A Dragon claims the town of white
Morning dawns but soon comes night.
Flint emerged from the treeline, coughing, embers trailing smoke from his hat. For a moment he paused, fighting for breath, sweat dripping off his face. Then he took hold of Cairan's arms again and heaved him the rest of the way down the hill.
Reaching the dry grass of the plains, he collapsed to his knees. His lungs burned and he couldn't seem to stop coughing.
Somewhere along the way, the Centaur had stopped screaming and gone limp. Flint wiped sweat out of his stinging eyes with his sleeve, and checked for a pulse.
To his surprise, he found two strong heartbeats.
He shook his head, coughing. “Tough buggers, you Centaurs,” he rasped, patting Cairan's arm.
Lifting his head, he looked up at the dark, orange-tinged sky.
An enormous Dragon circled the top of the hill, in and out of the swirling smoke. The ground trembled every time it roared.
The entire hilltop was on fire, and the upper parts of the town as well. Occasionally, the Dragon spewed more fire into the conflagration, sending sparks spiralling into the sky to dance with the stars.
Flint looked around himself. People were scattered in all directions, fleeing across the plains like ants. Some were huddled in small groups, staring in paralysed horror at the Dragon destroying their town.
There was no sign of the Bladeshifters.
Flint was so wearied and shocked from the night's events that he hardly cared.
A Dragon is flyin' around in the Outlands.
My sister's not dead.
The Freeroamers are all but wiped out.
And Eltorian Nightwalker escaped...
Numbly, he knelt in the glow of the fire, watching the trees burn.
After awhile, he became aware of a commotion behind him. Heart leaping into motion, Flint staggered to his feet, turning.
It was not the Bladeshifters causing more havoc, as he had feared. It was a rider, galloping across the plains from the north-west, on a horse as red as the firelit dirt.
People were cheering.
One of the Freeroamers? Flint thought.
Running out onto the plain a short way, he cried out, as loud as his parched throat could manage: “Hey! Yo! Over here!” and waved his hands in the air, trying to attract the rider's attention. Then he took his hat off, and waved that as well.
To his relief, the horse swerved and headed in his direction.
The rider reined in close to Flint in a cloud of dust that sent him coughing again.
Both the rider and his horse looked exhausted. The horse's chestnut flank heaved and shimmered with sweat. The bearded man atop her was indeed a Freeroamer, with his cobalt sleeve and silver badge, and a triangular hat on his head. He looked haggard with fatigue.
“Cairan!” the man cried, and practically fell off his mount. Flint helped him to his feet, and discovered that he, too, was crippled.
He helped the Freeroamer over to his companion. The man fell to his knees at the Centaur’s side, placing a hand on his black, blood-streaked flank, looking distraught. “Gods!” he gasped. “No!'
“He's alive,” Flint told him, then wondered uncertainly if it wouldn't have been better to leave Cairan to the flames after all. With those shattered legs, he probably wasn't ever going to walk properly again.
Flint swallowed, closing his eyes. Just wanted to save somebody, he thought dismally. Just once…
“You!” the Freeroamer said. “My Constables told me about a bloke with a crossbow who was travellin' around with a sorcerer. That you?”
Flint nodded, feeling misery weighing down on him. A sorcerer who is pretty well dead by now, he thought.
He didn't want to think about it.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and gestured at Cairan. “We need to get 'im out of here,” he said. “Find a cart, or somethin'...” He stood up, looking around.
A small crowd of villagers had gathered nearby, but they kept their distance, and one eye on the Dragon. The town was burning, smoke clouding the streets, but there might be something salvageable on the outskirts…
“I'm gonna go look for somethin',” Flint announced. “Stay here an' keep an eye out. Nightwalker's on the loose.”
“Gods thank you,” the Freeroamer said, holding out a hand.
Flint took it. “Starshadow Flint.”
“Commander Trice.”
Flint nodded, and Trice touched the pointed brim of his hat in gratitude.
Flint hesitated for a moment, looking down at them. These two might be the only surviving Freeroamers, and they were both heavily injured. He didn't like abandoning them out here in the open, but he didn't have a choice.
He swallowed, taking a final glance around the plains, but saw no black-clad shadows in the dark.
They've probably run off, he told himself, like the rats they are…
With little else for him to do, he hurried towards the town.
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Flint made his way between the white buildings, keeping low, smoke forcing more fits from his tortured lungs. His eyes watered as his searched the haze.
There were very few vehicles to be seen in the empty streets, and the ones that were, were either on fire or not suitable. He passed a wagon, but it was too large and unwieldy.
Keeping to the lower roads and alleys, pushing through gateways, he rounded the hill, and finally found what he was looking for at the back of the tavern.
A small dray cart, loaded with a couple of beer barrels.
Climbing onto the cart, Flint kicked the barrels off one by one. They rolled down the street and came to rest in a grove of large, shady trees opposite the tavern. Then he jumped off, took hold of the shafts and began pulling the cart towards the plain.
He was just rounding a shed by the side of the road, the cart rattling off the cobbles and onto the dirt, when he felt a strange, sharp prick on his skin.
He put a hand to his neck.
Then the sky became the ground, and he fell into blackness.
Commander Trice paced, back and forth, awkwardly and painfully, using his sheathed sword for support. Doing so aggravated his injury, but he was too restless to sit around waiting.
Quite a crowd had gathered around him, now. Seeing him arrive, many people had returned from where they had fled, especially as the Dragon no longer appeared to pose an immediate threat.
After its initial attack, the creature had largely ignored the townsfolk, flying off eastwards instead and slaughtering one of the hillbeasts that roamed the dusty flatland. The Dragon had returned to the summit of the hill with its prize and sat there now gorging itself, the sound of crunching shell and tearing flesh echoing horribly in the morning stillness.
The fire had almost burnt itself out. A few buildings remained aflame, but the forest was starkly black and smouldering, embers crackling in patches here and there, smoke drifting up to smudge the pink blush that spread across the brightening sky with the approach of dawn.
Flint had still not returned.
Grisket had sent a couple of villagers cautiously to look for him. They had discovered an abandoned dray near the entrance of the town, but no trace of the man with the giant crossbow.
A few people told him that they'd seen Flint before, and Dogwyn had mentioned that he had belonged to the Bladeshifters. Grisket wasn't sure what to think about the fact he had allied himself with a sorcerer, but the man had saved the life of a Freeroamer, and that was certainly something worth noting.
He wondered if Flint had had a sudden change of heart and gone crawling back to Nightwalker, but he hadn't seemed like the type. Most likely, he thought morbidly, Nightwalker had discovered his treachery and done away with him…
Grisket shook his head, feeling helpless. There was nothing he could do to help Flint. Neither he nor Cairan were in any condition to effect a rescue or to fight Nightwalker. A handful of the townsfolk were armed, but they wouldn't stand a chance if the Bladeshifters regrouped and launched another attack. Grisket had a feeling that some of those black-clad lowlifes were still hanging around, but the best he could do was set some folks on watch and keep alert.
No other Freeroamers had turned up. This fact wrenched at Grisket, like a fist trying to rip his guts out. Everyone he had left at the Guard House was either dead or missing. He couldn't accept that the Freeroamers were finished: doing so brought him dangerously close to breaking point.
Nevertheless, the cracks in his soul were large, and he felt his efforts to hold them together slipping…
Cairan had regained consciousness some time ago, as the men lifted him carefully into the cart. They had given him some water, but the Centaur had said little. He had a defeated air about him that worried Grisket, and had tried to give the Commander back his badge, but Grisket would have none of it. He tried to reassure his friend that he was not at fault for what had happened, but Cairan remained silent, the words simply rolling off him.
Yet, Grisket felt, hypocritically, that he could no longer retain his own badge.
He looked at the townsfolk sitting around in the dirt. Those that caught his eye did so hopefully, as though expecting their Commander to go up there and slay the Dragon personally.
They have no idea how difficult it is to kill a Dragon, he thought despondently. They cannot comprehend it…
He thought momentarily of Sirannor. Gods, let him be all right…
Making a sudden decision, he hobbled through the group towards a couple of men who remained a little apart from the others.
The two barkeepers: Valeran and Middry.
Middry sat on the ground, sleeves rolled up, arms resting on his knees, eyes red-rimmed in his lean, weathered face. Valeran stood beside him, looking defeated.
Grisket lowered himself painfully to his good knee in front of the older barkeeper. Middry looked up at him, his normally shifty eyes now watery with grief. “Aldrin… was in the Guard House.” His voice was hoarse, thick grey moustache trembling.
Grisket put his hand on the other man's shoulder. He knew what it was like to lose a son. More than one. “And Brisk?” he asked quietly.
Middry shook his head. “Don't know. Gone.”
Middry, like Sirannor, had grown up a soldier, but after the death of his wife had retired for a quieter life in the Outlands. He had set up a tavern in Forthwhite, fiercely competing with the well-respected Valeran at the Hungry Deer. He was terrible at it: watering down his beer and fleecing his customers, and his two sons, bored with country life, were known troublemakers. But none of them had ever caused any real harm.
This barman was now the most experienced fighter amongst them.
Grisket caught his eye. “You're an old war horse, Middry,” he said. “Think you can protect these people?”
Middry just shook his head again.
“There's no sense in this,” Grisket growled in a low voice. “No sense in any of it. Gods know.” He gazed up at the smouldering hilltop. “There's nothin' we can do against Dragons. But I formed the Freeroamers to protect the Outlands against those punk Bladeshifters…” He tried to push himself back to his feet. “Damned… if I'm gonna… let 'em win!”
Valeran, noticing him struggling, stepped over quickly to give him a hand.
Bracing himself, Grisket unpinned his badge from his sleeve and shoved it into Valeran's aproned chest.
The portly barkeeper stared at the gleaming badge in astonishment. “But…!”
“I need someone to lead these people to safety,” he explained, face serious. “I'm not up to it. But everyone trusts you.”
“No,” Valeran objected, face going pale. “I… I can't!'
“I'll do it.”
Middry climbed to his feet and stood with his arm held out, palm upward.
Valeran eyed Grisket and quickly shoved the badge into his rival's calloused hand.
Grisket nodded at Middry approvingly. “Take everyone south to Skywater. Head across the plains west, then skirt the mountains, keeping to the forest road.
“If the Dragon attacks, flee into the mountains and hide till it's safe. I will join you when I can.”
“Where are you going?” Valeran asked.
Grisket gestured back at the cart behind him. “Got to get help for Cairan. Sunsee was on fire when I left; the infirmary's probably been destroyed. Next best place is Selvar.”
He hoped that Sel Varence, hidden as it was in a canyon at the edge of the Tentaryl Mountains, might be overlooked by the Dragons. It was the largest city in Daroria, home to eccentrics and experts from all over Arvanor. There was bound to be skilled healers there. Not all of them were entirely trustworthy, of course, but perhaps Mekka could help him in that regard…
It was a long journey, however, and he could only pray that the Centaur would survive it.
He steadfastly pushed thoughts of Aari aside.
“Good luck to both of you.” Putting a hand on each of their shoulders in turn, he turned and started limping back towards the dray.
Someone screamed.
People leapt to their feet in panic all around him.
The Dragon had lifted itself from the top of the hill, great wings beating the smoky air, glowing with an orange cast in the morning light.
But its attention was not drawn to the Humans.
Approaching from the south-west was a huge, dark shape, like an inky blotch leaking onto the blue fabric of the sky.
It came fast, trailing a black stain behind it.
As it neared, Grisket could see that it was Dragon-shaped, but deformed and monstrous, with too many spikes and long tentacles that whipped at the air around it. Its wings were skeletal, a ghostly mist swirling where skin had once stretched, and its head was a mass of razor teeth, its eyes empty, hollow sockets, like a skull.
“What in all the Gods of Arvanor,” Grisket breathed, “is that?!”
The Dragon above the hill roared, startling them all – a long, drawn out bellow that rose in pitch to a bone-chilling shriek. It flew to meet the black monster.
Whirling, Grisket yelled at Middry: “Go! Go now!”
Without hesitation, the barman started barking orders. His rough voice held a commanding ring to it that the villagers, shocked and terrified, obeyed without question. Gathering their belongings and children, they started running west.
Grisket hobbled as quickly as he could manage to Foxxin, and pulled himself up. The dray cart was already harnessed to the saddle. He had barely taken the reins when the chestnut horse, spooked by the collision of the two beasts in the air above, bounded forward and bolted across the plains, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.