Page 21 of Veiled Flames
Loud male voices draw my attention to the road at the end of the square. A dozen or more young men and boys pass by—many carrying swords, or bows and quivers of arrows. They’re whooping and yelling, jovially pushing each other and mock wrestling. Excited and curious, I follow.
About a half-league down the road, men enter a clearing where at least fifty others are already assembled. At the far end of the clearing sits a group of large, three axel wagons. Near the wagons, strong horses are tied to trees and munching on sacks of oats. Several clusters of men sit on the ground in the shade of the wagons and in the forest behind. I raise my small looking tube, and the subject of the artwork painted on the wagons comes into focus.
Dragons. Excitement bubbles inside me.
The wagons’ paint is faded and chipped, but I’ve most certainly stumbled onto the dragon rider trials the woman warned me about. Some of the men and boys in the field are sword fighting or wrestling. Others are racing each other about, but it all seems haphazard. Utterly disorganized.
A shriek fills the sky. A shriek like the ones I heard yesterday. Everyone stops to look up.
A dragon! Is it the same one?
I stand in awe as the large beast soars across the field, flying lower than yesterday. Its scales are multicolored, all of them as shiny as freshly polished silver and flashing different shades in the light, but with an overall hint of teal. The beast is impossibly huge. How in Othrix’s name does it fly?
The dragon circles the field, getting lower and lower each time, and the men cower in groups that shift from one side of the fieldto the other, as if trying to anticipate which area will give them the least chance of being landed upon, eaten—or burnt alive.
I can’t move. My mouth remains agape, amazed by the strength and size—and beauty—of the beast. And as it gets lower, I notice its rider. Dressed head to toe in what looks like leather, the rider’s body seems like part of the beast as they glide in ever lower circles around the field.
I let out a huge breath as they come to rest at its center.
Many of the men press back into the trees ringing the field, but I find myself stepping forward, moving closer and closer before I realize what I’m doing.
The dragon’s scales seem greener now that the beast’s on the ground. Perhaps its belly and sides are reflecting the foliage in the field. Its eyes are multicolored and faceted like a finely cut gem. Each small panel casts back the world around it from different angles, making it seem as if the eyes themselves are alive.
The dragon’s back is the height of three tall men, and the top of its head rises another two beyond that, putting the sharp horn on top of its head more than five tall men above the ground. I’d guess the beast is more than thirty spans tall, and I’m not more than five and a half.
Sharp talons, at least three spans in length, have scraped deep lines in the field below the dragon’s four muscled legs. When spread, the dragon’s pewter-colored wings looked as wide as the beast is tall, but are now folded down at its sides.
Atop the dragon, the rider is wearing a leather helmet. Helmet is the best word that comes to mind, although it’s not like thehelmet of a knyght, guard or soldier. It’s more like a leather cap that covers much of his head.
The rider shifts forward. It’s hard to be sure from this angle, but it looks like the rider was resting his bottom against a growth that’s shaped like a pommel, protruding from high on the dragon’s back. Resting his backside against that protuberance can’t be comfortable, but I suppose it keeps him from sliding. And at least it’s rounded, not sharp like the spikes rising from the beast’s spine—spears stabbing out from its head, neck and tail.
When the rider moved forward from the pommel, the dragon’s eyes changed, turning darker, and the beast lowers itself, resting its belly and then its neck and head on the field. All of its eye facets now seem as black as onyx but still reflective. The dragon rider removes a cloth from a saddle bag draped across the beast’s neck. Then, using a rope hitched around one of the spikes, he dismounts, gracefully pushing off the beast’s side with his boots as he slides down the rope to the field. Once landed, the rider strokes the dragon’s neck, dangerously close to its mouth, as if murmuring to the beast.
As the rider continues to stroke the dragon, he removes his helmet, and wavy, shoulder-length hair tumbles out. In the shade of the dragon, his hair is the color of oats mixed with dried tymothy grass, but as it catches both the wind and the light of the mid-morning sun, the top layers of rippling strands turn to gold. Underneath the gold, darker locks are revealed, halfway between amber and chestnuts.
The rider’s back is broad and strong, and his clothing is so well-fitting it seems to be part of him. I stand transfixed as his muscles shift under the tight leather, then my eyes drift lower, taking in the clearly hard mounds of his bottom, the strongarched shapes of the backs of his thighs and his calves. I can see no visible separation between his breeches and boots. In fact, his entire livery seems to be one piece, but it can’t be.
Picking up the cloth he brought down—a cloak it seems—he drapes it over his shoulders and dons a hood as he turns away from the dragon.
It’s my stranger.
I can’t be certain, but from this distance, this man certainly seems to be the one I met yesterday in the woods. Turning, he glances toward me. I lower my looking tube and take a step back, fearful to be called out as a woman.
But I needn’t panic. Not yet. There’s a good half furlong between us, my hair is well hidden, and my brother’s clothing molds my body into a shape quite different from yesterday’s frock.
“Gather, all ye who dare ride a dragon,” the man calls out in a deep booming voice. Carrying easily across the field, his voice is so loud I can’t be sure it’s the one I heard yesterday, but the way it vibrates inside me makes me think that it is.
“Step forward and form a line across the field.” As he strides toward us, he gestures to indicate where this line should be.
One of the largest men marches out of the trees, and six or seven others follow. Several race away through the woods, clearly changing their minds, but more and more join the first boy until the line holds more than sixty young men.
“And what of you?” The dragon rider drops his hood back as he turns toward me.
I’m standing alone in the middle of the field.
“Are you brave enough to face the selection trials? Or are your breeches already soaked with piss?”
The young men all laugh.
