11. The Scorched Land. #2
The rest of the crew is already back, and Harlow welcomes me with a frown on his pretty face. “There has been another attack,” he says.
I jump down the ramp. “Where?”
“It was a royal airship coming back from the south mines. The local tribe saw it happen from the forest below. The dragon gave chase and set fire to the airship. There are no survivors.”
The rest of my crew are listening from their positions all over the upper deck—even Wilbur has come out of his engine room. Dragons aren’t supposed to attack airships, and yet, here we are again.
And if this reaches the king’s ear, will it turn into another Reign of Fire? There was a time a few hundred years ago when a mad king raged war against an ancient dragon and lost half of his kingdom to the flames. We humans didn’t win that conflict.
“Was it Alduin?” I ask Harlow.
“No. It was another dragon.”
“Let me guess. Female?”
He nods. “She has her territory west of Alabastra.”
“Do you want us to go investigate?”
Harlow shakes his head. “No. The airship didn’t fit our original suspect. It was simply transporting cargo and was collateral damage. Wrong time, wrong place.”
“Poor buggers,” says Gia.
“The female’s lair is deeper into the mountains,” Harlow continues. “It looks like the people who are provoking the dragons are making their way south. We have a chance of intercepting them.”
“Intercepting them?” I say, finally meeting his eyes. “That wasn’t part of our deal. We’re not mercenaries.”
His lips thin from displeasure. “Yes. Would finding out their identity be acceptable?” He holds my gaze. “And I also have news. We’ve received a report of a dragon who has gone missing in the Scorched Land.”
“It’s acceptable. I’m guessing this is where you want us to go, dear dragoner?”
Harlow paces the upper deck under the watchful eyes of the other crew members. “The nearest female’s territory is south of the Barren Peaks. We can look out for the airship with the black sails and the missing dragon.”
“Very well. To the Scorched Land, then. Tomorrow, we’re heading out to the desert.” I turn to Freddy. “Are the water tanks all filled to the brim?”
The giant nods. “Of course, Captain.”
“Then I advise you all to enjoy the pleasures of Alabastra tonight before taking a good night’s sleep, for tomorrow we’ll brave the Barren Peaks and the desert beyond.”
My crew members scatter on the upper deck, but Harlow lingers. Before he can say something, I disappear into my quarters.
The Barren Peaks, as their name so subtly hints, are desolate. The jagged mountains reach for the sky, sharp and devoid of life, untouched by snow even during winter. The desert tribes call them the Teeth.
They used to be impassable, which ensured that the Scorched Land was only accessible by boat through the Burning Coast. Countless men and women died in the dunes during the conquest of West Hargos.
The tribes surrendered eventually, but only because they lacked the numbers.
It is said one desert warrior was worth five of ours.
Since the invention of airships, the Barren Peaks aren’t the protection they used to be, and anyone with a flying vessel can brave the desert.
Freddy has pulled the tarp over the upper deck to provide shade during the upcoming blistering day.
It flaps gently in the already-warm wind coming from the desert.
Harlow stands in the morning sun, knuckles white as he holds the bulwark.
I can’t help but keep an eye on him, his well-being at all times in the back of my mind.
“Be careful,” I say to him as I come closer. “You’ll roast in no time.”
“We’ve never been that high,” he says.
“We didn’t have to fly over the Barren Peaks.”
He nods jerkily. “What will happen if the hot-air balloon gives out?”
“Hopefully, it won’t. But just in case, Wilbur has created a kind of parachute to slow our descent.
” I point toward the large but short cannon at the bow.
“He calls it the Last Chance—ominous, I know. We never had to use it, so we’re not sure if it’ll work, but he assures me his calculations are right.
” Harlow looks a little green, so I change the subject. “Are you sure this territory is safe?”
I had him map out the safest way to the Oasis early this morning.
He nods. “We’re crossing Marvok’s territory, and if our theory is right, he has no reason to be enraged. If a female comes this far, she’ll attract his attention, and she won’t have time to go after us.”
“I hope you’re right, dragoner.” His eyes meet mine, and they look accusatory. Maybe he remembers as well as I do that a few days ago I was calling him baby instead of dragoner . “We’ll fly all day and all night to reach the Oasis tomorrow evening.”
“Is it really sacred?” he asks, green eyes bright behind his glasses.
“It is. It’s the heart of their land, and the water comes from an underground network of springs that they call the Veins. Water is their most important resource, and so no one can own the Oasis. The different desert tribes use it as a hub for their gatherings.”
“Are we even allowed to go near it?”
“Sure, if we respect the water and anchor the Blunder at a safe distance. They welcome us as long as we provide items from the rest of the kingdom to trade. I have more crates filled with goods. They’re fond of fabrics, new inventions, and booze.”
“I’m guessing no skinny-dipping in the Oasis?”
I laugh. “No skinny-dipping. They have killed foreigners for less.”
“Yes. Of course.” Harlow is blushing.
Was he hoping to get us to swim naked under the stars? Gods, the thought is almost tempting enough to risk death.
“Don’t stay too long in the sun,” I say. “The Scorched Land is unforgiving, so spare your body temperature.”
I walk away before I do something stupid.
On the evening of the next day, the Oasis appears on the horizon like a heat-induced mirage. The crystal-clear water of the Heart of the Scorched Land reflects the sunset, beckoning weary travelers to profane it.
Under the palm trees sit the hundreds of tents, the temporary housing for the nomads of the dunes.
They wave at us from the ground; they recognize the Blunder from previous encounters.
I try to be more generous than most fire scroungers when we visit the Scorched Land.
The nomads have long and unforgiving memories, so it never hurts to stay in their good graces.
Kuroki maneuvers the Blunder toward a dune beyond the Oasis’ green perimeter.
The only way to anchor the ship is to hammer stakes as long as a grown man into the sand at the deepest part of the dune.
Freddy obliges, muscles bulging as his wife leers at him from the higher ground.
From afar, it looks like the desert has swallowed the hot-air balloon.
It’s no wonder the royal armies struggled to win the war in this ocean of sand.
The land owes its name to the volcanic ash that sometimes darkens the dunes during particularly impressive eruptions along the Burning Coast. Lucky for us, it hasn’t happened in a few years. I breathed enough ash for a lifetime during our face-off with Alduin, only days ago.
By the time we have unloaded the crates of goods to trade with the nomads, night has fallen over the Scorched Land and the temperature is dropping fast.
The tribe leaders present at the Oasis accept everything good-heartedly in exchange for intel on the missing dragon and the airship with black sails. We’re the first crew of fire scroungers they’ve seen in weeks, and there are no signs of another vessel.
But Harlow’s findings at the guild were accurate.
The local dragon, Falcor, hasn’t flown her usual path over her territory near the volcanoes for days.
She’s sharing a border with a powerful male with whom she often mates.
Her disappearance could mean his death by the claws of the other dragon, or simply by natural causes.
Either way, it means business for us.
There are no dragoners in the Scorched Land, but the nomads receive an annual payment from the guild for sporadic news about their dragons.
By the end of our trade, one of their leaders gives us a map of the desert with Falcor’s usual flight path. The old dragon has been reigning over some of these parts for generations.
As the cold of the desert night sets in, they invite us to a revelry around their fires.
Harlow is fascinated by the fact that they burn camel dung instead of wood.
Soon enough, he mingles with the nomads, as effortlessly as he did with my crew.
For a dragoner, he’s surprisingly social, and I find myself envious of the people at the receiving end of his quirky smiles.
Our hosts open one of the wine casks we gave them for their welcome, and for once even Wilbur’s comes out of the Blunder to have a drink—that turns into five more at Kuroki’s urging. I sip my own, well aware of the last dragon attack. I want to stay sharp if anything happens out here in the desert.
But to my annoyance, something worse than a dragon attack takes place instead: Harlow is flirting with another man.
The nomad is tall and lithe, his bronze skin glowing in the firelight—far too handsome to be talking to my dragoner. I grip my cup of wine a little too tight as I plaster a relaxed smile on my face.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Alara says, appearing by my side like an evil witch whose dark designs are coming to fruition. “Good for him. He deserves some… attention.” She cackles when she notices the murderous glare I’m offering her.
“Don’t you have places to be?” I say. “A husband to manage or something?”
Freddy is sitting around another fire, doing some kind of drinking contest with eager nomads.
She shakes her head. “He’ll be fine. He knows the way back to our cabin. You, on the other hand, don’t seem to know the way around our young dragoner…” She gestures toward Harlow just as the man lowers his face to whisper something in his ear.
Harlow has his back to me, and I can’t read his face. Is he smiling at what the nomad is saying? Is he pleased?
“Excuse me. I’ve got to make sure our dragoner isn’t getting coerced,” I say.
“Of course you do.” Alara laughs.
I make my way to the two men flirting.