Page 14 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Nine

Rosomon

I fight to disguise my terror, but Prince Tynan barely glances toward the line of those of us deemed too small. Taking his horse’s reins, he strides toward the cloaked man, who’s now standing in front of the group he selected.

“Is this the best Achotia has to offer?” Tynan asks with obvious disdain in his voice.

A boy in simple clothing runs from the wagons. When he arrives, Tynan hands him the reins for his horse without even acknowledging the boy, who leads the prince’s steed to be fed and watered, along with the other horses.

Saxon doesn’t acknowledge Prince Tynan’s question. Instead, he takes a firm stance between the group of the larger men and the dragon, folding his arms across his broad chest. Tynan stands to his side, a pace behind him.

“I am Master Saxon,” he says in his deep booming voice. “I am one of three dragon masters at camp.”

The men all straighten their postures.

“Should your offer to volunteer for camp be accepted, very few of you will survive training, and even fewer will be accepted upon a dragon’s pommel. But those lucky few will serve to protect the Seven Kingdoms of Light in the most heroic manner—guarding the veil from the Darkness.”

No one was talking before, and yet a noticeable hush falls over the group, as if everyone stopped breathing, as if the winds stopped blowing and all the birds stopped chirping just to hear Saxon speak.

My heart stopped beating but starts back up with a fury.

I’ve met many men in my life, men of noble birth and those who lead armies, but I’ve never encountered a man who exudes pure power like Saxon. And I’ve never felt so intrigued by another person alive.

I wish I’d been chosen for the group standing near to him. I wish I might yet have a chance to be chosen. At this moment, I’d follow him anywhere.

The largest of the potential recruits, a thick boy with shortly cropped orange hair and an angry demeanor, steps forward and raises a double-headed axe.

“I am Ivyn, and I’m prepared to battle any of these men to earn my place at training camp.” He swings his axe, then takes a wide stance, facing Saxon.

Another stocky young man steps forward, his cube shaped head accentuated by his flatly cut cobalt blue hair. “I am Amis and need no weapon. I can strangle any one of these men with my bare hands.”

Behind Saxon, Tynan chuckles with an abundance of arrogance, confirming my assessment of him from last night.

“Combat skills are important for dragon riders,” Saxon says calmly. “But such things can be taught at camp. In selecting volunteers, I seek other characteristics, traits far less obvious from the surface.”

I lift my chin. If what he’s saying were true, then why did he cast aside the smallest of us?

Tynan steps forward. “Master, why not let them demonstrate their skills nonetheless?”

Tynan’s words are shocking on two levels. First, that he dared to interrupt Saxon, and second that a Prince called another man ‘Master.’ The contrasting anomalies fight in my mind, but Saxon grins and drops his arms from where they’ve been crossed over his chest.

He and Tynan back toward the dragon, and based on the glance shared between them, I suspect that their exchange was a planned act.

“Go on then,” Saxon says to the group. “Show me what you can do.”

Many of the men and boys draw their weapons, others tackle each other, and the field erupts into a disorganized battle. Not that I’ve seen a real battle, but I’ve witnessed soldiers as they trained.

Weapons clank and men grunt as they battle to demonstrate their skills for Saxon. Someone has a flail, and its hammer swings out on its chain as he spins and mows down three of the other men, who land with a thud on the field. At least the heavy weapon didn’t strike anyone in the head.

For the moment, I’m glad I wasn’t chosen.

“Enough!” Saxon shouts.

Most of the men stop fighting. Many are injured, limping or visibly bleeding. But two pairs of men don’t stop. They continue fighting with their heavy weapons. One is the man who called himself Ivyn.

“Surath!” Saxon shouts.

Without even bothering to move, the dragon sends flames towering up toward the heavens and then down to scorch the field.

All of the men stop.

The fire quickly extinguishes in the damp grasses, but leaves a blackened line across the field.

One of the men from the sword battle has not risen, and Saxon strides toward him.

“This man is dead,” Saxon says. “Which one of you slayed him?”

The men with sharp weapons all glance at each other, and then back to Saxon, as if trying to guess whether it would be more advantageous to claim the act or deny it. Ivyn casts his gaze down, even though I can see his axe is soaked in blood.

A muscular man steps forward, his sword held high. “It was me, Master.”

Saxon frowns. “You have not yet earned the right to call me master.”

The man goes down on one knee, like a knyght would do for his king.

“Was this killing intentional?” Saxon asks.

“Yes, mas…sir. I always swing my weapon with intent.”

“On your feet,” Saxon says, with clear irritation. “And leave here, now.”

“But—” The man staggers to his feet, clearly confused.

“Leave. Now.” Saxon’s booming voice fills the entire field. “Or Surath will have you for dinner.”

The bulky man runs away, lumbering as he drags his sword down the long field.

Saxon turns toward the rest of the men. “Dragon riders must have strength and combat skills, but loyalty, duty and common sense are far more important. Intentionally slaying a compeer is unacceptable and will result in immediate expulsion from camp.”

Behind Saxon, Prince Tynan shakes his head, as if disagreeing with this no-killing policy, but the dragon master doesn’t see him.

“Now,” Saxon says, “it’s time for your first test.” He looks around the group of larger men. “Each one of you must approach my dragon. Once there, you will lay your hand upon her scales.”

A slight grin flickers on his face. “Which of you dares to be first?”

As if carried by a strong wind, the entire group Saxon picked shifts back, moving until they’re very close to our line.

But then a man steps forward. It’s Ivyn, the overly muscular man who first joined the line. “I’ll do it.” He raises his weapon, a large, two-headed axe.

“Do you mean to behead my dragon?” Saxon asks.

“No, I, ah.”

Saxon laughs. “Even if you tried, you could not harm her with that.” Saxon gestures toward his dragon. The sweep of his arm dramatically lifts his cloak, once again revealing the strong shape of him underneath.

“Approach Surath in the manner you see most fitting,” he tells the group. “If she accepts your approach, you’ll be safe. Is she does not…” He shrugs. “Not all who volunteer are destined to mount a dragon.”

Axe raised, the muscular young man charges toward Surath. “Submit to me, dragon! You do not scare me!”

Lazily, as if bored, Surath turns her head and opens her mouth. Instantly, the young man is consumed in a ball of flames. Screams rise, but none of them are his. Reduced to ash in moments, Ivyn didn’t have time to scream. Men and boys scatter like mice into the woods.

As I come out of shock, horror rises inside me, but it’s quickly replaced by fury.

I stride forward. “You said it was unacceptable to slay a rider candidate!”

Saxon turns toward me, and his glaring look stops me cold in my tracks. “I said no candidate may intentionally slay another. Surath is not a rider candidate, nor a potential recruit. She is no compeer of any of you, and she does as she pleases.”

I blink. What just happened is horrific, and so was his letting it happen. But Saxon’s reasoning isn’t as inconsistent as I first assumed.

“Should you volunteer for camp.” He addresses the whole group. “You will witness many deaths. You’ll see your fellow candidates incinerated. You’ll see many fall to their deaths or slain during combat training. And, if even a single one of you becomes a fully-trained dragon rider?—”

“Unlikely,” Prince Tynan interjects.

Saxon’s neck tightens at the interruption. “Once you are dragon riders,” he continues, “you’ll see your compeers come to even more horrific ends while defending the veil.”

A shiver traces through me. I’m now thoroughly grateful I was not chosen.

“Rosshall.” Saxon turns toward me. “Given your boldness, perhaps you should be the next to approach Surath.”

“He’s too thrixing small,” Tynan says. “What’s the point of that runt even trying?”

“Rosshall must either make an attempt right now or leave this field.” Saxon addresses his words to Tynan, but he’s looking directly at me. He’s daring me. He thinks I will cower.

I’m no longer sure that he recognizes me from yesterday, but it’s clear that he wants me either gone or dead.

Looking into his mysterious brown eyes, flashing under the midday sun, I accept his challenge. Last eve, at great peril, I escaped from the castle to save my life. How cruel it would be if my life ended the very next day, felled by a dragon’s yawn.

But I’ll not back down from this challenge.

Trembling, I step forward, thinking about how Saxon spoke to Sky Stallion, how I do so myself, and how Saxon seemed to speak to his dragon. A dragon is a beast like any other, and most beasts respond better to calmness and kindness than aggression.

I draw deep breaths as I slowly approach her.

Even though she’s lying down, her lower jaw rises to my height.

This dragon would fill our entire dining hall even with her legs bent and wings folded, and no chance could she fit in the room with her wings spread.

Her jaws open revealing teeth as sharp as sabers and as long as my forearm, although it’s hard to be precise in this state of mind.

As I get closer, the dragon’s beauty becomes even more apparent than her ferocity.

While she seemed a silvery teal from the sky, I now see that each of her scales glimmers with a different metallic hue.

And each one moves independently, making her skin flicker, as if her body’s in constant flux, even at rest. As her size becomes more and more overwhelming, I remind myself to stay calm, to show her respect, but not fear.

In this way, it’s not so different from approaching my father.

“Hello, Surath,” I say softly. “I’m Rosshall.”

She turns her head toward me and snorts. Plumes of steam flow from her nostrils threatening to scald me. But while I feel intense heat and moisture, I remain unharmed.

I calm myself, waiting patiently, and she seems to calm herself too.

Her head turns away from me and again rests on the ground.

One of her eyes is now pointing directly toward me.

Its dark, obsidian-like facets are moving, and I detect tiny images of myself reflected back, turned in every which way.

I take another step forward. The challenge is to touch her and live. “May I tell you a secret, Surath?”

She snorts, but this time aiming forward, so I’m well away from the steam.

I step even closer.

“I’m not a boy,” I whisper, as low as I can, so that no one else on the field can hear me. “My true name is Rosomon. But please, can you keep that just between us? It’s a secret.”

The facets of her eye shift, almost giving the appearance that she’s blinked, although her eye has no lid.

“May I touch you?”

Another blink.

Slowly, I raise one of my hands and slide it onto her scales at the side of her massive neck.

I draw in a sharp breath. She’s slightly cold to the touch, but far softer than I could have ever imagined. She feels like velvet. The texture is comforting, and I’m so weary that I lean forward to let her skin brush my cheek.

A surge of energy flows through me, one that’s hard to describe. It’s like I can feel the dragon’s caged power, but also her kinship, her understanding. Surath is not only letting me touch her, she’s inviting me to.

Sliding my hand higher, I stroke her neck, loving the sensation of the rippling scales beneath my palm. As if reacting to my touch, her scales flutter, and I add my other hand, my cheek still pressed against her, as if we’re in an intimate embrace.

I’ve not embraced any soul beyond a horse, not for as long as I can remember. When they were little, my brothers allowed me to hug them, but after they reached the age of nine years, their nurses shamed them for it, and I was deprived of further displays of affection.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the dragon. “I’m grateful you shared this moment with me.”

Surath snorts, and her scales shift under my touch.

Removing my hands and cheek from her, I step slowly back, keeping my eyes on her, as I marvel at her power and beauty.

I sense Saxon coming up behind me, just before his hand slides onto my shoulder to stop me.

He leans down. His lips move close to my ear, and he whispers, “I was certain you’d run. Well done. Too bad you’ll never be a rider.”