Chapter 5 The Road
We fly northwest over empty mountain roads, bound for the nation of Olio and the legend of a monster who haunts the deep passes there.
There was some debate over where to go first. Marton thought it might be worthwhile to head back to the village where I was born and interview my mother for information on my father, but I rejected that plan.
In the thirteen years I lived with my mother, she never spoke to me of the man (or dragon) who sired me, except to say she only knew him for a single night—with a distant, misty look in her eyes that she quickly shook away with a frown and a renewed energy for laundering her customers' linens.
I don't think talking to my mother would lend us anything useful.
To say nothing of the fact that revealing ourselves in Ithyma would be dangerous given the king's desire for my head on a spike, we're meant to be search for Cherry's potential husband, not just any dragon man. Cherry certainly can't marry my father.
So we soar through the skies over the mountain range that Ithyma shares with Olio.
The border lies somewhere deep within these peaks, and we follow the main road so that we'll know when we reach it.
As soon as we're on Olion soil, we'll be relatively safe.
No one is hunting there for the Ithymian princess or the dragon who stole her.
Not that we know of, that is.
As we fly, Marton arms clasp loosely around the base of my neck, and Cherry seethes with irritation behind him, hands gripping the spines on my back with palpable tension.
It was a battle between them over who should get the seat directly behind my head during our travels.
For all Cherry's talk of flirting Marton's stockings off, she was, as usual, more interested in having her own way than anything else.
She demanded it like the princess she is, and Marton, though stammering and apologizing, reasoned that he needed the forward seat so he could direct me as we flew.
I was in my dragon form while this argument went on, so I only understood in bits in pieces what was said.
Cherry raged and stamped and gesticulated, hair wild with wounded importance.
Marton winced and explained and blushed, teeth worrying at his lower lip, eyes darting to me now and again for help.
I finally intervened by nudging my nose against Marton's shoulder, then giving Cherry a significant look. She was not happy at all, but she threw her hands up in surrender. She glared daggers at me as Marton climbed onto my back first, and she ignored the hand he put down in offer to help her up.
She's been stewing ever since. I can feel the indignation vibrating out of her, and I know her well enough to understand that this battle isn't over.
If she hadn't cared much about riding up front before, she will have made it her singular mission in life now, simply for the sake of winning an argument that everyone thinks she's lost. Cherry doesn't give up.
This is one of the great things about her, at the same time as it is one of the most frustrating.
When we land for the night in a shallow canyon, closed in all sides for shelter, Cherry is vitriolically and pointedly silent, crossing her arms and watching as Marton unloads the packs from my back. He holds up my bag uncertainly, blushing as he looks at me.
Cherry huffs. Crossing the rocky ground with quick movements, she snatches the pack from Marton's hands. She produces from its innards a rolled up blanket and folded dress. She unfurls the blanket and holds it up as a shield before me as I shift to human form.
I stretch my disused human muscles with a groan, rolling my shoulders where wings would be if I had them.
Somehow, they still feel sore as if from flying all day.
I take the dress from Cherry and pull it over my head, smoothing my hands over the front.
It's a new attempt of hers, a layered creation of two of my old dressed sewn together, one inside the other.
This has the added benefits of being thicker and warmer, and hiding the worst of the worn patches and rips.
It's also horrendously ugly, the underdress brown and the top one purple. The sight makes me grin as I glance at Cherry, and she looks reluctantly amused as well, fighting to keep the scowl on her face as it twitches towards a smile.
She messily rolls up the blanket she's been holding, shoving it into my arms. Marton is busily setting up the campsite as we turn towards him.
I chose a campsite with several rocks and boulders for seating, as well as clump of dead trees along one side for firewood.
I go to gather wood as Marton unrolls Cherry's bedroll for her with apologetic gallantry.
I could tell him that will get him nowhere with her, but it's rather cute, so I don't.
Once the firewood is assembled within a neat ring of stones, I breathe fire into it, enjoying the ferocious taste of flame in my mouth and throat. In no time, a merry blaze crackles in our makeshift hearth.
Marton passes around his waterskin, and I begin to skin the pair of mountain hares I snagged in my claws earlier in the day.
Cherry accepts both water and rations with the highest dignity.
She seems to be building up to a good opening argument about why she should get the primary seat on the morrow.
I can practically see the plotting taking place in her mind, cogs turning behind her deceptive baby blue eyes.
I try to intercept her by redirecting the conversation.
"Marton, why don't you tell us more about this monster we're chasing."
Cherry's haughty expression falters, her eyes brightening, lips parting. She can't resist a good story.
I used to spend whole hours curled up beneath the covers with her in our tower room, entertaining her with all the tales I knew from my village growing up. When I ran out of familiar tales to share, I began to make up new ones.
It is our oldest game: Cherry demanding a tale from me, and me making up a horrible, madcap story on the spot.
The more ridiculous and unconvincing my characters and plots, the more Cherry would complain.
At the same time, she would be laughing uncontrollably, doubled over as she gasped for breath and inserted new ridiculous plot points of her own.
It was the story game that first warmed us to each other, after all our threadbare tolerance and keen dislike.
Marton pauses over the map he's been perusing, eyes darting up.
He looks from me to Cherry, and seems to register her interested expression.
"Of course." He partially rolls up the map, tucking it out of the way.
Marton takes a breath, pausing. Then he begins.
"So in Olio, in what they think of as their southern mountain range—which to Ithymians is the north—there is a story of a monster with a great thirst for human blood. "
Cherry gasps aloud, looking quickly at me. Her expression is a mixture of absorption with the story and doubt as to the legend's site being our intended destination.
Marton continues, "For the past twenty, or fifty, or a hundred years—tellers of the tale disagree as to how long this has been going on—" his mysterious story-telling tone dissolves momentarily as he adds this piece of information in his scholar's voice, "travelers have been disappearing in the mountain paths surrounding a particular Olion village.
When searchers go out looking for the missing, they can discover no trace or sign of their demise.
Not a bone or a scrap of clothing or a drop of blood is ever left behind.
Skeptics say the people have merely gotten lost, wandered too far from the path and been unable to find the way back.
But in the village nearest where these disappearances occur, the people tell a different tale.
They speak of a monster, a great beast with a mouth large enough to devour a man in a single bite, who hunts in the mountain passes.
And though this monster can eat lions and wolves and bears, and does so regularly, its favorite quarry is human.
And any traveler who wanders off the beaten paths coming or going to this village risks becoming a meal for the monster. "
Cherry's eyes are shiny orbs in the fire light, enraptured by this gruesome tale, expression deep with contemplation.
During my stories, Cherry always wanted to hear about particular people and what they were thinking or feeling at a particular time.
When I didn't do a good enough job with my telling, she would contribute what she thought the characters were likely feeling as they faced the swindling highwayman or the pitiless pirate.
I imagine that's what Cherry is thinking of now, as Marton tells his tale.
Me, I'm contemplating actualities. A frown pulls at the corners of my mouth. "Is that all?" I ask Marton.