The Windrider, Episode 7: Rude Awakening
Becky Minor



Muffled sounds drifted to me,

garbled and nonsensical as if they came through deep water. I could not tell if the noise came from my fitful nightmares or from my surroundings, for reality slipped through my fingers like sand. Over time, the sounds grew in clarity, but I simply lay still and listened. My relentless nausea refused me the ability to do otherwise. My head throbbed. What did I hear? Beasts? The guttural croaking that rambled behind me, too organized for mere animals, grasped my memory by the shoulders and shook.

Of course! The unintelligible language of dragon-kin—I knew that sound. It was no dream.

I dared part my eyelids. Thickened and dry, they clung to my eyes. The room whirled at first, and I tensed my muscles against the inevitable eruption of my churning gut. But no, the dim space around me slowed to a stop.

I lay on my side, my hands and feet bound, facing the taupe canvas wall of what appeared to be a tent. In the corner, I spied a highly polished, silver shield, in whose convex surface I could see the interior of the tent behind me—a stroke of luck in regrettable circumstances. The shield reflected the image of two dragon-kin, and judging by the sound of their croaks and the wild gesticulations of their arms, they debated. I knew a scant few words of their language, but one word that kept emerging, there was no mistaking.

Queldurik.

The false god of the demon worshippers of the north. The entity to which live sacrifice by burning was the chief act of adoration. One of the dragon-kin said the name with insistence, the other with dismissive disdain.

One of the dragon-kin, a creature with tarnished, brassy scales, the one who scorned Queldurik’s name, broke from the conversation. His figure stretched and warped in the reflection as he approached, until the colors of his rich garb filled the shield’s surface. A sharp, armored toe kicked into my back.

“You awake, softbelly?”

I stifled my grunt at the deliberate shot to my vitals and responded through gritted teeth. “No.”

The dragon-kin bent and clutched the front of my tunic with his claws. He hauled me to a sitting position, an awkward maneuver that grated my face across the sisal weave of the mat on the floor. The creature’s blue-black tongue flicked out the front of his snout as he bored into me with slit pupils.

“Amusing. I recommend you awaken, or I shall leave you to the zealots who think no further than to see you burn.”

I steeled my expression, as war had taught me, for I recognized this villain, even if he failed to recognize me. How could I forget the wielder of powerful curses that had consumed so many of my lost squadron? My blurring vision, the green feeling that crept up my throat and under my tongue, my unnerving confusion—all these warred against my front line of stoicism, but I dared not falter now. Especially since I could not quite recall how I had come to be in Lord Scitherias’ clutches.

“Now, we shall converse, and I do hope you choose cooperation. I tire of the girlish shrieks that your kind makes under duress.”

I swallowed the bile in my throat. “I have few words to waste on you, Scitherias.” I looked up and down the dragon-kin’s plush burgundy waistcoat and the supple sable of his breeches, altered to accommodate his three-foot tail. “Playing dress-up like a man, but too repugnant to be counted among their kind. And yet, too feeble to stand among true dragons—”

A sharp crack of Scitherias’ knuckles across my face cut my insults short. The metallic taste of blood pooled beside my tongue. I turned back to him with narrowed eyes, though I am sure I swayed with the reeling in my head.

“I shall give you one chance, softbelly.” Scitherias leaned in close. The acrid smell that always hung about the dragon-kin filled my nostrils. “Who scouts our position with you?”

“No one.”

Scitherias drove the heel of his hand into my nose before I could even flinch. Stars burst across my vision and I felt the hot gush run down my lip instantaneously. I fought to divorce myself from my circumstances. Chances were, they would only grow worse before the dragon kin tired of beating answers out of me.

“As you can imagine, I have much more creative individuals at my disposal to extract this information from you.” Scitherias rose and marched to the tent opening. “A pleasure seeing you again, Captain Ecleriast.”

*

Majestrin tore through the night sky as Veranna clung to his neck, eyes squeezed shut and too terrified to even scream. The lurching of his body as he thrust his wings against the air threatened to throw her from his back at any moment. She long ago refused to look upon the world that had receded so astonishingly far below.

A gust of high-altitude wind knocked against the dragon, and he banked left. Now Veranna found her voice, for her grip did not suffice against the force of the turn. As her heel slipped over the crest of Majestrin’s back, she clawed at the air, searching her mind for some prayer to Creo that might intervene in her desperate situation. Before the words came, however, her fall jerked to a stop. Dare she open her eyes?

A rough surface pressed against her back and side, a sensation that demanded she look. Through one hesitantly opened eye, she saw that Majestrin clutched her under one of his forelegs, curling her against his body.

“Should I…try to remount?” she asked.

“No.” Majestrin’s tone was brusque. “I should have assumed you had little hope of staying mounted. How many weeks has it taken me to teach Vinyanel such a skill, he who has remarkable talent for riding? No, Prophetess, I’d best carry you.”

“It does not impede your flying?”

“I did not say that. But I assume you should prefer it to riding inside my mouth.”

Veranna shuddered. “This will suffice.”

After a pause, Veranna bellowed over the wind. “Do we have a strategy? Surely the dragon-kin will now keep a keen eye for trouble.”

“I am open to suggestions. I only hope I have been fast enough to intervene before…”

Majestrin’s voice trailed off, though Veranna could not tell if he choked on the words or if his exertion merely stole them.

“Let us hold to the hope that they will stay their hands, at least for a time.” Veranna curled tighter against Majestrin. “I shall pray for Creo’s miraculous intervention to assist us.”

“Miraculous? In what form?”

“It is very rarely a matter up to my choosing. We shall see how the Creator wishes to aid me, or better yet, both of us.”

*

Was there a part of me left that did not roar in pain? I was thankful I no longer had any reflection nearby in which to see my battered visage. The only emotion that kept me from succumbing to despair over my circumstances was my raw fury over the cowardice of my captors. When I had produced no more satisfactory answer to their questions than the explanation that I had been flying alone that night, on no mission from any superior, they grew incensed. No matter what ribs they bruised or broke, how many fingers they dislocated, how many gauntlets I took across the face, my story remained unchanged. The only use they saw for me now was to burn my flesh and raise a charred fragrance to their false god.

But even over that, there remained some debate, especially from Lord Scitherias. I could only guess why he held a tight rein on the maniacal priests of Queldurik, but I assumed, being a creature of military mind, he had not yet dismissed my captivity as a source of tactical advantage. While they debated, I needed to find an escape. At least for the moment, they left me alone to contemplate my plight.

If only I could move without sending the world around me into a tailspin. There was no denying it. I was a mess. Even so, I writhed against my bonds as I slumped against a crate. The glow of fire in the distance grew, flames I assumed awaited my flesh to sate their demonic hunger.

A sharp intake of breath to my left drew my startled gaze, and I squinted my one eye that was not swollen shut to see what draconic creature had arrived to harry me further. But I saw nothing. Not that I trusted my vision at this point.

“Creo’s mercy, Vinyanel! What have they done? I hardly recognize you.”

The whispering voice belonged to Veranna, but nowhere did I see a half-elf to speak it. Excellent. Now I could add hallucinations to my list of maladies.

I groaned as another wave of nausea swept over me. I pressed my cheek to the crate, knowing nothing remained in my stomach to vomit. Somehow, that still failed to make the heaving any easier.

“First things first, Captain,” Veranna’s voice went on, despite my efforts to disbelieve it and push it out of my mind. A whispering chant full of archaic words from the ancient history of my people drifted through the air, reminding me of the rocking flight of a feather as it settles to earth. Like cold water down a parched throat, a subtle pressure that began in my chest rippled through my body. My pain ebbed. My nausea lessened.

I heard a sigh. “Well, I suppose that is all the Creator sees fit to grant.”

“I think I must be dying,” I muttered. “I hear you begin to forget your agony when the end nears.”

“Vinyanel, you ninny!” the Veranna-voice blurted. “I am here.”

Just when I thought my circumstances could grow no worse. A groan rumbled from my throat.

“You can thank me for coming later. Can you get up?” Veranna said.

“Not while I am bound.” I resisted the urge to tack “you ninny” onto my reply. My split lips made each successive word more agonizing to form, to Veranna’s good fortune. “Do you have a plan?”

“Majestrin is timing a distraction.” My hands slipped free of my bonds as I heard the unmistakable snick of a knife through hemp.

I ground my teeth. “It sounds less than fool-proof, but if that is all—”

“Going batty, softbelly?” a gruff voice croaked at me as a black-scaled dragon-kin rounded the tent beside me. “Whimpering to yourself won’t make this any better for you. Looks like it’s time for the roast.”

Now that I could see him better, with my less-swollen eyes and significantly clearer vision, I got a good look at the reptilian sadist who had been my interrogator. Many of his scales bore the deep clefts of old wounds, long scarred shut. One of his eyes, obscured under a milky film, roved independent of the other. The teeth that protruded from his dramatic under bite smelled of decay, even from a distance.

He grabbed me by my fouled tunic and pulled me to my feet. His eyes narrowed as he flicked his tongue. “Either you’re some kind of fast healer, or something slippery is afoot.”

I felt an object press into my hand, which I had kept behind my back. I knew the grip of a sword when I felt it.

Not a good idea.

Clearly, Veranna had less of a plan than I feared. I could not let the sword clatter out of my hand, so my other option was to use it, however ill advised that might be. My only hope stood in killing this creature in one stroke. A failed attempt would do nothing but raise alarm.

“So, are you planning on carrying me to the sacrifice altar?” I said. “I do not believe I can hop there, with as thorough as you have been in your interrogation.”

A dark smile crept across the dragon-kin’s face. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor for one in your position.” He bent down and grasped the bonds around my ankles, a blade of blood colored steel in his other hand.

The sword I held whistled as I swept it around. I plunged it between his shoulder blades with practiced precision, and the interrogator immediately slumped at my feet.

“Horrible, yet excellent, Captain!” Veranna said.

My breath choked in my throat as she spoke full-voice, for just as the words emerged, three more dragon-kin rounded the tent. Here I stood, feet still bound, holding the hilt of a sword that stuck in the back of one of my captors, with Veranna’s disembodied feminine voice hanging in the air.

The only creature who drew my focus was the central dragon-kin, his black and red robe and large gargoyle talisman around his neck belying his role of priest. The look of boiling fury on his face twisted his already grotesque features to horrific disfigurement. He croaked something in his own language and threw his hand out in front of him in a sweeping arc.

In my peripheral vision, a crouching Veranna appeared, a bare-bladed dagger gleaming in her white knuckled grip.

“I don’t suppose this was all part of the plan?” I said through my teeth.

The two dragon-kin who had accompanied the priest lunged at Veranna, grappling her and twisting the weapon out of her hand. She yelped in pain.

The priest folded his arms and chuckled. “Looks like Queldurik shall be doubly pleased with our offering tonight.”

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Becky Minor has always been a storyteller, whether in the retelling of epic conflicts to friends on the school bus, drawing character sketches in her sketchbook or scribbling down anecdotes about those characters. She graduated from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, PA in 1997 with a bachelor's degree in animation, proceeding to tell more stories through impossibly cute talking animals and their comrades.

Soon after graduation, she married her husband of nearly 11 years and started a family, which now includes three little boys. Life as a homeschooling mother has squeezed creative endeavors into fewer hours of the day, but she still finds time to pursue visual art in various forms, to dabble in music, and to write whenever she can get her fingers on the keyboard.

She is an enthusiast of all things fantasy, and hopes to have her novel, The Sword of the Patron, published in the near future. The book is the first in a trilogy, which follows the adventures of a young alchemist's daughter as she flees the wrath of the forces of Darkness, as well as seeks liberation for her beleaguered people. You can read more about Becky's thoughts on fantasy fiction at her blog: www.callofthecreator.blogspot.com.