Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 1-3

“That,” he said, his amber eyes glittering, “was fun. What do you want to do next?”

She rolled onto her back and stared at the sky as if divining for clues to her future. She knew what she wanted to do: she wanted to return to Taziem’s caves and sleep off the post-sporting stiffness that was creeping into her limbs. Then, when she woke again, she wanted to resume her lessons. She knew these wants were impractical, but she could think of nothing else with which to replace them.

“I do not know what I want to do,” she finally admitted. “I must give the matter some thought.”

His contented rumble slurred to a stop. “Thinking is no doubt what you do best,” he said, shading the thought with traces of a reproach. “I, however, have no stomach for it.”

He lurched to his feet. She stood up as well, then reached for his head and touched noses with him. She did not want him to leave, but could not think of a reason for him to stay.

“You know my Name,” he said, projecting a blend of rue and resignation at her. “Call me if you are in need. Or if you want to play.”

“You know my Name as well,” she replied. “If you Call, I will come.”

He nodded, then withdrew a half-dozen steps and unfurled his wings. The motion sent a sudden swirl of dirt and grass her way. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her tanglemate was already a soaring bronze glint in the sky.

She lay back down in the grass and began to think. Presently, she fell asleep again.

G

The tapping of raindrops against her eyelids rousted her from her slumber. She sat up, then scowled as she glanced at the sky. A solid mass of dark grey clouds portended rain for days to come. She thought of Taziem, all snug and dry in her caves. She imagined herself there, too, then hissed at such pointless longings. Past fortunes were not going to stop the rain from dripping down her neck. She would do better to get up and seek out new ones.

So she abandoned the meadow for the span of trees beyond it. But while the forest offered her a modicum of protection against the gusting wind, its sparse spring canopy did little to deflect the rain. It was pouring now—a cold, relentless deluge. As she rambled through the woods in search of a nook or cranny big enough to shelter her, the muddy ground sucked the warmth out of her through the soles of her bare feet.

The day waned, but the storm did not. By now, Lathwi was thoroughly miserable. Her search for refuge had taken one frustrating turn after another by day’s light; and she knew all too well that it would only get worse in the dark. She wanted to leave this awful place, to fly away and never come back. Now more than ever, she deplored the accident of birth that had left her wingless. Yet even as she bemoaned her ill fortune, the cloying smells of rain and sodden earth were suddenly joined by the faintest tang of wood-smoke. She hissed, recognizing Fire’s breath. And where there was fire, there would be heat! An eager shiver scudded down her spine. Nostrils flared, she began to track the exhilarating fumes.

Dusk came and went, leaving her in darkness, but she did not quit the hunt. She followed the gradient through a stand of oaks, over a knoll and into a tiny glen. There, the smoke thickened into tendrils of pungent white fog which led her to a most peculiar wooden structure.

The sight confused Lathwi. For all of its strangeness, it seemed hauntingly familiar. She slowed to a stop in front of the structure, then stared at it, trying to dredge answers from her memory. The pelting rain stung her face and hands, but she barely noticed. Where had she seen this thing? What was its significance?

From out of nowhere, a word popped into her head: house. With it came a fragment of information—the longish square of yellow light outlined an entrance.

Although the recollection pleased her, she was far from satisfied. How did she know this? And why had she forgotten it until now? She stepped up to the outline and touched the planks which defined its shape; the wood was gloriously warm, heated from within. It dawned on her then: this was a place of power! That power had already drawn one secret from her. If she went inside, perhaps it would draw others. And even if it did not, at least she would be out of the rain.

She gave the planked outline a gentle shove. It did not budge. She tried again, more forcefully this time, but again it resisted her. Annoyed now, she stepped back, then dropped her shoulder and slammed into it with all her draconic might. The sound of splintering wood filled her ears. At the same instant, the barrier gave way and momentum slung her through the sudden opening. As she scrambled to regain her balance, a myriad of hot, concentrated smells blasted her in the face. She hissed, venting her surprise.

“Be gone, thief! There’s nothing for you here!”

Lathwi pivoted toward the raucous sound, but her alarm melted into surprise as she spied its source. A human! He was standing in a far corner, his back pressed to the wall. His muddy brown eyes were wide with fright. He twitched a flat, shiny thing in her direction. The hand which held it was trembling.

“Go away, I tell you. Don’t force me to use this!” Fascinated, she continued to study him. An abundance of reddish fur framed his pointed face; it shaded his eyes and upper lip as well as his lower jaw, giving him the aspect of a shaggy fox. His body was covered with a variety of animal skins. He was small, more than a head shorter than her, and scrawny. She stepped toward him, curious to see if he was as soft as he looked.

“I won’t warn you again, thief! Be gone!”

His squawking rankled her ears. She projected a command at him: be silent! But the thought left no impression in his mind. Her curiosity soared. Did humans not mind-speak? She took another step, meaning to test him again at closer range.

With a strangled cry, he hurled the thing in his hand at her. It thudded against her scaled shoulder, then rebounded away and onto the wooden floor. Attracted by its shininess, she picked it up. Its shape reminded her of the dragon claws that she wore cinched at her waist, but in other ways, it was like no claw that she had ever seen. Its upper half was thin and flat, almost flexible; and its edges were as sharp as the point. The lower half was solid, agreeably thick; and felt comfortable in her hand.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

She wandered over to the tame little fire in the far wall to escape the moisture-laden wind that was blowing in through the hole that she had made. There, she sat down and resumed her examination of the not-claw. By the fire’s soft light, it gleamed hunter’s moon gold—the precise colour of Taziem’s eyes. It was an auspicious omen.

“Answer me, dammit! What do you want?”

Lathwi scowled at the human, annoyed by his incessant chatter. His face was flushed and puckered, a comical sight; his hands were frustrated knots. He was hovering just beyond her reach like a gnat in need of swatting. She wondered what he could possibly want from her.

“Look, you. I don’t know where you think you are, but this is my house, and I’m not going to—”

She cut him off with an excited hiss. House! That was the sound for this place! She remembered something else now, too—she had once been able to make these sounds! She raked her mind for other scraps of this awkward, unlovely language, but encountered only mystified silence. It was then that she realized why fortune had led her here: she was meant to study the human tongue! It made perfect sense now that she thought about it—while exiled among the land – bound, it would behoove her to speak as they did. Furthermore, this fox-like little man must be her new teacher. Why else would he be squawking at her so excitedly?

Eager to get on with the lesson which he had obviously already begun, she caught his eye with a flick of her wrist and then motioned him toward the patch of fire-warmed floor directly in front of her. His eyes narrowed, betraying his apprehension, but he made no move to join her. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and glowered down at her.

“What happens if I decline your invitation?”

Although she did not understand the sounds, his stance was unmistakable. He was testing her. She responded to his challenge in true dragon style. She thumped her chest, then gnashed her teeth and then crooked a finger at his heart.

His reddened cheeks turned suddenly white. He glanced toward the opening that she had made, groaned at the rain that was pouring down beyond it, and then returned his gaze to her. A moment later, he grudgingly lowered himself onto the floor.

“Now what?” This time, the sounds left his mouth as a snarl instead of a squawk.

She pointed at him, then worked her jaws, pantomiming speech. The little man rolled his eyes.

“Dreamer! If this isn’t the strangest night of my life, then I’ll cheerfully die tomorrow. First you burst in on me like some storybook demon come to life and threaten to eat me if I don’t join you on the floor, then you want me to talk! Who in hell do you think you are?”

She had trouble assimilating the torrent of sounds. The only time her jaws opened and shut that fast was when she was feeding. Still, she endeavoured to repeat the few sounds that she had managed to grasp. The stone in her mouth garbled her first attempt, so she spat it out and set it down next to the not-claw, then tried again.

“Who you?”

The man’s brow furrowed with annoyance, and for a moment, she feared that her attempt at man-speech had offended him. But then, still scowling, he thumped his chest and said, “I am called Pieter. Pieter the Trapper.”

“Pieter,” she echoed. This time, she had no doubt as to what had been said. He had given her his say-name—the one that had no power. “Piterzatrapper.”

He nodded, then pointed a firm finger at her. “Now it’s your turn, stranger. Who the hell are you?”

She paused for a moment, trying to translate the nuances of her self-image into one coarse sound. “Lathwi,” she said, at last. “I Lathwi.”

“That doesn’t tell me much,” Pieter grumbled, although the crease in his forehead grew less severe. He nibbled on the fringes of his mustache, baffled by this uninvited guest. From this distance, he could see that she was a woman, but there was nothing even remotely feminine about her. She was well over six feet tall and at least two hundred pounds, with muscle accounting for every ounce as far as he could tell. Her face was angular and lean, criss-crossed with a multitude of scars; and any hair that she might have was hidden beneath the hood which was an extension of her peculiar black mail. She was, he thought, one of the most fearsome sights that he had ever beheld. Yet in spite her barbarous appearance and horrifying threats, there was something oddly ingenuous about her.

If only he knew what she wanted from him!

“Who?” she asked then, pointing at the fire in the hearth. Her voice was as shrill as a bird of prey’s, yet unnervingly sibilant. The sound of it sent goose-pimples racing down his back.

“Fire,” he said.

She repeated the word, then pointed to the blade which she had not yet returned.

“Knife,” he said.

Again she pointed, then again and again. Each time, he fed her a word.

“Floor. Log. Kettle. Stew—food,” he appended, when she crinkled her jut of a nose at the kettle’s reddish brown contents. To prove it, he fished a chunk of venison from the pot and popped it into his mouth. Her look remained dubious, so he gestured for her to do the same.