Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (12 page)

I shook off as much of the water as I could, used my shirt to wipe myself dry, and hoped that the sun would make enough of an effort to keep me warm. My short hair was soaked, sticking out every which way, and I sprinted back to camp, not giving my body the chance to succumb to damp clothing.

“Off to Benkor, then,” Rán said.

Sir Ightham and I were on horseback, leaving Rán saddled with the bags.

“Benkor?” I asked, but Rán was gone.

She pushed off on strong legs, launching herself in wide strides, while I matched Sir Ightham's pace. She was by no means going slowly, but we weren't tearing across the country as we'd done so for the past two days. I was glad of it. The scenery was no more interesting for having the time to take all the details in, but I appreciated the fact that my bones weren't being rattled around like the thoughts in my head.

“Wouldn't Calais take any bitterwillow?” I asked, smiling down at him.

“It wouldn't matter if he did. It won't have any effect for another few days,” Sir Ightham said, and I thought that if only bitterwillow always worked and worked and the body never needed a rest from it, the world wouldn't need healers and I wouldn't be in this mess.

“Right,” I said. I knew that. Of course I did; I'd spent seven years in an apothecary’s and could prepare the plants in my sleep. “What Rán said—are we really going to Benkor, Sir?”

“We are.”

Sir Ightham wasn't as talkative as she'd been last night. The dark circles under her eyes told me that Rán might not have taken over the watch after all, but I kept trying.

“But that's basically Kastelir, isn't it?” I asked. She looked to me, waiting for more of an explanation. “We had some traders come from there, a couple of times. Everyone said that they probably weren't Felheimish—they were probably Kastelirians who'd come in through Benkor. Anyway, the elders decided they had to be up to no good, because they're always trying to bring the wall down, right?”

“Are they?” Sir Ightham asked, and I thought they must have a higher class of rumour in Thule, because
everyone
in my village knew all about Benkor. Soldiers and mercenaries alike had slipped through Benkor to sell themselves to the highest bidder, back when the territories were still warring, and a handful of decades wasn't long enough to forge the fragmented pieces of centuries of strife into a
real
country. “Yesterday morning, you were certain a pane would eat you. Do try thinking for yourself.”

“But—”

But the King and Queen do their best to keep us divided
, I'd meant to argue, but Sir Ightham tugged on Calais' reins, and the pair of them sped off towards Rán.

I frowned. I'd been wrong about the pane – or about one of them, at the very least – but there was always word reaching the village about Kastelir's latest misfortune. A food shortage, a revolt, rebels trying to rend the country back into its former territories; monarchs being assassinated, or nearly assassinated.

Maybe she was right about one thing. Benkor was still within Felheim, and it couldn't be blamed for the Kastelirians who slipped through its streets.

We travelled for hours at a stretch, and Rán never seemed to tire. She'd stop to let us catch up, and though she charged ahead, she wasn't leading us.

“Can't say I know much of Felheim,” she'd admitted, letting Sir Ightham's compass do all the work.

As we went along, winding around scattered villages and hamlets, I decided that the monotony of riding was far better than the monotony of my old life. If I wasn't there, then I'd be sat at the same table, eating the same thing I did every morning, about to tend to the same chores I undertook every day; all in all, the fear of Knights coupled with the fear of the unknown was less unsettling than the fear of my village finally getting the courage to lynch me.

“Ah! Look at that, the town of Doevon, looking as strong as it's always been,” Rán would say whenever a mass of buildings barely came into sight, using a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “What say we take a little break there?”

“That's
Eltson.
” Sir Ightham always corrected Rán, who'd turn to me and wink. I think Sir Ightham knew that Rán was making a mess of geography to rile her up, but still, she took the bait with an exasperated sigh every time. “—no breaks until sundown,” she always added.

By the time the light finally started to fade, Rán was the only one of us who wasn't exhausted. We barely had to tug on the horses' reins to get them to stop. Sir Ightham rubbed her gloved fingers against her eyes, as if trying to make bruises out of the dark shadows beneath them.

We'd come to a rugged, hilly area, with sudden, rocky drops almost as tall as Rán was. It made for decent cover, along with a littering of trees, and Sir Ightham spent a few minutes consulting her map.

“There's a lake, a quarter of a mile off. I'll fetch water and fish,” she said. There was a note of finality in her words; she didn't want help refilling the waterskins, nor did she want anyone pointing out that we had food enough to last us another day. As she left, she said, “Go gather firewood,” and didn't wait for me to reply.

“That one always bossing you around, is she?” Rán asked, for a moment seeming smaller, now that the ground had claimed our bags.

“I want to be useful!” I said, but huffed out a hint of a laugh. I'd spent most of the day trying not to smile whenever Rán teased Sir Ightham, and it was easier to relax when it was just the two of us.

“Come on, then,” she said, crouching down. “I best be helping you out.”

“You mean... ?”

Rán reached over her shoulder, patting between her shoulder blades.

Her intent was clear, but I still hesitated. I held my hands out, stepping towards her slowly, waiting for her to howl with laughter, because I'd
really
tried to clamber up on her back. She grinned down at me, saying, “Hurry up—don't wanna keep that dragon-slayer waiting, do we?” and I bundled my fingers around the orange cloth swathed around her shoulders.

Rán hooked an arm under one of my knees, hoisting me up high enough to wrap my arms around her trunk of a neck. When it came to standing, she gave me no warning; she rushed to her full height quickly enough to make my head spin, and I felt her throat rumble with fond laughter against my arms.

“Grab onto my horns if I go too fast,” Rán said, and I clung onto them immediately.

There was a strange texture to them. They were unlike bark or bone, stronger than a ram's horns; I could feel grooves and scrapes under the pads of my thumbs, could see faint traces of patterns that had once been carved into them, but had grown out with age.

Rán set off at a sprint, and I was almost knocked back by the force of it. I clung to her horns and didn't let go, even when I was confident I wouldn't be thrown back, peeking over the top of her head as she charged through the trees. When she said she'd help, she meant that she'd do all the work; Rán grabbed low hanging branches as she bolted along, tearing them off trees, ducking down to scoop up any that had already fallen.

I laughed until it hurt, heart pounding with the speed of it all, almost slamming my jaw against the back of Rán's head as she ground to a halt. “Reckon that's more than enough,” she said, jostling the wood in her arms. She didn't gesture for me to get down, so I wrapped my arms loosely around her neck, leaning into her as she wandered back to camp.

“I guess you can't tell me what you and Sir Ightham are up to, can you... ?” I asked, inexplicably hopeful, thinking Rán might've scrounged together enough of a reason to trust me.

“You guess right, yrval,” Rán said, flicking one of the sticks back and thwacking my forehead. “As much as I'd like to tell you, I'd like it even more if there was nothing to tell.”

Disappointed though I was, I was glad of it, in a way. I didn't want Sir Ightham knowing I'd gone behind her back, not after what she'd said last night.

Still, as we approached the camp, I couldn't help but ask, “Have you fought one before?”

“Fought what?” she asked, not missing a beat.

“A dragon,” I said. She'd called Sir Ightham
dragon-slayer
so many times that it ought to have been obvious.

“Dragon?” she said with a short, sharp laugh. “Who said anything about dragons?”

We were back at the camp before I could express any bemusement. Sir Ightham returned as we did, greeting us with a sceptical look that soon became a frown. She had a few fish roped together and held tightly in a fist, and had been expecting the fire to be roaring by the time she returned. Rán knelt, lowering me to the ground, and I got used to my own feet as Rán set the sticks down and Sir Ightham set about bundling them together.

Without warning, she threw the largest fish in Rán's direction. Rán caught it in one hand and began tearing into it without any regard for the small bones. I watched out of the corner of my eye, more intrigued than disgusted. I'd slaughtered animals on our farm since I could wield a knife, but it was unsettling to see a creature go from something to nothing in a matter of moments.

I stood over Sir Ightham as she pushed the remaining fish onto spits, and it occurred to me that she'd never said anything about dragons. I'd come to those conclusions, and she'd merely hummed along with them. I folded my arms across my chest and turned from the fish she was cooking.

“... you're really used to doing all of this?” I asked, because it was better than accusing her of—something. Of letting me believe one thing and telling Rán a different tale altogether. “Cooking, I mean. Don't Knights have servants for everything?”

“I'm perfectly capable of preparing my own meals,” she said, moving to sit cross-legged in the dark. “Besides, it would hardly do to travel with a band of servants.”

“Well,” I said, settling down closer to Rán than to her. “I'm more of a servant than a squire, really.”

Rán laughed at the cost of almost choking on her fish, and though Sir Ightham's eyes were fixed firmly on the fire, I did what I could not to smile. It was true, for all it mattered, and I didn't mind. Running errands and carrying things was better suited to my current skill set.

Sir Ightham said nothing. I was surprised that my fish didn't end up burnt.

“This
is
good,” I said to appease her, to try luring her back into the conversation, but she wasn't even facing us. I hadn't been lying; the fish was as interestingly cooked as fish over an open fire could be, and hot food was the exact thing I needed in order to nudge me towards sleep.

I leant against Rán, picking small bones from between my teeth as she told me about the time a pirate raid had turned into an extensive fishing expedition, and found myself glancing over at Sir Ightham time and time again. She ate in quick, clean bites, wasting neither time nor food, and the moment she was done, immediately started to rummage through one of her bags.

I leant to the side, trying to get a glimpse of what she'd carried halfway across the country, but after a second of searching, she rose to her feet and turned to us, sword in hand.

It wasn't the dragon-bone one – neither the scabbard nor hilt were white – and the one she'd used to fight off the bandits still hung at her hip.

“Why do you have two swords?” I asked.

“To fight with both hands,” she stated, “On your feet.”

“What?” And I'd just got comfortable against Rán, too. “Why?”

“It's your own doing; you said you were more servant than squire. We ought to fix that, if you're to travel with us.”

Rán betrayed me, taking Sir Ightham's side. She shrugged, as though there was no way to rebuke Sir Ightham's point, and nudged me to the side. I ended up on my feet, if only to avoid being knocked over, and had little choice but to go through with it.

We headed a short distance from the camp fire, where the light still reached us without the fear of tripping over a bag or into the flames.

Sir Ightham unsheathed the sword, not trusting me with that much, and held the weapon out, hilt-first. I reached out tentatively, frowning up at her, giving her a moment to realise that this wasn't the best of ideas. Years spent swiping sticks in the air and pretending they were blades fresh from the forge had done nothing to hone my imaginary skill.

I wrapped both hands around the sword to stop the tip of the blade pointing towards the dirt, trembling as I tensed my arms, strangling the hilt in my grasp. I focused on it so hard that any enemy could've come in and run me through and I wouldn't have realised straight away.

Once the sword was finally steady, Sir Ightham said, “It's a one-handed weapon.”

She demonstrated with her own blade, pulling it from her hip and holding it out as though it was a roll of parchment. I grumbled nonsense but refused to give up, and slowly freed the hilt from one hand. Sir Ightham held her own sword out in her left hand, but it hardly looked comfortable to me.

I strained my wrist, determined to stop the sword from trembling. When it finally obeyed me, I looked up at Sir Ightham, not expecting praise, but a nod of acknowledgement, surely.

She took a step forward and knocked the sword clean out of my hand.

“Pick it up,” Sir Ightham said, but my entire body was on edge, like the shock of ringing metal had sent a shudder straight through me. Sir Ightham wasn't prepared to let me gather my senses before the blade. “Your sword. Pick it up.”

She used her own blade to gesture at it, and I ducked down to retrieve it, lest she lose the last of her patience and strike again. It went on and on: I held the sword out, Sir Ightham made a lightning-fast movement, and it was stolen from my grasp. Becoming frustrated didn't help. I told myself that I only had to hold the sword. I didn't need to swing it, didn't need to block, didn't need to worry about moving my feet or arms, and yet every time, Sir Ightham disarmed me without the slightest hint of effort.

“I'm not
getting
it,” I half-growled, stubbornly stabbing the blade into the dirt and wiping my clammy palm on my trousers.

“It's been less than an hour,” Sir Ightham said, “If you were getting it, I'd have to hang up my helm.”

I tried to scowl, but she was right. I'd spent the last seven years performing necromancy, and that came as naturally to me as reading did for Michael. I let my shoulders slump and picked the sword back up. If nothing else, I could hold it without it wobbling, most of the time, no matter how sore my shoulders were going to be in the morning.