HANZUBIK GUIDED THEM BY a circuitous route along back stairways and little-used corridors to the entrance of a secret basement tunnel. Knowing Yaarah as she did now, Allory read in his manner and several hitches in his conversation deep, unvoiced alarm at this mode of exit.

“Your contact will explain,” the man said. “May Middlesun light your paths forever, Yaarah.”

He sounded sincere. A tiny frown creased Allory’s forehead. Intriguing.

“Likewise, Hanzubik.” Pausing, the Felidragon purred archly, “I believe that a Dryad has awakened in the garden, my friend.”

“What?”

“Treat her well and your realm shall prosper.”

As the Felidragon turned to pace down the musty tunnel, Allory caught a glimpse of the Human’s face. He had turned quite pasty about the jowls. Not a pleasant colour. Belatedly, she realised that by tone and intent Yaarah had delivered the statement as a threat, for the opposite must be certain. This Faerie spirit could indeed bring untold blessing to Durhelm Castle and its surrounds, but historically, Dryads had also been known to have – to put it mildly – minds of their own. She hoped that nothing bad happened to Rhanjielle-Seryiansong before she gained strength enough to defend herself adequately.

Judging by the unbridled transformation of that garden, need she be concerned?

My name had better be Allory Realm-Meddler.

Not that she had ever intended for anything so dramatic to be foisted upon these unsuspecting Humans, but insert one tiny foot and this infeasible talent for stirring things up that she appeared to be developing – her only glaring talent – well, blood-sap oaths might be demanded by the agitated Felidragon, she supposed.

Once they were well out of earshot of the Man, she peeped, “Yaarah, I’m sorry that I –”

“It’s not you,” he growled curtly, pacing down the narrowing tunnel. “Something around here rubs all my fur the wrong way, gnurr-aargh. I do hope that Tygra will be able to shed Middlesun’s own light of understanding upon it, because no-one else seems prepared to give me straight answers. When we have a chance, I need to brief you on what I did find out – and you may return the favour regarding this matter of the Dryad. Agreed?”

“Aye. What does your whiskers-sense tell you?”

He paced smoothly through the near-complete darkness, his feline sight like her Faerie night sight able to cope given even the slightest radiance to work with. The smell of the tunnel was less earthy and drier than she had expected, suggesting it had been chiselled through solid rock, perhaps centuries before.

He said, “We’re in trouble; it remains only to be seen from which quarter. These were my friends, Allory. I trusted them, mrrr-trrrt.”

“What about Tygra? Can we trust her?”

“Implicitly, I believe. Unless something fundamental has changed.”

“What would that be?”

“Has a talon of Marakusia reached deep into Durc Durhelm’s stronghold? This, I find nigh impossible to believe, yet it must be so.”

The tunnel was not long, yet a Faerie girl did not breathe well until Yaarah paused again at the end. Close underground spaces were not a personal favourite. She heard boxes shift and a wooden hatch creak. Cool morning air brushed against her nose, accompanied by an acidic tang of overripe garbage and other delightful odours of Human habitation. Yip yap yip. A pack of mismatched hounds scattered as they caught the Felidragon’s scent, yelping and whining as they dashed away down a narrow, winding alleyway chockfull of debris and Human trash. One white, scruffy male rolled immediately onto its back, presenting its stomach to the mighty predator.

Yaarah pinned it with a glare of withering disdain. “Be off with you, filthy wretch.”

It whimpered piteously.

“SCRAM – GNARRR!!”

Howling in terror, the creature took off its tail tucked between its legs and might not stop running for a few days, she imagined. A sarcastic draconic chortle echoed in the narrow space.

Dragons did like to be the apex predator.

The tunnel exit was concealed in an ill-favoured area of town somewhere behind the college. Yaarah circumvented piles of waste and stepped fastidiously over nameless splodges of yellow fluid and green moss, before leaping lightly across a gap. A narrow open fruit crate held what her shocked glance took for a dead body, limbs strangely sprawled in its narrow grave. The very tall walls above hid many secrets. She guessed the Felidragon did not know exactly where he was, for he kept scenting at the air or pausing to check their surrounds before choosing between equally distasteful options at the intersections.

“Where are we going?” she whispered.

Sliding past a mound of mildewed brown sackcloth that snored vocally, perhaps indicating a homeless Human’s habitation, he glanced upward and apparently confirmed something, because he gave a firm nod and hurried on.

“Masque Fountain, mrrr-frrr,” he said. “I’ve met Tygra there before.”

“The note’s genuine?”

“Seems so.”

Shortly, the alleyway exited upon a regular thoroughfare. Yaarah merged with the early traffic. He slipped easily between the carts and pedestrians, pacing along with confidence. With his head held high and arched of back, he stood a little taller than most of the dark-garbed Humans. This had the effect of clearing a path for him as though he pressed people aside with an invisible magical shield. With that many fangs backed by fifteen sinuous feet of Felidragon, would she have expected otherwise?

Allory chortled at a few of the more irritable glances cast their way. Not overly many, as best she could tell – most appeared to be openly admiring of his exquisite golden pelt. Could they conclude this purported danger might not be known to the general populace? Whatever could it be? She chewed at a fingernail. Not good. Fear roiled unsteadily in her belly, making her grateful nothing was left to throw up.

For a person who had apparently just restored an Elemental Fae to life, she felt worse than some of this garbage smelled. What had that whole nectar-drinking episode been about? Not comfortable with that. Not in the slightest.

Her viewpoint bobbed along as they proceeded along the cobbled streets, crossed a wide square that housed a particular type of mayhem known as a Human marketplace, before the suitably dazed and deafened Scintillant breathed a sigh of relief as they entered a quieter neighbourhood. The two-storey houses here all had dark varnished wood frames with whitewashed walls and steep-pitched roofs that often joined one another. As they snuck through another alleyway on a shortcut, she assumed, Allory noticed how the roof gutters led to a sophisticated drainage system behind the houses and remembered Yaarah telling her that this city boasted great underground storage cisterns originally excavated due to siege warfare, but nowadays were only used in times of drought.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The Dryad’s rebirth might well change all of this.

To think she had abetted a miracle gave her such a shiver of joy-worry, Yaarah softly inquired if she was alright. No. Not really. Nothing for it but to carry on, however.

Passing down a street full of leatherworkers, tailors and several blacksmiths’ forges, he crossed into a richer residential neighbourhood. White-clad servants bustled about outside the grand houses, ushering a family to a fancy horse-drawn carriage, black with splendid gold trim. Suggids. Might as well have stepped back into the leaves of a hundred-year-old story. Oh, and there, looming above the rooftops was the mighty keep of Durhelm Castle itself – the castle proper, or inner castle as Yaarah had called it. Durc Durhelm’s dwelling. She liked the gaudy purple, pink and cerise banners whipping about in what appeared to be a stiff breeze up there, but her sharp Faerie eyes also noted the alert movement of patrols atop the square battlements, while in several places, larger weapons protruded into the clear sky. Durc must be a nervous man. That was no sleepy castle.

Cowed by the gigantic scale of the place, she peeked in other directions from beneath the leather flap. This avenue was lined with nut trees she did not recognise, heavy with a bristling light brown crop. Yaarah veered to his left to take a manicured path between two houses that led to a paved area beyond. In the centre of this small square, surrounded by houses, stood a charming fountain with five spouts in the shape of fish heads. Judging by the unmistakable colours, that would be Tygra neatly perched upon a bench beside a small turquoise side-pond fed by the flow.

“There she is!” he crowed.

Passing through an arched stone gateway which must once have been covered in a kind of climbing rose or briar which looked almost dead, Yaarah quickened his pace.

“Tygra!” he called.

The other feline glanced up, but her eyes flicked askance as if troubled.

The Golden Purrmaine hesitated, scenting the air once more – belatedly. His ears flicked as he coiled back onto his haunches, ready to spring.

Whap! With a loud report, something flew into her vision and wrapped about the Felidragon in an instant, turning his half-leap into a heavy fall upon his left side, completely snarled up. Upside down, Allory gasped as armoured soldiers swarmed toward them in a mass of crimson surcoats and heavy chainmail. Where had they been hiding?

Strands of rope resolved before her crossed eyes. What the … a net! They must have shot a heavy net at him – and with that, the Felidragon went mad, fighting the trap tooth and limb. GNARRR!! he thundered. BRRAARRGGH!! White-laced orange fire sprayed out of his maw, cutting a swathe through the troops as they scattered. Men yelled; two shrieked in pain and fell at once, their clothing burning like a pair of torches while several of their fellows tried to beat out the flames with their bare hands. Another man barked orders, rallying the troops.

SSKKKRREEE-SSSS!! Yaarah’s battle cry battered her ears.

The Felidragon rolled sharply, clawing a soldier in the thigh despite that the woman tried to dodge. She backed up, clutching the wound as crimson welled at a frightening rate. Panting heavily, he gathered his wits.

HRRR-MARRR!! GNARR!! Down went another soldier.

The net restricted him badly. Sharp hooks dug into his flanks and wings, making it impossible to simply shrug out of the trap, while strong ropes anchored the net somewhere out of sight, perhaps to a tree or stone column, she imagined. Not good. Could she help, cut him free with her cepril tusk daggers? Allory fumbled for her equipment.

The bag suddenly jolted and fell heavily to the ground. The canister arrangement protected her from much damage. Had he cut her free? Must have, for with another terrible snarl, Yaarah made an abortive leap curtailed by the metal-reinforced netting. At the same time, his left hind paw executed a cunning push-kick. Blam! Bag plus Allory scooted across the paving stones and fetched up with a decent jolt beneath one of the stone benches. By her sap, how did a creature keep such presence of mind in a fracas like this? All she knew was a paralysis of indecision.

The Scintillant shook her head, badly rattled this time despite the protection. Smart Dragon! Out there, her friend still fought and snarled wildly, but the soldiers approached from his flanks to threaten him with long spears.

Respect the fires? They had better, or else!

The leader of the troop addressed him from a safe distance. “Yield, Felidragon, or we’ll spit ya like a pig!”

“What is this, murrr-GNARR! Tygra! Help me!”

“Don’t ya know nothing, ya furry fool? Felidragons is allied with the Marakusians – ya been living beneath a rock these last three years, or what?”

“Mrrwll!”

The Human troops laughed horribly, men and women alike. Several jeered openly.

Allory felt sick.

His reaction told all. She knew Yaarah had not been home for some time. Perhaps they had dispatched him on this secret mission in the hope of having him lead them to the Scintillant Fae – from what they had learned, someone must have sold out her people. Who? Not Yaarah. Could the betrayal have come from within, as the Pixies suspected?

The Golden Purrmaine bucked several more times and spat his fire, but the net resisted his flame and the prodding of spears at his flanks was no encouragement.

A talon flicked toward her in clear warning. Why?

“There, just ya settle down now an’ come along nice-like,” sneered the leader. “Fancy trotting into my castle fresh as a ruddy jungle blossom, ya fool? Soldier. Fetch this moron’s satchel. Durc will want to take a gander at what the golden spy’s been up to.”

Allory gaped at the scene, feeling more useless than ever. Yaarah! What could she do?

Heavy boots tramped toward her; she sensed the tread through the ground.

Sparkles for brains or what? Move it!

The lid of her canister stuck fast for a second, but she squeezed out in the nick of time. A heavy tan hand gripped the leather. Gasping as she forced her way through the gap in the flap, Allory hissed in realisation that she had left her bow and arrows inside. She only had the pair of daggers, now. The Scintillant leaped into the shadows beneath the wide bench as the soldier drew the satchel out, holding her breath but shaking so hard she was sure he had to hear her wings rustling.

Thank heavens for her diminutive size!

“This one, sir?”

“Good. Let’s take this Purrmaine traitor for a little walk – behave, Dragon, or we’ll aerate ya gizzard quick as ya like. Keep those spears ready, boys. These furries bleed real easy.”

“Hsst! Where are you taking me?”

“It’s Durc’s finest quarters for ya, furry scum. A dungeon nice an’ deep with plenty o’ tasty rats to keep ya fed and fat.”

GNARR!!

Yaarah snarled menacingly as the soldiers wrapped him in chains. They did not dare to remove the net and kept yelping as he charged up the chains and electrical sparks leaped across to their hands or armour. Shortly, they brought up an open-backed cart and heaved him onto the load bed, not at all gently. One soldier who kicked him earned a spurt of fire in a rather sensitive region. Cue further rounds of screaming, growling and spear-poking. Yaarah bled in at least a dozen places now, but they had his measure. His struggling subsided at last. The pair of dappled grey horses hitched to the front snorted unhappily at the commotion. The Felidragon snickered nastily, but she was certain he was playing a part with a view to keeping her safe, a kindness so profound she felt as if it would tug her heart right out of her throat.

Allory heard Tygra say nearby, “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

“Done ya part, Tygra. Think I care more ’n rocks for the likes of ya? Sold ya friend to earn marriage to that Tangaroon Terfa-General, did ya?” The leader’s spittle land in a clod between two paving stones. “Pah. Ya kind disgust me. Stab each other in th’ back quick as ya like, eh?”

The feline made no reply.

“Tygra?” Yaarah yelped from the cart.

“I’m … sorry!” she cried. “They made me. It was never meant to be like this.”

“I’m sorry too, frrr-hssst,” he returned gravely, and Allory knew that whatever had been between them, it was over. Destroyed forever. Everyone knew it.

A soldier leaped up into the elevated driver’s seat and shook the reins. “Gee on, ya.”

Last she saw of him, one fiery eye peered toward her from beneath a smoking heap of grey netting and chains. Did he see her? Did he fear they were torn apart forever?

Allory hugged her knees to her chest and shivered. Her only friend in all Spheris was bound for the notorious dungeons of Durhelm Castle. Durc would not be merciful, not if the Felidragons had allied themselves with the Marakusian Slavers – but it made sense. Why had they not drawn the connection before? They had read the signs on that tree above her colony.

As it turned out, another facet of Yaarah’s nobility was naïveté.

That made two of them.