Page 5 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Five

S ince I stayed up far too late translating the map, morning comes faster than I would prefer.

The directions eluding Aeron’s understanding detail a path through Glas Fían , now known as The Veridian Wilds. Through here, we’re instructed to travel with the sun on our left shoulder until midday for three days. We’ll need to venture away from the road, over the river, and to the base of the mountain pass. The valley on the map is called Bealucwelm . That isn’t the name anymore, but I can’t remember what the humans call it now. We’ll travel through Bealucwelm, and rather than take the mountain pass, we climb the western peak to a cave where the dragon awaits.

I hope they realize what a credit to my profession I’ve proven to be.

I stretch my stiff joints, a soft whimper escaping my lips. I’m not used to riding, especially not for so long. Every muscle aches its reminder, and the thought of another day on that horse makes me want to cry.

I grab my vellum and quill.

The pain of a new road traveled pales in comparison to the pain of a life spent waiting in the wings.

There. That’s better. I stretch again with newfound verve, reveling in the twinge in my hips and the pricking behind my eyes. Dragging myself out of my bedroll, I untie the flaps to my tent.

Jaromir douses the fire while the others ready their mounts.

I missed breakfast. Would have been nice to receive a wakeup call.

I crawl out into the bright light of a new day. The sun is high in the sky, midmorning if I were to guess. The notes of birdsongs trill through the air.

Cadoc and Neith have already packed their mounts and are watering the horses before we depart.

“Good morning!” Aeron is bright and cheery with his armor buckled into place and beaming like a beacon.

“Morning,” I say back with a yawn. “I assume you already broke fast.”

“Afraid so, but Jaromir said not to wake you.”

Did he now?

I spin around to find the man in question has already emptied out my tent and is now breaking it down. My lute rests neatly against my pack, and my bedroll is already rolled up nice and tight.

I’m no fool, I can recognize a favor when I encounter it, but I don’t want any favors from him. He’ll likely use it against me, claiming I can’t pull my own weight.

“I can pack my own items.” I snatch my lute from the ground. It swings and nails me square in the shin.

Jaromir finally glances at me.

I will not reveal how much my leg hurts. No, I will not.

“You woke late. I wish to make up the time.” He nudges past me, pausing to grab my lute. His large hand claims the strap, brushing against mine. I disregard the way my nerves buzz from his touch and rip my hand away.

“Only because I spent half the night making your map legible, and you didn’t wake me.”

Jaromir ignores me and trudges past.

“Did you really?” Aeron bounds over to me, and I pass off the parchment complete with my translations and explanations. “I could kiss you!”

Jaromir scoffs, the sound impressively filled with derision for only a single syllable.

I ignore Aeron’s praise for the moment. I’m too angry at the way Jaromir behaves. I storm after him, frustrated that he won’t halt his movements to engage in a fight with me. “I’m assuming you didn’t save me anything to eat.”

“You have apples in your bag,” he calls over his shoulder and continues toward the mounts as if I’m nothing more than another item to pack.

I reach into my sack, yank one of my apples out, and hurl it as hard as I can at his retreating form.

I don’t know why I do this. Maybe I’m cranky from hunger, or maybe I’m sick of the way he acts like I’m a burden. Perhaps I just want to see the look on his face. But the apple sails through the air and lands square between his shoulders with a loud thump !

Jaromir stills, slowly turning to face me.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t terrifying to receive a death glare from such a massive man. But I don’t lie, I inform the truth. Instead of terror, I decide this is the rush of facing down my foe. I’m sizing up my opponent. My very large and angry opponent. I lift my chin and pull another apple from my bag.

His eyes blaze, and a preternatural stillness comes over him.

Since I’m decidedly not afraid, and we’re apparently facing off in a pissing match, I stride right up to him and take a bite of my apple. Loudly and inches from his face. The juice from the fruit squirts onto his chin and neck. I’m sure there’s a filthy joke about that somewhere in the back of my mind, but for now I’m content to revel in the flash of surprise on his face. His nostrils flare, and his dark brows draw together. His gaze dips to where I’m still chewing, and his mouth tightens.

I take another bite. “Sorry,” I say around a mouthful of apple. “I meant to say, catch.” I push past him, pleased with the exchange.

I’ve always been adept at making new friends.

With rest comes clarity, and with clarity—inspiration. Too bad I can’t write while we ride, not legibly, at least. But I marvel at life on the road. The sun streaking through trees and dancing along the dusty road, the trill of songbirds in the morning, the rhythmic clopping of our horses’ hooves in a steady trot.

Aeron peppers me with questions, and the more I answer, the more Jaromir tenses up behind me. It’s a game. Aeron asks me about my life, and I make sure to answer in the most verbose, long-winded manner I possibly can, and with each word, I seep beneath the skin of the man at my back. And here I thought I wouldn’t be able to find entertainment.

“How long were you at that tavern—what was it called? The Broken Horseshoe?”

“The Rusty Nail,” I say, laughing. “It’ll be two years come winter. Originally, I hailed from Smarighad. But you know how it goes…”

Namely, the elven raids forced thousands of us from our homeland. I maintain my chipper demeanor and shove thoughts of childhood away. “I managed to stow away on one of the merchant vessels, and I spent the better part of five years living in Bridgebarrow before scraping together enough coin to travel from town to town in Mysture proper.” Nothing I’ve said is a lie, but the unspoken truth coils in my chest. “I spent some time in Elmwood and Birchfield before I settled in Hollowden. For a temporary reprieve, of course. I needed to refill my artistic well before tackling a city like Lindale.”

“I see. And what about those years traveling? You’re no stranger to adventure, it would seem.”

Adventure. That’s one way to put it. Another is uncertainty, hunger, and pickpocketing. “Quite right. I made a name for myself in the local taverns. You’re lucky you caught me when you did, otherwise I might have been moving on to bigger venues. Then where would your map have taken you?”

Jaromir sighs, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck. If he doesn’t stop breathing so damn heavily, I’ll put my cap back on. I don’t care if it bothers him, it’s gorgeous.

“I should say so! We’d be utterly lost without you. It was fate, our joining.” Aeron grins at me, and my answering smile feels easy and unrehearsed.

Something tightens around my waist. I glance down to find Jaromir’s arms have closed the gap above my hips, his hands clenching the reins.

I turn, taking in the hardened lines of his face. “Do you need to relieve yourself?”

Confusion steals his expression. It’s a nice change from the surliness. “Huh?”

“Do you need to relieve yourself? You’re tensing, and the leather is all twisted in your grasp.” Memories of a particularly unpleasant night resurface. “It reminds me of the time I went berry picking. Kingsley told me the red ones were fine but to avoid the purple ones—but he didn’t stipulate the magenta berries. Imagine my surprise when those were the ones to avoid. Well, it was too late. I’d already eaten several fistfuls, and I suffered some of the worst stomach cramps of my life, shedding my trousers for the night, otherwise I’d have soiled my smallclothes for sure. I made it a point to discuss the differing shades of colors with him. One man’s purple is another man’s—”

“No, I don’t need to shit.”

“Fine, fine.” I wink at Aeron, who has been watching the entire exchange with a strange expression. He urges his horse to the front.

I lean my head to each side, stretching out my stiff neck. Next time we stop, I’ll take some time to stretch out every kink in my poor body. I’d kill for one of Kingsley’s shitty grogs. It burns going down but numbs by the time it hits the stomach. Once, I drank two cups, and it was as if I was floating.

“You’re sore.” Jaromir’s deep voice scrapes out from behind me.

“Riding nonstop, preceded by never at all, will do that to a person.”

I reach back to squeeze the ligaments connecting my neck to my shoulders. He transfers the reins to one hand, and with the other, he nudges my hand out of the way to massage my neck.

I freeze, unsure how to respond, until gradually the tension melts into relaxed pleasure pricking at my sore muscles.

His touch is warm and firm as he applies the perfect amount of pressure to the spot that aches. My eyes slip closed, and I don’t even care that an embarrassing groan escapes my lips.

His voice ruins the magic of his hand. “This is the first time you’ve been quiet.”

Prick. Utter prick.

He wishes for silence? I’m a bard, not a djinn. I clear my throat and prepare one of the bawdiest tunes I know.

“ Way up in Lindale

there once was a lass

with cornsilk for hair

and a shapely ass

the menfolk adored her

she possessed great aplomb

for all of her bedfellows

got a thumb up their bums!”

Cadoc begins singing along, waving his arms in the air as if conducting an entire troupe. I’m not surprised he knows this song; it’s rather popular. Neith tries to hide her smile, and Aeron laughs loud enough to drown out my voice.

Jaromir drops his hand, and I almost miss his touch. But not even temporary muscle relief is worth giving him the satisfaction.

The day is far too beautiful for his nonsense. Dappled sunlight dances along the path, verdant leaves forming a canopy above. Bright yellow flowers dot the grass, and I want nothing more than to snatch them from the earth to carry with me.

“Buttercups,” I say. “I was told they tasted like butter. I’d collect them up, stuffing my cheeks as if it were the finest delicacy. I was convinced I just I hadn’t found a ‘ripe’ one yet.” I laugh at the memory of explaining to my da how Tanniv said I had to chew them up to release the flavor when I suffered a bout of painful stomach cramps after eating them. “Even if they don’t taste like butter, they are pretty.”

Jaromir says nothing, of course, because the man has a stick lodged so far up his arse, he’s choking on it.

Aeron’s horse rears up ahead. He’s stopped in the middle of the road. I crane my neck, trying to see beyond Cadoc and Neith.

Four riders trot up the path. They’re dressed awfully light for travel, no saddlebags or supplies. But their swords catch my eye. One man, the one with his blond hair tied in a knot, even has two swords, their hilts jutting out over his shoulder. Weapons aren’t what put me on edge. Everyone carries a sword or dagger or bow. Survival extends beyond fighting, and some need to hunt their own food. No, it’s the look in his eye that gives me pause. The narrow glint of hunger I’ve seen on the face of many a man.

The hunger for a fight.

Instinctively, I shrink back into Jaromir’s chest. His hold on the reins and around my body tightens.

“Good morning,” the blond man says, a cold smile cutting across his mouth. He glances back at his companions, as if weighing their reactions.

Three men flank him, forming a tight-knit circle behind what I can only assume is their leader. Or at least, the man they want us to believe speaks for them. It’s a well-rehearsed maneuver, all four of them fitting together as if they’ve done this a hundred times.

My mouth goes dry, and without thinking, I thread my fingers through Jaromir’s. I know he’ll shake me off, but I need something to hold on to.

He lets me squeeze his hand and makes no move to pull away.

“Where might you all be headed?” the blond man says, letting his gaze rove over each of us, assessing. When his stare snags on me, he pauses before shifting Jaromir in his sights. It’s a subtle thing, an upward flick of his gaze over my shoulder, but the way his grin spreads across his face sends a chill down my spine.

I squeeze Jaromir’s hand hard enough my own aches.

“We are embarking on a noble quest.” Aeron’s using his hero voice again, and he thumps his fist against his spotless chest plate. “A quest for—”

“—the finest drinks this side of Mysture.” Cadoc cuts Aeron off, shooting him a look I can’t see from back here, but I can guess is a warning to shut his mouth.

“Are you now?” The man is watching Jaromir again. I want to turn around and ascertain what he’s doing to draw his attention, but I’m afraid it will signal something I don’t intend. “Where you coming from?”

“Hollowden,” I call out. Why I do such a thing, I can’t say, but it’s out, and once I start speaking… “A bit small for my taste. I’d much prefer to explore Lindale. I’ve heard they boast the finest taverns in the country. But really, any will do. I can appreciate the rustic feel of The Rusty Nail, but I heard their swill can burn a hole in your gut and the proprietor once killed a man using nothing but a spoon.”

I might not have heard that rumor so much as started it, but the way the man winces tells me my tale has made the rounds. I have a tendency to talk when new customers and travelers visit, and what better way to pass the time than to share all my theories about Kingsley. He’s killed a man with his bare hands, I just know it.

Jaromir shifts behind me, one hand still clasping mine as the other reaches for the hilt at his hip.

“I heard about that tavern owner. Said to be seven feet tall and strong enough to lift a horse.”

Oh, I forgot about that rumor. I tighten my lips to keep from smiling.

“Seven feet? At least that.” I pretend to shiver. The image of Kingsley—massive, but I wouldn’t say seven feet—and his tiny Brigitta dancing around the tavern last Winter Solstice, fills my mind. She had wrapped her arms around his neck as he spun her, her feet dangling and never reaching the floor.

“You seem to speak quite easily from the back of your group. Why don’t you come closer and tell me more of your travels?”

Ice runs through my veins.

Jaromir tightens his arm around me. “We’re done talking.”

I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or the man, but I clamp my mouth shut.

The man arches his brow, rubbing his jaw. “I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. There’s no need for any misunderstandings.”

“I understand just fine.” Jaromir grips the hilt of his sword now. My heart punches against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. There’s an energy to his stillness, it vibrates through me. As if at any moment he’s about to spring into action.

After a moment, or an eternity, the man chuckles and nods. Waving his friends to follow, he slowly rides down the middle of the road, through our group. When he comes to Jaromir and me, he pauses.

“Enjoy the day.” His mouth wears a smile but his eyes remain hard. He kicks off, and it isn’t until he and the others disappear that I finally release my hold on Jaromir’s hand. His skin bears the bite of my nails, and my palm is sweaty.

Jaromir wordlessly urges his horse into a canter, and we plod down the road. Aeron and the others follow suit, seamlessly shifting back into our typical riding formation—Aeron at the helm, Cadoc and Neith claiming the middle, and us taking up the rear. No one seems to want to break the silence, and we push forward, putting that bend in the road and those strange riders behind us. The tension in Jaromir’s arms grows tighter with each passing moment, caging me in and closing around me as his horse kicks up a cloud of dirt beneath its hooves.

Whether Jaromir’s issue is the threat of danger, or the dissatisfaction of a fight avoided, he hasn’t let up his grip on the reins. I don’t know how much time passes, but by now the sun has sunk in the sky and trickles through the lower branches of the forest.

Aeron glances over his shoulder, his mouth quirking to the side as if debating his next words. Finally, he speaks: “They seemed like decent enough folk.”

Perhaps he should have taken longer to deliberate.

“Fuck,” Jaromir says. He halts our horse and slides down, nearly toppling me. “Truly, Aeron?” He runs his hands over his face.

“We don’t know what they wanted, not really,” Cadoc offers. He turns to Aeron. “Though I’ll advise you again to stop telling everyone we meet what we’re doing.”

“How else will we make history if no one knows of us?” Aeron asks with a shrug, as if we hadn’t just encountered that tense standoff.

I slide off the horse, wobbling when I hit the ground. “That’s what I’m here for! Allow me to decide when and where we spout our stories. I know what I’m doing.”

“You?” Jaromir turns on me and advances. Everything in his gait is agitated, aggressive. I back away, stumbling over the dip in the road. “You are the last thing we need. You shouldn’t even be here.”

Bastard. I’ve proven my worth ten times over, and still he treats me like a burden. He doesn’t even deserve the energy it would take to argue. I’ll simply ignore him, so he knows how insignificant he is. “Everything was fine until you started your little glaring contest with the man.” Well, I almost ignored him.

“My—” His words stall, and his face turns red as a beet. “I’m the reason you’re still standing and not face down in the dirt.”

“That’s balderdash, and you know it!” I prod him in the chest hard enough my finger aches. He catches my hand before I can do it again, drawing me in close. His eyes never leave mine, and my stomach flips.

“You’re a liability.” He drops my hand.

The tips of my ears burn.

“You’re a hotheaded prig and most likely to die by the sword, if I don’t strangle you first.”

He blinks at me, his jaw clenching against whatever insult he’s holding back. It only now occurs to me how closely we’re standing. Warmth radiates from his body. Waves of tension roll off him as if every muscle in his body is pulled taut.

I can’t tell if I feel hot or cold. Cold, I think. It’s a tingle through my legs and a sinking in my stomach. Yet caught in the force of his dark stare, my cheeks burn.

“Jaromir, walk it off,” Neith calls from her mount, rupturing the silence of our staring contest.

He glares at her, and suddenly I’m free from whatever spell we were caught in. I turn my attention to Neith, a much safer sight. Jaromir is a bulwark of anger, but she doesn’t even flinch under his hard gaze.

Finally, Neith rolls her eyes. “If ye wish t’behave like a child, so be it. Syl can ride wi’ me.”

It takes a moment for my legs to move. Warmth thaws out my previously frozen posture—the warmth of gratitude for Neith in the moment. I reach a hand up to her, and in my periphery, Jaromir stands in the middle of the road, watching me with an unreadable expression. The strap of my lute cuts diagonally across his chest, and for some reason, the sight of it is enough to make me hesitate.

His mouth doesn’t move, and yet I can sense he’s holding something back. Probably another insult.

I grasp Neith’s arm, and she swings me into the saddle behind her.

Problem solved.

As we ride, I glance over my shoulder. Just once. Jaromir sits atop his mount, indecision stealing his composure. His dark eyes meet mine, and for a second, I think I might see regret. But that would be ridiculous.

I turn my eyes and thoughts to the horizon. To what lies ahead.