Islands’ sakes, when I first heard my name and the command to follow, I thought it was to spill out my life in the Great Dragon’s cause. Now, I discover I am sinfully fond of the life I envisage with a magical Remoyan. We Ha’athiorian monks say there are many paths to serve the Great Dragon, but only one right path. I have walked a wrong path.”
Zip reached up to tweak the point of his left ear. “I’ve made the decision to trust you, Ri’arion.”
“I will strive to hold that trust in the highest honour.”
His words rippled through her and into her. Thinking back to the day she had first seen him in the monastery just off Ha’athior Island, Zuziana wondered at the depth of vulnerability he had shown. Had he truly changed so much in such a short space of time? Was he being honest? When she said that she trusted him, was she being honest? Now there was a question. What might happen if she subjected the powers of an Azure Dragon to this man?
Zip said, “Ri’arion, does your monastery have records of magicians like yourself trying to control Dragons? What happened?”
“Ill,” he said, growing pale. “All was ill. I will tell you what I remember, if you wish.”
Her stomach gurgled loudly. “Over dinner,” she chuckled. “Was there any of the trout left? I’m famished.”
Chapter 6: Slave
T he type of work Ardan did not enjoy was digging out latrines. But that was his next assignment as Kylara’s battered, depleted force rested at another small village late that afternoon. Probably, he snarled inwardly, they wanted him well out of the way while they discussed the conundrum a slave had created for them by rescuing a number of pert and decidedly attractive warrior behinds from a kicking by the Sylakian boot. That, or they debated the mystery of how he had slipped free of his chains and manacles.
Ardan scratched his stubbly chin. Ha! Not only was he splattered in Sylakian brains and gore, but now he could add faeces to the collection of filth he wore on his skin. Was he a prophet? How else could he have known he’d be digging through a pile of congealed sewage?
This was not the life for a warrior. Except that it kept him near Kylara. Why he could not keep his eyes off the Warlord, she who had tried to halve his skull like a prekki fruit on the chopping block? There was the physical tension between them, which he would like to imagine flowed both ways. If only she would stop calling him ‘boy’ and ‘slave’ with that sneer curling her lip, he might even believe it. But Ardan could not escape the feeling that he was somehow meant to have run into the Warlord of Yanga Island–fated, destined, or whatever prekki-fruit mush his brain was serving up in the guise of intelligent thought, lately.
Ardan heaped his wheelbarrow load of ready-made fertiliser onto the village’s vegetable field and began to mulch it in with a wooden spade. The physical labour helped, or he would only brood over his growing mountain of unanswered questions.
The vegetable field stood on the edge of the inlet they had marched around–was it only yesterday? A stone’s throw from where he worked, the ground sheared away over a thousand feet into a ravine which rapidly descended in a westerly direction toward the Cloudlands. It cut over a league inland into the heart of this large Island, and was the outflow of a river he would dearly have loved to bathe in. He wondered why the river had never been terraced, unlike his Island. It was such an obvious location.
There, another detail of his past. He held the beads of sense, he just could not string them together into a coherent piece of jewellery.
Judging by the gesticulating marking that conference down in the village, he was about to start fielding some hard questions about his unquestionably hard skull. Ardan tapped his forehead experimentally. It didn’t feel like a skull that acted more like a stone, repelling scimitar blades and Sylakian hammers.
At least he no
Zip reached up to tweak the point of his left ear. “I’ve made the decision to trust you, Ri’arion.”
“I will strive to hold that trust in the highest honour.”
His words rippled through her and into her. Thinking back to the day she had first seen him in the monastery just off Ha’athior Island, Zuziana wondered at the depth of vulnerability he had shown. Had he truly changed so much in such a short space of time? Was he being honest? When she said that she trusted him, was she being honest? Now there was a question. What might happen if she subjected the powers of an Azure Dragon to this man?
Zip said, “Ri’arion, does your monastery have records of magicians like yourself trying to control Dragons? What happened?”
“Ill,” he said, growing pale. “All was ill. I will tell you what I remember, if you wish.”
Her stomach gurgled loudly. “Over dinner,” she chuckled. “Was there any of the trout left? I’m famished.”
Chapter 6: Slave
T he type of work Ardan did not enjoy was digging out latrines. But that was his next assignment as Kylara’s battered, depleted force rested at another small village late that afternoon. Probably, he snarled inwardly, they wanted him well out of the way while they discussed the conundrum a slave had created for them by rescuing a number of pert and decidedly attractive warrior behinds from a kicking by the Sylakian boot. That, or they debated the mystery of how he had slipped free of his chains and manacles.
Ardan scratched his stubbly chin. Ha! Not only was he splattered in Sylakian brains and gore, but now he could add faeces to the collection of filth he wore on his skin. Was he a prophet? How else could he have known he’d be digging through a pile of congealed sewage?
This was not the life for a warrior. Except that it kept him near Kylara. Why he could not keep his eyes off the Warlord, she who had tried to halve his skull like a prekki fruit on the chopping block? There was the physical tension between them, which he would like to imagine flowed both ways. If only she would stop calling him ‘boy’ and ‘slave’ with that sneer curling her lip, he might even believe it. But Ardan could not escape the feeling that he was somehow meant to have run into the Warlord of Yanga Island–fated, destined, or whatever prekki-fruit mush his brain was serving up in the guise of intelligent thought, lately.
Ardan heaped his wheelbarrow load of ready-made fertiliser onto the village’s vegetable field and began to mulch it in with a wooden spade. The physical labour helped, or he would only brood over his growing mountain of unanswered questions.
The vegetable field stood on the edge of the inlet they had marched around–was it only yesterday? A stone’s throw from where he worked, the ground sheared away over a thousand feet into a ravine which rapidly descended in a westerly direction toward the Cloudlands. It cut over a league inland into the heart of this large Island, and was the outflow of a river he would dearly have loved to bathe in. He wondered why the river had never been terraced, unlike his Island. It was such an obvious location.
There, another detail of his past. He held the beads of sense, he just could not string them together into a coherent piece of jewellery.
Judging by the gesticulating marking that conference down in the village, he was about to start fielding some hard questions about his unquestionably hard skull. Ardan tapped his forehead experimentally. It didn’t feel like a skull that acted more like a stone, repelling scimitar blades and Sylakian hammers.
At least he no
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