Chronicles

of The

Drakyn War

CHAPTER I

Last Meal on the River, Plus One

Blood oozed from the sky. Kodo watched, mesmerized, as it fell softly to sprinkle the firs below with a sparse crimson rain. Though he would never admit it, the challenge hadn’t gone his way. Everything hurt. His wings were shredded, and ragged wounds marred his once-perfect skin. Blood and bile congregated in his throat and spewed a lovely pink mist when he coughed. One lung had collapsed, and the other was inclined to follow. Every breath was torture, every wingbeat more unbearable than the last. 

He had to find a place to rest soon. It wouldn’t do to appear at the palace in his current state. Then he saw the cabin; its warm flag of chimney smoke waving him in. With relief, he wheeled and dropped gracelessly from the sky, only to discover that he stood before a skragling house. 

“Just perfect,” he groused. He had to hope this wasn’t the home of a warrior like the one he’d just escaped.

With the last of his strength, he transmogered, assuming the visage of his enemy, the lucky skragling bastart who’d ruined his day. He tried to laugh at the irony of this, but the effort skewered his chest with an explosion of agony. He made it to the door before collapsing, his energy spent, only to lapse into dreams of swirling magenta skies and clouds weeping the last of his blood into the thirsty ground.

In the loft bedroom of her Zaladz River cabin, a clammy chill permeated every surface, courtesy of the wily fog that had crept in overnight. Though her frayed trousers were clean, it felt to Wren like slipping her leg into a freshly gutted carp. 

“Gardamn, it’s shaping up to be a fruckin’ miserable day.” 

Her curses resounded eerily in the empty room. Today, she had to decide. She had finally admitted to herself that the battle was about to overrun her, and it was time. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would leave.

Outside, she hoisted the carrier to her shoulders and trudged down through the leafless alders along the path that ran beside the silent porker sty and empty chickers coup. She hurried past the decrepit dock where the water-logged rowboat still clung. There at the river’s edge she dipped her buckets to collect water for the day’s washing and cooking. 

As she did every morning, she stood there for a moment to catch her breath and look back up the hill to the familiar shape of the cabin. Its warm trickle of chimney smoke flirted with the chill morning fog; its face of wood and stone only slightly more organized than the surrounding wood and stone that had birthed it. Was this her reason for staying; her protection against the coming war? She realized that the cabin anchored her there, forbidding her to leave with its stone-cold heart, but offered only a liar’s promise of safety. 

As she stared, she recognized that the cabin’s face was contorted in a way that at first, she couldn’t define. Then she saw it. A form lay on her doorstep. Was it a fallen tree branch, a hungry barr, or something far worse?

Wren considered running away, maybe finding others like her downriver. Safety. Warm fires and welcoming arms. 

But no, this was her home, as cold and uncaring as it was. She laid the buckets down haphazardly, spilling water on her feet. Picking up a crusty, worm-embossed stick, she marched up the hill with purpose, hurrying to make it to the top before this unaccustomed bravery could desert her. 

When she reached the cabin door, she found neither a tree branch nor a hungry barr. Before her lay a soldier in a once-resplendent crimson and gold uniform, now torn and stained with blood. The medals, ribbons and gold-fringed epaulettes told her he was a colonel or maybe even a general. The man was lithe yet muscled, with olive skin and ink-black hair, except for an odd streak of gold that appeared to be his natural, untransmogered shade. His face was handsome, but severe, with a prominent nose and arching ebony brows. 

One leg had collapsed beneath him at an unusual angle, and Wren recalled a bow-shot stag that had fallen limb over limb down the hill and she’d had to use her knife to end its pain. The soldier appeared near death, yet had the strength to look up to her, pleading for help.  

Blood trickled from his lips as he spoke. “Take it away. It burns!”

“Take what away?” 

His chest wheezed like a leaking bellows as he reached for her. She jumped back when he thrust trembling claws toward her face, then exhaled loudly when she saw that they were only his hands, charred and twisted by burns.

She considered leaving him there, to bleed out like dying prey, but how could she let another human die on her doorstep in the cold?  When she tried to lift him by the shoulders, she almost changed her mind.  He felt heavier than ten men! Had she listened more closely to her mama and her confusing talk about “mass” and “nothing being lost in the change,” she would have known what she faced, but she hadn’t listened. She didn’t know enough to be as afraid as she should have been. 

With great effort, Wren managed to drag him into the cabin and up to the fireplace. She made him as comfortable as she could. It was a warm place to die, at least. 

Even before her mama and granpapa had passed, Wren thought about death more often than was probably healthy for a young girl. She remembered watching a chicker run around the farmyard without its head. When she tried to ask her papa a question, he motioned with his blood-stained axe at the flopping hen and said simply, “They die, we live, girl.” 

But that was not the question she desperately wanted to ask. She wanted to know where life ended, and death began. If the chicker could run around dead, was she running around dead right now? 

She sat by the fire for a while in silence, except for the popping of embers and the distant cry of a vixen, calling to her mate. The soldier’s breathing grew shallow, and soon she could barely detect the rise and fall of his chest. She cleaned up the blood on her arms and clothing as best she could and went about her day, expecting to have another body to bury in the morning. 

To her surprise, at dawn the next day, the soldier was sitting up, poking aimlessly at the embers of the fire with a stick. For a long moment, she stood at the base of the stairs, unable to make sense of his recovery. She approached him cautiously, unsure whether she should stay or run.

She leaned down to observe him more closely. “You seem to have healed, but …overnight?” 

With a nonchalant glance at his stained and disheveled uniform, he waved a manicured hand dismissively, “Oh, most of this blood isn’t mine. I just needed a good night’s rest away from the challenges.”

 He spoke with a slight accent, but Wren couldn’t place it. His voice was silky and rich, almost mesmerizing with its tone of casual intimacy.

She glanced at his body, where tears in his clothing revealed smooth, touchable skin and an athletic physique. Embarrassed to be caught observing him so closely, she turned away and busied herself adding logs to the fire.  

She heated an iron skillet on the fire and made him a simple breakfast of fried goldenbell shrooms, taters, wild scallions and herbs, all crisped to perfection in the last of the turken fat. The aroma filled the small cabin with homely comfort. 

His chair at the rickety wood table creaked and groaned, threatening to splinter under his imposing form. 

Through a mouthful, he said, “This is wonderful. I can’t even taste the blood in it!” 

She glanced up at him, confused. “Wh–What?” she stammered. “There’s no blood in this recipe–if that’s what you expected.” 

“Oh no, you have no idea how tired I am of it: blood soup, blood pudding, seared raw fletmeat with blood drippings, blood and beets–” 

The look of horror on her face stopped him. 

“Ha, ha, just my lame idea of a joke, girl,” he explained in a stilted tone. 

She wondered about his odd sense of humor and bizarre choice of words but said nothing until she took his empty plate away. “You must be feeling better; at least you have a healthy appetite,” she remarked.

“It was delicious! And you made some of this by hand? Maybe that’s why it tastes so good.” His gaze fell to her calloused fingers, and reflexively, she jerked them behind her back. Berating herself for her tell-tale reaction, she casually let them fall to her sides.  

Not knowing what else to say, she pulled upon the lies her mama had taught her. “Oh, well,” she stammered. “It’s a …It’s a bit of a hobby, you see, plus, you know, herbs and spices taste so much better if they’re allowed to mature naturally. I create the mix myself, by hand …” she trailed off. 

He laughed. “Well, one of my hobbies is eating, and your fare is delicious, no matter how you transmoger–er, concoct it. Have you thought about becoming a professional cook? I think you’d make a great one.” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t cook for more than a couple people, I’m sure. And now I only cook for one,” she added quietly. She immediately regretted admitting that she was alone. 

 “Don’t worry; I knew you were the only one here. It must be quite lonely and difficult.” He paused, looking around at the meager furnishings of the cabin, as if considering something.

 “I’d like to make you an offer; come back to the palace with me. You’ll love it there. Plenty of your kind to keep you company, and you’ll have the queen’s gardens to grow your herbs and spices, plus a real kitchen to work your magic.”  

Stepping away from him abruptly, she knocked over a chair and the strident noise woke her fear at last. She squeaked, “What do you mean, ‘m–my kind?’”

To be continued ...

Read the complete novel, to be published in 2023.