The front courtyard of the Crag was crescent moon in shape and large enough to fit a small army. Gnarled, twisted posts stood at intervals on the perimeter, each one holding a dancing ball of magical power. Holt heard they changed in color depending on the mood of the dragon flight. Right now, they pulsed a cheerful yellow.
By the time Holt arrived, the riders and their squires were already martialed to greet their guest. Armor and scales alike glinted under the sun. Each rider also had a great weapon strapped on their backs. Most were swords, too big for ordinary humans to wield, and each blade’s shape and color influenced by its rider’s magic. Fire riders’ swords appeared to ripple like flames; ice riders’ blades came to sharper points; emerald riders had thick broad blades sturdy as stone; the storm riders had jagged blades which spoke of lightning, and the mystics, well, there was no end to the variety there.
Dragons stood on their four legs by their riders, taking up the space that several horse drawn wagons would, making it hard to see beyond them. Not that Holt would have been granted a privileged view at any rate.
He skirted the crowd, behind rows of regular troops, stable hands and other servants of higher rank than himself. But Holt was younger and nimbler than most and he knew a good spot. He’d taken it up before years ago when Princess Talia had arrived, and a similar grand welcome had been thrown.
Carved statues of ancient riders flanked the main gates of the Order Hall. Their dragons were carved in stone too, although these were much
smaller than their real-life counterparts. Holt scrambled up the horned back of one now, finding a perch in the crook of its wing. It wasn’t comfortable and he was far from the front, but he had an unhindered view.
Despite the times, people still risked lining the streets far below as Silverstrike passed by. It was good of him to let them see him. They would feel safer for it.
Holt couldn’t make Silverstrike out at this distance, although his dragon was clearly visible; large and granite-gray like a fierce storm cloud. With any luck, Silas would demonstrate his fabled powers for them.
Up in the courtyard, none of the riders showed outward signs of excitement. There was a disciplined confidence to them which, while reassuring, always gave them a sense of being different. Of being more than merely human.
Among those closest to the front was the rider Mirk and his dragon Biter but Holt’s attention was drawn to the figure at the head of the Order. Flight Commander Denna was an exceptionally tall woman in gleaming silver plate armor which was said to be heavier than any other rider could handle. Her weapon was different too, being a huge white war hammer with green runes. He’d heard her mystic dragon granted her increased strength. On top of that she was of the rank of Champion, and might advance to the rank of Lord soon, if rumors around the Crag were to be believed. Surprisingly, Denna’s dragon, the matriarch of the Crag, was nowhere to be seen. That was strange but Holt put it out of his mind.
Beside Denna, was a much younger girl who could not have been more physically different from Denna if she’d tried. Princess Talia had a slender figure and sleek hair which fell past her shoulders. That hair was of an extraordinary color, like gold reflecting firelight. Even as Holt watched her, Talia cast a sideways glance at the Flight Commander and straightened her back.
Talia’s dragon, who was called Pyra, was also present. Holt had prepared enough spiced beef for the princess’ dragon to know her type was fire, even if her purple scales were an unusual coloring. Pyra was still young, just five years old, and while large enough to ride she was smaller than the older dragons at the Crag. She stood beside Talia with a proud, stiff neck, fixated upon their approaching guest.
As Silas drew closer, the dragons of the Crag roared in greeting. Some swooped down overhead, while others bowed their long necks out of
respect. And with each step, Holt felt his heart beat faster.
He was here. Really here.
Every story Holt had heard growing up about Silas had to be true because he was real.
Silas Silverstrike took his last step and emerged into the courtyard. From this distance it was hard to make out his finer features, although his chalk-white hair was thick and wild, and lifted as though permanently blown back by the wind. His skin had darkened from decades of flying above the clouds and he held himself unlike anyone Holt had seen, including Commander Denna. Best of all, Holt swore he could see crackles of blue static crawl around Silas’ hands as though the magic he wielded might burst forth at any moment.
The orbs of light around the courtyard changed in his presence and became miniature thunderstorms trapped within the gnarled posts.
Flight Commander Denna stepped forward to meet him. She raised a clenched fist and all the dragons fell silent. Denna greeted Silas with a firm clasp of his shoulder, which he returned, and they spoke a few private words.
Holt strained his neck in a futile attempt to hear them. He was so far back that even when Commander Denna addressed the crowd, he could barely hear what she was saying. So, it came as a great surprise, and delight, when Silverstrike drew his sword – a gray, jagged blade with lines of sparking blue power – and held it skyward.
At once, a dark cloud formed in an otherwise cloudless sky; then came a flash of forked lightning which struck Silas’ sword. A boom followed, echoing around every nook and cranny of the rocky Crag. And such was his power, Silas Silverstrike stood unharmed. If anything, he looked radiant, younger than his many years and in his free hand, a blue-silver power gathered. When the lightning bolt ceased, Silas unleashed this new power high overhead and these strands formed the detailed outline of a dragon in flight, its eyes alive from crackling silver energy.
The riders cheered. Dragons bellowed their approval. Servants stood in awe, their mouths agape and clapping at this masterful display of magic.
Holt clapped too, so hard he almost fell from his vantage point. That’s when he noticed who was standing below him.
“Ruddy show off,” Brode said. He looked up, perhaps sensing someone was about to fall on top of him. “I think that might be first smile I’ve seen
on your face in months, boy.” His voice was gruff but flat, neutral, as if he came from nowhere. Holt had been told that accent belonged to those who grew up near the Free City of Athra, where tongues from all the world came together and melded into one.
Embarrassed, Holt found his balance and sat back up. “Sorry, Honored Rider.”
“What are you sorry for? For smiling?”
Holt said nothing. His outbursts had caused enough trouble for one day.
Brode smirked. “You’re alive, aren’t you? Smiling more often might do you some good.”
Holt stared pointedly ahead. But Brode carried on.
“You can spar back y’know? You should tell me that ‘smiling more’ is rich coming from a crinkled old grump like me.”
Holt looked down this time. He gulped. “Is that an order, Honored Rider?”
“Hah,” Brode barked, “that’s a little better. And you can drop the ‘honored’ when speaking with me.”
He truly wasn’t like the others, not least because he wasn’t wearing his sword. Conversing with a rider beyond receiving orders wasn’t common. In fact, it was so uncommon that Holt found himself wary. Was this some form of a trick or trap?
“Then what shall I call you?” “Call me my name.”
“Brode the Brooding?”
The old man sniggered again. “You’ve got some spirit in you. Deep down.” He seemed to bite on the words. “That might be unfair of me. My brothers and sisters are hardly an encouraging lot.”
Holt thought on Lord Mirk’s demands and scornful tone that morning. Then again, the soldiers had arguably behaved even worse. In his time, Holt had found that if the person at the top kicked down, then folk continued kicking down until those at the bottom were flattened.
“We each have our role,” Holt said.
“Do we?” Brode said, although his tone did not invite an answer.
Holt ignored him and turned his attention back to the welcoming of Silverstrike, who was still engrossed in conversation with Commander Denna.
A sudden restlessness came over Holt then. The very air seemed to grow taut with a tense energy. It was such an unsettling feeling that he let out a small gasp and was thankful to hear many of the servants reacting in a similar way.
“It’s Clesh,” Brode said. “Silverstrike’s dragon is doing this?”
“Not on purpose… I would hope. With a core as powerful as Clesh’s some of that energy is bound to emanate.”
Holt didn’t fully grasp Brode’s meaning – the riders often talked of cores, abilities and motes but it made little sense to him. Whatever the case, Clesh’s power was impressive. Holt had of course felt the effects of a dragon’s magic before – Biter had chilled the air around him that very morning – but this was on another level.
“You’ll adjust in a bit,” Brode assured him. He flashed a wry smile. “But, until then—” He reached up and touched Holt’s leg. A jolt surged from Brode’s fingertip, so powerful there was a visible flash.
“Ouch,” Holt hissed. He rubbed at the spot, though there was no harm done. “He must be as powerful as the legends say.”
“The stories are right on that account at least,” Brode said.
“Not even Commander Denna and the Matriarch have this effect.” “Silas is of the rank of Lord. A Storm Lord.”
“And Commander Denna is not as powerful as that?”
“As strong as Denna is, she is still only the rank of Champion.” “Perhaps one day Commander Denna will grow that powerful as well.” Brode gave him a curious look, then shrugged.
The riders at the front of the welcoming party split ranks then. In the new space provided, Silas stepped forth and produced a glass orb the size of an apple.
“The liberation of Athra!” he declared. His accent contained the lilt and music of the people from the Fae Forest. As all eyes turned towards Silas, the Storm Lord threw the orb to the ground. Breaking upon impact, a great deal of purple mist billowed out from it – far more than such a small object should have been able to contain. The mist collected into ghostly figures, then solidified into what was unmistakably Silas and Clesh fighting against an enormous insect. The bug had too many eyes, pincers the length of pikes and screeched so terribly that Holt winced.
He knew what this scene must be. Silas was famed for ending the greatest scourge incursion of the last century and that final battle had taken place at the distant eastern city of Athra. Through some magic, Silas was showing them this moment.
Silas and Clesh of course prevailed, with Silas plunging his sword down through the creature’s head.
Everyone applauded again and Silas beamed, his arms spread as though to take hold of their adoration. Holt enthusiastically joined in.
“If you knew how much money he just smashed on the ground you wouldn’t be cheering,” Brode said.
Holt ignored him this time. If Brode wished to spread his bad mood he could do it elsewhere.
Brode carried on regardless. “Ghost orbs cost more than your father makes in a year.”
Holt choked. “What?”
“You heard,” Brode said, dropping his voice as the general applause died down. “And he gets a discount, given they produce them at Falcaer.”
Holt wondered why Brode was telling him this. Riders were noble; nobles were rich. He’d seen the riders here carrying orbs like that around at times but had no idea they were made at Falcaer Fortress where the Order based its headquarters. Holt cherished that nugget of information, as he did any about the riders.
The welcoming ceremony proceeded. Riders representing each school of magic came forth one by one to present him with gifts. And Brode kept speaking to him.
“Knowing that… do you still admire them?” “Of course!”
“You want to be one of them, don’t you?” “I… I…”
“It’s not a crime to voice a desire.”
Holt bit his lip and tightened his grip on the stone wing of the dragon. No, it wasn’t a crime to say such things aloud. But it was futile. At last, he found his voice.
“Who wouldn’t want to be a rider?” “Wise people.”
“But no one can talk down to them. Everyone respects them. They have dragons who can fly – you can go anywhere if you’re a rider, do anything.”
“That’s a very rosy picture you’re painting.” “But it’s true. You’re free!”
Brode raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not?” “Of course, I’m not. I’ll never be—”
A swirl of red caught Holt’s eye. His gaze moved from Brode and fell upon Princess Talia, who was shaking Silas Silverstrike’s hand and conversing with him. She’d just swished her hair back off her face and it had caught in the wind, flowing in a long trail behind her. Holt quite forgot what he had been saying.
Brode coughed loudly. “Do you think she’s free?”
Holt shook his head then faced the old man again. “She’s a princess and
a rider. She’s above everyone. Who can tell her what to do?”
Brode mused on this for a moment. “Only her conscious can tell her what to do in the end. Yet her burden is great. Don’t be so quick to envy.”
Holt’s mood darkened. He’d only wanted to glimpse Silverstrike in person, perhaps see some magic and forget his dreary life for a while. Brode was goading him.
“If you have nothing kind to say to me, then please leave me alone.” “Now, now, don’t get upset,” Brode said. “I actually came here to look
for you.”
“For me?” Holt said surprised.
“For you. I have a task that needs doing, and all the other kitchen staff are too busy. Apparently, they are one man down. You wouldn’t know why, would you?”
Holt’s cheeks flushed.
Brode chuckled to himself and carried on. “The Matriarch is conducting a choosing of the Order’s eggs today. Bad timing but these things don’t wait even for Storm Lords from Falcaer Fortress. Still, the Matriarch would be remiss to not greet her guests and so she is forced to push through more than she’d normally do in one session. She’ll need food brought to her.”
“And does she know what she would like today?” “She’s a mystic dragon so—”
“She doesn’t know… we’re used to it.”
“Bring a good selection and meet me down in the hatchery,” Brode said. “And bring a smile with you.”
