Soulblade (23 page)

“Emperor Salatak’s youngest daughter,” Tylie said.

“The one who’s here to marry someone important from the city?” Cas asked.

“I believe so, yes.”

Cas slapped her forehead for the second time that night. Did that damned dragon know he had kidnapped the
wrong
member of the imperial family?

Chapter 9

T
he clip-clop of the shod horses turning onto the road was a beautiful sound. Not a mud road or a gravel road or a weed-choked path barely discernible amid the trees and foliage, but a well-maintained stone and cement road with runoffs for rain on either side. It wasn’t one of the imperial highways that crossed the nation, but chances were that it eventually led to one. Ridge imagined he could see the capital, the king’s castle, and the butte that held his beloved hangars full of fliers in the distance.

That was, of course, premature—all he could see were more trees, and the mountains still loomed above the road to the right—but a sign promised they were only five miles to Aspen Creek, the town the mayor in the last village had suggested he visit. Apparently, an ex-pilot lived there and had acquired an old flier that he rolled out for barnstorming shows during the summer holidays. If the man would let Ridge borrow it, he could be home by morning, maybe even tonight. A journey that would take days on horseback could be over in hours. Then he could find someone to fix his head and tell him how there had come to be a dragon attacking villages.

Your head doesn’t need to be fixed
, the ever-present voice said.

If General Ort finds out I’m having conversations with myself, he’ll worry I’m not fit to command troops. He might take me out of the sky.
Ridge’s stomach churned at the thought.

Who would fight the dragons?

Puppies.
No, that wasn’t fair. His young officers were good and certainly qualified to fight for the country. He just couldn’t imagine them doing it without him.

I could speak to your general in his head too.

I see. Would sharing my insanity with him make him more or less likely to think fondly of me?

You’ll have to answer that. I don’t know him that well.

Don’t you?
Ridge rubbed his head. The only explanation for this voice that he could imagine was that he had subconsciously created it somehow, perhaps because of his head injury. But it should know everything he knew, if that were the case.

It would be foolish of him to remove you from the defensive team of this nation.

He started to respond with a thank-you for the rare compliment, but then realized he would be thanking himself, if his hypothesis was correct.

If nothing else, it will be good to get back to town, so General Ort can fill me in on what I’ve been missing
, Ridge thought. And maybe there would be no need to mention the voice...

His mother might know something, too, depending on when he had last visited her. Having a gaping hole in his memory would still be uncomfortable, but it could be worse. What if he didn’t even remember who he was?

This flier you seek, will it have room for two?

Uhm.
Ridge eyed Mara out of the corner of his eye. She had led the way since leaving the last village, but she rode at his side now, the afternoon sun gleaming on her blonde hair. He hadn’t forgotten that he’d promised to take her to the capital with him, even if he
had
forgotten how exactly he’d allowed himself to agree to that.
I didn’t ask.

She wishes to go with you.

I know.

I feel I should warn you, when men break their word to her, it doesn’t usually go well for them.

What did
that
mean?
I wasn’t planning to break my word. We’ll figure something out. If she wants to see the capital, that’s fine. I owe her that much.

You owe her... less than you think.

Pardon?

Forgive me. She would not wish me to speak so bluntly to you.

What? Why? What is she to you?

The voice did not respond. Ridge wished he could figure out a way to shoo it out of his head. If not for its presence, he might have believed he had fully healed from his injuries, aside from the troubling memory gap, but he continued to worry that having his subconscious split into another personality indicated that his head might not be the quick fix he hoped.

Mara shifted in her saddle, her gaze turning toward the woods on the left side of the road. Her leg brushed his leg again, either inadvertently or not. She had been riding close and giving him speculative looks often. She hadn’t tried to kiss him again—he had asked for separate rooms for them last night and been thankful for their hosts’ generosity. The mayor and his wife had lent them the two horses as well as the two rooms. Someone had, however, knocked on his door after the lights in the house had been out. He couldn’t know if it had been Mara, but he had feigned sleep and the person had gone away.

“Someone is watching us,” Mara announced.

“Oh?” Ridge hadn’t heard anything other than birds alongside the road, but he was no woodsman.

“I also believe someone may have been sent ahead to warn the other village that we’re coming,” Mara said. “Earlier, I sensed a runner on a trail that seemed like it might be a shortcut to this road.”

“You sensed?”

That was a curious way to say it. Did that mean she had heard someone?

“Yes.” Mara touched her ear. “Do you have any reason to believe anyone in that village may have mistrusted you or wanted harm to come to you?”

“No. I don’t think you usually lend horses to people you mistrust.”

“Perhaps they wished harm to come to me,” Mara said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“I doubt it. You barely said three words to anyone.”

Mara eased her horse closer and handed the reins to him. “Watch this animal for me. I’m going to investigate.”

Before he could decide if he wanted to object, she slid off and trotted into the woods.

“I believe her name is Maloof,” Ridge called after her. His was a feisty mare named Petty that gave the other one a suspicious side-eyed look whenever it came too close. Such as now. She bared her teeth, and Maloof shifted as far away as she could while Ridge held the reins. “Females,” he muttered with a sigh.

He watched the woods while waiting for Mara to return. It crossed his mind that she might not return before he reached the village and that he might be able to slip away in the flier before she caught up. But no, he had promised to take her, and he did not want some vengeful mountain woman stalking him to the city to make his life strange. Stranger.

Wise choice
, the voice said.
Besides, she believes a dragon might be following us. You are unarmed and without a means to fly away. You would be an easy meal for a dragon.

A dragon?
Even though he had seen the burned barn and heard the stories of the villagers, Ridge still wasn’t positive he believed that some dragon from the olden days had appeared to raze the land.
I didn’t think she knew anything about the dragon.

She never said that.

Didn’t she?
Ridge tried to remember.

The horses rounded a bend, and several riders came into view, bearded men in simple clothing, with hunting rifles or bows thrusting from carriers on their saddles. There were six of them, and even though they stood about, chatting and apparently having some meeting, they were blocking the road. They also had a toughness about them, with thick arms and broad shoulders. Ridge kept riding forward, but the reminder that he didn’t have any weapons of his own came to mind. They looked like a group out for a hunt, but they could be bandits, too, or men who might take the opportunity to
become
bandits when presented with unarmed prey. Not that he had anything to steal. Except the horses.

Several faces swiveled toward him. He lifted a hand and offered a friendly wave.

“It’s him,” one cried, a toothy grin splitting his beard. He waved back so fiercely, he was in danger of falling from his horse.

Ridge decided to find that encouraging.

“Hello,” he said as he drew nearer. Petty nickered and seemed uncomfortable at approaching strange horses, but the other one tried to surge ahead, as if she thought the men might be carrying apples in their pockets.

“General Zirkander,” one of the older men said, lifting his fur cap in greeting and revealing brown hair shot with gray. “We heard you were coming. Colonel Mayford sent us out to welcome you and bring you to our humble town.”

“I appreciate that.” Ridge maneuvered Petty close enough to clasp the man’s wrist. He’d never worked with a Colonel Mayford, but from the mayor’s description of a wild white-haired man with a cane, he suspected Mayford may have retired before Ridge had been old enough to enter flight school.

“We heard you were fighting the dragon,” a younger man blurted, his blue eyes gleaming above a blond beard.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too.”

“Will you share some stories tonight? The colonel—he’s a retired pilot, you know—has got his wife and granddaughters planning a feast.”

“Always happy to share stories.” So long as Ridge didn’t have to talk about dragons he’d never seen. He hoped he could get away with sharing some battles about pirates and Cofah invaders. “Especially if there’s a feast to be enjoyed.”

“We have a brewery too. Known all through the foothills for our black bear stouts.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.” True, Ridge would rather jump straight into the flier and head home—even though he liked a beer as much as the next man—but he could manage a few hours with the locals if they were willing to lend him a flier.

“And, ah, your traveling companion is welcome to come too.” The leader pointed past Ridge’s shoulder.

Mara was walking toward them, her chin up, her face difficult to read. Maybe she knew he had been contemplating leaving her behind.

“Though my little sister will be disappointed if you show up with a woman,” the blond man said with a laugh.

Mara vaulted onto her horse without using the stirrup and accepted the reins, clasping his hand for a moment and smiling at him. No, he wasn’t going to get away with leaving her behind.

“This way,” the leader said and nudged his horse into a trot.

Ridge and Mara followed the group down the road for another mile and then onto a dirt lane that meandered along a stream lined with aspens. The smell of yeast lingered in the air, promising the brewery was in use.

When they reached the village, which was three or four times larger than the last one, claiming
two
main streets rather than one, it seemed that the entire populace was out in a field in front of a barn, milling around tables and a bonfire. A cheer went up and people waved enthusiastically.

Mara gave Ridge an incredulous look. “Is it like this everywhere you go?”

“Not in the capital, but I think people in small towns have fewer entertainment options and like an excuse to have festivities.” As much as Ridge appreciated the townsfolk’s enthusiasm, his gaze was drawn to the barn doors. They stood open, and he thought he caught a glint of metal inside. The flier? His heart sped up and not just at the thought that he could go home. It was silly, but he missed flying, even if it had only been a week or two weeks—he still didn’t know how long he had been unconscious—since his last flight.

One would think you would be terrified to go up in one of those contraptions again,
the voice in his head said, the tone somewhere between dry, incredulous, and admiring.

Ridge stiffened in his saddle, fixating on the words rather than the tone. One of
those
contraptions? How odd that his subconscious would call a flier such an ignoble thing. He looked over at Mara, as if she might have an explanation—he wasn’t sure why, since he hadn’t mentioned the voice to her.

She was too busy glowering down at a flock of women and children running to greet the riders. A boy of nine or ten ran up to Ridge’s horse, offering to take the reins.

He handed them over and slid down, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder while searching the crowd for a white-haired man with a cane. He spotted the fellow sitting in a chair by the barn door, his cane hooked on one of the armrests. Ridge responded to greetings and gave waves and handshakes but made his way to the man.

Mayford stood up and offered his hand.

“Good to meet you, Colonel,” Ridge said, resisting the urge to crane his neck and peer into the barn. He wondered what model of flier it was. He’d flown some of the old ones, including the museum pieces, and knew he could handle anything. It would even be fun to pilot a relic.

“General,” Mayford said. “That’s my beauty in there. I reckon you’ll want to take a look at her. I flew her in Frog Squadron forty years ago, though I’ve heard Frog is no more.”

“I think they just renamed it, sir,” Ridge said. “Someone decided we should have fiercer names to drive fear into the hearts of our enemies.”

“Back then, we were lucky if our fliers could hop over puddles without needing to land for repairs.” Mayford grinned.

A young woman came up and foisted a mug of beer into Ridge’s hand. Mayford took him into the barn for a tour, patting the flier, which appeared to have been meticulously maintained—not an iota of dust besmirched the fuselage.

To his surprise, old Rawlens machine guns were mounted above the simple controls. If he remembered his history, they had been the first ones with an interrupter gear to keep the bullets from hitting the propeller blades. Before that, shooting from the cockpit had been a gamble, from what he’d heard.

Grinning, Ridge ran a hand along the nose. “I can’t believe they let you keep the guns.”

“Why not? They were outdated by the time I retired. I’ve even got some ammo left if you think you might run into dragons on the way back.” Mayford gave the flier another loving pat. “The real challenge was walking away with a power crystal. Even though I paid a hefty price for it, I had to blackmail my old C.O. for it. It helped that I’d saved the king’s life a few years earlier. The old king. Angulus’s daddy.”