The only time Rhyannen had ever seen her mother cry, was when a dragon-slayer came to their door. His form was dark, his outline rimmed with long spikes from armor made of dragon-scale. His face was a mass of shadow, save for an arch of gleaming rubies on his brow. He handed her something—a helmet—made of steel with prominent, slanted eye holes.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. She took the helm and cradled it, weeping bitterly. “I wish I could have saved him.”
She choked back sobs, somehow asking if the creature responsible was still alive. The dragon-slayer answered in the affirmative.
“Promise me you’ll kill him.”
After a long silence, the dragon-slayer promised. When he went away, Rhyannen was left with the sound of terrible wings in the night—and a roar.
Chapter 1: The Dragon-slayer’s Daughter
Year 793 of the Sacred Sun Calendar
Six years later—
Everyone has dragons in their lives, but Rhyannen never thought about becoming a dragon-slayer. Her job was shepherding and preparing livestock for sacrifice. She knelt beside one of the sheep, and sheared the last of its wool, watching the curls drop to the ground amongst an earlier pile.
It likes its food so it ‘goes down easy,’ she muttered, resentment building in her chest. On the last day of the Sacrifice, the wyrm complained of hairballs, and demanded the sheep be shorn.
Rhynn stood, admiring her work, before giving the five ewes around her one last inspection. A boy two years her younger stooped and collected the clippings, placing them into a basket. When he finished, he stood and swept his gaze over the animals as well, before resting on Rhynn’s lithe, athletic form.
“Finished?” he asked, peeking out from between locks of auburn hair.
“Aye.” She had a look of deep consternation. Rhynn placed the sheep-shears back on the rack. The barn smelled of pitch and pine resin, and the hay beneath her feet crunched as she shifted her weight. Outside, the sky was dismal and gray, and an atmosphere of foreboding permeated the village.
Ghiere was near the shore, just north of the Penarien Mountains. Their grim shadows stretched across the village on this day of sacrifice.
“I’ll tie them up,” the boy said, reaching for the rope.
“Nay, Davydd, not all of them,” Rhynn said. “We need to keep one back as a spare.”
Davydd sent her a quizzical look. “Eh? I thought five was the tribute.”
“No—four,” Rhynn lied. She hated the sacrifices, the tributes, and if she could spare even one animal life, so be it. After all, the village itself needed the sheep and other livestock. Last winter was harsh, and many took ill and died.
“Hmm…”
Davydd rounded up four of the sheep, of which Rhyannen took hold. They bleated in protest, as though knowing what fate lay in store.
“Put the last one in the stall,” she told Davydd. He nodded, leading the lamb away. A calm, male voice entered the barn.
“You got picked for tribute duty, I see!”
Rhynn faced Osgar, the handsome older son of the village elder. His dark hair framed his youthful features. His cobalt eyes met Rhynn’s, awaiting a response.
“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.
“I know how much you despise it, but when you get back, I’ll keep my promise to spar with you,” Osgar said. A hint of mischief colored his tone. As if that would make it up to her.
“And I’ll keep my promise not beat you in front of everyone,” Rhynn replied, trying to hide her disgust. “What weapon should I use? Sword? Axe?”
Osgar took a step closer, meeting her challenge. His hand went to his hip, his cloak draped over him. “Neither of those is a match for a spear,” he said, cracking a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, Rhynn finding the coldness there.
“Then I’ll have to use both, to knock your little stick out of the way!”
“We’ll see who gets knocked out of the way,” he replied, looking amused. He turned and left the barn, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll see you when you get back,” he said over his shoulder. At least he didn’t seem to notice the fifth sheep was missing and tried to stop her. She’d have to have the sparring lesson early and give him more than a few bruises if he stood in her way. She bristled at the injustice of her village, and the way Osgar seemed unmoved by the custom.
Rhynn led the four others out of the barn, across the fields, and onto the blustery moors. Her likewise auburn hair whipped about her face, the wind pulling at her cloak. Round gray boulders, many carved with intricate designs and spirals, pocked the rolling hills. Taller stone slabs rose from the ground in places, also thus marked. The wind drowned out the sounds of the sheep’s bleating.
Davydd caught up to Rhynn. They both paused, Rhynn scanning the roiling, ashen clouds above her. Above the wind, they could hear the terrible flapping of wings. They quickened their pace, dragging the sheep along. They came to what they were looking for: a thick wooden post at the crest of a large hill.
“Hurry, Rhynn,” Davydd said, voice trembling.
“I know,” she replied. In several shaky movements she tied the rope to the post. Together she and Davydd raced down the hill, careful to avoid the many smaller boulders that would trip them. When they reached the bottom, the wind died down, and the faint roar of a magnificent beast carried across the sky. The pair ducked behind a smooth, moderate-sized rock.
“Now, we wait,” Rhynn said. She saw fear in the boy’s eyes.
It wasn’t long before an answer. The sheep stood out as four gray dots atop the hill. It would happen any time now.
The frost dragon broke through the clouds and alighted upon the hill, spreading its wings to cushion the fall. A ring of grass and dust shot out from the impact. Rhynn could only imagine the stark terror the sheep felt at its presence. She couldn’t bear to watch and braced her back against the rock. She glanced at Davydd, who did the same, yet turned to peek around the stone as though by morbid fascination.
The sound of the dragon’s breath pierced the cold air, and Rhynn shut her eyes at the sickening crunching that followed. Her stomach knotted. At least they died before being eaten, the dragon’s breath flash-freezing them, which was how he liked them.
“I hope you choke,” Rhynn muttered. Davydd looked back at her and shuddered.
“‘Tis just the way of things,” he whispered.
“Bullocks!” Rhynn cursed, slamming a fist into the cool grass. “Each year the dragon gets bigger and bigger, stronger and stronger, demanding more and more tribute! What will happen when it gets so big that we can’t give in to its demands?”
Davydd had no answer.
“I wish my father had somehow found the hatchling wyrm sixteen years ago and killed it upon the breaking of its shell!”
“You don’t know what would have become of that, Rhynn,” Davydd said. “Killing a hatchling is the surest way to get its parents nobly pissed at you. Its mother might have found our village and destroyed it in revenge. Lugaid and his men already did enough damage by slaying the father.”
“You speak as though that was a bad thing!”
“For all we know, this dragon is seeking revenge, but lacks the power to destroy us since it’s still young! It’s biding its time, milking us for all we’re worth, before going in for the kill!”
“We need to fight back now, Davydd!” Rhynn said. “Before the dragon gets any stronger! I wish your father would stop being such a coward and organize slayers already!”
Rhynn’s wild eyes flashed into Davydd’s, and the hurt and anger in his face was telling. He was about to shoot back a rebuttal when a roar of rage burst over the moors. It was enough to shake the earth, forcing the pair to cover their ears.
“Four!? Only four!?” the dragon asked, stretching his white wings over the sacrificial site, and puffing out his chest. “The agreement was five!” Many sharp spines crested his head, his icy blue eyes scanning for the insolent fools responsible. When he didn’t spot them, he launched into the air, beating his wings downward, kicking up further grass and dust. He wheeled overhead, his aerial surveillance combing every stone and flower.
Rhynn’s mouth hung agape, staring up at the fearsome beast. She mouthed a curse and gestured for Davydd to stay still. If they ran, the dragon would see them. Rhynn offered a quick prayer to whatever god was listening and hoped the stone they were hiding behind would offer cover.
It didn’t.
“There you are! Miserable worms!” the dragon roared. It headed straight for them, leveling its wings as it glided for their position. Davydd panicked and broke from his cover.
“Davydd, stop!” Rhynn cried, and took off after him. The boy’s slender legs were fast, and carried him over the moors, yet not fast enough to out-pace a dragon. Rhynn strained to catch up to him and tackled him to the ground as the dragon swept over them. They tumbled down a small hill before coming to rest at the bottom.
Rhynn sat up and frantically looked about. Her heart raced, pounding out of her chest. They were exposed. There was no place to hide. This was her fault. Had she not kept back the fifth sheep, the dragon might have departed, satisfied. Instead, it landed a hundred ells from them, furling its wings behind him and piercing the pair with its icy gaze.
“You have violated your village’s agreement, humans,” he said. “One of you must pay the price.”
“W-wait!” Rhynn protested. Every desperate excuse she could think of flashed through her mind. “F-five? Did you say five? Oh, I thought it was four, our sincerest apologies!”
“Lies!” the dragon snarled. “Your village elder made the agreement a two-day ago - five sheep, all shorn.” She was only making this worse, and Davydd knew it as well.
“W-we have the fifth sheep back at the village! If you would but allow us to fetch it—” Rhynn continued.
“Silence! You had the opportunity to appease me, yet you sought to trick me. What manner of foolishness was coursing through that primitive skull?”
Rhynn cursed her poor judgment and was forced to endure the compromise of her values to prevent further harm.
“Ah, if you would accept four more sheep as a token of our sincere apologies, great dragon!” she said.
Trembling, Rhynn threw herself prostrate on the ground before him, nudging Davydd to do the same. There was silence for a moment, as the dragon considered the offer. He let forth a low growl, tapping a claw on his toothy maw.
“I think I shall take more sheep as payment,” he replied, lowering his serpentine head towards the ground. “And a fifth.”
Rhynn sighed in relief, her face still buried in the grass. She dared to look up, matching her gaze with the dragon’s.
“Oh, thank you, great dragon,” she said, sitting. “I’ll conduct you to your payment on the instant.”
“That will be unnecessary,” the dragon said, a mock politeness in his tone. “I believe you misunderstand my meaning. ‘Tis not an animal I need as the fifth offering.”
“Eh?” Rhynn’s face contorted, registering shock.
The dragon’s powerful wings propelled him straight for them, closing the distance in a couple heartbeats. The encroaching mist swirled around him. Rhynn rolled to one side, the blast of wind rushing past her as Davydd screamed. Rhynn looked up, watching the boy tumble into the dragon’s mouth like a rag doll.
* * *
The dragon snapped Davydd in two, a splash of red coloring the tip of the creature’s snout. Rhynn screamed in horror, covering her head with her hands as she hit the ground yet again. Still recoiling in shock, she remained in that position long after the dragon had flown away. Her heart shattered. She slowly climbed to her feet. He was gone. Just like that, Davydd was… gone…
Rhynn stood in stunned silence for an untold span, the wind playing with her hair. Her numb fingers wrapped her cloak around her. It then dawned on her she would need to return to the village. Or should she run and try to escape whatever punishment lay in store for her? She would only be banished, or stoned. Davydd’s death was her fault. Even now she imagined his soul crying out from beyond the Shroud. He was young… too young… and the heir to the village after his brother Osgar.
Osgar! He would never forgive her. Rhynn wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to cast the first stone at her himself. So much for the sparring lesson.
No, I will face this, she told herself. She couldn’t run. Armed with no weapons to defend herself, she would be prey for the many roving monsters that inhabited the islands of Caenmyr. Think, Rhynn, think. You can figure this out.
She trudged back to the village, her feet like leaden weights, her head hung low. She felt the gaze of other villagers upon her. They must wonder why she looked in such a sorry state, and why she came back alone.
Rhynn steeled her nerves as she prepared to face Osgar. She found him in the sparring yard outside the elder’s home, the largest in the village. The houses had circular bases made of piled stones, with conical roofs made of sod, thatch, straw, and mud. Openings on one side allowed smoke from fireplaces to vent into the air.
Osgar most often fought with a spear. Even now he whirled his wooden practice spear in grand, fluid arcs, before ending with a deadly thrust. He was one of the most the most skilled warrior in the village, Rhynn admitted. Not that she would remain long enough to benefit from his instruction. He stopped his practice when Rhynn came within sight. He called out to her warmly, which only stung. His disposition would quickly change when he learned what happened. But if she chose her words carefully, she could rally the villagers at last to hunt the evil dragon.
Osgar approached with a broad grin, tossing the spear to the ground. His smile faded when he saw Rhynn’s downcast countenance. Her eyes were pinned to the ground, her hair hiding her face. She mustered all she could to force herself to cry, covering her face with her hands.
“Rhynn... what’s wrong?” Osgar asked, closing the distance. Rhynn fell to her knees, her head low, almost bowing at Osgar’s feet. She wiped her face with a dirty hand, hoping to make her almost tear-streaked face and sorrow more convincing. Now was the test. She looked up at him, her lip quivering.
“Th, the dragon betrayed us,” she lied. Surprise registered on Osgar’s face.
“Stand up, Rhyannen,” he replied firmly. He didn’t call her Rhynn. He reserved ‘Rhyannen’ for whenever he was cross with her. She rose to her face, and looked him in the eye, before looking away. She couldn’t look at him. The guilt devoured her as the dragon, the young boy. “Tell me what happened. And where’s Davydd?”
Rhynn tried bursting into tears. Osgar had never seen her cry, so her little show might convince him.
“I took the sheep to the sacrificial hill,” Rhynn began. “But when the dragon ate them, he wasn’t finished! He claimed to still be hungry and demanded Davydd as well!”
The horror dawned upon Osgar, his eyes wide.
“There was nothing I could do!” she continued. “What chance did we have against a dragon?”
Osgar turned from Rhynn, hiding his face. His head was low, his shoulders trembling. Sobs filled the air.
“D-Osgar, I’m—I’m so sorry…” Rhynn offered, trying to place a hand on his shoulder. She let Osgar have a few moments of grief before stepping around to face him. He looked at her from beneath his dark bangs, actual tears flowing down his cheeks. “Osgar, listen to me… we can’t do this anymore… we have to act against this dragon… we have to kill it…”
Rhynn ventured a hand placed on his moist cheek. Osgar brushed past her and moved toward the elder’s dwelling.
“You know it’s the right thing to do!” Rhynn shouted after him. She took a few steps after him when he didn’t respond. “Talk to your father! Call an assemblage! Call for dragon-slayers like my father!”
Genuine emotion welled up within her this time. Osgar would listen to her.
“Stop being a wimp,” Rhynn whispered. She watched the back of Osgar disappear into his home. Should she follow? The elder would want to speak with her, to get the truth from her own mouth. “Osgar — wait!”
Rhynn ran up to the door and peered inside. She’d been to this house several times throughout her childhood, often to listen to the older men’s plans. Rhynn sat by and listened as plans for the village were discussed, most notably the tributes for the past 3 years.
She was enraged by them back then, wanting the village to rise up and slay the offending dragon. But she was a female in a male’s world, and her views were reckless to them. The house felt just as cold and uninviting to her now as then, as she was perceived as more of a nuisance than a shrewd thinker.
She clenched her fist. These people deserve this, she thought, frowning. Had they only had the moral fortitude to stop the dragon when it was younger, it wouldn’t have grown and become more of a threat. This was the only way to get the people to act. But then, who knows how many would have died in an attempt to slay? She exhaled sharply, grappling with these wolves that raged within her.
“Rhyannen,” Osgar said again, noticing her in the doorway. “Come here.”
She swallowed hard and crossed into the dwelling, presenting herself before the elder. He was clad in furs, with a long, hoary, white beard. His eyes were gray and milky, and looked down on Rhynn from his place on the high-seat. Antlers and knot-work carvings adorned the wooden chair.
“Is it true you saw my son Davydd devoured by the frost dragon?” he asked, his voice gravelly but swollen with authority. He unnerved Rhyannen, but the moral flame within her refused to die. She wouldn’t let him see any weakness in her.
“’Tis true, m’lord,” she replied, jutting her chin and fixing her gaze on him.
“How did this happen?” The elder’s face was lined with grief, his heavy brow drooping lower than his advanced age permitted.
Rhynn told him the same story she told Osgar, that the dragon demanded more food than what was offered, and claimed the boy to sate his appetite. The elder sighed, slouching to one side, supporting his weighty head with his hand.
“That is not like the dragon…” he muttered. “The past two years he has kept his bargain, eating only what we agreed upon beforehand.”
This response ignited another spark within Rhynn. “Well what do you expect, m’lord? He is a dragon, a son of the Black One! His father is the Father of Lies—of course we would get treachery from him!”
“Watch your tone, Rhyannen,” Osgar said. The childhood friend in him was gone, replaced by this distant and unknowable noble.
“But how could you be so foolish as to trust a wyrm?” Rhynn asked.
“That’s enough, Rhyannen!” Osgar barked.
The elder sighed again. “She has a point,” he said. “She has her father’s blood. Lugaid would have said the same thing, yet his rashness cost him also…”
“H-how dare you speak ill of my father!” she shouted. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “You’re—you’re such a coward!”
The elder shot to his feet, summoning a surprising amount of strength. He slammed his staff on the hard wood floor. “Silence!” he shouted, his voice booming throughout the hall. “You know nothing of our village’s affairs! You are only a girl! Things are not always so simple as to rush in!”
“Yet I know right and wrong, and slaying the dragon is the right thing to do,” Rhynn replied, trying to rein in her composure.
“This is a most grave and serious matter, Rhyannen,” the elder said. “You are at least responsible for my son’s death, having failed to protect him.”
Rhynn looked incredulous. “Protect him? How could I protect him from a dragon, having no dragon-slayers at my side? His death is your fault, you old sack of dung! Had you used the tribute money to hire dragon-slayers, your son would still be alive!”
Now it was the elder who forced back anger. “The boy was still in your charge, but I will deliberate with my council what I shall do going forward. In the meantime, you are to be bound hand and foot to the post.”
Shock flashed across Rhynn’s face as several burly men entered the room. They easily overpowered the sixteen-year-old and bound her with cords. Her protests went unheeded.
“Still your tongue, girl,” the elder said. “Your punishment is merely for one night. Pray I don’t change my mind and increase its severity.”
Rhyannen stopped struggling as they hauled her out of the room. They dragged her into the village square where there was a tall wooden post. They tied her to the post, her looking not unlike the sacrifices to the frost dragon, and left her there as darkness fell.
The other villagers looked at Rhynn, shaking their heads as they passed by. Not all of them knew what she had done, but they knew she had done something. Guards passed by, taking no heed to the girl, but their torchlight was the only comfort she had. As night fell over the village, the temperate dropped, and Rhynn froze. Her mantle and doeskin clothing did not ward off the elements. As the hours crawled by like years, she stood shivering against the post, teeth chattering, parts of her body going numb. The chill was like teeth and claws biting and pricking her skin. She would not sleep like this. Though the discipline was only for one night, she didn’t think she was going to make it. Several people had already died being subjected to this ordeal.
When she could no longer feel her body, and was sure her lips had turned blue, a warm fur blanket wrapped around her.
“Are you alright, my daughter?” came a soothing female voice. Rhynn fought to lift her head.
“M-mother…”
Another, younger voice came from the edges of her awareness.
“We heard what happened, and what the elder had in store for you…”
It was Sorcha, Rhynn’s sister. Her mother placed a spoon of hot, hearty stew into Rhynn’s mouth. Often family and friends fed and clothed their loved ones who endured this punishment. As the warmth of the meal filled her mouth, Rhynn found the strength to chew, then swallow. More spoonfuls came, and the warmth soon spread through her insides.
“Did the dragon really eat the elder’s son?” Sorcha asked. Rhynn nodded. At that moment, a faint roar and the flapping of wings sounded over head. The sky was pitch dark, with only the occasional lantern to light the village square. The three of them startled. Had the dragon returned to seek more vengeance? The sound of its wings headed toward the elder’s house.
* * *
Osgar woke and rose from his bed. He followed the noise of the magnificent beast to the rear courtyard, which was lit by a ring of torches mounted on stakes. His father knelt at the edge of the circle nearest to Osgar, his arms outstretched and neck extended in deep supplication. There was a burnt offering in the center of the ring, whose smoke and aroma a dragon could smell for miles. He slipped from concealment in the dim fog opposite the elder, his scaly head and neck protruding from the gloom. Icy pinpoints of light smoldered in the dragon’s eye sockets.
“I assume you wish to make restitution for your earlier failure,” the dragon said, his voice a harsh whisper. The elder touched his forehead to the ground, his palms extended. A pathetic sight. It was grovelling. Osgar thought about what Rhynn said, and her position. Was she right? The elder was a great man of power and influence among his fellow man, but against a dragon he was like a quivering girl clinging to her mother’s skirt.
“I—I don’t understand, Branderan…” the elder began, “we had the tribute prepared for you and offered earlier today, did we not?”
Branderan bared his teeth and hissed. “It was one fewer sheep than what we agreed upon,” he said. Osgar’s eyes widened at the revelation. The elder looked confused as well.
“I assure you I had someone deliver your tribute—”
“Well, it must have been tampered with, the result being I was cheated,” Branderan replied. “No matter, I have already repaid you for your deception. See that it does not happen again.”
The dragon launched into the air. The torches danced in the wake of the wings’ downward drafts, before being snuffed. The sound of powerful wings grew fainter and fainter until there was only the silence and darkness of a crypt all about.
Rhyannen. Osgar would make her answer for what he had heard. He strode with purpose from his home, donning a warm cloak. If he learned Rhyannen was at fault for his brother’s death, he would kill her with his own hands, regardless of her age. Osgar was but a year older, but it was nothing less than what she deserved. A life for a life. Wasn’t that written in the Old Code? He felt it well within his rights to call upon it. If he couldn’t kill her, he would banish her. That was a slower death sentence, as few survived on the harsh plains of Caenmyr. Goblins and other beasts would find her a tempting target.
These thoughts struck from his mind as he made his way into the village square. His first stop was the barn where Rhynn was supposed to prepare the sacrifices. There, sure enough, was the one sheep in the stall.
“Baaa—aaaaa—!”
Osgar raced back to the square. Two women attended the shivering Rhyannen, who was wrapped in a cloak and being fed.
“You there!” Osgar called. “Step aside from her!”
Rhynn’s family parted to one side, their eyes trained on the elder’s only remaining son and heir.
“Osgar…” Rhynn muttered. If she couldn’t read the anger in his face from this distance, she heard it in his voice. Her stomach twisted. She wanted to vomit her meal. Did he discover the truth? That one of the sheep had been held back to be spared a gruesome death?
Osgar crossed to the girl in a few quick strides, bringing her face to face. His teeth were clenched in hate, tears brimming from his eyes. He glanced aside at Rhynn’s mother and sister.
“Go home, both of you. I speak to Rhyannen alone,” he said. The women nodded and slipped away into the darkness, their hands clasped to their chests in prayer. Osgar snapped his attention back to Rhynn.
“I’m only going to ask you once… and you’d better answer true,” he began. “Did you hold back one sacrifice to the dragon?”
Rhynn’s mouth formed a hard line, steeling her nerves. “No,” she lied.
Osgar’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her askance. “The dragon Branderan came to pay us a visit,” he replied, his voice low and seething. “I overheard him say only four sheep were offered as sacrifice.”
“That much is true,” Rhynn said. “But I didn’t hold the sheep back - Davydd did. That’s why he was eaten.”
Osgar paused, looking stunned. “W-why did he do that? And why didn’t you stop him?”
“He was too headstrong,” she answered. “There was no convincing him.”
“So… this was his fault…?” Osgar looked down in bewilderment. The heat shifted away from Rhynn, a moment she would seize upon.
“It seems so,” she replied. “He shouldn’t have lied to Branderan. As the Church says, ‘you reap what you sow.’”
Osgar stepped back, trying to process the shock he had just been dealt. It was more shattering than any he could have taken in combat.
“I… can’t understand why my brother would do that…”
“He was hot and hasty, Osgar… a mark of his youth that… ended badly…” She tried to find the words to comfort him. “But Davydd admitted to me in private that he hated the tributes and was trying to stand up to the wyrm. It was humane to spare a sheep’s life. We need every animal we have for our livelihood - we shouldn’t have to give up any for the slaughter unless it is too weak or sick…”
Osgar furrowed his brow, taking in her words, her twisted half-truths as silvery as any dragon’s. “That… doesn’t sound like my brother… that sounds more like your kind of thinking…”
“I guess I was rubbing off on him,” Rhynn said, half-jokingly. Osgar wasn’t smiling.
“You were a dangerous influence. It seems I misjudged your character.”
“This can all be righted if you speak to your father about… the slayers…” Rhynn said. Osgar stood silent. “This is the time to act. I hope now your cowar—your… father… will muster the forces to bring the dragon low, avenging your brother. Avenging us all. He’s not the only one who’s died at the claws of dragons.”
Osgar stepped away from her, giving her his back. “I… I will speak to him about it. I think now he will listen.”
“Good,” Rhynn replied, her voice low. “Now you’d best get home to your warm bed, while I remain out here and freeze.”
“….”
Osgar returned home. Rhynn shivered. Something odd struck her about the way she spoke to him. It wasn’t from the cold that her voice hissed. Her mouth felt strange. Her tongue flicked about in her mouth, seeming of its own volition. Rhynn opened her mouth, a forked tongue darting past her lips.
* * *
Rhynn startled in terror. Her new tongue wormed about in the cold, receiving new tastes and smells she hadn’t experienced. Why was this happening? How did this happen? Her conscience gnawed at her like hunger. Some voice within her told her she was a liar, whose black untruths caused many to suffer. Was this yet another punishment?
She withdrew the thing into her mouth. Her eyes wide, she struggled to contain the wild beast. New muscles twitched with ferocity in her mouth. She tried speaking, saying anything to herself, yet the untamed tongue flicked out, tasting the air. The forked tips were black as coal, and if she wanted to, Rhynn could touch her eyeballs with them. She couldn’t speak to anyone like this, not without the horror being seen. She would be branded a witch for certain, on top of the misgivings the village was having about her.
Although her own mother and sister practiced the magical arts, theirs was a benign craft, comprising wards, protections, and healing. Many a villager, even the elder occasionally, sought their wisdom for sickness, or for auspicious signs. Witches, however, were more like hags, practitioners of magic that was unhealthy and nefarious, and not to be trusted.
The Scarlet Church’s proselytizers came to Ghiere every once in a while, and would declare that magic was the art of the Black One. It was taught to humanity by dragons, and must be stamped out wherever it was found. Wyrddans, to which Rhynn’s mother belonged, were especially targeted and hunted, yet the magic of her people benefited them and was always hidden when the Redmantles came calling. Even benign magics were oft concealed, since there was old wisdom that said, ‘practice secret disciplines.’
Rhynn sighed in relief. Her mother would help her. She would just recite some spell and her tongue would be back to normal. She just had to survive the night and keep the tongue hidden from her neighbors. Or maybe she wouldn’t have to tell her mother. The fewer people that knew, the better. She might just cut it off. Her tongue might not return to its normal length, but better that than appearing like a serpent.
She awoke still tied to the post. Rosy pinks and purples appeared over the horizon, followed by an orange glow. Somehow, she slept as exhaustion took hold of her. Was it a bad dream? A large worm coiled and swished in her mouth, and parted her lips. The forked tongue. It was not a dream. Rhynn pulled it back and straightened as guards came to untie her. Her muscles throbbed. Cramping set into her legs, being forced to sleep in a standing position all night.
The guards cut the cords binding her and told her to appear before the elder. Rhynn nodded. She stretched her sore limbs, which fought back with pain. At length, the cramps subsided as her members became accustomed to movement again. But she couldn’t go to the elder yet. She had to cover her mouth... and return the blanket wrapped about her the night before.
She didn’t dare speak to anyone, especially the elder, and risk that writhing snake peeking out from between her lips. Rhynn headed home, a comfortable dwelling resembling the style of the other villagers. There was no smoke curling from the opening in the roof, so her mother wasn’t up yet. Rhynn had one thing in mind, and could take it before anyone was the wiser.
Rhynn slipped inside the arched wooden door. Her home was built half below ground, so she traversed a sloping entrance to the dirt floor of the dwelling. The large circular chamber held a cauldron in the center, an extinguished fireplace, many clay pots against the wall, and a sturdy wooden chest hidden behind them. That was her intended target.
Soft snores rose from the opposite side, where her mother and sister slept. This would only take a moment. Rhynn crept across the room and set the clay pots aside. She knelt at the wooden chest and unhinged the iron lock. There was no reason to lock it, since thieves were almost unheard of in Ghiere. Unless the thief was Rhynn, of course.
The lock squeaked, but not loud enough to wake anyone. The lid of the chest groaned open on rusty hinges, and Rhynn peered inside. It was right where her mother left it - the helm of Lugaid, the Dragon-killer, her father. It was solid steel, with a round skullcap fitted with slanted eye holes. The nose guard hung low enough to cover her mouth - just what she wanted. It would help hide her new tongue from slipping out. The helm lay atop a suit of leather scale armor.
There was also a belt, a dagger, and a short sword, but her father’s battle-axe wasn’t there… the very weapon he used to send dragons to the nether-realm. She might have to return later for these things. The armor would be too cumbersome, but the dagger she could use.
The helm was rather heavy as she hefted it from the chest. She tucked it under her arm, avoiding any sounds the clinking mail might make. She slid the dagger into place on her own belt. Then, as swiftly as she entered, she was gone from her dwelling.
Once out of plain view, Rhynn donned the helm, allowing the mail to drape over her slender but sturdy shoulders. The helm was made for a large man, so she was too heavy on top. Her neck muscles strained to support the sudden load. They’d be worn out in a few hours for certain, so she had to do this fast. She inhaled the chill morning air and went to the elder’s estate.
Two guards at the front door stopped her, asking her to identify herself.
“Rhi… annon… Arianrhod… D’Llywellyn,” she replied, forcing back her tongue. Her name had no “S” sounds, yet that might prove to be more difficult to manage in the conversation that would follow.
“Why do you wear a helmet?” a guard asked.
“It’s… my father’s…” she replied. She cursed herself as she without thinking used those words. This tongue would take a bit getting used to. It flicked out to lick the nose guard.
“Are you expected?”
Rather than say Yes, Rhynn nodded. The guards looked askance at one another, then back at the girl.
“Very well, go inside.”
Rhynn nodded again and brushed passed them, entering the hall through the door. Even bowing her head caused her neck muscles to spasm. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up. Would she need to train her neck and shoulders to be hard as leather, in order to keep her secret? Another issue was the peripheral vision. It was dark inside the helmet save for the eye holes, which while large enough, didn’t permit everything into her field of view. Perhaps that wasn’t necessary when fighting dragons, as one only needed to look at their adversary.
Another guard appeared alongside her and escorted her to the main hall where the elder and Osgar awaited. The elder’s son crossed his arms and pinned Rhynn with a hard stare. The elder straightened, lifting his chin to look down his nose at her. He stroked his beard a bit before speaking.
“Well, I see the cold didn’t do you in,” he said. “I assume you had enough time to ponder your predicament.”
“Aye, m’lord,” Rhynn replied with a curt nod, sending soreness up the curves of her neck. She drew her shoulders back, clasping her hands behind her, trying to appear as respectable as possible.
“Is that your father’s helmet?” Osgar asked.
“Aye.”
“Why do you wear it? It looks so heavy and uncomfortable, and helms are not permitted within the hall, especially when speaking to the elder.”
She had to choose her words with care, trying to avoid any “S” sounds, as well as come up with a clever reply. “Penance, m’lords…” she lied again. So much for being careful. At least she controlled the length of the “S” sound when she had to make one.
“Penance?” The elder tilted his head at her. “Is that not a teaching of the Scarlet Church?”
“Aye, m’lord,” she replied. “I seek to atone for my…” she paused, wincing back the next word, “sins.” The wicked tongue lapped against the helmet. Had she not been wearing it, the two of them would have seen the serpent’s mark. It tingled and pulsated as she continued in her falsehoods.
“Hmm.. I suppose this ordeal has caused you to reconsider your life… even to the point of adopting foreign religion…” the elder said, leaning on his staff. “But now to the matter of why I called you here.”
Rhynn lifted her chin.
“It has been reported about town that you seek to gather dragon-slayers to bring down Branderan, is this true?”
Rhynn nodded.
“I am going to command that you cease such foolish imaginings. The townsfolk are becoming divided, some to support your mad ravings, while others remain steadfast in the tribute system. I cannot allow this.”
“But—”
“I have spoken on the matter, Rhyannen,” the elder said.
“But your own son!” Rhynn rasped. The tongue lapped the nose guard, and for a moment her two interlocutors were stunned. “Is not your own son’s death worthy enough cause to call for slayers!?”
“Now that’s quite enough, young lady,” the patronizing old coot replied.
Osgar blinked in surprise. “What… what has become of your voice, Rhyannen?”
“N-nothing,” she lied. “The effects of last night’s cold…”
Rhynn marveled at how difficult it was to avoid the “S” sound in effective speech, but she risked sounding unnatural if she tried to prevent it.
“My decision is final, do you understand?” the elder challenged.
Rhynn bristled and fought back rage.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes!” she rasped, regretting it. A stunned silence fell over the hall.
“Very well. Now we move to the matter of a different sort of ‘penance’ I have in mind,” the elder replied. Rhynn stiffened, her chest tightening. She hoped it wasn’t anything lecherous. “You allowed my son to deprive the dragon of his dole, which resulted in his death. To compensate, you are ordered to serve my household for five years, in whatever manner I require.” Rhynn inhaled, bracing herself. “The boy was in your care, and your foolish designs of slaying the dragon influenced him unto death. Thus, you shall become an indentured servant to me,” the elder said.
Rhynn swallowed and hung her head, feeling the strain of the helmet on her neck. This was the best of what she might have hoped for. The alternative would be to tell the truth, which would most likely result in her death. She lifted her head in a dignified matter. If this punishment was all she received, the net gain was in her favor.
“Your tasks begin… now.”
