A Dragon's Bond

Chapter One. The Assassination

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, but then again, there weren’t always dragons here at all. Two summers ago, these green and pleasant lands had been turned into pastures of grey and barren waste. When the first dragons arrived, the Boarderlanders smelled them before seeing them. The smoke rising ahead of them like the bowsprit of a boat, the boats wake the death left behind. No one had been prepared for what would come after their arrival. No one. But that had been four months ago now. And Horrace couldn’t afford to live in the past. The truth was, he wasn’t sure he would live in the present. He looked out of the valley before him, with its twisted mountain walls leading like a stem on a leaf to a winding and pathetic stream. The charred patchwork of smoke, death, and decay a lasting reminder of the presence of these Western invaders. From his sniper's nest nestled into the hillside, he had observed the little village on the valley floor. For three days, he had watched the pattern of life in the valley. The shepherds rising early, and returning late, the bakers, who were the first to bring the village to life with their fires, and their smoke. And the Western Guard, who were as decisive as they were lethal. Horrace recalled his briefing from Edgard. “The Western Guard fight like lighting. A perfect combination of air dragon assault, infantry attack, and cavalry advance. Domination in all three spheres means domination on the battlefield, with no way of defeat.” Horrace had asked the obvious follow-up question, “if there is no way of defeating them, how do we defeat the guard? They have superior training, equipment, and tactics!” Edgard had chuckled at his reply. “Well,” he said, his voice as fatherly as it was empowering, “we don’t fight them on their battlefield.” And so that’s why Horrace was here, in the ice-cold rain, lying in three days worth of human waste so that he could fight the enemy, but on his terms and his alone. The brackish amber light of a winter's sun was relentlessly trying to crawl through the acidic smoke which hung in the valley like a plague. The darkness was good; he reminded himself. For his deeds could be done in the dark. It was the light that terrified him…

An escort was making its way up the valley. Despite being only a tiny village, the village's location meant such that whoever controlled it would control not only the valley but also the entirety of the Black Mountains, which stretched north to the River Scythe. Since the day of the invasion, a steady stream of Westerners had been arriving. First, they had come fresh-faced from the West, but recently they had been returning, limping home from the East. The excitement of youth was replaced with the reality of War. And so, as this small convoy meandered up the valley floor, Horrace wondered which of the two groups these men belonged. He glanced closer at the group of men at the front. A giant of a man was riding a coal-black mare, his armor reflecting the dull light of the valley. Next to him, on a larger horse, rode a much shorter man with much finer armor. Despite the distance, his almost white-like hair identified this man immediately to Horrace. It was his target, with whom he had been waiting. It was the Black Prince. Horrace continued to watch the group. Behind the Prince rode another 50 Men; his presence could mean that these men were none other than the Red Hands. A name given to them by their enemies and proudly, sadistically adopted by them. These men were the Elite of all Western forces. But their proficiency in combat was only matched by their thirst for blood and their complete lack of humanity. As the invading forces had swept Westwards, the dragons had left a trail of smoke; they had left a trail of blood. Reports of King’s Cliff, the most Western province, told of entire towns decimated to the last man, woman, and child. And the Blood Hands had afforded no person the decency of a quick death. The evidence indicated days, or even weeks of torture, before the saving grace of death was awarded by these men, these Blood Hands. Horrace felt the burning anger rising in his throat. Gripping him to the extent that he no longer felt his sodden clothes or the hunger in his belly. He would begin his avenging tonight, of that, he was sure.

Since the green Prince had declared all men over 18 were unable to leave the country, Horrace had left his sleepy village to attend his provincial garrison outpost. Horrace had been the best shot of his squad. In the two weeks of training he had received, Horrace had shown he had an unnaturally good shot with his dragon ice rifle. Edgard, the Garrison Sergeant, knew what waited for the boys who entered his Garrison and dedicated as much of the day as he could to give them every opportunity of survival once they left. It was no easy task, and despite only being two weeks of training, it gave each man a feeling that they could accomplish all that was required of them. Edgard had said, on their final parade, before they departed, each with their target to kill. “Remember why you fight, remember who you fight for. You no longer have to live in the shadow of the Great Generation from a Century ago. Because you are now that Great Generation, act as I have taught you, kill as I have shown you, and you will be the small changes in a tide of a big war. Bring us glory to the Borderland!! He had exclaimed before the recruits echoed his words, leading to a crescendo chorus reverberating around the parade ground. That had only been a week ago, and as Horrace thought back on the chaos which had ensued following the invasion, he suddenly found himself in the first certainty he had felt since. He would kill the Prince. He would change the tide.

Evening slowly set in as the Sunset to the East. The shadow from the Mountain valley had long cast the village into the night but nestled on the top; Horrace was now seeing the last of the day slowly slip away. Despite being a small village, it had since begun being fortified and now made a serious challenge to enter to commit the plan he had in mind. A barricaded fort loomed in the center of the village, where the town hall had once stood. Wondering fires from sentries moved around the outer barrier, and the Town Hall turned Keep was lit up by small fire pots of dragon fire. He had seen the Black Prince enter the Keep early that day and knew that was where he must head. Despite training as a Sniper, he knew that his rifle would be no use to him this evening and hoped that the Ice steel knife attached to his hip would be enough to deliver the fatal blow. Directly behind the Keep stood the stables, and behind that, the Hollows. Manmade structures to protect man's deadliest weapon; the Dragon. Horrace wasn’t confident how many Dragons would be down in the village; he was sure he had seen three separate ones flying over the valley after returning from their sorties. But he didn’t want to pay them too much attention, for they would surely not interfere with his plan tonight. It was a New moon, and everyone knew the Dragons slept on the New. Horrace slowly stood up. His numb body aching with the first natural movement of three days. He stopped and listened. Silence. Perfect. Not even the wind would disturb him this evening. He mused as his own breath escaped his lips, reminding him of the lethality of these dragons. They better not interfere with me tonight, he thought as he slowly set off down into the valley.

He reached the outer village buildings just before midnight. The strict curfew enforced on the villagers meant that his next breaths would be his last if he were spotted. He hung to the shadows like a spider to its web and inched through alleyways towards the Keep. Finally, he made it to the last building before the Keep. The buildings immediately surrounding the Town Hall had all been destroyed, their materials used to construct the palisade. Their absence left a perfect 100m killing field surrounding it. But that didn’t matter because Horrace had prepared. He ruffled through his overcoat before finding the ice-cold jar he had been searching for. He lifted the object, peering into the swirling blue gas inside. An ice dragon, whose scales were burned, would release a vapor known as dragons' breath. The only Dragon with the power of invisibility, the man who breathed in the gas, would, for the duration he could hold his breath, become invisible himself. He had to get the timing just right, as once he removed the cork, he would have almost no time to breathe in the vapor, and he would have to hold his breath for the 100m run to the outer palisade. Horrace stopped and started his breathing techniques as Edgard had taught him. He could slowly feel the oxygen filling up his veins and knew he was as ready as he ever would be to cross the gap. He unpopped the cork and breathed in the gas. The effects were immediate as he watched his hands turn as white as ice before disappearing completely, followed by his overcoat. One final check, and he was sure he was now invisible. The run across the killing field had to be just right. Too slow, and he’d run out of breath before he got there, too quick, and he’d burn through all his oxygen and be caught in no man's land. Horrace set off, a light jog that he had practiced days before. He was now 20m across the killing field. Two sentries were currently on the palisade he was approaching. He could hear the muffled undertones of a distant conversation and used this to his advantage in their brief distraction. Almost halfway now, his lungs began to burn, begging for the oxygen which would immediately bring him life, but soon a death if he were to take that breath at this moment. Horrace realized that three days of lying in wait had somewhat deteriorated his muscles. He was dying for a gasp of air, and as he reached 60 m in, he realized he wasn’t going to make it across the field. The only thing left was speed. Horrace leaned forward and began sprinting. Watching his step over the rubble left by the destroyed houses, he moved as fast as possible. His lungs were now at the point of complete desperation. 20 meters. 10 meters. 5 meters. Horrace blacked out…

Somehow, despite the noise he had been making and the last five meters that he had fallen in full view, Horrace had made it to the base of the wall. He had passed out, yes, but he had made it unseen. When Horrace finally came too, a slow light could be seen to the West, daybreak could not be more than an hour away, and Horrace cursed to himself as he realized he had missed the most opportune time. But he was stuck to the palisade now; retreating was not an option, as he could not pass back over the killing field without being seen. He stood up and looked at the wooden palisade directly in front of him. As a child, he had been a naturally talented climber and now used that skill to climb the wall. He looked across the wall and found what he was looking for. Erected in such haste, they had yet to trim the outer walls of any of the small branches, which would make it impossible to scale. He began to climb the barrier tentatively and was quite sure that the sentries he had seen earlier were on opposite sides. As he neared the top, he peered over the remainder of the wall and, seeing the coast was clear, jumped down onto the barrier. Once on the barrier, Horrace knew that the immediate danger was still not gone. He now needed to make his way to the Keep, though he would benefit from hiding amongst the workshops, armory, and blacksmith. From what he could make out, there were no guards between him and the Keep, and he eyed two on duty on either side of the large oak doors which once housed the Town Hall. Horace slid down the ramp leading to the palisade and made his way through the crooked buildings. As he neared the Keep, he slowed his pace. Studying the front wall of the Keep, he realized there was no way he could enter without alerting the guards. He would need a side entrance. Hanging to the walls, he crept around the side, eying a small door from a minor extension on the Northern side. Gingerly approaching, he raised his hand to the door and placed his ear to to it, hearing nothing on the inside. He opened the door and slipped inside, cautiously closing the door behind him. As he turned into the poorly lit room, he made out two ovens, a central wooden table, and a chair in the corner. His eyes slowly accustomed to the gloom, and he glanced back at the chair in the corner. For there, staring back was another pair of eyes…

“Good morning,” Horrace said, choosing confidence now he was discovered. “Good Morning,” the voice replied, clearly suspicious of this stranger standing in the room. “The Captain sent me to see for some rations for the men on the palisade,” Horrace Bluffed. “Where can I get this?” The main in the chair paused, clearly weighing up his options. On the one hand, there was an intruder in his kitchen. On the other, if he refused to assist an order from a Captain in the Western Guard, it could only mean one thing. Sighing, he gave in. “Top draw on the right,” he said, pointing to a cupboard at the end of the room. “My thanks,” Horrace replied as he stood over. Reaching in, he took four soft, plump rolls, one for each of the guards he had seen. “This will be fine, thanks.” He could feel the man's eyes on the other side of the room penetrating the back of his head. “Are you sure that’s enough? What about the other guards?” He asked, skeptically. Horrace turned around and joked, “well, you know how it is; I look after my squad, and the others can feed themselves.” The man chuckled. “You almost had me convinced young man, but you have just slipped up .”Horace's heart skipped a beat, but he stayed still. Something told him that If this man had wanted to give him up, he already would have done so. “What was it that gave me away?” Horrace stated. “The Squad, my son, the Western Guard uses a Section; it is us borderlands who use a squad .”He winked at Horrace. “Don’t worry, son; I'm not going to give you up. I presume you are here for the Prince? He asked. Horace nodded. “Well, since those bastard sons of whores came to this place, they have confined me to the kitchen. Even the evil must eat, it seems. I have no sympathy for them, so you needn’t worry about me. But you must be off soon; the hands are called in just a half-hour. Take that door,” he said, pointing towards the end of the room, “and head to your left, up the stairs, and take the first door you find on the landing. This will take you through the Servant's entrance into the Prince's Room. Be careful; I'm told he never sleeps alone.” And with that, the man stood up and began stoking the fire, making ready to start breakfast for the guards in the house.

Horrace left with a sigh of relief. While many locals hated their new masters, it was never sure if they would be loyal to the old regime, especially if they were working in the Garrison. Horrace followed as instructed and made ready to enter the bedroom. He unsheathed his knife, looking at his reflection one last time. He gasped; his eyes had gone from deep river green to ice-cold blue. An aftereffect of the Dragon’s breath he had utterly forgotten about. He smiled and braced himself one final time before turning the handle. Slowly, ever so slowly, he slid the door open. The room was as dark as the kitchen, and by now, Horrace was wholly accustomed. In the center of the room was the four pillar bed, and in the center of the bed was the outline of two bodies. Horrace crept across the room floor, cursing in his head at the loose floorboards that creaked with each step. He was no more than two steps away from the nearest of the two sleeping bodies when their eyes shot open. Horrace immediately recognized the Prince staring at him in abject horror, and his face let out a screeching alarm as he realized his danger. He leaped to his feet as Horrace closed the remaining distance. With a start, Horrace realized that the second person in the bed was not a woman as he had expected, but a man. And he was armed with a small knife which he had slept with under his pillow. He leaped out at Horrace, striking at his arm with the small blade. Horrace made his best effort to counter the unexpected attack with his dagger and managed to catch his attacker's hand. The impact flung the small knife across the room, and the man let out a scream of pain. “Get out of here, my Prince. I will hold off the attacker. Raise the alarm,” the man shouted, and before Horrace could make another move, the Prince rolled to the other side of the bed and slipped out of the door. Looking back into the room, the Prince saw Horrace’s dagger fly across the room, its blade piercing into the unknown man’s eye. The surprise would have come, but his death came quicker. The Prince made a noise that Horrace had only heard cattle make on hearing their calves slaughtered. A noise that instantly said that their relationship was more than friendship. As the door shut between the Prince and Horrace, he looked at Horrace with pure hatred in his eyes. “You will die, and you will die a slow and painful death .”The door closed shut, and Horace heard a lock slide into place.

Horrace raced to the door, his hand grasping the handle, but it did not budge as he expected. Outside he heard the Prince cry, “Guards; there is an Assassin .”Horace realized he had only moments to make his next move. Hesitation now would mean failure. He looked to the door he had entered from and moved towards it. Suddenly he was struck with a thought. The guards would soon be looking for a single Assassin, but what if they were distracted with something else, say a fire? Horrace looked to the bedside table and saw a dimly lit lantern. Turning up the wick, the flame grew steadily, and he threw it on the bed. The dry sheets quickly caught a lite, and Horrace ran from the room, following the way he entered. As he exited and headed down the hallway, he heard the clamor of men running in armor enter the bedroom before exclaiming, “Fire .”It was good, they wouldn’t be able to chase him just yet, and those precious moments may be all he needed. He ran to the stairs, taking three at a time as he ran towards the kitchen. Bolting into the room, he had no time to acknowledge the man he had earlier met and sprinted out the door. He looked around. The guards from the front palisade were racing towards the Keep. They hadn’t yet spotted him, but it would only be a matter of time. He had no choice but to run the other way. Towards the stables. Towards the hollows. Horrace ran and was thankful that this area of the Garrison seemed to be less defended. He threw himself into a wall as he heard a group of five men running his way, but they didn’t notice him as they continued towards the Keep. The chaos in the immediate aftermath of an attack was his saving grace. He smiled as the men disappeared around the corner. He set off again, a small plan forming in his mind. He couldn’t ride a horse, but maybe he could ride a dragon? He had considered this eventuality earlier but dismissed it. The truth is, he hadn’t put as much thought into his escape as he had put into the infiltration. Horrace continued down the road, passing the stables and seeing the large entrance to the hollows aglow with the light of dragon fire. He could feel the heat emitting from the hollow as he neared and reconsidered his options. Entering a hollow was almost suicidal. It's said that a dragon will have five men with whom they will ride in their lifetime. Indeed, the Westerners spent countless hours going through each kingdom's towns, trying to find men to pair with their dragons. The odds of Horrace being accepted seemed slim. But what choice did he have? He opened the hollow and took what might be his last breath.

The charred stone of the hollow indicated to the beast which resided amongst its walls. The gentle, rhythmic breathing of a dragon sounds so peaceful, yet all who know the nature of the beast would never dare challenge a sleeping dragon. Horrace grimaced. The New moon meant they would be sleeping, and it was bad luck to wake a dragon, let alone on the new. But he thought it was worse luck to be dead. Horrace peered into the end of the hollow. He could now clearly see the outline of the Dragon. Its scaly figure is marked like a thorny rose bush. He cautiously approached, taking each step as carefully as he had taken in the Keep. The head of the Dragon lay nestled amongst its wings, in a protective nature. Horace knew if he were to make this work, he would need to approach the head. As he neared the head, the stench of the breath hit him in the face, a combination of rot and acidic smoke. He raised his hand to the Dragon and placed it on its nose. Feeling the rough leather under his hand, he introduced himself to the Dragon, as all people are taught from birth. “I am Horrace, son of Horrace, and I come to claim you as my Dragon.” The words came out soundly, despite the terror which gripped his body. The Dragon let out an exasperated sigh and opened her ice-cold eyes with the words said. This is it, Horrace thought to himself…