FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

no yiff yet, but gettin there. bear with me!

***

Sara finished cleaning the glass and set it on the rack with the rest. Picking up another, she set about it with a scrap of rag, polishing away smudges and the layer of grime they invariably accumulated as the day passed. The tavern was quiet in the evening for once, and Morn, her father was locking up the stables and setting affairs in order for the morrow.

Her mind was aflame. There was no other way to describe it. Anger that had been quashed and suppressed for months by the backbreaking weight of responsibility and duty to the tavern was boiling over, stoked to an inferno by the words of that damned arm-wrestling mercenary. It had been days since he left, but still her thoughts kept straying back to him, as though hoping somehow he could get her out of this predicament.

She set the cup on the rack, and then automatically reached out for another from the bar. Him and his talk of freedom and cities. She snorted. As though her father would ever let her stray from this miserable, seedy little hovel, except to gather water from the well. All through her youth she had gritted her teeth whilst the other girls her age were allowed to take their own jobs and make friends, whilst the few meagre people she had met were hounded away for fear of distracting her from her precious duty. It was as though her freedom to make her own choices had been taken away from her. Scratch that; she had never had any choice to begin with.

She set the cup on the rack, and then automatically reached out for another from the bar. Still, as bad as her father was to her, he never mistreated her as such. He was a kind man in his own way, and she was convinced he genuinely though what he was doing was the right thing. Unlike Brenn... her blood turned to ice in her veins just thinking about him. He was mean, miserly and spiteful in a way that beggared belief. He had Saladin's Drift bent around his little finger and more or less owned the place. The former baron had either been killed or made prisoner when the Empire came to power, and it had been years since the last tithes had been collected. Brenn and his family had shot straight to the top with their thuggery and vice, and as though they weren't bad enough, Brenn had chosen her for his wife!

She set the cup on the rack, and then automatically reached out for another from the bar, wondering as she did why she was doing it. Angrily she grasped the cup, examining its deadened sheen and lacklustre facets with rueful contempt. Is this the fate I am doomed to for the rest of my life? Scraping cups and dishes all day, forever under the heel of a tyrant and a drunkard I loath?

She made to wipe it clean with the filthy rag, then stopped, her arm quivering with rage and shame at her own helplessness. With a single, jerky motion she flung the cup at the opposite wall where it exploded into a thousand sparkling shards like the distant, fathomless stars of the night sky. Seconds later flapping steps raced and Morn burst into the room, foolishly brandishing a dunging fork like a stave.

"Who goes there?" He screeched at the top of his lungs, spinning on the spot like a top.

"Its okay papa, I just dropped a cup, that's all..." She murmured, swallowing her anger for the nonce. If her father saw her this way it would only worry him, but the deal was already done and dusted. Negotiations had finished yesterday against her furious rejections. The date was set. In seven days time she and Brenn were to be wed.

Morn grunted and retreated back to the stables with his dunging fork in tow, muttering under his breath. Dejectedly she gathered up the fragments of glass in her apron and tossed them in the bin where the forlorn little stars lay shaded amongst grime and refuse. Sighing, she took a seat at the bar and lay her head I her hands, despairing at the unfairness of life, wishing she could just curl up into a little ball and have it all end. She would run rather than face the pitiful existence that awaited her, but where would she run to? There was nowhere that Brenn or her father could not follow, unless...

It struck her as a sudden strange musing, and then blossomed into a fancy as she entertained the thought. Suddenly elated, she rushed into the store room and quietly rummaged around, stopping and listening every now and again for the sound of Morn's preoccupied labour. After a few minutes of frantic searching, her questing hand closed over the long, thin object and she triumphantly dragged it from the assortment of shovels, hoes and rakes. Hand shivering, she caressed the pommel of the sword in her right hand, its cool weight a balm to her, and then suddenly gripped the leather-wrapped handle firmly. Morn had shown his old sword to her when she was young, recounting moving tales of fierce battles with Goblins for her youthful amazement whilst staring lovingly into the silvery metal. Unconsciously her hand felt for the strap and the five notches cut there, fingers teasing into the firm leather. He had been a soldier before his own father had passed on, though he rarely spoke of it any more. Once every few years some of his old friends came around for a drink and they would sing marching songs by the fireside. Sometimes he got it out when he though no one was watching and practiced the parries and thrusts with stiff, arthritic arms. She jerked the sword loose of its scabbard, surprised at its weight, examining the blade and the designs on the crossguard. She ran a finger gingerly along the edge, then quickly rammed it into her mouth, tasting sharp coppery blood.

For some reason, out of a sense of duty or honour or perhaps just fond memories, Morn had kept the blade honed sharp.

As quietly as she could she sheathed the sword, stuck it in her belt then ran upstairs, gathered such of her belongings as were suitable for what she had in mind and stuffed them rudely them into a patron's empty pack. No doubt he would miss it later, but she couldn't afford any sympathy now. Stealing into the kitchen, she added a large loaf of fresh bread to the pack and penned a swift note, explaining her actions as best she could with such little time. Finally convinced she was as ready as she'd ever be, she returned to the bar and left the note under the counter, placing it under a clean cup as a paperweight before heading out into the cold night. Outside, light shone through the wooden slats of the stables and she heard Morn cursing as he mucked out the horse pens. A sudden swell of emotion took her at the familiar sound, and for a moment doubt assailed the suddenly weakened bastions of her resolve before she mastered her feelings, telling herself firmly that life would be better this way.

Dashing away an unexpected tear, she walked out into the night and didn't dare look back.

***

"That's it lads, keep moving! Cael! Cael! Get your arse moving you lazy bastard! I'm watchin' you!"

The little Dwarf's shrill voice sounded over the steady plod of marching feet like an angry magpie. He had been yelling at everyone to hurry up for about half an hour, despite the fact that his shorter stride meant that they all had to occasionally stop and let him catch up. Cael wheezed beside Melanth as X Company ran around the plateau in two loose lines. A little past sunrise they had all been shouted out of bed by the dwarf, then had been shouted to attention in a long line. Shortly after a little more shouting of instructions at the newcomers, about two hundred in total, had been shouted into their respective divisions and assigned to their sergeants. It was the vagaries of fate that had seen Melanth and Cael assigned to the demented little creature that had stood guard at the gate yesterday. So far it was only midday and Melanth had already formulated an opinion of his new NCO. He had promised himself that he would stuff the Dwarf down a latrine at the first opportunity.

"Damn it what a fucking mess you lot are! I must have pissed in a high priest's gob in me last life to get lumbered with you horrid lot!"

Melanth ground his teeth and kept pace with the others. Two men had already passed out from the strain of keeping up this hellish pace, and the only stops they'd taken were whilst the Dwarf kicked them back to semi-sensibility with his hobnailed boots. It was all he had expected of a morning run to toughen up the rookies. Though he had not needed to attend because of his prior battle experience, he was loath to abandon Cael to the tender mercies of the brutal sergeant and so had joined the miserable ranks anyway.

"What the hell does he think we're made of?" Cael gasped between panting breaths, stumbling and quickly regaining his footing before he incurred the Dwarf's wrath again. Melanth noted that although the little creature could not keep up with them, he wasn't so affected by the fatigue that was gripping the humans in its iron claws. Having said that neither was he, but dragons carried many of their natural attributes across forms, and hauling your half a tonne bulk into the air required unparalleled physical fitness as well as a degree of fortune and preferably a good headwind to help. Whatever was seen in the disguised form was a direct translation of their natural prowess imprinted upon an alien body.

Melanth had thought long and hard last night about revealing his true form to the camp, but had eventually decided against the notion. He had no way of knowing how the others would react to the sudden revelation, and it had happened before where allies had swiftly become enemies and attacked him. Instead he would follow the path in human form and would simply have to tolerate the discomfort it caused. The abysmal marathon ended on the third circuit of the plateau, but only after another four men had collapsed from exhaustion. The Dwarf sergeant grudgingly dismissed them and wandered off into the forest of tents, muttering imprecations under his breath. The men collapsed onto a dewy knoll of grass, and Melanth followed suit to deter suspicion. He guessed that they had covered nearly five miles, but judging from the hills and numerous slopes they had slogged up he put the distance as closer to seven. It took fully ten minutes for the first of the humans to recover enough to begin staggering a weaving path back up to the top of the plateau, where the Metamorphs had begun piling earth behind the wooden barricades, and erecting new barricades behind the earth. The purpose of this odd fortification puzzled him, but he put it down as being the Rupert's idea. Only the gods knew where the Empire had dredged up that miserable excuse for a commanding officer. It seemed more likely that they would meet their demise upon his follies rather than any tactical genius by the Ashkar. Cael followed his gaze and seemed to guess what was on his mind. The farm boy uprooted a stem of grass and chewed it noisily.

"Y' know, I hadn't really expected it to be this good." He murmured, rolling onto his back and staring up at the clouds overhead.

"Eh?"

"This I mean," Cael waved a hand vaguely, indicating everything at large, "life on the frontier. Back home the most excitement I ever used to get was driving the hay wagon to the market every rest-day. I mean, it isn't much to look at what with the fuckin' great piles of clarts everywhere and that little runt bellowing in me shell every half a minute, but at least out here a man can stand tall if you know what I mean."

"Right up until an Ashkar sticks a knife in your guts at least." Melanth growled, flicking stones across the ground and counting the bounces.

"Aye, but that's a, a wossit, an occupational hazard. Yeah." He rolled onto his side and regarded Melanth curiously, shading his eyes from the sun with a hand. "Anyways, how come you ended up out here? You seem to be the only person in this god forsaken hole aside from the Dwarf who can find 'is arsehole in 'is britches."

"I've done this before you could say." Melanth said, joining Cael in his study of the sky. "I've spent most of my life fighting in one form or another, and I guess old habits die hard."

"What?" Cael said, his eyebrows knitting. "You've done this your whole life? How old are you?"

"Forty seven." Melanth said, careful to keep his face blank. Cael whistled between his teeth.

"I could've sworn you weren't a day over twenty! Don't you have any family to go back to old-timer?" He asked.

Melanth sighed inwardly. Talking with Cael last night had unearthed a penchant in him to ask questions and keep asking them until he got answers, and for all the show of ignorance and rustic stupidity, the lad was actually pretty sharp. He opted to stick as near to the truth as he dared. After all, the lad had never travelled far, having been born and bred in a nearby fife. What would be the harm?

"No one." Melanth admitted, exhaling exasperatedly. "I was orphaned at birth and raised by a travelling mage who found me by the wayside. He taught me a few of his conjuring tricks, or tried to anyways, and let me star in his stage act to earn my keep. The old guy loved his gambling though, and fell afoul of some goons over debts. It's a shame 'cause the old fool loved his grog too, and when they came around one night to frisk him he put up a fight, and they killed him. Not a word, not a warning, just skewered him on the end of a knife." He slapped his fist into his palm, anger burning at the memory of that fateful night.

*

He had been just a hatchling, barely longer than a man was tall when the old mage had gotten himself killed in that ridiculous brawl. It had been Melanth who had stayed with him after the thugs had fled, and he who stayed with the mortally wounded magician as his life slowly spilled from his body onto the dusty carpets of his hovel. It had been him who closed the man's sightless eyes when the wound finally took its toll hours later, as the first rays of dawn crept over the darkness of night. The old man had been in no pain by then. It had been peaceful, in the end. The dawn chorus was being sung when his final breath escaped his lips, and then he had smiled as the light faded from him, as though life was one huge joke and he had suddenly understood the punch line.

Melanth had never found out if his mentor had any family to speak of, or indeed if he had ever had any other friends aside from a wet-winged wyrmling and the mule that pulled the cart. He had asked around afterwards, and it turned out that no one knew much of him beyond his shows and strange, whimsical ramblings into the wilderness in search of artefacts and treasure. It had struck the young dragon afterwards that even he didn't know much about the man, despite having been raised by him for seven years. It was the old man who had schooled him in the art of manipulating his physical form through the rigours of the Body Forge, and taught him human language and customs. When the mage died, he had cremated the body in his own flame and cast the ashes beneath a young oak, as had been his dying wish. Followers of the god Thresian had it that the spirits of the departed would be taken into the tree, and both spirit and plant would become all the stronger for the union. It had been all he could do to see that the old man had a proper burial.

He had waited by the grave for two weeks until some mages of the same Order as his mentor turned up and took away the dangerously magical stuff, and then he gave the pack animal to a monastery where it would be cared for. Afterwards he had spent weeks wandering through the wilderness, lost in his own misery, right up until he tasted the strange spoor in the air. He remembered it well; completely alien yet tantalisingly familiar at the same time. Some deep, unknown instinct had compelled him to follow the faint trace to its hidden, mysterious source. Flightless, he had travelled for days without rest through hostile lands until he reached a rocky outcropping where the Dragons were basking, not just one or two, but hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands.

He discovered later that he had stumbled upon the entire Visari enclave on their way west to answer a call to arms within the Dragon race. He'd never discovered exactly what the emergency was, but afterwards they had entered the Great Western desert and not a single Dragon of that Warclan returned. Later they became reviled and despised, but like so many things, he had never found out why, even if he had been in a position to care. Contact with his estranged kinsmen had awakened something within him, something forgotten and far older than the humanity to which he had become accustomed, like a smouldering fire it lingered and haunted with its fleeting presences. When finally exhaustion took him that night and he slept amongst his own kind for the first time, dreams came to him, the dreams that he had lived suspended in the glittering amniotic fluids of his egg, but had been drowned amongst the blinding lights of civilisation beyond the shell. They showed him the wide open plains and fleeing cattle that were so much prey to him, the lush rainforests and fathomless mountains therein that were the cradle of his race and the lava-scorched caverns beneath where dragons went to breed. Memories lived by ancient ancestors, passed through generations lost became known to him, along with instincts and emotions he had never known he possessed. The dreams returned to him night after night, revealing more piece by piece as he fitted them together in his mind. The tangled mass of hundreds of lifetimes he lived nightly weighed on him, and his new urges confused him. Learning to be a dragon hadn't been easy, and some of the hitherto unknown aspects of his nature were alarming. His first kill had been a rat unfortunate enough to attract his notice, and before he had known what he was doing or how to stop himself, he had already eaten it. The hot blood on his tongue galvanised something inside, and not long after he spat his first flame into a clump of bushes and chased down the fleeing creatures to slake his hunger for the coppery, red liquid. He had remained on the outcropping long after the Visari left, making up for his neglected tutelage and revelling in new found independence. Stretching his wings for the first time nearly got him killed, but the instincts were relentless and raged uncontrollably. Only after his first, stuttering flight over the pine boughs did they begin to subside, and he could finally master them enough to even think of returning to human society. The return journey had been long and perilous, but surviving in the wilderness had made him stronger, and he had learned to use his wings that had been little more than large leathery ornaments before. Supple claws had hardened to brazen talons in the scouring winds and blistering sunlight, fire burned fiercely in his veins and his belly and he vowed to hunt down the criminals that had ended the life of the only one he would ever call family...

And then, that was it. The dreams ended as fast as they had come, and he seemed to awaken from a stupor that had engulfed him for months, as though it had not been him living it but someone else. The instincts became diminished and sluggish, though they were an intrinsic part of him now, as undeniable as his own nature. He would have denied it all if it were not for the sudden burning desire for justice that welled within. His vow for vengeance had been like a splinter in his mind, always there, always nagging with the same quiet persistence that allowed waves to wash away mountains. Then, one day his resolve snapped and he hunted down the two thugs who murdered the old mage, cornered them in a dank alley as they fled the fury of his flame and then soundly ripped them to pieces. It had been his first taste of human blood, and he had despised himself afterwards, but remained convinced that revenge had been the only true justice. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. Such was the nature of Justice.

*

He studied Cael closely as the human listened to an altered version of events. Cael's eyes flickered as Melanth strayed too close to an outright falsehood, but when he was finished the human nodded in acceptance. He watched Cael's mind working as he digested this new information.

"Since then I've been hunted by the law for what I did to those two guys. I didn't have any money, anywhere to live or prospects of a job, so soldiering was the natural course for me. I've been a free sword since then."

This Cael seemed to accept, and the two started making their way up towards the plateau, where they joined the line for the mess. Today the cook was serving something that at least looked edible, though the sludge still consisted of parts of an animal that even an anatomist would need a chart to identify. A large dint in the soot-blackened skillet and a purple bruise under the cook's eye suggested a reason for the general improvement of catering standards. Cael talked animatedly about how he came to be in the camp, describing in length about how his father had suggested that "a few years in stiff boots will make a man o' ya," and how, driven by boredom, increasing pressure from his parents and poor harvests, he had accepted and left home for the first time.

Once lunch was over, the irritable Dwarf led them into an area as yet un-colonised by tents to practice their weapons drill. He seemed to brighten a little as he took in those arrayed before him. Most of the mercenaries had brought their own weapons with them, and he organised them into groups depending on which weapons they bore and assigned sergeants to explain tactics and techniques. Axe wielders were to be spread amongst those bearing shields to deal with cavalry, whilst swordsmen and archers would be organised into small yet highly mobile formations that favoured the dense woodland terrain. Melanth breathed a sigh of relief as the Dwarf explained the reasoning behind his measures, sensing that the Dwarf had a better grasp on how to deal with Ashkar than the Rupert. Large formations would likely become split up as they moved through the trees, creating gaps in the defensive line that it would be easy for Ashkar to exploit. Similarly, by spreading differently specialised troops throughout the lines he eliminated the risk of one group collapsing under pressure they could not handle without support from others. Melanth knew from hard experience that in dense terrain mobility was paramount as large, cumbersome formations were easily outflanked by smaller, faster foes that could attack the vulnerable rear and split the formation, usually to disastrous consequences. It was a simple concept that even Cael understood after a few minutes of the Dwarf bellowing it at him, so it was a loss to Melanth exactly why the Rupert had defied even this basic convention by establishing a static camp in the midst of enemies known for their hit-and-run warfare. He put it down to the rich upper classes being inbred.

Weapons practice consisted of slow and exaggerated movements with hastily whittled wooden armaments that nevertheless ended in several minor injuries. They trained together in the eight-man sections they had been assigned to earlier, switching partners every now and then to become more familiar with the men who would be watching their backs. Melanth learned that as well as Cael and the Dwarf, he was in the company of two Nomad brothers by the names of Tarq and Grim, an ex-merchant called Liren Jost who didn't seem to be able to break the habit of hitting the other man's sword and not the man himself. There was also Heller, a mercenary, and Yriel, a female Metamorphicate. She puzzled him mightily, as shape shifting Metamorphs were normally horrified by the prospect of fighting and served only as non-combatants, but he finally conceded that there must be exceptions in every species. She handled a blade well, and even managed to deliver Melanth a painful jab to the ribs before moving off to spar with Liren. They finally retired at sundown, exhausted, bruised and wishing for nothing more than their beds.

"I hope it's not like this every day." Cael growled, rubbing at a spreading purple mark on his forehead.

"It's your fault for getting clonked; you should have kept your eye on his stick." Melanth retorted, rubbing at the various aches he himself had acquired.

"I was watching his stick; it's his fist that I wasn't watching." The farm boy whined, wincing. "I'm sure Grim wasn't supposed to hit me that hard."

"Just be thankful it wasn't the Dwarf with that poleaxe of his, you can split stone with one of those, never mind skulls. Of course, he would need a stepladder first."

This got a hearty laugh out of the youth, making a number of men stare and shake their heads.

"Ah well, I'm off to bed, see you in the mess tomorrow." Cael said, yawning, and then grimacing as the move pulled a tender spot. With that he took himself off his tent, lost somewhere in the middle of the ever growing throngs. Melanth grunted and headed off by himself, catching a view of the twilight sun as he did. Beneath the glorious golden sky of sunset rolled lush green vistas as far as he could see, seeming to go on seamlessly to the ends of the earth itself. Tall, old trees of birch, oak and yew formed a living carpet that was wondrous in its extent and beauty, yet held hidden within those enchanting depths an insidious and powerful foe. He sighed, wondering how many more ashes he would have to scatter beneath the living boughs.

***

Sara made good progress before nightfall, following the dusty and well-used track that she had seen the soldiers use a few days before. The sword was an unnatural weight at her hip, and the leather belt chafed her horribly through her dress but she felt all the better for having it. She knew she must appear ridiculous to any soul who cared to watch; a young woman struggling under the weight of an oversized pack and still dressed in her work overalls, but she was beyond caring now. Her life was her own for the first time, and all the choices were in her hands. No more would other people dictate what she could and could not do, for that was her own province now, and she didn't care what she looked like, so why care what anyone else thought? Besides, there was no one to watch her anyways; miles from nowhere on an empty track in the middle of the woods. So why did the inexplicable cold feeling on the back of her neck make her shiver so in the warm air?

She let her hand fall to the heavy hilt of the sword. It wasn't as if she had any idea how to use a blade, her experience with edged weapons being limited only to dicing legumes for soup. A few experimental swings at a thorn bush had resulted only in her slicing a massive hole in her dress and nearly cutting her own cheek off. But she had persevered despite her initial poor progress, and by the end of the day had rounded off that embarrassing attempt by having the sword fly unexpectedly out of her hands and lodge itself a foot into the bole of a tree. And, just to add insult to injury when she though it couldn't get any worse, the rough handle had given her blisters.

Still, it was comforting to have a weapon at her side, even though she was more likely to hurt herself than any marauding wolf if push came to shove. At least it had shock factor, being able to flourish an impressive and well-worn weapon in the face of danger. It was preferable at least to being killed outright.

Her pace quickened unconsciously as the sensation of being watched intensified. The woods were full of perils these days, she had heard said often enough in the bar. She cursed herself for the stupidity of entering them in the darkness, knowing damn fine how easy it would be to lost the path or fall and break a leg. It seemed that this new, headstrong streak in her wasn't such a good thing after all.

Squaring her shoulders, she fixed her gaze straight ahead and kept walking. It was probably just a fox or something. At least that's what she hoped it was. Even if she had the equipment to set up camp she wasn't prepared to risk it now, but she could feel the fatigue building. Belatedly she remembered that no one had told her how far away the camp was, only how to find it. She swore again, thinking how stupid she was being but dreading what, if anything, she could return to now. There was no going back. Morn would disown her when he found out what had happened, and that meant the only place she had to turn would be... she gulped at the thought... Brenn. Never that. Rather death than that.

Sighing angrily, she trudged on into the darkness.

***

The Watcher in the Dark followed the young human with its eyes, occasionally exchanging a meaningful glance with its travelling companion. The robed figure placed a comforting hand on its neck, and it stilled, waiting patiently for the woman to move out of earshot before it spoke.

"I dislike this notion of yours, Fakir." It growled low in its throat. "I do not recall using them as bait to be part of our agreement."

"But you do wish to uncover what secret has drawn us to this place, do you not?" Fakir returned, shifting to a more comfortable position in his tree branch. The Watcher regarded him with a hard eye, wondering what was going on behind that opaque, seemingly endless hood. It and Fakir had met by chance, both perusing the same truth, both dedicated to the same cause... more or less. That was where the similarity ended, however. Despite initial appearances, the two were far from friends.

"The secret, yes, but I would like to avoid human involvement in this. If one of them turns up dead, they will move on the offensive too early seeking retribution and that may be the ruin of all that we both seek to accomplish here. I have already communed with my brethren in this. They are in agreement. I care little for whatever mischief you plan, but save it until I have completed my mission."

Fakir seemed impassive, and dropped nimbly to the ground.

"You realise that should the Ashkar take one of them, it would make this a whole lot easier. You claim to have scented Kayodin, you know their habits. No doubt they would lead us straight to whatever it is they are doing out here if one was to be taken and sacrificed."

"And that is the only reason I have tolerated this," the Watcher snorted. "That one should die for the good of many is honourable enough, but for us to benefit from their suffering? Will that make us any better than the Kayodin we stalk?"

Fakir picked up a twig and twirled it in his fingers, finally flicking it into the trees.

"Tell you what, you worry about morality and the purity of your soul, and I'll find them." He snapped. The Watcher snorted again.

"You are all that I expected of a thief." It hissed, stalking off through the trees. "You serve only yourself, live only for yourself, for greed and debauchery. I know you were with the whores in the city; I could smell them all over you. And the drink too. You are pathetic."

"And you are a paradigm of perfection, my sweet?" He bowed mockingly. Though it could not see his face, the Watcher imagined his expression to be a sneer, and could clearly imagine the sudden change to terror as it grabbed one of his legs and held him aloft upside down.

"There are greater things at stake here than you know." It said, very slowly and very menacingly, the tone explaining in minute detail exactly what would happen to Fakir if he dared back-answer, or even blink for that matter.

Fakir nodded earnestly, but never made another sound. Carefully, the Watcher lowered him to the floor and let him drop into an undignified heap.

"We will wait." It decided, raising its head to the wind and inhaling. "Though I expect we shall not wait long; Ashkar approach."

They both stopped dead, holding their breath. Above the hurly burly of nocturnal creatures was the faint whisper of rustling leaves and muffled click of metal on metal. Through the mottled boughs of the trees, the Watcher spotted the sleek shapes, nearly indistinguishable against the dark foliage, spreading out through the undergrowth with surprising speed. Although they preferred the shadows to lurk in, an Ashkar's night vision was poor compared to others and they failed to spot the Watcher, intent as they were upon the meandering and by now quite unnerved human child. She seemed to sense that something was afoot, and had drawn an ancient battered sword from its scabbard and was waving it around without much conviction. The Watcher felt its claws curl into its palms. It hated the whole idea of sacrificing her to their depredations, but knew it would be the quickest way to find the Ashkar camp in the deep expanses of the forest. Without this it could take weeks to track them down, by which time they could have moved again or, worse, the meddling humans could launch their attack. Making a silent vow to acknowledge her sacrifice by completion of its mission at all costs, the Watcher turned its eyes from the terrified child and waited for the inevitable.

***

Melanth glided low over the forest, exalting in the feeling of air beneath his wings for the first time in months. He had almost forgotten what such simple pleasures were to a dragon; the weightless buoyancy, the soft caress of wind upon your scales, the unparalleled, boundless sense of freedom borne from the knowledge that at any time you liked, you could just fly off and no one in possession of a minority of their wits would try to stop you. To a dragon the sky was much more than just the space above the trees, colonised only by birds and clouds. It was home and teacher, friend and lover all in one stroke. The way that many human sailors felt about the ocean was similar to the way dragons regarded the sky; out there, over the horizon lay your destiny, distant and enchanting. All you had to do was spread your wings and fly out to meet it...

...Alas that it should be far from that simple. He had commitments now, no matter how much he wanted to shirk them and discover destiny. He would just have to wait until this business was finished with, and then he could follow the winds to wherever his heart led him.

But, he though, grinning sardonically. Don't you say that every time? Yet here you are again, caught up in some petty quarrel you neither understand nor care for. You are just like the old soldiers who follow the banners. You have made your own groove in the mud of the battlefield, and are destined to live in it for the rest of you days. Then, one day, the earth will be filled in upon you and it will become your grave.

He snorted derision. Most dragons wouldn't engender such questions, or even be able to contemplate them at that. The natural state of a dragon was to be one step short of a beast in any case, with instincts engaging body without activating the brain en route. His talk with Cael had reminded him of that much at least. It was an animalistic approach that perfectly suited them, and worked surprisingly well until faced with a problem that could not be resolved by simply burning it to a crisp or stomping it so hard the colour becomes engrained in the rock. At such a point the dragon usually responded by pretending it isn't there at all and flying off, in the greatest traditions of human politicians everywhere. People were often surprised to find that dragons were so simple minded. What they failed to understand was that simple didn't also equal stupid, which was a very brief but very terminal mistake to make.

He pushed himself to the limit, performing complex manoeuvres and dives just for the sheer joy of the feeling. A barrel roll became a Crazy Ivan mid action, and he wheeled through the night on wingtip. He looped the loop, climbing high and then diving and pulling up moments before laminating himself to the ground, craving the sudden, nerve jangling rush of adrenaline it brought. Sneaking out of the camp had been easy enough; the sentries being disinclined to pay much attention to anything inside the camp when their attentions were so avidly focussed on the outside. Tossing and turning in human form, unable to sleep, he had felt some long lost longing for the sky that had drawn him out in the wee hours of night. He promised himself that he would do this more often, to get back to his roots as it were.

In fact, he was also surreptitiously scouting out permanent Ashkar positions. Though they never aged beyond maturity and would endure to the end of time if not for disease and the sword, dragons were mortal, and could be killed just as easily as whatever form they inhabited at that moment. Melanth, having a vested interest in staying alive, had no intention of falling prey to an ambush and being cut down by a stinking dogman. More than that, he considered it a debt he owed to his new friends to protect them. He had spotted a few already, mostly minor camps, but the woods contained the general bustle of activity that suggested something was afoot. There seemed to be a lot more Ashkar than the reports suggested there were.

He dropped low on silent wings and plucked one from the trunk of a tree, cracking its spine before it could let out a cry and tossing the corpse into the foliage. When morning came and the corpse was found no doubt its comrades would have a little pause for thought, being unable to find any tracks or marks of struggle. Perhaps they would recognise the scent of a dragon, and if they did the more the better. Perhaps they would not be so eager to attack then. Every moment the humans gained training and making ready would help them survive to coming onslaught. Left to the devices of their commander, their skulls would soon adorn a dark alter.

His thoughts continued much in this manner as he swept over the forest and visited each camp with silent death, making sure some luckless sentry in each died in a horrible and gruesome manner to better dint their morale. Finally, his task complete and his claws wet with blood, he turned back towards the plateau, and it was at that point he heard the scream

***

Sara's cry echoed throughout the forest as the foul figure bowled her over into the muck. The sword of her father was easily wrenched from her grasp by a groping, clawed hand as she struck out at the indistinct shape more from instinct than intention. She screamed again, kicking and writhing madly and managing to catch it a solid blow to what she thought was its head. Drops like warm butter splashed he face and the thing hissed, landing her a savage blow to the gut and another to the face. Stars went nova before her eyes as another taloned fist smashed into her, knocking her senseless and limp to the muddy ground. The terror that she had been too busy struggling to feel washed through her mind like a terrible tsunami as she realised that she was completely at the mercy of the aberration she had just punched. Desperately she tried to move, to struggle and kick and bite and scratch but her limbs were leaden and nonresponsive at the horror of what had just happened. Breaths came in short sharp bursts, heart pounding so loud in her head that it was painful. She tried to whimper, to scream again, but no sound would come. The horrible helplessness enveloped her like a blanket.

The thing hissed again, stepping up and pressing her into the ground with a foot, gloating in its victory. It was huge, and covered in shaggy, matted fur that stank of smoke and old blood. She couldn't make out its features, but moonlight glinted off deadened, yellow teeth of which there seemed to be a great many. It was hissing madly now, pressing her harder and harder until she couldn't breathe. Lights swam as she realised that it wasn't hissing at all, but was laughing, a low, snickering evil laugh of the wolf that has the chicken cornered and defenceless. More shapes detached themselves from the treeline, similarly tall and odious. Chain mail jingled, hobnailed boots scraped on the ground as they approached. She found herself hoping for an instant that they were the soldiers she had been seeking, come to save her. She immediately discounted that as the chilling revelation swept over her and they laughed along with their fellow. No human could laugh like that.

"Good catch Lurtz," sniggered one drawing closer, apparently to examine their prize. "This one will go along a treat with the war drummers."

"This one ain't for chow." Growled the figure standing over her, spitting a stream of blood into the bushes. "She's going to Ciberus, and I bet he's got plans for her too."

The group snickered obscenely as she was dragged up to her feet by her shirt collar and punched in the stomach again so she retched. A rough hand clamped itself onto her neck, claws piercing skin and rivulets of blood running free as a rusted iron collar was snapped into position and pinned shut. All the time she dared not speak or move except what they made her do, submitting totally, praying to whichever god that cared to listen that she would at least live. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. If the gods were listening, they didn't reply as her captors set off, hauling her after them through the bushes and wicked brambles into the deeper darkness, where not even the hellish light of the watch fires upon the plateau penetrated. Despair took her then, sorrow at her own stupidity that she had left to follow a fancy, that she would never see her father again and that she would meet her fate ignobly in a filthy ditch far from home and would be left to rot in the sun. She tripped once, and fell sprawling face first into the muck. One of them viciously grabbed her by the throat and dragged her back to her feet.

"Keep moving." It spat, and struck her painfully along a cheek.

Lowering her quaking head from its invisible stare, she forced one foot before the other, knowing that where she was headed would be her first and final destination.

To be continued...