In the arena of emotions, there are several hierarchies, it has sometimes been noted. For instance, there is on the positive end of experience and interaction the scale of how much one cares for another person. First, there is basic ‘liking’ of the other, wherein one basically enjoys being around them. Then there’s having affection or affinity. One step beyond that, in simplest terms, is love, be it familial, friendly or romantic in nature.
On the opposite end of this portion of the emotional spectrum lies another hierarchy, one all too familiar to mortal beings. It begins with surface wariness or uncertainty. That feeling you get when walking home at night and a street light you pass under just happens to go out? That’s where it starts. Rushing along on its heels, however, comes genuine apprehension, wherein one knows there’s a threat, but the measure or capacity of it is simply unknown as yet. One can assume how dangerous a person, creature or situation is at this juncture, but surefire knowledge isn’t there yet.
After apprehension comes genuine fear, where one understands that they are in proximity to something that can and likely will, if given the chance, cause them harm, possibly death. Fear doesn’t eliminate all rational thought, though it does do a bang-up job tossing most of it in the privy and flushing it away. The fourth and final step in this evolutionary path is terror, which produces gibbering, irrational puddles of nerves, screams, and general flailing against what seems like the doom upon the world.
The stranger named Jago, since joining the ranks of his kind, had not once gone beyond the first step in that progression. Now, however, standing perfectly still as his horse disappeared in the distance in a blind, animal panic, he finally came to the second step, apprehension. The cause of this, he didn’t doubt for a moment, would easily drive most of the denizens of this realm right past the first three stages and into a kind of bladder-relaxing horror the moment it touched down on the ground only fifty yards away, its enormous, leathery wings spreading wide, reptilian eyes narrowed on its potential prey.
The dragon made no further move on him as yet, though. The horse had reared and thrown the stranger off without ceremony, and he supposed he couldn’t blame it. It was, after all, just a horse. If he caught up with it, provided he should come away from this encounter mostly intact, he would let it live. For the moment, the stranger named Jago merely stood stock still, locking eyes with the giant reptilian creature. “You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that,” the dragon boomed, its voice smoother and far more calm than Jago would have expected. It didn’t have the raspiness he had experienced the last time he had dealt with a dragon, nor any of the radiating hostility or aura of barely restrained violence. “What doth thou name thyself, man who is not a man?” The stranger cleared his throat, prepared to shout, but thought that perhaps this wyrm, like those he had met with before, would not require such an effort.
“I am the stranger named Jago, He of the Flame,” the stranger replied in a normal, conversational tone and volume. “And I should request the honour of your name, oh wyrm,” he said with a slight incline of his head to the creature. The scaled lips on the dragon’s face quirked up in a smile, and its leap-ready stance shifted, sitting up almost like a peaceful or attentive dog.
“I am named Hevka T’Chall, great white wyrm of Tamalaria, father of Nessak T’Chall and Diro the Gray, Slayer of Tomka the Scarlet, Guardian of the Temple of Nostrus,” the dragon replied in a formal decree. “Doth thou know of Nostrus?”
“I do not,” said the stranger. “I am not of this world.”
“I suspected as much,” said the dragon. “And you are no mere mortal man, no hume in truth.” The dragon’s head turned then, quickly, and it looked back to Jago with half-lidded eyes. “Your horse is dead, I fear,” it said plainly. Jago looked off in the direction the dragon had, and saw in the distance another winged shape rising there on broad wings, the horse dangling limply from the mouth of whatever had snatched it. “Chimeras enjoy the taste of horseflesh, and are seldom cautious of my presence. They know I won’t harm them unless absolutely necessary.”
“I wasn’t exactly attached to the animal,” the stranger said with a sigh.
“Mayhap not, but surely this serves to inconvenience you,” said the dragon. “Thou has my apologies. I came to see the oddity I sensed through the magics in this region, and thus frightened your mount into flight from you. I have cost you your transport. Perhaps I could offer you recompense?” The stranger cocked an eyebrow at the huge creature, folding his arms over his chest to indicate he was listening. “An hour’s walk due north of here, there is a village, Osak. I can go there and have word with the locals, arrange for them to give you a new horse, that you might continue your journey.”
The stranger named Jago found himself fascinated, despite his usual disconnection with the realms Lord Quoth commanded him to travel through. This wyrm, he sensed, could battle him on an even keel, possibly even best him in the long run. Yet it seemed not to have the innate hostility he normally associated with its kin.
“That would be much appreciated, my lordship,” the stranger said. “Before you go to grant me this boon, I would ask of you another, one of knowledge, if you can.” The wyrm lifted one great foreleg and extended an open claw in an upward lift, indicating that Jago should continue. “I seek a doorway, a magical portal, that leads from this world to, well, not another, not directly,” he began, unsure of how precisely to describe to the dragon what he was seeking. The dragon’s wry, half-lidded look of amusement quickly shifted to one of narrow-eyed suspicion, however.
“You speak of a kalpa door,” Hevka T’Chall intoned, his vast wings twitching. The stranger swallowed hard, sensing the power the dragon allowed to shift and fluctuate within itself.
“I do, oh honorable wyrm. Locating it is the task I have been given by my master.” The dragon seemed to settle, and the vast energies gathering about it calmed.
“There are four such doors in this world,” the dragon said. “Three lead directly to other worlds. One, however, leads to a portion of the Labyrinth. I presume that’s the one you seek.” The stranger, not trusting himself to speak, silently nodded. “As I suspected. It is in the north-central mountains, protected by a noble order of monks. If you seek to access the Labyrinth, you’ll have to convince them you are worthy.” The dragon rose up on its massive legs then and spread its wings out. “Now, I shall go and arrange for your mount, stranger named Jago, He of the Flames. Before I do, however, know this,” the dragon said, an edge of hostility now edging into its voice. “If you should endeavor to bring harm to that brotherhood to gain your kalpa, and I learn of it, then the next time you visit this world, I will find you. And I will kill you.”
The dragon took flight then without waiting for Jago’s response, leaving him on the edge between apprehension and true fear.
**
Dren stood with his mouth full of mashed cheese and bread, jaw clenched tight as he stared at the distant fluid movements in the sky, almost unable to believe what he was witnessing. “Not sure from here which one that was,” Andrei said behind him, standing at the back of the wagon. “But yeah, that would be one of the dragons we can consider approaching.” Dren proceeded slowly chewing, then caught sight of something else in the sky, sweeping just northwest of their position.
“Chimera,” Holly said around a mouthful of grapes as she brushed her hands together. “Everybody’s gotta eat,” she added, lifting up the rear gate plank of the wagon and securing it back into place. “We heading off again?”
“In a couple of minutes here,” said Andrei, pitching the remains of an apple core off into the knee-high grasses near the trade road. “I just gotta make my necessary. I recommend everybody else do the same.” They had left the previous village in a rush, and given that they were still in the Freehold territories, the veteran freelancer was not inclined to take them into another small village of any sort. If a small band of thugs could effectively take over one village in the region since he’d passed this way just a year or so earlier, he didn’t trust it wouldn’t have happened elsewhere. One of the larger cities would be feasible, such as Bios, Trios or Treck, but the nearest one, Bios, was still at least a day-and-a-half ride east.
“So, do we head after it,” Dren finally asked, moving towards the side of the wagon, back toward the driver’s bench.
“We’ll head in that direction, yes,” said Andrei. “I’m thinking our best bet is to soldier on toward Bios and use that city as our final staging ground, to prepare for an approach up into the mountains. The people there will likely be able to point us in the right direction toward Effrain the White’s lair.”
“Is there a reason he’s the better choice for a tooth,” Holly inquired, hopping up beside Dren as the young smithy got the horses moving them back toward the trade road.
“He’s younger, less powerful than Hevka T’Chall,” said Andrei from atop his larger horse, riding along the right flank of the wagon. “I mean, I personally think this entire job is a fool’s errand, but when the money’s good enough, and there are, uh, extenuating circumstances,” the minotaur said, rubbing at the back of his neck, “then I suppose we should at least try to exercise some caution.”
The company rode along in a comfortable quiet for a few minutes, before Holly asked, “What are the extenuating circumstances, Andrei?” The freelancer let out a sigh and sagged forward a little in his saddle, brows furrowed, lips curled up in a quirk to one side.
“I may, sort of, in a drunken stupor, kind of sort of smashed one of those monks’ legs all to hell,” Andrei said. “I’d been hunting verans up in the hills, clearing them out for the folks in a village called Chorek. After doing the job and bringing back the skins as proof, I got my payment and decided to mosey on my merry way.”
“They didn’t want you hanging around,” Dren put in jokingly.
“Effectively, not far from the truth,” said Andrei. “The mayor of the village was a lizardman, old-school reptile, and their folk and mine, we don’t get along well as sort of a natural thing. I don’t get it myself, but I don’t ask a lot of questions,” he continued with a shrug. “So, I started walking, and drinking, and, well, got myself all sorts of turned around.”
Holly let out an odd noise then, to which Andrei turned his head to regard her. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I thought minotaurs had an innate sense of direction,” she said, grinning impishly.
“Sober minotaurs in environs through which they’ve traveled before, within ten years or so, yes,” he said grumpily. “That is one of the few stereotypes of my people that actually proves true most of the time. However, I’d not been in that region in a long time, and I wasn’t exactly in my right frame of mind. Speaking of,” he said to himself, reaching down into one of his saddlebags and retrieving a green glass bottle of beer, using the tip of his right horn to pry off the cap so he could keep one hand on the reins of his mount. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth on his forearm, and continued. “By the time I got to that monastery, I was almost blind from the creature, as a fellow once said. I’d pounded down pretty much the remainder of my hard liquor, and had only about a dozen bottles of road ale left in my bags.”
“Sounds like plenty,” Dren remarked.
“Not for me, kiddo. Anyhow, there was something about a door, and I couldn’t get it open, so I punched it, and it fell down on top of this guy who was, like, some kind of chosen warrior savior or something to those folks,” he said, rolling his beer-hand dismissively. “The details aren’t all up here anymore,” he added, pointing to his own head.
The company carried on then, only occasionally switching places, Andrei remaining on his own steed separate from the humes and cuyotai. As evening drew near, they were hailed from just off to the north side of the trade road by what appeared to be a small gaggle of armed men and women sitting or standing around a claptrap structure in the high grasses. Andrei gave them a quick wave, signaling to Dren and Holly to halt the wagon.
The fellow who came ambling toward them was clearly a dwarf, dressed in dark chain armor under a pale green over-tunic, a skullcap helm, a hand axe and several throwing knives jangling along his hips as he drew near. Yet the fellow made no move toward his weapons, and when he was only fifteen or so yards off, Andrei recognized a small rank pin standing out on the collar of his over-tunic, a set of three silver stripes.
“Hile, sergeant,” Andrei said by way of greeting, and the dwarf smiled broadly through his thick, curly red beard.
“Hile, traveler,” the dwarf replied. “Sergeant Bongkar, Cooperative Ranger Corps.” Andrei cast about quickly, hoping Norto would keep himself tucked into the back of the wagon. If the older smithy’s reputation was truly as widespread as he seemed to want to think, these folks might know of him, and slow them up with a dozen or more questions or requests.
“Cooperative Ranger Corps,” Dren asked from the wagon bench.
“Militia men and women from the major Freehold States who agree to work to the common defense of the roadways and wilds in the territories,” Andrei said over his shoulder. “Even if there’s flare-ups between cities, the Corps don’t take sides; they’re apolitical.” The sergeant nodded, still smiling up at Andrei.
“Very correct, sir,” said the dwarven sergeant. “I suppose you saw the dragon, then? True dreadful business when one of them comes down out of the mountains, it is,” he said, hands on his hips, shaking his head.
“Do any of your people happen to know which one that was,” asked Andrei. “I only know of two whites in this region, Hevka T’Chall and Effrain the White.”
“Not sure,” said Bongkar, reaching up to scratch just under the right side of his rounded copper helmet. “From this distance, it might have been one of the silvers that roam the region, too, maybe Silata, Rayma or Veeranas. Think it was too small to be her, though; that’s one silver dragon nobody’d be dumb enough to track after for glory, not if they value their life and limbs.”
Andrei looked off once more in the direction they’d spotted the dragon heading, hoping it had been one of the white dragons. “How often do the silvers come all the way down to the plains?”
“Not much, truth be told,” said the dwarf, now slowly walking alongside Andrei’s mount so that the company could begin continuing on their way. “But Silata is definitely the most active of their bunch. He’s a trickster, too; we all woke up one morning to find all the sheep from the Pettleton Farm milling about our camp, and that wyrm sitting neat-as-you-please like a proud hunting dog staring at us from about a hundred yards off, smiling like an idiot.”
“Isn’t the Pettleton Farm all the way over on the east border of the Freeholds?”
“Gods yes, and it took us four days to herd the lot back home, potsy numb beasts. Anyhow, you folks stay safe, right?”
“We will, sergeant,” said Andrei with a quick salute, leading the wagon back to a modest pace from his destrier’s back, until they were well out of earshot of the rangers. The minotaur heard Dren softly inquire something of Holly, who snickered and replied just loud enough for him to hear.
“They’re not all ferocious slaughterers, Dren. Some dragons have been around long enough that they see the humour in life, and decide to add their own little twist to it.” A few minutes later, the road forked before them, a more northward bend marked with a wooden sign reading ‘Osak’, while the roadway they were on had one marked ‘Bios’.
The minotaur freelancer kept them straight on, diverging from a decision that would have put them in the company of far greater danger than he had encountered in many years.
Is "Hile" this world's equivalent of our "Hail"? (Or, possibly, the Nazis' "Heil"?).