe the drama unfurling before them.
The panorama made little sense at first, though through the haze of fatigue the Hatchling began to piece it all together, not quite believing the horror that arose before his eyes. The great pillars of smoke stretched skywards like the twisting, many branching stem of a rose; the smoking ruin of villages, that much at least they could discern even at so great a distance. The early horizon was a lurid red glare, streaked black in the hellish light of fires reflecting off the clouds, looking as though some final great reckoning of gods and titans was underway and the entire world were being split asunder. Cynwise gave an odd strangled cry, her gaze far away and unfocussed in stunned disbelief as she took in the scale of the disaster. How many of her friends or acquaintances were trapped in the infernos below? Just the thought made his blood run cold in a way that even the deepest snow had never achieved.
The Hatchling had seen such things before in the Dream, though through another's eyes. It was a sight known in ages past when dragons were numerous and fought in great battles, levelling torrents of fiery destruction upon the fields of war. He felt a dull ache in his heart as he took in the sight; torn between sorrow and fierce glory half-forgotten to all save his own kindred, wondering bitterly if his ancestors had stopped to consider the horror they had wrought upon other thinking beings. He glanced surreptitiously at his companions, wondering just what feelings were kindled in their breasts in the face of the awful, beautiful chaos of war.
The battle itself raged closer; they could make out enormous masses of men and beasts at their terrible work; too distant to pick out individuals, but visible as a whole. The two sides were drawn; neat ranks and columns were arrayed before a swarm seeming many times their number (though only an illusion, Roff told him). They watched from their lofty vantage as the two forces met, then separated, and met again like two deadly tides coming together; each time leaving the fields before them a darker shade; the swarm noticeably reduced, but the neat ranks looking crooked and chipped. There was a terrible rhythm to it; like two partners trapped together in a furious dance of death, each seeking to outdo the other and then retiring as they found their skills matched.
As the distant swarm advanced again, a line formed from the rear of the ranks and arrowed forward- cavalry, Roff said, lances lowered and driving deep into the swarm like dogs amongst sheep, splitting off small sections for the slowly advancing ranks of humans to crash into and over, like a brush sweeping through dust. In less than half an hour it was decided; the swarm scattered and dispersed in every direction, trying to meet their foe on a front too broad with numbers too few and isolated. Too late the rabble formed a square to ward off the wheeling horsemen, only to be caught in the teeth of the flanking infantry who descended upon them like the wings of a diving falcon. A fortunate few rushed towards the forests and scattered still further until nothing more could be seen, and a great hurrah went up from the ranks, audible even at their distance. Cynwise and Roff joined the cry lustily, and even Thrymja tipped back her head and howled- setting up a confused chorus from wolves in the nearby wilderness.
The ranks dispersed to engulf the rest of the field a little while longer, recovering their fallen, looting the dead and finishing the wounded. It was midday by the time that the drama finally ended and the ranks too finally dispersed, leaving a distant patch of blood darkened earth and another thick pall of smoke where the bodies burned.
"S' always nasty, after a battle." Cynwise said, following the direction of his gaze, making him give a small start; he'd nearly forgotten they were there. "Dog tired, slipping on blood. Enemies desperate so you don't know if they're going to run or stab ye, and your own guys are worked up and tired too so they don't always look at what they're fighting. That's not even mentioning the wounded everywhere that need taking care of."
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "And if your foot gets caught on something, best not to look. Just shake it off and try to keep your lunch down." Cynwise's nostalgic moods required a lack of a graphic imagination.
"So, it's over?" He said, too tired to be truly hopeful. He tracked the new pillar of smoke as it went to join its brethrens in the hellish, blasted sky; the sun little more than a watery glow adding depth to the swirling clouds of destruction.
"Not by a long ways." Cynwise said, with a shake of her head. "Ashkar are brutal like that; they'll fight anything, even themselves if there's nothing else to kill. They live for it. I once heard a scholar say their culture was based around martial law or some such, but that never made sense to me. When they group together they'll give you a few good fights, then break up and terrorise the countryside for decades until they get spitted or come back for more. Those survivors will go into hiding and raid like hell when the rebuilding starts." She murmured.
"Won't the Westgarders hunt them down?" The Hatchling said, forcing himself to look away. He'd stared at the great blazing pyre for so long he could almost make out individuals heaped upon it, and what he saw threatened to turn his stomach.
"Probably not." She said bitterly. "It's a hell of a job to ferret them all out, and Westgard isn't as strong as it used to be. Bálheim either." She added sadly. "The winters in the northlands are getting harder, and the men can't be spared from the fields for so long as they once could. Best to take them down piecemeal, where they have to fight on our terms."
The spent the rest of the day trying to find a route down into the valley, where there would be roads and travelling would be much easier. The Ashkar were scattered but still at large, and it was only with great trepidation that they finally rested amidst the hollow walls of some tree-swallowed ruins; probably destroyed in some previous war. Too tired in body and spirit even to set a watch they slept where they fell, only half caring if they still lived to wake in the morn.
That night the Dream returned to him for the first time since leaving the egg, its visions thrilling, terrifying and inescapable. He dreamt of ancient wars; times when men used copper instead of iron and natural magic came easily to even the most unskilled of hands, of good and evil and all the shades between. And always, on the edge of attention loomed those vast, billowing clouds of death-black smoke; the flames leaping high as blackened ghouls of charred flesh and bone threw screaming men and Ashkar alike into the horror, all the while grinning mirthlessly from fleshless skulls. Just as it seemed the nightmare would consume him too, the flames parted and the smoke thinned, and upon a corpse strewn hill a silhouette stood, proudly raising a tattered banner to the colourless sky. A ragged cheer went up; the voices of the shadow-men growing stronger with each ululation, pale light glinting from bloodied swords thrust into the air and at last were joined by a dragon's triumphant roar.
He woke with a start, Thrymja standing over him with a bemused expression and the sun already strong, near noon. Nothing remained of the hell that had been yesterday save thin dusting of soot the world seemed to have acquired and few distant fires, barely visible on the horizon. Roff was kicking him with the tip of a steel shod boot; Cynwise was nowhere to be seen.
"Went off hunting, stupid woman." He muttered when the Hatchling inquired. "Spotted some pheasants come down not far from here and couldn't resist. Not that we couldn't use it, but I'd rather suffer an empty stomach than have her charging off on every fool start..."This last he muttered quietly to himself. "You ok? Ye were making some strange noises back there."
"Just a dream." He said, not entirely sure that 'just' could describe so vivid an experience. His heart was still racing from mingled terror and... Something else he couldn't immediately identify. Roff grunted, poking at the small fire he was nursing.
"You're a weird creature make no mistake," He said, shaking his head. "But I don't think you've any malice in you. Leastways not as far as she's concerned." He paused for a few moments, staring fixedly into the flames and scratching at his matted beard. The Hatchling blinked in puzzlement; belatedly he realised that this was likely as close to an acceptance as he was ever to get from the surly northerner.
"I fought a dragon once." He broke in suddenly, dropping the branch he had been using as a poker and riveting the Hatchling with an intense stare. "Big bugger; bright red scales and teeth the size of my hand. Killed thirty of my men and did off without even eating 'em. Came close to killin' me too, but I saw him comin'. I hacked off 'is ear and he clawed up my arse, and then the bastard fucked off without even a parting shot. You know why he did it?" He asked, answering himself before the Hatchling could even begin to phrase an answer. "Because it was fun to him. Didn't want to eat or loot them, but 'e though it was good sport to butcher armed men. Took me twenty years to figure that one out and I've never forgiven him for it. Worse than the bloody Ashkar."
The Hatchling sat taken aback, desperately trying to piece together some response. At least now he could appreciate the measure of Roff's hatred- before he had simply taken it as a natural dislike of his species.
"I'm sorry?" He offered lamely, his tail scattering leaves as it swished. Part of him was irritated with Roff and another wanted to ask him more about the encounter.
"Nah, wasn't you." The big man said with a shake of his head. "I see that now. I knew more than most of the robes in that ye weren't animals- no simple beast kills for the pleasure of it. I made the mistake of assuming you all the same, never occurred to me that dragons might have personalities too.
"I can't forgive ye for dragging Cyn into this. After so long out she'll blunt her own edge, and even after her time she still has a lot to learn. You too on that mark; maybe I'll teach ye some day." He added gravely. "I don't want to see her get hurt, though for now she goes her own way." He shifted his rump more comfortably upon the ruined wall. "But I'll add that if you get her killed, you'll answer to my sword. Same as any man."
Apparently satisfied, he went back to poking the fire, muttering to himself as if sharing secrets with the snapping logs.
Cynwise returned a short while later, her clothes muddy but spear un-bloodied. Feeling the pinch of hunger in their bellies, the two humans went out into the forest to forage among the greenstuff whilst Thrymja and the Hatchling tried in vain to track down the pheasants. The wary birds eluded them, rocketing off into the sky the moment they approached and leaving the two to chew on much less palatable slugs and snails. When their unsatisfactory dinner was concluded they took turns washing in a nearby stream, colouring the water black with the soot that had fallen upon them throughout the day. The Hatchling inadvertently caught a glance of Roff's deeply scarred rump; nearly a fist sized chunk of flesh was missing from where the dragon had caught him, tracing three thick widely spaced scars from his lower back to thigh. He looked at how own claws, sharp but still small and soft with youth- In a score of years he might be capable of a similar feat. No wonder Roff limped. It was a miracle the man was still alive at all.
He approached Cynwise as she took her turn in the stream, her clothes neatly piled and stone dagger within easy reach, easing herself into the frigid water gradually and huffing at the chill. The Hatchling snorted in amusement as he took in her hairless body and pale skin, the proportions weird and breasts placed too high for young to suckle. No wonder humans were so prudish about covering their forms in the presence of others; he imagined he would be similarly embarrassed to have such a strange arrangement. Moving as stealthily as he could, he scaled an overhanging tree, paying himself out along a branch snakelike to ambush her and was ready when she flicked a river smoothed pebble at him, catching it in his teeth.
"Your scales scrape the lichen off the bark; I could feel it dropping on me." She said with a knowing smile. "Gettin' better though. O' course by the time you're sneaky enough to pull a fast one on me you'll be too big to manage it"
"I didn't count on it." He grinned, releasing his hold and dropping into the water next to her with a tremendous splash, laughing as she sputtered in mock fury. She made a game of trying to catch him as he swam circles around her, eventually snagging him by the tail and lifting him out of the water like a fisherman hauling in a prize.
"I suppose it's just as well we're getting rid of you soon; if you get much bigger we're going to have trouble feeding you." She said without much enthusiasm, rotating him as he dangled by his tail. "I don't like your weight. Seems too light for a thing your size, though that can only be good in a flying creature. I don't suppose your wings are any use yet?" She muttered; he was now at least as long as she was tall, having overtaken Thrymja in length some time after leaving the mountain pass. She replaced him on his branch as she went about her ablutions; mention of his upcoming departure always turned her mood sour. A depressive quiet pervaded as she washed, broken only by the cawing of distant crows.
"What if they didn't make it?" He said, meaning Roff's mysterious contacts. The silence was too protracted, and worrying; clearly Cynwise had something on her mind that was troubling her.
"They made it." She said, wringing out her hair. "Men like that have ways of making themselves useful, even to Ashkar if it came to it. Old mercs have a knack of making a profit from disaster."
"And if I don't want to go?"
"Then tough shit." She answered with a forced-sounding laugh. "Naw, you'll like it better in Cimeria. Warmer for sure, and more prey for ye. Not to mention the chance of meeting a lady dragon." She winked at him conspiratorially. "There are more people there than here but they stick to the rivers and cities mostly. Rarely venture south. All you'll have to worry about is keeping yourself fed and entertained."
"Why didn't you tell me how Roff got his limp?" He blurted out suddenly, so startled to hear himself say it that he nearly lost his grip on the tree. Cynwise cocked her head at him, caught off guard by his forwardness. It had been lurking like an ugly shadow in the back of his mind all day, and he didn't doubt that she had deliberately omitted sharing the intelligence with him.
"Because it wouldn't have done you much good to know." She responded lamely, and then added, seeing it wasn't a very good explanation "It wasn't any of my business in telling you; enough to know that he wasn't too keen on ye. I'd hoped that maybe being on the receiving end of his temper would harden you up, little drake. Make you wary. You're a quick learner and decent fighter but you don't know shit about what's waiting for you in the world. He has good reason to hate your kind, and there are many who would do much worse by you with no reason what so ever."
He sat in grudging silence as her reasoning sank in. There was logic to it, though it still felt too much like a betrayal of his trust to sit comfortably in his mind. He'd been quite content to imagine that he could trust none among all the humans save her. Since the moment he broke his shell he had associated humans with danger or prey, and living with one had hardly dulled that instinct. Though her explanation wasn't quite sound; Roff's opinion had changed through their short acquaintance, even if the man had made it clear he didn't extend the courtesy to any dragon save him. Sensing that they were treading on fragile ground, he opted on a change of subject.
"Did you see the attack?" He asked as she emerged, towelling herself dry.
"Yeah, it was one of my first engagements." She chuckled, her eyes going distant as she paused, lost in memory. "Maybe fifteen years ago now, right back when I started out. We thought it was Gagori raiding villages, then that monster dropped out of the clouds right into us. We got a couple of volleys into him but it didn't seem to do much except make him angry. Tough bugger. Burned up a platoon, mauled _corporal_Roff and vanished never to be seen again. I near shat myself every time a bird went over for a month after that."
"And you still took my egg, knowing how we could be? Why?" He asked. "You took a risk. I could have been like him."
"I still am, and you still could. Ye got any idea what they'd do to me if we were caught? Ye'd piss yourself to think about it. Ah hell, you would have to find all this out now, wouldn't ye?" She snapped, and then softened. He knew she kept a piece of his eggshell tucked inside her jerkin, and often fiddled with it whilst lecturing him on something or other. "Why'd you help the wolf? She'd have 'et you once given the chance."
"But she didn't. Even if she had, she was hungry and alone. I couldn't blame her for that. In her place I'd have probably killed me."
"Exactly."
"But-"
"I killed enough to know things tend to be the same wherever you go. Take those bastards." She gestured at the smoke, still distant on the horizon. "The Ashkar aren't evil, 'leastways not in their minds. Don't know any better. We kill as many of them as they do us, and why? Buggered if I know, but we do. To them it's us who are the evil ones, and they probably think they're protecting their cubs or whatever by invadin' every now and again and killing a few off, same as we do with the Gagori. I'm not like Roff to hold it pers'nal; that dragon probably had a reason for doing what he did. Damn well doubt it was bloody-mindedness that drove him to kill those people. Once you get past the scales and teeth we're not that different really. An' besides, I never managed a kid of my own." She sighed. "Been carved up enough that it's probably beyond me. There's a balance to the world when it comes to these sorts of things. You were my little way of giving something back to the world; a life that would've vanished otherwise. Life for life. I call it fair exchange."
***
The prophesised rains began in earnest that night, pounding the world like a hail of icy cold arrows. The Hatchling had seen storms before up in the mountains, but this was something entirely new; the churning, hectic maelstrom that held none of the malice of the fiery ruin it quenched. Indeed it was strangely energising to look upon the raging majesty of the storm shrouding the world in its muted light, to taste the sharp tang of ozone upon the air. Lightning blazed across the clouds in spectacular spider-web patterns that seared their afterimages into the eye, followed moments later by the booming roar of thunder that drowned out even the shrieking of wind.
"There's a legend that on nights like this, the god's gather to forge the world." Roff said from his place at the cart's head, gently twisting the reigns in his meaty hands. "It's said that the clouds are their anvil and the thunder their hammer; lightning the sparks of each blow. The old tales have it that new lands are quenched in the ocean, and I believe 'em; on nights like this I've seen islands appear that weren't there before, all steam and molten rock. The entire world must have been like that once."
"It was." The Hatchling said, flinching as another titanic flash cracked the sky. "I sometimes dream about the time when the lands were new and there were no trees and little to eat, though it hadn't always been that way. It was green before, then dark, and green again."
"I can think of a few scholars who might want a word with you." Cynwise said with a chuckle. "They say the world was once full of fierce beasts that were all destroyed when mankind and the other races came. Sometimes miners find bones the size of buildings deep underground; hard to think that dragons have memories going back that far."
"We came from that time... I think we were some of the smaller things." He said, reluctant to acknowledge there could have been anything bigger or stronger than a fully grown dragon. "We were like animals then, no thoughts or voice. They came to us around the same time you appeared."
They travelled along the roads cautiously. Ashkar were still at large, and as they drew closer to the villages, signs of their presence became clear; large prints on the road, dead livestock and fouled wells strewn in the wake of their retreat. Apparently feeling that the main event was done, many of the troops had deserted and gone their separate ways, looting the abandoned homesteads and stealing from those that were yet occupied. Cynwise's lip curled in disgust when they passed a group of such men; their uniforms dirty and stinking of strong drink, singing lustily in the rain. They leered at her meaningfully until Roff laid his hand upon his sword, and apparently thinking it not worth the effort went off to find better sport.
"It happens." Roff said, casting a vicious glance at the backs of the soldiers as they meandered in the opposite direction. "You get an unpopular commander and the levies like as not will fuck off at the first opportunity; most of those men will be pressed into the service, and now is the time to be sewing the crops. They don't want to be here anymore than we do."
"Pah! With any luck the Ashkar will get them before they can rob some poor homesteader blind." Cynwise spat. "Disgraceful. The war was hard enough without looters to add to everyone's misery. No discipline."
Signs of the deserter's misdeeds yet proved a boon for them, as they came upon an abandoned tavern and chose to spend the night there. The front portal had been smashed in and the place ransacked, but some of the thick doors had defied their attempts at entry and the men had instead made off with what ale they could carry. Roff set about picking the sturdy cellar lock as Cynwise gathered some of the vandalised furniture together into the fireplace and lit a hearty fire, setting their cloaks upon the mantle to dry. Thrymja and the Hatchling explored the empty building, sniffing out the population of rats that had taken up residence in the landlord's stead.
"I suppose we could take a couple of days to recuperate here." Cynwise said when the Hatchling grew tired and finally settled before the fire; feeling contented enough to be out of the weather that a purr escaped his throat. "The horse could do with a rest and there's plenty of food, fodder and wine left in the cellar; it'd be a shame to let it all get nicked or rat chewed. We're not far from town now in the by, and I can go get our bearings tomorrow."
Roff surprised them all by emerging from the cellar with beef, onions, carrots and a cask of beer, mixing the entire lot into a large iron cauldron and setting it upon the fire to boil. The resulting unlikely concoction, with a generous amount of salt, held a flavour fantastic enough that the Hatchling ate a second and third helping regardless of the vegetables, and joined Thrymja in sharing a deep bowl of ale. The muted sounds of the storm raging outside and Cynwise's gentle singing lulled him off into a deep and dreamless slumber.
The next day, whilst Cynwise and Thrymja made their journey to the town, Roff took stock for the last leg of the journey. Plenty of food remained in the cellar, held secure against pests and the elements in thick hessian sacks and tar sealed barrels. Even some riding tack remained, the valuable gear abandoned in haste when the inn was vacated. The surly northerner went to work with a scavenged pick, cleaning the horses' beaten hooves whilst the Hatchling dragged the sacks of dried fruit to the foot of the cart, and then helped him prop the thing on its side whilst he went to work on the damaged wheel. They worked in silence with little remaining to be said between them, though the Hatchling didn't begrudge him it now that he understood the source of Roff's coldness. He swallowed what questions lingered on the tip of his tongue, focussing on following the instructions put to him so that by the time evening arrived and the storms returned with a vengeance, their makeshift repairs had been completed. He stuffed himself on the leftovers; the Hatchling having grown used to this rhythm of life on the road and reluctant to let any available meal pass him by.
It was nearly sundown of the next day when the Hatchling first detected signs of distress.
Early on he had retreated to the outdoors as Roff scavenged what he could from the remnants of the inn, and lay slumbering fitfully in a tree as the wind gusted around him, sheltered from the rain by encircling branches. Patrols of soldiers both organised and rabbles of deserters had been passing all day, hurrying to and fro down the road in haste and making for a tense spectacle when the two factions crossed paths.
The Hatchling was considering hunting in the waning light when he first caught the stink of Ashkar; the dirty, hairy mammal scent well known to him by now, though it had lost none of its scale-raising potency. Heart thumping it froze him in place on his perch; sitting perfectly still save for his eyes, which roamed the ground and shadows for any sign of movement. The wind was blowing quickly and the scent was strong, and still sharp despite the humidity of rain evaporating from the ground- it must be near. How had the damned thing gotten so close? He cursed himself bitterly for allowing a full stomach blunt his guard. Hadn't Cynwise told him that they would be reaving across the countryside for years to come? He waited in perfect stillness, accompanied only by the howling of the wind and his own growing sense of trepidation, trying to place the origin amidst any of the dozen possible sources. He doubted that any dogman could miss him displayed so, or his scent which must have been detectable to any creature a mile downwind of the latrine.
He was answered by the rasping call of a raven as the disgruntled bird took flight, remonstrating to the six horsemen who came crashing through the undergrowth like four legged battering rams, horse's hooves pounding like hell and spurs flashing as the riders kicked bloody gashes in their mount's flanks. Three Ashkar tore after them close on their heels, the dogmen's loping long-legged gait keeping pace easily with the beleaguered beasts, and long strings of saliva whipping form their maws in anticipation. The riders barrelled out onto the road in disorder, horses colliding and reigns becoming bound in their frenzy to be away, men shouting, swearing and pushing at each other in a vain attempt to disentangle themselves. The Hatchling watched with a sense of fascination and dread; the rider's were much beaten and dirty but their livery and long handled axes discernable as those of the Westgard riders he'd encountered on the road not a week previously, and there he made their commander; the proud man now bruised and moustache matted with blood even as he roared orders over the din. One of the beasts finally lost its nerve as the party made off, rearing up and unseating it's rider, and the Ashkar howled as they closed on the screaming man, massive swords cleaving the air and scattering a trail of blood, the screams silenced with brutal suddenness.
The Hatchling didn't need further encouragement not to wait for the beast-men to pick up his scent. He scurried across the branch lizard-like, launching himself onto the bough of a nearby tree, navigating the labyrinth of budding leaves and springy tree-limbs, casting up a chorus of angry bird calls as he tore through the canopy. He circled wide away from the butchery on the road; all but certain he heard vile, snuffling breathing following him amidst the barrage of rustling foliage left in his wake and redoubled his efforts even though his lungs already burned and blood ran cold. He realised through his fright that there was little chance of making good enough time to lose pursuit like this, and dropped to the ground without a glance backwards, feeling like a scared rabbit as he zigzagged through the trees, dashing madly for the Inn. He found Roff hastily pushing furniture to block off the ruined door as he rocketed out of the cover and dove beneath the hooves of a crowd of milling horses, startling the beasts into a stampede, scarcely slowing as he leapt and clawed his way over the barricade and landed on the other side with a jarring thump. The riders and their commander also lay slumped beneath the window in hiding, and stared at him in amazement as though disbelieving the evidence of their own eyes. One of the men reached for his dagger.
"You'll not do that if ye want to keep that arm!" Roff growled, throwing his weight against an upturned table and ramming it into place, wedging it with a broken stool. The man still wore his carpentry apron and carried his sword loose in one hand, the ladle he's been using to stir the broth that was to have been tonight's meal in the other. "Far behind ye are they?" He grunted, piggy eyes gleaming and scanning the tree line.
"Not... sure, right on... my tail... think..." He panted, glaring at the riders suspiciously.
"I knew you were no merchant the second I saw you." The lead ranger said to Roff, wiping his sodden brow with his knight's sash. "Nor the woman, but this is-"
"Later!" Roff roared, brandishing his sword and silencing all protest. "You," He said, pointing to the Hatching and one of the men. "Go get some spirits from the cellar, whatever smells strongest. Quickly!"
A voice so plainly used to command was hard to disobey through a panicked state and the two found themselves in the cellar before the magic wore off and their reasoning kicked in, prompting them to eye each other warily as they went about their work. When they returned Roff was lying flat with the other men, tearing up an old rag into strips.
"Not even sure if this'll work, no idea what proof this stuff is anyway..." He muttered, taking a swig before stuffing the strips into the uncorked bottle mouth and tipping it until the rag was soaked. Two of the men had their foot in the stirrup of their crossbows and were grunting with the effort of cocking the devices when the Ashkar emerged with great suddenness from the trees, not running but strolling sedately, massive two-handed swords balanced on their broad shoulders and masks of blackened leather upon their faces. They walked jauntily, seemingly enjoying the evening air, toothy mouths cracked in mirthless grins as they spread out to cover the front arc of the inn. The Hatchling could see the same bleached, quicklime-smelling patches on their hide that he'd come to associate with the particularly vicious Ashkar, these ones accented with red and black dyed tufts and broken by bare pink skin; scars, torn crudely through the patterns. He saw several of the men blanch and Roff's stoic demure evaporate, and the man started to finger the hilt of his sword nervously.
"Gods forgotten! Berserkers!" One of the men hissed, slotting a bolt to his crossbow string with shaking hands. With white rimmed eyes he stood and fired, hitting the lead creature square in the chest with a butcher's sound, the force making it do a little hop backwards before standing dumbly still, as though hardly believing the sight of the shaft sticking out of its own flesh. The creature tipped its head back and howled out its agony; a sound that raised every scale along the Hatchling's back and ground his teeth, wishing only it would end. The noise continued unabated for some time, until the chilling realisation dawned; not agony, but laughter.
With unnatural speed the arrowed creature sprinted forward, its massive sword cutting a deadly swath and splitting the thick timber of the sill into splinters, slicing deeply into the plaster wall the humans were taking cover behind. The soldier who had fired was knocked flat and cried out in pain, perhaps only his mail saving him from being cleaved from head to foot. Roff sprang over the fallen man, slashing the snarling monster like a mad thing as it struggled with its blade, narrowly avoiding the upswing when it wrenched the weapon free. One of the riders ran forward and opened its shoulder to the bone with his axe, though the creature hardly seemed to notice, riposting, catching him a backhanded blow along his midriff as though the wound were nothing more than a scratch. The man gritted his teeth and pressed forwards, pushing the broad axe-head into the Ashkar's face until the thing finally backed away, rubbing at the bloody mess that had been its eye like a man would an itch, seemingly more disorientated than pained.
"If just one of the gets in here we are fucked with Kriseg's own cock." The axe-man said, wheezing for breath. The injured crossbowman was dragged across the room, where he would be out of the way and lay with his right arm hanging uselessly, struggling to reload with his left. His companion weaved his bow from side to side, trying to keep the other two Ashkar in his field of fire as they spread out. The Hatchling became aware of a low, harsh chant rising from the beasts, their long scimitar-like teeth bared in vile grins, knowing they had their prey trapped like a rabbit in its hole.
"Get their heads off, naught else will kill them fast enough." Roff growled as he lit one of the bottles from the hearth, where the broth still bubbled merrily. Two more bolts thumped into the injured thing, still shaking its head even as the points hit it and knocked it off its feet. Roff's bottle traced an arc of fire as it sailed out of the window, shattering on the crossguard of its sword and engulfing the thing's lower half in thick tongues of flame. The men jeered and spat insults as its fur and kilt took fire, transforming it into a moving inferno; then the one circling left was on them before Roff could light another bottle. One of the men who lingered too long at the window shouting catcalls went down, a geyser of blood where his head used to be, the spray catching the Hatchling full in the face and blinding him even as he ran forwards, worming his way through the tangle of legs. The berserker fought without any finesse, just a terrible tireless strength. Not that it needed any; the knight and his axeman dealt it five great wounds in the time that it took the Hatchling to wipe his eyes clean and still it stood, swinging it's mighty sword as though the wounds were nothing more than scratches, knocking the fully armoured men aside like a reaper among corn. The Hatchling waited beneath the sill as it leapt in, attaching himself to the back if it's furred knees and hamstringing it, spitting the bloody tendons from his teeth as it stumbled and fell. The knight's men piled onto it, struggling to hold it down and stabbing furiously with daggers as it refused to relent, biting at them and shouting in its crude tongue until one of them picked up a heavy stool and smashed it down onto the Ashkar's head with all his strength, finally stilling its struggles.
Then the other flanker was in, appearing as suddenly as though emerging from the ether itself. It lashed out a kick, sending Roff across the room and swung its zweihander into the axeman, splitting his mail before the man could as much as stand. The remaining crossbowman roared in terror as it rounded on him, still struggling with his weapon's string even as it skewered him and lifted the screaming man without effort, smashing him into the wall, ceiling, floor before throwing the bloody ruin into the fireplace, laughing like a hyena the whole time. The knight cast off his stained sash in obvious challenge, ducking aside its first lunge but too slow to do more than score its arm. He barely raised his shield in time to block a downswing; the force of the blow driving him to his knees and cleaving the iron rimmed shield almost in half.
Seeing his chance, the Hatchling leapt upon its back, scrabbling at the bristly hide for purchase, trying to wrap his tail around its legs and bind them. The Ashkar dropped its sword, howling as he savaged it, grasping the scruff of its neck in his jaws and kicking with his hindlegs as though gutting a deer, inflicting deep gashes. His bloody-mindedness got the better of him when he overstretched, reaching for its jugular and it caught him by the head, tearing him off and flinging him into the wall with bone wrenching force. Through the nova of stars he saw its contorted snarl as it snatched up its sword and charged at him, raising the blade for a killing blow, then stumbled and fell flat on its face when a bolt from the wounded crossbowman took out its knee. Roff and the knight dove at it with bloody blades as it struggled to its feet, knocking the sword aside and opening its stomach, spilling sausage-like coils of entrails across the floor. Incredibly it fought on barehanded, blood gushing from more than a dozen wounds and thoroughly tangled in its own guts, its movements growing steadily slower and less coordinated as the two men took it in turns to dash in and stab before retreating to a safe distance, like dogs goading a bear. When it slipped on the blood-slicked floor and fell once again they wasted no time, taking up the axes of the dead men and hacking at its back, severing the thick trunk of its spine with three blows before parting the thing's head.
The Hatchling staggered to his feet, his head spinning with dizziness and relief, thick blood dripping steadily from between his jaws. He shook himself to clear the strange falling sensation that persisted, fearing that final blow might have cracked his skull. Roff was in a better way, his axe thudding home into the dead beast again and again as he worked the spit-flecked fury out of his system, a low growl like a wounded bear deep in his throat. The knight sank to his knees, whether from despair or exhaustion it was impossible to tell; the remains of his men lay where they had fallen and set the straw upon the floor afloat on a sea of red-black blood.
The Hatchling sank into the mess lying on his side, unable to still the spinning in his head or delay the black caress of unconsciousness rapidly closing his vision.