The Way of the Sword

by WonkyElk

Summary:

In Inkara, the rocks were hard, the snows were deep, and professions bred true. You were what you were born.

Rodney was born to miners and he knew, even before his eighth year - when he was first taken under the earth, into the enclosing dark, and set to work - that he was going to have to break that changeless edict and flee to a different life, or die, before he was very much older.

Notes:

Written for Tropetember prompt 20: Fantasy

This is a pretty straight up action/adventure/romance, in a sword and sorcery setting.

As such, there is mild, to moderate, violence scattered throughout, but the graphic violence warning relates to one specific part, which is detailed in the end notes for anyone who’d prefer to check first.

In Inkara, the rocks were hard, the snows were deep, and professions bred true. You were what you were born.

Rodney was born to miners and he knew, even before his eighth year - when he was first taken under the earth, into the enclosing dark, and set to work - that he was going to have to break that changeless edict and flee to a different life, or die, before he was very much older.

He ran after less than a week. But labour was scarce and even such a small scrap of a thing as he was, was worth chasing and beating and setting to work in chains for another month, before they felt he was sufficiently cowed to save them the trouble and the lowered productivity.

The walls never ceased to press close, binding him; always mocking, with the possibility of collapse. The dark never lightened; the noise never softened; the work never eased. Yet Rodney survived, to his own surprise, for the five months that followed, until the owners took up the new-fangled notion of pit ponies, in the hope of greater yields per day.

Rodney had been told that he must make the ponies work or haul himself, so he hadn’t expected to be so affected by their obvious distress and resistance. By their air of intelligence, confined.

But to most of the mineworkers they were either a novelty, a relief or a nuisance; an unsettling change and a possible move to take their jobs from them, along with their one chance to make any provision for themselves and their families.

The ponies were eyed with a mixture of resentment and curiosity, but little compassion.

“Kick ‘em, and offer carrots. One thing or the other will work. They’ll settle down to it soon. Ponies like to work, it’s what they’re made for.”

Rodney patted a pony tentatively. It turned a wild eye to his and Rodney thought of the dark and the caging, endless walls, of the panic he held inside, every day; and felt a sense of connection that he hadn’t felt with any of the humans he had met so far, including his own family.

“Not these ones. That idiot Barker got ‘em from Weir’s mountain. Nothing good and right ever comes from that place. Damn the things.”

The overseer, Cowan, punctuated his words with his feet and was lashed out at in return, one hoof catching him square in the below. There was a brief interlude, in which the melody of agonised whimpering was nearly overwhelmed by a background counterpoint of stealthy snickering from the crowd; before Cowan rose and glared round at the suddenly solemn faces, then raised his whip and set to, with a strong arm and a single-minded fury. Cowan was not a popular man, but he was a feared one, and his violence was met mostly with encouragement, interspersed with a few, half-hearted, remarks from other workers, about getting in trouble for killing the animals on their first day.

In six months, Rodney had learnt the skills of keeping his head down (though he could never quite manage keeping his mouth shut) and focusing mostly on survival, but such blatant cruelty was something which he had never understood and couldn’t stomach. He knew, firsthand, the taste of that whip and shuddered with every stroke. Taking action didn’t feel like a choice, but an necessity.

Swiftly calculating the best and most efficient places to cut, Rodney severed the ponies’ ropes and made a graceless dive for Cowan’s legs, tumbling him, an angry, unwilling domino, over into several others (who toppled more, and yet more, until the floor was awash with flailing, chaotic limbs) and urging the ponies to run, before anyone could make a grab to stop them. Then he ran, with the speed of sheer desperation, flinging himself onto the back of the last pony as they scrambled their way up the long shallow slope to the surface; gasping at the cut of the whip as Cowan recovered just enough to chase and lash out and curse, before tripping over his own fury.

Rodney knew that he couldn’t risk getting caught now. The ponies were worth far more than he was and his punishment would be severe; possibly fatal. He clung tight to his mount and willed its short legs to somehow sprout wings, or springs, or to shoot up to twice their length and thunder along like a war horse.

There seemed little realistic chance of escape, yet, somehow, perhaps through sheer surprise or the apathy of most of the other mine workers (who, confronted by a stampede of small white horses and one panicky, dirt-streaked child, mostly shrugged and got on with their day) they managed to get very far from pursuit, before exhaustion brought them to a halt, by a clear and rushing stream.

They all drank as if new to drinking and finding it the most glorious pastime in the world. Rodney, in fact, drank so deep and so well, that he would not have been surprised to have looked down, when he was done, and discovered the river run dry as dust and a bed of flopping, wriggling fish, staring accusingly up at their callous destroyer.

Sated at last, the ponies happily cropped at what grass they could find, while Rodney considered his new position, in the wilds of a region unknown to him, with no food, no shelter and no companions but wild creatures with an understandable grudge against humanity.

But he also had the sky - and such a sky, so bright, wide and blue - and freedom, at last, from the wearing labour; the terror of imprisonment underground; the sniping and casual brutality; the deadening monotony of it all, broken only by moments of danger and tragedy.

Rodney was smart for his age. He was smart - he told himself, a little defensively - for any age. Surely a mind of his calibre could work out even the snaggiest parts of shelter and foraging and not being eaten by wolves?

To illustrate this, Rodney looked around until he found a cosy-looking hollow log and carefully shifted a few small, leggy creatures out of the way, before wriggling into it and falling almost immediately into an exhausted sleep.

His dreams were restless and scattered and dark; and lost by morning.

***

Sorcery was rare, but respected; and by respected, most people meant feared. It was unwise to make it widely known that there were severe rules and limitations to the art and that a magician was neither all-powerful, nor invulnerable: because someone so different had to be either accepted or considered dangerous in a way that did not invite retaliation.

The Weirs had been magicians since the mountains were young, so the stories went (as if mere upstart humanity dated back even close to that far) and Elizabeth learnt at her mother’s knee, from before she was aware she was learning.

Her mother was collected and controlled, while her father was a far more jolly, erratic figure who would vanish for days and then snatch his ‘Lizzie’ up at intervals and tell her stories or take her into the markets to gossip or teach her how to sew - at which his quick, slim fingers were the cleverest that Elizabeth had ever seen - and how to play harmonica; at which he was quite, quite terrible and completely uncaring about the fact.

It was only much later that Elizabeth realised that these moments were not stolen, secret exploits that her mother disapproved of, but as much a deliberate part of her education as the lessons in writing and magic and politics that she had been given so carefully and thoroughly and well. That the sparse, but heartfelt, praise; the strictness, and care in raising her, of her mother; and the carefree passion and liveliness of her father, were both their very different ways of showing their deep love for her.

Elizabeth learned a lot from them both, but, what she liked best, was to learn about people; how they worked, how they talked to each other, what lay underneath the words. Her mother taught her the politics of the powerful and the rich; her father, the ways of the folk of the markets and the docks.

But Elizabeth did not neglect her magic studies and she learned well the ways of the beyond and the rights and wrongs of it, so that, if her strength was not as great as that of their biggest rivals, the Kolyas, her knowledge and application far exceeded theirs by the time she had turned twenty one.

That was the year that the dragons came to the mountains and no one bothered with rivalries then.

***

John would have been happier being a rich merchant’s son, if it wasn’t for the fact that they weren’t allowed to do anything. Deportment, fashion and, most particularly, economics, covered most of what they learned, along with the best ways to be unethical, and to screw people over for all they had, without actual, indictable, illegality.

The House of Sheppard, which had polished and perfected this art for generations incalculable, now owned most of Inkara and was kowtowed to everywhere as a matter of course, but it was a point of pride that they had never been caught out in actual cheating.

Lord Sheppard kept strictly to the law, never mingled with underlings and was obscenely, overwhelmingly rich; which earned him outward respect and - out of his sight and hearing - a near universal spit on the ground, curses for his family and a large number of crude and unflattering rhymes, mostly involving various unorthodox sexual practices that were far too athletic for him to have actually indulged in.

John had learned this last, rather interesting, fact on some of his frequent anonymous excursions into the city, which he took mostly at night or whenever he could break away from his instructors for an hour or so.

He had also learned that the rules of combat were very different on the streets. Fencing and boxing had been taught as part of deportment and performatively gentlemanly behaviour, but no one waited for you to get into a good fighting stance when they were trying to cut your throat and steal everything you owned. John’s quick reflexes, and good instincts, had saved him on the first occasion this happened. After that, he had taken care to study and practice different methods of self-defence and to be more keenly aware of his surroundings, when he went on his forays.

Even John couldn’t have explained to himself why these trips were so important to him. Boredom played a part, but there was more to it than that. John felt caged and restless and, also, increasingly aware that his own circle, his own way of life, was neither the only one, nor the ‘best’ in any meaningful sense.

John felt a growing responsibility for the people his father thought of as his own; not in any loving, protective fashion, but just as he considered his candlesticks and horses.

At first, John had planned to learn how to be a good and ethical merchant and treat his workers well (and, perhaps, earn rhymes in which his sexual practices were equally athletic, but far more lauded and with less involvement of goats). But, though he was good with numbers - better than any of his instructors - the more that John learned about Merchanting, the more he knew that it was a path he did not want to go down; and that an ethical Merchant, in Inkara, was the same as saying a failed one.

On his eighteenth birthday, well before the cock crowed, John had taken his plainest clothes, a knapsack of food and sundry useful items. One of these was a gift from his riding instructor, who was one of the few people who treated John as an individual instead of as an heir. This was a knife, allegedly tinted with sorcery, which could cut through bone in one blow. The idea made John more queasy than intrigued, but it would be useful to a young man who had to live by his wits and the work of his hands and, also, a reminder of affection and something that came as close as he had ever gotten, to familial love.

Then John had saddled his horse, Atlantis; and left a note, which he doubted would be read, but rather torn up in a rage.

John knew his value to his family, down to the exact gold piece, and he had no doubt that there would be ranting, spitting and anger in plenty; long diatribes on his temerity, disloyalty and the disturbance of their complacency and routine; outrage at the unspeakable theft of bread, cheese and an entire, butter-basted, roast chicken - but that there would be little real effort to track him down. That would cost too much to be worth the reward: one disloyal son, who could neither be acknowledged, nor punished in any way which might be made public, for the sake of the honour of the family and - even worse - the setting of precedent; for if one Sheppard could be treated like a commoner, then why not all of them?

John had meant to have a plan when he left - perhaps had even made one - but, somehow, when he got out onto the path, all of his intentions had slipped away and, instead, he just followed the fingers of sunlight, as they stretched on out of the city; and went where they led him.

***

Rodney had no idea if the ponies had led him, or he had led the ponies, but they found themselves, after days of wandering and a diet that Rodney didn’t much want to think about, at the edge of the Great Forest.

Everyone had heard of the Great Forest; generally in connection with reasons to stay well clear of it. The Forest, it was said, was not a place, so much as a being, vast and complicated and crotchety; intolerant of those who did not belong.

Wild and terrible beasts lurked within, that could rip out your heart or swallow your soul. The very trees themselves may open up and take the unwary deep inside, so that many was the layer of bark which might be unpeeled to display the skeleton beneath.

There were other stories, by the thousand, but Rodney didn’t trust stories, because a story usually reflected the teller, and he had had no cause to like or trust any of those.

What he saw was a place of shelter and a source of food, where few or none would come and find him. So Rodney entered the Forest and the ponies followed after; and they all found a welcome there, of sorts.

Rodney had spent the first several years of his life without any first-hand experience of green spaces, but he discovered, very early on in Forest life, that nuts and berries and fungus were decidedly problematic, if you weren’t sufficiently aware of which ones were kind and friendly foodstuffs, that nourished and sustained, and which were horrible, demonic fiends, that tried to kill you, very messily, from the stomach outwards.

Experience, observation, experimentation and noticing patterns, helped Rodney to avoid more than two or three such nasty incidents and it also encouraged him to see the Forest, not just as a place that was - despite its mysterious, brooding air and occasional attempts at playful homicide - far, far better than the mines, but as a vast and fascinating project to learn, both for the sake of survival and his own, insatiable, curiosity.

When in the mines, Rodney had found some small solace in trying to think of improvements and safety measures, even as he understood perfectly well that they would never have been considered for a moment. That he had, in effect, no voice in that place.

Now, even out of that confining environment, Rodney still needed something on which to focus his attention and sharpen his mind: and so he became as familiar as possible with the plants, the animals, the best places to shelter and various ways to use the resources it provided - such as fallen branches, sharp stones and the strong, hanging vines - to construct useful things. And, also, not-so-useful things. His flute - whittled from a memory of one that a fellow worker had played on their short lunch breaks and which had provided Rodney one of the few moments of wonder and enjoyment in his short life - was certainly functional as a flute, if not exactly pretty, but had no practical use beyond providing an interesting project and making sounds that Rodney enjoyed for their own sake and for the illusion of company. The small flying contraption which he had made after his first year in the Forest, had no useful purpose but to delight him, though he used it often, tweaking and adapting it for racing against the gliding squirrels that lived in the heart of the Forest. This seemed to give them great joy, but also great confusion.

Rodney, in fact, was a confusion and a puzzle to most of the creatures in the Forest, including the ponies themselves, who had now settled as if born there; but they accepted him into their herd as a strange, adopted foal; listened to him talk - and talk and talk - with extraordinary patience and sometimes would try and chivvy him to eat grass or to run with them in the nearby meadows.

Though Rodney had distrusted the tales, he had accepted - and feared - the likelihood of wolves and bears and, perhaps, even the dark, nameless beasts of terrible rumour, who were said to live in the thickest, most hidden parts and to come out only to kill.

It was not long before he discovered that all of these did, indeed, inhabit the forests, but he met them seldom and they never bothered him, only walked on by, with an air - he felt - of disdain; which was a little hurtful, but doubtless far less so than an air of too-great interest would have been.

People he saw even less often. When Rodney heard anyone coming, or was alerted by a scattering of creatures, he instantly scrambled to a high branch - if possible, choosing one of the many to which he had carefully fitted a hollow section, so that he could hide neatly inside, while the tree had the appearance of emptiness, should anyone bother to look up.

Rodney couldn’t articulate to himself exactly why he was so determined not to be seen. It was unlikely that anyone - bar, perhaps Cowan - even remembered the small boy who had stolen the ponies, let alone would be interested in retrieving him; but, then, Rodney’s experience with people had been near universally unpleasant, whilst his experience here had been largely the opposite. Certainly it was uncomfortable in bad weather and winter had proven very challenging indeed, but there was everything to learn here and no one to beat him or bury him in walls or tell him how little he mattered.

He was in control here, that was the key. Other people were mostly bigger and stronger and could make him do things he didn’t want to. Rodney never wanted to be in that position again. And, if he missed actual conversation, from time to time, and clothes that weren’t made of inexpertly sewn together leaves and softened bark, well, that was a small price to pay.

Besides, those who came into the Forest were always armed and often armoured and every one of them looked as though they could, and would, eat the wildest of bears for breakfast, let alone Rodney himself.

The impression was probably misleading, however, as very few of the people who entered ever came out again and Rodney seldom saw anyone in the Forest for more than three days in a row, before they vanished.

Sometimes he found parts of them, afterwards.

For all of his reluctance to rejoin the human race, as the years passed, Rodney began to get restless in the Forest. He knew it very well now, felt it all inside and through him, and, having learned so much, he wanted - with a shameless ingratitude - to find something more.

And what Rodney wanted more than anything was the stars.

Not to have them in his hands, even if that had been possible, but to discover more about them, to get closer through learning.

Schooling for miner’s children was minimal. A few decades ago, it had been non-existent. But then the ruling class had discovered that many places which had no learning provision made for them, were making their own; and it was rarely in line with the ideals, and particular version of history, that they would wish the people to have impressed upon them; with canes, if necessary.

Rodney’s brief schooldays had been far from enjoyable - beatings were as frequent there, as in any other part of his life before now - but they had been instructive and had blessed - or cursed - him with a desperate yearning for more; for that which he was never likely to receive.

And, now that he was getting older, the risks of leaving the safety of the Forest and getting dragged back into the life he had hated, were being outweighed by the want for books and for knowledge beyond that which he, himself, could discover and deduce.

As long as he didn’t make himself conspicuous, there was no reason he couldn’t take just a short trip…

But every time that Rodney ventured near the edge of the Forest, the wind caught in the leaves and rattled a warning; a wild deer would taunt him into a chase; or the ponies would whicker and whinny and nudge him, until he played the flute for them, those wild tunes that stirred their blood or, sometimes, sweet, soft ones to settle their hearts.

Rodney did not immediately register these as distractions, which always ended in him forgetting about leaving for another little while.

But when he did, he squared his shoulders and strode straight out, past the deer and the ponies and the winds that warned of danger and left the shelter of the trees.

But he turned, at the edge of the Forest, and silently stroked the disapproving bark and the fastest pony that had mournfully followed him.

“I’m coming back. I just… you know. I need to know.”

And Rodney turned away, before his eyes got too wet, and walked quickly and determinedly down the path.

***

It had been over a century since the dragons had last been a scourge and the tales had been scattered and, in many places, lost, so that no one was prepared for them at all. They had swooped down on the mountains from nowhere, vast, unreasoning creatures, made of scales and hunger and teeth, that killed without hesitation and without fear. All of the sorcerers’ magic was as nothing to them and, by the time the monsters had left, gorged and sated, the number of dwellers in the mountains, whether magician or not, had been halved.

Blood, guts and forlorn, stray limbs, coated not just the ground, but the minds of everyone there, smeared across them with a vicious force; etched, so deep, that not even magic could erase it.

If Elizabeth alone had lost her parents, her anchors and most beloved, then she felt that the weight of such a loss would have folded her up, and flattened her down, to the thickness of a breeze; a breath of painful nothing, that drifted and was lost.

But there were very many who shared her grief, who had lost their family and friends; and, although Elizabeth was very young, still she was a sorceror. She took it as her responsibility to put aside her own burden and take on the care of those who could not care for themselves.

For a short while, Elizabeth formed a wary alliance with the last remaining Kolya, hoping to consolidate the magic in the mountains for the betterment of all; but he was more bent on revenge and on hunting down the dragons.

“What’s done here is done. Our energy and power would be far better spent in avenging our dead and preventing further tragedy, than in babying a group of people who should look out for themselves.”

“I understand your position and I intend to do all that is in my power to Seek the dragons and to send warning to others, if possible. But these people are hurting and there are many who are unable to fend for themselves. Helping them is preventing further tragedy.”

It was of no use. They were of two separate minds and Acastus went his own way, steeped in bitterness and hatred and the strange, yet common, belief that blood could wash out blood.

Yet, perhaps his efforts would prove heroic and fruitful and he would be able to find a way to protect them all from the dragons. Elizabeth knew her history well, but all that the official books told of their previous visits was that, in each case, they had wrought terrible slaughter for some weeks and then had left; with no hint as to the reason for either.

The one other fact they could provide, and which the mountains had already learned to their cost, was that dragons were entirely impervious to magic. None were safe from them and it was almost certain they would kill again - but, still, Elizabeth determined that she could do more good here, where people were in immediate need of healing and succour, than in chasing a vengeance which would be more likely to end in her own swift, and ultimately pointless, demise than in an end to the tyranny.

When the immediate problems were resolved and she was no longer so needed; then she would go. The best that Elizabeth could do for her parents, was to be the daughter they had raised her to be.

***

John was finding that what he missed most was baths. Riding all day, with your sweaty clothes making questing little inroads into your crevices; or stopping to trade hard labour for food, shelter, and, sometimes, even coin, got you very filthy, very quickly.

Many people, he had noticed, seemed to have resigned themselves to this perpetual dirt, tracked into the skin so deep that clean, even if possible, would seem a unnatural state, disrespectful of the whorls and patterns that were part of you, the moulds and creatures to whom you were host.

But John, for all his desire to shed his upbringing, could not resign himself to dirt. It nagged at and bothered him and he had made frequent and grateful use of what streams he had passed on his travels.

Outside of the city, there were stretches of green land and spotty patches of village. John had not risked stopping at any village too close to the city, but his food had run out swiftly and there was little here large enough to hunt.

Rats, of course, were as plentiful here as anywhere; busy and adaptable; sharp-toothed and quick. John supposed that he would eat rat, if it were the only alternative to starvation, but he hoped to stave off that necessity for a while. Fortunately, he had, so far, lucked into temporary work, wherever he stopped. It was surprising, in fact, how comparatively easily his rebellion had gone. But this was summer: the paths were clear, the air warm and light and there were plenty of outdoor tasks to be done, even for one with as little experience as John.

As the weather turned cooler and more bitter, so would his welcome and so would his path.

John had no illusions - or fought to make sure he had as few as possible - about the hardships to come. Yet he was determined to make a life outside of his upbringing and all of the wrongness that had dug under his skin and scraped against his every feeling.

Even the clogging, itchy dirt and the bitter cold to come, was better than that.

John had earned himself a good skinsworth of preserved meats, cheeses and fruits, from a long day’s chopping wood; an activity which was tiring but cathartic and which he almost felt that he would have done for free (though he was sensible enough not to have voiced the opinion).

There had been no bed offered with it, as was sometimes the case - either empty, or, on a few occasions, occupied, should he have the desire to share - but the evening was clear and mild and John had already marked a spot to shelter in, inside an abandoned hay-barn on the cursed lands.

This was a thin strip that ran alongside the villages, scarred and pitted and burned. Once it had been part of the village, until a dark thing had come - whether sorcery or living creature or Wither-fire from the else-worlds, John couldn’t discover, for none ever spoke of it and questions were not welcomed. No one who remembered what had happened ever ventured there, nor made use of the sparse remaining buildings, which were too thick with ghosts and terrible memories.

John, having no history here, had used the area for shelter more than once, coming to no harm that he had noticed and suffering no nightmares or feelings of dread. Nor had he been yet inconvenienced by the righteous vengeance of lost souls, angered by the fact that he had slept under their ailing roofs.

The worst of it was the spiders. John really didn’t like spiders. It was the movement, the intense sense of ‘predator’ he got from them. They made intricate, beautiful things, but their purpose was death.

Yet, it was also - and more so - the opposite. The purpose of a web was really life; life for the spider, which would die without food. John knew that he should not conflate such creatures, and their honest, straightforward instincts of survival, with some of the worse merchants (and others) he had known, who dealt in war or who saw other people as tools for their benefit and drew them in with shiny promises which turned into snares.

But still; John hated spiders.

Though he was too pleasantly tired to worry much about them, as he made Atlantis comfortable, in an area where she could graze, and entered the barn. This was in some considerable state of disrepair, but a quick external check had established that it was unlikely to collapse on him in the night, which was the only really necessary requirement.

John had become so used to no-one else so much as stepping over the boundaries of the cursed lands, that he actually jumped back in shock when he saw a figure inside. His first, startled, thought was of ghosts, despite his experience so far and distaste for superstition.

On a second look, the figure was thin and pale, but it wasn’t at all ghostly. The rough-made oversized shirt and shabby trousers, the shocked and scared expression, swiftly melting into defiant and scared, the book clutched protectively against his chest and the bulging cloth bag were all indicators, but it was the eyes that convinced him first. They were too intense, too outstandingly real, to belong to any phantom.

“What are you doing in here? Nobody comes in here. I warn you, I have nothing worth stealing and I’m really quite good in a fight.”

Even without the little wobble in the voice and the raised chin of hopeless defiance, John would have never been less convinced of anyone’s fighting prowess. A swift assessment suggested that his new acquaintance was of a similar age to himself: at that moment of being just-tipped-over-into-manhood and a little lost in the folds. His build was slender and underfed, though with a hint of broad shoulders in the making, and his posture was an immediate giveaway that he had never seriously fought in his life.

Been beaten, maybe. Almost certainly. But John, with his wiry, but muscular build and years of experience in both formal and street-fighting, would have backed himself against far more impressive foes than this bundle of twigs.

In any case, he didn’t want to fight.

“Okay, look, I’m going to take my things and go and then nobody has to get hurt.”

John caught him impulsively by the arm.

“It’s okay. I don’t want to take your stuff. Or your shelter. There’s plenty of room here for both of us.”

John had unconsciously adopted his calmest, most soothing tone, the one he used for his horse, when strangers or noises spooked her, and it seemed to have something of the desired effect.

“Well, yes, of course there is.”

He looked at John with a wide, searching gaze, which seemed to end in finding something he was happy with. That settled him down a little.

“I, er, won’t rob you either.”

“Good to know.”

John gently released his arm and they surveyed each other for a little longer - John finding this an oddly enjoyable experience - before sitting down; not quite in perfect trust, but with an accord that John only later found himself struck by. At the time, it felt so natural as not to occasion a thought.

He dug out a piece of bread and cheese and split it in half, holding out one half to his new friend.

“My name’s John.”

The food was taken and checked over with a brisk intensity.

“Rodney.”

They ate steadily and with enjoyment. Rodney hesitated afterwards, before dragging out a couple of sweet-looking fruits that John had never seen before and offering one to him, with an air of noble sacrifice that was simultaneously ridiculous and appealing.

John took it, amused at the reverence displayed towards what looked like a slightly confused apple, with purple highlights, and bit cautiously. Then he descended on it again, with considerably more enthusiasm.

“These are amazing.”

Rodney grinned, which made him so radiant, that John almost choked on his fruit.

“This is Hava fruit. They only grow in a few small areas out here, close to the Forest, and the villagers who tend them never trade them to the cities. They see them as a personal gift from some great heroes who died very messily and blessed the soil with their blood. Which is just another of those contradictions I keep finding, because here? Gallons of blood of the good and worthy spilled everywhere, yet, apparently, in this case, it cursed the soil and caused nothing but barrenness and the howling voices of the dead - not that I’ve been troubled by any of those so far - so I’m not exactly sure what criteria people are using.”

Rodney bit into his own fruit and apparently enjoyed it just as much as John had. Watching pleasure and delight ripple over him and escape in soft, happy sounds, was an experience that John found very personally discomfiting, to the point where he had to discreetly adjust his sitting position.

“You might be able to earn some for yourself, but I warn you, they have a very odd sharing policy. I’ve been fixing things up for several days to get clothes and food - you wouldn’t believe what a state some of the equipment here is in, honestly, it’s ridiculous - but no one offered the Hava fruit until I got all homesick and played my flute and then, the next thing I know, someone was pressing three of them into my bag. I guess they really, really like music here.”

Rodney frowned, a new thought visibly striking him. “Unless it was because they wanted me to go away and stop the noise. I was chased out of a village once, for over-explaining a pulley-mechanism error.”

John stretched out, feeling comfortably fed and sleepy.

“Maybe you should play for me. I promise to give an unbiased opinion.”

Rodney was hesitant, and his flute was inexpertly carved, little more than a stick with holes. John immediately regretted his impulse and resigned himself to ear-ache and the overly familiar experience of trying to be polite and diplomatic without actual, outright lying.

But the tune was immediately captivating, reminding him of trees and wild things, of birds in flight that took his heart soaring with them and then a bed of sweet grass to drift away on. John fell asleep full of blissful imagery and dreams in which he walked with Rodney through a close, light-dappled Forest; hands clasped so naturally that, when their lips met shortly after, John felt no hesitation or surprise.

***

Well, that answered that question. Rodney’s music was clearly so tedious that it induced coma. Rodney gazed at the lightly snoring figure with resignation. He would just have to stick with fixing things. Most of what he had been offered so far, worked on principles which were easy to deduce and were often only not yet fixed by their owner because of time or expense. Rodney, having practised what mechanics were possible in the forest and being quick to learn unfamiliar technology, was swift at repair and also ingenious at finding cheaper solutions for materials as well as improvements to the whole.

It was an absorbing and very useful form of practical learning, as well as profitable. Rodney had earned himself three books so far, as well as food, a bag to carry everything in and the clothes he was wearing, which were a vast improvement on leaves. The sheer hysterical laughter of everyone who had met him before he could wangle some actual, non-forest-based, garments and a haircut, was still a raw and stinging memory.

Rodney took one more lingering glance over his companion, confused by his own reluctance to turn away, and then took up his book, becoming absorbed in it immediately. It was late when sleep crept up to him, mid-sentence and stole him away.

When Rodney woke, he was disoriented for a moment, feeling something was missing, without knowing exactly what. There was an absence by his side, which slowly resolved itself into ‘lack of John’.

Rodney fought down his unexpected disappointment. So far, Rodney had interacted only as much as he needed, to offer work and receive reward. Neither he, nor the villagers, had any inclination for further involvement. He had only had one truly unpleasant encounter so far - thankfully, before he had earned anything beyond bread to steal, or he might have fought harder and been hurt even worse - but the threat of violence and control hung heavy in the air.

No one here had an easy life and it was Rodney’s experience that this was often passed on to others. Still - there had been kindness as well. Rodney stroked his last Hava fruit thoughtfully, before replacing it in his bag for later and selecting a small handful of nuts instead. He had to eke out his supplies sensibly. Rodney intended to return to the Forest for winter - having learned how to survive there, despite hardship - but the books he had read and the objects he had mended, and learned from, had not satisfied his curiosity, but stoked it to a raging fire. He needed more; and there was still the question of stars.

Rodney missed the ponies and his home, but he wasn’t yet ready to go back. Not when there was so much out here to learn.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Thought you were going to hog down there until noon.”

Rodney looked up, startled and, more pleased than he could fully account for, to see that John had not left after all.

“So, I was thinking… my horse is pretty strong. Reckon it could easily take two.”

Rodney closed up his bag and jumped hastily to his feet. It would be sensible, after all - for safety purposes - not to be alone. At least, for a little while.

***

The dragons struck again three weeks later, this time in the outer townships; moving, Elizabeth suspected, slowly closer to the City. She could not find them directly through magic, but had set a spell to capture their violence and the suffering they caused, and so she knew exactly when it happened and how much devastation it had wrought.

For a while, Elizabeth wrestled again with her own decision: to care for her own, instead of attempting to save strangers. But so few of the people here would have survived without her help. And her chances of defeating the dragons by facing them alone had always been, realistically, nil.

Still, there was one sign of hope. Elizabeth had abandoned history for stories, and discovered that, while the Mountains had no relevant tales, a few people who had come from farther afield had heard tell of a man, or a woman - or both - known as Bright-sword, whom they associated with the dragons.

Bright-sword was said to have defeated them every time, but, as each attack was from fifty to more than a hundred years apart, this seemed unlikely to have been the same person, but more of a name and role, passed down over the generations, possibly through a family connection or mentor to student.

But no one could say whether there was a Bright-Sword out there right now and Elizabeth didn’t plan on just sitting and waiting for one to show up. There had to be something more useful that she could do. Both her parents and experience had taught her that it was useful to know when patience was a true virtue and when to shove it politely aside and embrace impatience and the need to act.

Her resources in the mountains were exhausted. Now that the community was stabilised, functioning again, and as protected as Elizabeth could make it, it was time to set out and search a little further afield for more details or for any signs of this Bright-sword themselves, who might not even realise their legacy.

It tore at her to leave her people, but they were as concerned about the destruction as she was and urged her onwards. All knew that the dragons would likely not stop at two attacks. Elizabeth needed to move fast if she had any hope of discovering the key to their banishment or destruction.

She packed light, saddled her horse and bid a sad, fond farewell to her people. Then she rode swiftly, setting a finding spell before her; one that asked for help - any help at all - in her quest.

***

Running away had been exciting and scary and undercut with a loneliness and hurt that John didn’t even realise he had been feeling so strongly, until he had picked up Rodney.

Now he couldn’t imagine how he had lasted so long without him.

Rodney was an odd creature, blunt and prone to a busy tongue, talking at great length and often to himself. Not that it was surprising, as he had apparently been alone since childhood and not in John’s sense of often feeling like an outlier, but actually devoid of human company entirely.

This was a problem at times. Rodney struggled a little to understand the ways of the villagers and had either forgotten, disregarded or had never learned, most of the polite social conventions that John took for granted and which were observed - though in far less stringent and elaborate forms - even in the smaller villages. But it made him a fascinating companion and a source of great insight and interest, with his unique perspective and his wry wit.

He, in his turn, had been fascinated by John’s upbringing, the corruption of luxury and greed and his rebellion against it - and also fairly struck by the fact that John’s parents, for all of their coldness and strictness, had neither beaten him daily nor set him to work before the age of ten.

That Rodney’s story was only unique in that he had escaped from that environment, and that John’s own family had such a lot to do with the normalisation of such a life, was a bitter truth, if not an entirely newly learned one. John had seen far too much in his youthful excursions to believe that his own sheltered upbringing was in any way common. But most of the families in the City, however poor, had still cared for their children and protected them, with what tools they had.

Out on the edges, too far from the City to partake of any share in its wealth and trade, not close enough to the mountains to be part of the close-knit communities there, life was often little more than bare subsistence. Not everyone was cruel or unfeeling, by any means, but it was impossible to escape the practicalities.

But they had not spent much time dwelling on their separate misfortunes. John told stories of the sights he had seen and the places he had visited and tried to teach Rodney self-defence, with limited success. He was stronger than he looked, especially in the arms, but his coordination and concentration - so key and controlled when he made and fixed things - went all to pieces when it came to fighting.

John suspected that there was a psychological element in that. That Rodney had been hurt, and seen hurt, so much, at a formative age, that he baulked at inflicting it on others, even in self-defence.

Rodney, in his turn, told John stories of the Forest: minute details about the plants and animals, the contraptions he had built, the sounds of the wind through leaves that Rodney sometimes listened to and pretended were real, and comforting, voices; sometimes merely took note of for information about the acoustics of the trees.

He exaggerated a little, in his enthusiasm - Rodney was very skilled in making and fixing, but some of the things he described were flat-out impossible; not to mention that he claimed to have, not only strolled unmauled, past bears and wolves, but lavishly described the Nameless Beasts, as if he could possibly have seen them in such detail and not been instantly devoured, soul-first.

John found that he didn’t mind this touch of spice sprinkled over Rodney’s essential honesty. He was a perplexing, but wonderful, mix of fantasy and pragmatism and his companionship and loyalty more than made up for the trouble (and bruising) he caused by saying the wrong thing or generally being a target for his particular blend of peculiarity, sharp tongue, arrogance, defensiveness and vulnerability.

Besides, as soon as John had persuaded him, with some difficulty, that his flute-playing was not tedious and soporific, but evocative and pleasing, they had managed to score a few nights in actual inns, with a soft bed, a hot meal and a warm fire, which John very much doubted that his own steady labouring would have warranted.

After three weeks, John was feeling both that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life and that he might, just possibly, have finally discovered what love meant.

Sex, he knew about. He had had a few dalliances with his peers and shared several beds since leaving home, with what he believed was mutual enjoyment.

Sex was bracing and relaxing, like a good run, or a fight with a well-matched opponent and no malice involved. John had never baulked at sharing his body with any one he liked and was attracted to, if they were interested, but it had never been a driving force in his life.

When it came to Rodney, John could think about sharing a blanket with him, with a certain amount of pleasurable anticipation, but he felt even more strongly about the way that they talked; the way that they laughed; how they sat so close together, at the end of long day’s work or travel, trusting and nearly in each other’s arms.

Kissing Rodney was a thought that kept coming into his mind, more and more clearly each time. How they would fit together, lip matching lip and parting gently in invitation. How their tongues would touch, with shyness at first and then with a growing, playful confidence. How they would press closer and tighter, bringing their arms into the kiss, their whole bodies mimicking the actions of their mouths as they strove to become one with each other; to explore themselves completely, inside and out; wet and slick and hot and…

John had to find a cold stream, very quickly, when he let things get that far.

The only thing that stopped him from actually asking, from leaning over and brushing their mouths together, in a silent question, was that it would make a change in their relationship at best and destroy it, at worst, and this; this was the best thing that John had ever had.

John had never met a risk he was scared to take until now; but this one paralysed him.

“John? Are you starting a fever? Because, if so, you really ought to put the axe down. Sharp blades and addled brains do not make good bedfellows.”

Not like we would, John thought automatically, before looking down at the small pile of logs he still had left to chop, that really ought to have been finished by now. So many of the younger people in this area had left for the larger towns or the City itself, that John had found himself very much in demand for the heavy work, especially with regard to logs. If his dreams weren’t so full of Rodney, John reflected, then the logs would definitely have dominated, filling his mind with pile after pile of them, rolling over in turn to offer themselves resignedly to his axe.

“Sorry. Got a little distracted.”

Rodney frowned at him and put a hand on his forehead.

“Hmm. Still. Maybe I should help.”

That was a huge concession from Rodney, who would do any amount of fiddly work, of fixing and making, sometimes until John had to make him stop for the evening, but who hated any physical labour outside of that. John shook his head decisively.

“You’re a menace with an axe. Just give me a few minutes, I’ll have it done.”

Rodney still looked stubborn, as if he was considering trying to wrestle the axe away, or more likely, finding his own.

“How about you play for me? Nice, stirring, wood-chopping music.”

That worked nicely. Rodney brightened like a glowing star, at the chance to help without swinging a sharp and heavy blade. Soon the air was filled with music, working in a rhythm with John’s arm to finish off the job in even less time than he had expected.

John had just split the last log, when darkness covered the sky and the screaming began.

***

Rodney had never seen a dragon before but everyone had heard stories; and there really was no mistaking the creatures.

There were ten (though, at the time, he hadn’t realised that he was counting). Each one was larger than any building they had seen, thickly covered with armoured scales and full of teeth. They shoved their claws and noses straight through walls, as easily as if they didn’t exist. Most people ran, but a few tried to defend themselves and their families; all were killed instantly.

Which was why Rodney had to run after John, as he tried to defend a small girl, shielding her young brother with heartbreaking bravery and absolutely certain to die. John tried to yell something at Rodney, to send him away, to remind him that he didn’t have an axe, as if that made any difference here. These dragons smashed through walls and swallowed bullets. Swords and daggers hadn’t made a scratch. John with an axe and John without an axe were conceptually the same to a dragon and that concept was food.

With a moment of extreme and unwelcome clarity, Rodney saw exactly how the immediate future would go. He and John would stand in front of the children - like a layer of icing, helpfully adding itself, for the improvement of the cake - and they would all be devoured at once, or possibly in slower, more painful pieces, and that would be the end of life; just as it was starting to really get good.

He saw this picture and frantically searched around the edges for any options, any other possible outcomes; but found none.

Given more time, he might have made a projectile, a distraction; could have worked out what dragons could not tear through and found them a shield.

But they had no time to plan or build and nowhere to run to or hide, not now they had stepped right in front of a dragon and were fighting it with what they had.

John swung his axe like somebody who actually believed he had a chance, and cursed the fact that he had left his bone-knife packed away on his horse; as if that small blade would have tipped the balance.

Rodney wielded his words, because they were his only weapon and no more or less useless, under the circumstances.

And then there was a dragon call from the other side of the village and their own dragon turned its eye on John or Rodney or both of them, as if marking them down, and then beat its wings and rose, a sleek, impossible killing machine, lashing its tail out as it flew, so they had to scramble not to be tumbled to the ground like a pile of logs.

Rodney took a few short, quick breaths, trying to reconcile his certainty of death, with the actuality of life, until he heard the sound of the children quietly weeping and went to help John hold and soothe them; but not to tell them it would all be okay, because here, in the aftermath of slaughter, with the fresh blood scenting the air, that was too loud and too terrible a lie.

***

Elizabeth had anticipated a long and hard journey to find what she sought, but it was only in the third town that she came across a small library, built and maintained by an unusually studious family, who made and hoarded books with the zealousness of misers over gold.

She found the knowledge she wanted almost instantly. It looked, at first, to be a long and elaborate tale, but gradually she realised that it was, in fact, the same story told over and again, only with slight differences of protagonist and detail.

Each time, the dragons had come, unheralded and unstoppable. They had devoured town after town and had come ever closer to the City, to the beating heart of Inkara, where more than half its population had always squeezed and squashed itself to fit, for the slim chance of prosperity it offered.

Then, Bright-sword, previously unaware of their destiny, had found, or been given, the sword of slaying, that glowed only for them; and had kissed their beloved goodbye, knowing instinctively that their last and greatest trial was upon them.

They had each ridden to intercept the dragons, while they were yet some way out from the City. Had boldly sliced at them with the sword, which did what no other blade had managed.

A different number of dragons had been killed each time, from two to seven, but in each case the Head of the Dragons was killed last and only after a great and terrible battle. Then, the remaining dragons, shocked and cowed, had departed to the realm from which they came, never realising that Bright-Sword had spent their own strength in the fight and that their wounds were mortal.

It was not until the last wing-tip had vanished from view, that Bright-Sword sank to the earth and perished, their blood blessing the soil and bidding it grow fruit in celebration of this victory and the giving of one life for countless others.

None knew what had happened to the sword each time, but it was said that it would always be found again, when one who belonged to it was born and when Inkara needed a hero once more.

Elizabeth closed the book, frowning. It was a skill - and far from an exact one - to extract truth from belief and from exaggeration, distortion, false memory and outright fiction.

But something about the sword rang true. The dragons could be defeated by this sword and by the one who could make it glow.

Elizabeth ate a large, sustaining meal and cast her magics in a wide and exhausting search.

Perhaps Destiny would turn up the sword and its bearer soon enough. But sometimes it didn’t hurt to give the Fates a bit of a helping hand.

***

Less than half of the village had survived and they gathered together in the main Hall, sleeping there, heaped and close, like a wolf pack, for several days, as they mourned and counted up the damage and the dead. As they buried their past and began to set to work on the future; because there was little time to waste in looking back, when winter was coming and there were hungry mouths to be fed.

John looked to the future as well. After the first numbness and horror, of dealing with the bodies and the things that were barely bodies at all - of giving what little they could of solace to those left behind to grieve - he began to think about how little time they had. How, if the dragons came back tomorrow, he would never have had Rodney in his arms, never have kissed him, made love with him; never even have asked.

So, when the funerals were done, and they had moved to sleeping in a more private area of the village, John leaned forward, as they huddled by their fire, curved a hand around Rodney’s neck, slow and soft, and brought their lips together in the gentlest of kisses. Rodney didn’t pull away, just looked up at John, with a look of consideration.

“That was… odd. But nice.”

And, of course, Rodney would never have been kissed before, living in the Forest, without human interaction, since childhood and nothing but his own hands and instincts to deal with the urges and increasingly curious behaviour of his body, as it grew. But inexperience did not mean unwillingness and Rodney leaned in for another kiss, curious, as always, about new things; and John met him with joy.

They took things slow at first, to make sure that Rodney was okay with what they were doing; but desire soon took over. Their clothes were discarded, skin needing skin, hungering for contact at every part. By the end, nothing was slow at all, all need and passion and urgency and want; a mutual finding of comfort and hope in each other.

Exhausted, but content, they curled up together at last; keeping the cold and the sorrows of the world at bay.

John and Rodney stayed in the village for a month: rebuilding homes, gathering winter supplies, doing odd jobs here and there, wherever they were needed. In the evenings, John sometimes told stories to the children or Rodney would play his tunes of mourning, or of cheer, as the general consensus dictated. Afterwards, they would bed down together and keep each other warm.

John seriously considered staying. But he didn’t see a very satisfactory life for himself here, and, despite their assistance, he and Rodney remained, and would remain, outsiders. Not born in the village and known and understood by all; not scarred and bonded, like the others, by grieving and loss.

When they left, there were many who came to see them off and to give them food and wine; to convey their thanks, with a real, if slightly distant, sincerity. But no one asked them to stay.

They would be welcome here again, but would no longer be needed.

They left in sombre mood, but the atmosphere lightened as they came closer and closer to the Forest.

Rodney had wanted, so badly wanted, his book on the stars, but it was getting close to winter, and that was a season he wanted to spend in the shelter of home. They could always return, in the spring (if the dragons had not devastated the lands before then; but neither spoke of what they couldn’t change).

John had no preference of place, only to spend all his days with Rodney. He had long since realised that he would follow wherever Rodney went, from village, to Forest, to the stars themselves, if need be, and Rodney had promised to teach him how to shelter in the trees and what to eat and when to say the hell with it all, and spend a day or two curled up in a heap of warm ponies, in a state of near hibernation, until the snows eased just a little and movement and foraging became both necessary and possible.

It had come as an unwelcome surprise to both of them, then, when their path was blocked by a tall mare and a composed young woman, flagging them down as if she knew them and had news they wouldn’t enjoy.

“Stop, I beg you. I have been searching several weeks to find you.”

The woman’s eyes glanced at both of them and settled on John, with a sad look behind her eyes. His heart stuttered angrily. It seemed that his family wanted him back more than he had realised. There was a certain painful pleasure in that knowledge, but it was drowned by anger and fear of losing everything that had become important in his life.

“I don’t know what my father told you, but I’m not going back.”

Rodney was mounted behind John, so that his face wasn’t visible, but John felt arms tighten around his waist, could imagine exactly the defiant, determined, anxious look that Rodney would be wearing, down to the wideness of his eyes and the set of his jaw.

The young woman looked surprised, then thoughtful and… shit. Had John been mistaken? Had he given away knowledge he hadn’t needed to give? That was a mistake he didn’t usually make. Keeping his own counsel was a tactic that had been drilled into him hard enough to stick; one of the few, outside of combat skills, that he had seen the value of and taken into his heart.

“My name is Elizabeth Weir, last of the Weir sorcerers. And I have not come to return you home, but to ask for your help. I am truly sorry, but I do believe that you may be the one person in the Kingdom who is able to do so.”

There was an exasperated snort from behind, a warm snuff of air on John’s neck which tickled pleasantly and spread its heat gently downwards.

“Of course. I knew, as soon as I met you, that you were the Chosen One type. My advice, kick Destiny in the balls and let’s go.”

“Rodney.”

John used his ‘warning’ voice that he had often had to bring out when Rodney didn’t speak wisely to strangers and it usually worked, but Rodney just made an unhappy noise and tightened his grip even further.

He wouldn’t, though, actually prevent John from making his own choice; and when John made to dismount, Rodney let go immediately; though he came down too and glared at Elizabeth, as if he could dissolve her with the sheer force of his displeasure.

Despite his best efforts, she didn’t bubble away into nothing, but merely gazed back, with that disconcerting sorrow in her eyes.

“I really am sorry. But the dragons have already caused too much tragedy. If they are not stopped...”

Rodney crossed his arms and looked at the ground, but he didn’t protest again. John nodded slowly.

“But why would you think that I can help?”

In answer, Elizabeth passed over an object carefully wrapped in red cloth. She passed it to Rodney first, who gave her a sharp look and then handed it, reluctantly, to John.

As soon as he touched the object it glowed so brightly that, for just a moment, John thought the material was on fire. With a sense of awe and a watchful eye to the blade, he unwrapped a large sword, which looked too heavy to wield and yet was light and easy in his hand.

It took a moment to realise what the sense of natural connection reminded him of; until he looked at Rodney. Yet it wasn’t quite the same. This sword felt like it rightfully belonged to him. Rodney felt more like a home that he belonged to.

“This is the sword that has defeated the dragons before, in every previous scourge. It appears to be the only weapon that can hurt them. But it can only do so in the hands of its rightful bearer.”

“Great, so one man against ten dragons. You don’t have to be as good at maths at I am, to work out that, this? Is not a good equation.”

“Rodney. I’m doing this. Go back to the Forest where it’s safe. I’ll join you, after…”

Elizabeth’s flinch was so small that if John hadn’t been hyper aware of everything right now, he might have missed it. Which was why he was very surprised that Rodney didn’t.

But he was not surprised that Rodney put this together with Elizabeth’s gravity at finding the saviour she’d been searching for, without any trace of the joy you might expect, and worked out the implications immediately. Rodney was both very smart and very inclined to leap, when it came to conclusions.

“The last bearers of the sword. Who defeated the dragons before. Everything go fine for them, did it?”

Elizabeth shook her head slightly and turned her gaze on John.

“I won’t lie to you. All have perished as soon as their work was done. And there is a very good chance that you will also not survive.”

He nodded, still mentally adjusting to the sword, calming it with his mind, until the glow was barely visible.

“If it will stop the slaughter… I’ll take that chance.”

***

Rodney knew there was no point in further argument. And, of course John would want to save others, whatever the risk to his own life. Even if he knew for certain that it would be lost; that the story would play out as before, because the narrative was so damned pleased with its own shape.

But that didn’t mean that Rodney was going to just kowtow to Destiny and let it run the show. If the Dragons could be killed with this sword, then there was a reasonable possibility that they could be killed by some other instrument. Determining the properties of the sword and its slicing mechanism would be a good start there.

And Rodney also had in mind explosions. They were only sparingly used in the mines, because of the danger - not so much to the people, which was of low priority, but to the integrity of the mine itself. But Rodney had talked to the explosives experts (and been soundly cuffed by them) until he found one willing to explain how they made the booms, and he had never forgotten.

There was very little that Rodney forgot.

John’s suggestion that Rodney go on to the Forest was laughable, of course, even though he repeated it several times, with increasing urgency.

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m just going to let you face a skyful of grisly death on your own.”

“John will not be alone, Rodney. My magic cannot be directly used against the dragons, but I might be able to help with protections or in other ways. In any case, I have no plans to send John into battle, without facing the same risks myself.”

Rodney was a little taken aback, but warmed by this. He might almost forgive her for putting his John at risk.

Almost.

“Right. Good. There’ll be three of us then. The dragons won’t stand a chance.”

He stared a challenge at John, until he gave up trying to persuade Rodney and just hugged him instead, which was unfair, because it brought him far closer to tears than he wanted to be and required a moment of vague grumbling, at a random cloud, before he had control of himself.

Then they took up a map and plotted the course of the dragons so far, using the details from the stories and the pattern of attacks - one made only a week before - to find the place where they would almost certainly strike next.

There would be little time on the ride to do many tests or gather materials, but Rodney planned to do whatever he could.

***

Once they had got going, there was no more talk of death, though a fair amount of talk - and argument - about other things, large and small.

Elizabeth found herself liking her companions; which was not a wise thing to do, when she was leading one to near-certain death and the other to near-certain heartbreak. The love between them would have burned clear and bright, even to one less gifted at Seeing than herself; and to sever such a love cut her right to the heart.

But there were greater issues at stake and many more tragedies than this one, so huge to them, but so very small in comparison to what they were aiming to prevent.

Elizabeth shook off her regrets and unhelpful feelings and concentrated on using her talents to give them a little more speed, to clear obstacles, to move as swiftly and efficiently as possible. The dragons took roughly three weeks to digest their terrible feasting and be hungry again. They now had less than two to make it to the next likely target.

They took breaks only for food and rest, though Rodney rarely slept beyond a hour, before either making various tests on the sword; asking John, if awake, to light it up and cut through various things for him to examine; or vanishing entirely on some mysterious errand of his own, always returning just before they were about to search for him.

Sometimes, he would ask Elizabeth questions as they rode.

“You say dragons aren’t affected by magic. Yet they can be killed by a big glowy sword, which only responds to one person in the whole Kingdom.”

Elizabeth nodded, understanding how this would appear. “The sword itself is not using magic. Not anything which I have ever learned or felt before, in any case. By what mechanism it glows and kills the dragons, I cannot tell you, but it is not common sorcery.”

Rodney hmmphed but seemed to accept that. He would sometimes take out a book from his bag - which looked heavier now than before - and study it on the way, John having to warn him to hold tighter, if they went more than usually fast, or over very rough ground.

At other times, he would question John about how it felt to connect with the sword; how he controlled the brightness; whether it felt mentally different when slicing through different materials.

Elizabeth didn’t know if he was learning anything useful, but it distracted both him and John from the imminent future and gave them all a little hope. When you had nothing else, even the tiniest spark was cherished.

Although, Elizabeth, herself, doubted more and more whether John had any chance. There was a heavy presentiment upon her and, while she strove to think of ways to use her magic for protection, she knew that the dragons could tear through it as though it wasn’t there.

In truth, she believed that she, also, was riding to her death - because she would not forsake him, would not throw him to the wolves without offering her own throat for the taking - but, as for Rodney: in the stories, the tears of the bereaved one had always mingled with the blood on the ground to bear fruit, sweetening and softening it with their love.

Elizabeth had little doubt that, despite his own determination to protect John or die with him, Rodney would somehow survive to play this part, though his tears would surely be more bitter than the blood and the fruit they bore would be more likely cursed than blessed.

As they neared the village which they had marked out as the probable next target for attack, Rodney clung tighter to John, who looked more and more blank and grim, thrusting his feelings down and away, so that he didn’t fall over them in battle.

Then Elizabeth herself felt a sudden sense of warning, sharp and tainted, which had nothing to do with the quiet resignation of her probable self-sacrifice. She halted the horses immediately and called out.

“Acastus, show yourself.”

Slowly, a stallion paced forward, with Kolya astride, eyes far too bright and too wild and Elizabeth’s breath caught in her mouth. It was plain that he had gone down the darkest path a sorcerer could take and lost himself there.

All knew well enough that a sorcerer needed more control than others. Elizabeth’s mother had taught her this very well; for their own sake, lest the power take them, but even more so for the sake of others.

Because of this rigid insistence on training and control, the history of sorcery had comparatively few who had become devoured by it; but those few had done damage which still echoed through the lands and left bitter scars. If Kolya had joined these, then…

“You’re off to fight the dragons after all, I see. Not a very healthy occupation. But, fortunately, you no longer have to worry. I plan to take care of them personally. In fact, I insist on it.”

Kolya’s face burned with vengeance and Elizabeth could see there would be no reasoning with him; yet she could not help but try it.

“You are very welcome to come and join with us in our efforts. The more people who…”

“The more people to get in the way. Those dragons killed everyone I had, Elizabeth. Everyone who meant anything to me. It is my right to kill them personally and I will not have anyone taking that away from me.”

He thrust a bolt of magic at John, but Elizabeth had anticipated this. With the protection she already had in place and a new, stronger shield, Kolya’s blow shrivelled to nothing. He snarled at her and lashed out so strongly that it was all she could do to protect herself.

“You cannot withstand me, Elizabeth. The Weirs have always been weak.”

“I am not the one who has succumbed to the abuse of power. Try and see what this is doing to you, Acastus…”

This was met with another blast of power; strong enough to knock her off her feet. Instantly, both John and Rodney leapt in front of her; which was touching but potentially disastrous.

“No. John, you can’t risk yourself, you have to fight the dragons. You’re the only hope we have.”

John turned to her uncertainly as Kolya drew back for another blow - his urge to protect her, warring with his knowledge that she was right. Rodney braced himself in front of both of them, glaring at Kolya as if he could turn back the magic with scorn and Elizabeth tried to raise a shield, but she was tiring and hurt and…

And she must have managed it anyway, because they were all unhurt and Kolya was looking wilder and more dangerous than ever. He reached forward and grabbed Rodney by the throat, causing John to take out the Sword and swing it. But Kolya froze John easily in place, turning an ugly smile on him, drunk on power and rage, as he lifted Rodney, one handed and tightened his grip.

Elizabeth was filled with rage, cold and burning, at once. She pictured her parents, using their memory, their lessons, to ground her and direct the rage, rather than allow it to overtake her. Then she used her anger and skill to scythe Kolya’s legs out from under him and to release both Rodney and John.

Kolya was still strong, though and lost in his grievance and his power. This would not be a short fight and there was no time.

“John! Rodney! The dragons will be almost here. Go. It is my place to deal with this.”

John looked at her in agony, the idea of leaving a woman in danger alien to the core of him, but Rodney nodded, as he rubbed his sore throat, accepting that the choice had to be made; trusting her to fight her own battles.

He pulled John over to Atlantis and they swung up onto her and galloped away as Elizabeth rose stiffly and blasted almost all that she had at Kolya to prevent him from stopping them.

He turned to her, his fury so great that it curled around him in literal flames; his mind lost almost completely to his own magic and torment.

Even as she doubted her own survival, Elizabeth felt pity. The power of sorcery was always a risk and his losses had been terrible. Without the steadying presence of those who needed her, then she might well have become lost herself, in the throes of her own grief.

But he was a danger to more than herself now. This was a battle that only one of them could survive.

Elizabeth did not intend for that one to be Kolya.

***

“The dragons are close.”

John’s sword had begun almost humming in excitement and anticipation, the brightness swelling almost uncontrollably as it sensed its old enemies near. Now that the time was almost on him, John felt no fear, just determination and a calming sense of purpose. Of fulfilling the role he was born for.

Far better to die in saving thousands, than to live by ruining them. John had no regrets except that he was abandoning Elizabeth and would either do the same to Rodney or - far worse - get him killed. Rodney had no protections against the dragons except John. If he had had access to any sleeping draughts, any way of getting Rodney out of harm’s way… John even seriously considered knocking him out or just tying him up and hiding him somewhere, except that they were now too close to where the dragons would strike and there was nowhere guaranteed to be safe.

A thought which was instantly proven, when a vast dark creature, made of night and magic and savagery, appeared in front of them. Atlantis reared up, terrified, and tumbled them both onto the ground before John could even think about going for his sword. He lay winded for a moment, his head spinning; desperate to move, but unable to stir as the creature made unerringly for Rodney.

Who wasn’t scared.

Rodney was scared of a long list of things, even if he mostly tried to hide it, but this didn’t faze him even a little.

“Oh, of course, you don’t bother speaking to me in ten years and now that I’m in the middle of something incredibly urgent, you want to… what?!”

And now he looked, not just scared, but furious and full of turmoil. John pushed himself up with an effort, scrambling weakly for the knife he now kept secure at his belt.

“I can’t… John needs… I can’t …”

John had no idea what was going on, but he did know that he’d never seen Rodney so upset and he turned his anger and frustration on to the creature.

“Get away from him!”

The snarl he received made his entire body stiffen and go cold. Darkness entered into him, every bleak and terrible thought that he’d ever had, oozing over his entire self and flooding it, as a mighty claw raised and…

“Leave him alone! Look, okay, I’ll come, but you have to promise not to touch John and to bring me back as soon as this is fixed. Right away, okay?”

John felt himself resetting, the darkness easing back, until all that was left was his current state of confusion and anger.

“John, the Beast says that she foresees a fire. Some idiots setting light to the Forest and burning it down entirely. She can’t stop it because of… well, stupid, arcane reasons that make no sense at all but… yes, yes, I’m sure they do to you… but… I can’t let that happen. The Forest is too important and everything that lives there… and everything and everyone for miles around… will all be…”

Rodney gestured ‘the terrible devastation of everything’ with remarkable accuracy.

John tried not to too openly show his relief, at this unexpected chance for Rodney not to die with him.

“It’s okay, Rodney. I understand. You have to go.”

Rodney nodded, his face displaying his utter misery. He spared one sour glance at the sword, which flickered in John’s mind, a small trace of something, uncomfortable, but fleeting; perhaps never there at all.

“Looks like Destiny’s stacking the odds.”

Then Rodney got on the creature’s back or the general area where one should be - “You just hold them off as long as you can, don’t be heroic, well, more than you can help, but run, stall, do anything, because I am coming back…” - then they were gone.

And John was alone.

He took one deep breath and swallowed the hint of terror that threatened to grow into a swamping tidal wave.

John hadn’t realised quite how much comfort he had taken from having companions, even though he feared for their lives.

But this was his job, his sword, his destiny. The future of Inkara was dependant on him and John wasn’t going to let it down.

He quietened Atlantis and persuaded her onwards. The sword was almost throbbing with excitement and something that felt like satisfaction. John felt himself feeling along with the sword, allowing its energy and anticipation to bolster up his own courage.

By the time that he had reached the village, a few minutes later, and called out a warning; by the time the people were fleeing and the dragons descending, John was more than ready for the fight. He pulled out the sword and held it aloft, the brightness drawing the dragons’ attention immediately and preventing them from chasing any of their other, swiftly vanishing, victims.

They circled John warily, snarling and lashing their tails, until one launched itself towards him.

John moved like a dancer, the sword in his head, and his own natural form and training, connecting to give him confidence and grace. With a few swift darts, he sliced the sword through the dragon’s neck and into its side, neatly sidestepping the body as it roared and screamed and collapsed on the ground, a dark river of something like blood oozing forth with a terrible stench.

The nine remaining dragons roared - in anger, fear or grief, John couldn’t tell - and then leapt upon him at once.

John rolled, ducked, ran, stabbed. The dragons caught him with their claws once or twice, but not as often as his sword tasted blood, darting and gulping, greedy for every drop. John judged that he had wounded several, and felled two, before the largest dragon caught him with its tail and laid him sprawled out on the ground, his sword landing a good foot away from him.

As the creature reared up in triumph, jaws wide for the kill, John saw, not his own life flashing before his eyes, but visions of villages destroyed; of the carnage he had witnessed and the devastation that would happen in the future.

He pictured Rodney in a dragon’s jaws, screaming.

And he vowed that, sword or no sword, he was not done yet.

***

Rodney had been surprised to have a nameless beast jump up and call on him, of course - it was very much out of the usual run of his day - but he hadn’t been entirely shocked.

Elizabeth had told them the stories, in as much detail as she could remember, so that they knew what they were up against, and Rodney had been disturbed by the pattern repeating so perfectly time after time. Each swordbearer was a very different person, in a different time, and each had at least one loved one to their name, and, yet, they had always been alone at the end. They had always survived just long enough to defeat the dragons and then died. Was it from wounds? From the strength required to wield the sword? Or was there more to it?

Rodney didn’t trust the narrative one bit and, most of all, he distrusted the sword, which had submitted to his tests with inert smugness and a resting malice; and, yes, that may have been mere fancy and projection, but Rodney really wasn’t sure that was all of it.

And, if the appearance of Kolya at a critical time had been suspicious, this case of coincidental arson was even more so.

Everyone knew not to harm the Great Forest. It was an ancient and deeply respected place, sacred in all but name. That someone would get the idea now…

“When exactly will this happen?”

The Beast did not talk in words, but merely dumped information into his mind with a somewhat uncomfortable whump. Rodney received an image/impression of about an hour in the future. Two young men, overly drunk and daring each other on. Waving brands, messing around, not seriously meaning to do anything with them… not focused or alert enough to realise exactly what they had done, until it was far too late.

The devastation of the Forest and villages around followed, in harrowing detail, but Rodney had already seen that and he could put it mostly to the back of his mind while he thought.

In an hour, John would be dead or dying. That was far too long.

“Where are those people now?”

The Beast made a questioning noise, merely repeating her vision of the scene of the arson.

Honestly, for a Nameless Beast with deep and mystical powers, beyond the ken of humanity, she really wasn’t that smart.

“Okay, never mind, just take me to the nearest inn to the Forest.” Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently and - slightly to his surprise - the Beast took him without argument, moving through space in some manner which was vastly intriguing but would have to await a better time for him to review and examine fully.

It didn’t take long to pick out the culprits from the beast’s vision. They were very young and very stupid and already a good way along to being drunk enough for the sort of regrets that last a lifetime; or drastically shorten it.

Rodney weighed up the best way to do this and reached into his bag. He had been off, trading tunes for books and any bits and pieces that might have some use, every time they had stopped near a house or settlement, and one of the things he had acquired was a powerful sleeping draught. He had originally some notion of trying it on the dragons, but it had been a very long shot that it would work on their vast bulk and considerably different anatomy, even if he could have worked out some means to get them to take it; so it made far more sense to use some of it here and now.

Rodney bought two beers, discreetly spiked them, and offered them to the pair; who were too drunk and too happy to get more drunk, to question the gift.

They downed their beers in one and Rodney hastened out to the Beast (who had waited outside in the shadows, where she would not cause mass panic and, more than likely, a few untimely deaths from shock).

“Okay, did that work?”

The Beast looked unfocused for a moment and then sent him an image of the pair: cuddled up together, sound asleep and snoring on the tavern floor. The Forest: peaceful and unravaged by flame, Rodney’s ponies grazing peacefully and periodically lifting their tails to give back the gifts they received to the Forest.

Rodney shuddered with relief.

“Okay then, job done, now back to the man dying of dragons.”

There was hesitation and a reminder that the Beast could not assist Rodney because… then there was a jangle of complicated reasons, which didn’t even begin to make sense.

“Yes, fine, I understand - well, close enough - but you promised. I’ll try really hard not to die, okay?”

Rodney got back on the Beast - a strange sensation, like riding a cloud, with a disconcerting suggestion of razorblades - and they flickered through space.

Rodney hoped it wasn’t already too late.

***

Elizabeth had spent a lot of her strength in preventing Kolya from following the others and she bent with the blast of his next surge of anger; not resisting, but bowing with it, softening the force. She retained enough strength for a shield to wait out the wild, continuous fury, which was directed now, less to Elizabeth, than to the universe itself.

The damage he had already done was bad, but if he continued like this, growing stronger from his own fury, feeding into itself, then this could get as bad, or worse, than the feeding of the dragons.

Elizabeth considered her options. The Kolyas had always been the strongest magic users, but that had made them complacent and arrogant. They had not learned enough tricks, nor enough caution.

She concentrated on a branch lying on the ground. Slowly, and stealthily, she rolled it close to Kolya, awaiting the right moment, the right position. Then, with a sharp tug, she pulled it swiftly against his feet, bringing him crashing to the ground, his head striking rock with a sickening, and very final, crack.

Elizabeth rolled onto her side and closed herself up tight against the sight, breathing deeply and focusing her mind, so that death did not enter her more deeply than it should; did not either consume and destroy her, nor lead her on to kill again and again, with her reverence for life diminished.

She told herself that Kolya had been beyond saving and a serious danger to others - sincerely believed that this was true. But there would always be a doubt, a concern whether she might not have tried hard enough, explored all the alternatives. There would always be this death, this killing, inside her and Elizabeth let herself weep a little for that and for Kolya, himself, before reaching into her saddlebag for food and drink to restore some of her strength, so that she could go after the others.

Weary as she was, her work was not yet done.

***

Maybe no one had ever kicked a dragon square in the jaw before, because the look on its face was that of complete shock and disbelief, as if a rabbit had jumped up and bitten it on the nose. This had given John the second’s grace he needed to roll over, snatch up the sword and bring it down in a sharp, bold swipe.

But the dragon was getting quicker, and more wary, and John only hit it a glancing blow, a mere graze of the scales.

The remaining dragons formed a circle around John, keeping a safe distance from his blade but never moving back far enough to let him break free.

The sword hummed in his hand, desperate to strike. John weighed up the damage he could do, if he simply launched himself at the largest dragon. All of his instincts told him that this was the leader and, if the tales were true, then killing it would send the others home, in disarray.

But attacking like that would leave him exposed to the others and he could not possibly come out unscathed.

Though, after all, what did it matter? He had never been destined to survive this. John said a quick thank-you to the universe, for sending Rodney out of danger; hoped hard and strong, that Elizabeth was safe; and focused his mind on his favourite memory. Rodney, in his arms, the reflection of firelight dancing over his face, choosing one section after another to highlight and shine on with love, before excitably moving on to the next.

John had made his choice and he had no regrets. The last few months had been worth everything.

He poised himself to gauge the best angle; and sprang.

***

Rodney thought that he probably mumbled a thank you to the Beast, as he scrambled off her back and raced into the village, but he didn’t have time to mentally run over his most recent mouth movements and check. A shattered building made it clear that the dragons had arrived and Rodney urged his legs to stop their pathetic dallying and sprint like a deer to John.

They seemed, for once, to listen and made quite a fair imitation of that animal, eating up the ground from the edge of the village to the centre, where John stood, bleeding, and circled by dragons.

Rodney’s most recently acquired books had told him a little more about dragons than Elizabeth’s stories and he had learned that people had tried blades of all kinds, explosives (sadly ineffective - he’d had such high hopes for explosives), poison, clubs, mace and chain, trebuchets; every weapon he had ever heard of and many he hadn’t (and was frankly concerned at the fact that they even existed).

He really had no option but bluff. Rodney stuffed a hand into his bag, pulled out a sachet of herbs at random and squeezed through the ring of dragons, just as John launched himself suicidally on one of them and was instantly surrounded by the others, teeth and claws poised to tear him into pieces.

Rodney ducked under the attack and positioned himself in the firing line, directly in front of John’s furiously battling figure.

“Hey, Scaleheads! This is Dragonsbane! If you don’t back off, right this second, I will smother you all in it and you’ll dissolve into screeching, writhing heaps of boils and… and haemorrhoids… and horrible, agonising, really undignified death.”

Rodney, of course, had no reason to suppose that the dragons would even understand him, let alone fall for the ludicrous bluff. In fact, his only real hope had been that the few second’s distraction he offered, while being miserably ripped apart, would give John a better chance to kill the leader before being killed himself.

Not the best plan he’d ever had, but his arsenal was thin.

He was so braced for being eaten, hoping it would be quick and trying not think about the feeling of jaws through flesh and the memories from the village, that several seconds passed before Rodney realised that no one was biting him.

The dragons reared back, craned their necks and roared, but they didn’t strike; merely lashing their tails in a baffled fashion for several more seconds, until one of them leaned their head down, entirely ignored the ‘Dragonsbane’ which he sprinkled wildly at it, and picked him up in its jaws. It backed away slightly - Rodney held, firm, but unharmed, and loudly yelling, in its mouth - while the others moved in, slashing out wildly.

But John was almost done. He was too focused on his kill to pay attention to anything else, getting hit once, with a deep rake of claws down his flank, before the largest dragon fell, its last, dying scream freezing the others in their tracks.

John stood, shakily, his left side a mess of blood, the sword shining bright and malevolent in his hand.

“Go, or I will kill you all.”

It was only then that he seemed to notice Rodney, squirming, angry and confused, in the mouth of a dragon, and his jaw dropped in a way which would probably be pretty funny under other circumstances.

But he didn’t have time to rescue Rodney, because the dragons had set up a joint wail of distress and the dragon holding Rodney needed to put him down in order to join in without muffling.

John raced over, frustratingly more concerned over Rodney - who was suffering no worse than shock and a lavish coating of saliva - than about his own, copiously bleeding, wounds.

Luckily, Rodney’s eclectic reading had informed him that saliva could be good for healing, so he scooped up some of the mess slathered repulsively over his body and ran it over John’s injuries with care and despite the protests.

“Well, I’m not going to lick you myself! Not unless you really want me to, I suppose, but this seems both easier and more sanitary.”

“You have a strange definition of sanitary.”

But the dragons were leaving, flickering out of existence, one by one, into whatever plane of otherwhere they had come from; and they were both still alive.

John shook his head at being daubed with a particularly gloopy glob of dragon-spit and began laughing uncontrollably, Rodney making sure to finish his doctoring before allowing himself to join in. He pulled John into a very careful hug, avoiding the wounds, which had already ceased to bleed; cowed into behaving by the glutinous spit.

John looked out over the deserted village - only minimal damage, which could all be easily repaired - and then kissed Rodney, good and soundly, ignoring the stabs of pain, before reaching down to pick up the sword, which had been dropped at some point in his race to check on Rodney.

Instantly, the sword glowed an angry red.

“John, put it down. Put it down right now.”

“I can’t. Rodney, I can’t.”

And he stared at Rodney, helplessly, for a second, before starting to scream.

***

Elizabeth forced herself not to rush her meal. There was no point arriving and immediately collapsing, useless, or worse than useless; a distraction and another body to protect. But, as soon as she felt herself somewhat restored, both from the food and a special medicine that she carried, to aid with magical exhaustion, she checked that her horse was likewise sufficiently fed and rested, saddled up and moved on.

She hadn’t quite reached the village when she heard the faint, but distinctive, sounds of the most terrible screaming she’d ever heard; and put on speed.

***

John felt frozen in place as the malice and hunger of the sword came through. The dragon’s blood, he suddenly realised, had not been enough for it. The sword needed a human life.

His life.

“Go, Rodney. Don’t watch. I can’t stop this.”

John could already feel his own energy being taken into the sword, could feel it stealing everything from him, bit by bit, could feel the unbearable agony of loss, but he could no more put the sword down than fly. Vaguely, he understood that Rodney was tugging at the sword, at his hand; yelling so many words, so very quickly, that he probably didn’t even know himself what he was saying; fighting, with everything he had, to pull the sword away, to no avail.

Then John felt a pull at his belt and then a sharp slice in his wrist and the relief of the greater agony was so great, that he barely registered this new, and not inconsiderable, pain. John watched, with a distant interest, as his hand dropped to the ground, looking small and foolish; still clutching a sword that seemed, to John’s amusement, to be wearing an air of great surprise and displeasure.

He watched while Rodney dropped John’s bone-knife, as though it were a scorpion, smeared soothing saliva over the severed veins, then wrapped a cloth around tight. Rodney’s face was pulled tight, the bones of his cheeks standing out clear, his eyes blue-dark against so much pale. He looked utterly sick and utterly determined, all at once.

“Elizabeth can fix this. I’ve read about it… if the injury is recent enough…”

Rodney sat him down, poured a drink gently down John’s throat - which was calming and seemed to dull him pleasantly further - then reached down, hitched a shaky breath and pried John’s hand from the sword; which seemed unable to turn its vampire powers on one who was not its True Bearer, though John felt that it really, really wanted to.

Rodney was trembling all over, but holding himself together so hard, that he was going to break even harder later. John, himself, was still finding everything to be distant and muffled and strange. He was just so glad not to have his life energy being stolen anymore, that the lesser pain from the stump, and his awareness that it was really pretty weird not to have a hand there anymore, were things that barely concerned him at all.

In fact, he would rather like just to sleep now.

So he did.

***

John had screamed so loud and with such deep-rooted agony, that Rodney felt he would hear the sound in his dreams forever. He had pulled and dragged and fought the sword with everything he had, but had understood, almost straight away, the only thing that was likely to work; and he wasn’t sure whether to be more guilty about the fact that he had actually done it, or the fact that it had taken him so long to get up the courage; had given John extra seconds of suffering that he should have been spared.

The risk of death from shock and bleeding out was high - though, thankfully lessened with the dragon’s spit - and, even if John survived, there was no guarantee, despite all Rodney’s hopes and calculations, that Elizabeth really could fix this, assuming she was even still alive herself. And then John would be permanently missing one hand; have a reminder of what Rodney had taken from him, always.

But Rodney knew that even death from shock - the pain eased by the remainder of the sleeping draught that he had retained - had to be better than the slow and agonising death that John had been going through. And, even beyond that, beyond John and Rodney themselves, was the strong feeling that this sword ought to be stopped. That, if it wanted a life, then it absolutely should not be allowed to have one.

For, the only one who benefited from this cycle of death and destruction, was the sword itself: drinking in the lives of dragons and of its unsuspecting chosen human; bloating itself, ready for years of sleep; waking, like an insect in the soil, hungry and wanting; ready to call the dragons back, for the cycle to start again.

Rodney had just gently lowered John to a more comfortable sleeping position, resisting the urge just to curl up around him and sob, because that wasn’t helpful and there was a lot to be done right now, when Elizabeth lightly dropped from her horse and took in the scene. She asked no unnecessary questions but took John’s hand and unwrapped his stump, examining both without wincing.

“The wound is fresh and the saliva is assisting to keep the veins healthy.” Elizabeth gave Rodney a quick glance, clearly curious, but keeping that in for now. “My powers are not at their best, but… I believe that I can fix this.”

Rodney listened to instructions, held what he was asked to hold, lined up the hand and stump with precision; pretending that he was fixing a toy or a piece of farm equipment and not flesh and blood and bone; not his John.

He watched and listened as Elizabeth worked her magic with care; noted how tired she looked, with a sense of gratitude that she was putting so much energy in for John’s sake, when she had so little to spare.

When she was done, he checked for a seam three times before accepting that there was none and that the hand was completely whole again.

“Will he..?”

Elizabeth touched his shoulder gently. “He will be able to use it again. There will be nothing but memory to tell him that it was ever gone.”

Rodney wrapped his arms around himself. “I think you’re underestimating the power of memory.”

Elizabeth nodded and squeezed lightly before letting go. “It can do damage beyond the telling. But John is strong and he will understand. It is your own memories that will bear more risk of injury.”

Rodney was suddenly infuriated by that. John had always taken care of him first - just because he got himself beat up a little, occasionally, often because his stupid big mouth sometimes moved faster than his brain - and now Elizabeth was worried about him, when he had no injuries at all, beyond bruising from Kolya and from falling off a horse. Rodney wasn’t the one who had been nearly drained by a homicidal sword. Rodney hadn’t had his hand lopped off by his best friend and lover, he had only done the lopping and…

Rodney forwent anger for the more immediate need of being very, very sick in a bush.

When he returned, John was wrapped up and peaceful and Elizabeth was even more tired-looking.

Rodney suspected her of healing John’s other wounds and he felt the last traces of anger leave him, unsure where they had even come from.

“You should sleep.”

“We should all sleep.”

Elizabeth patted the ground beside John, where a blanket lay ready for him. But Rodney shook his head and turned towards the sword, lying still and innocuous on the ground.

“I need to do something about that first. Destroy it. Bury it. I can’t let it get hold of John again.”

He outlined what had happened and Elizabeth nodded solemnly at the end.

“I think I once read of such objects, long ago. I will put the sword on my pack and take it back with me. Perhaps I might find a way to deal with it. Or it might be that it will lose its power without enough life-force to sustain it. Either way, I will not allow it to come near John again.”

Rodney agreed, knowing that Elizabeth would be the best guardian of the sword, but he knew that he wouldn’t feel safe until the distance between it and John was much, much further than now.

And, even after he finally lay down to sleep, it was a long time coming, chased away by thought and memory; winding - insidious and repetitive - around in his head, so that even sleep brought little relief, when they simply followed him down into dream.

***

Elizabeth felt a lot better when she had awoken. She breakfasted neatly, quickly and well, keeping a sharp eye on her patient - on both of them, for Rodney still worried her and not all injuries were of the body.

The villagers would be returning soon, cautious at first and then relieved. It would be best if they were away by then and not stuck answering questions. Even gratitude could be overwhelming and they had all of them been through quite enough.

She nudged John gently, happy to see him snap awake with alertness and a brightness in his eye that spoke of a healing well-done. Elizabeth had healed his side and done her best to restore his energy with her magic and the touches of grey which had been forming at his temples had completely gone. He was as good as new.

“Hey, Elizabeth. You kicked that other guy’s ass, huh?”

Elizabeth grinned at him, before becoming solemn again, by no means free of her own memories.

“Ah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be flippant. I’m sure you did what you had to do.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

John nodded and stretched, suddenly looking at his wrist in shock.

“I… have very hazy memories, but in one of them, I’m pretty sure that Rodney cut my hand off.”

Elizabeth found her grin again, despite herself.

“It got better.”

John waggled his hand in a wondering fashion.

“Yeah, I guess it did. Thank you.”

“You saved Inkara, John. I should be thanking you.”

John shrugged awkwardly and Elizabeth offered him food so that he didn’t have to respond to the compliment. Rodney didn’t stir, even at the scent of food, until John had very gently shaken him several times. Then he came awake suddenly and with a haunted look that Elizabeth guessed would be there a while.

“John! Oh god you… you’re okay? You can move it? God, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else, you were screaming, it was so… I couldn’t let you, I’m sorry...I’m so sorry…”

John took Rodney in his arms, soothing him, and Elizabeth decided that the time was a good one to take a healthful morning stroll; just for a short while.

***

When they parted ways Elizabeth hugged both of them solemnly and promised once again to make the disposal of the sword a priority.

“When spring comes, I’d like to see you at the mountains. John, you’ll love the climbing, and Rodney… I rather think I have some books on the stars… if you happen to be interested?”

Rodney fairly bounded on the spot with the strength of his being interested and it was clearly only the need to see his home again and his ponies, safe and sound - and the knowledge of the danger of the sword - that prevented him from begging John to follow her right now.

He got one final hug and a promise that, one way or another, the books would be his, and then they parted, without formal goodbyes, as the mountain custom was that these were only spoken to the dead or dying.

The Forest was only a short ride on from there and John could see a growing anticipation in Rodney as they approached, mixed with concern that Fate wasn’t done with them yet and would step once more in their way.

There was so much that was still unexplained and beyond their control, that John would not have been surprised either, only ready to go with whatever happened and do his best.

John had asked about the Beast and what had happened with the dragons, but Rodney had no clear answers for him.

“The Nameless Beasts have always just ignored me. Or stared, like I was something one of their kittens had dragged into the Forest and left, half-eaten, in their bed. They’ve never been chatty before. But… I don’t know how much the sword could manipulate reality to get what it wanted. Maybe it was just a symptom of that.”

John wasn’t so sure. He had grown up on stories of such creatures and the reality had been even more terrifying. He was pretty sure they were supposed to devour you from the soul down, not just let you stroll about in their Forest, like you belonged there.

And, as for the dragons, they had devoured or slaughtered everyone else who got in their way and a number who didn’t. Rodney, they had taken every care not to harm and it made no sense at all.

But when they reached the Forest, itself, John thought that he might have some hint of an explanation. The place was huge and dark and forbidding and exuded such a rich sense of something ancient, mystical and strong that he could almost taste it; like that sweet/bitter tang, that Elizabeth’s magic had given off and which Rodney had apparently not noticed in the slightest.

Seeing Rodney in this place, losing his awkwardness and sharp angles; fitting into the Forest as easily, and with as much of a sense of naturalness as the squirrels and trees and deer, while John felt himself to be a stranger, sternly judged, he thought that, while Rodney might not have been born here, he had, long ago, been accepted as a Forest child.

And the Great Forest protected its own.

***

In Inkara, the rocks were hard, the snows were deep, and professions bred true. You were what you were born.

Except that, once in a while, through luck or skill or determination- or, more likely a combination of all of these - you could swerve from the path that was etched into the rock and break free.

Rodney spent the best winter of his life, hardly noticing the bite of the snows, in his joy of showing John his adopted home, its secret places and the beauty it wore. He was keen to teach John every trick of survival he knew, in case something happened to him and John was left there alone; but John had smiled oddly at that and said that, one, it wouldn’t happen because John would never let it and two, that, if it did, he wouldn’t be allowed to stay.

“The Forest tolerates me, Rodney, but I don’t belong here, not like you do.”

But then, John had many strange fancies about the Forest. It was one of the reasons that they couldn’t stay there, not for long. Only to visit for a season, and for Rodney to show his love and respect and receive the same in return.

But, in the spring, they would go to the mountains and learn all they could of the stars; in the summer, John could choose their place of wanderings; then when the leaves started falling, they would wind their way slowly down this way again and spend the winter in the Forest once more.

Or that was the plan. Plans changed. And that wasn’t - always - a bad thing.

Rodney looked up as the snow started to fall, light and delicate, like stars on his fingers; like promises of a future that held far more than he had ever imagined possible.

Then John tackled him into a hollow, with a whoop of pure happiness, and they found the best possible way to deal with the cold; the future, in all its potential and uncertainty, set aside, for the sweet, simple joy of the now.

Notes:

Graphic violence warning for a scene in which John’s hand is cut off; this is reattached afterwards by magic and he suffers no permanent injury.