Tarin Rook was never where he was supposed to be.
He wasn’t a shirker. Hard work was part of his life, as it was part of everyone’s life in Warrensgrove. When plowing, picking, seeding, or hauling needed to be done, he was there, right alongside his mother and father. His working hours were spent diligently, as expected, but when the afternoon hour chimed, and he was set free, he disappeared as fast as his feet could carry him—and he was fast. He had to be, to outrun the discerning gaze of his father and the worried shouts of his mother.
“Be home by moonrise!” she’d say, or, “Keep wide of those guardsmen!”
Tarin listened to her. Mostly. His father would only stare after him when he ran off, and the weight of his gaze was warning enough.
It wasn’t as if he could go far, after all. Paytharin County was one of the larger counties in the interior, but it was mostly farmland. Warrensgrove was the smallest village, perched on the bend of a waterway like a growth of lichen, and everyone who lived there tended the Paytharin orchards. The village itself was little more than a gathering place for the orchard families, where they could buy their sundries and jostle for what meager positions existed.
Tarin hated it.
He preferred to fish the banks of the river or head into Paythar, the only real town in the whole county. There were always barges to see, most of them stacked high with foodstuffs and sundries for the rest of Vax Caldera. Sometimes, other vessels plied the waters, but only if they needed to stop on their way between the capital and the royal palace. This far into the interior, boats rarely carried anything but food and farming goods, and if they did, they never put in at Paythar.
Paythar was to Paytharin County what Warrensgrove was to the fruit orchards—a place for offloading the yield. The difference was the Paytharins themselves. They made their residence in Paythar, rather than a manor somewhere in their county, which brought an industry all its own. They weren’t a large house, nor were they important in the succession, defense, or management of Vax Caldera, but they were wealthy enough to enjoy more luxuries than their neighbors.
Paythar, though it was half a day’s walk from home, was at least interesting. That was how Tarin felt, and that was what he told Horn when he’d suggested this little adventure. They could fish the riverbanks any day, but today was special.
Today, the Choosing caravan had stopped at Paythar’s docks.
“Are you sure about this?” Horn asked for the fifth time. “It could be a story. Folks are always telling stories.”
“I’m sure,” Tarin said. “Old Burt’s son came back from there just this morning. Three Royal Barges, he said. One of them carrying the Prince!”
Horn scoffed. “The Prince rides a dragon, Tarin. Why would he travel on a barge?”
“Not that prince,” Tarin said, “the little one. His son.”
Horn made to open his mouth, but Tarin tugged him to the side of the road as a cart trundled past. The driver waved to them, lounged on the shoulders of his ridgeback, and Tarin waved back. The wagon was a massive, three axle contraption with wheels as tall as Tarin. It carried a load of meat—the ridges of ribs were visible under the cloth covering them, and trickles of blood dripped from the back of the cart.
“Did you see that?” Tarin said, pointing at the cart as if it proved his point. “Why carry all that meat into town? To feed the Prince’s dragon, maybe?”
Horn rolled his eyes. “I thought you said it was the little prince. He doesn’t have a dragon.”
“You’re missing my point!” Tarin made an annoyed grunt and pointed down the road, where Paytharin loomed in the distance. “Maybe there’s another dragon in Paythar. Maybe it’s meant for the Choosing. That’s supposed to be tomorrow, right? My point is that it means something, Horn. This is way better than fishing.”
Horn frowned, hugging himself as if he could shrink smaller. It was hard, for a boy Horn’s size. He was small already.
“I don’t know, Tarin,” he said. “All these people make me nervous. What if the Prince is there, like you say, and his guards see us? They’ll beat us, probably, or maybe hang us.”
Tarin scoffed. “They don’t hang you for just being there, Horn. You have to do something wrong.”
“You really think that?”
Horn gave him a piercing look, and Tarin deflated.
“We’ll stay out of sight,” he said.
Horn’s glare made Tarin self-conscious of their clothing. It marked them as surely as their sun-browned complexions and worn boots. Neither boy wore coats of any family’s color, and their low station would be obvious to everyone. That wouldn’t get them beaten, but it wouldn’t make them friends, either.
“Come on,” Tarin said, tugging Horn along.
Sighing, the smaller boy followed.
They weren’t the only ones who’d heard the rumor. Folk were thickening the road as they got closer to Paythar. Most were farmers from the lands closer to the county seat, but some were from other counties entirely. There were even a few noble carriages trundling along, one even being pulled by a feathered Strider. The massive bird kept its black eyes on the road ahead, its pupils dilated with the bond of its driver, who sat atop the carriage.
“I think that’s the first one I’ve seen,” Horn said, gaping as the creature loped past. “I’ve heard stories, but never seen one.”
“That thing would rip us apart,” Tarin said. “Their handlers have to keep them caged when they’re not under the bond. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”
“Why?”
“They eat people,” Tarin said, shrugging. “That’s what my dad says.”
A shadow darkened the sky, and both boys looked up—a winged form circled high above, neck and tail extended. Its profile marked it for a dragon, and a big one. Its scales glittered black in the afternoon sun, and then it was gone, passing into another cloud.
“Did you see that?” Horn said, pointing at the sky.
Tarin gave Horn a self-satisfied grin.
“Now, then—tell me you’d rather be fishing.”
They fell in with the throng of people as they neared the front gate, aligning themselves with the natural flow of traffic. Carts kept to the middle of the road, while folks who walked kept to the edge. The carts were lined up, one after the other, at the gates to Paythar. Tarin counted six of them waiting, their drivers sitting with impatient expressions.
Ten guardsmen stood at the gate—more than Tarin had ever seen. They wore white coats with red trim, and there wasn’t a stain amongst them. All but their officer, a man with a single knot of rank on his shoulders, carried a musket. They were hard-eyed and clean-cut, and they made the Paytharin House guardsmen, who stood behind them, look like amateurs. Their officer stood speaking to a cart driver, his hand resting on the hilt of a saber hanging at his side.
“Those are Royal Guardsmen!” Horn said, tugging on Tarin’s sleeve. “Royal, Tarin!”
“The Prince must be here, then,” Tarin said, nodding. “Come on!”
Surprisingly, the Royal Guardsmen waved them through. It took only a glance to see that Tarin and Horn carried no weapons. A burly guard waved them through after a single look.
It sent a thrill through Tarin’s bones. The Paytharin House guards were always suspicious of farmhands in town, especially up-streamers like Tarin and Horn, and they tried to discourage them from coming into town whenever they got the inkling. The Royal Guardsmen, however, waved them through with barely a glance. Most of the people walking got the same treatment, though a few were forced to surrender blades or pistols.
It was the carts they seemed to care about. Their officer spoke with every driver, and even as Tarin and Horn were waved through, he mounted the steps of a massive cart and peeked inside. Before Tarin could see what he found, he and Horn were ushered through the gate.
Paythar wasn’t a large town by any measure, and its streets weren’t meant for all the visitors. Tarin ended up dragging Horn through the streets, ducking into alleys where they could, and making their way slowly toward the docks. The alleys were little better than the streets, as the normal drunks and flameroot addicts who haunted Paythar’s streets were now pushed into the alleys. Tarin upset one when he stepped too close to the man’s foot, and they had to beat a hasty retreat from his slurred curses.
They made their way down two more alleyways before Tarin found a stack of crates against a promising wall. Horn climbed atop the crate and was just able to reach the edge of the building’s roof. Tarin gave Horn a boost, and the smaller boy slipped over the edge. Tarin was tall enough to jump and grab it himself, and with a little help from his toes, scrambled to the top.
Tarin had never been atop the roofs of Paythar before, but he thought this building was a small shop that bordered the docks. Scrambling over its short, sloped rooftop revealed the sign on the other side. It depicted a blue sailing knot on a white field.
Horn had already found a nice spot on the edge of the rooftop, and he motioned Tarin over to sit.
People filled the street along the docks, pressing shoulder to shoulder to get a look at what was tied to Paythar’s wharves. Tarin and Horn weren’t the only ones who had the idea to climb upon the rooftops. People dotted the roofs on the street all down its length, huddled in groups of twos and threes. He and Horn were just lucky to be the first ones to find this building.
“Beasts and blood, Tarin,” Horn said, pointing out at the docks. “Look!”
There were indeed three massive barges docked in Paythar’s meager excuse for a port. All three were flagged in the royal white and red, but one was clearly grander than the others. It was three decks tall, and sloped battlements decorated its upper deck. Royal Guardsmen manned those battlements, holding their muskets at the high ready. The barge even had a trio of cannons sitting one deck above the waterline, so the ends of their barrels were kept above the river.
The Royal Guardsmen had taken over the docks entirely, allowing no one upon the wharves. Other ships were moored out in the river, but none were docked. A line of Royal Guardsmen held the crowd at bay, keeping everyone back.
Intense excitement filled the air, as if the Prince might appear at any moment. Some people even shouted from the street, “My Prince! The Royal House!” as if they could summon his attention.
A shadow passed once again over the ground, but when Tarin looked up, he saw nothing through the clouds.
“Do you think he’s really in there?” Horn said, nodding toward the largest of the three barges. “The Prince, I mean.”
“It’s got to be someone important,” Tarin said. “Why else would they have all those cannons?”
“I hope he comes out,” Horn said, settling down to watch. “He’s supposed to be our age, right?”
“Younger,” Tarin corrected, shaking his head. “You’re younger than me, Horn. And he is younger than you.”
Horn frowned. “How do you know that?”
“My dad said so,” Tarin said, settling in beside his friend. “He’s supposed to turn seven this year. That’s what the Choosing is about.”
Horn’s eyes went wide, and he brightened.
“You think this is about the new egg?”
“It has to be,” Tarin said, shrugging. “The Prince’s son is old enough to bond a dragon now. And there’s a new Stormscale egg. It just makes sense.”
“You think it’s in there now?” Horn said, turning his gaze back to the trio of royal barges. “The hatchling, I mean. A real Stormscale, here in Paythar?”
“I don’t know about that,” Tarin said. “Why would they bring it here? And besides, there’s supposed to be a bunch of hatchlings at the Choosing, not just the Stormscale.”
“Right,” Horn said, “but the Stormscale is what everybody is excited for. The Heir rides the first Stormscale in three generations, and now a second one is born. And just in time for his son to come of age? It has to be a sign, Tarin. It has to be.”
Tarin scoffed. “A sign from who?”
Horn threw his arms wide as if the answer were obvious.
“From the blood, Tarin,” he said. “From the dragons. From Zerath herself.”
Tarin chuckled. “And what? You’re a soothsayer now? Are you going to start issuing prophecies like the sorcerers of old?”
Horn deflated, his cheeks reddening.
“It’s got to be a sign. That’s all I’m saying,” he muttered. “It’s got to mean good things for Vax Caldera, right?”
Tarin sighed. “Whatever it means, things won’t change for us. We’ll still be picking fruit, whatever happens with the Prince and his son.”
Horn shrugged at that. There was nothing he could say.
The crowd thickened as the hour grew long. More and more people crowded to the rooftops lining the street, some of them spreading out picnic blankets. Tarin’s stomach grumbled as he watched a girl bite into a steaming meat pie. She caught him watching and made a face, and Tarin looked away before she could see his embarrassment.
Soon cries of “Make way!” and “Clear the street!” sounded from a nearby intersection.
A commotion began as people were jostled from the path of something out of sight, and the Royal Guardsmen had to intervene. Soon a familiar ridgeback plodded its way into the street bordering the docks, ignoring the angry shouts of the people in the crowd. The big reptile simply plodded forward at the instructions of its driver, a placid blink being its only reaction to the shouting. Behind it trundled a cart stacked high with meat.
Horn shot to his feet.
“See? Maybe the hatchlings are there,” he said. “What else eats that much?”
“What I want to know,” came a voice from behind them, “is what a pair of vagrants are doing sitting on top of our father’s shop.”
Tarin stiffened at the tone and depth of the voice behind them.
He turned to find five boys standing on the other side of the sloped rooftop. They were of various sizes and shapes, though they all bore the same wide noses and split chins. Tarin counted them, oldest to youngest, eyes flicking to their hands and waists. None carried weapons, but they didn’t look friendly.
“My brother said,” spoke a second, “what are you vagrants doing on our father’s roof?”
“We just wanted a place to watch,” Horn said, holding his hands up in surrender. “We don’t want any trouble. We won’t hurt anything.”
“We promise,” Tarin said. “We just want to see the Prince.”
“And the hatchlings,” Horn added.
The youngest three of the brothers traded thoughtful glances, but the face of the oldest darkened. Upon seeing his older brother’s face, the second oldest mirrored his brother’s angry expression.
“We don’t suffer vagrants,” said the eldest brother. “What are you? Upstreamers, come looking for scraps?”
“We came,” Tarin said through his teeth, “to see the Prince.”
“Definitely upstreamers,” said the second brother. “I can hear it in their accents.”
“Boy,” snapped the oldest brother, glaring at Horn. “Where are you from?”
Horn sputtered, looking to Tarin for help, and Tarin silenced him with a hand on his arm.
“Listen, we don’t want any trouble,” Tarin said. “We didn’t realize we would offend you by being here. If you’ll just let us pass, we’ll go on our way. No trouble.”
Again, the youngest three brothers shuffled in place, but the oldest shook his head.
“You’ve already caused us trouble,” he said. “We had to climb up here in the first place. Three times our father’s shop has been burglarized in the last season. Three times! And here you are, huddled on his roof.”
“That wasn’t us,” Tarin said. “We don’t even live here. Like you said, we’re from—”
“It doesn’t matter where you’re from,” snapped the second brother. “You probably came here to steal things you don’t have upstream. To steal them from our father.”
The eldest boy stepped forward, knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists.
“Now hold on,” Tarin said, stepping between the eldest brother and Horn. “Just wait a second—”
Tarin didn’t see the punch coming, but maybe he should have.
The older boy, who was at least four years Tarin’s senior and outweighed him by a quarter stone, slammed his fist into Tarin’s gut. Tarin lost his breath mid-sentence and doubled over, stars flickering in his vision. One of the other boys shoved him, and he fell to the sloped rooftop, sliding toward its edge. He reached out with his hand and stopped his slide, but only just.
Horn yelped as the oldest boy reached him, and Tarin fought to rise.
“Stay down,” said one of the youngest brothers, coming forward as if to threaten him. Tarin climbed to his feet instead and raised his fists for the fight.
Tarin wasn’t a large boy, but he wasn’t small either. At fourteen years, he was right at middle height for his age, but farm work had strengthened his body. He wasn’t sure how old the brother facing him was, but Tarin was the larger. He made one threatening move toward the city boy, and the brother backed off, eyes wide.
Tarin turned back to Horn.
The eldest brother held Horn by the nape of his shirt, teetering him over the edge of the wall. The eldest brother was big, nearly a man grown, and Horn couldn’t hope to overpower him. He clutched instead at the bigger boy’s wrists, begging him to let go.
The eldest brother shook him instead, laughing as he asked threatening questions. The second brother stood just behind him, hands on his waist like a mother looming over a disobedient child.
“Let him go!” Tarin snarled.
He lashed out with a hard kick, connecting with the side of the second brother’s knee. The larger boy went down with a cry of pain, landing on the sloped roof like a sack of vegetables. The eldest brother had just enough time to look over his shoulder in surprise before Tarin was on him.
He grabbed the older boy by the head and pulled, yanking him back onto the roof, and pulling Horn with him. The three of them went down in a tumble of limbs and angry snarls. Horn kicked himself free, connecting with Tarin’s leg in the process, and scrambled to his feet.
“Run, Horn!” Tarin said, struggling with the eldest brother. “Run home!”
Horn took one look at the fight on the roof and obliged him. He dashed right through the three youngest brothers and leapt from the roof to the crate below. None of the youngest three moved to stop him.
“You’re going to pay for that,” snarled the eldest brother, tangling a hand in Tarin’s shaggy hair.
He landed a punch in Tarin’s nose, and more stars flashed across his vision. His eyes watered and he tasted blood. Another blow hit him in the cheek, and his head bounced from the roof tiles.
He got his arm up in time to parry the third punch, and the older boy’s fist skipped from his forearm and hit the roof tiles instead. Tarin blinked through watering eyes, blood in his mouth, and somehow got his knees between himself and the older brother. He pushed as hard as he could, trying to lever the bigger boy off of him.
The older boy tangled his fingers in Tarin’s shirt, however, and held on. Tarin lashed out with a desperate kick, connecting with the eldest brother’s chin. The older boy’s hands went slack, and he toppled backward, falling over the edge of the roof.
“Kurt!” shouted the second brother, rushing to the side. The three youngest brothers joined him, all four leaning out to get a look at their eldest sibling. Tarin scrambled to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose and mouth. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and peeked over the edge.
The eldest brother lay in the street, writhing in pain as he clutched his ribs. The second brother spun on Tarin, eyes alight with anger.
“Get him!” he snarled.
Tarin ran.
He scrambled over the peak of the roof and broke into a run. All three brothers came after him, hands and feet scrabbling over the roof tiles.
Tarin made it to the edge and leapt, hands reaching for the lip of the adjacent building. He caught it and pulled himself over, scrambling onto a taller, flatter rooftop than the brothers’ shop.
The pursuing boys stopped in their tracks, refusing to make the leap.
Tarin breathed a sigh of relief, thinking for a moment he was safe, until the second brother directed the others off the roof. They scrambled into the streets below and started climbing his building. Shouts of alarm rose from the street below.
Cursing, Tarin rose and cast around for an escape route. Paythar was no big city, such as Vaxia or the lake ports, and there were few rooftops and alleyways in which to lose pursuers. The streets, too, were crowded with onlookers and guardsmen. Tarin moved from one end of his rooftop to the other, frowning at every choked path. The brothers climbed ever higher, until the second-oldest got his hands on the roof’s edge.
Growling, Tarin stomped the boy’s hand. The second brother cursed and withdrew his fingers, hanging from the roof by a single hand. Tarin raised his foot, but just as he was about to stomp, hesitated.
What if he fell and cracked his skull? He hadn’t meant to kick the older brother off the roof—that had been a mistake borne of his desperation. If the second brother broke a bone, or worse, his neck, Tarin would be to blame.
He’d probably hang for that, being an upstreamer. It wouldn’t take much to convince the Paytharin Guardsmen of his guilt, no matter the circumstances. His parents would barely have the ability to attend his execution.
Instead of stomping, Tarin planted his foot and leapt. He sailed over the second brother’s enraged expression and landed, once again, on the roof of their fathers’ shop. He rolled, almost pitching over the edge himself, and came to his feet as the brothers tried to scramble down from the other building.
Tarin was over the edge of the roof and hopping to the crate before the second brother got his offended snarl out of his mouth. By the time he was yelling for his brothers to pursue, Tarin was already down the alleyway. He leapt straight over the drunk who’d cursed him earlier, clearing his disheveled hair by a hand’s breadth. The man’s curses followed him, but Tarin turned down another narrow alley, headed for the riverfront.
He was slowed by the detritus in the alley—more stacked crates, and the broken remains of the same. He burst onto the street bordering the riverfront, half expecting a Royal Guardsman to stop him. None appeared, however, and he put his back to the wall of the building, breathing hard.
The sound of running feet came from the alley behind him. He stiffened, readying himself to run. The pounding feet approached his turn in the alley and carried on, continuing past the place where he’d turned. He waited until the last pair of boots faded into the distance and relaxed.
Chuckling to himself, Tarin breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully those towners would keep going down the alley before they realized he wasn’t there. By the time they returned, he’d be long gone.
The shouting of townsfolk drew Tarin’s eye back toward the gathering near the docks.
A crowd had formed in the intersection, shouting and waving their arms. The meat cart was at its center, with its driver standing high on the humped shell of his ridgeback, shouting back into the crowd. Even as they argued, the ridgeback took another plodding step toward the docks, almost upsetting its driver and jostling several dozen people from its path. The angry tone of the shouting intensified, and objects flew from the crowd to bounce from the ridgeback or splatter near its driver.
The Royal Guardsmen did their best to control the scene, but there were barely more than a dozen. They waved their arms, shoved people, and brandished their muskets, all to little effect. One of them pulled out a club and beat an angry towner into the street, all while a woman next to the man begged for him to stop.
The ridgeback took another ponderous step, and anger in the crowd grew even louder.
“There he is!” came a shout from up the street—away from the commotion.
Tarin spun to find the four brothers jogging in his direction. The second-oldest wore a scowl that could have cracked stone, and he ran with both fists clenched. The younger brothers seemed less enthusiastic, but not by much.
“Beasts and blood,” Tarin growled, shooting to his feet.
There would be no reasoning with them. Tarin had been bullied enough times to recognize that look of seething rage. Violence was the only thing that would satisfy second-oldest brother—it was that, or run away.
Tarin was better at running than fighting, so he bolted.
The Royal Guardsmen were all focused on the fracas with the meat cart, so the way onto the wharves was open. Tarin chose in an instant, unsure of his reasoning until he was scuttling along the walkway that separated the cobblestoned street from the docks. The Royal Guardsmen had cordoned off the docks entirely, but their attention drawn by the meat cart, it was easy to slip onto the docks. Maybe the brothers would be loath to follow him, and Tarin could jump into the river before the Guardsmen sighted him.
The brothers, however, hopped right onto the walkway and continued chasing him.
Most of the walkway was crowded with stacked crates and other riverfront implements. Tarin knew little about them, but there were massive cranes, ropes, pulleys, and boxes everywhere. He dodged past them without looking, eyes darting for a good hiding place as the brothers closed in.
“Hem, go around and cut him off!” the second brother shouted from behind. “Don’t let him get away!”
The brothers spread out, and Tarin cursed again, sliding to a halt. The way ahead was blocked by a tight group of Royal Guardsmen, all focused on the commotion around the meat cart. Behind was second-oldest brother, and spreading out to cut off all routes of escape were the rest of them. The crowded lane bordering the docks themselves was his only means of escaping without getting wet, and there was only one other path open to him.
He could run toward the water, onto the docks.
Where the Royal Barges waited, each one full of cannons, the Royal Guardsmen, and Zerath knew what else.
“Horn was right,” Tarin muttered to himself. “We should’ve stayed home.”
Tarin ran for the docks.
He headed for a dock adjacent to those where the Royal vessels were moored. Those still had Royal Guardsmen watching the approaches to the gangways, and they’d offer no sanctuary to him. Instead, he chose one that seemed to be stacked high with cargo. The part of the dock closest to the street was stacked high with barrels and chests, and Tarin darted right past them. He ran for the end of the dock, where he could perhaps swing over the edge and climb underneath.
Behind him, the sound of running boots struck the wooden dock—the brothers were close.
Tarin kept going, teeth clenched. He hopped a makeshift barricade of chest-high crates, slowing down only enough to pull himself over the edge. He dropped to the other side and rolled forward, leaping into another run as soon as he found his feet. The sounds of angry curses and scrabbling bodies were enough to announce the brothers had followed. Tarin didn’t even look.
Beasts and blood, who built these docks so long?
Indeed, the end of the dock loomed far ahead. Over the barricade, most of the crates were massive. They lined only one side of the dock—the right side, blocking the view from the barge moored on the next wharf. Each crate stood taller than a man, and they were wide enough to accommodate an entire room. Tarin’s own bedroom was smaller.
The end of the dock beckoned just ahead. Beyond, the cold waters of the King’s River waited. Other vessels were out on the water, but none close to the wharves. Tarin ran harder, his breath thickening with exertion.
Before he was halfway there, someone piled into him from behind.
He hit the dock hard, losing his breath as he went down. His chin smacked into the wood, and it was only luck that kept him from biting his tongue. Blood filled his mouth all the same, and stars danced across his vision.
“You hurt my brother!” snarled the second-oldest in Tarin’s ear.
The older boy may have landed a few blows in Tarin’s ribs, but it was hard to tell. Tarin fought, kicking and thrashing, as the older boy held him down. He was able to suck in a pained breath, but it was popped out of him a moment later with a blow to his side. Tarin attacked as best he could, throwing kicks and elbows, grabbing to everything he could.
Somehow, he got to his feet.
He was entangled with the second-oldest brother, who had him by the nape of his shirt and one shoulder. The towner wasn’t overly strong for his size, but he was at least two years older, and he outweighed Tarin by a good bit. Tarin was strong, but only for a boy of fourteen. They pushed one another back and forth, wrenching and wrestling at each others’ limbs. Try as he might, Tarin could not open the older lad’s grip.
The boy finally stepped forward, overpowering Tarin, and shoved him against the massive crate.
Rather than the hollow thud of wood, Tarin’s head bounced from something hard and metallic. His sight went blurry, and his body felt suddenly light. He was vaguely aware of his hands and feet, but they felt ephemeral, as if they were being blown from his body by a gentle wind.
“You hurt my brother!” repeated the second-oldest.
Tarin tried to say, “I’m sorry.”
The words came out around his thickened tongue, garbled to nonsense.
“What was that?” said the second-oldest, bouncing Tarin’s head against the metallic crate again. “Speak up!”
“Come on, Chet,” one of the younger ones said. “We got to get back before they see us.”
“Not until this rat apologizes,” snarled Chet, “and pays for what he’s done! Didn’t you see Kurt?”
“Let me go,” growled Tarin, finding some of his fire returned.
Chet focused on him again, his face twisting with more anger. He tried to shove Tarin against the crate again, but Tarin resisted—only his back hit the crate, which wasn’t a crate at all. The thick bar of metal behind him told him it was a cage, not a crate. His skin crawled with the realization, but he didn’t have time to worry about it.
He and Chet struggled again, Chet trying to shove Tarin against the cage and Tarin resisting.
“Come on, Chet!” said another brother. “Those guards will be back soon!”
“Just give me a—,” Chet started.
Tarin’s fist popped him in the mouth before he could finish his sentence, and Chet’s grip loosened. Tarin lashed out again, popping the older boy in the eye, then the nose, before Chet regained his senses. They traded a few more blows, and Tarin gained some ground, taking a step away from the cage.
This prompted the younger brothers to step in, and Tarin was pressed back again. Blows came at him from all directions. One of the boys shoved him into the cage again, and he fell. Kicks came at his face, his side, his stomach. It was all he could do to cover up and try to weather the storm.
Chet piled atop him again, grappling with his arms. Tarin snarled and fought, but another boy took hold of him and shoved one of his arms to the ground. A third brother did for the other arm, and Tarin was defenseless, both arms held wide while Chet sat on top of him.
“Now then,” Chet snarled. “Apologize!”
Tarin glared at him, saying nothing.
“I said,” Chet said again, “apologize!”
“Chet, we need to go!” said the only brother not holding Tarin down. “The guards—”
“The guards will want to arrest this thief,” Chet countered. “Isn’t that right, thief? You steal from us, you hang. That’s that.”
“I stole nothing,” Tarin snarled, trying to wrench his arms free. “We just wanted a place to watch!”
“The guards won’t care, Chet,” said the standing brother. “They’ll just run us all off, now come on!”
Chet glanced at the standing brother, then the others. He thought for the time it took him to take a quick breath, then nodded.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “We’ll make him pay ourselves. Kurt probably has broken ribs now. Won’t be able to work for the rest of the season. We’ll break your bones, too, then.”
Panic surged in Tarin’s body, and he thrashed again.
“No, you don’t,” Chet said, riding down Tarin’s protests. “This is only fair, and you know it!”
“It’s not!” Tarin said. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You’re an upstreamer,” Chet said, still pushing down on Tarin’s body. “Probably a farmer or fruit-picker. Arms, then. Let’s break his arms.”
“Chet, are you sure—,” started one of the brothers.
Chet’s answering glare silenced his younger brother.
“Grab his arm,” Chet said. “Pull it out straight.”
“No!” Tarin growled, thrashing as hard as he could. Anger welled up in him, powering his body. Chet was bigger and stronger than him, but the younger brothers were not. He was able to yank his right arm free, and with a desperate effort, threw a hard punch at Chet’s face.
He got lucky—it connected right with the older boy’s eye.
Chet’s hands loosened for the barest moment, and he hit Chet again, right in the jaw. The boy holding his other arm must have let go, because Tarin was suddenly free. He got both hands on Chet’s chest and pushed the older boy off of him, using his legs for leverage. Chet was still dazed by the blow, and he fell to the side.
The two younger brothers regained their wits and went for his arms again, but Tarin fought them. He was able to hit one of them in the face and get halfway to his feet before the other piled into him. They fell into the cage together, tugging the tarp downwards as they did. Tarin struggled, but the younger boy got lucky and bounced Tarin’s head from the cage a third time. His body went weak for a second, and the boy gained the advantage.
A rumbling noise rose from the cage—close enough to make Tarin’s hair stand on end.
The younger boy pressed Tarin harder into the ground, raining down ineffective punches on him. Tarin was bigger and stronger, so the punches bounced from his guard. With his legs still tangled with the other lads, however, he couldn’t rise. All he could do was block the incoming punches and try to find a way to stand.
The rumbling sound came again, and this time, it was clearer. Everyone froze. Even the boy atop Tarin caught himself, arm raised to punch Tarin, face frozen in a mask of fear.
The rumble was not the sound of wheels over stone or the sound of sundries falling over. It was the clear sound of a growl. The growl of a large creature.
Tarin took advantage of the fearful moment. He struck, hitting the boy on top of him with a heavy punch and levering him aside. The other boys scrambled back at the sound of another growl from the cage, their eyes going wide. Tarin was caught with his back against the bars, levering himself to a standing position.
The tarp covering the cage was pushed outward, then ripped by a large, curved claw. It opened a rent in the fabric from the top of the cage to the bottom, opening a wide curtain. Tarin didn’t get a good look at what lay inside, but the sight of it put the four brothers, including the one acting as lookout, on their heels. Chet fell to his rear and scrambled backwards, almost pitching over the edge of the dock.
Tarin, the skin on his back crawling with fear, turned to look at the beast in the cage.
A pair of bright blue eyes peered at him from inside a reptilian, triangular head. Flecks of iridescence shone from their depths, catching the sunlight and refracting it in bluish sparkles. It had the beginnings of horns on its head—two larger ones rising from the apex of its skull, and two smaller that would one day curve beneath them. For now, they were little more than stumps. It had a long snout covered in minuscule scales, and even as it shoved its long neck through the rent in the fabric, and the spaces in the metal bars, its nose twitched while it smelled the air.
Its scales were the color of a summer storm cloud, and as it snaked its head forward, the movement made gradations appear in the creature’s hide as the light hit its neck. The underside was the same gray color as the top, but a band of colored scales separated the creature’s underside from its back. They were a sharp shade of blue, and they reminded Tarin of its eyes.
“It’s a dragon!” said one of the brothers, voice trembling.
“Beasts and blood!” cursed another. “Come on!”
Together, the two younger brothers tugged Chet from the dock. The older brother shot Tarin a hateful glare, but he allowed his brothers to usher him to his feet. Together, the four of them ran away, scuttling from the dragon’s sight like pantry-bugs running from the light. The dragon watched them go, craning its neck around and emitting a quiet growl.
Slowly, it turned its gaze back to Tarin.
He should have ran, should have shot to his feet and bolted for the water. Even if he followed the four brothers, it would have been better than being bitten by a dragon. What was the thing doing here, in this covered cage on the wharves?
As its eyes met his, however, he froze.
Something locked Tarin in place. The dragon gazed into his eyes, drawing him into those iridescent depths. It made no move to bite him, nor did it growl as it had after the other boys. It quested forward with its snout, nose twitching as it sniffed the air around Tarin’s body.
Tarin didn’t move. Part of it was terror—being so close to a dragon, no matter the size, was frightening. The thing could eat Tarin just as easily as burn him to ashes, if it wanted. Something in its gaze, though, gave Tarin pause.
It wouldn’t hurt him.
He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. Perhaps he could sense it in the way the dragon sniffed at him, or in the low humming noises it made as it did. There was no anger in its gaze, but there seemed to be curiosity. Its eyes were not the same as the plodding ridgeback, who had only reptilian placidity in its wide, round eyes. Neither were they like the Strider, which had quivered with a kind of restrained hunger under the bond of its rider.
The dragon’s eyes were deeply blue—a blue so actinic, so bright, as to seem the color of lightning itself. They were slitted, but for all their bestial look, they contained something deeper than hunger or need. The dragon was considering him. Tarin could sense the thoughts behind its eyes, even if it didn’t speak. The dragon was a being, not a beast.
It sniffed at his bloodied shirt, making a strange hum in its chest. Its snout moved to Tarin’s dirty pants, and it blew what seemed like an irritated breath at his boots. Perhaps for the smell, as they were dirty from the long walk to Paythar. It wasn’t until the dragon moved its snout up to Tarin’s face that he got frightened. Its teeth were longer than his belt knife back home, and it had a whole mouth full of them.
Rather than doing anything predatory, however, the dragon only sniffed. It seemed to take stock of all Tarin’s injuries before rearing back from him. The dragon looked at him for what seemed like a long moment, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.
“Um… Well met?” Tarin tried, his voice cracking with fear. “I’m Tarin.”
The dragon tilted its head sideways, still staring into Tarin’s eyes.
“Of course, you can’t talk,” Tarin said, still frozen in place. “Or… I guess you can’t. Don’t know anything about dragons. Your kind, that is. Um… I think I’ll just leave now.”
Tarin took a backwards step, and the dragon stiffened. Tarin froze again, heart pounding. The dragon made a crooning noise in its chest, something like a musical hum, and snaked its neck toward him.
For some reason, Tarin reached his hand out.
He shouldn’t have. Beasts and blood, he should never have been on that dock. To touch a dragon was unheard of for anyone but a rider, but it was especially taboo for a poor commoner like him. Only the nobility had the ability to bond a dragon, and therefore, only nobles had the right to interact with them. Touching one wasn’t a crime, exactly—at least, as far as Tarin knew—but it wouldn’t be taken lightly by any noble who saw him do it.
If he even got close enough to touch before the dragon bit his hand off for trying.
Hand shaking, Tarin reached out, and the dragon responded. It touched Tarin’s outstretched fingers with its nose. Tarin drew back at the warm feeling of its scales, but the dragon pressed closer. Tarin rested his hand on the side of its snout, petting it for all the world like his favorite slake hound. The dragon made a pleased hum and looked at him again, meeting his eyes.
Something in those depths drew Tarin into a deep place. The sounds of the day—the lap of the river against the docks, the shouting of the nearby crowd, the constant creak of mooring lines—faded into nothing. There was only the sound of his breathing, deep in his chest. A deep, sonorous hum filled his ears, and he was drawn deeper into the dragon’s gaze. There was nothing but the sound of his own breathing and those bright, actinic eyes.
Was it him breathing, or was it the dragon?
“Hey!” came an angry shout from down the dock. “You! Step away!”
Tarin and the dragon stiffened at the same time, drawing away from their contact. They blinked at one another, and it took a moment for Tarin to clear the clouds from his mind. The dragon seemed to have a similar reaction—it blinked a few times, blew a frustrated huff from its snout, and turned a baleful stare toward the head of the dock.
A Royal Guardsman was running in their direction, musket held in the ready position. A sharp bayonet gleamed at the end of the barrel, swinging in time with the guardsman’s steps. He vaulted the makeshift barricade separating the large crates—cages, Tarin realized—from the smaller ones. Grunting with the effort of his leap, the guard recovered and kept running.
“Step away!” he repeated. “You’re bound by law! On your knees! Hands on your head!”
Tarin balked, stepping one way then the next, unsure what to do. The dragon glanced at him, blue eyes narrowed, and made a strange noise in its chest. It was something between a chuff and a trill, but somehow, Tarin caught the creature’s meaning as clear as day.
Run, it was saying. Run!
Tarin didn’t hesitate further. He turned and bolted for the edge of the dock, his bruised body protesting the sudden burst of speed. He pushed through the pain, somehow feeling energized, and leapt from the edge.
His leap must have been charged with fear, because he sailed farther over the water than he expected before plunging into the depths. The cold water of the King’s River embraced him, chilling his injuries. Tarin held his breath and pulled himself deeper, swimming hard against the current—anything to get away from those barges.
He came up a short distance away and found two other guardsmen joining the first. One of them sighted him and waved to his companions, and all three started readying their muskets to fire. Behind them, the dragon watched with its shining blue eyes.
Tarin didn’t get the guardsmen time to load and fire. He ducked back underwater and swam hard, angling for a place on the other side of the river. The water would slow down any musket balls they fired—hopefully enough—and none of the guardsmen would jump in to chase him. He swam until the breath fought to leave his chest, then he swam more before surfacing for a breath. The guards were farther away, but they spotted him quickly, so he ducked back under.
Cursing himself for a fool, Tarin kept swimming.