POCHA
Lure frowned, looking up at the twilit sky. “Just let me go up when it’s fully dark, and I’ll scout ahead. Even if the Oracle is a mystical being or some shite, they still have to have torches, fires—something.”
“We’ll be doomed anyway if we don’t reach the Oracle soon,” Lure pointed out, looking back the way they’d come.
“It’s my fault,” Dagar said, hanging his head. “If I hadn’t set that fire… Stupid!” In a fit of sudden fury, he hit himself in the head with both fists
“I’m feeling this way because I’m an idiot!” he shouted, pulling free of her, and smacking his own head again.
“Keep punching yourself in the head and you’ll be stupider still,” Lure joked.
The old Dagar would have laughed at that. This one just looked sullen, though he did stop hitting himself.
Insomnia had plagued Dagar ever since he’d lost his dragon.
During their sojourn in the wilderness these past few days, he’d taken to setting snares in the night.
Most mornings, they’d woken up to three or four animals for breakfast. Rabbits.
Squirrels. An opossum. Axjan would cook them up with his fire when daylight came.
But last night, after everyone else was asleep, Dagar had caught a mountain hare.
And rather than waiting for Axjan to cook it in the morning, he’d decided to light a fire and cook it himself—forgetting that they’d decided to avoid cooking fires to avoid being spotted by the enemy.
When Pocha woke up and saw what he was doing, they had doused the flames right away.
Dagar had apologized, explaining that he felt useless without his dragon; he just wanted to do something to help.
Pocha had hugged him and told him not to worry about it.
But the next morning, they’d seen the enemies pursuing them again, just a few ridges away.
Dagar blamed himself.
“It wasn’t your fault. Okay?” Pocha said now.
But Dagar shook his head adamantly. “I should just go. I should have left a long time ago. I’m no good without a dragon. All I’m doing is endangering everyone.”
“Stop,” Pocha said, gentle but firm. “We want you here. We need you here. I need you. Okay?”
He didn’t answer. He was looking over his shoulder, back toward the ridge where the Gray Brotherhood’s forces had been spotted.
“Okay?” Pocha demanded more forcefully.
“Yeah. Okay,” Dagar muttered.
Lure sighed. “But truly, Pocha. If we don’t find Umsir tomorrow, we’ll either have to stand and fight—or they’ll run us down. We can’t outmarch them for another day. They’re seasoned Lacunae and ours is an army of exhausted commoners.”
“I know,” Pocha sighed.
According to legend, the Oracle’s mountain stronghold was impregnable.
Their only hope now was to make it to Umsir and hope the Oracle would give them safe haven.
The problem was finding the place. The general location of Umsir was known.
It was even marked on the map. But the exact location, and the path to reach it—only the royal family and their Torouman knew that.
Essa or Ollie could have led them there.
But without them? They’d have to rely on luck.
Pocha pointed to the map. “I think we’re here. In the morning, let’s find a path between these peaks and—”
She trailed off as she spotted a sentry rushing toward them.
“They’re coming,” the sentry said, breathless.
Pocha felt her heart sink. “How far back?”
“They’re on the ridge just behind this one and descending into the valley. Thirty minutes back, at most.”
Pocha felt like there was no energy left in her body.
Every joint wanted to give way from weariness and despair.
And she knew all her people would feel the same way, too.
They were just preparing to have an evening meal and bed down.
Instead, they’d be running again—probably all night.
She glanced down to where Clua and Rohree still slumbered, strapped to the litters her army had dragged for who knew how many leagues.
For a moment, she wished she could trade places with them, could just close her eyes and lie down and let someone else lead for a while.
But Essa had trusted her. The people under her command trusted her. And she would not fail them.
She met Lure’s eyes and saw her own determination mirrored there.
It gave her strength. “Alright. Let’s get everyone moving again,” she said, then she turned to Dagar and squeezed his hand.
“Take up the rear. Make sure no stragglers get left behind. And sound the alarm if they catch up to us. Okay? Okay?”
Dagar shook his shaggy head, still looking as if he might cry. “I should just go and fight them myself. Hold them off as long as I can...”
“That would be about thirty seconds,” Lure snorted.
Pocha shot Lure an admonishing glare.
“I should go off on my own then,” Dagar grumbled. “I’m just holding the rest of you back.”
Pocha felt sorry for Dagar, truly. She wanted to comfort him, but there was no time.
All their lives were at stake. It was her responsibility to keep everyone safe—and here was Dagar, taking up her time with his self-loathing drama.
And it was true—his fire probably had alerted their enemies to their location. She felt her anger rising.
“Dagar, get yourself together!” she snapped. “You’re not some bloody schoolboy feeling sorry for himself. You’re a Skrathan. Now rally the stragglers and prepare them to march, as I told you to. Alright? Go!”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she leaped onto her dragon’s back, turned her up the path, and began moving through their makeshift camp, shouting:
“Up! We have to start moving again! The enemy is coming. I know, I know. We’ll stop again as soon as we can. Come on, up! Let’s move.”
Lure bounded along behind her, also on dragon back—exhorting, encouraging, cajoling everyone into motion.
By the time they’d reached the far end of the camp and she looked back, everyone had grumbled and groaned their way to their feet.
Bags were slung on shoulders. Steeds were mounted. Sword belts re-buckled.
She raised a fist over her head, then swung it in the direction they were heading. Forward. Like some massive beast, the entire line of men, women, dragons, and horses lurched into motion, trudging forward into the night.
With all the distance they’d covered, all the steps they’d trod, Pocha’s mind had become expert at slipping into a fugue state. She could nearly sleep in her saddle with her eyes open—and that’s what she did now as the night deepened and Razune bore her forward.
She didn’t know how much time had passed, but gradually, a feeling of unease stole over her.
Something was wrong. For a good half an hour, she told herself she was imagining things.
Then, for another half an hour, her brain was working, trying to figure out what was bothering her. Finally, she turned to Lure.
“Go back and check on Dagar, would you?”
Lure gave a nod and was gone, weaving back through their lines on dragon back.
Pocha waited to hear from him, biting her thumbnail, a feeling of unease rooted in dragon-sense growing within her with each passing second.
At last, Lure reached out to her via simnal, their words confirming what she dreaded, what she’d already guessed.
No one has seen him since we started moving again… I’m sorry, Pocha. Dagar is gone.