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seracross · 7 years

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Heart of Fire - Chapter Sixteen: Heart of the Sky

Summary: “A dragon without fire is nothing but a liability.” Nine years ago, Syra was thrust into a war: a hide-and-seek battle for control of five powerful crystals, hidden by a secret organization 200 years prior. Taking human-form, Syra searches the dragon-hating city of Altaira for clues on their location. But when her secret is revealed, fickle hearts are quick to change. And when an old enemy raises his scaly head, who will be there to turn to? Her estranged siblings? An ex-fiancé? Or a temperamental pixie the size of a duckling? In a race against her father’s murderer, Syra must traverse the five kingdoms to halt his efforts to rebuild a powerful relic that should never have been created. Are the bonds of love and family strong enough to survive the horrors of secrets and betrayal? And how do you fight an elder dragon bent on revenge when you’re a wyrmling who can’t even breathe fire?

Genre: Fantasy, Adventure, Romance, Drama

Rating: PG-17 (Strong Language & Violence)

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“I do hope you will excuse my poor manners earlier,” Dürgah said when they had reached the chief’s hut. “We keep strict borders and don’t often have any visitors, so to see you there like little rima caught snout-first in the berry basket…well, it was a bit startling.”

“It's quite alright,” Aidan said from his seat at the short, wide table that squatted in the hut's center room. “I'm sure we looked rather suspicious.”

“I certainly wasn't expecting a dragon in any case,” Dürgah chuckled, his orange eyes glinting over at Syra.

“I thought Valen told you we were coming,” she said, her cheeks a tad warm from embarrassment.

“He said to expect visitors, but failed to say what kind.”

The chief's hut was by far the largest on the island, and housed multiple families in its winding halls. As Razira had said, every wall held a painting or carving of the previous inhabitants, and Syra could see the entire village from its perch atop the hillside's upper terrace. Despite the altitude, it was warm. From the window, she watched the mist of clouds roll across the hills, but the layers of large, thick leaves on the outer walls kept them dry.

“I hope we're not imposing too badly,” Syra said, looking around the table. She and the others sat on woven mats on the far side of the wooden table. And though they had been invited, she couldn't ignore the cold stares from the other Kiithran sitting on either side of Dürgah. They spoke not one word, but seemed to analyze the guests with their colorful, reserved faces.

“Not at all,” said a blue-and-white mare carrying in bowls of fruit and nuts to set on the table. “You've come a long way to see us. It wouldn't be right to just leave you to the winds.”

“Viilah's right,” said Dürgah, giving his mate a grin and popping a berry into his mouth. “Razira said she found you miles down the Elder River. I've trekked that stretch before, and it's not an easy hike. You're welcome to stay as long as you need.”

Viilah's assistant, a young kria of salt-and-pepper pattern, gave a whine of approval. “I think it's exciting to finally meet people from Below,” she said, laying her platter of cooked leaf rolls in front of the party. Her big doe eyes shone and her ears quivered in restrained delight, “I hope you will share your stories with us tonight.”

Dürgah chuffed a chuckle and waved her away, “There will be plenty of time for that later, Suri. For now, let them eat.”

She dipped her head and took her place at Viilah's side.

Aidan and Syra dug right in, but Petra looked down her nose at the steaming bundles of green and purple leaves, hesitant to pick one in fear of spitting it right back out. She wanted meat. Be it red or white, baked or seared. She wanted it hot and juicy, not limp and leathery and smelling of Aidan's sweaty duds.

“Better pick something,” Cassius whispered, glancing over to Karima, an elder mare with red horns who eyed Petra with a disapproving scowl.

“I don't see why they couldn't eat their own food,” Karima grumbled to Viilah.

“Be nice, mahna,” Viilah hushed her mother, “they're our guests.”

“But for how long? Winter just left and the gardens are sparse at best. We can't afford to spoil these people.”

Petra looked from Karima back to the tray of smelly rolls, “I'll take the nuts,” she said, holding out a hand for the bowl to be passed. She poured some into her dish and leaned over to Cassius, “At least they don't stink.”

“How long do you intend to stay?” Viilah asked out of curiosity.

The party looked to each other, then to Dürgah.

“We’re not sure, actually,” said Syra. She could feel her skin burn under Karima’s glare. It was rude, she knew this, but Valen had not once given them an actual time frame—it was always just rush-rush, go here, now there.

“We’ll know a lot more tomorrow,” Dürgah said, relieving the tension, “after the meeting. Tonight is for rest and sharing stories,” he glanced over to Suri with a sparkle in his eye, “and there is a star shower tonight. You all really must stay up to see it. The view from up here has no comparison.”

“A star shower?” asked Aidan.

“It’s what Morai is most known for—other than the floating islands,” Razira said.

“Several times a year, stars will fall from the sky,” explained Dürgah, “and every time they find their way to the Land Below, just inside our territory—the fields and grasslands to the north are pocketed from them.”

“The ancients said the lake calls to them,” Suri said, unable to forego the tale, “that they are gifts from the sky—bits of sun and moon searching for their final resting place.”

“That stone in your ring,” Dürgah continued, “it’s the same as mine and Viilah’s.” He pointed to the silver band on his horn, then to the stone set into Viilah’s headdress, “They’re all morakii—star hearts. They can be mined from earth in some places, but most come from our northern plains. They’re the main reason humans trade with us.”

“So, that’s why your borders are so tight,” said Aidan.

Dürgah nodded, “They’re a finite resource. If we lose them, we lose our bargaining power. Luckily, there’s a demand surge right now, particularly for the smaller ones. Don’t know why, but I can’t complain. Winter was harsh this year, so we’re happy to have the extra food stores.”

Syra looked out the window at the reddened sky that sent the village ashimmer as gold sunlight hit the mist. But then, movement in a street caught her attention.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the line of Kiithran weaving through the streets below.

“That would be Ekahlu’s procession,” said Viilah. “She’s taking a mate tomorrow, so her family is leading her to Moremi for Vaasah.”

“Vaasah?” asked Petra, confused by their terminology.

“The giving of oneself,” said Karima, craning her neck to watch from her seat, “or The Clipping.”

Neither of the siblings liked the sound of that.

“When a kria takes a mate, she removes her flight feathers as a testament to her devotion to her new family and the Earie.”

“Wait, what do you mean removes?” Petra asked.

Karima looked over at Petra, gaze steady on her furrowed brow, “They’re clipped. Cut off.”

“Meaning she can’t fly.” Petra’s ears began to flush red.

“She’ll still be able to glide. But, she will remain here, on Morai, where she belongs: with her family.”

Syra and Cassius listened on in silence, their stomachs tight from imagining having their own wings cut off. But, Petra—as usual—was not silent. And she was not having any of it.

“What kind of sick shit have you been taught?!”

“Petra!” Cassius snapped at her. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Karima and the others, “please excuse her.” He went to pull her away, but she snatched her arm away from him.

“Excuse my ass! Did you not hear what they’re about to do?”

“Yes, we were right th—”

“They’re going to cut her wings off!”

“Feathers, Petra, not the entire wing,” Syra corrected, though it did not make the idea any more palpable. “I agree, it’s a bit brutal, but it’s their custom, not ours.”

“A bit? She’s being mutilated.”

“And we have no say in it. No matter how much we may disagree.”

Petra seethed and shot Karima a searing glare. “Excuse me,” she hissed before storming away down the hallway to their guest room.

After several minutes of apologizing and feeble explanations of their sister’s rude display, Syra, Cassius and Aidan found Petra sitting cross-legged and fuming in their room.

“You could try to be more amicable, you know,” Cassius said, pulling the curtain across the doorway.

“I’m trying to avoid snapping that old graga’s neck.”

Cassius let out a sigh and Syra sat down on her sleeping mat, not in complete disagreement with the sentiment. She was sickened by the idea of losing a part of herself over a brutish, ancient commandment, and loathed having no choice about it. But, this was their land. This was their way. And it would be just as wrong for her to command them to do otherwise, simply because she didn’t like it.

But, while Syra took the more diplomatic approach, Petra reeled.

“What’s wrong with these folks?” Petra asked, her tone more hurt than angry. “Thinking it’s perfectly fine to cut their limbs off just because some elders told them to. It’s a bunch of bashta, if you ask me.”

“It’s also tradition,” said Razira, sticking her head in through the doorway.

“Of course, it is,” Petra hissed.

Razira sat herself by Petra, moved by her sympathies, “As far as our records go—and further still, I’m sure—Kiithran have always placed high value on family. On honor, humility, and respect. The other races call us pacifists, but we have yet to have one war, while you have many. It is this love of community, the placing others before yourself, that has made us progress and kept us safe.”

“You sure that’s not just your grandmaw talking?”

“Dragons value all of those things, too,” Syra said, though a hair softer than her enraged sister, “but we also understand to importance of communication and keeping an open mind. Surely they are open to reason.”

“The elders are held in high regard for a reason: with age comes wisdom, wisdom to make the right choices given hard decisions.”

“Knowledge comes from age, not wisdom,” Aidan corrected.

Razira stared down at the thatched floor, “You’re probably right. But that doesn’t change anything. Just as you stand by your own convictions, so too do they. They believe a physical show of devotion—like the Vaasah—will hold one more accountable and better benefit the Earie.”

“Belief in something doesn’t make it right,” Petra growled. “I can believe Aidan’s a good singer ‘til I’m blue in the face, but that doesn’t mean he can carry a tune.”

“Very funny,” Aidan mocked.

Syra turned a grave face to Razira, “So, if one day you do take a mate, then—”

“Then I will be clipped.”

“But, what about the Dahmia?” Petra raged, “I thought you wanted to lead them.”

“My mate will ascend to become Gahirem, as I will become Lahirem,” Razira said, as if recited, her eyes sad. “And I will stay here, on these islands, caring for the sick, the old, and the newborn. Just like all the Lahirem before me.” She paused, her eyes narrowed, and she looked up at Petra with steeled determination, “And that’s why I will never take a mate.”

The falling stars came and went that night, as did the tales of their travels and Syra’s long-winded explanation of the Talian cure—most of which soared over poor Suri’s head. But Petra’s anger burned on, shoved deep into her gut and covered by a flat face that refused to turn one inch towards Karima. Not even sleep—nor the kind offering of meat at breakfast—could quench it, and the meeting of the Kesh Raza began with her skipping salutations all together.

“So, where is the next shard, and what do we have to do to get it?” she asked when Valen appeared in Dürgah’s mirror.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Valen said, her bluntness shaking him from his mind fog brought on by another sleepless night. “Glad to see you’re finally interested in our little campaign.”

“I’m interested in going home. Now, where is it?”

“In regards to the shard,” Dürgah said with some hesitation, “it’s more complicated than that. It can’t simply be given.”

“Of course, not.” Petra scoffed and leaned back away from the table with a huff.

“But before we get to that,” Valen said, his hand asking for patience, “there are matters I need to discuss. Dürgah-saf, have you reached your decision?”

The chief glanced to Karima and the other Kiithran in the room, and his ears pulled back in concern, “I have, but the council is still split.”

“I see.” Valen took a hard look at those gathered around their leader, noting how a small majority were beginning to gray around the snout.

“You know I understand the Kiithran way of diplomacy,” he continued humbly, “but I cannot stress enough our need for your support.”

At this, the elders snorted, huffed, or flared their ears in annoyed protest. But Valen pushed on.

“There is talk of a small resistance building in Landelle, but if the Black Thorn continues to grow at this rate, we will no longer have the upper hand. Air support could be exactly what we need to stop this before innocent people end up hurt. Your dahmia could easily—”

“My dahmia protect Morai,” Dürgah snapped, surprising Syra with his firmness. “They always have.”

“And they always will.”

“Not if I send them to die in a war we have no business being in.”

“No business, you say?” said Aidan, earning him shocked looks from the Kiithran around them. “With all due respect, Dürgah-saf, just because you live miles above them, does not mean you are safe.”

“Who are you to say what we are or are not?” Karima spat, the feathers at her neck bristling.

Aidan flinched at her sudden zeal, but Dürgah showed no surprise at the growing nods of agreement from her comrades.

“You come into our home, complete outsiders, eat our food, make us cook meat—with utter disregard for our beliefs—then lecture us on our own wellbeing! You have no place on Morai, and frankly, I don’t know why you’re still here.”

Syra could feel the tension in the room split down the middle, with the elders turning dirty looks on Aidan while the remaining council members bristled at Karima’s rude and tactless comments.

“You judge too quickly,” Dürgah said, shutting her up just enough to leave her mouth wagging.

“First off, I invented them, and they will leave when I say. Second, that meat was bought and cooked this morning in Shrye, outside our territory. Lastly, this outsider is the eldest prince of Altaira, our largest trading partner. You would be wise to treat him with respect.” He paused to let the possible consequences of her words sink in, “He also happens to be correct.”

“We’ve remained isolated for too long,” Dürgah said, when calm had returned to the table. “We turned our heads away from the ugly and the uncomfortable, happy to stay in our bubble away from the ground and its threats. We thought we could stay like that, if we just focused on maintaining ourselves and keeping to the traditions that founded us.”

He turned a sad, but honest eye to his council members, “But we can’t. Not anymore. The world is changing, with or without us.”

“Our cities are growing,” Aidan added, “and so are our machines. We might be grounded right now, but give us time. If you do not stand your ground, they will destroy you.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Namir, his head lowered. He was not keen on the idea of fighting a human war, but he respected the council and would not tolerate insolence.

“A warning,” Aidan looked him dead in the eyes. “These people we’re fighting, they won’t stop after capturing Altaira—I know their leader won’t. So, you can either lend a hand in stopping them now, or you can lose countless lives after they’ve burned your crop fields and marked you as game to be hunted.”

Reality hit the council like a bad landing. They began to mutter amongst themselves, but Karima still sat there fuming. Her feathers puffed and her rump was pressed as tight to the floor as her mind was on defiance.

“I will not—”

“We can’t lend you a hand,” an old rahg said to Aidan, ignoring the fact that he had cut her off, “but, we can lend you our wings.”

Karima balked and Dürgah and Razira’s faces alit.

“So, you will join us?” asked Valen, his lightened mood bringing more color to his face.

“We will send those who volunteer,” Dürgah clarified. He gave the council a questioning glance, but they nodded in agreement.

All but Karima, that is. She snorted loudly and sprung from her seat, nearly tipping on her shaking legs.

“You are sending them to die!”

“We all die, Karima,” said the old rahg, having accepted the grave situation himself. “Death is no stranger, even up here. We are sending them to stop the unnecessary ones.”

Karima would hear no more. Her pride was shattered and her nerves shot, and the front door couldn’t have been any louder when it slammed shut behind her.

“And to think she’s my grandmother,” Razira said softly, causing Petra to snicker.

“And what of the shard?” Syra asked as the rest of the council took their leave from the hut. “Aren’t you going to ask about giving it away?”

“They don’t know what the shard really is,” Dürgah admitted when he was certain there were no more lingering ears. “They think it some magical stone we can simply trade away.”

“It isn’t?” asked Petra, half-joking.

Dürgah and Valen leered at her, and Razira prodded her in the side.

“They don’t know that it’s the most sacred relic we have.”

Dürgah pointed to the crystal lodged into the headdress at his forehead, “The Kiirem, the Heart of the Sky, is the mark of Morai’s Gahirem. It has been for the last 200 years.”

“So, the Kiithran used it, too?” asked Aidan, disappointed.

“We did. Not to better ourselves, like the Tal, but to better our society—how it’s managed. The enchantment place on it allows the wearer to know the feelings of others—to know their intentions.”

Cassius perked an ear, “It makes you an Empath?”

“Effectively, yes. That’s how we’re able to keep crime to a minimum here, buy stopping it before it starts.”

“That’s…kind of invasive, isn’t it?” asked Syra.

“So is having a horn shoved into your side.”

Syra acknowledged his point and he let his eyelids droop, “We’ve been trying to think of ways to govern without it, but have yet to discover anything better.”

“There isn’t anything better,” Aidan chimed, “but just-as-good is better than nothing.”

“The Kiirem is also a relic, a symbol. The elders would never hear of it.”

“Then don’t tell them,” Petra said. “Replace the shard with a normal one. I doubt they’ll even notice.”

“Perhaps not, but I cannot out rightly lie to my people. It would go against everything we stand for and I would lose any faith they have in me.”

“Then let them decide for themselves.” Syra’s words brought looks of surprise and confusion from the Kiithran.

“All of them,” she continued, “not just the council. This decision affects every Kiithran on every island. They should have a say, too. Explain the situation, and let them vote. I’m sure they’ll appreciate your honesty, and your concern.”

“That’s a lot of Kiithran to ask at one time, though,” Dürgah said in his consideration.

“Today,” Razira said, leaning over the table, “ask them today, at Ekhalu’s Ati-kii. The whole Earie will be there. After the ceremony, you can address everyone.”

“But that’s so sudden, and I’d hate to ruin the good mood.”

“Too sudden to save your people from an amassing army?” asked Aidan with a raised brow.

“The boy has a point,” Viilah said.

Dürgah was quiet a moment. His ears twitched and his eyes darted as his mind ran the pros and cons of such a decision.

“I will make the announcement at the ceremony,” he said after a long sigh, “but only after everyone has eaten. Perhaps a full belly will make the news more palpable.”

Despite their humble furnishings, the Kiithran spared no exuberance when it came to ceremony. Every hut and every street had been set aglitter with stones, feathers, and even shells. Strings of flowers draped hut-to-hut down the procession line, and each earie member was freshly preened and donned their best adornments. Razira and Viilah had loaned the party their extra fineries for the occasion, but they fit awkwardly and Syra still felt underdressed in her dusty vest and britches.

She and the others stood just off the platform where Dürgah, Viilah, Razira, and Namir sat in full headdresses to oversee the ceremony. In front of them, a young rahg restrained himself from pacing as everyone awaited the arrival of his mate-to-be.

Not one sound was muttered when the blue-gray kria entered into the round. Syra was surprised at how solemn the gathering had turned in the silence, but even more surprised at the headdress the kria wore. Trailing from her head and down her back, a train of long feathers dragged several feet behind her in a rainbow of colors.

“Those are the flight feathers from Ekhalu's maternal line,” Suri whispered to Syra from her spot by the platform. “Ekhalu's were added this morning.”

As the kria ascended onto the platform, Syra saw the deep blue feathers gleaming from the train's tail end. She craned her head for a better view of the couple that stood snout-to-snout above them.

“Thank you, all,” Dürgah began, standing to address the gathering in Kiithrani, “for joining us in this momentous and wonderful moment in the lives of these two young Kiithran.”

Syra's mind stumbled as his words filled the clearing. They came out in throaty huffs instead of hisses, but she understood them. With the exception of a word or two, this Kiithran was speaking Draconic. She looked to Suri for an explanation, but the anukaal was too enthralled with her mentor to pay her any mind. She glanced over to Petra and Cassius and they exchanged agreeing looks. So, it isn't just me.

“Even as an anukaal,” he continued with a warm glance to the rahg, “Sendur was always eager to learn and has proven himself a strong and dependable dahmia. I, Dürgah, Gahirem of Morai and mate to Viilah, am pleased and honored to present him as a worthy mate to she who will have him.”

Dürgah turned to Viilah, who rose to take her place at his side.

“I, Viilah, Lahirem of Morai and mate to Dürgah, am pleased and honored to present Ekhalu as a mate worthy of his name and affection. Moremi has confirmed with me that Ekhalu has completed her Vaasah with ready heart and sound mind. Throughout her apprenticeship, she demonstrated an open heart and a strong sense of duty to her Earie members regardless of age. Even as she stands here, she comes with numerous recommendations and no qualm against her. With the Earie's permission, I ask these two be bonded in Ati-Kii: as one heart below the sky.”

The silence over the crowd broke and cheers erupted into a chorus of applause for the new couple. Dürgah and Viilah turned from the crowd to Razira and Namir, who stood and presented two metal rings to the couple. With shaking hands, the two placed their rings on their mate's left horn, the colored banks matching their mate's plumage.

“It's the same,” Petra whispered in confusion, “the speech, the rings, all of it is the same as ours. Why are Kiithran mimicking a dragon ceremony?”

Cassius shushed her, but Syra had the same question and she made a mental noted to ask Razira after it was all over. But for now, she took in the glowing faces and flapping wings of the village as the couple finalized the ceremony with outspread wings and entwining horns.

Drums beat, horns sounded, and voices sang. But seeing the rings glint on their horns and the joy behind their eyes made her chest seize. It was a scene she had wanted to share with Aidan, but one that would never play. It's not like you could stay with him, Petra's words echoed in her head. It was true. Such a union could never work in the long term. He was a human after all, and if she were to take up the title of Vayguard, she would be expected to provide an heir. And that was something no magic could ever give.

“So, what did you think?” Razira's excited trill snapped Syra out of her trance. The ceremony had ended and she had completely missed the part where the couple had glided off together into the sunset.

“Oh, it was...heart-wrenching.” She wasn't lying.

“Wasn't it?” Razira said with a bittersweet chuckle. She stared off into the sky where they had departed, her eyes fighting the sadness that threatened to make them water. “I've always thought it was a beautiful sight, to see them soar away together—as one heart under the sky.”

“Yet it's something you'll never have for yourself?” Syra's words escaped her filter and caught Razira off guard.

“I'm sorry! I shouldn't have—”

“No, you're exactly right,” said Razira with a wry grin. “Until I can change everyone's mind about Vaasah, it will only be a dream.”

Syra paused a moment, then placed a gentle hand on Razira's snout and smiled, “Somethings are worth changing.”

“Hey, Raz!” Petra called, walking over. “Why was that ceremony spoken in Draconic?”

“Draconic?” asked Razira.

“That's right,” Syra said, remembering her question, “your ceremony was very similar to ours. Almost word for word.”

“Word for word?” Razira tilted her head in confusion, “But, that was all in Kiithrani.”

“It was both, in a way,” Dürgah said as he left the platform to join them. “I'm not sure how much history your elders teach you,” he said to the sibligns, “but Morai wasn't founded by the Kiithrani—not originally. But by dragons. The Sylvani, specifically.”

The siblings went wide-eyed. Syra had noticed small similarities, but attributed it to the growing trade between them.

“Then why are there only Kiithran in Morai?” asked a skeptical Petra.

“According to record, the Kiithran are a relatively new race. When the dragons came from beyond the sea, they marked us as prey. But, apparently we showed promise and they decided to foster our potential and began to teach us. Our language and customs are similar because they were the first we ever learned. And why we regard dragons so highly.”

He gave the siblings a stern look, “It was also a reason why I agreed to allow your visit in the first place—out of respect for your kind.”

“We certainly appreciate that,” Cassius said, dipping his head.

“Glad to hear it. Now, if you'd excuse me, it appears I'm needed elsewhere,” Dürgah said before trotting off to join a dahmia who wore a look of concern.

“Well, now that we've all had a history lesson, how about we check out the buffet? I'm starving.” Petra rounded the platform and made a b-line to the spread of platters piled high with tasty treasures.

Syra was just about to bite into a juicy melon when a bugled shriek came from behind the platform. All heads turned and dahmia leapt from their seats.

In a mad dash past the feasting gathering, a rahg bounded down the street with a mass of jewels and feathers caught in his mouth.

“That's the Kiirem!” shouted Namir, racing off after him.

Syra and Razira went to follow, but were stopped short by Dürgah's raspy voice.

“Razira, wait!”

Syra's gut dropped at the sight of the chief limping around the platform, blood dripping from his side and dribbling down his legs.

“Pacha!” Razira screamed and ran to his side.

Syra went after her, but Petra held her back.

“I'll go to her. You go get that bastard.”

Syra hesitated and bit her lip as Dürgah collapsed, but Petra pushed her away.

“Go!”

“Stop the bleeding,” Syra commanded before bolting off behind Aidan after the rahg.

Syra was relieved to see that Namir had cornered the rahg just before he had reached the landing platform.

“Stay back!” Namir yelled at them.

But the rahg used the distraction to buck his head up under Namir's snout, knocking him back and allowing him room to leap away.

“Shit,” Aidan hissed and picked up his pace.

Syra sprinted after them, but the rahg's figure continued to shrink away. At this point, neither of them could reach him and she watched in horror as his wings unfurled and flapped in the wind blowing in from the ledge. I can't let him fly. If he takes off, we'll never get it back.

Stretching her hands in front of her, she focused on the wide masses of feathers. She breathed in sync with their beating, and felt resistance against her palms as light glowered around the rahg's wings. And then she pulled. Hard.

The snap of bone echoed off the trees and the rahg screamed and fell with his snout digging up dirt. Namir threw himself over the rahg's neck, holding him down, but he continued to shriek under his weight. Both wings were bent at a disgusting angle and blood had begun to leak onto the ground from the exposed bone.

“Get the Kiirem!” Namir commanded Aidan, who snatched the headdress from the rahg's gaping mouth.

Holding his head against the ground, Namir saw the blood that glistened and stained his horns red.

“Why did you do this?” Namir snarled down at the rahg.

But he gritted his teeth and refused to give Namir an answer.

“Answer me, Namek! Of all my dahmia, I thought I could at least trust you.” Pain mingled with the anger on Namir's face, “You were my friend, so why—”

“Because we need it!” Namek hissed. He got his feet under him and tried to shove Namir off, but Namir slammed his weight down and back against a wing, inciting another scream.

“Who's we?”

Again, Namek clamped his mouth shut despite the pain. But Syra already had a good idea of who he was talking about.

“The Black Thorn, right?” she asked, standing over Namek who stared up at her in shock—he had a horrible Poker face. “I thought so. Lift up his head,” she told Namir.

Hidden among his neck feathers, a bronze coin hung from a leather strand.

“So, they are coming after them,” said Aidan. “We'll have to tell Valen when we get back.”

“You're not going back,” said Namek, “I won't let you.” He thrust his head back, digging the tips of his horns into Namir's meaty shoulder. Not deep, but enough to make him lose his grip.

Namek bucked, flinging Namir away and charged at Syra. She grabbed for her sword, only to remember she had left it in the room for the ceremony.

“Here!” Aidan threw his sword over Namek and Syra dodged to the side to catch it.

She tossed the sheath to the side and held the shining blade at Namek's face. It was long and heavy, and her hands shook. Namek reared and she ducked under his swiping talons. She heaved the blade upwards, slashing across his jaw. He screamed and raked his horns up against the air, their prongs seeking her soft belly as he pushed her back towards the ledge.

Syra faltered as she felt wind whip against her back from below. The fear in her eyes spurred Namek on, and he lowered his head for the last strike.

“Run!” Aidan called from behind Namek and he leapt on top of the rahg, grabbing him by the horns and steering him away from Syra.

Syra's feet pushed her sideways, away from the incoming horns. But as Namek's head spun around, so did his feet.

Oof! Syra felt all the air leave her lungs as a hind foot collided into her chest. Her feet left the ground and she watched in slow motion as the ledge pulled away from her and the wall of stone rushed upwards as she fell.

The blow had knocked her senses for a loop, but she still felt the hilt in her hand. Without any thought, she shoved the blade into the clifface. It shook and jostled and scraped against the rocks, but she clung on with both hands, her muscles screaming under her weight and momentum.

“Syra!”

She opened her eyes to see Aidan's face poking over the ledge. The sword had stopped her descent, but she was left hanging with a weakening grip.

“Just hold on! Namir's coming to get you!”

She ground her teeth against the pain in her hands, but breathed a sigh of relief, “It's okay, I got it!”

If I can get the sword out, I can just shift and fly back up, she thought, wiggling the blade back and forth. It gave easily and she felt herself slip. But it was the glow that peeked out from the stones by her face that made her freeze. Lodged under the blade, a morakii smiled up at her as cracks shimmered and split from the blade's edge.

“Bashta—”

Her vision went white then black as the explosion sent her soaring.

#Heart of Fire #dragons #magic #sword and sorcery #war #adventure #romance #fantasy #high fantasy #drama #ya fiction

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leavalleycc · 6 years

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The rest of 2017

Happy New Year and a belated Merry Christmas to everyone! There hasn’t been a club blog since mid-August (which feels a lifetime ago in the current weather), so it’s time to write about what happened in the rest of 2017.

As usual, the end of August saw our outgoing President’s traditional long-distance ‘Summerhayes Summer Saunter’ bank holiday ride, this year to Southend. In addition to this, the weekend before I organised a car-assisted ‘East Anglian Adventure’ using this 82-mile route which starts and finishes in Thaxted and takes in some of the most picturesque places in that neck of the woods (Lavenham, Cavendish, Finchingfield, etc): https://www.strava.com/routes/6175019.

I was joined by Huw, Caroline, Alex and Tim. We set a decent enough pace in the sunshine, despite the fact that Alex’s front mech immediately stopped working and he spent the entire ride trapped in the small ring. One of our village sign sprints (to Radwinter) was a bit more dramatic than usual – just as Alex, Tim and I opened it up we were overtaken at high speed by a never-ending convoy of motorbikes which added a bit more danger than anticipated. We stopped at a pub for lunch just outside Lavenham and then rode the remaining stretch into a headwind. In the final miles Huw (who had cunningly avoided all of the sprints over the previous hours) left us all for dead and disappeared out of sight.

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It’s nice to get out and explore some different roads every now and again like this with the aid of a car or a train. I’ve just bought a ‘Lost Lanes of the south-east’ book (http://lostlanes.thebikeshow.net/) with about thirty rides in it – I intend to try to do one a month in 2018, which obviously means getting a train or driving to the start/finish of each ride. Hopefully we can organise some unusual club runs in Kent, Sussex, Suffolk, The Chilterns and maybe even further afield.

September saw David Veitch break a club time trial record yet again and in some style. Back on the E2 25-mile course again, he smashed through the 50-minute (30 mph) barrier and then some, setting an incredible time of 49:07.

Meanwhile some of us were racing at Hog Hill. This video is cunningly edited to make it look as if Charlie and I were always at the front of the 4th cat race:

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Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case when we actually got to the finish line. The same afternoon Tim took part in the 3rd cat race and also finished in the bunch. Racing with rather more success that month was Patrick McGrath who took just two races in quick succession to amass enough points to move up to 3rd cat, with a 3rd place in just his second race. One to watch next season!

Late September / early October always sees our ‘Crescent 30’ and ‘Comet 25’ open time trial events. These are named after the two clubs that joined together to form Lea Valley CC in 1969 (so the events have been running longer than our club has been existence). I was marshalling for the 30-mile event at the roundabout by Duxford Imperial War Museum. To our surprise, there was an airshow on that day and the roads became increasingly clogged with traffic that at some points was stationary around three-quarters of the roundabout, and one of the two lanes was coned off just to add to the confusion. Nevertheless, the riders managed to pick their way through and still set impressive times. Colin Ward of Essex Roads CC won again with a time of 1:03:17. The fastest Lea Valley rider was Colin Ross who came 13th overall in 1:11:25 (25.2 mph). Full results here: https://leavalleycc.microco.sm/conversations/311505/

The following week’s 25-mile was held in typical end of season conditions: strong winds and loads of standing water from the overnight deluge. David McGraw of Cambridge CC won in 54:52 while Chris Parker was the fastest Lea Valley rider with 1:03:55. Again, full results are here: https://leavalleycc.microco.sm/conversations/311506/

Then came our ‘Gordon Atwell Tourist Trial’ event. As last year’s winner, Alex Sweeting was charged with organising it this year. It’s a bit difficult to explain this event if you haven’t done it. It’s kind of a mixture of a sportive, an old-fashioned reliability ride and a mystery tour. You aren’t given a route to download and stick on your Garmin – instead part of the challenge is reading instructions which you are given at the Burton End HQ beforehand and trying to plot them on a map. You then have to aim to get back at a certain time which corresponds to a particular average speed. Whoever gets back closest to their allotted time is the winner.

This is more difficult than it sounds – if you don’t know exactly how far you will be riding it’s difficult to judge how fast you should be going. Things were further complicated this year by a savagely strong west-to-east wind, which meant the return leg of the ride would be much harder than the initial miles. I rode with James Morris and we made the task even more challenging by repeatedly getting lost to the extent that during the first half of the ride we were scarcely ever on the official route (and at one point when we did finally get back onto it, we rode it in the wrong direction for several miles before realising something had gone wrong). We also lost a good ten to fifteen minutes in a Good Samaritan act helping a man who had somehow managed to wrap his chain round and round his pedal. Actually, I say ‘we’ helped him, but it would be more accurate to say James single-handedly removed the chain and the rear mech and got covered in oil sorting everything out while I stood around saying useful things like ‘how did you do that?’ and ‘I think you’ll need a lift home’. Anyway, needless to say we didn’t win. That honour went to Rosie Sweeting (who had recently married the organiser – I’m not saying that interfered with the judging, but some people might smell conspiracy there) and Jeanette Degiorgio.

Following this came the annual hill climb on Mott Street. This has been getting bigger and bigger in recent years and this year it was as big as possible: we had a full field of 60 riders and had more who wanted to ride that we couldn’t offer a place to. Our numbers were boosted by CC London, who had decided to hold their club event on the same day, and various other local clubs, especially Shaftesbury CC.

It was a very close-fought battle for first place with two Lea Valley riders a good ten seconds clear of the rest of the field. Last year’s winner David Veitch set a blistering time of 2:12 but that was only good enough for second place. Michael Krukov took first with a time of 2:11. We had about 25 riders from our club taking place – far too many to give a detailed account of everyone, but it’s worth pointing out very impressive debut performances from Steven Boyle, George Kemp and Lewis Miles and a significant improvement from young Aidan Kerrigan. The full results are here: https://leavalleycc.microco.sm/conversations/312632/

Tim Stout of Shaftesbury CC took many photos of the event which you can find here: https://keepsnap.com/timstout/gallery/3500 They are available for download for approx £1.50 per photo (part of which will be donated to Children In Need) – the photos will be online for about one more month and then deleted.

The week after that was our club’s annual circuit race, the Len Cooper, at Hog Hill. The weather was cold, but much sunnier than last year’s foggy edition. As is traditional, we started off with a neutralised President’s lap and kept the pace relatively gentle during the unofficial ‘truce’ after that:

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Then the pace lifted as the hooter went to signal a prime would be held at the end of the next lap and this is where the race split apart:

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In the second video clip above around the 1:30 mark you can hear the hooter and my rear cam shows Michael Krukov and David Veitch, the top two from the previous week’s hill climb, sitting just behind me at the front of the bunch. This was the shape of things to come (apart from me, obviously – as you can see from the rest of the clip I expertly slid from the front of the bunch to the back just in time to miss all the action). Michael won the prime and a front group of five emerged, initially closely followed by a second group of about six or seven. Before too long Michael and David had shaken off the rest of the front group and they spent the rest of the race in each other’s company, while Alex Sweeting, Paul Roberts (who already had a race from the previous day in his legs as he desperately searched for the single point he needed to maintain his second cat status) and Steven Boyle slowly dropped back to swell the numbers of the second group on the road.

David won the second prime and, as Michael freely admitted, was the stronger of the two of them on the day, but he was unable to get rid of Michael. The two of them lapped even the second group before going clear again to contest the sprint, in which Michael surged off David’s wheel to claim victory for the second week in a row. When the second group came round, Paul Roberts won a close sprint for third place from Steve Boyle.

At the end of November we had our annual lunch / prize giving at Wanstead Golf Club. This year we were treated to Michael Hutchinson (multiple time trial record breaker and national champion) as our guest speaker. He did it as Q&A session and dealt well with our questions on topics ranging from the relatively safe topics of his own career and his Cycling Weekly column to more controversial issues such as the reputation of Wiggins and Team Sky in the wake of the TUE and mystery package revelations. Michael brought along some copies of his latest book (https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/recyclists-9781472925596/) to sign and sell – I bought it myself this summer and can recommend it.

As always, a lot of silverware was dished out – so much that it would be impossible to list every single prize here, but here is a taste…

Colin Ross picked up multiple prizes including Club Time Trial Champion, Club Best All-Rounder, Club Time Trial Handicap Champion, Best 30-mile TT, Best 50-mile TT and Best 100-mile TT

Trudy Sharam picked up prizes for Best Women’s 10-mile TT and Best Women’s 25-mile TT (breaking both club records in the process)

David Veitch won the Best 10-mile TT and Best 24-mile TT setting new club records of 19:29 and 49:07

Paul Roberts became both Club Road Race Champion & Club Track Champion

Michael Krukov won the Len Cooper circuit race, the Hill Climb and became Senior Road Race Champion

Most improved riders: Jemma Taylor & James Morris (who also won the Betts Trophy for the ill-fated first day of his ride up to Edinburgh)

Winners of the Gordon Atwell Tourist Trial, Rosie Sweeting & Jeanette Degiorgio

The club runs are still going strong, despite the wintery weather. Alice Cutter has taken over running the Women’s Rides from Chrystyna (who has now had her baby, we’re glad to hear) and these are still happening once every couple of months. Here is their Blackmore café stop on the November ride – the next one is coming up in January.

Meanwhile, the usual reminder that ideally everyone should have a rear mudguard during the winter months, otherwise you will end up looking like these guys (Lewis, Simon and Simon):

Even more extreme, this is George Kemp’s bath after he decided to try off-roading in Epping Forest with James Morris and Chris West:

Over the festive period we had about 15 riders on the Christmas Eve club runs – some doing 45 miles with a supposed coffee stop at a pub that was actually closed (and which we only discovered wasn’t going to open after we had sat outside it in the cold for 15 minutes), and some doing 70+ miles with a loop around Hanningfield Reservoir. One week later only 8 of us braved the weather on New Year’s Eve – not surprising given that there was something of a storm going on when daylight broke, but in the end it wasn’t that bad on the ride.

Away from riding we had a good turnout at The Castle in Walthamstow Village for our drinks to celebrate Christmas and also a multitude of birthdays – by a strange coincidence about half a dozen members have their birthdays either on or just before Christmas Day.

Less successful was our AGM the week before. In order to actually pass any votes and elect club officials (including the new President to replace John) the meeting has to be quorate. Given the ever-growing membership of the club that now means we need about 30 members to turn up on the night, but we only had 12 and so nothing could actually be voted on. We have had to reschedule the AGM to have a second attempt: it will now be on Tuesday 9th January from 8pm – 10pm. (Edit: No, it won’t! It will now be the following Tuesday, i.e. 16th January). Please make every effort to attend if you can, otherwise we’ll be in administrative limbo (and John might have to remain club President for eternity). In case you didn’t know, club nights are no longer weekly, they are monthly, and they aren’t in the church hall any more. We are now based in the Scout Hall, 205a Wood St, Walthamstow, London E17 3NU. See you there and have a good 2018!

Jamie 1/1/18

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