Chapter 11 The Caravan #2
This time the dragon’s presence filled the clearing. Its golden scales caught the filtered sunlight. Each breath it took sent ripples through the magical currents that flowed invisible but tangible between them.
Still in her dream world, their hearts found the same rhythm, an unspoken trust building between them.
The dragon’s golden eyes held galaxies of wisdom.
Lark reached out to touch him and in that suspended moment before contact, she felt a familiar brush against her mind.
Consciousness pulled her back like a hand through water, leaving only the phantom warmth of almost-touched dragon scales tingling in her fingertips.
“Whoa,” Lark breathed, new surroundings rushing into focus. The room was dark, broken only by the Hyalite’s radiance.
With care, she tucked the Hyalite back into her pack. Cool predawn air seeped in through the window, carrying hints of pine smoke and morning frost into the room. The shutters creaked on iron hinges when she opened them to the new day.
“Nix, are you out there?” she whispered, casting out into the darkness. No reply.
Stormwatch sprawled before her, a tapestry of dying lantern-light and emerging dawn.
The golden sun crept above the horizon. Lark shed the farmer’s clothes and dressed in her stored garments.
The tailored clothes fit her perfectly. She wasn’t surprised but she still couldn’t remember where they’d come from.
The lightweight shirt settled comfortably against her skin, its leaf-stitch patterns flowing from shoulders to elbows.
The vest melded seamlessly over it. The fabrics were a masterwork of sea-blue and supple brown leather that moved with her like elven-forged armor.
Its high collar embraced her throat where the mysterious necklace hung.
Its V-shaped cut allowed for the fluid movement of a practiced fighter.
Each button snap gleamed with the subtle sheen of well-worn brass.
Her hands glided over the vest’s form-fitting contours, appreciating the craftsmanship that seemed appropriate for both beauty and functionality.
The pants continued the theme. The fabric a forest green and soft as a summer breeze where flexibility was needed.
They were reinforced with leather worn with a patina from adventures she couldn’t recall.
Perfectly contouring the full muscular curves of her lower body, they tapered perfectly into her well-worn mid-calf boots.
The leather cuffs clicked into place around her forearms with satisfying finality, securing sleeves that might otherwise betray a crucial moment’s movement.
The crowning piece, a deep blue cloak, settled across her shoulders with a comforting embrace.
Its embroidered autumn leaves were a beautiful mixture of yellow, orange, and red.
Checking her reflection in the age-spotted mirror, Lark saw a warrior clothed in functionality and grace.
The daggers she’d managed to collect nestled against her sides and spine like old friends.
She twisted her thick umber locks up into a practical bun to complete her transformation from refugee to someone who commanded respect.
The morning air carried the scent of horse and leather as she emerged from the inn onto the front porch.
Ezra’s voice cut through the dawn. He spoke with authority.
Five wagons stood at the ready, their sturdy construction well suited for a journey across Lamar.
The large horses were bred for hauling; their muscular frames dwarfed the sleeker Northern warhorses she remembered from the attack.
Her attention was drawn to several fur-clad figures by the stables. Their bearded faces and foreign garb set them apart like wolves among sheep. Something about their presence made Lark’s senses tingle. Their gazes lingered too long on her.
“Lark,” Ezra announced his approach. “I almost didn’t recognize you with those new duds. You look ready and suited for travel.”
“About that. I’m not sure I can afford the room for last night.
And this trip to Astral City…” she shook her head.
“You said they were on the other side of the Astral Range, the northeast end, a few days from Fletcher’s Passage,” she said pointing to the pink and orange glow of the sunrise in the east, over the Astral Mountains.
“I’ll walk. I can handle myself if any danger arises. ”
“Like I said last night, don’t worry about the room.
It’s on me. Cheyanne won’t mind as she’s not in Stormwatch at the moment.
As for the trip, my security team backed out at the last minute.
You say you can handle yourself and you’ve escaped Nordraven soldiers before. Do you think you can handle the work?”
“Work?”
“Yes, I’m asking if you will work for me. Provide security for the caravan. I’ve got wards set on the wagons. I’ll just need to know in advance if there’s someone charging up from behind to try to rob us or, fires forbid, we come across a rogue Nordraven troop.”
Lark checked after the bearded men near the stables, only to see they had disappeared.
“You’re not going to find another guide to Astral City that’s willing to let you go for free, I’ll tell you that right now,” he added. “But it’s up to you. Go it alone, or ride in the rear with us.” Ezra made like he was going to leave.
“Are meals included?” Lark stopped him.
He studied her again. “You’d better be worth your weight when it comes to fighting… Sure, the meals are included.”
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Excellent, you can take the bench seat on top of the rear wagon,” he said.
Just then the doors to the inn burst open. Hardin barreled out like he’d been riding a storm front. “Hold the wagons!” he called. “I can pay for passage,” he added, waving to gain their attention.
Ezra intercepted him, surprising Lark with his speed. “Hold up, lad. You want passage, you talk to me.”
“I need to get to Astral City,” he said.
“You’re in the right place. We have one more spot if you can pay.”
Hardin fished a handful of coins from his pocket and handed them to the dwarf.
Ezra sifted through them, shook his head, and said, “That’s not enough.”
“What?”
“You’re two bronze short.”
“That’s not what I read on the bulletin while I was paying for my room this morning.”
“I set the rates. There’s a late fee, and it’s two bronzes,” Ezra said, crossing his powerful arms.
“Sasja said Cheyanne would help me,” he said.
The dwarf drew his mouth to a hard line, tugging the thick cords of his beard. “I don’t know no Sasja, but Cheyanne wouldn’t appreciate her name being used to trick me.”
“Can I pay the two bronzes with something other than coin?” he asked, slipping the polished lute around and gripping it by the ornately carved neck, ready to play.
“Are you any good?”
“The best west of Dagger’s Landing,” he said.
“Prove it.”
“In the Frost Fang Mountains where warriors dare to tread,
Where the biting wind screams with dread.
I passed through storms and mountains old,
To seek a treasure of untold gold.
Through icy caves and shadows deep,
In a place where ancients go to sleep.
The path was harsh, the nights were long,
But resolve forced me on.”
Ezra’s expression didn’t change as the crowd leaned closer, eager to hear the next verse and clearly enjoying the production.
Beyond the moons, where dragons roam,
I found a place the fae call home.
With sword in hand, I broke the fold,
To claim a prize worth more than gold.”
“That’s good enough, lad,” Ezra said, stopping him. “Seems like they approve of your singing. Do it for them after dinners and you can come with us.”
“Meals included?” Hardin asked, hope dancing in his almond eyes.
Ezra caught Lark’s smirk, then said, “Ah, what the heck, sure, meals included.”
“Thank you. You won’t regret this.”
“You’ll join the wagon in the rear,” Ezra said. “That’s everything and everyone. Find your stations and let’s get moving. This caravan isn’t going to make it to Astral City by hanging around here.”
Each wagon stood as a testament to dwarven craftsmanship.
Their wooden frames were carved from timbers undoubtably harvested from the Everburning Forest. They served as moveable cottages for the nomadic warlock.
Above each driver’s bench, canopies woven with weather-resistant canvas provided shelter from the elements, while doors carved with intricate joining techniques offered multiple escape routes and windows punctuated the wooden chaises.
Ezra’s personal wagon crowned the caravan, its second level rising in elegant curves that defied typical dwarven geometric aesthetic.
Warding runes were carved into each door. They pulsed with subtle power, their meanings hidden in the secrets of dwarven literature. The magic within them created a web of protection that Lark could feel brushing against her consciousness strings.
Inside their assigned wagons, the space offered travelers not just shelter but comfort that bordered on luxury.
A wooden stove bore marks of fire-blessing.
Bunks held eight carefully placed sleeping nooks.
A ladder climbed from the rear wall to a platform, a vantage point to survey the territory.
Lark settled her pack at her feet as she sat on the smooth bench there.
Hardin emerged through the hatch. “Looks like we’re in the same wagon.”
Lark crossed her arms and fixed her gaze forward.
The wagon lurched into motion as she attempted to ignore Hardin taking a seat next to her.
As they left the crossroads, Lark’s gaze found the three fur-clad figures.
The same three rugged-looking men who’d been watching her from the stables.
They followed at a steady distance, their weapons worn out in the open, metal clasps clinking in their saddles like warning bells.
Lark gripped tightly, one hand on her pack and the other around a dagger handle.