Page 6 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Six

W hen morning comes, I’m ready for it. Rising before the sun, I sit by lantern light—surely a fire hazard within these tent walls—and scribble away. I long to see all the world has to offer. To sing on every stage in front of hundreds of people. To bear witness as the sun hits the highest peak of The Hoarfrost Mountains or lie beneath the glittering stars over the flatlands. But sometimes, all I want is the familiar scratch of my quill against parchment. Here, the world fades and words spring to the surface. Words have always been easy. They’re both the bridge and the great divide. Words bring me into stories—into worlds I might never have known. They give me strength—a shield against what lies out there. Behind words, I can disappear until all that remains is a faint whisper. A flicker of a story spoken in hushed tones.

Words can be a boisterous tune or a quiet confession.

In the darkness of my tent, my words come to life.

The adventurers faced down a nameless threat. For greed knows no limits. Greed of wealth, of power, and even greed of suffering. It can lurk in any shadow of any man’s heart. The watchful demon waiting to pounce. But Aeron’s crew was unafraid, for any danger they encountered, they would fight together.

I stare at the page until the words blur before my tired eyes. It sounds better than, We came across some strange folk. Possible veiled threats were launched. Jaromir yelled and hasn’t spoken to me since.

I sigh and lower my quill. The first rays of dawn bleed through the gaps in my tent, and it’s time to greet the day.

I won’t miss breakfast again.

Shoving my vellum and quill into my satchel, my knuckles brush against something soft. I feel around until my fingers close around my target.

It’s a small, crumpled yellow flower. A buttercup.

How in the bleeding shades did this end up in my bag? Perhaps it’s another sign of good fortune. I spin the flower between my fingers, and tuck it behind my ear. It will likely fall out, but it seems as good a place as any to keep it.

Pulling my tent flaps back, I find Jaromir already seated in the middle of our camp, a fire burning in the center stones. His broad back faces me, and I take a moment to admire the way the orange light frames his form.

He turns. “You were up early.”

Of course, he heard me. The man has the ears of a wolf.

I disentangle myself from my tent and straighten my filthy tunic. What once was stark white has faded to a beige-brown, covered in dust and grime. I desperately need a bath. Kingsley’s soaps are calling to me. With as much dignity as I can muster, I saunter to my place across from him.

I feel his gaze on me, and it burns like a brand. But I don’t meet his stare until I’m sitting. He’s examining the flower tucked behind my ear, his jaw tightening. The full force of his dark eyes makes something flip in my stomach.

I clear my throat. “Yes, well. You made it abundantly clear yesterday that I held up travel.”

His brows draw together as if in confusion, and he gives a little shake of his head. He seems to start several sentences judging by the way his mouth opens and closes, but no words break through.

“What’s for breakfast?”

He reaches for the sack at his side and tosses it to me. Though the canvas is pulled taut as if full, its contents are light. I reach in and pull out a loaf of bread. It’s been baked in the Bjovian style, its crust is a glossy sheen from the honey and butter that was painted on before it baked.

Kingsley makes this for special occasions, and my stomach gives a pang at the thought. Or at the hunger gripping me.

I glance in the bag. There are several more just like it.

“We had these all along?”

Jaromir pokes the fire with a stick and nods.

“And why am I just finding out about it now?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, pushing it out of his face. For the first time, I notice the small circles of onyx in his earlobes. He doesn’t seem the type to wear any sort of adornment, and I’ve never seen such simple pieces as these, but they’re oddly becoming on him. Again, my stomach leaps. I must be starving. “Do you want the bread or not?”

Rolling my eyes, I take a large bite. The taste is just as I remembered, and I nearly moan. “So,” I say around a mouthful of the best damn bread I’ve ever eaten, “how many days ’til we reach the next town?”

“Three days at the pace we’re going.” He watches me with an unreadable expression, so I take another bite large enough I can’t close my mouth to chew. His brow puckers. “Two if we can move at the pace I’d prefer.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all mapped out.” My words are garbled by the massive bite I’ve taken.

His mouth twitches. “Not really but I thought I could make it up as I go and pretend it was all intentional.”

I cough as a bit of bread gets lodged in my throat. Pounding on my chest, I ask, “Did you just make a joke?”

Jaromir shrugs, and this time it’s more than a twitch curving against his mouth.

It’s an actual smile.

It’s small, and a little lopsided. His face must be a bit rusty. I’ll endeavor to earn a few more of those.

“Welkin above,” I say, placing a hand on my chest, “you’ve scandalized me. Now, if you pissed on the fire to put it out, or got so drunk you danced the Hawthokian jig naked, I wouldn’t bat an eye, but an actual joke?”

He sighs, and on its edge, I detect a growl. “You always fill the air with chatter.”

I laugh. “Of course I do. And you fill the air with contempt. I’m merely bringing balance to nature. Two sides of the same coin, we are. Perhaps you and I were meant to share the same fires all along.”

He eyes me with an expression I can’t put my finger on. “Perhaps.”

The day settles into a haze of riding, endless trees, and scorching sun. The air seems to tremble with the heat. Sweat rolls down my back, and I bundle my hair into a knot. Neith doesn’t sigh or growl or make any sound to draw my attention. She’s a quiet rider, unless Cadoc drums up a conversation, which she’s more than willing to carry with him.

I didn’t ask to ride with Jaromir, and he didn’t offer.

I glance over my shoulder. His gaze darts away, too quickly for me to know for sure if he was looking at me.

Aeron is wilting upon his horse. That armor must be boiling. He’s been reminded numerous times to take it off, lest this summer heat cooks him from the inside out. But he’s remained steadfast in his decision.

“When they tell this tale, they shall marvel at my strength of will and fiber. Not even the elements could sway me.”

Even though I am quick to remind him that I can say whatever I want, he has a determined commitment to realism.

I respect that.

The buzzing hum of the cicadas is near constant, and somehow the sound makes the air even hotter. I mop my brow with a spare kerchief. Dusk can’t come soon enough.

“Once, I wished to be a juggler.” Aeron’s voice is weak, faded.

What a random thought. I love random thoughts. “You what?”

He flashes me his hero smile—the one that’s all teeth and dimples. If he didn’t have that glazed look in his eye and the threat of heatstroke reddening his cheeks, I might have felt its effects. “Once upon a time, I wanted to be a juggler. I practiced for days. I even purchased my own set of balls—”

Cadoc’s laughter cuts through Aeron’s story. He shoots him an exasperated look and continues. “I wanted the eyes of a crowd. To be that which they marvel at. An image they carried with them long after they’d gone.”

“You wished to accomplish all this through juggling?”

He shrugs, and the metallic clang of his suit is a reminder of how far he’s willing to go for glory. “When I’ve returned to the earth, I want something of me to remain. I suppose that’s why some people have children. But even the bond between parent and child is precarious at best. I wanted to find a way to connect with strangers. One is less likely to face rejection amongst strangers than with one’s own family.”

I don’t know about that. But there must be personal truth to such a statement. While he is overheated, that much is clear, there’s an honest clarity to his words. I blink the stinging sweat from my eyes. “Again, through juggling?”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I’m not a very talented performer. I can’t carry a tune, I gag at the idea of swallowing swords, and learning an instrument seemed too difficult.” His expression turns sheepish. “Turns out juggling was too difficult for me as well.”

Is that all it was? Is the life of a performer, an artist, simply a scream into the void? The fear of being forgotten made flesh.

No. It’s more than that.

I recall the day I knew my life’s purpose. I’d stowed away on The Maiden’s Revenge and been in Bridgebarrow for three days. My stomach was raw with hunger, a sharp ache that cut deep. I stumbled into the market square, and the most beautiful sound carried over the rumble of the crowd. Perched atop a stack of crates, sat a woman with deep umber skin. Golden hoops ran the length of her ear peeking out from beneath her velvet hat of cornflower blue. A large violet feather swooped out from her cap. The rest of her ensemble complimented the color, but I remember that giant feather swaying with every strum of her lute.

Though the city guards sneered at her and made a few remarks I didn’t understand, she ignored them and even earned a few coins from passersby. Her voice was thick and soulful, and the words she sang were in a language I didn’t know. But I felt her melancholy. I felt the weight of sorrow and loss. When she plucked the last note, a wide grin spread across her face. She leapt up onto the crates and began strumming a jaunty tune. How she was able to slip into a completely different persona, a different feeling—it was like shedding a cloak.

It was simple and magical.

I knew that was for me.

I did what I had to do to survive. The rusty knife I slept with became my means to opening pockets and collecting enough coin to eat. Most days. And with my time, I watched. I watched her play, how she angled her fingers, the pattern of strumming, and committed it all to memory. When she stopped appearing in the market, I assumed she moved on to a new town.

I shove memories of the unnamed bard from my mind and flash Aeron an eager smile. “If you still wish to learn to juggle, I could teach you.”

Aeron’s smile grows so wide, his nose and freckles crinkle. Utterly adorable. “Really? I admit, I’m rather hopeless at it.”

“I’ll keep my hopes safely diminished to avoid disappointment.”

He laughs, loud and bright. Everything about the man is bright. Like the sun fighting its way through a keyhole.

I should write that line down. I twist, searching for something I might be able to reach in the saddlebags, when I feel it. It’s a prickle of a thing. I lift my gaze to find Jaromir staring at me. This time, he doesn’t look away. His dark eyes, intense and thorough, are fixed on me. Something hardens in his stare, and a crease appears between his brows.

“Something troubling you, Jaromir?” I can’t help it. He’s just staring, and it’s making my skin flush. Worse than it already is.

Before he can respond with what I’m sure would be a symphonic series of grunts, a thrumming noise vibrates through the trees.

Jaromir tilts his head, listening. It almost sounds like the cicadas, but louder and… angrier.

There is a rustling in the trees, and it grows more frantic. The buzzing is overwhelming now, and even my teeth are vibrating. Something breaks through the trees, branches snapping and leaves shuddering.

Now the buzzing is all-consuming. I can feel it against my skin and in the over-firing of every nerve.

Of course I’ve heard the tales of forest beasts. Oversized creatures one only uncovers when deep in the woods where man has yet to settle with any permanence. I’ve even told a few of those stories.

This is different.

This is real.

A swarm of giant beetles—the size of wild hounds—surrounds us. The sun glints off their shiny black shells and the noise they make shakes my ear canals. A shiver runs down my back, and my throat burns. It’s a high-pitched drone, and it’s settling over me like a thousand pricking needles.

Neith yanks me to the ground and shoves me behind a hollow log. She stands, positioning herself in front of me, and draws a sword and dagger from her back and hip. She cuts and slices with expert finesse, never appearing winded as she wields her longsword. It reminds me of how Kingsley would chop wood, namely whenever Brigitta was watching. He’d cut the axe through the air swiftly enough to create his own wind. The force of Neith’s strikes blows the hair back from my face as she cuts down a beetle flying dangerously close.

The others are fighting, swords flashing in the midday sun. Cadoc wields dual daggers. His reach is limited, but his speed is incredible. His weapons spin, slashing and slicing, but with the grace of a choreographed dance. Like the gamemaster switching and rearranging the cups to hide the ball from view. Once he’s dispatched the beetles surrounding him, he yanks his bow from his back. His hand flies to his hip quiver, fast as lightning, and he turns to face us. A nock of an arrow, a pull, and whoosh . It sinks with a loud thwack , a giant beetle landing hard and heavy beside me.

The beetle’s mandibles open and shut a few times, pincers clicking, and I’m sure that honeyed loaf is going to make another appearance. I cover my mouth, eyes watering against the gagging of my throat.

Jaromir holds his sword steady, turning and twisting steel with the ferocity of a warrior. His face is tightened, a pucker of concentration between his brows, but in his eyes there’s a glint of… amusement? Pleasure? As if he was honed for this. He’s still wearing my lute strung across his back, and though for a moment I fear it might get damaged, I quickly squash that thought. He’d stripped his leather jerkin, so beneath his thin tunic, his hard muscles ripple with each pass of his blade. He cuts and conquers with an exquisite grace.

Now this, I could write a ballad about.

“Have at you!” Aeron calls out, dueling against a trio of giant beetles. His footwork is tentative, and his sword is too heavy. It trembles, casting a shaky beam of light on the ground.

Neith follows my line of sight and groans. “Stay down.”

Her command rings in my ears as she leaps over the log to assist Aeron. I peek out from my hiding space, excuse me, my surveillance spot, and I spy Jaromir once more. His dark hair is matted with sweat as he bares his teeth against the onslaught. A beetle creeps up behind him, pincers snapping. He’s too busy with the four he’s facing to turn and cut it down.

I feel around, hands shaking until I find a rock the size of my fist. Leaning up, I throw it with every ounce of strength I have. It lands with a sickening squelch, black blood spurting out of the beetle’s body. It doesn’t fall, but it lets out a blood-curdling screech which is enough to get Jaromir’s attention. He turns and slams his sword down, bisecting the creature. It falls in a pile of mangled bits.

A sharp cry rings through the trees. I turn to find Neith gripping her shoulder, biting down on her lip. Red blood spills between her fingers. Jaromir surges forward, lopping the last beetle in half.

Silence fills the packed dirt road, nothing but the sound of a slight breeze whistles through the trees. Insectoid carcasses litter the path, and we’re all coated in varying amounts of black blood.

Except Neith, who grimaces at the wound in her shoulder.

Cadoc is already at her side, pulling out supplies and bandages. “We’ll get this cleaned up in no time,” he says.

She nods and keeps her stare fixed on him while he works.

It’s much too quiet, much too bright in the forest now. I can still feel vibrations in my teeth.

A shadow dots out the light, looming over me. I glance up to find Jaromir, his face a mask of concern. He crouches and examines me. Running a hand along my jaw and chin. “Are you hurt?” His voice is both harsh and soft, somehow.

“No.” For once the words don’t tumble out of my mouth. The place where my words usually lie in wait, ready to spring forth without my permission, is hollow. Despite the heat, my limbs feel cold and tingly. I touch Jaromir’s face, if only to see if he flinches.

He doesn’t. He holds my stare, and I want to look away, but I can’t. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Jaromir gently takes my hand from his face before pulling me to stand.

“Neith, are you all right?” Aeron’s voice rings out, far too loud in the heavy silence. He extends his hand as if reaching out to touch her.

“Your incompetence could have gotten her killed.” Cadoc shakes his head, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he wraps Neith’s shoulder.

Aeron’s mouth falls open, a sputtering noise escaping. “Me?”

“You can barely hold that bloody sword, and you’re wearing heavy plate armor in the middle of summer. She wouldn’t have had to cover you if you cared less about playing hero and more about being smart.”

Aeron’s face falls, and his gaze upon Neith turns desperate. “Neith… I would never—”

“Dinnae fash,” she grinds out between gritted teeth, refusing to meet his stare as Cadoc finishes dressing her wound. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s a blooming miracle you haven’t been killed for your witlessness,” Cadoc says, glaring at Aeron.

Several heartbeats of awkward silence fill the air. Aeron’s cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are glassy. Finally, he speaks. “The risks were made clear. This is the job you signed up for.” He marches up to Cadoc, his armor clanking with every step. “No one is forcing you to follow me. You’re being paid handsomely, and if the coin isn’t enough to command your respect…” He lets his voice trail off and spreads his arms wide.

A line drawn in the sand.

Cadoc clenches his jaw and firms his lips, fighting against whatever unsaid words dance on his tongue.

Jaromir tugs me gently toward his horse. “Neith, ride with Cadoc. I can tether your horse to mine.” He lifts me up as if I weigh nothing, and I scramble to grab ahold of the reins. “We can travel far enough from the nest to camp safely but call it an early night. Neith needs to preserve her strength.” He gives her a nod, and she answers with one before allowing Cadoc to help her to his horse.

They are behaving rather strangely. Sure, it’s a deep gouge of the flesh, but Neith looks like she can handle herself. Why are they treating it like a mortal wound?

Jaromir settles in behind me, and my heart kicks into double-time.

Aeron frowns and opens his mouth as if to speak.

“Do you take issue with this?” Jaromir beats him to it. He’s far more observant and diplomatic than he seems.

Aeron sighs and nods, mounting his horse without another word. His shoulders carve in on themselves, and he keeps sneaking glances at Neith.

“She can’t ride with her shoulder injured?” I can’t help but ask, but I keep my voice low enough for Jaromir’s ears only.

“It isn’t the wound but the venom.”

Venom? “Oh.”

“She’ll be fine,” he says quickly. “But she’ll face a night of fever dreams and disorientation. Depending on how much she was struck with. I didn’t want to risk her falling from her horse.”

Giant beetles. Venom. Fever dreams. These are the types of things I’d kill to write about with enough detail to enrapture an audience. But stories are so much safer when they live in your head. Out in the world, it’s too real. It’s been ages since the reality of the world was impossible to ignore. I’ve lived quite comfortably in the safety of my own stories for far too long.

We make camp while the sun is still high. Neith disappears into her tent as soon as it’s set up, and Cadoc follows closely behind. Aeron casts a longing glance at their departure, his stare lingering long after the tent flaps flutter closed.

At dusk, it’s only Jaromir, Aeron, and me who sit around the fire. Cadoc appears long enough to retrieve food for him and Neith before once again disappearing behind the flaps of her tent. Embers float high in the sky as the three of us sit in silence.

I don’t reach for my lute. I let the quiet wash over me. Fill me and rattle me. Until finally I can’t stand keeping my eyes open any longer.