Riders of Redrog, prologue and chapt 1 (complete)

Prologue

It was just before midday. The sun had burned a hole in the tired blue of a sky riddled with clouds of ashes. Dragons soared overhead. Spears, arrows, and swords clattered against their hard blood red scales. When the dragons dipped low enough on the enemy soldiers, their riders fended off the offenders with sword thrusts and volleys of arrows. On the ground, soldiers battled furiously with any weapons that came to hand, including those taken from felled comrades.

They slipped over the flattened, bloody snow as the larger hunting army, from the fortress Abbaddon Rri, surged towards the Redrog, the city of the dragons, that accursed bdiri vode, its prey. Any that were unlucky enough to fall did not rise again. Yellow-blue tongues of flame burst over their heads, melting the snow around them and revealing the blackened turf beneath, all the while adding to the ash in the sky.

Beyond them, the late afternoon sunlight glistened upon the silver-white mountains in their unmarred, icy folds. The surrounding valley and outlaying lands of North Country gleamed pure white, untainted by the scarlet stain of war.

The warriors of Redrog were being pushed back, rapidly losing ground. A sudden screech rent the air. No one dared to look up.

To do so could mean their lives. Another tongue of flames seared the air directly over their heads. This phenomenon alone was not odd. There were a hundred dragons soaring and flaming above them. Many comrades fell to the flames on every side, reduced to nothing more than charred heaps that barely resembled the living beings they had once been. Another screech rent the air. The soldiers from both sides looked up to the sky at last.

A brilliant red dragon wheeled above them, now just out of arrow range, with an armored rider astride the natural ridge at its shoulders. This dragon was twice the size of the others. Long, metallic grey spikes ran the ridge of its back all the way to the tip of the long, whiplike tail. Its eyes blazed red in the midst of a ridged face. Smoke poured from its flared nostrils. This was the king of the Redspikes.

His rider was none other than Dahv Xaherra, leader of the Dragonriders. At the peak of their flight, his great mount suddenly dove. Ejior flashed in Dahv's hand as the enemy on the ground loomed up closer. The great sword whirred in a dangerous blur about his head. Fire spurted once more from the dragon's open mouth, around the bared fangs.

Into the battle? the voice inquired in his mind. Dahv could sense the grim glee emitting from it.

Aye, Sawri, he replied, I'm ready. Into the battle. We'll show them what true Dragonriders are! This last mental exclamation erupted from Sawri's throat as a screeching roar. In the next instant, the pair plunged into the midst of the battle. Ejior was amidst the rabble as though it were alive, hewing down all within range like wheat before a scythe.

Indeed, it was alive. The Dragonrider only directed it.

Sawri again rocketed upwards. The air was crisp and cold at this height, rushing past his ears at a terrific speed. It cleared Dahv's senses and roused his fighting blood.

Once the combatants on both sides were no more than ants upon an assimilated battleboard, the great dragon twisted in midair, abruptly cutting off his ascent, and dove again.

Dragon and rider plummeted earthwards at a horrendous rate, this time targeting a new rank of the enemy. Sawri pulled out of the dive just inches shy of the ground. Soldiers from both sides scattered to avoid the crushing bulk and the flames. Dahv Xaherra, as one with the great dragon, bowled into their ranks, easily plowing through them with outspread wings. Ejior was a deadly blur about his head.

Arrows, spears, and swords raked their sides but had no effect upon Sawri's thick hide or Dahv's armor. A spear was suddenly thrust close to the rider's face. He merely seized the weapon, jerking it from its owner's grasp, and ran the offender through. They again rocketed skyward, as Sawri's powerful hindclaws shoved away from the frozen ground, and prepared for another dive.

With each dive, a lull in the battle resulted as men scattered in terror. This was more vicious and battle-keen than any Dragonrider they had ever before seen or been faced up against. Every eye was now turned at least halfway to the sky, despite the risk involved, as the great dragon dove yet again. Air rushed past Dahv's ears as Sawri plummeted. A fierce joy surged through the rider at the sensation. This was true freedom! He was not bound to the earth.

The enemy is falling back!

I know, Dahv responded hopefully. Perhaps a few more dives will give Redrog enough advantage to push those marauders back onto their own land.

Perhaps.

Sawri abruptly pulled out of the dive, his massive wings spraying snow in all directions. The air again grew crisper and cleaner as they climbed upwards on turrets of air. Below, the land was seeped heavily in the corruption of war and death. Dragonriders were enabled to soar above this, if only to plunge back into it. Their task was to bring this elation to those who fell under their protection. Dahv leaned forward across Sawri's sinewy neck, moving as one with him.

They had almost reached the peak of their flight. Now, as the rider endeavored to look back, he realized that the other Dragonriders were following his example. Now, he thought at Sawri, we may have a chance at pushing them back all the way.

Ajah watched the zealous Dragonrider from the safety of a small mound behind his ranks. He had steadily driven his vast horde forward towards Redrog. That naïve city would have been an easy take if it were not for that Dragonrider.

The other Dragonriders had been easy enough to deal with because their next actions were easy enough to guess, especially since the shouts between dragon and rider could be heard from a considerable distance. Ajah's men had merely dodged the occasional bursts of flame and sword thrusts of the riders, surging around them between the flaming tongues.

In this way, they deftly forced the small Redrog army back upon its own gates. It would be an easy capture. Ajah was a conqueror. His domain was vast, extending to the far reaches of the horizon in either direction. Only North Country had thus far eluded his grasp.

Nevertheless, the lands of ice and snow would be his. Their only protection was this small city, combined with a haven of red dragons. Many forces were at Ajah's command. The Dragonriders of Redrog fought tirelessly but stood no chance of gaining any leeway. They were too small of a force.

At that moment, Dahv looked directly in Ajah's direction from atop his massive beast. Even from that distance, the warlord could see the brilliant icy green of the warrior's gaze and the flaming red of his beard. The force of the gaze bore into him, almost knocking him backwards. Ajah quickly averted his own gaze, bewildered.

What made this Dragonrider different from the others? It was impossible to predict where they would target next as they moved in silent coordination, neither dragon nor rider uttering a single word. In that moment, Ajah knew what the Dragonrider intended and sensed the absolute surety that dragon and rider would fulfill this intent. Victory would turn the tables.

Well, no more, Ajah thought to himself with fierce determination. He had a strung longbow in his hands, notched with an iron-tipped arrow. No arrow could pierce a fully grown dragon's hide or a rider's armor, at least, not that of a dragon lord; both were too well plated. The warlord knew this from experience. The riders of the past were famed for their skill in metalworking. They formed their armor after the pattern of dragon hide. Such was almost impossible to inflict any harm upon.

There was only one way to injure a fully-armored Dragonrider. An arrow had to pierce between the plates of armor, where one beaten sheet of metal joined with another, in order to do the bearer any harm. No archer had ever before accomplished this feat. Ajah pulled the bowstring back to his shoulder, carefully taking aim at Dahv as his dragon carried him steadily upwards. The Dragonrider was still within range. Ajah loosed the arrow.

Sawri rocketed straight upwards with a fierce joy. Air rushed by them so fast that Dahv was sure their shape would be only a blurred streak to any viewers down below. The air no longer seemed cold. A blast of heat hit the rider full in the face as Sawri's breath seared the wintry sky. Without warning, a sudden pain tore through Dahv's side, just beneath his left arm, searing past the bone.

He jerked sideways in the ridge, held to Sawri's shoulders only by the network of straps securing him there as his senses whirled. He was falling. He did not even feel his companion's smooth scales when his cheek touched Sawri's neck. The world spun down into nothingness.

The dragon had just twisted in midair from the last dive, mere feet from the ground, when he heard his rider's grunt of pain and felt the dead weight across his shoulders and neck.

Warriors on both sides of the valley shuddered at the unearthly shriek that followed as he plummeted the little remaining distance to the bloody, frozen earth. The dirge was echoed by the surrounding dragons until the air wavered with it. North Country was mourning the death of a Dragonrider.


Gilirato — a dragon word, "beginning"


It was unusually warm. A new layer of green carpeted the rolling hills and fringed the feet of the trees to the north. An array of unfamiliar flowers peaked through the new blades of grass, winking white from amidst scarlet, violet, and gold gems. Waves of an invisible ocean shimmered over the land in an enchanted, dozy haze. The distant mountains were ablaze. Color was foreign in these lands. These were the lands of ice and snow.

To the west, on the edge of the lands of ice and snow, a walled haven lay sprawled amidst the sea of grasses. The sun shone its white rays down upon all, yet an eerie radiance hung about it as though a deep magic dwelt there that no one understood. That radiance had dimmed over the long igairs since the age of the Cyesaar Sækeir. Nonetheless, it was still there, pulsing silently as the time passed.

Cyesaar Ergo had once been an impenetrable force. None could withstand it, especially when the dragons had been joined with their riders: the warriors of Redrog.

Drags paced the wall, presenting a foreboding barrier for any who dared trespass on the land of the Redspikes. These were the Unchosen. Their scales shone blood red in the sunlight as they paced. Scarlet spikes protruded from their hides along the ridges of their backs. Long, feather-like ears stood erect atop their proud heads. Smoke poured from their nostrils, rising up to meet the sun in small clouds.

A screeching roar suddenly rent the air, piercing the former silence. A spout of flames accompanied the echoes that followed. Every Drag's head was turned in the direction of the disturbance.

Near the rear wall opposite the gate, a young Drag sat ruefully in a thorn patch, where he had apparently fallen off the wall. Just now, he had been nosing about for berries, one of the few fruits that actually blossomed and matured in the normally icy conditions. In fact, these iceberries thrived in ice. Now that it was warmer than they were used to, they seemed rather small and bitter.

He scrambled to free himself as the rustle of scales alerted him to the arrival of the others. "What is it this time, Cyp?" the lead Drag questioned with a slight sneer. "More of your berry-scoffing monsters?"

The young Drag growled in embarrassment.
"Roland!" he spluttered, facing the lead Drag. "No…no I—"
"Rolling in the bushes again, eh Cyprag?" an old Drag taunted reprovingly. "Fell off the wall, did you?"
"N-no, I—"

A low, rumbling whine emitted from the thorn patch across from where Cyprag had been sitting, cutting his words off short. This was what had startled him into slipping off the wall. He hurriedly tried to explain, "Look, this is what I—"

One look from Roland silenced him. The Drags' attention was on the thorn patch. Roland crept towards it cautiously. The others tentatively followed. Cyprag stood back, watching the procedure silently. They now surrounded the thorn patch as though it were a dangerous enemy and cautiously thrust their bristling heads forward to catch a glimpse of the intruder.

It was a luminescent, pale red-gold stone about the size of a Drag's head. Roland carefully put forth one foreleg to touch it. As he did so, the stone began to pulse like a slow, steady heartbeat. The others immediately drew back.

"What is it?"

The lead Drag glanced back over his shoulder to see who had made the inquiry. "Yata," he snarled as soon as he had glimpsed her, "stay out of this. Leave this to us."

"But—"

The old Drag silenced her with a fierce, bristling stare. "Can't you duffers tell what this is?" he demanded, striding forward to face Roland. The lead Drag shrugged his spikes apologetically but showed no signs of backing down. "This is an egg."

"An egg?" Yata repeated, surprised. "Droby, that's unlike any dragon egg I've ever seen, and I would know."

"All the same, it is an egg nonetheless," the old Drag re-affirmed. The others were bewildered. It was Roland who voiced their thoughts. "What do we do with it?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Yata broke in impatiently. "There's o—"
"Listen, Seni," Roland cut her off abruptly. "I thought I told you to stay out of this!" Another low whine emitted from the egg, commanding every dragon's gaze. Even Cyprag leaned forward to see what was happening.

The egg still pulsed, though faster and more deliberately than before. As the pulsing grew more furious, a crack began near the top and ran sideways, nearly rending the egg in two. More cracks appeared and spread over its entire surface. With each pulse, it seemed more and more fragile. Not one of the dragons made a sound. Their eyes were wide and staring, transfixed by this object of interest.

The egg gave a violent shudder and at last split open along the largest crack. A small beak-like muzzle appeared, followed by a small face framed by oversized feathery ears, four tiny sets of claws, and a short chubby tail. It was the tiniest dragat any of them had ever seen.

Apart from this, the hatchling's appearance was the same as any of their hatchlings born within the haven. Its miniscule scales and spikes were soft and brilliant blood red in color. However, one peculiarity stood out so vividly that none of the present dragons could even pretend to ignore it. Every dragon they had ever seen, dragats and adults alike, had small, glittering black eyes set deep into a ridged face.

Other dragonkinds were a mere legend. If there had ever been other dragons that existed in the whole of Ahegard, no dragon or human alike could remember. It had been far too long ago, during a time before even legend could well imagine. The dragat before them now stared up at them fearlessly with bright blue eyes that swirled like strange alien orbs in an intelligent, hooded gaze.

Where had this egg come from if it did not belong to any of their Senis? "What'll we do with it?" Roland asked, startling the others out of the initial shock.

"Isn't that obvious?" Yata rejoined.
Reaching her head down on her long, slender neck, she nudged the little one gently with her snout, at the same time taking in his alien scent. She may not have recognized its source, but it was, nonetheless, a hatchling.

"One of us needs to care for him."

"Which one of us?" Roland put in slyly, noticing how the Seni eyed the dragat. "And how'd it even get in? It obviously doesn't belong to any of our Senis."

Yata glared at him. She apparently was the only one of them who was not suspicious of the miniscule intruder. "He's been abandoned," she said matter-of-factly, her gaze boring into the lead Drag.

"By whom?" Roland retorted. "There is no dragon to abandon it. It's probably been a thousand igairs since another dragon—if there ever were other dragonkinds—has so much as set a claw in this haven."

"I'm sure I don't know," the Seni replied, her black gaze hard. "Be that as it may, we cannot simply leave him there just because we don't know where he came—"

"Gorn, don't I know that?" Roland exploded at her. Yata could try any dragon's patience. "All the same—"

"Enough!" Droby cut in sharply, breaking off the argument abruptly. "Arguing will accomplish nothing." Both dragons looked up at him with slightly guilty expressions. "However, Yata is right in one respect at least. The hatchling must be cared for, no matter whence it came or how."

Yata's gaze was smug. Roland was bristling. He was not accustomed to having his authority challenged. Still, Droby was an Elder renowned for his wisdom. Before any of them could say anything more, Yata had already moved forward to console the new hatchling. Roland knew without a doubt that she had already laid claim to it.

As it turned out, no consoling was needed. The little creature's huge, swirling blue orbs fearlessly surveyed his captors with an innocent curiosity. With a bit of effort, he at last managed to disentangle himself from the eggshell mess he had made, as the Seni approached, and wobbled towards her on unsteady legs.

Just as he reached her, however, his legs tangled together as one hind leg got too far ahead of the others, sending the dragat tumbling forward to land between Yata's front claws. The young Seni had already fallen in love with him; her tender gaze over him was plain enough.

"Now that we've got him," Droby commented, a knowing smile playing about the corners of his mouth, "what are we going to call him?" Yata at last tore her gaze away from her new hatchling and met the old Drag's eyes.

"Ræfon," she replied without hesitation.

"No fear," Droby muttered, directing his gaze to the newly christened dragat, carefully studying him as the little creature gazed up at him with huge eyes. "So be it."





xiil ereg - "BOOK ONE"
jehiged aj rrdrog - "The Riders of Redrog"


Tir cyesaar jotirra
ja otyccel
rroimerra aj
herragaird xeolerd.

"A dragon that guards
useless treasure
is a creature born
under angry stars."





ONE

Redrog was small, as far as cities went, and relatively naïve in its defenses. Enemies did not usually plague North Country, at least, none that could cause serious harm. No army could long survive the severe cold and the sudden icy storms that swept unexpectedly over the flattest stretches of land. It was therefore referred to, by the few wandering bandit factions that had learned how to survive the wiles of the land of ice and snow, as bdiri vode: the naïve city.

Even those who knew nothing—or next to nothing—of the old language knew what that meant. It was a small city that seemed to have tremendous magical forces protecting it, or at least tremendous luck.

Trækalb smiled from his vantage point. He stood atop the last hill before the icy knolls disappeared into the dense forest behind him. After walking for miles through that shadowed forest, this was a relief, even though they had lost much of their protection from the wind. Coming to a complete standstill, Trækalb paused for a breather.

He momentarily pulled down the thick length of tempered wool from where it had been tied about his mouth and nose to ward off the cold. He and his band needed fresh victuals and a sheltered place to sleep, for once, and Redrog would provide those things, whether willingly or not.

The city had just an ancient wall of stone, fifty feet high, and usually enshrouded in a bed of sparkling white ice—as if acting as its protector. Its only other protection factor was the Dragonriders. The rogue leader turned his head back over his shoulder to look at his band, which was waiting just at the base of the hill and out of sight.

They could easily slip past these Dragonriders; it was partly because of them that Redrog was wanting, vulnerable to wandering vagabonds. They were not the protective force they had once been.

Trækalb took one last look at the small city in the distance before descending the hill to meet those beneath his command. "How do we get in?" Aice, his right hand man, inquired as soon as he had reached him. "Scale the walls?"

Trækalb did not reply right away. He gazed straight ahead at nothing for a long moment, stroking his beard. "No," he replied, looking directly at Aice, "why go over their walls when youse c'n go through them?"

The man stared at him, taken aback. "Through them, sir?"
"Aye through them, in a manner of speaking."
"Methinks youse got a plan," Aice said, looking at his leader, "though your brilliance blinds me. How do we get in, short of usin' a batterin' ram?"

The gates were always shut and barred, opening only to those travelers the gatekeepers deemed trustworthy enough. Those who were not were, at the very least, turned away, the big, heavy wooden doors barred securely. At worst, the intruder was shot on sight by archers posted on the walls, just out of sight.

"Not through the walls by tearin' 'em apart of course," Trækalb replied, his expression thoughtful. "Redrog's known for its trade all over North Country, right?"

"'Tis the on'y reason it's still stannin', with those ol' crumblin' walls, besides their tie wi' the dragons," Aice answered, scratching his head in puzzlement. "Why?"

"So we use their strength against them." As he said this, both of them sighted a disturbance in the snow in the near distance, about where the road would be that led right up to the city gates.

"I still dunno where youse goin' wid 'is," Aice said, turning his attention back to Trækalb.

"There's our solution," Trækalb explained as though this was the simplest thing in the world. He pointed towards the disturbance. "That's wot'll get us goin' straight through those oversized doors." As they looked on, a wagon appeared, its thick, sledge tires creaking over the ice, the short spikes on them not allowing the contraption to slip.

"You an' I'll hide in that, without the notice of the trader or those buffoons guarding the walls. When another wagon, sledge, or group comes through, see, the boys'll join 'em, only a little at a time, mind you, so 's to avoid notice. Guards'll never know nuthin' of what goes on. 'Twon't be their concern, see?"

A slow smile spread across Aice's features as the rogue leader finished. "Aye, methinks youse one o' them genius-like, a'right," he chuckled, fingering his own beard stubble. "For sure, yousa genius alright. We'll be in an' out widdout no one knowin' what 'it 'em, eh?"

"Yes, yes," Trækalb brushed his compliments off. "Enough 'bout my genius." He turned and beckoned to the remainder of his men. After issuing brief orders, he, Aice, and two others snuck off to the road, towards the oncoming wagon, which was still far enough off from Redrog that the guards would not notice a few extra passengers.

The plan worked. Little more than an hour later, Trækalb and his rogues were inside Redrog. This time of day, traffic was heaviest, bearing various supplies and food to the city. Thus, each group of rogues did not have long to wait hiding behind the massive snowbanks beside the road before the next travelers approached. Those who could afford them traveled in their snow-traveling contraptions.

Others approached on foot, with large hoops attached to their feet, each hoop crisscrossed with cords of animal hide. This awkward footwear leveled out the weight of the wearer so that no one would sink waist-deep in the deep snow or, worse, disappear entirely into a hollow where the snow was soft all the way through, thus enabling safer travel.

The bandits simply crawled, three or four at a time, into the wagons and sledges and hid themselves well under straw or whatever else came to hand. A few of them joined a group of travelers, keeping their faces covered and their heads down so as to not attract any attention. No one had noticed them. Directly inside the walls sprawled a mass of houses that were barely more than straw huts. Most in the back alleys—those that were not built into the wall—looked as though one good wind would finish them.

There had been no dwellings outside the walls. Those would have been buried long ago by the snow. Within the walls was considerably more protection from the elements.

"Split up," Trækalb ordered his men once they were all inside and in a concealed place, in one of the alleys where the guards could not see or hear them.

"E'ry man for 'imself. If'n some is taken, even yer best mate, get out. No heroics now. S'no need fer all of us t' be taken 'cause of one or two no accounts. Even if I'm der one taken, leave me be'ind. Yer 'ear me?"

He waited until all of his men had consented before continuing. "Meet on the outside, be'ind the hill, when the sun's o'erhead tomorrer, with whatever you can carry, or don't plan on eatin' 'til winter's froze our bones and we're sproutin' long white whiskers. Move out!"

The rogues obeyed, hurriedly dispersing to do their leader's bidding. Only Aice remained. He followed as Trækalb continued his casual swagger through town.

Further in, the houses improved, all the way to the noblemen's estates, many of which had a parcel of land and a tenant's board attached. In the very heart of the city, the Palace of King Hargreaves rose above all else. Its sleek white towers spiraled to meet the sky like tiers of ivory. Snow enshrouded the city and surrounding land in its enchanted white embrace. The eternal spell of cold seemed to have succumbed North Country into a comfortable haze of slumber.


Ere—dragon word, "one"


A small figure, clad in a dark furry cloak and boots, slunk through the snowy alleyways of the lower western portion city, opposite the city gates. An odd bulky object was draped across its back. A hood was drawn up close, concealing most of the figure's face. By its manner and the way it cautiously peered backwards at intervals, any bystander would have guessed that it did not want to be seen.

Up ahead, the road split off to the side and into the main mess of houses. The figure continued on straight ahead, ignoring the turn. Back at the turn, a small boy with wild blonde hair, also clad in dark fur, emerged from one of the houses, watching the figure intently. His boots, obviously too big for him, thumped on the hard-packed snow of the street. They had been tied in numerous places with twine so that they would not fall off. Still, they were clunky and awkward.

The figure ahead of him whirled around at the sound. Wisps of obvious red hair escaped the hood, despite the figure's attempts to subdue them. Slowly, the figure removed the hood, revealing the long, vivid red hair and a brilliant green gaze.

"Luke?" The blonde-haired boy started at the sound of his name. Nevertheless, he quickly recovered and waved to the figure. "C'mon, hurry!"

She replaced the hood and turned once again towards her destination. Luke hastily followed her.

Liz was a girl of ten—in contrast with Luke's eight—though small for her age. Her size, as well as her obvious red hair, made her an object of ridicule among the other children. Thus, she avoided them wherever possible. That was one reason for the disguise she so carefully kept up whenever she was out.

The two children passed through several winding alleys before reaching Liz's determined destination. Not far from a small, open white field stood a coppice of fir trees. The red-haired girl led her friend in among the trees. In the center was a small clearing. It would do. Liz shed her cloak into the snow, then carefully removed a bag, which had been hidden beneath the cloak, and the long, bulky object from across her back.

Underneath she wore a greenish furred tunic and coat, a dusty brown leather belt, a pair of thick leggings, and light snow boots that were also made of the strange green fur. Next she took out a thin strip of leather and proceeded to tie her hair back with it. Luke stared for a long moment, then looked away guiltily.

He instead went to the bundle his friend had been carrying and pulled out of it a long wooden pole. Liz also pulled a pole out and moved to her place opposite him. The pole was clearly too long for her; yet the way she wielded it revealed that she knew how to use it. Luke, on the other hand, being the smaller of the two and not as dexterous, was awkward with his pole.

Soon, the pair was engaged in a mock duel, parrying, swinging, and even thrusting. Grinning, Liz trapped Luke's pole beneath her own. It was only a minute or so into the sparring match, and already Liz was getting the upper hand. The blonde boy blew his hair out of his face and forcibly freed his weapon. However, he realized that he had swung too wide.

Before he knew what had happened, the redhead had neatly tripped him and snatched his pole away as he fell heavily on his back into the snow. He landed hard, a soft umph escaping him at the impact.

"C'mon Liz," he protested, glaring up at her. "That's not fair and you know it!"

"Why not?" Liz asked innocently, her grin only widening. "Admit it, you left yourself wide open for that one."

"Well, yeah, but—" Luke stammered, searching for words, "you're better than me! That move you just used, I've never seen it before. Where'd you learn that?"

His companion only shrugged in response. Ever since Liz could remember, she had always wanted to be a warrior. As she always said, she was just natural at learning weapons and at fighting in general. Luke knew there was more to it than that.

Both children's fathers had been warriors. Luke's father had also been a renowned healer throughout Redrog; both of his parents had. However, shortly after Liz's father had died in battle, Luke's father had been on a healing run, taking medical supplies to the wounded men on the battlefield.

Shortly afterwards, he had gone missing. His body was nowhere to be found, and he had never returned from battle. Thus, he was presumed dead by everyone but Luke. The boy refused to believe it.

Liz, on the other hand, knew the truth about her father without a doubt. He had been a well-known commander, she was told, and had died bravely. Although her mother rarely talked about him, she somehow knew what he would have been like to know—tall, strong, and fearless.

He inspired her, gave her own dreams about being a warrior and bravely defending people. Lance, the carpenter who often acted as her guardian, had known him and had told her of her father's legendary bravery. At her bidding, he told her stories of her father when she was little.

"Ye look just like 'im," the big man had told her, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Ye've got 'is fiery hair an' 'is strong smile. Every time I look into yere eyes, I get that same intense gaze. If ye weren't a gel, I'd swear ye were a younger version of 'im."

The girl forced herself to smile. "Where is 'e?" she had asked. Her five-igair-old mind could not comprehend why he did not come back, now that he was done protecting everyone. "Why'm I the on'y one who's got no papa?"

The big man surveyed her with a kind, sad gaze. "Because yere father was braver than all the others," he explained, sitting on a fence railing and gently pulling the little girl up onto his lap. "He died defendin' our 'ome when all else 'ad failed. Besides, yere not the on'y one. Luke's got no papa."

"Luke says his papa's not dead," came the response.
"Alive or dead, his papa's not here," the carpenter asserted gravely, "Jus' like yours."

The girl buried her face in the man's broad chest for a long moment. "I'm glad he fought an' keeped us safe," she mumbled into his shirt.

All he could see of the child was the mop of fiery red hair. Then, the intense green eyes again presented themselves to him, now gleaming wetly in the sunlight.

"So am I," Lance murmured, holding the small redhead close, "so am I."

After that point, as far as Luke knew, a desire was born deep within Liz. She wanted to be a warrior like her father. Once, not long after, she had chanced upon a sword instructor in the town square. Of course, he had been instructing a mob of prominent boys, who would grow up to be young noblemen and, perhaps, even Dragonriders, but Liz had remembered a few of those techniques. For as long as Luke could remember, he had spent what days both he and Liz could get away sparring in this clearing.

Indeed, Liz considered it their secret fortress and went to great lengths to keep it cleared of snow and debris. Luke helped some-times. What he loved best was tramping the snow down flat with his oversized boots. This gave them a smooth sparring field, Liz said.

Once in a while when they sparred, Liz would bring in some new moves, as she had done today, probably from watching the trainer again. Even though she eventually taught these to Luke, unexpected new moves, besides Liz's smoothness and confidence in handling her pole, always gave her the upper hand. Luke would have liked to best her, even if it was just once.

Today was not that day. Liz helped her rueful friend to his feet, waiting for him to dust the snow off his clothing before moving back into her fighting stance. Luke hesitated, remembering something. "What is it?" Liz asked.

"Didn't your mother need you today?"

Liz shrugged. "She needs me a lot of days. So?" She hefted her weapon. "Today I managed to get away. Didn't you?" Luke shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

"I guess," he chewed on his lower lip, thinking, "but with the festival coming up, won't your mother need your help more now to prepare fish for the market?"

This was certainly true. Even on regular days, since there were no men in her family—her father had been slain in battle just before her birth, leaving her mother with no sons—Liz and her older sisters had to make the living. Her sisters went to the river every day and worked hard from sunrise to sundown to catch enough fish from the sluggish, half frozen river to sell at the market on the announced market days.

Since it took a lot to keep a city like this functioning in a land of ice and snow, there were only certain days people spent at the market. For Liz and her family, fish were their living. Since Liz was too young to work long days at the river, most days she remained at home with her mother to clean and gut the previous day's catch. Her mother did allow her one or two days off a week.

Beyond that, only when she managed to slip away early in the morning without her mother's notice, as she had today, was she free of that duty. Still, she knew that, when she turned twelve, she would have to take an equal share in the work with her sisters.

The thought did not thrill her; she tried her best not to think on it too long. When she did turn twelve, that meant that sparring with Luke would be out of the question. In fact, it meant that she would have to finally wake up from her dream of being a warrior like her father. But today was not that day. Today she would spar with Luke.


Ere


Ræfon was smaller than the other young dragons of his hatchgroup. He was often ridiculed for his size, large swirling blue orbs that were his eyes, and oversized ears. This was not even his hatch-group, he reminded himself often. He had only initially been placed with them because he had been their size, not of the size and abilities of the previous hatchgroup, which Ræfon hardly remembered anyhow.

When he and the others of this present hatchgroup had been dragats, his now apparent differences were not as noticeable. All the dragats were small and had large feathery ears. Now that they were the better part of an igair out of dragathood (Ræfon was many more, as he was, in fact, older than them), however, Ræfon's differences were only too apparent.

Ræfon walked with his head down, his gaze mostly on the path before him. Today was a day like any other in the warmer bit of a typical igair. The sun was out, sparkling brightly on the flattened strip of snow that served as a road, winding throughout Cyesaar Ergo. The young dragon did not notice much of this, however. His wings trailed along behind him, leaving small furrows in the thick flat layer of ice-hard snow covering the large paving stones. His long, featherlike ears stood tall, towering alertly far above his head as he perked them.

They twitched as a sudden sound came to them from behind. It was the clatter of claws and scales on the hard snow. Ræfon knew without even looking back over his shoulder that the pack of young dragons—undoubtedly led by Rufe—was after him yet again. Rufe was rather dull and a bully besides. The others did his bidding. Nonetheless, the pack of young dragons could not often catch Ræfon. He may not have looked it, but he was fast.

The young blue-eyed dragon took off without another backwards glance, leaving only a trail of kicked up snow for his pursuers to chase. Nevertheless, chase him they did. Ræfon knew they would and, as usual, had one of his many tricks prepared.

Seconds later, he had reached the west wall of the haven, pausing several yards shy of it to wait for the others.

He soon spotted the red scales amidst the snow flurries stirred up by many sets of claws pounding the ground. As Ræfon had expected, Rufe was at their head, his face split into an ugly grin of triumph. Still Ræfon stood, holding his ground. Rufe was almost upon him. In the last moment, Ræfon ran and leaped at the wall. On seeing that his target had nowhere left to go, the bully lunged headlong at him, fangs bared.

Ræfon struck the wall squarely with all four sets of claws spread wide on it and launched himself away from it in the same move. His assailant was not so lucky. Having been unprepared for the small dragon's sudden move, Rufe had no time to change direction. He slammed headfirst into the wall at full speed. When Ræfon landed lightly on all fours once more, he at last glanced behind him.

Rufe lay unmoving at the base of the wall. One or two of the other young dragons started after Ræfon; yet, once they saw their leader moaning on the ground, they hesitated. By then, the small blue-eyed dragon was gone.

He ran, laughing internally at his victory. It had been a somewhat cruel trick, he admitted to himself, but well worth the result. At least Rufe would not be tormenting him for a while. Ræfon's ears twitched furiously at the thought. The young dragon did not realize how far he had run until his progress was suddenly halted. He fell with a thud to the hard-packed snow as something very solid obstructed his path.

The Dragonies was slightly alarmed as he gazed down sternly at the pint-sized offender. It was Ræfon again. The young dragon was easily recognizable by his size and the odd swirling blue orbs that were his eyes. Ræfon was a bit startled to find himself sitting on his tail before the Dragonies, dragon lord of all Cyesaar Ergo. The big Redspike eyed him sternly, his black gaze hard on the small dragon. Ræfon gave a start at the big, deep voice as the Dragonies reprimanded his small charge.

"What are you doing, young one, and what do you mean by running berserk? Should you not be in herrdler with Kehl?"

"Aye sir," Ræfon replied very carefully, determining not to allow his limbs to shake beneath him, as much as they seemed to want to as he carefully got to his feet.

Instead, he good-naturedly made a face at the thought of herrdler. "Sorry sir."

"Then what are you doing here?" the dragon lord demanded. Ræfon was frozen in place.

"We are on break." Despite his efforts, his legs began to quiver so hard he almost lost his balance.

"Very good then." The Dragonies' voice was not quite so harsh now. "Be off with you."

While still beneath the big dragon's scrutinizing gaze, Ræfon turned and strode calmly in the direction of the Square, where Kehl instructed all of the young dragons. What he had told the Dragonies was at least partly true. The young dragons were on break. Rufe, still lying limp at the base of the west wall, was proof of this.

However, the only time Ræfon was ever present for Kehl's instruction was when Yata or an elder found him wandering about and made him go.

"Herrdler is very important," they always said, "you are taught things every dragon should know." This instruction included lessons on the history of Cyesaar Ergo, warfare, how to speak the human language, and—lastly—flight. All of these traits were especially important in a Chosen dragon…

Ræfon was far cleverer than most of his groupmates; yet, as he seemed to have a good deal more difficulty learning these strange things than the others, he felt even more awkward. The others seemed to catch on to the lessons quickly and spitefully teased him when he did not. It was safer, he decided, to stay away.

While Ræfon knew somewhere inside that the elders were probably right about what young dragons needed to know, he also knew that he did not need the ridicule of the others. In order to avoid being caught, Ræfon had to make sure he was not wandering about, at least, not within view of any other dragon.

Once he was out of the Dragonies' sight, the young dragon turned in the opposite direction of the Square. Then, as he neared the dragats' sleeping cave, he dropped down into the snow on his belly and slid across the smooth glasslike surface until he was just in the deepest shadows beside the cave, hiding his brilliant red scales beneath the snow as he burrowed into it.

As he did so, he heard Kehl's roar summoning the young dragons to The Square. As long as he remained here, perfectly still for the next long while, no dragon would notice him. At least, that was what he hoped.

Before this hope could take root, however, Ræfon started when he felt a pair of strong jaws wrap around his tail. He groaned; he had been caught. With his luck, it would be C'ragor, the head elder or, worse, Yata. There was no time to contemplate this. Just now, Ræfon was being pulled none-too-gently from his hiding place. He winced through watery eyes as the dragon's fangs dug a little too deep into his tail. As his head came clear of the snow, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Ræfon immediately knew he was in trouble. Yata had him by the tail, her gaze severe on the other end. Not only that, another Seni stood beside her. Her gaze was equally severe. Very embarrassed in the presence of another Seni, Ræfon yanked his tail from Yata's grip with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Yata, I—" he began awkwardly.

"This is the fourth time—the fourth time—I've caught you ditching in the past week alone," she cut him off abruptly. "No excuses. You have no excuse for being out here when you should be in there."

"You need to learn what Kehl instructs," the Seni beside Yata put in. Ræfon felt his face scales ripple with shame, and the burning beneath, in his flesh. He tried to back away. It was bad enough that Yata berated him. His attempts were to no avail. Yata was circling around behind him, cutting off any attempted escape.

"Shonia is right," Yata declared, still glaring at her young charge. "Come along." Between the two of them, the Senis forcefully led Ræfon to his fate in the Square, one or the other of them nudging him sharply with a snout or forefoot whenever he seemed reluctant to follow.

As evidenced by its name, the Square was a large square-shaped clearing amidst the network of caves, paved with stone. Kehl was near the center of the area, surrounded by a crowd of her eager young pupils. By the look of things, instruction had already resumed.

Upon arriving, Yata gave Ræfon such a fierce nudge in the back that he toppled ears over tail, his legs splaying about him as he sprawled on his face in the hard snow before the instructor. Ræfon picked himself up ruefully, blowing snow from his nostrils. He gazed steadily up into Kehl's face. The old Seni that was their instructor gazed sternly down her wrinkled snout at him.

"Ditching again, Ræfon?" she said, eyeing him meaningfully. The young blue-eyed dragon averted his gaze, staring very hard at the ground as he felt his face burn again, as well as his ears and neck. The sensation was rather unpleasant, yet one that he had experienced quite a lot lately. "I can count how many times you have actually been here for instruction the past few weeks on one set of claws…"

Kehl paused in her beratement, looking around at all the young dragons now in her charge. "And where is Rufe?" she asked at last, as the realization of his absence dawned on her. Ræfon actually snorted, barely withholding the laughter that threatened to burst forth. The fool knocked himself senseless.

Rather than speaking, Ræfon just shrugged. Not only would Kehl not understand the reason for Ræfon's trick, he was not Rufe's keeper. He would not have another incident blamed on him. Trouble seemed to readily come to him more than to any other young dragon in the haven. The other young dragons chuckled until a harsh stare from Kehl cut their merriment off short.

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," Kehl began again, casting a meaningful glance in Ræfon's direction, "now that we have completed most of the lessons on the human language and our own grand history—" Ræfon stared very hard at the ground as she said this "—we can now begin lessons on flight."

An excited buzz ran through the crowd as the young dragons flexed their wings in anticipation. Apparently, they were just now mature enough to attempt flight without injuring themselves. As Kehl had cautioned them when she had caught a few young dragons attempting flight prematurely, they ran the risk of permanently injuring themselves, some of which injuries could cause them to remain forever flightless.

This warning had sufficed to frighten any youngsters out of trying such a feat on their own and too early at that. Being a flightless dragon would be the worst thing to happen to them…almost. Now, at last, they were ready. Kehl instructed them to get into one straight line, facing her, with two wingspans of space between each young dragon and his or her neighbor.

"We will first learn the takeoff. I want each of you to approach a speed sufficient enough to lift you from the ground, using only air currents to lift and hold you. Glide as far as you can—don't flap—and then land in a simple slide. Here, I will show you."

She began in a trot, gradually progressing into a gallop before the air filled her enormous wings at last. In the next instant, Kehl was airborne, her wings perfectly straight, yet relaxed. The Seni was actually very graceful in flight, Ræfon decided as he watched, not imposing as she was on the ground. It was like she belonged in the air, and it perfectly accommodated her. From wingtip to wingtip and from snout to tail, she was built for flight.

Kehl glided several yards before she at last descended and ended her flight in a graceful slide. Ræfon wondered if every dragon looked like that in flight. Would he look like that? The instructor turned, just on the edge of the Square, before she hit the nearest cave wall, and trotted back to her charges.

"See?" she crooned, obviously pleased with herself and her performance. "You may not glide as far as I did—and that is alright—but glide as far as you can. Remember, you are just gliding, so keep your wings straight, but not stiff. Feel the air beneath them. Allow its breath to swell and shape your wings."

Ræfon was distracted from further instruction as the dragon beside him nudged him sharply in the ribs with a claw. The dragon did this several times. Ræfon tried to ignore it at first. The jabbing only got harder, more insistent. He snarled, holding back the snarl rising into his throat with difficulty.

Finally, he could take the prodding no longer. His nerves had been rubbed raw by Rufe and the young dragon pack. Why could the others not just leave him alone? The young dragon turned to the annoyance on his left…only to find a dragon several times his size standing next to him in the line.

Raite was a bigger bully even than Rufe, both literally and figuratively. He was nearly the size of a fully-grown dragon and used his bulk to his advantage. None of the other young dragons dared even to glance sideways at him. He as good as owned them. Ræfon wanted nothing more at the moment than to be far away as the bully-dragon taunted him.

"Aww, did likkle Ræfon get in twouble?" Raite jeered. "Ajixe."

"Shut up," Ræfon whispered back, again feeling his face scales begin to shift, rustling vigorously, followed by ones on his ears. This was an all too familiar feeling.

"Ha! His mommy had to drag him to school," Raite went on. A nasty sneer played about his mouth. The young dragons near enough to hear snickered.

"…running and spread your wings…" Kehl instructed.

Ræfon barely heard her. He automatically broke into a trot, easily keeping up with the others as he struggled all the harder to ignore Raite's cruel taunts.

"I bet your wings are too small to fly, Ajixe." Raite snorted, smoke rising from his nostrils. "Huh, you'd prob'ly end up injuring yourself. Face it, you're doomed to be a flightless dragon."

It did no good. Ræfon could feel the hurt building up, not only at the insults, but especially at the word ajixe. This was a name no dragon called another, not ever. Even during a scuffle, or if one dragon had wronged another, the term was never to be used. It was a matter of honor. Apparently, Raite had none. A snarl was building in Ræfon's throat.

"Sure, though you could always charm a bird out of the trees with those big blue eyes of yours and ask it for a ride. Doesn't matter which bird—" a cruel grin spread across the bully's face, "—they're all probably bigger than you!"

This last comment was too much for Ræfon. He could no longer even think past the shame and anger dulling his senses. Hot tears stung his eyes. Nearly half his scales were rippling furiously. Instead of gliding with the others, he lunged at the bigger dragon.