《Question of Scale》


 Chapter 1 Warnings

    David crashed through the brush, new boots sticky with sweat and sap, with blood. Packing dirt, snapping twigs, the crunching pine cones as loud as his ragged breath. His throbbing feet warred for attention against the throbbing in his skull. He spotted the gnarled root in his path, too late, and it caught against his heel. He tumbled, and his stomach dropped as he crashed to the forest floor. He laid where he fell, whole body aching and tense as he squinted back through the trees, back the way he came, gasping for breath.


    He was sure Roe ran after him when they split up, but he couldn¡¯t see him now. Couldn¡¯t hear him either. The Defiler¡¯s Gorge was quiet. No sound echoed off its towering walls to filter through the trees, none that he could hear at least. Roe had more experience, but he was older, slower, and hopefully made for a more tempting target. He didn¡¯t want to think of him that way, he hadn¡¯t exactly liked the older man, but he could admit he gave sound advice. Roe warned him not to buy new boots. Not until the caravan stopped in Eren, when he¡¯d have time to break them in and money to spend. Told him to replace his old, fraying belt instead. But it was his father¡¯s belt. Just to spite the old caravaner, he bought the most expensive boots he could find. Felt like a doubly shit thing to do now. They felt both too big and too small, tight in the front and loose around the heel. If he survived this, he¡¯d put his feet up for a week, even if he had to sell the boots and the belt to do it. His sister could complain all she liked, but better a layabout than a dead man.


    Easing onto his feet as quietly as he could, he kept his eyes on the sunlight that shone down through the dense canopy. Searched for shapes, for shadows, listened for the crunch of talons or the flap of wings. There was a rustle behind him, but no wind. He spun, fumbled to draw his father¡¯s dagger, and yanked it free scabbard and all as his belt ripped, blade still held fast by the leather.


    ¡°Shit,¡± he breathed. A rabbit, half hidden by shrubbery, peered out from its warren, beady black eyes staring up at him. Its nose twitched, his breath slowed and his shoulders dropped, and the snarling grey form of a wolf leapt through the shrub. ¡°Shit!¡± he shot out his fist and smashed the pommel into its snout, sending it headfirst into the dirt. Growling, he tore the blade from the leather and dropped his shoulder low as he lunged forward. The beast lunged as well and their bodies crashed together. He buried the dagger in its chest, slid it free, and thrust again. The wolf thrashed on the end of the blade, howled as he turned its foaming jaws away with his other hand. As its teeth found purchase, a vice grip around his middle and forefinger as its head shook, David howled as well. With a crunch and a click the jaws snapped shut and took the fingers with them. They rolled, bloody in the dirt, torn between growls and whimpers. Steel scraped against bone as he thrust up, buried it past the hilt, and planted a boot beside it. Blood painted him as he tore the blade free. The wolf¡¯s body fell, twitched, and went still.


    ¡°Grrrah!¡± He forced himself back to his feet and gagged, swallowing the vomit that crawled up his throat. His hand was a bloody mess, stumps of broken bone protruded from the pulped flesh where his fingers should be. He could almost mistake them for sticks, camouflaged against the dark earth where they fell. He did, for a moment, when the rabbit hopped forward, snatched one up and darted back down into its warren. He couldn¡¯t stop to think about it, he couldn¡¯t stop moving. There was no doubt in his mind that the Gorge Defiler heard the fight. There were two dozen men with the caravan, and the Defiler¡¯s Gorge had grown since its naming. The once narrow gorge had become an expansive canyon, the once copse of trees an equally expansive forest, and his small odds grew ever smaller. He could be all that¡¯s left.


    He ran, and his feet hurt less, all tingling and numb, but throbbing just the same. It seemed like a trivial thing when he thought about his left hand. He clutched at it around the bloody dagger, his blood mixed with the beast¡¯s as it dripped from the blade, but he refused to let it go. Every time he thought of it he wanted to vomit, so instead he focused on trying not to fall and run himself through the heart, tearing through the forest as fast as he dared.


    There were more rabbits, watching from outside their burrows. And there were birds, far too many birds, dead silent and perched on the tall trees. There seemed to be no more noise in the forest than the sound of his boots and breath, and all the animals seemed to stare at him.


    Big and small, in a flurry of wings, beaks, and talons, they descended. They flocked to him, and there were no shrieking cries or characteristic warbles, only pain.


    * * *


    Well aren¡¯t you just full of snakes? The drover and the trader wore matching sympathetic smiles as they looked up from the horse.


    ¡°She¡¯s hurt, certain she won¡¯t mend on her own.¡± The drover''s thick accent broke the silence. Oh, but the trader is not to be outdone.


    ¡°As he says, I¡¯m afraid she¡¯ll need medical attention. It¡¯s a good thing she was injured so close to town.¡± The trader spoke in that way only a trader, a talker, a diplomat, a manipulator can. He had naturally mouselike features, and at some time in the past he may have seemed rather timid. Unfortunate though it was, the literal weight of his success made him seem rather rat-like instead. And I try so hard not to judge the book by its cover. ¡°Eren is a bit out of the way, we should be able to get her in good health by the time we leave,¡± he paused, the lines on his face creased with worry. His eyes just a touch too excited. Here it comes, that¡¯s it, exposition¡¯s out of the way so now it¡¯s all building tension, rising action. ¡°Though, I fear in the worst case, should the injury be worse than it appears, or should they lack the means to mend her...¡± the drover did his best to look busy, calming the horse, fighting to hide the excitement. The kind that makes a man move, bounce his knee or tap his fingers. Even Ian had to admit, they played their parts well. They were practiced, rehearsed. ¡°We may need to procure a replacement from their stables, and hope that someone will take her for a fair price of course.¡± Ah yes, the climax. If even the horse played its part, I suppose I¡¯m obliged to put on a performance as well.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Ian said, ¡°if it¡¯s worse than it appears. Though, regardless, you¡¯ll have to pay for its care at least. I¡¯m terribly sorry, truly, I have no idea what happened to h-¡±


    ¡°A freak accident, of course, they happen.¡± He interrupted, looking solemnly to the ground before affecting a look of embarrassed gratitude. Embarrassed for me? Grateful for my understanding? A terrible accident, of course, and heaven forbid it be even worse than it appears. A gold plated apology, of course, will smooth away this unpleasantness. Ian smiled as he glanced down at the uninjured horse. The horse which had so unceremoniously thrown him from the saddle. And so the falling action, descending like the executioner¡¯s axe, passes final judgment. Now for the resolution.


    ¡°I will walk to town, and I will pay.¡±


    Ian¡¯s ass was sore from riding, his throat parched, his coin purse lighter than it should¡¯ve been two or even three towns down the road, and his pack was in desperate need of mending. The horse really threw him. All the animals were spooked, and though It wasn¡¯t clear by what, it only made sense that his would be the one to buck. To throw him from the saddle straight onto his pack, and then stumble itself. It was a miracle it didn¡¯t fall on him, then he¡¯d have been in real trouble.


    As it stood, he had a few bruises and a book with a damaged spine. It wasn¡¯t the first time, and it wouldn¡¯t be the last, though the hole in the pack proved a rarer and more troublesome challenge. He dared to hope that Eren wasn¡¯t superstitious. Covens always left him torn between disgust and sadness, and he wasn¡¯t in the mood for riddles.


    He noticed the buildings first, above the trees, many more than six stories high. Then the 12 unyielding feet of stone that encircled the town, encircled itself by an equally impressive moat. Up close, given the size of town, one could mistake it for a solitary fortress floating on the water. In the light breeze, the water gently lapped at the masonry. The guards, laden with gambeson and chainmail, took their time lowering the drawbridge. But then, guards did most things slow. The wooden boards could hardly shift under the weight of a hundred men, and issued no groaning or creaking complaints as he crossed. One could hardly find better craftsmanship in a port town, or the fertile places, but they¡¯d never build defenses out of wood there. Inside the wall, they¡¯d let nothing go to waste. The snaking, curved brick wall, which would have served as a temporary boundary as they expanded, formed the base of their battlements. Similar brick walls stood further in town, dividing it into sections and clearly marking its growth.


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    By the time he made it to the center of the tightly packed town, the caravan was already setting up shop. He could buy a new pack, for an exorbitant price from the caravan or of questionable quality from the town, he knew what local tradesmen could be like. No worries, Ian, best quality you¡¯ll find in the west! If it does break for some reason, bring it on back to me, I¡¯ll get it fixed up for cheap! Just fees for the quality of the material and the excellent craftsmanship of course. No, he had to get it mended, and that meant less time spent in a comfortable room reading. Then again, maybe he could get lucky and find a library.


    ¡°And here,¡± Heren said, motioning to a prominent stone building, ¡°is where we house the cistern!¡± Eren¡¯s streets weren¡¯t particularly busy, but the roads between buildings were narrow in many places, and many were made narrower by stalls or other obstacles.


    ¡°Cistern? You have plenty of wells, and you said the river comes down from the hills, so why are you collecting rainwater?¡± Ian asked.


    ¡°Last time the Gorge Defiler woke up, my big brother was only two, but when it does wake, it poisons the water. Some people died the first time, and a lot more the second, but after that they built a cistern. Even with all the maintenance and remodeling, the first one fully broke down...¡± Heren scrunched up his face as he led Ian down a side street, considering, ¡°about 80 years ago? So they turned it into a jail and built this one closer to the new center of town. Only a handful die before people realize.¡±


    ¡°Really? I was wondering why anyone built here. Thought it¡¯d be closer to a lake.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think, but it seems happy to eat whatever¡¯s nearby and sleep. Course, it noticed the extra treasure oddly quick, so we¡¯ve been paying double tributes since the town was established. It usually wipes out a caravan when it wakes up, since the best route to Ismahill¡¯s through the gorge, but otherwise it¡¯s surprisingly tame.¡±


    Ian couldn¡¯t help but bark out a laugh. ¡°Kid, my luck¡¯s bad enough as it is, I don¡¯t need you jinxing things. I¡¯m passing through that gorge myself in a day or two, and if people start going out to investigate noises or getting mysteriously sick, I''ll blame you.¡±


    ¡°Who says it¡¯ll be the Defiler?¡± Heren grinned and slowed to a stop, facing a small, three story building. ¡°Some sleepy midland monster is the least of your worries. Caravans go missing up there all the time.¡± He leaned in, conspiratorially, and whispered, ¡°there are wolves.¡±


    Ian smiled back. ¡°Well now you¡¯ve definitely jinxed it.¡± But it¡¯s not all bad.


    ¡°Unless you need anything else, this is the sewing circle.¡±


    ¡°No, thank you.¡± Ian tossed a coin and Heren caught it smoothly. It doesn¡¯t even smell like blood yet. I wonder how they cover it up.


    * * *


    David¡¯s chest heaved as he felt the cold earth against his back, pressing into his wounds through the holes in his tattered clothes. His strength quickly left him as he heard wings flapping overhead, and a chorus of howls in the distance. The narrow walls of the gully provided shelter as he shook, and as the birds passed. His tears fought to wash the blood from his eyes and blind him just the same. The beasts of the Defiler¡¯s Gorge would have to hunt someone else for their pound of flesh. For another pound of flesh. The rest of his would crawl back to town if it had to. And he had to.


    I won¡¯t die here. I can¡¯t die now. It hurt, it all hurt so badly, and he just wished it would stop, but the pounding in his chest wouldn¡¯t let it, wouldn¡¯t let him. His blood felt fast. His chest felt like it would burst. His legs carried him down the gully, and his arms braced against the walls. He walked, eyes on the sky, moving faster, flinching at the noise from the leaves and the rocks underfoot. Faster, faster over the packed soil, almost running, smiling. Not yet, the others may be dead but not me. Could my father have survived so long? Could anyone from Falstead? Even if I die now, I¡¯ve done more than anyone else from that dump could manage.


    A sudden breeze ruffled his hair. It blew around his face and he laughed, barely audible over the sound of the bushes and trees in the wind above him. He ran through the gully, ignoring his pain and laughing as the wind blew harder. Louder, louder and louder through this damned forest you beautiful wind! Just keep it up a bit longer! It came in gusts, cool and refreshing against his marred skin, rushing in his ears and tugging at the corners of his mouth. It reminded him of the ocean.


    The wind buffeted against his back as a shadow passed over him, and the next gust came from ahead. Not unlike tearing parchment, the sound of the Gorge Defiler¡¯s wings filled the air, and his clothes billowed around him as it landed. It perched over him. Talons longer than his hands dug into the earth. Already? Its great wings, each wider than a wagon is long, folded behind its back. After all that running? Vertical slit pupils glared, and gradually dilated. What was it all for? Muscle rippled beneath its matte, verdant scales as its forelegs landed less than three yards ahead of him, his expensive boots framed between the thorny shadows cast by its twisted antlers. What can I do? But David knew. His last source of comfort would be the warm feeling that spread through his trousers.


    * * *


    Yech! Willaartauraxx wrinkled up his nose. His bared teeth elicited a cry from the fingerless one. I hate when they piss themselves. As he watched, it took a step back and the wet trousers fell around its ankles. It scrambled in the dirt for balance, reached for its thoroughly ruined belt, tipped over, and grunted as it fell on its own blade. I could bite it off at the ankles. It whimpered as it pulled the dagger from its shoulder. But the pants are soaked through. Rearing up and stretching from his tail to his neck, he unfolded his wings. I¡¯ll let the thralls have him. With one flap his talons left the dirt, and by the fifth he soared above the canopy.


    Scanning the forest, he noticed a bear had joined the birds in their hunt. Though outwardly there would be no sign, he shot a string of Enthrallment from his Well. The string connected to the cord of Enthrallment around the bear, and it was easier than flying to direct it towards the fingerless one. As it turned and loped towards the gully, he gained height and spread his wings to glide towards the top of the gorge wall. He heard the wolves catch one, probably the fast one, but didn¡¯t bother to look. That fingerless one ruined my appetite. I could still feast, but this is a bad egg. If I lay around all day while thralls throw pests, or themselves down my maw, I¡¯ll need to sleep early or leave the gorge for food.


    Willaartauraxx the Gorge Defiler admired his lair for the umpteenth time. A river ran beside it, raged and foamed against the rocks, and fell down off the uneven walls of his home to land below. The river ran half the length of the gorge, telltale specks of reflected light glittering through the canopy. With the last few flaps of his wings, he landed on the soft moss that carpeted his lair. The cave was luxurious, adorned with treasures of all shapes and sizes, not the least of which made up his hoard. Were it not for the gold, he might even have been camouflaged against the moss. But as he folded his wings, the comfortable, durable pile of coins and treasures called to him. He did not resist.


    The ring of hard rock around its base was plainly contrasted by its smooth, pleasantly shifting, yet firm embrace. He didn¡¯t plan on taking his next feast sleep any time soon, so he considered using Vegetation to grow moss over the hoard. It certainly made things more comfortable, but if he did overeat he¡¯d need to wash off the toxic sludge left behind when he woke, and that was not worth the effort. It¡¯s not as if there¡¯s anything strong enough around here to make me use Poison, now it¡¯s just an inconvenience.


    Willaartauraxx counted. After waking from the feast sleep, he made a habit of always cataloging his hoard. Not right away, a dragon need never go hungry, but before falling asleep. One of his treasures was missing. An ornately carved block of gold, which he had kept for almost a century, was nowhere to be found. There were three new treasures in his hoard as well. A scepter, a golden jar, and a gem encrusted mask. His taloned paw shattered the jar. Whoever plundered his hoard, he had yet to find they¡¯d taken any containers he¡¯d broken. That particular discovery had been a feast before famine, but it was born from his own carelessness. Otherwise, he could never willingly destroy one of his treasures, except perhaps to deny a rival, of which he had none.


    After a few more minutes spent circling and adjusting his hoard, he climbed back on top and let himself relax. The block hadn¡¯t even been his hoard for a century, and the contribution was adequate this time. The end of his tail curled around the most valuable treasure in the world, his gold and crystal staff, and splayed out in the coins. A dragon may sleep, but never rest, his mother used to say. To sleep is to grow strong, to rest is to tempt death. What did she know. He resolved that, when he woke in a few days, he would only put a little Poison in the river. Then he would make the flight to town to demand tribute.

 Chapter 2 Watch

    ¡°Shit!¡± The guard squealed, drawing his dagger from its sheath. ¡°How the fuck am I supposed to beat that!¡± Raucous laughter filled the forest and echoed off the rocky walls in the distance.


    Ian sighed as he watched the dagger miss the mark, and watched the man lose another week of coin. The sun was just peeking through the canopy above and already the guards were playing games and losing money. Some profited, of course, but they were just as likely to spend it on booze as they were to lose it gambling, whoring, or all three in the next town over. Invariably, one or two lucky guards would spend a day or two painting the town while the rest covered their shifts. Their regular antics, often half remembered, always ended with some sort of illness or another. By the time all was said and done, just about every guard in the caravan was left with half their wages, if they were lucky. It isn¡¯t unique, it isn¡¯t new, it¡¯s just sad. Caravans gouge the tradesmen and the guards gouge themselves.


    ¡°You alright over there Ian? Wanna join us? Your purse is looking full as ever, why not test your skills?¡± The same guard, Ian realized he hadn¡¯t bothered to learn his name, looked hopefully, and almost lustfully at the purse on Ian¡¯s belt. ¡°You might not join us for cards or dice, but it¡¯s no gamble throwing a dagger, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s easier than you¡¯re thinking!¡±


    ¡°No, thank you.¡± Ian gave a polite smile, but didn¡¯t stand. They left Eren yesterday and made camp in the Defiler¡¯s Gorge. Since the dragon ate just about every living thing around when it woke, the gorge was one of the safer places to be. Generations of overhunting meant the gorge would never be as densely populated as the surrounding wilderness, despite any gossip of wolves or disappearances the townsfolk might enjoy.


    He was rooting through his pack, looking for something to read, when he heard it. They all heard it. A terrible, resounding roar.


    Ian dashed through the forest. Something had been through this way, the brush was all broken up, but he didn¡¯t have time to think about that. He should have known better. He should have seen it coming. He¡¯d always had rotten luck, it never seemed to stop for long, and he¡¯d been foolish to think it would be satisfied with a little fall off a horse.


    He slid to a stop, breathing hard. There¡¯d been a fight. The dirt was all torn up and soaked with blood, but it didn¡¯t seem fresh. Was it waiting for us? Did they take too much? Wouldn¡¯t it just attack the town if they did? Damn it! He changed directions, taking glances over his shoulder as he went. He hadn¡¯t heard it for a while now, he hadn¡¯t heard much of anything. Though, he supposed, he wouldn¡¯t. He focused on his Well as he ran, packing it down and holding it tight, before tapping into it. His back straightened, head raised, and shoulders leveled. His stride evened out, turned rhythmic. Without any conscious effort, his form improved in an instant, and his eyes scanned the forest with renewed sharpness. He gradually picked up speed while taking steady, measured breaths. The swaying branches, the crushed pine cones and the long shadows, he noticed each with a kind of practiced ease before looking to the next.


    It wasn¡¯t long before Ian heard the sound of running water. He turned toward it and soon found himself on the bank of a raging river. He ran alongside it, under the cover of the tree line, upriver. He was breathing hard again, but if he could find a place to hide along the towering rocky wall, he stood a chance.


    * * *


    It watched. All she did was watch. All day, every day since she was taken.


    ¡°Is it not all that I promised and more?¡± Kahromei asked, leaning on his golden staff.


    ¡°It is,¡± replied the stranger ¡°I never could have imagined.¡± The two of them stood looking through the window. A window It could not see through. She sometimes dreamed she could, dreamt she could escape, even for just a moment, even into the deadly embrace of the ocean below. She longed for the feeling of the air, of the water on her skin, she longed even for the gnashing jaws she knew would greet her before long. But she was forgotten.


    ¡°Open ocean as far as the eye can see, and even farther. And yet there is no safer place in all the world. It is a humbling view, and you must remember it.¡± Kahromei placed a hand on the sill and turned, regarding the man beside him for a time. ¡°Consider, Palarus, what do you see? You stand now above all roads you have ever walked, beyond all borders you have ever crossed.¡± He ran his hand along the sunbaked stone, traveling over the faint weather-worn grooves, ¡°Yet still¡­ you stand in a place fashioned by men and tested by time.¡± Palarus nodded slowly. ¡°From afar, a speck on the horizon, but closer¡­ and its majesty becomes clear.¡± He raised his hand steadily above the stone. ¡°An island, a grand tower. A fortress¡­ a palace.¡± He froze, and whispered. ¡°Can you see it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Palarus breathed.


    ¡°Step back,¡± Kahromei commanded, and Palarus did, gaze fixed on the window. ¡°There it sits, all that I have built, atop jagged cliffs. All that I have accomplished, cloaked in the ocean.¡± He lowered his hand, coming to rest upon the sill. ¡°The greatest testament to its beauty, the natural world around it. Endless blue.¡± Kahromei¡¯s staff cracked against the stone floor. ¡°It screams to all the world its name! It asserts its place in it and demands respect!¡± Palarus jumped, his eyes torn from the window to meet Kahromei¡¯s. ¡°The world does not hear. Its cry is stolen by the waves. Lost by the horizon.¡± Kahromei smiled. ¡°Your beginning was much the same as mine, Palarus, but a true wizard does great work, and humble beginnings are quickly forgotten. They must be. You must remember this instead.¡±


    The men spoke, Kahromei and Palarus. The waves crashed against the beach below, against the island and its rocks. And It watched. All she could do was watch.


    * * *


    Juliane, trader and head of the Greener Pastures caravan, ran with what remained of it. Ran for his life. Many split off, ran in different directions. Likely that was the right idea. But he was fat, and slow, and many of the men didn¡¯t know any better. He was proud of his weight. He could afford to eat, travel, and trade without the slightest impediment. He would have described himself as happy, or healthy, or perhaps large-chested with an equally large heart. Honeyed words could not help him now. He was fat, unathletic, uncoordinated, and helpless outside of civilization. By the seas, I swear if I survive this I¡¯ll change my ways.


    Less than half the caravan ran along the trail. More than a quarter sounds best. By all accounts it should be less. Not too many sharp tools in my traveling shed I suppose. ¡°Gah! My knees are killing me!¡± He gasped, spittle flying from his mouth.


    ¡°Keep moving! Look for paths off the main road! Game trails! Anything!¡± One of the guards called out ahead of him. Easy for you to say, bastard.


    ¡°There! Off the road a ways!¡± the drover said, also ahead of Juliane.


    ¡°Good spot Kenneth!¡± The guard launched into a sprint, closing the distance like a true athlete. He leapt over the shrubs by the side of the road, careening down the beaten path and through the trees.


    ¡°We sh- we should sto-¡± Juliane vomited, and it shot out like a cannon, splashing off the ground and onto the boots of everyone nearby.


    The man running beside him, who caught the brunt of it on his shoes, shot back, ¡°Ugh! Careful where you aim that shit!" His look of disgust rivaled even Juliane''s feelings of illness. "And no, we can¡¯t stop! We need to keep moving until we find a place to hide, or mount a defense!¡±


    ¡°I-¡± Juliane choked out, ignored.


    ¡°Down here! There¡¯s a door!¡± A door? Out in the woods? In the Defiler¡¯s Gorge? ¡°Come on lads!¡±


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    There was a sound like metal grinding on stone, followed by an unfamiliar voice. ¡°Ah, I wasn¡¯t expecting any more visitors.¡±


    Something about the voice set Juliane on edge. The tone, the words, they were all wrong. ¡°Wait,¡± he stumbled forward, following the trail until, indeed, he found an open door. Recessed into the earth, hidden behind the greenery, set into the base of a large boulder.


    ¡°Come in, come in,¡± once more that voice rang out, muffled by the sounds of boots and heavy breathing.


    ¡°Thank you, sir, the dragon-¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s finally over!¡± His would-be companions rejoiced, out of sight, somewhere past that threshold.


    ¡°Be at ease," the voice cooed. ¡°Trust me, this is the end.¡±


    Tired, sick to his stomach, and aching in every joint, Juliane turned. As the cheers and laughter rose from the ground behind him, and as metal ground against stone with sickening finality, he hobbled back up the trail.


    * * *


    A terrible idea. It had been a terrible idea to follow the river. Sickly green clouds, tinged with wisps of white, hung in the air, drifting to the forest floor. He¡¯d run for a long time, and he was mentally exhausted. It required constant attention to keep his Well compressed, and since he was using it too, it was half empty. And there was a hole in the uneven rock above, impossible to miss. Of course, I flee from the relative safety of my caravan straight to the dragon¡¯s actual den. And of course- There was one more thing impossible to miss. A naked man lay along the bank of the river. He didn¡¯t need sharper eyes to spot the dark red bruises on the man¡¯s legs, or the blood running from the gash in his bald head.


    Ian broke from the tree line and slid to a stop next to the man. He tapped into his Well, redirected the flow of power inside, and then released his grip on it. It¡¯d make him easier to spot, but he was in the open anyway, nowhere to hide. And he had to focus.


    His eyes softened, his posture relaxed, and he carefully adjusted the man. He was cold, and barely breathing. Neither of his legs were broken, and the head wound wouldn¡¯t be fatal, but he was going to need more help than Ian could give him. He opened his pack anyway and got to work.


    Ian made none of the refined movements he had earlier that day, and he grumbled quietly to himself as he carried the man over his shoulder. He handled the weight as if he¡¯d done so his whole life, shifting easily with it, but it was still hard work. Harder still to carry a man while focusing on his Well, stubbornly packing it down, the flow of power tightly measured and controlled. It was the bastard¡¯s own damn fault for getting himself hurt like that, but it was work that had to be done.


    There were no signs of the dragon, and no game trails to speak of either. He wouldn¡¯t have noticed before, but it should have been a clear sign something was wrong. Regardless, he couldn¡¯t go back to the dirt road the caravans used, so he trudged through the forest. His muscles burned, his bones ached, and he made his quiet complaints known to the world, but he kept marching.


    As the light faded, Ian found a good spot to set the man down. Not as gently as he might have liked, but he wasn¡¯t in a position to complain. Free of the first burden, he seized what little power remained and let his Well expand. As quickly as they¡¯d come, the skills that he had never learned left him. He took a sharp breath, fell back against a tree, and sat hard in the dirt. It had been a long time, and he¡¯d been borrowing skills all day. Disorienting as it was, he¡¯d paced himself, and as he shook his head beneath the setting sun, he found he felt like himself.


    His body was a different story. He felt better than the man across from him looked, wrapped in his only blanket, honey and blood soaked bandages around his head, but not by much. He noticed different things with his head clear. Instead of the swelling on his legs, or the uncalloused softness of his hands, he noticed how odd he looked. He didn¡¯t have any hair on his body, and every inch of it looked sunburned. He looked young, pristine. No wrinkles, no scars, and no blemishes, aside from the injuries. He mustered up the energy to lean forward, stiff body creaking as he did, and put a hand on the man¡¯s head. No fever. He sighed. ¡°Looks like your luck¡¯s better than mine.¡± Unless the town¡¯s under attack. That would be an ironic climax. To survive the Gorge Defiler in its home and escape, to run back to civilization having found life in the forest, only to find death at its doorstep. But nothing he could do might change the outcome. Either it would be there, or it wouldn¡¯t. And so he made ready for the long night ahead, and kept watch.


    * * *


    Glittering gold. That was the first thing. Gold glittering in the first rays of morning, shining down to blind him. Just a hatchling, he woke from his first feast sleep to find, half buried beneath his paltry bed of gold, the most wonderful treasure he had ever known. A swirling golden staff marked by many pits and craters, each stoppered by scintillating crystals. That was the happiest day of his life.


    When he woke from his second feast sleep, curled around the staff, he had grown. His home, and his hoard, had grown. He had claimed treasures of his own, and more coins, but something was out of place. For the second time in his life, he found unfamiliar treasure glittering amongst the gold. He could have mistaken it for his own, and it surely was now, but he had not taken this treasure. He knew, this was like the staff. A gift. A miniscule thing, the earring was camouflaged, but not well enough. Dragons take, and all things wish to be a dragon. He scoured his hoard, and to his unending fury, found one treasure missing. A single gem, half the size of an acorn. Gone. He had not misplaced it. He could never misplace any of his treasures. Taken. It was stolen while he slept.


    The sound of footsteps, barely audible, broke the silence. They drew closer. Closer still, carefully, slowly, the very definition of cautious, nay, the epitome. All for nothing. He opened one eye, hidden beneath a precisely placed paw. He watched as the human crept around his hoard. It reached out, took hold of a pearl necklace, and silently drew a dagger. It deftly cut the string, plucked two of the pearls from where they lay, and tied the string back together. Then, it withdrew a golden needle, and nestled it between the coins at the foot of his hoard. The cautious one was precise, practiced and smooth. He forgave it, but not before what remained of its corpse slid equally smooth down his throat.


    When he woke from his third feast sleep, he panicked. Unaccustomed to his larger body, he slipped in a viscous green slurry, and even as he struggled for balance the coins beneath him tumbled away. The wicked, poisonous sludge had seeped through the cracks, coming to coat his hoard almost entirely. As he slept and grew in strength, his power bled into the world around him, as he knew it would. But he had not foreseen the mess it would make. As he slid uncontrollably, no sign of traction and picking up speed, the thought of cleaning up his mess filled him with dread.


    When he woke from his fourth feast sleep, he had once more grown. Too large for more than his tail to wrap around his staff. Rings of precious gems, earrings and anklets, bracelets and bracers all adorned his hoard. Treasures he had not seen before the sleep-


    Loss. That was the first thing. The end of his tail was forced open, his most valuable treasure prized from his grasp. Clinking metal. That was the second thing. Golden coins flowing like water, bouncing off one another to crash against the stone floor. He was not dreaming. A fortune crashed around the feet of an old human, and fortunes more fell as Willaartauraxx the Gorge Defiler rose to his full height.


    ¡°This one¡¯s steeped enough,¡± It murmured. It held a simple golden staff in one hand, and his treasure in the other. They looked silly next to one another, the plain stick of gold sharply juxtaposed by the opulent masterwork. The old fool and the dragon were much the same.


    It turned away, and he poured Poison from his Well, gathering almost half of his power in his gullet. He felt the bile of his stomach rise to his throat. He almost emptied his Well entirely as he added Vegetation to the Poison, and they crashed and tangled together. The moss was ripped from the cavern¡¯s walls, ceiling, and floor, even from beneath the feat of the old fool. A torrent of green drawn to him, blasting through the entrance to his lair. Branches and vines crashed into and around the old fool, drawn into Willaartauraxx¡¯s open maw. Vile flowers began to sprout beneath his scales, buds barely pushing through before joining the rest of the plant matter. All was mulched and churned, sucked into the vortex and made to be liquid death. He shone, an avatar of verdant light, and his growing antlers cast a net of terrible shadows over the barren stone. Willaartauraxx the Gorge Defiler let loose a roar, born of disbelieving hatred. It was so absurd, so cruel a joke, so impossible that the sky itself might sooner open up and swallow him whole. He would show them. He would show the world.


    His breath cut stone, boiled and turned to toxic vapor. The light dimmed, his antlers shrunk, and the life burgeoning beneath his scales turned to dust. Thick clouds of death blew in the wind and escaped through the gaping hole he carved in the earth. Eventually, they would settle into the forest below, and some would settle into the river. The town would suffer much worse. He would raze their defenses, enthrall hatchlings in the night, and soon he would carve a new valley. The world would forget the town. Instead, he would expand his domain, and it would remember him.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard you eat humans.¡± The voice was calm, steady, disinterested. He was not. ¡°As expected of a dragon, of course. But you were spoiled.¡± The silhouette of the old fool appeared through the haze. ¡°You sought no conflict, no conquest. You have grown stagnant, like a pool of fetid water, adorning itself with the trappings of filth.¡± In the twisted light, which shyly weaved through the clouds, he emptied his Well. He wove a blanket of Obscurity, a crude thing suited to stillness, to lying in wait in the dark. He ducked low, fastened it to his body, and crept through the shadows. The voice grew stern. ¡°The insects that skitter across your surface, until some disturbance drops them into your shallow depths. The duckweed, the green shield beneath which you hide, skulking in the dark. The pocket change of travelers and children fell into your quaint little ditch, and so you contented yourself.¡± More than halfway now, a few more strides and he¡¯d be free. ¡°For more than 200 years,¡± it¡¯s voice raised, ¡°you have spat sickness at ants, and allowed rats to relieve you of your paltry riches. For more than 200 years you have squandered my gift, and it is as weak as you!¡± He felt the sudden weight of a Well behind him, dense enough to drag power around his own Well. He flung himself out and into the open sky, Obscurity fluttering behind him in the wind. The voice sounded almost mirthful. ¡°Do you enjoy irony?¡±

 Chapter 3 Only Human

    The smell of blood, that was the first thing. The smell of copper filled his nostrils. A storm rang in his ears. Something rough and wrinkled pressed against him. Deep beneath his scales, poised to puncture the undefended meat. Like stitches run through his hide. No. His scales were gone. Torn from him like life from screaming hatchlings, clutching to their mother¡¯s carcass. His life, the life of death itself in that tiny gorge, had been stolen away.


    He tried to open his eyes, but he was stuck. Even the slightest movement required a conscious effort, as if he had forgotten how. Like learning to fly again for the first time. He focused, commanding a muscle to contract. It did, so long as he stayed focused, but there was another problem. He wasn¡¯t sure where his eyes were anymore, and struggled to ignore the sounds, smells, and textures overwhelming his senses. He knew where his eyes should be, but he was lost in his own body. Navigating the space was like trying to catalog his hoard with his eyes closed, guessing at shapes and landmarks in the dark. Fumbling blindly, he grasped at groups of muscle with his attention.


    Gradually, he formed a mental image. An image of everything stretched, pulled and pushed into unnatural dimensions, but a map to navigate by. It took an eternity. In the time it took, he could have flown the length of the forest and back, twice. But he would never make that flight again. He found no sign of the wings on which he had soared. Tears ran from his eyes like the river ran to town, and his right to fly through the heavens washed away with them, like so much sand lost in the current. He would be consigned to land. But never would his steps be stable. His gait would be forever unbalanced, awkward without his tail. Just more sand now, slipped through his grip. He was near defenseless. Talons reduced to feeble stumps. Teeth broken and blunted. His tears were another landmark to navigate by, and found the ring of muscle which seemed to allow their passage. He pulled.


    The light clung to his eyes like fire. The assault on his other senses seemed sweet by comparison. It was agony. An agony that ebbed as a shape grew in the light. Is that you, Mother? Flowing, kaleidoscopic scales of gold seemed to dissolve into strands of fine silk. No. Treasure. He was a twisted, broken, crippled thing. He¡¯d yet to suffer the pain of his injuries, of lost limbs and splintered bones, and when he did he knew he would wish for death. But before that, came the treasure. Of course. It was sublime. A physic for the soul. Even at his lowest, he was still a dragon. His tears ran renewed as the catharsis settled in his bones. He choked, sobbing laughter in an unfamiliar voice. They were wrong, and he was right. He was a wreck, and yet the words of that old fool, and of his mother, still proved false. He was better than them. No matter how hard they worked, no matter how much they gained, no matter how much they took, they still lost. Because he didn¡¯t need to do anything. His hoard would never compare to his mother¡¯s, but it didn¡¯t have to, because he barely lifted a talon to get it.


    ¡°Shhh, alright.¡± The voice crashed into him, shaking him from his thoughts. There was an enemy. A scavenger come to feast on his carrion flesh. But he was alive. They would be the first. Their flesh would satisfy his hunger, their blood would slake his thirst, and then he would feast on all the creatures of the land. The treasure drew nearer in his blurred vision. Yes, I see. Come to your deaths, bring me my prize, my unwitting servants. You may as well be thralls. You¡¯ve done everything short of throwing yourselves down my throat. Though he could not see it, he felt a creature, like an enormous worm of some sort, force open his maw slide inside. Something like a plate of chitin brushed against his teeth as it practically threw itself towards his throat. Towards death. Something pressed against his blunted jaws, another creature, and held them open even wider. He could have screamed, or gurgled, in jubilation. In victory. And still he felt no pain, no real pain at least. Even with the pressure, his mouth felt nothing more than sore. He focused on the muscles he needed, ready to close his maw at any moment. As the head of the worm slid over his tongue, almost gagging him, he bit with all his might! His jaw flexed, and he felt its strength, but didn¡¯t move an inch. The worm slid back out, fast. Faster than he could track. ¡°He wasn¡¯t choking on anything.¡± A melodic voice boomed in his ears. The treasure disappeared from view, and as it did, the voice grew quieter. ¡°Just some phlegm.¡±


    Willaartauraxx focused on what he could see. The world was too bright, and though he¡¯d never mistake gold, the colors were wrong. He watched as the treasure returned, and studied it. It was like seeing clearly for the first time in his life, as if he¡¯d lived in a perpetual haze which had finally faded. ¡°Can you hear me?¡± The voice pitched low, like a whisper, but still rang loudly in his ears as it drew closer. Though he saw more clearly, details seemed to elude him, and the world seemed narrow. Then he noticed what was staring him in the face. ¡°Do you know where you are? Hey, It¡¯s okay, don¡¯t get up.¡± It was a giant. A young one, based on its size, perhaps just larger than him. It must have stripped him of his scales, bent him, broken him down and used him for parts. It lowered a hand, drawing his attention to the rough fabric wrapped around his hide, and used it to wipe a wet finger. It knew he was weak, but it also knew he was still dangerous. It had the gall to leave him unbound, but told him to stay down. And what he mistook for a treasure of golden silk had been its hair, long and unbraided. Its green eyes, framed by porcelain skin, stared down at him. Watched him carefully for any movement or aggression. It withdrew a piece of carved wood, which must have been the size of a small tree, from between his broken teeth. He didn¡¯t know of any giants with golden hair, or light skin, and certainly none so far from the ocean. What does it want from me? What has it not taken? What can it not? He looked back, pushing and pulling against the muscles in his face, willing his lips to part, to bare his teeth in a snarl. It didn¡¯t matter what it wanted. It was a mistake to leave him alive. As soon as I have the strength, I will end you. I will feast on your corpse. When I am done, I will cast what remains to vermin, so I may feast upon them. Only then will I be satisfied. It followed his example, baring its white teeth.


    Footsteps. Another giant stepped into view. Also young. Larger than the first, its hair short and a shade darker, almost a light brown. It didn¡¯t have any braids either, but its eyes were blue like the sea. Its voice was deeper, and louder than the first despite the distance. ¡°Glad to see you¡¯re awake.¡± It, also, bared its teeth. I will disembowel you. From you, I will take every organ, and you will die slow, to see my indulgence.


    ¡°Do you know where you are?¡± None of them had stopped snarling, baring their teeth, but the smaller one spoke anyway. Threatening. I know where I am. In your clutches. But what more could they take from him? He did not relent. He did not struggle to bow his head. He did not stop snarling. ¡°That¡¯s okay, you don¡¯t need to talk. Take your time.¡±


    The larger one turned, unslung a bag from it back, and drew out a boulder. ¡°You hungry?¡± It held the misshapen stone before him. Feed me rocks will you? But it seemed as though they already had, and his teeth still didn¡¯t hurt. Perhaps he was stronger than he thought. He was, after all, still a dignified dragon.


    * * *


    The smell of fresh flowers, and the sting of a needle. For a moment, David was reminded of home, of getting his nice clothes fitted in the run-down boutique. The moment passed quickly. ¡°You are waking now.¡± The voice was distant, but seemed to grow closer. ¡°Waking in a safe place.¡± His eyes flitted open. Darkness stretched as far as the eye could see. But he could see farther. ¡°Calm, quiet, peaceful.¡± The sound echoed from all directions, but as he turned, he saw the man speaking. ¡°For now.¡± He couldn¡¯t turn any more. He was bound by chains. Too many chains. ¡°It is fortunate you were so weak when I found you, I could not use you for parts, but I could not rightly discard you either. And so, through that chance of fate, she called to me.¡± The chains felt small, like half-size models. ¡°For your sake, I am sorry. The colors don¡¯t quite match.¡± The man strode across an elevated platform, the only sources of light two hooded lanterns on either end. Only a sliver of light shone through the hoods, but somehow it was enough to see. ¡°But I am working with a limited palette, and you are quite far from home.¡± Blood. Just below the scent of flowers, he smelled blood. Not a boutique then, a sewing circle. With an exaggerated bow, the man flipped a latch, and as the first lantern¡¯s hood fell the room was bathed in light. He was blinded, but at the same time the entire room came into view. A smile spread across the man¡¯s face, all wide eyes and white teeth, and his voice brimmed with energy. ¡°I just had to start working, to move past the block, to call her with my own siren song, to entice her!¡± He could see the whole room. Every detail at once. It was massive, a space the size of a house carved rough from stone. The reinforced beams of the wooden platform, the stage, were bound by metal rods. There was a metal door in the wall at its center. He saw the rows of cages beneath. Cages that held bodies. All cut open. The gilded metal frames supporting webs of sinew and viscera, spilling from their open chests, tied in knots around the bars. They were all missing pieces. Hearts beat intermittently in some, single lungs struggled to pump in others, and they were all missing skin and bone. The only thing they all had were heads.


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    The man paced, bloodstained boots squeaking against the wood. His voice shifted in pitch as he spoke, almost singsong, gesticulating wildly with a needle that shimmered in the light. Waving it like a conductor¡¯s baton. ¡°I''m not going to lose this lightly, not this light, see? It''s climbing off the page, crawling on the walls, scrambling to escape, but it comes when I call!" With a flourish, he knocked the hood from the second lantern. He waltzed across the stage, and his shadows cast about the room. They danced over the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Across his chains, which didn¡¯t look half-size. David saw them. Even when he blinked he saw them. His many eyes followed them as they danced across his bloated form. He was riddled with stitches. His ebony skin ballooned out around his shoulders. Hulking, grotesque bulbs of layered muscle ran along his arms. Similar arrangements appeared over his entire body. He could feel where they were fused together. Where latticed bone baskets supported the mass. Where more muscle than could ever belong to a single human was threaded and connected. He had only two arms and legs, but he could feel where more had been added, some piecemeal and some almost whole beneath the skin, adding to his bulk. His biceps were as wide as wagon wheels, and his thighs were much the same. There wasn¡¯t enough skin on a body to cover so much mass, and indeed, there were lines of varied flesh tones down the length of his new body. His dark skin starkly contrasted against the ring of tan bronze that started just below his shoulders, running in a perfectly straight, stitched line. From there, the rings became lighter, ending with the fifth. A pale porcelain around his calves.


    ¡°As I said.¡± His voice came smooth and steady now. The pair of eyes David first saw the man with, in the dark, finally adjusted to the light, and darted to follow him. Through them, he noticed stains in the man¡¯s clothes, and his teeth seemed almost to glow. ¡°I hope you like what I did with the color. You are a rare ink in this part of the world.¡± He stepped and spun erratically as he moved, his words breathy, like a hoarse whisper. ¡°The muse, I let her sing through me¡­ I polish with a brush, defining twists and writing psalms, so that soon she may sing through you too.¡±


    David tore at the chains, roaring. The sound was like nothing else but rolling thunder. The man called back over the din, flinching, hands held over his ears. ¡°Good things must end!¡± He danced away, metal grinding as he swung the door open. ¡°Even me! But not the song! You will go on, striking the new path, ¡®till it¡¯s all gone!¡± The door swung shut, but David did not hear it. The many lungs pumping in his chest were far from empty. As the man left, wearing David¡¯s new boots, he just kept screaming.


    * * *


    Ian rolled his shoulders, taking a bite from what stale bread was left in his pack, and considered the injured man. He was certainly odd, smiling like that, manic. At first glance, it might even look like a snarl. But the circumstances are equally odd. An odd reaction to odd circumstances makes some sense. The man was smiling even wider now, and one of his eyes was twitching. ¡°Do you know your name?¡± He shared a look with the seamstress as the man continued to twitch, the movements spreading slowly across his face.


    ¡°Don¡¯t hurt yourself, it¡¯s alright,¡± she cooed, ¡°just settle down.¡±


    Ian looked to the fresh bandages around his head. He¡¯s lucky his skull didn¡¯t break¡­ lucky we didn¡¯t die in the Defiler¡¯s Gorge, lucky I found him, lucky nothing got us on the way here, just plain lucky. When they arrived, the river water was all poison. Nasty stuff, worse they¡¯d ever seen, or so the seamstresses said. The sewing circle should¡¯ve at least been busier, but none of the victims survived for long. A mercy in its own way. An office sat in the corner on the ground floor, as in most sewing circles. Muffled screams escaped under the door, occasionally accompanied by the light of power. Only one woman survived the trip there, though for how long was the question on everyone¡¯s mind. It was easier to wonder when their neighbor would die than to ask when the dragon that killed her would come knocking. The tailor was doing all she could for her, but Ian caught a glimpse on his way in. It wouldn¡¯t be enough. Of course, you mean well, but you should let her die. She¡¯s dead already, and she knows it.


    Ian was dragged from his wandering thoughts by a question, and a deathrattle, or something that sounded like one. The seamstress had asked the man his name. He¡¯d responded with a bubbling, coughing wheeze. ¡°W- Wa- Will- '''' he tripped over his tongue, spluttering. It must have been quite the effort, he was sweating, but the only part of his face that moved was his mouth. The rest of his face, of his body, was completely relaxed. His mouth opened all the way as he sounded it out, mostly gibberish. ¡°Guh- Gorg- ¡± was all he managed before he was cut short by another coughing fit.


    He had two names. A family name. Of course he does. Just my luck.


    * * *


    Willaartauraxx was stunned. The larger one actually took a bite out of the boulder.


    ¡°Do you know your name?¡± the smaller one asked him. It was all he could do to force his snarl wider. Think I¡¯m unnamed, do you?


    He tried to speak, but the shallow breaths his body took without his direction weren¡¯t enough. It took a monumental effort, but he pushed. He found each individual muscle and forced it to move, one at a time, consciously holding each in place. His ribs gradually fell. The pressure on his lungs forced more air out through his throat. They must have broken more than just his teeth because his mouth was the wrong shape. He had to experiment, contracting muscles and adjusting positions, feeling his air run out. He panicked and had to shift his attention back to his chest, to force air back into his lungs, to breathe before he could try again. Finally, he made real sounds. Animal noises at first, but he formed the words. At every turn his broken body frustrated his efforts, but he did not surrender. A dragon does not surrender. He spoke the beginning of his name, and fumbled. Lost the trail. But it was too late to back down. If he stopped, he wouldn¡¯t have the energy or the focus to start again. And he had to show these giants who he was. Prove them wrong and assert his dominance, so that when the day came that he took his revenge they could not claim ignorance. So he kept going. A name may not surprise them, but his title should. It was easier the second time, but before he could finish he felt a tightness in his chest turn sharp. Every muscle relaxed as he lost focus, and he felt awkward pain shoot down his chest and side as he forced his body to breathe again.


    ¡°Your name is,¡± the smaller one started. The giants shared a look, though he couldn¡¯t tell what it meant, ¡°Will George?¡± No! That is not my name! I have a title! They must know! Let me tell them, let me tell the world! He wanted to scream at them, at his body, at himself. But he was too weak even for that. He had pushed himself too hard. All he could do was force a snarl, so he did, as wide as he could.


    ¡°Looks like it. Never would have guessed I was dragging nobility into town. You sure I can¡¯t offer you any bread? I have honey too.¡± The larger one held out the boulder again as it spoke.


    ¡°Please, Ian, he¡¯s hurt and we don¡¯t know if he¡¯s been eating.¡± I will rip your fucking arms off!


    ¡°Right, sorry, I¡¯ll fetch some soup.¡± I will eat you alive!

 Chapter 4 Porridge or Soup

    "Do not pretend that we are the same ¨C who among us would wish to be a dragon? Our truest power is the strength to remain pure, undiluted, completely human. So it is only our second greatest power that will defeat you." -Lolloch, Court Wizard of Shorehold


    "If by ''strength'' you mean bullishness, then yes, it is your truest power." -Secuuldacarr the Gold


    As the last light of power shone beneath the office door, and a muffled sob followed it, Ian looked up from his book. He was surprised she lasted so long. The tailor was either an exceptional talent, or she had been pacing herself exceptionally well. What a waste. The candle flickering beside him was the only remaining source of light. Night had fallen, he wasn¡¯t sure how long ago but he hadn¡¯t exactly been paying attention. His attention had been split between his book, the lengthening, disquieting cries from the office, and the noble. Ian regarded him, not for the first time tonight, and certainly not the last. His face was cast in shadow, at the edge of the light, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. You could be some backwards savage, from some tribe living out in the wilderness, one that gives children more than the one name. That could explain the hairlessness. But it wasn¡¯t likely. Nobles did strange things in the name of fashion, and that was without consideration of culture or ceremony. Besides, what isolated tribe gives a kid two, completely normal, first names? Will George? It¡¯s like the start of a bad joke. More than likely, his ancestor died earning a noble position and the name passed on. Ian didn¡¯t like to gamble. He¡¯d lived through enough danger, and there always seemed to be more just ahead.


    ¡°Ian?¡± The tailor and her seamstresses were watching him from the office door, though he hadn¡¯t noticed it open. She looked almost as composed as when he first saw her, but she held a candle, and the light made her tears stand out, like tiny stars on her cheeks. He decided not to bring it up.


    ¡°Lady Tailor,¡± Ian stood, setting down his book, ¡°thank you again for the help with my pack earlier.¡± She waved absently and her seamstresses filtered out around her, carrying all sorts of tools and sacks. I wonder if they¡¯ll carry the body out next. I¡¯m surprised I can¡¯t smell it already. I¡¯m no fan of the smell of blood, but it¡¯s preferable to corpses at least. They did not carry out the body, instead locking the door and handing the tailor the key. That makes her both tailor and jailer now, the secrets of the dead kept under lock and key. Suitably dramatic for a sewing circle by candlelight. I suppose it should be my turn to dig up some mysteries.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting to see you again. Did you run back to see me after your pack ripped on the trail? Needles and thread are not expensive, and such repairs are not complicated, are you sure I can¡¯t offer you any?¡±


    ¡°No, Lady Tailor, thank you but no. I do not carry needles.¡± He paused, looking to Will. ¡°Do you know anything about the George family, by chance?¡±


    * * *


    Willaartauraxx did all he could. He practiced. He would¡¯ve slept if he could, he wasn¡¯t accustomed to hard work, but his mind wouldn¡¯t quiet and there was nothing else to do. Whatever they¡¯d done to him, it had essentially left him paralyzed, with a notable exception. While the rest of his body was forced to relax, he learned to split his attention and strain his focus, to move a few muscles at the same time. He¡¯d done so earlier, when he tried to tell the giants his name, and more importantly his title, but it had been exhausting. He¡¯d gone slow then, holding the muscles in place while he worked through the words. Now he struggled to control his entire face. Tightening half his face at once was manageable, but much more left him with a pounding headache. He did have frighteningly precise control, better than he could manage before he woke up and met the giants.


    A test of his jaw¡¯s range of motion ended when it almost popped out of the socket, pain flaring in his face like fire. When he focused on just one muscle, he might be able to break a bone if he wasn¡¯t careful, and it was no more difficult than massaging a muscle into a hair width twitch. He knew which he preferred.


    Willaartauraxx thought he¡¯d take a sharp breath, and it made him feel even more out of place in his body when he didn¡¯t. He could feel that his Well was full. He had been preoccupied, but he¡¯d also been waiting. The larger giant, Ian, was alone with him, asleep even. He was going to snare it in a net of Enthrallment so thick, so tight, so binding that there would be no escape. He felt the power flow from his Well, but it emerged as Power. There was no Enthrallment, no Poison or Vegetation, no Obscurity even. It was a crushing defeat. Even my Well is crippled? He didn¡¯t think it was possible. He thought to try again, but his Well was empty. Not only that, he found his Well shrunken. It was emaciated, the size of a pebble. It was all gone. Everything he ever had. His body, his wealth, his power, all, without exception, had been taken away from him. The anger, the hate, the rage boiled and fumed inside him.


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    Ian stirred, and he tried desperately to move his fragmented talons, to lunge and rip out its throat, or scratch a painful line in its hide at the very least. He could feel that energy draining away, the futility oppressive and smothering. Ian¡¯s eyes opened, and it watched him strain. His head was buzzing, his eyes felt like they might explode and his ears like they would gush with blood. He saw the same thing Ian did. Faint twitching beneath the cloth.


    He pushed harder, and the very tip of his broken talon, veiled in shadow, broke free from the folds of the cloth. That was when the fight left him. He was a dragon, and a dragon knows when he is beaten. Even hatchlings mind the difference. The strong take, and the weak take from those weaker. He had been strong. He had felt strong, separate from the squabbles of his kin, distant. Then he lost. It felt like he would collapse, but he hadn¡¯t moved much, and the limb barely shifted as it fell. Opening or closing his eyes took effort, but they stayed however he left them. Like his lungs in a way, or his heart.


    Since his eyes were stuck open, he watched as Ian¡¯s face twisted. It stood, staring at him, stepped forward, and pulled away the cloth. Beneath it, he looked just like Ian. All light flesh and awkward limbs. It wrapped his paw in its hand and stared into his eyes. They both had hands. He knew he¡¯d been crippled, but the reality was worse than he¡¯d ever imagined. The old man hadn¡¯t left him for dead, or delivered him into the talons of some crazed giant hatchlings. He¡¯d been changed, warped and distorted, body and soul.


    He focused on his human fingers, and it took the last of his energy. It was stupid, and spiteful, and success might mean death but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to care. He managed to flex them, barely, to try and dig the nails into Ian¡¯s skin. He couldn¡¯t even scratch him. Ian¡¯s face changed again, and then it let his hand drop. As it turned away, he felt cold. Sleep fell over him, eyes wide open.


    * * *


    The cart was a tight fit in places, and wouldn¡¯t fit at all down some of the narrower streets, but Ian did his best to steer the horse.


    ¡°Well Will, no one round here¡¯s heard of you either.¡± He said it out loud, but no one was listening. Why am I doing this? He asked himself the question often enough, though his answer hardly changed. When I find his family, whoever they are, they¡¯ll reimburse and reward me for the trouble, probably. At the very least he¡¯s helpless, and no one else is gonna look after him. Seamstresses aren¡¯t nannies, not that a nanny would be cheaper. If I¡¯m lucky they might have a library. They could reward me with rare reading material. His stomach rumbled, and he was acutely aware of just how light his coin purse had grown. Carts weren¡¯t overly expensive, but horses certainly weren¡¯t cheap, and feed was its own expense. Too few places were suitable for grazing, and merchants were more interested in buying his horse than selling him feed. A cynical man might think they were hiking prices, trying to buy my horse out from under me. Perfectly amenable merchants, ones he¡¯d been friendly with the first time he came through town, had turned downright devious. Oh, Ian, come buy from my stall. I see you are alone, with naught but a horse, an injured man, and dreams. Please, I insist, special deal just for you¡­ Ian sighed. Not quite full of snakes¡­


    Halswel was the third town he¡¯d checked. He bought what he needed in Eren, took a vial full of purple water from the river, and left before sunrise. Only children slept that night, so he politely knocked on some doors and tipped a little extra. He regretted that now. Now, he was out of options. He was almost out of money and he¡¯d caught neither hide nor hair of any trail, and the fabulously wealthy usually leave a trail. He would have to turn back. He would have to go all the way back to Eren, then he¡¯d have to try his luck on the trail to Ismahill. He wouldn¡¯t go through the gorge if they paid him, and he was hoping someone would, but he could sell the cart and try going around. Will still couldn¡¯t walk, but he¡¯d wear him like a backpack if he had to. He needed that money.


    * * *


    Willaartauraxx woke suddenly, the light shining sharply into his eyes. There was a pit in his stomach, a kind of grinding ache, one he¡¯d only felt so strongly as a hatchling. He was hungry. He moved to rise, to stretch his wings and leap into the air, to glide to the forest floor. He was weightless. Then he fell, landing hard on his back, and the pain brought him back to reality.


    ¡°Sorry about that bump, did I wake you?¡± Ian¡¯s voice carried easily and clearly, but the sound didn¡¯t hurt his ears anymore. None of the sounds did. The light hadn¡¯t truly burned since he first opened his eyes, and though it was no less bright, its painful edge had dulled. He could see the clouds. The sky, blue and beautiful, and he took the time to blink. He¡¯d fallen asleep with his eyes open, and it provided a welcome relief. It was easier than before too.


    The world jolted, as if coming to an abrupt stop. ¡°Whoa there, easy girl, that¡¯s it, take the time to rest.¡± He recognized the sound of a horse, groaning and snorting, he¡¯d eaten enough of them. ¡°How¡¯s it going back here Will?¡± The ground trembled as Ian climbed into view. For his part, Will decided not to do anything. It was an easy decision to make, inaction, especially since he had so much practice. But something was wrong. More than hunger, there was a kind of pit in his stomach. Did he say something unusual? Ian busied himself, ducking in and out of view. Nothing appeared out of place, not in the face of everything else he¡¯d suffered, but that feeling wouldn¡¯t go away. He¡¯d thought of Ian as ¡®he¡¯. He could have laughed at the prospect, but they weren¡¯t even equals. He was lesser than Ian. Under normal circumstances, it would be natural to treat him as a respected rival, until he could usurp him at least. But Will¡¯s life was over. He¡¯d never been a fighter, never worked hard for anything, and he was proud of it. And that feeling lingered. A part of him felt that everything was right, as it had been before. And that was wrong. It was like ice against his spine, a cloying, insidious poison veiling the truth. He searched the sky with his eyes, what little patch he could see, as well as his memory. Ian chose that moment to speak again.


    ¡°Alright Will, porridge or soup?¡± And that was it. His name. It wasn¡¯t possible, it shouldn¡¯t be, but he knew. He knew, inexorably, that his name was not Willaartauraxx. It just didn¡¯t fit anymore. ¡°Well,¡± Ian said, ¡°porridge, or soup?¡±

 Chapter 5 Dreams

    "Redemption is war waged against the self, and few ever staunch the bleeding." -Kahromei the Wizard


    Cadance sighed, letting the book fall from his hands. It bounced off the bed, tumbled, and landed on its pages. They would crease, some might tear, and the spine was probably already damaged. He didn¡¯t care. He was tired of reading. He¡¯d sleep if he could, the sun was setting, but he only woke up a few hours ago. He could make food, he felt the distant pangs of hunger, but cooking would take time and energy. It would be a pain. He dragged himself up, out of bed, and to the door. Sometimes, he found doing nothing more painful than doing something. When it got painful enough, he would walk. This was one of those times.


    He left the house as he was. He never bothered to change into nightclothes, and even if he did, it¡¯d be dark soon. Too dark to care what strangers thought. Conventional wisdom said the night was dangerous. The only things awake in Ylican would be animals, the rich, the guard, the monsters beyond the wall, and criminals. If a watchman caught him wandering at night, they might question him, but he mostly kept to the same routes.


    He walked until the light grew dim. The golden corona sinking in the sky, replaced by candles in homes and lanterns in the streets. The spots of light were scattered, and many followed guards on patrol, casting long and shifting shadows. He avoided the well lit streets. Along the walls, the homes of the rich and powerful, the poorer quarters. Too many people. Too bright and too loud. He avoided the dark streets too, mostly. The night could swallow a man. Sometimes he¡¯d step into the shadows, to step away from everything. Sometimes he watched the shapes, cloaked in darkness. Heard the wind whistling against the shingles, whispering to the trees, their leaves crinkling overhead. The occasional footsteps, or distant laughter of guards. He¡¯d peer out through that curtain of obscurity, overlooked as just another shade, a tree or a bush, a post perhaps. Then, as if he never left, he¡¯d return. Return to those dim, empty streets, and wander.


    He had no destination, no intentions. He could walk for hours, though his feet would hurt in the morning. If he walked long enough, his feet would complain even on the way back home, and he¡¯d have blisters for days after. Every pain, every ache, every inconvenience he subjected himself to was in service to a greater goal. To avoid greater pain. To mitigate, or stall at the very least, the pain he knew was coming. Good days are for children, and fools. You can snatch a moment of happiness, but what¡¯s left stays the same. Pain.


    Sometimes he¡¯d dream up crimes, adventures and escapades. Dream of committing some petty theft, just for the thrill. Of breaking a merchant¡¯s window or throwing rocks at a watchman. Imagine just letting go. Escape. And he could do it. When it was over, he¡¯d either end up in jail or he wouldn¡¯t. Maybe a guard would kill him, and he¡¯d never feel anything again, though his last moments certainly wouldn¡¯t be painless. But anything more than thinking would be a pain. Thinking was often a pain itself, or led to pain, and didn¡¯t need any help from him to cause more.


    He heard voices, or half heard them, coming around the corner. Harsh, breathy murmurs, the kind people used when they were trying to be quiet. The kind that made them fail, made them stand out instead, the kind that drew more attention than a simple soft voice. He turned around, cut across the narrow street, and took a detour. For a breath, he felt excitement, walking away with his back turned. They could come around that corner any moment and see him. They could be criminals, or corrupt guards looking for targets in the night. But even before he turned the corner, the dim flame kindling in his chest had faded.


    Cadance wasn¡¯t quite familiar with these streets. He knew some of them, and could follow them back home, but he wasn¡¯t ready to go back yet. They gradually narrowed, and soon he was walking down dark alleyways, occasionally brushing his shoulders against the walls. Ahead, the alley opened back up into normal streets.


    Something rustled around the corner, and he stopped. It wasn¡¯t an animal, wasn¡¯t a rich man, and certainly wasn¡¯t a guard. A man stepped out, wearing baggy old clothes and a hood, and blocked the path. He drew a knife, and the steel sang against the scabbard. He couldn¡¯t see much in the dark, but the man must not have cared much for his blade. Blades only made that sound in stories, or when the leather wore down in the scabbard, dulling the edge against the metal. He thought about how badly it would hurt, to get cut by a dull knife in the dark.


    ¡°Your coins and your boots.¡± A woman¡¯s voice came from the hood. Not a man then, just men¡¯s clothes. ¡°Quick, and no one has to get hurt.¡±


    Cadance didn¡¯t move. Instead, he thought about what a pain it would be. How unlikely it was, and how unlucky he must be. I take this street, on this night, and now she wants me to walk back without my boots? She only had one boot, with a hole in the toe, and she wore a sandal on the other foot, but that was supposed to be her problem. She was making it his problem now.


    ¡°Coins and boots!¡± she hissed. There was that voice again, the one people used when they tried to be quiet. ¡°Don¡¯t make me repeat myself!¡±


    If she takes my money, I lose the house. If I lose the house, I¡¯ll be sleeping on the street, like her, and she won¡¯t be too much better off. Everyone will suffer. As usual. He could feel the shadow of excitement bubbling in his chest, but he was less enthused than thought he¡¯d be. He¡¯d imagined getting robbed in the street before, but those were distant, fanciful dreams of escape. A means to an end. Faced with the real thing, he was almost let down.


    The blade snaked forward, drawing a line of heat down his arm, to the back of his hand. ¡°Coins and boots! Or I take your fingers!¡± Her voice was shrill now, strained, as if she were lifting something heavy. He looked down at the blood on his arm, black in the light of the moon overhead, and the heat exploded into a roaring fire. Living was a pain, and dying would be a pain, but the pain thrumming in his arm almost made him forget.


    ¡°Well,¡± his voice came out hoarse, in a choked whisper, ¡°I guess I should.¡±


    I¡¯m already hurt, and I could still be crippled, or die here. But why should I be the only one to get hurt? He¡¯d dreamed up enough scenarios like this, maybe he should be grateful, even if the wrong dream came true. I guess I should fight. In the end, he was already in pain, so why should he be scared of a little more?


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He leaned forward, and she backed up, and he caught a look under her hood. She looked relieved. He launched forward, slamming into her, tackling her to the ground outside the alley. The knife clattered somewhere in the dark, and it felt like he ran into a wall, but he forced his bleeding arm back and punched her in the gut. She made a kind of wheezing sound, and he pushed off the ground, scrambling to his feet.


    She didn¡¯t move. She laid still, black blood pooling beneath her head. She looked dead. Cadance had a bonfire in his chest and acid in his arm, and his body felt sore and wound up, like a coiled rope drawn taut against a knot. His breathing was fast, and his hands felt slick. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and only stopped when the blood ran down between his fingers, not quite black in the dim light.


    And she was still.


    * * *


    It woke to the sound of muffled voices. She¡¯d been dreaming about the window, but those dreams were gone now. The sounds of the distant surf floated in through that window, of water against the shore. It made the words hard to hear, and the footsteps only muddled them further. She caught only snippets of conversation, disjointed and random, until Kahromei stepped into the room. The apprentice, Palarus, followed close behind. She watched them converse, the room serving as simple scenery, the background for a lesson. The room in which she¡¯d spent almost every day of her life.


    ¡°Today, young Palarus, we shall remedy that fact.¡±


    ¡°Should I collect my staff?¡± He seemed hopeful, eager.


    ¡°No, leave it. You won¡¯t be making use of the cells until you can make one of your own. You will make no jumps ahead, no shortcuts. Knowledge is among our first defenses.¡±


    ¡°But not the first?¡±


    Kahromei nodded, approving. ¡°Life teaches the wrong lessons. It is your duty to learn the right ones, but your first line of defense will be your will. A true wizard must unite men beneath him, in common cause, in service rather than in search of power. When men grow powerful, they often make their greatest mistake. They find themselves no longer wholly Man, no longer free to follow their will, guided instead by the principals of their past. A true wizard must redirect their efforts, if he is to save Man from himself.¡± Palarus eagerly attended to every word, and followed Kahromei to It¡¯s prison. She¡¯d been kept too long to fear his approach, or to slink back, as if it might offer her some protection. She simply watched. ¡°For now, we must focus on the lesson of the day. Names.¡±


    ¡°Does this one have a name?¡± Ever eager, he stopped just short of pressing his face against her prison, eyeing her carefully.


    ¡°More than likely, this one is named It.¡±


    ¡°It?¡± His eyebrows raised, his eyes went wide, and his mouth hung open a little.


    ¡°The common man holds many beliefs about named creatures, and they are often backwards. This creature is rather insignificant, serving little purpose, and in part that is my fault. It had no name before its capture, and now it languishes here. Can you guess why it might have such a name?¡±


    ¡°If you were younger¡­¡± He paused, considering. ¡°Perhaps you performed some experiment? Research into names themselves?¡±


    ¡°No, Palarus.¡± Kahromei tapped his golden staff. ¡°Power. That is why beasts have names. The power of Man, and of more- ¡®powerful¡¯ creatures. While you and I can control what little Well we have of our own, the masses are not so enlightened. I am sure you remember a time you could not sense your Well. Unless you¡¯ve already forgotten, lost in the grandeur of wizardry.¡± He made a stern look, and Palarus quickly shook his head.


    ¡°Of course not, I remember, and I remember what you have taught me.¡±


    ¡°Do you now? Perhaps I shall quiz you again on the properties of absyn root and jade tail?¡± He smiled wryly, and Palarus paled, but he continued. ¡°When enough people use a name, attribute it to a thing, their collective power can shape the very soul. Titles function in much the same way, though they are fundamentally different. The masses, fearing the beast that lurks in the woods, give it a name. When enough people use that name, unconsciously leaking power from their Wells, and when enough of that power follows the currents and settles on the beast in question, that power can even form the basis of a soul, if it is without. With enough power in your cells, and with intention, you could bestow quite the powerful name yourself. Do you understand now?¡±


    ¡°I think so, but I have a different question, i-if you don¡¯t mind.¡± Kahromei looked as though he would refuse, but instead nodded, and so he asked his question. ¡°If it serves no purpose, in being here I mean, then why keep it trapped?¡±


    ¡°The strong take,¡± he replied, ¡°and the weak take from those who are weaker.¡±


    Palarus practically beamed. ¡°I know that one! That¡¯s Secuuldacarr, right?¡±


    Kahromei¡¯s face twisted, dark and scowling, and his reply was hard. ¡°No, not Secuuldacarr.¡± The apprentice practically wilted under his gaze. ¡°Abalay. Stohk Abalay said it. In both a public address and a treatise on coastal politics. Secuuldacarr repeated those words and, since, has too often been awarded that credit.¡± He turned, making for the door, and Palarus hurried after. ¡°I expect you will not quote, or attempt to quote, Secuuldacarr in my presence. Unless it is in irony. Though I recommend, in all things, to refrain entirely.¡±


    * * *


    Ian noticed the sound first, rising above the trees and weaving through the foliage. Then he noticed the buildings. From their roofs, armored figures looked down into the streets and over the treeline. Then the 12 unyielding feet of stone, atop which stood an attentive group of guards. Below them, the moat was calm, in contrast to the town it encircled. The guards, laden with gambeson and chainmail, bristling with weapons and strapped into shields, denied him passage. He was only allowed inside when a passing guard recognized him.


    They swiftly lowered the drawbridge, but then, these guards seemed to do everything fast. Even inside the wall, they were on edge. Closely watching every building, every passing citizen. The streets were less crowded than last time, and there were checkpoints along each of the brick walls, neatly dividing the town into sections. They searched all cargo, bags, and pockets passing through. Seems I missed the exposition, they¡¯ve gone straight into the rising action.


    As soon as he came to a stop, tugging gently at the reins, his horse collapsed in the street. Every step of the way, on grassy hills or cobbled roads, the damned horse laid down at every opportunity. The first time it happened, they were on a slope, and it almost tipped the cart. He¡¯d given the yoke more slack since then, but it never ceased to annoy him. I didn¡¯t even know horses could have bad habits. Sure, she¡¯s working hard, and she deserves a break now and then, but she¡¯s more dramatic than- He realized he never learned the merchant¡¯s name, or the name of the horse that threw him, and sighed. She¡¯s dramatic enough to be on stage. And if he tried riding her, he might end up with worse than a new bruise and a torn pack. He could hope she wouldn¡¯t crush his leg, pinning him to the ground at the slightest hesitation, but he¡¯d rather not test it.


    Since he¡¯d left, something had happened in Eren, something big. If it were about the dragon, they¡¯d be keeping folk inside and out of sight, guards included. Instead, they were looking for something. And they¡¯re liable to find more trouble.


    With a rebellious horse, and his curious cargo, Ian planned to leave them to it.