Hatchling's Guardian (2 page)

Each night when the dragon flew, she hid beneath her mottled gray and brown cloak that blended into the sand.

Witz should have made a cloak like this, she mused, rather than trading his knife for a gaudy red one. Maybe then his bones, stripped of flesh and the marrow sucked dry, wouldn’t have been found two days hike outside the valley. Deneae fought the memory and stilled into an undistinguishable ripple on the surface of the great desert.

Beneath the steep cliff face, she made a meal with the last of her supplies. On the morrow, she would either die or have to start living off the land. Even if she killed the dragon and survived, in her heart she knew she would not return to the village of her childhood. There was nothing and no one there for her. Roiling thoughts prevented sleep, but after a period of meditation she drifted off into a light battle rest to recharge her physical body.

A faint memory demanded Deneae's attention. The darkness of the desert shifted to the moonless night when the elders summoned her mother. A meeting from which Adais never returned. In a heartbeat, what had been suppressed crystallized into a vivid recollection of her mother's light touch. "Be safe, my daughter. The Goddess and Trelleir will watch over you." Pain of loss surged through Deneae. Rivulets of tears, chilled by the night air, ran down her cheeks. Each drop took with it the sorrow, leaving only an empty void.

Whispers danced just outside her grasp. Their voices pulled her from the memory down the path of her own possible future. Her mind surged from one vision to the next. The elders’ heroe's welcome of her as the savior of the village turned dark. Heady with the successes of the age-old plan and the destruction of their enemy, the meeting of the tribunal and declaration of Deneae a witch.
One night, as they did to my mother, they would come and drag me to the place of cleaning
. She heard old Caldar, "Only a witch can kill a dragon.” No matter the logic that every child was trained from birth for such a task.

An unwanted—and unearned—fate overwhelmed Deneae and a low moan escaped into the darkness. Her spirit self shifted to the place of cleaning. A long finger of molten rock snaked from the goddess’s crater, flowing down the hillside towards four iron stakes, pounded into the hard rock an arm's-length apart. The short length of chains attached to metal rods glittered in the light of torches.

The villager declared a witch would be shackled spread-eagled on their back into the restraints. By tradition, the head of the one being tested faced down-slope to allow the mountain goddess the maximum time to make her decision of life or death. If the molten rock flowed over the captive and left them unharmed, the prisoner would be released and all possessions returned.

Although she had seen the vision many times over the years, until tonight the face of the villager was always obscured. Now, the glow of the torches revealed the one being tested.
No, murdered
. Deneae silently cursed. The amorphous features solidified first into those of her mother, then shifted to those of her own. Tears unshed for years streamed down her cheeks until, exhausted, she dropped into a sleep uninterrupted by dreams.

The next morning, Deneae awoke with the sun's first painting of the rocks. This dawn, unlike the others, came with the knowledge that the elders lied. They had not saved her from the dragon. Although the creature passed so close over the village, everyone felt the air moved by his wings, Trelleir was the one who held the elders and the armed men of the village at bay. It was his and Geren's blades that prevented the confiscation of her home. The comfort she felt at just the mere thought of him warmed her. She would slay the dragon, not because the elders ordered it, but for the safety of Trelleir and the other innocents.

In the first silvery rays of dawn, she scanned the rocky crag. A dark slash high up the slope caught her attention. The trail she picked out was steeper than the one to Trelleir’s cave. However, without her bow and quiver, she could just make it. Foothold by foothold, she climbed from one rock to another, ignoring the sharp edges biting into her palms. Her gaze never wavered from her destination.

With a grunt she pulled herself over the edge into the narrow tube and evaluated the space. “Wide enough to climb through,” she muttered. A strange scent wafted out on the cool air that teased her skin. A shrug and her pack dropped soundlessly at her feet. Flintstone and torches with pitch-soaked rags at the end soon lay in a pile. Silently she looped the string of the soft leather pouch holding the flintstone through her belt. Swift movements slid a dagger into her boot.

“Ancestors beyond the veil, guard and guide me this night,” Deneae whispered in ritual prayer. “And if I fall this day, welcome me into the eternal clanhold.”

All possible preparations now made, she picked up the torches, dropped to all fours and entered the fissure. Deeper and deeper she traveled into the heart of the mountain. As she had hoped, the ceiling rose enough to allow her to walk upright. Time lost all reference and she marked the passage only by her heartbeat and the lighting of one torch after another. Still, no thought of turning back or retreat entered her mind. Her entire being focused on the shimmering glow cast by her torch.

A slight lessening of the obsidian signaled the end of the tube. Deneae bit her lip. The journey into the heart of the mountain had taken hours. The light came from the moon framed in the wide maw of the massive cave. A scrape against the floor extinguished the torch. When her eyes adjusted she picked out the various entrances to what she assumed were other chambers.

She gasped when a moonbeam travelled across the room. It lingered not on a rock, but the massive hulk of a sleeping dragon. The tip of the tail twitched as if the creature dreamed. After a soft snuffle, the movement stilled. The glow also revealed a white mass below her, where piles of bones had accumulated layer upon layer for years. Or eons, she corrected.
No matter, the bones will serve me as a ladder.

As quietly as she could, she scrambled from one level to the one below. Each time a bone cracked beneath her weight, she stopped, breath held, only moving on when the dark hulk remained motionless.

Deneae slipped closer. Her blade rose to strike a blow from above. A strange thrall enveloped her. Unable to break the paralysis, she closed her eyes to slow her racing pulse. She looked up from her struggles to be pinned in a baleful glare. No longer sleeping, the dragon's eyelids were now open. Even in the darkness broken only by the fading embers of the torch, she knew the creature saw her.

A deep growl entered her mind.

Deneae held her position. Something about the creature's soul called to a similar chord in hers. “I can’t,” she moaned.

A light chuckle came over the mental contact.

Trelleir waited for the meaning of his words to sink in. As he hoped, Deneae grasped the truth. But her lips tightened and she gestured at the pile of bones that she so recently traversed.

Trelleir said more kindly than he meant. The girl, no he corrected, woman in front of him would not strike the fatal blow without provocation. Still, he did not give it.

Her face twisted in confusion. “Who killed Witz? And all the other slayers sent out from the village?”

Trelleir chuckled. Deneae was one to fly the clouds with. He bowed his head.

“So if I kill you, no more slayers will be sent to their deaths,” Deneae hissed. Rage flashed in her eyes. She raised the sword for the fatal blow.

Trelleir raised his head until his horns scraped the ceiling. His throat exposed, he sent a fierce thought.

~ * ~

The dragon’s vehemence stunned Deneae. Behind it, she felt the loneliness he did not speak. he growled.

“I am not a child,” Deneae mumbled. All the restrained memories surged forward. Clarity burned away indecision and confusion. “You are Trelleir.”

With a sigh, the dragon’s gray scales shimmered. He shrank into himself. His tail split and separated, melding with his legs. The wings folded back and disappeared. A heartbeat later, her mother’s friend—and mine, Deneae admitted, stood before her. In a gesture reminiscent of his earlier posture, he spread his arms, leaving his chest exposed. “Yes, and like your parents, Eneae and Adais, you did not run.”

Deneae glared at the sword in her hand. With more force than necessary, she shoved the gleaming blade into the sheath and stood there as defenseless as the man facing her. Her thoughts swirled with contradictions. The elders said dragons killed, yet she knew Trelleir was a good man. He forced a cup into her hand, jerking her attention from the confusion of irreconcilable beliefs.

“Drink,” Trelleir urged.

A sip later, the chaos retreated and she looked up to see him sitting on a rock against the far wall. The stone in her necklace hummed. Confusion at the pleased smile on his face disappeared in a sureness that could only mean one thing. “You gave my mother the stone,” Deneae accused.

Satisfaction twitched Trelleir's lips. “Yes. I put a small nugget of my magic into the rock.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The spark of life was growing within her. Your mother later told me the stone eased your hatching. I’m glad the talisman kept you safe.” The sparkle faded from his eyes, replaced by a sorrow that tugged at Deneae. “I’m sorry I could not do the same for her.”

Deneae bowed her head. “I do not blame you.”

“What will you do now?” Curiosity and hope flickered in Trelleir’s eyes.

“I don’t know. Finish what my mother started. On the way here, I found a cave in the desert.” Deneae lifted her chin expecting to be challenged. “In the deepest room were ancient drawings of a dragon with a wing spread over a pile of eggs. Someone had scratched symbols I recognized as hunter's directions. Other marks reminded me of the code my mother used, but the words didn’t make sense.”

At first, Deneae thought Trelleir had not heard her, then his entire body tensed. When the muscles relaxed, the energy seemed to have left him. “Deneae, what would YOU like to do?”

The intensity of his expectant gaze tore the words from her. “My mother left me coded directions to the land of my father. I’d like to go there, but...” Now it was her turn to try to hide disappointment from her tone. “It is too far away, even for a skilled sailor. And I’m not one.”

Trelleir enveloped her in his arms and laid a light finger on the hidden medallion. “I said there is magic in the stone. Your mother chose not to use it. She mourned your father too much, but you are not so bound. Feed your desire through the stone, and what you wish for will be fulfilled.”

Deneae sighed. She felt so comfortable in his arms, like she belonged there. She looked up at the face so close to hers. She wanted him, but he was a dragon. There was a way she could be with him—magic. Under his guidance, Deneae closed her eyes. She envisioned herself flying. A splinter of her mind registered when Trelleir stepped back. Time froze between one breath and the next. The world tilted, and when it stopped moving, came into sharper focus. Deneae swore she looked down as if from a great height. But her head was at the same height as Trelleir’s.
It can’t be. He’s in his true form. He’s a dragon. Yet I am as tall as he is.

His eyes glittered. he bugled
.

Gently, he rubbed his head along her cheek. With lighter steps than she believed possible for such a big creature, he led the way to the main cave entrance, and with strong wingstrokes hovered just beyond the ledge. he added with pride in his voice,

Bolstered by his assurances, she ran into the daylight and out into space. Wings caught an updraft that carried her skyward. Whistling in joy, she folded her wings and dove, only to soar again to the heights.

Trelleir rose to her side.

Story Behind the Story

I’ve always wanted to fly, either in the bright blue sky or the star-speckled universe. The daughter of an airline flight engineer, I learned my numbers and letters helping update manuals and reading the instrument panel of an old Constellation. As a child lying in the grass of our central New Jersey farm, I would identify airplanes from their silhouette or tail logo and watch clouds drift across the sky. At one time I studied aviation and considered a career as a pilot, so it is not surprising that I’ve written several works that feature creatures who play tag with the clouds. Among them the dragshi, whose tales appear in the Dragshi Chronicles. In them, a race of humans can shift forms with their dragon soul twins. The dragshi and their dragon twins inhabit a world where two beings occupy one form in any given space and time.