Chapter 22: At the Gates

Sylph ducked to the right and feinted an attack, then charged forward and bared her teeth, ears flat against her head.

“Can you leave the poor dromedary alone?” Brandon asked and tugged the animal away from her.

“No! It is mocking me.” Every mammal, even the ones as large as this dromedary, reacted to rows of sharp teeth. All but this stubborn thing. “Have you ever seen a warhorse?” Sylph turned to Brandon, and he shook his head in answer. “I have seen them with the military. They match a fully grown dragon in size, have hooves and a kick that can break every bone in your body and could probably even match us in strength.” The memory of its uncanny long face and abyss-black eyes still sent a shiver down her spine.

Brandon’s gaze flicked between her teeth and claws, and the dromedary. “Are you scared of a horse? An actual horse? This dromedary is roughly as tall.” Brandon pointed upwards to the bored face hovering above their heads.

Sylph snorted. “I’m not scared.” It was not fear, but a healthy amount of respect and uncomfortablness around the uncanny features. She threw another fake bite at the dromedary that prompted no reaction. “This thing does not react at all, but even smiling at a horse will make them shifty and jittery.” She turned to face the dromedary again. “It’s the implication that worries me. Are dragons so pathetic around here that not even mammals care?”

A sharp clatter echoed over the dunes, and her head instinctively swiveled towards the direction of the sound. Nature had no metallic noises. Without a second to spare, she turned on the spot and sprinted up the next dune, slipping upwards on the grainy sand until she reached the top and sat down. Nothing but rolling dunes and occasional patches of bristly thin greenery and jagged outcroppings decorated the desert. There was nothing to see. She closed her eyes and shifted all focus to her ears.

Sylph drew in the dry desert air until her chest puffed outwards, held it for a few moments, and exhaled. She relaxed and the tension in her neck and ears vanished from her body along with the gentle flow of air through her nose. The rough sand between her digits all but vanished, the heat on her scales became a mere flicker and she dove into the dark world of sound like into a still lake. Brandon must have guessed what happened, because he sat down where he stood as to not disturb her senses.

The silent desert grew louder with every minute she concentrated. Brandon’s slow breaths through his nose. A tiny creature made itself known beneath the sand with even tinier chirps. The dromedary chewed on something with deafening smacks. It always did. But between all the distinct sources of sound around her, nothing followed that initial sharp clatter. Could she have imagined it? Her limbs grew tired, and she stretched her front leg as the slightest ring reached her ears. It was on the very edge of her abilities. A low rumble that resonated as much through her entire body as it did through her ears. A second, harsh clang followed the first, then a third and by the fourth she could pinpoint the exact direction it came from.

“A bell. We are nearing midday.” Her voice washed away the focused image of sound and the normal world splashed back. “Hurray,” she said sarcastically and her ears barred all but the closest noise. “I think we reached the slavers’ capital.” The faintest glimmer of hope flickered to life deep inside of her. The thought of civilization, of food stalls in a great market and a soft round nest with a wyvern feather mattress was too tempting after the time spent in the sand. Expecting that in Prina was wishful thinking, but it could not be worse than the desert.

“We actually made it?” Brandon joined her at the top of the dune to survey the now not so endless desert.

“Maybe it’s not Prina, but that seems unlikely.” Her tail whipped through the sand as the picture of the two bloodied bodies returned to her inner eye. If she lost her temper in the city, she would be the one on the floor.

But the worries could wait until they actually arrived. For now, expectations brought a fresh spring to her step, and even a song to hum on her lips. “Oh, you can bugger the Aer, deep in their lair. High on the peaks, where air leaves you weak. Mind the storms lest you fall- but the Metia can never be buggered at all.”

Brandon followed down the dune with a sigh. “Honestly, why that song? Don’t you have something more appropriate?”

“How bold of you to assume I know any songs that aren’t inappropriate. But wouldn’t you love to just head into the first tavern in town, get piss drunk, sing catchy songs with slurred voice and then wake up with a throbbing headache in the morning and forget what happened here?”

“If you put it like that, I could use a drink.” A second later, he fell into a hum, too. “Once I traveled along the white river’s shore, ohoholalala. There I found you sleeping in the great outdoor, ohoholalala.”

“And you tell me I know the inappropriate songs,” Sylph laughed. Two hours and at least twelve other tavern songs later, the city became quite audible. Her dragonheart flickered with anxiety and the notions of getting drunk in a tavern all but vanished.

One last, enormous dune barred their way. Scaling it took a few minutes, but on the very top, they were faced with a full view of the city down in the valley. Brandon saw it first. “Wait, what?” He froze. Sylph stretched her neck as high as she could to peer at the distant walls and main gate. “That is- unexpected.” Her tail dropped into the sand like a falling broom. They exchanged a confused glance.

Prina’s title invoked a certain expectation; A town of gray where no sun would dare shine upon, where no wind dared to disturb the rusty chains binding the unfortunate. Slaves would be lined up on the street with merchants clad in dark cloaks, grinning through their crooked teeth.

What they saw instead looked like somebody was told to arrange the main street to look like the gate puked up a rainbow. The vividly colored clothes of market stalls clashed with one another. Every side tried to outshine the others by using only the most eye-hurting pigments available. From up here, the colorful street looked eerily happy and inviting and the noise of a busy market invoked a certain nostalgia, like Halfhill’s town fair. She even spotted Sol in the stalls, much to her surprise.

“We went the wrong way, didn’t we?” Sylph poked her leg in a half-hearted attempt to make sure this was reality and not another fever dream.

“I’m certain we didn’t. We continued south.”

“Any last words before we head in?” Sylph asked.

Brandon gripped the rope tighter. “Actually, I do. All I do and say is for the purpose of finding your parents and getting us back home. I am sorry in advance for what I might say.”

She felt his hands shake through the rope once more. “If it gets me closer to my parents, you can tie me to a bedpost and have me recite ancient poetry,” Sylph said, and watched as he shook his head.

*********************

Two large, red banners hugged the opened gate on either side. They mockingly depicted a fleeing wyvern as the town’s symbol. But Sylph had no time to admire and judge the stitching. She only had eyes for the two guards resting in the gate’s shadow at half-attention. Two humans, spears in their hand and sword dangling at their side. They wore a padded tunic, dyed in the same garnet red as the banner, a kettle helmet, and she could see the chain mail peeking out to protect the neck. A pair of metal gloves dangled on their side. While not as armed as Carthia’s or Halfhill’s guard force, she would have no way to get through any of it with her teeth or claws.

A tight knot caught in her throat as one of them turned his gaze towards them. He studied Sylph and Brandon and the dromedary with the trained gaze of a guard that saw thousands of travelers a month. The rope tugged harder at her neck and forced her to keep pace. There was no way back now. Sylph went through her options as the guard kept eyeing them up. The one on the left would be her first target if it came to a fight. He had a terrible stance. She could smash him into the wall if she used her entire body for a tackle. Then she would take out the other by going for his legs. And then they would invoke the ancient art of running away. Nodding internally at her backup plan, she followed Brandon. Every fiber of her body screamed that she walked into a trap, that she should turn around and run, but she forced herself forward.

The second guard spared them a single glance as they passed, and Brandon nodded downwards as a greeting. One of them pointed at Brandon’s intense sunburn and joked to his colleague before he turned back to slouching against the wall. They had barely reacted after that initial glance that deemed them no problem.

Everything around her was vivid. The commotion of a hundred conversations strained her ears, and the smell of local delicacies permeated the street. Brandon stopped to get a bearing, but was forced into the general motion of the crowd. The street was stuffed with people like a wyvern at a roast, close to bursting open at the seams with a colorful mess of a filling. Burning fat and the smell of hot sugar reached even her dull senses and suddenly it made sense that her mind was headed to a grand wyvern roast. She had not eaten in days, and, judging by the grumble in front of her, neither had Brandon.

Sylph shook off the tempting smells and focused on what lie beyond the temptation of food. A Sol with scales the color of deep brown molasses walked past. He wore a leather collar around his neck and Sylph snapped into the harsh reality of where she actually stood; The slavers’ capital. A thin red rope, not thicker than a human’s finger, wound itself through the small metal ring at the bottom of the Sol’s collar and into the hands of his owner. The mere thought of the word sent a shiver down her spine. Her gaze never left the Sol as he walked past. He was larger than her, in his early thirties, but his wings did not match. Unlike the awkward angle and compressed membranes of hers, his were merely too small for his body. He could not fly, but it seemed painless. They must have botched it on her. The Sol looked neither pained nor humiliated, he simply looked bored.

She peeled her gaze away, but someone else caught her attention immediately. A frail old lady dressed in a fine, wine-red silk robe. A dark red Sol twice the size and age of Sylph followed her on a blinking iron chain that seamlessly fit into the ornate collar. In his mouth, he held a bag of her shopping. It was absurd. He was by far the biggest dragon on the street and chained by an old lady even Sylph could snap in half. Her heart hammered in her chest. This could not be real. No dragon would just do that. It was like someone robbed them of their will to be free.

Another look along the stalls confirmed what Elliot mentioned in passing; most of the dragons were Sol, many with the same sand-coloring and bright red eyes as Oasis. She saw only singular Aer and Metia, and no Tira at all. Maybe there was a reason for this. Were Sol actually different? She recalled too many dragons to count, ones she fought in the arena, one’s running shops, her friends, Arastra, and Oasis. None of them would ever let themselves be collared.

Still lost in the moving crowd, her gaze met that of the old lady in red. She eyed Sylph first, then the rope, and then Brandon. Her expression turned to a tiny grin, and she gave a slight nod. The dragon gave a polite bow in passing and they went on their way.

“What by the six and their might is going on here?!” Sylph silently hissed up into Brandon’s ear. “What are dragons to these people? Some work in the shops like back home, albeit on a chain. Others just look like pets. There was a sign to please clean up after your dragon.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Brandon whispered without turning around.

Sylph looked after the old lady and dragon until they went out of sight. “Some don’t look too bothered about it.” A jolt of pain shot through her side as somebody accidentally bumped into her. She snapped around, a comment already resting on her tongue, but stopped herself and all that escaped her mouth was a silent hiss. The man did not take notice.

Another revelation spurred her mind as she glanced down at the well-trodden sand of the street. Very few dragons looked older than thirty, nearly none could stand face to face with their owners. The larger and older the dragon, the harder they must be to control.

Following a quick conversation with a stall owner, Brandon led them off the main street and further into the city. The sand below was less downtrodden, and the further they went, the more the color bled away. “I hope you know where we are going.”

Brandon took a cautious look down the dark alleys, but continued to follow the ever slimming street. “The arena and other market, hopefully. There are no street signs in Prina.”

“There aren’t any in Halfhill either.” Sylph could not pinpoint when exactly, but the shadows grew longer despite the sun rising higher and she could not recall seeing a guard for at least a mile. Her mind revolted at the bleak houses on their sides. It felt off, like entering the slums in Carthia by accident. She barely saw any dragons and those that she saw she would rather forget. They slumped around in the smaller alleys and corners, faces thin and colors dull. Some bore large untreated scars, mostly from claws, some from teeth, and others from blades.

The humans did not look better. She and Brandon were out of place. Her gut told her to run. The gut was often the smarter brain. Her tail flicked, and she forced herself to keep her head low.

“Sylph,” Brandon whispered. “I saw these three men three streets ago, last street and now here. I think they are following us.” He nodded towards a small group in an alcove nearby, their hooded faces raised as they got closer. “What do I do?!”

“Keep going forward, but turn right and see if they actually follow.” Her attention never left the three men. The city had far too many voices and boots on the ground to spot a specific group following them, and her memory of human faces was not as great as Brandon’s. The group of three hooded figures raised their heads like a bad choreography and it just screamed trap. She would not leave it to chance, not this time. Her muscles tensed up. Her dragonheart boiled, ready to explode when needed. She would not wait until one of them pulled a knife on Brandon.