When Holt woke the next morning, he enjoyed a pleasant moment in which events of the day before were forgotten. Then it came flooding back. The confrontation with Mr. Smith; dealing with Lord Mirk; half-burning Silas Silverstrike’s meal; the argument with his father and then Brode’s impossible task. Oh, and the dragon egg he’d taken.
He blinked against the cold morning light and heard his father bustling around in his morning routine. Dreading an awkward breakfast, Holt rolled out of bed, found fresh small clothes, and put on yesterday’s shirt and trousers. Household laundry fell to him and as he washed pots all day, he didn’t relish having to wash more at night; so, he tended to wear the same clothes until his father made him get on with it.
As Holt clambered down the ladder from his loft space, his father offered an uncharacteristically gruff, “Morning.”
“Morning, Father.” He reached ground level and turned to find his father sitting at their squat table by the hearth. A quarter wheel of cheese, a small loaf of dark rye bread and a dish of butter had been laid out. The kettle was already heating.
“Food’s ready,” Jonah said. He shoved another chunk of bread and cheese into his mouth, perhaps as a way of avoiding further discussion.
While the tension was palpable, Holt didn’t feel like breaking it himself, so he quietly joined his father and began to butter some bread. For a while there was only the sound of chewing and cutlery scraping on plates. The kettle soon whistled. Jonah made to get up, but Holt jumped up first to attend to it, hoping to redeem himself by being helpful. He poured the tea
into a pair of mugs and handed one to his father. Jonah’s expression softened.
“The feast went well,” he said.
“I’m glad.” Holt hesitated to ask but felt he ought to. “Did Silverstrike like his meal?”
“He did. I’m told he said it was the perfect reminder of home. Elk was a good choice.”
Holt nodded, then, unsure what to say next, returned to his bread and cheese.
“Did you enjoy working with Lord Brode yesterday? You were gone for hours.”
Holt nearly choked on his food. Coughing and spluttering he beat his chest and managed to gasp out, “… nothing.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing exciting,” Holt said. “Just feeding Lady Ysera.” “Since when did anything rider related not excite you?”
Stumped, Holt shoved more food into his mouth and sipped on his mug of tea.
Jonah tapped a finger on his own mug. “I’m sorry we argued yesterday.
I was worried about the feast. And I let my temper get the better of me.” Holt opened his mouth to say something, but his father barrelled on.
“I know I don’t always give you enough of my time. I know you want to stretch your wings; learn more from me. I’m aware washing up isn’t inspiring work. It’s been… well, I’ve been stretched thin since your mother
—”
“I know,” Holt cut in. He didn’t like to bring the topic up any more than his father did. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Hmm,” Jonah mused. He took a swig of tea. “I can understand you wanting more. But being the Cook of an Order Hall kitchen isn’t a bad life. You’ll be warm in the winter and you’ll never go hungry. And you and your family will be safe whenever the scourge threatens the land.”
Holt offered a soft smile. “That’s true.”
“Good,” Jonah said. “Then we’ll leave the matter there for now. Besides, soon you’ll be sixteen and I’ll have you so busy you’ll wish you were back to washing dishes.” He laughed. “Now eat up and let’s go. Wouldn’t want to anger the riders with a late breakfast.”
“No,” Holt laughed nervously. His thoughts jumped to the egg in the store house ruins. He’d have to get it outside of town as soon as possible.
Yet luck was not on his side.
Later that very day, word began to spread that King Leofric had ordered the Summons. On his way from the distant Falcaer Fortress, Silas had visited Sidastra, the capital city of Feorlen. While there, he had witnessed the Summons go out and so now informed the riders of Feorlen ahead of the king’s official messengers. The migration of citizens would begin, shepherding people towards the capital and so draw the forces of the scourge to that one place for a final confrontation.
The people of the Crag were exempt from making the long journey to Sidastra. Distance was one factor, but the presence of the riders kept the threat of the scourge well at bay. And the town’s modest population wouldn’t swing the balance of the realm greatly enough to affect the pull of the swarm toward the capital.
Yet Holt felt a change in the air. A year of skirmishes and rising worry was starting to come to a head.
As the only Order Hall in Feorlen, the riders of the Crag would be expected to handle the swarm by themselves. A small Order Hall for a small kingdom. Silas had been sent from headquarters to aid Commander Denna’s efforts, although other branches in other kingdoms could be called upon for aid in an emergency. Those in the kingdoms of Brenin and Risalia were closest, and while Feorlen had been at war with Risalia only a year ago, the riders took no part. If Commander Denna called for their aid, they would come.
However, while the civilians at the Crag enjoyed the luxury of remaining in their own homes during a rising, the gates were still to be shut. No one was to leave or enter the town without the say of Commander Denna until the incursion was dealt with.
Holt’s stomach knotted painfully when he heard the news and nearly vomited into his wash basin. He and his dragon egg would be trapped. His reaction went unnoticed, for everyone became on edge during times like these.
Silverstrike’s arrival had proved perfect timing. The riders increased their patrols, reconnaissance flights and skirmishes with scourge forces, which was good for Holt as less riders at the Crag meant a lower chance of him being caught. Yet it did mean a scourge incursion was fully in effect
now, which wasn’t so good. But here, so far from the fighting and the horrors, Holt felt numb to it. His own situation was far more pressing to him.
The following week passed in a mixture of painfully slow days and rushed evenings. Holt offered to make more deliveries than usual to the Muckers, just to reduce the risk that others might stumble upon his secret. After his father fell asleep, he snuck down to check on the egg, and sat rocking on the damp floor as he considered how he might remove it from town. No ideas came to him and to his horror the egg grew larger each day, making his mission even harder. By the fourth day it had nearly doubled in size.
This made him all the more nervous. If the egg was growing, then the dragon inside must surely be growing too. And if it hatched; well, he’d be lucky if Ysera didn’t squash them both flat.
Each night he slept less. Each day he got through less work. People commented on the dark bags under his eyes, but most assumed he was just worried about the scourge. First incursion jitters, they claimed, and slapped him on the back, telling him not to fret – the riders would smash the bugs against the walls of Sidastra as they had done time and time again. Holt nodded and smiled, and agreed he was being foolish. Of course, he still worried.
One week later and Holt started to panic. The dragon egg had grown so large he could barely move it. How close was it to hatching? He tried to subtly ask about dragon eggs around the Crag, but the servants knew little more than he did, and he reckoned asking Brode would raise immediate suspicion.
He became stuck in a sort of waking nightmare. Unable to act. Unable to do anything other than wait for the inevitable.
That moment came on the eighth day.
Holt was in the kitchens; his arms elbow deep in the basin of water as he wrestled with the day’s washing up. He’d just drawn up a freshly
scrubbed plate dripping in soap when a squire entered the kitchens. Squires were initiates of the Order, young nobles waiting for a dragon to bond with them and assisting older riders in the meantime. Holt paid him little mind. But then the squire made an announcement.
“Hatchings! The hatchings have begun!”
“Now?” Jonah said, sounding harassed. “It’s almost dark.”
The squire carried on as though he had not heard. “Mr. Cook, prepare a selection of soft meats for the hatchlings.”
At once the kitchen staff were chatting about the new dragons. It was always a time of great excitement, yet it would also mean significantly more work for them.
To Holt, the news was crushing. A lump formed in his throat, then plummeted through his stomach towards his legs which now seemed frozen in place. A crash cut above the noise of the chatter. Holt blinked. Then he noticed everyone was staring at him. Looking down, he realized that he’d dropped the plate he’d been holding. Ceramic pieces lay scattered on the ground. A fine plate of the Order Hall smashed due to him. Well, that was the least of his concerns.
He suddenly found it hard to breathe. Hard to think. The room seemed to spin, and he was altogether too hot. Too hot in the stuffy kitchens. And why was everyone staring at him?
“Son?” his father said. He was by Holt’s side in a flash. “Are you okay?”
“Uhm…” Holt tried to say something, but words failed him.
His father placed a hand on his brow. “You’re rather hot. Do you feel sick?”
Sick? Yes. Sick. He could work with that.
“My… my stomach,” Holt said, placing a hand on his belly. “Oh, the plate; father I’m so sorry.”
“Never mind that, it’s done. I was going to have you join me in visiting the hatchlings. Do you feel up to it?”
Holt fiercely shook his head.
“You must be ill to turn down a chance to see the dragons,” Jonah said. A flicker of the worst fear crossed Jonah Cook’s face; sickness at these times could mean the blight. Jonah gulped, and Holt saw that fear visibly shrink from his father as he processed it. No bugs had made it close enough to the Crag; no one else had been infected. Just a stomach pain or a cold,
that was all. “Go home. Now. Take some food with you. Boil water and drink lots of it. I’ll call the healers in the morning if you aren’t better.”
“Food. Yes,” Holt said mechanically.
Jonah gave him a hug which Holt gladly returned. His father had just given him a lifeline. At least for this evening.
As the bustle of the kitchens returned to normal, Holt went about gathering food for himself. He grabbed a little extra when no one was looking, stuffing a few chicken legs and a cut of pork into his knapsack. Once out of the servants’ courtyard and away from prying eyes, he bolted down the narrow steps into town, raced through the streets, dodged the Muckers setting off on their evening round, and arrived at the crumbling old store house.
He stood for a while at its threshold, doubled over and breathing hard from his run. Fear of what he’d find inside also kept him rooted. If he didn’t go in, it wouldn’t become real. Eventually, he gave himself a slap. It was about to get nightmarishly real whether he stepped inside or not. So, screwing up his courage, Holt entered the Crag’s newest hatchery.
