Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Once, on a hot summer day shortly after Emberfall, I returned from a job to find a gang of men defacing the memorial stones we'd started to set in place.
They'd laughed as they dug them up and flung them around, whooping and howling as they stole offerings left by mourners, as they challenged each other to break as many things as they could.
Five of them, each probably double my size.
Each one of them armed and filthy and reckless in the wild, despairing way that people with nothing to live for often are.
Even Briar had begged me not to pick a fight with them.
I still vividly remember the feel of my knife sinking into the first one.
How surprisingly deep I'd been able to slam it into his stomach.
The way he'd bellowed as I twisted my blade, Briar screaming as the other men grabbed me and threw me down, pinning my body to the ground and threatening to do horrific things to it.
Most of what followed is a blur. I'd eventually blacked out, and I'd been lucky after that; some of our allies from the Burn heard Briar's screaming and came to our rescue.
But as I'd sat there, coming back to my senses while blood dripped down my face, I hadn't felt lucky.
I'd felt furious.
The angriest I ever remember feeling.
It doesn't compare to the rage that burns through me now, the stabbing hatred that rips through me whenever I look at the dragon. The dragon that is currently backing closer to me, cowering like a kicked dog against my legs.
What have you done, you stupid creature? I want to shout.
Because this whole ordeal is its fault.
It led these bastards straight to us.
“There is no bond between us,” I snap at the officer, at the dragon, at anyone within a mile radius—that's how loud I am. I want the whole damn empire to hear my fury.
“No dragon would protect a human unless there was something supernatural at work,” the officer counters. “And if you really aren't doing something to encourage that bond, then that makes things even more interesting, doesn't it?”
“It doesn't,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I suspect the king will disagree with you,” the officer says, bluntly, motioning his followers into action.
They take care of the dragon first.
More than a dozen soldiers close in around it.
They go for its tail, initially—the only appendage it still seems to be able to control with precision and strength.
Two men hold that tail down, keeping it from lashing out, while others tie its legs together and drape thick netting around its flailing wings.
I hear Briar shouting, and I catch a glimpse of them ripping her from her horse's saddle.
Before I can truly turn toward her, someone grabs me from behind, locking an arm around my neck and jerking me off-balance.
Two others converge to help, one of them wrenching my arms behind my back, the other swiftly binding them together with rough, thick rope.
There are too many surrounding me.
The pain in my knee is too much, every involuntary twist and stumble excruciating to the point of dizziness.
The dragon lets out a low, mournful sound.
I feel it watching me, even with all the chaos between us.
Like I’m all it can focus on, even as its own body is being beaten down and roughly bound, and despite the severity of its own wounds.
The blood around it is pooling so deeply that some of the soldiers are having a difficult time keeping their footing in it.
Why are you concerned about me? I wonder, dully. Why don’t you save yourself?
Heat flares once more in my chest, followed by a sensation of falling, of sinking into warm darkness.
I close my eyes and think of nothing else for a very long time.
We ride west for three hours, at least.
The wagon they've thrown Briar and me into feels like it has four uneven wheels, judging by the way it violently bumps and jostles us about; by the time we finally stop to set up camp for the night, I've probably gained several more impressive bruises to go along with the ones on my injured leg.
We're pushed and prodded out of the wagon like cattle being driven out to pasture. As my sight adjusts to the dark woods surrounding us, I spot Garnet being pulled toward a larger group of horses. It's taking two strong-looking soldiers to move her along, while a third warily observes.
She must have followed us, only to be wrangled by our enemies along with Briar's horse. Her eyes are terrified, nearly bulging from her skull. I hate that I can't rush to her side to soothe her. But at least she's alive. At least she's still here.
I keep repeating the Burn’s stubborn mantra to myself, over and over.
Still here, still here, still here.
It's the only way I manage to keep moving.
Briar and I are marched to a thick post that's been driven into the ground, close to one of the most elaborate tents being pitched—the dwelling of the commanding officer, I assume. Our backs are pressed against this post, hands tied behind us.
We're given no food. No water. A guard takes up a position between us and the commander's tent. His gaze darts toward us frequently, daring us to try and make a move. In his hand is a nasty looking weapon; a whip with three sharp prongs at its tip.
Our own weapons have been taken, of course. A sharp, poignant anguish stabs through me as I realize there’s a good chance they’ve carelessly tossed aside my mother’s sword—that I may never see it again.
Just another loss to add to the pile.
The dragon is bound nearby, heavy-looking chains weighing its head and neck down.
Some sort of metal contraptions have been fastened over its claws, rendering them useless.
Thick netting remains draped over its wings, cinched in at the bottom, pressing the two appendages together into a crumpled, bloody mess once more.
It keeps trying to catch my eye.
I keep looking away.
Briar is uncharacteristically quiet for a long time—nearly an hour—before she finally says, “We'll get out of this, don't worry.”
I can't find it in my heart to agree, so I don't speak.
“Marta will have sounded the alarm by now,” she insists, her voice hushed and urgent. “You know how she is, panicking the moment we don't show up when we said we would. She'll arrange help for us.”
“Who will come?” I fight to keep my voice steady. “I don't want anyone to come; the Burn can't spare any extra bodies for a rescue mission of this magnitude. They'd just get themselves killed.” And we're running out of room in our memorial garden.
“…You have a point, I guess.” Briar blows out a breath, followed by a weak laugh. “And we clearly have everything under control here, so who needs 'em, eh?”
Silence falls over us, heavy as the chains holding the dragon's head against the dirt.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “You're right. We'll figure something out. We always do.”
She nods, but her frown doesn't budge.
We both know the situation is beyond dire, even for us.
We're hours from home, getting perilously close to Lucindris—the sprawling and sparkling city that sits at the edge of the Kingdom of Mouren.
And the closer we get to that capital city, the less likely rescue becomes.
No one from the Burn is going to risk navigating the increasingly numerous, armed outposts between here and Lucindris, nor riding beneath Mouren's skies, which are allegedly so thick with dragons and smoke that it frequently blots out the sun.
Luckily, Briar and I are used to it being just the two of us trying to figure out a solution.
I spend the next hour or two trying to do just that, observing everything I can in hopes of coming up with a plan.
I note the guard movements. I study what I can see of the camp's layout, the routes that might lead to darker parts of the woods around us—to paths we could disappear on.
I learn names and faces. I discern ranks, paying attention to who seems to hold the most power, the most authority, the most dangerous weapons.
The officer who arrested us—Commander Gareth, I hear him called—keeps coming and going in and out of the garish, large tent nearby.
Messages are being sent and received by him at a furious pace, carried by the small, dragon-like creatures known as swifts, which are said to fly nearly ten times as fast as a horse can gallop.
I watch as one of those swifts drops a folded letter into Gareth’s hand, squawking relentlessly at the commander until he rewards it with some sort of treat from his pocket.
Not for the first time, I find my gaze getting caught on this man, following his every move and expression until the rest of the camp blurs around him.
Briar clears her throat. “What do we make of this Commander Gareth?”
“I'm not sure.”
“Every time I look at you, you're looking at him. You've got him entirely sized up and catalogued, I assume?”
“…It's not just that,” I admit.
I feel her curious gaze shift to me.
I exhale the tense breath I'm holding, and I finally gather the courage to voice what I've been thinking since the moment I first saw this man: “He looks like Mal, doesn't he? Something about the way he holds himself. The shape of his jaw. The unusual color of his eyes.”
Briar doesn't answer right away. When she finally does, her tone is softer, gentler than normal. “You see his face everywhere, Owyn. Especially when we're in the thick of disaster like this.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“No, I just…” I inhale and exhale several times. “You know what? Never mind.”
“It's a comfort to think of him in moments like this. I get it.”
I angle my face away so she doesn't see my building frustration.
My gaze fixes on a nearby campfire. But staring into its flames only makes my exasperation grow, unfortunately.
Briar is wrong; I don't actually want memories of Malachi.