Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Mycoples did not know how long she’d slept when she was awakened by a great whooshing noise. It sounded like an intense rain, and she felt her whole body become wet.

She looked up and saw that the ship was entering the Rain Wall. They were all suddenly immersed in a solid wall of rain, showering straight down on them. It was like going through a waterfall.

The Empire soldiers panicked, grabbing hold of the decks as the ship passed through. The noise became deafening. Mycoples welcomed it, the rain cooling her, steam rising off her scales from baking in the sun all these days. The pounding of the water momentarily took her mind off the troubles before her.

Slowly, they came out the other side.

Mycoples opened her eyes and saw that they had entered the red waters of the Sea of Blood. She realized the soldiers were taking the most direct route to the Empire, by circumventing the Isle of Mist.

Her heart fluttered as she felt a sudden flurry of hope. She had flown over the Isle of Mist with her clan many times. She knew it to be home to great warriors. And she also knew it to be home to something even more important: a rogue dragon. Ralibar.

Mycoples had met Ralibar once, centuries ago. He was a recluse, and he was unlike other dragons. He disliked his own kind; yet he disliked humans more. If they passed by, and Ralibar saw her in this predicament, perhaps he would come to her aid. Not because he liked her, but because he hated humans. Perhaps, he would even help free her.

Mycoples knew what she had to do: she had to somehow get this boat to sail to the Isle of Mist. She could not let them circumvent it. She had to get this boat directly onto the island. She had to get it to crash onto the island’s rocks.

Mycoples closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She felt the sea air rushing through her scales, felt her body begin to tingle, as she summoned the last vestige of power she had. She called upon the Ancient Ones, who had guided her for thousands of years, to plead for one last favor. She did not ask for strength for herself. She did not even ask for the strength to battle.

Instead, she asked simply for the wind to answer her. The sky. The ocean. With her ancient, primordial dragon spirit, she summoned them all, called upon them to grant her this one favor. She asked for the wind to cry, the waves to rise, the skies to darken. She commanded them all, in the names of her ancestors, in the names of the ones who walked the planet before all others. Dragons had been here first. And dragons had the right to command nature.

Mycoples breathed, deeper and deeper, feeling herself grow warm; gradually, a wind stirred. The waves began to rise, to splash, and slowly, the boat tilted, then rose higher. The wind gained strength, and soon the sun hid itself, as the skies grew dark.

Soon, the boat was listing, as enormous waves rose up and fell over them; huge currents dragged them, the sky thundered, the wind was deafening, loud enough to drown out even the shouts of the Empire men who scurried all around her, running for their lives. Some fell overboard. They all tried to control the boat, but they could not: the boat was being blown off course.

Right for the Isle of Mist.

Mycoples opened her large, purple eyes and looked out with satisfaction: there it was, on the horizon, looming ever closer.

Over the howl of the wind, a lone sound arose, one that could be heard even far away, on the horizon, like an echo of a scream, filling the sky.

Mycoples smiled to herself. She knew that sound. She had been born to it. Had been raised with it all her life.

It was the cry of another dragon.

Selese and Illepra charged across the endless hills and valleys of the Ring, as they had been all day and all night, heading for the Eastern Crossing for Reece. Selese rode with single-minded determination and could think of nothing else. It had been a treacherous ride, taking the long way so as not to be seen, to avoid battlefields and random groups of soldiers and mercenaries. They had ridden through dark woods and over steep ridges to stay out of sight. More than once she’d feared they’d been spotted.

But it was all worth it. Selese would ride to the seven rings of hell to save Reece. And she felt he needed saving, sensed that he was in danger. He must be, on such a dangerous quest as the one on which he had embarked. Wherever the Destiny Sword was, she knew, death always followed.

She prayed she could get there in time, could save Reece from whatever dangers he might be in. Even if she couldn’t, there was nowhere else she would rather be.

She had hardly stopped, her muscles weak from exhaustion, barely able to catch her breath; Illepra did not slow either. Illepra had become like a sister to her, and Selese was overwhelmed with gratitude for her being there. They both risked their lives to take this journey.

While they had done their best thus far to avoid open roads, they had reached a point, on the final leg of their journey, where there was no way to avoid it. Now there was nothing but open landscape, a single, barren dusty road leading ever east. Trees gave way to rocks, and these to dirt, and then to nothing but a vast, barren desert. The Eastern Crossing would not be far now.

The only problem nagging at Selese was how exposed they were on this open road, in the middle of nowhere. They were too visible, just the two of them riding alone. She was very on-edge, the hairs on her arms standing up as she felt prone to ambush from all sides. The Ring was torn apart, armies fighting armies, and even these armies divided amongst each other. It was a lawless, chaotic place to be right now, with no law and order, no one to stop bands of criminals. She knew they had to get to Reece fast.

They rounded a bend, and suddenly, Selese and Illepra stopped short. There, before them, blocking the road, was a huge, felled tree. She wondered how it could be there, in the middle of nowhere.

She heard a noise, and before she even spun around, she knew: they had been ambushed.

Behind them stood four soldiers, emerging from behind a boulder, all large and broad, unshaven, passing around a wineskin and drinking. She saw from their armor that they were Silesians. Her own kind. She knew she should feel relief.

Yet she did not: they were drunk, and they looked them over with lust in their eyes. They seemed far from the main army, and as she looked more carefully at their ragged armor, at the stripes torn from their uniforms, she realized: these were deserters. Spineless, rogue soldiers, betrayers to their own people. The worst of the worst.

“And where might you two fine ladies be off to now?” their leader asked, as the four of them made their way closer to them.

Selese’s horse pranced, boxed in with nowhere to go. Her heart pounded in her throat, as she wondered how to handle this. She saw Illepra glancing at her nervously, and saw that Illepra was uncertain, too.

“We are Silesians, just as you,” Illepra called out. “We serve the royal army. We are healers. So please let us pass. We have important business we must attend to.”

“Do you?” he asked, stepping forward and grabbing the horse’s reigns as another grabbed Selese’s.

“We are from Silesia, as are you,” Illepra repeated, her voice trembling.

“Ah, Silesia,” he said, mocking. “And such eternal love we have for our people.”

“You are deserters,” Selese called out, her voice darker, more authoritative, less afraid, condemning the people before her. “The lowest of the low.”

The others scowled, but the leader laughed and shook his head, surveying her.

“I’d say we are the smartest of the smart. We are the ones who survive, the ones who live for another day. We do not fight for some fake thing called chivalry, which we can neither see, nor touch, nor feel. Why should we fight someone else’s war?”