Fate's Left Hook

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Golden fire would only mark the start and end of long days. No one squinted a wary eye into the summer sun. Jewels and other shimmering metals were an act of boldness, not a pledge of loyalty. Graves remained closed and steel was only in a good sword. But most importantly, there were no drakes that could chase Arcaster of the Seven through the jungle at this ungodly hour.

The ever-present chirps of crickets kept pace with his thunderous footsteps. The birds called to one another in a language as foreign to Arcaster as the concept of mercy to the drakes behind him. The ripple and roar of his own wind on his ears blocked out everything else. And it was the everything else he was worried about.

Most fortresses in the middle of nowhere are wary of outsiders, especially the scruffy kind that Arcaster was. He had shown up on their doorstep in worn leather with a beard borne of neglect. But the rugged charm was a well-tailored one. The twinkle in his eye asked for their approval and the Vorister’s seal demanded it. From there it was child’s play setting up the pieces of his biggest job yet.

He’d been so careful. The guard was the sleepy one who always talked about his wife back in the Dragonlands. He’d studied the floorplans of the place for days. He knew the names of every superior officer he could think of. He had the sword slung on his back, practically home free. But if there’s one thing Arcaster should have learned, it’s that fate has a funny way of turning on those who have cheated it. Which is how he ended up in the same hallway as the general herself. Even a flawless plan couldn’t account for one bad dream spurring a midnight stroll.

It was hard to not picture his pursuers gaining on him in his mind’s eye. There are many creatures that are kin to a dragon, but drakes only share similarity in name. Built like greyhounds with the talons of eagles, their scales give the same rancid shine as oil on water. Their dead, fishy eyes that betray no soul within them. Their sloppy footsteps had no interest in the stealth Arcaster was used to operating in.

His heart sank as his footsteps became wet sloshes. These boots were meant to slide along city streets, not the sloppy forest floor. One slip and he’d be meeting the working end of those famous jaws. He’d seen their skulls once. The teeth and jaw were fused into a solid sheet of jagged bone. One bite could…

Arcaster shook it off. No, the moment was now. They were probably gaining on him, but only an idiot would look back on such rugged terrain. Jumping the various fallen logs and tree roots had forced all his attention forward. The constant rustle of leaves under his weight worried him. There was an instinct to curse it out before he remembered that these inconveniences were the only things keeping him alive. Had the path been clear and true, his pursuers would have had him by now.

There were three more good steps before he caught his foot on an errant root. In a perfect world, the sludge would cushion the impact. Gnarled roots earned him a few extra bruises as the momentum dragged him forward. Arcaster scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. Any lead he had was forfeit. It was time to fight.

In blind panic, he scrambled back to his feet and pulled a knife off his belt. Two sloshy crunches behind him told him to duck. Had he been a second later, the drake would have taken his head with it as the beast landed in front of him. One attempted to flank him, but the thief saw it coming. Drakes were thankfully simple creatures and had no concept of complicated strategy.

Which was a comforting thought until the hidden third animal’s jaw grazed his left calf. The pain shot up almost instantly, wracking Arcaster’s brain. He let out a shriek as he thrashed to return the favor, only to find nothing but air.

He tried to plant his feet, but the left leg could barely hold him and the pain at the same time. A half-limp began, and the drakes saw it.

The deadly trio began to circle Arcaster. They clicked their teeth together, making a hollow, wooden sounding rattle. The moon was at half-mast tonight, but even in this low light, the eyes of the creatures shone. It was that moment that he realized that drakes were not unlike the soldiers they served; they were toying with him. Because to win would be to go back to the cage, back to the chain, back to the walls. This was the closest they had to power and freedom, and such a pathetic thing could be entertainment. For a moment, anyways.

The knife fell to his side as he pulled the sheathed sword off his shoulder. It was heavier than expected when held as a weapon. The extra weight from being in the scabbard didn’t help. It made the thing awkward, but there wasn’t a lot of training with this kind of weapon in his bones. At least not yet, rattled through his brain.

A drake behind Arcaster lunged forward. The instinct to dodge won out over the one to slash and he pivoted on the good leg. Another lunged from the side, mimicking the same move as before on the other side, but this time it was expected. The lunging drake was clocked in the shoulder, knocking it off course. It was sent a few feet off, but rejoined the circle as if only inconvenienced. They all resumed their positions as if nothing happened, years of breeding and training showing their ugly head.

This is it, he thought. I was so close and this is it.

He almost wouldn’t have heard it in the ambient night noise if he hadn’t been making peace with his situation. It grew from a lofty whisper to a harmonic drum. Even with his heart pumping, the sound calmed him. He watched the drakes stop their formation to sniff the air, catching a different scent. They chased off in a different direction, unbothered by the man they were about to eat.

Arcaster, using the sword as a crutch, leaned on it as he lowered himself onto a particularly high root. Now that he could see the wound, it was clear that they needed to work quickly. There wasn’t going to be a lot of time left at this rate.

The song was still going as the figure emerged from the trees. She wore a knotted black cloak that provided ample camouflage. The only break in her disguise was her deathly pale face and the hand that was plucking silver strings drawn across her cloak. To see such a being rock and sway with finding their footing always made Arcaster chuckle. Such a visage deserved to float or at the very least glide gracefully across the land.

The musician closed the gap between them quickly, but not hastily. Soon they were next to one another, as if to start a conversation. But the two had done this enough times for Arcaster to know to say nothing. The song would end when Saltosa knew it was supposed to. Asking how or why she knew was folly at this point. It was like asking the sky about the rain.

The song ended and she drew to full height. The elf took off her shroud to reveal the veiny scars on the left side of her face. There was no burn or cut or bruise that could make what Saltosa’s face had become, but she never spoke of it. Her unwavering grey eyes didn’t change when the question was asked. To call them blank would be a disservice to the calm they gave Arcaster. It was a comforting thing in a tumultuous world.

She knelt by his side, looking him up and down. “The wound is deep.”

“But we have the sword.” He lifted the sword up. Now that there was a moment of calm, he stopped to look at it. The sheath was covered in the ornate carvings of those slain with its rightful owner. Even sullied in such a savage place, the thing gave off an almost regal energy to it. This was a thing of history and story and status.

“You won’t be walking far on a leg like that,” she said. She was right. Even with the drakes distracted for now, soon they would shake the enchantment. And their keen senses would bring them right back to Arcaster.

“Then we need to do it now, while we have time,” he said.

“Not here. You’ll be too vulnerable for too long. We can’t afford to panic.” In spite of the almost fatal blow to their plan, there was a calm to her demeanor. A control built over centuries of work and composure. At times it bordered on detachment. Arcaster wondered if he had merely spent the past two years following his own guide to the afterlife.

“We’re a bit light on options. We’ve got to find Tom now before it’s too late.”

Saltosa stood and began surveying the land, as if the night itself would produce a solution. Maybe one of the notes of the jungle choir held the answer to their problem. Or some flowering plant that held an answer. She quickly became lost in her search, searching for anything that could give her an answer.

It was this desperation that kept her from seeing the drake approach Arcaster. The dragon-kin kept to the shadows, but moved just enough for the thief to catch it. He’d thought the beast would approach from the side or from behind. A tactical strike. But no, the creature looked at him with what was almost a curiosity from the darkness.

He was watching his death be deliberated when he heard the rustling from the right. He raised his sheathed sword, but it was too late.

I wonder what the next one will do with this blasted thing, were the last thoughts Arcaster, third of the Seven, had before the murmur of the wilds of the Valley lulled him to sleep.