“Because of half-breeds?” Valan half-joked.

  “Because the White Mountains made them,” the dragon replied, continuing as though Valan hadn’t just taken a breath to ask what mountains had to do with it. “The real question is what hold the elves have over this army that compels them to do as they are told.”

  “You mean they aren’t the Oshalan’s allies?” Valan asked.

  “I wondered, why an Oshalan city-state formed the vanguard of an army that did not stir behind it,” the dragon stated. “And if that city-state’s army is targeting half-breeds, and half-breeds only, and comes from a land where half-breeds are tolerated, then the motivation has to come from their allies…and I have seen their allies.”

  “The elves?” Valan wanted to know.

  “The White Mountain elves,” the dragon corrected.

  Valan stared at him, not wanting to mine for the information…or interrupt whatever thoughts were bringing that look to the dragon’s face.

  “The Oshalan’s are being forced to war,” the dragon noted, “One city-state at a time. The White Mountains have found a means to leverage them. Them and who else, I wonder.”

  “And why this city?” Valan asked. “Because I’ve asked around and our neighbors are fine. The outlying farms are fine.”

  “As long as they don’t sell their grain to our merchants,” the dragon pointed out.

  There was that ‘our,’ again, as though the dragon claimed citizenship not just of the country, but of this city in particular. Valan hadn’t known a dragon lived locally.

  “Why do you think this city prospered? In these wilds?” it asked, amused as it invaded his mind.

  “Keep out of my head,” Valan snapped. “And ask your questions on the outside.”

  The dragon snorted, amused.

  “Your sister,” it said, changing the subject.

  “She is half wood elf, half…” Valan swept his hand up and down his own narrow form. “Half whatev—”

  He stopped, his brain catching up with what kind of elf made up their other half.

  “Ye gods,” he whispered, his eyes widening as he pushed abruptly to his feet. “They’re after us!”

  The dragon rose, too, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him forcefully back into his chair. “Sit!”

  Valan fought to find his feet, then to slide out of the creature’s grasp and under the table, gasping with pain as claws penetrated his jerking to pierce skin.

  “My sister!”

  “It is your mother we need to find,” the dragon reprimanded him. “They are here to do a cleansing ceremony. The tribe has fallen out of favor and she is the scapegoat. They aren’t here for the other half-breeds, just hers.”

  Valan gaped at him. “But…why?”

  “For the cleansing ceremony,” the dragon replied shortly. His face darkened. “You thought the deaths of the other half-breeds were horrible. What awaits her and her children will make them seem merciful.”

  Valan paled, renewing his struggles as the dragon’s grip tightened.

  “I have to get to my sister,” he growled.

  “Why?” the dragon asked. “So you can die alongside her?”

  “So I can save her,” Valan stated. “So I can get her out of there!”

  The dragon cocked his head. “Out of where?”

  Valan opened his mouth to answer, and froze. After a second’s silence, he closed it, thought, and gave his answer.

  “I was going to start at the orphanage.”

  “They were waiting for you, there,” the dragon replied.

  Valan tensed. “My sister?”

  “From what I can ascertain, she left the orphanage well before the Oshalan’s arrived…although not before their representative is said to have visited.”

  Valan leaned forward. “What do you mean, ‘From what you can ascertain?’ How long have you been watching us?”

  “You,” the dragon corrected. “I have been watching you. I did not know you had a sister.”

  Valan looked at him. “Then how…”

  “I can speak mind to mind,” it reminded him, doing just that. “I sent word to my people from the moment you mentioned her.”

  “But…why me?” Valan asked. “Why follow me? I am no-one. My father…”

  He closed his eyes, bowing his head.

  “Your father was one of five kings who rode into the mountains and never returned,” the dragon finished softly. “And I believe your sister’s father was another. How they ended up having children with a White Mountains princess, I do not know, but I do know where I must now look to find them.”

  Valan swallowed sadness, then the dragon’s words registered and he blinked.

  “Find them?” he asked. “You mean they’re still alive?”

  He paused, and when the dragon didn’t immediately reply, continued, “My father is alive?”

  “Only if we can get to him, first,” the dragon answered, “And we can only do that once you and your sister are secured.”

  Its gaze darkened.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “I can only do that after you are secured.”

  “You mean I’m not safe here?” Valan asked, glancing toward the door.

  The dragon followed his look. “News travels swiftly, and both money and fear are great motivators.”

  Valan heard footsteps approach the door, and struggled for his feet. His head spun, again, and he leaned on the table.

  “You hit like an anvil,” he grumbled, waiting for the world to steady.

  “You were in battle rage,” the dragon replied, “And there is only one way to snap a warrior out of that.”

  Studying the man, Valan didn’t argue. He figured the dragon knew, even if he’d never heard of a Northman with a dragon totem.

  Valan snorted softly to himself.

  Who am I kidding? he thought. I know as much of my father’s people as I do of my mother’s. Who are the White Mountain elves, anyway?

  “They’re a race of elf as close to the Northmen in culture as I’ve ever seen.” The dragon spoke, answering his question as if he’d said it out loud.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said.

  The dragon shrugged, his huge shoulders rippling the pelt draped across them.

  “How do you do that?” he asked. “I thought shifters lost their clothing when they changed.”

  The Northman smiled.

  “If I was human, I would, but I am dragon first.”

  “Dragons have totems?” Valan asked, and the dragon shook his head.

  “No. Some dragons can take humanoid form,” he explained, “And some take on beast forms. A very few can use a limited form of both, but that is rare. Most of us have one alternative form only.”

  “And you?” Valan prodded. “How many forms can you take?”

  “This is my preferred form when I walk among humans,” the dragon replied.

  “And your preferred name?” Valan wanted to know, realizing the creature hadn’t given him one.

  “Brelsherahl,” the dragon replied. “You can call me Brel.”

  Valan gaped at him. “Are you… Really? Brel?”

  “It is better than hearing you mangle the pronunciation, or have you mistakenly call my brother in an emergency,” the dragon told him. “Now, we must help your sister.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know where she was.”

  “That was an hourglass ago,” Brelsherahl answered. “My people have found her, and she can climb no higher.”

  Valan paled. He stayed still, momentarily frozen as he realized what Doreia intended.

  “She can’t…” he whispered.

  The Northman reached across the table, seizing him by the arm and dragging him to other side.

  “You have daggers,” Brel noted, his voice rough. “Do you need a sword?”

  Valan shook his head. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’d be more a danger than a help.”

  “At least you know that,” Brel acknowledged. “Are those the blades you are used to?”

  Valan nodded. “These are what I fight best with.”

  The dragon gave him a single nod.

  “When this is over, that will change,” he stated. “You will need something more powerful, if you are to assist me in retrieving your father.”

  Valan only half heard him. His hands dropped to his dagger hilts, making sure the weapons were firmly settled in their sheaths.

  “No armor?” the dragon asked.

  Valan looked at him.

  “Do I look like I have the coin for such things?” he challenged.

  The dragon grimaced. It almost looked like a smile, but was gone too quickly for Valan to work out what it meant.

  “This way, then,” the dragon instructed, turning on his heel and heading for the back of the room.

  Behind them, the footsteps reached the door, and the handle rattled.

  The dragon stopped.

  “Keep going,” he ordered, stepping around Valan and thrusting him toward the wall. “Pull the tassel.”

  He didn’t stop to make sure Valan knew what he meant, but lifted the table and wedged it against the door.

  “Go,” he growled, and Valan forced himself to keep going.

  There was no tassel on the back wall, but he could imagine why the dragon had said it. If they were pursued, the person outside wouldn’t be able to give away the way into…

  Into the what? Valan pondered. The secret passage?

  Looking the wall up and down, he figured that had to be it, and if the dragon hadn’t meant tassel, he’d known Valan would figure it out.

  Tassels are up, he decided, and crouched, running his fingers along the base of the cabinet standing in front of the wall. A soft click followed, and he pushed.

  Behind him, the dragon used the chair to brace the table as the door shook under a flurry of heavy blows.

  “That didn’t take them long,” he observed, once the chair was in place.

  Valan didn’t wait to be told what to do next. He pushed the cabinet aside and slipped into the dark opening beyond. The dragon followed, hauling the cabinet back into place, then deftly reaching under it.

  A snapping sound followed, and Valan’s eyes widened.

  What if someone else needs an escape?

  “Those who know of it, know it no longer functions,” the dragon answered, “And now those who do not know of it, cannot open it, even if they manage to find the catch.”

  “They’ll break the wall down,” Valan told him, continuing down the corridor.

  “Then they’ll be too busy to try looking in any of the right places,” the dragon retorted, “And that includes where your sister has gone.”

  Valan nearly stopped, fought the urge, and broke into a run.

  “We have to save her.”

  “You won’t climb fast enough to stop her,” Brel told him, picking up his pace to come alongside Valan.

  “I know.” It was half sob, but Valan kept running. “I have to try.”

  “I can get you there in time.”

  “What?” Valan’s pace faltered. “In time to see her fall?”

  Brel placed a hand on his shoulder, slowing drawing him to a walk.

  “Maybe in time to catch her,” the dragon said softly.

  Valan’s pace faltered, the weight on his shoulder enough to halt him.

  “Catch her?”

  The dragon drew him down a side corridor that opened to their left.

  “Follow,” he instructed. “You don’t know these halls.”

  Halls? Valan wouldn’t have called them that, but the dragon looked more at home here. Maybe they are halls to him.

  “Be careful, boy. A man can get sensitive about his home.”

  Valan didn’t know what to say to that, so he changed the subject.

  “Are you sure we’ll catch her?”

  “You,” the dragon told him. “You are going to catch her. I’ll be too busy keeping us aloft.”

  “What do you mean?” Valan asked, lengthening his stride as the dragon increased his pace.

  “You don’t think they’ll let us take their prize so easily, do you?” the dragon challenged.

  “How will they stop us?”

  “The White Mountains hunt dragons in the peaks and depths of their range,” Brel told him. “They have weapons specifically designed to bring us down.”

  “Will they have brought them?” Valan challenged. “There have been no rumors of a dragon here.”

  “That you have heard,” Brel corrected, “And a White Mountains warrior is never without his weapons. A dragon killer can be used to kill other creatures, as well.”

  They reached the end of the tunnel, mounting a set of stairs and following them up through a space barely wide enough to take them. Valan canted his body slightly sideways, while the dragon turned completely side on.

  “Accursed elves,” Brel grumbled.

  “Elves?”

  “Who d’you think built these tunnels?” the dragon asked.

  “I thought humans founded the city.”

  “This city, yes,” Brel replied, “But it was not the first city to stand here. The wars fought over this ground have vanished into elvish history, and humans are a much younger race.”

  “Meaning we never knew the stories to start with,” Valan concluded.

  They continued upward, breathing a little easier when they reached a narrow door and stepped out into an abandoned tower section.

  “Where are we?” Valan asked.

  “In one of the spires,” Brel replied.

  “The spires? But they’re… Aren’t they—”

  “Off-limits to humans under your new accord, yes,” Brel answered. “The accord I hold with their custodians is much older.”

  “Older. Of course,” Valan said, wondering exactly how old the dragon might be.

  “Later.”

  If there is a later, Valan retorted silently.

  “There is always a later,” the dragon informed him, laughter in its tones.

  They pressed on, passing narrow arched windows, but moving more freely, now they were out of the passage, itself. The dragon jogged ahead, glancing through each arch as he passed.

  Valan looked, too, his heart shrinking at the sight of the army camped outside the city walls.

  “Why don’t they come in?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse. “We have nothing that could stop them.”

  “The city has promised to turn over those they seek,” the dragon replied.

  “They wouldn’t…” Valan shot back, but nausea roiled through his chest, and acid boiled at the base of his throat.

  He let his protest fade. Even he knew how the politics worked.

  The dragon put it into words.

  “Two for the safety of thousands?” he asked, and he didn’t sound happy.

  He also sounded short of breath.

  Valan sympathized. His lungs were starting to burn, and his legs ached. He looked up at the stairs ahead.

  “Nearly there,” the dragon assured him.

  They rounded another stretch of wall and came to a small landing.

  Brel stopped Valan by placing a palm on his chest.