The Winds of Ysgard - Part One

Rikhard had never seen so many people packed into one space before, yet the space seemed more than big enough to hold them all. He kept his head down and his hood up as he edged through the crowd, trying to find enough space to breathe. Why had Caradoc and Eoran brought him here? He supposed it must be better than starving in the wilderness. Here he could hide where no one could find him -- especially not the Captain.

Rikhard suppressed a shudder of loathing. His escape had been narrow, and more than eight years too late as far as Rikhard was concerned. The scars below his right shoulder seemed to throb at the very thought. Just as well, no more would be added to that number. Nor to the red, welted latticework his back had become, as long as he could help it. Now he was free, and alive. Maybe he could be safe, too.

The crowd shifted as a shadow fell over them. Rikhard looked up, and his jaw dropped. The scaled beast that spread its wings over them all was massive -- bigger than the biggest ships Rikhard had ever seen or sailed on. Was that a dragon? They were something he'd only known in stories; he never imagined he'd see one in the flesh. The force of its landing sent tremors through the soles of his borrowed boots.

Clearly something of great importance was happening here. Rikhard just wished he understood what.

 

"He cuts a fine enough figure," Loke admitted, watching the proceedings from the edge of the crowd. Watching Ferrun and his dragon, the old man, and the Wolf Queen standing on her balcony beside her heir. It was a dazzling picture. One for songs and poetry. But how much of it was real?

"He's not so impressive," Aster said, throwing him an apple and biting into hers. "Can't work out what the big deal is."

"Really?" he asked, watching apple juice trickle down her chin. "That's not what you said the first time you saw him. You called him handsome. There was swooning."

"I was flustered, overwhelmed," she said, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly. "It was the first time I'd seen a dragon."

He adopted his best 'swooning' pose. "'Oh Loke, did you see the dragonrider? You must see the dragonrider, Loke, in his shining armour. Such a romantic sight, Loke.' That's exactly what you sounded like."

She punched him in the arm. "Well he is pretty romantic. Besides, I noticed you dressed up all nice like."

It was true; he had worn one of his better tunics. Dyed a deep red and trimmed with golden thread in the pattern of angry serpents. His cloak was the same, with a gold pin that shared the serpent motif. They were nice enough clothes, he supposed, and in the style to which he was familiar, but they weren’t truly him. He was a rough man accustomed to rough things.

He was also accustomed to weapons, none of which he'd brought. He still carried a short seax on his belt, of course, but that was no true weapons. Merely a tool, capable of killing.

Loke turned and blocked a nostril, snorting out a glob of snot onto the ground. "The pomp is good," he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "It gives them courage, and the plentiful drink is nice too."

"And I never pass up a free drink." She raised her mug high. "One for me." She poured some into her open mouth. "And one for all our friends below." She turned the mug, pouring some out onto the ground.

He grabbed the goatskin around his neck and dribbled some out onto the stones. "Drink well, my friends. It is only because of you we get to drink at all." He took a sip then capped it.

He noticed Aster was grinning at something. Rarely was this a good sign, especially when directed at him.

"You smell nice, by the way," she said, covering a giggle by biting into her apple.

"I bathed."

"Just bathed?"

He threw her a glare, drawing his seax and carving off a piece of apple.

"No, no," she said. "It's nice. You smell nice. Dainty."

"Aster, you are my oldest and dearest friend." He slipped the apple piece into his mouth and started cutting off another. "Do not call me dainty."

"You're right. You're elegant, refined, finely scented."

He threw the piece of apple at her, catching her ear. She kicked the apple slice away but did not retaliate, merely grinning at her little joke.

"And how long will you be here to mock me?" he asked.

"I only stayed to see the dragon. I'll leave tonight, passed out in a supply cart, most like. Back to the front, glorious liberator that I am."

An awkward silence passed between them, as it often did when conversation turned to that of war.

"You could always join me."

He sliced off another piece of apple and dropped it in her mug. "You know I cannot."

"I know you won't. I'm not convinced that you can't."

"I can give only my word to its truthfulness." He offered her a wolfish grin. "As a friend."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm off to find a real drink." She poured the contents of her mug at his feet, splattering his shoes with cider, and a piece of apple. "It's always good seeing you, Loke. When you want to remember who you are, you can find me on the battlefield."

And that was goodbye, or as much of one as they ever said to one another. He would see her again, he was sure of it. Vyrhel favoured her, or was, perhaps, too scared to try and claim her life. Either way, he knew she would stand over his grave well before he would ever stand over hers.

He sliced off another piece of apple, chewing it as he returned his gaze to the bronze dragon. Not for the first time he felt a call within himself, one that had once spoken only to blood and battle. He had once been so sure, driven by his dreams and by the call of the blood. He knew his destiny was to fight and die. Yet he had survived, and now his dreams had changed.

For years now, he'd experienced the same dream, but now it came almost every night. He was falling, falling from above the clouds. Dragons circled down beneath, dozens of them, brightly coloured. Scales glinting in the sunlight. A dragon rises, and for some reason he cannot make its features out. It opens its maw and he is swallowed whole.

He knew nothing of what the dream meant and had not yet dared to ask the druids. Perhaps they would know, perhaps they would not. Which answer he feared more, he could not say.

"He truly is a hero to all free men!"

He turned around, finding an old man standing behind him, his wrinkled face so full of hope and admiration. And why not? It was a dazzling picture, after all.

"Oh, oh yes," he said, smiling a toothy grin. "Yes, he is the very image of inspiration." He turned back, his eyes once more fixing on the dragon. "And the man beside him has his qualities as well."

 

"Well, there he is," Einan said, rising up on his toes to see over the heads of the crowd. "The famous Farrun Dragonrider, Queen Hala, and her heir."

The queen's figure glittered, her resplendent mail throwing points of light all over the courtyard. Even from far away, Einan could see the calm, assured way she held herself, proud and poised as one of the old rulers of Ysgard, in the time when humans were free, before the time of slavery under the Yvalhyn. Beside her stood Farrun, looking just like any ordinary Dunman Einan might have seen in his own village, or at the trading posts in the valleys. But he knew this man was a dragonrider, and possessed power and magic beyond anything he had ever known.

Troia shot him a baleful glance from down below. "Thank you for narrating, Einan. But perhaps if we had picked a spot closer to the front, I would be able to see, too."

"Well, if we hadn't been so slow waking up this morning, we'd have gotten here earlier and found a better spot." Einan sank back down onto his heels and laid a hand on Troia's shoulder. She shrugged it off, a scowl plastered to her face, but Einan could see the tiny smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"You think he'll let us go with him?" she asked, reaching down to scratch the bases of Ari's pointed ears. The sled dog gazed back up at her with adoring blue eyes, his thick bush of a tail wagging ponderously.

Einan crossed his arms and stared at the figure of the dragonrider, squinting against the strong morning sunlight. "I don't know."

Troia sighed. "I...I'm still not sure about this, Einan. Leaving our homes, our families, our lives...for this?"

"It will be worth it," Einan said, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach. He reached out and took Troia's hands in his, and she stared up at him with unblinking blue eyes. He stared back, trying to impart some of his assurance in her mind.

After a moment she rolled her eyes and tugged her hands away. "You look like a spooked horse when you do that."

"Ah, shut up." He turned away from her and looked back across the crowd. This time, his eyes were drawn to the huge bronze dragon that stood beside the four humans at the front. The great beast watched the proceedings with impassive green eyes, its head held high. Rather like a giant cat, Einan thought, fighting to swallow the dryness in his throat. The last--or one of the last--dragons in the world, and Einan was seeing him with his own eyes.

"You know," Troia said, leaning in closer to him, "this day will go down in history. Think of that, Einan--we're part of history."

"Aye," he breathed, though he knew she couldn't hear him over the noise of the crowd. "That is something to think about."

 

On the edge of the courtyard, away from everyone else and even a bit behind Farrun and the seer, stood Bendalitz Agrippen. It was supposed to be quite the occasion, not that he'd dressed especially for it. The dark-skinned dunman wore his usual garb, a long, brown coat, over an elaborate purple waistcoat bearing golden embroidery of dragons wrapping themselves around him, as if constricting him like serpents.

He swept his coat behind him and tucked his thumbs in his belt, not caring that he was revealing the long, curved dagger at his side. The Left Hand of the Queen could get away with lots of things. He looked up at her, the Queen, stood there with her steel all a'shine and face all stern. She needed him. Not that she'd ever admit it, but she did. Perhaps not as much as she needed Farrun, though.

Bendalitz's earthy, focused eyes now flitted to the man himself, and to his dragon. He wondered the same thing he had on often an occasion. Was that the biggest one could get?

Ah, but what was this? A young woman approached the dragonrider. His eyes narrowed, brow raised. A hunter, a Caernishwoman. She was making a right fool of herself. Not used to the pleasantries of the Court. Well, Bendalitz knew he could hardly talk, the fishers' son that he was. Agrippen was long gone, to him. He carried on to better things, and was in no mind to stop.

 

A ripple of disturbance ran through the crowd; something was happening near the front. Troia bounced on the balls of her feet, trying to see what was going on. No luck. She forced her breath out between her clenched teeth in a growl of annoyance and flicked a strand of chestnut-brown hair out of her eyes. Einan looked down at her with one eyebrow cocked.

"Shut up," she told him, before he could start. "Something's happening."

Once more she tried to gain some height. Her weather- and wear-hardened leather boots creaked in protest as she strained up on her tiptoes, as high as she dared. For one moment, she caught a glimpse of a red-headed girl standing before Farrun Ramshorn, clad in skins and wearing flowers in her hair. She appeared to be addressing him. That was all Troia saw. Then someone jostled her from behind, and she felt her balance falter. Her head reeling with alarm, she stumbled backwards and slammed against something solid with an oof.

Whirling, she found herself face-to-face with a young man with dark curls and green eyes. Embarrassment sent a hot surge of blood rushing to her cheeks. "I'm so sorry!"

 

Rikhard stumbled back slightly as a woman in front of him fell into him. He moved to steady her, but she spun around before he could touch her. He blinked as they were suddenly face to face.

"It's alright," he said as the younger woman flushed scarlet. "No harm done. Do you have any idea what's going on here? I haven't been able to figure out much. Aside from the dragon." Though that was fairly obvious to everyone. Silly to mention it. He looked away, biting his lip.

 

Sighing, Troia reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. The embarrassed flush was draining from her cheeks, thank the gods. "Well, the dragonrider Farrun Ramshorn has announced he is proposing an expedition of sorts...to find the last of the dragon eggs, I believe."

Einan cleared his throat beside her, and she rolled her eyes, but obliged. "Sorry. I'm Troia, and this is Einan. We've come down from the village Firin, in the foothills, to see if we can join Farrun on his journey."

 

Rikhard nodded slowly, unsure of what to think. Dragon eggs? That was quite the expedition. Too lofty and important to involve someone like him.

As Troia introduced herself and her companion, Rikhard glanced between them and responded in kind. "I'm Rikhard. I'm from... nowhere, really." He couldn't even call his parents' island his home, as he'd been born on the open sea. Spent most of his life there, in fact. "I don't exactly know why I'm here."

 

"Good to meet you, Rikhard," Einan said. His eyebrows drew together. "'Nowhere'? However do you mean?"

He thought he knew, though. Not really belonging anywhere...never feeling that you had a real home. Though he loved his parents, and was grateful that they had taken him in and brought him up, he couldn't shake the feeling that Firin wasn't really where he belonged. He was different, after all.

He covered up his doubts with a smile. "Don't know why you're here? Well, maybe Destiny decided you belonged on this expedition as well, but just didn't bother telling you so."

 

Rikhard shrugged one shoulder. "I've been a wanderer since I was born. When you live on the sea, you're never in one place for very long. Every tide, every current takes you somewhere different. Even since coming to the land, I haven't found a home." He'd been lucky enough just to survive. If Caradoc and Eoran hadn't found him...

He shoved the thought away, listening again to Einan's words. Destiny, huh? "I don't know. I doubt I'd be much use to anyone. Happenings here on the land are as distant to me as the moon." He couldn't say the stars, for he knew those well, having charted them night after night. They always came in their right season, forming familiar patterns. But the moon was a mystery, always changing shape, sometimes hidden completely. Rather like the sea, in fact. He knew the currents and tides, but whatever lay in its depths was far beyond his reckoning.

 

"I'm sure you'll find your way in the world," Troia said, smiling.

Einan nodded silently, wondering what Rikhard's life had been like at sea. "I've never seen the sea in my life."

Just then, Ari pushed between them and barked at Rikhard. Though he wasn't as familiar with the dogs as Troia, Einan could tell there was no aggression in the sound--it was a short, sharp bark of inquiry. He wasn't sure that Rikhard would make the same distinction, though, so he bent down and tousled Ari's thick ruff. The big sled dog's one true master was Troia, and he adored her above all other people, but he liked Einan well enough. Tail wagging, he nudged his head against Einan's hand.

"This is Ari, the leader of Troia's sled team." Einan glanced up at Rikhard. "Don't mind his barking; he's perfectly friendly."

 

Rikhard looked down as a dog nosed between Einan and Troia and barked at him. He took a step back, unsure of whether the animal was being aggressive. Einan seemed untroubled though, ruffling the dog's fur and introducing it as Ari. Rikhard nodded, relaxing a little, and warily held out a hand for Ari to sniff.

 

Ari plunged forward, nose already snuffling the air, but at a quick word from Troia he sat down. He couldn't contain his enthusiasm, however, and he stared up at Rikhard with his tongue out, panting from sheer excitement, tail wagging as hard as Troia had ever seen it. Ari loved meeting new people.

"All right," she said, once the dog had settled down. He was a big animal, tall as her hip and weighing a hundred pounds or so, and she didn't want him frightening Rikhard. "Gentle, Ari. Gentle."

He stood up and moved forward with more restraint this time, nosing the hand Rikhard offered him, tail wagging at a slower, more dignified pace. Troia watched with a smile.

 

Rikhard held still as Ari approached him, and waited until the dog had nosed his hand before slowly moving it up to rub the top of his head. A smile tugged at Rikhard's mouth. "Good boy."

 

Bendalitz listened to Farrun's speech with a hand stroking his beard. How very interesting, to search for dragons in the mountains. He'd often found himself considering such a journey anyway. But surely better to do so with a dragonrider at your side. Assuming Bendalitz was picked, of course.

"Well, who'd have thunk it?" he said to himself as the Caernishwoman was picked. He reached into the satchel at his side and pulled out some parchment, along with a quill and inkwell, which he rested on the window ledge near him. He hurriedly dipped the quill in ink and went about noting down the features of the Caernishwoman, only physical features, for the rest would come later. No need to write a section for Farrun – he'd spent eight years in his proximity, and someone like Farrun is difficult to forget.