He was flying.

He felt the beating of his two hearts pumping his blood to the rhythm of a horse at a gallop. He liked that music because he felt just as excited. He had launched himself from the highest peaks of the Sky Combs as one who throws himself ready to conquer the world. His hands gripped the rough, black spikes tightly as he gazed at the wondrous landscape at his feet. The entire country at his feet. The Khaz’Tiber.

That was the only place where he felt truly free, and thankfully, it was a huge place: the sky. On the back of his most faithful companion. It had been a while since he had left the mythical peaks behind and in doing so, he had felt a strange sadness pinch him. He had spent his whole life there, ever since he had run the twelve leagues cross-country to alert his compatriots. He was leaving behind his nest, and also that of his companion, in the highest villages of the known world.

Then he turned, to take a last look at the diffuse, jagged line that seemed to want to tear the firmament. He was aware that it would be many moons before he would climb back up its steep slopes peeled by the four winds. ‘So long, friends.’

Below, the hillocks of the terrain were now no more than small spurs compared to what he knew. Then they became plains and small forests, and later fields of crops that appeared as a patchwork of patches of different shades ranging from green to yellow. At last, a thick line of a very light brown broke through the green meadows and behind it, the sea. The White Roadstead.

He had expected to see a white carpet, just as the elders of Ha Gian had once described it to him. However, it was blue. The light blue and crystalline color enveloped the long sandy beach and gradually darkened to an indigo tone that inspired a certain respect. Not only because of the color, but also because of the immensity that could not be seen with the naked eye. The elders always told him that the ocean was fearsome and hid the best kept secrets. It seemed to him like a gigantic blanket covering a whole unexplored world.

They skirted the entire coastline to the south, enjoying the yellow ripples of the dunes, watching the rocks that cut bays like dikes and spotting small fishing villages and dots in the sea that must have been small boats or sloops. He imagined the faces the villagers would make as they watched them pass overhead.

His, in fact, began to ache, no doubt because of the altitude. No matter how much his trainers warned him, he always lost track of time when flying. He spurred his mount in such a way as to initiate the descent, which it obeyed without complaint. The earth approached them at lightning speed. The elegant slate roofs of a secluded little village were just above the ground. The dragon’s claws tore through the sand, digging great furrows in the beach, and at last they came to rest in front of the estuary of the Turemis, the longest river in the world, so they said.

“A dragon!”

“Holy moly!”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen one so close!”

He waited for people to approach him. The most curious were the most daring, or the most unaware: the children. Parents called their children, worried about what mischief they might do. Playing with a dragon was dangerous. That was something everyone knew. Or they thought they knew it, because there were very few who knew the truth about dragons. And he was one of them.

He dismounted with a leap, trying to look as agile as a cheetah. His numb knees suffered as he landed and his feet would have wept at the impact if they could have. He found the sand harder than lead, but he held his ground. He stretched his legs as if they were nothing, craned his neck and exhaled a long sigh.

“He’s a dragon rider!” exclaimed a woman amidst the commotion that had formed.

“What’s your name, rider?” asked an old man, as if he was used to dealing with that kind of surprise and who stood at the head of the community of villagers.

“An Long, sir.”

The dragon allowed himself to be petted, although he didn’t seem to be too amused. Some children tried to climb up its sturdy legs, others rode on its scaly tail to the horrified gaze of their mothers, and the occasional reckless one sought its gaze. But the colossal animal ignored them as best he could.

“You look too young to be a rider,” said one of those watching from the front row.

“Dragons don’t choose their rider by age,” he merely replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Damn Torven, but what manners are those! Do you know where the peaks of the Tiber are, you ignorant mollusk? He must have traveled a hundred leagues at least, and you greet him with suspicion!” the old man glared at him. Then he turned to the rider. “I am Harald, the dean of this village. By the way, known for his hospitality. Forgive him, not all of us have the gift of the gab around here. And we are not used to receiving such honorable visitors,” he paused to look at the rider and glance at the dragon lying quietly on the sand behind him. You’ll be hungry, come on, Sigurd will serve you a good stew. And the dragon... Well, I have an old goat... I’m sure he’ll get more out of it than me.”

“And tonight, there will be a fair in honor of the rider An Long!” someone shouted.

The crowd seconded the idea with enthusiasm and a lot of noise. Gradually, the adults dissipated, some returning to their homes, others approaching the dragon in search of their children. The old man invited An Long to walk with him, and the young rider readily accepted. He needed a rest, and, after all, he was in no hurry, for his mission was going to be a long one.

“I actually had some barbecued pigeon.... You know, a dragon rider doesn’t need to know about cooking.... Just thirsty, that’s all. And, as far as I know, this damn headache can only be cured with beer.”

*****

An Long didn’t doubt it: the inn he was taken to must be the best in the village, and yet it was far from being a proper inn.

He had not chosen the best village for a short break, but he didn’t care. Big, rich towns weren’t convenient either. The dragon would attract all sorts of malicious onlookers. Its quills were sold at the price of diamonds, its tusks were more expensive than mammoth or basilisk ivory and its scales decorated the thrones where several enemy kings rested their buttocks.... No, no cities. He thought a small village would be a good idea, although he also hoped for a little more prosperity in the very estuary of the longest river in the world, where commercial barges from the East, South and West were charged for their passage.

“Don’t you charge a fee?”

“Oh no, not anymore. A royal edict forbade villages of a certain size to collect the toll. Now only the two largest cities on the estuary do, competing to be the richest city, with the tallest towers and the most grotesquely shiny statues. Dareniel is not what it used to be, young man. Oh, I’ll say it isn’t.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yes, indeed. Just a few years ago, you and your dragon would have been showered with arrows that would have drenched you... in blood. Although... on second thought, maybe luck was on our side, because I wouldn’t have been happy to see my village burn in an inferno of orange flames. You know, like what happened in Shandri Wa.”

“Let’s toast then, to the present times!” suggested a drunk who had just made a masterful entrance with a zigzagging, stumbling stride.

The guy leaned on the table with both hands so as not to fall. He had an empty bottle hanging from his wrist with a string on the neck. He picked it up, making a gesture of wanting to bump it against the diners’ pitchers.

The table was a rectangular table of six people. Dean Harald and An Long were in the middle, facing each other. On their sides, the important men and women of the village, or who had granted some favor to the dean and wanted to settle the debt before such a special occasion.

The horseman clinked his jug with the bottle willingly.

“Here’s to the present times, and here’s to them being as long as possible!” exclaimed An Long with a little smile on his lips.

Harald was not amused when someone of that ilk approached the table of the authorities, and even less at that moment that was dedicated to a whole dragon rider. That kind of visit didn’t happen every day. Not even every year.

“All right, off you go now, drunkard,” one of the dean’s men told him.

“Get out? But I just got here!” complained the man.

Two men as tall as redwoods rushed to grab him by the armpit and drag him to the door of the tavern. The drunk dropped the bottle and, as if by magic, the two bodyguards bit the dust in the blink of an eye. The newcomer rubbed his hands together to the incredulous gaze of everyone, including the horseman.

“I’m just a traveler in search of a drink. Drunk today, yes, but a rich drunk, you see?” and he jingled his money bag. “And tomorrow I won’t be drunk anymore, so I’ll just be rich. Wasn’t this village famous for its hospitality? Pickled carrots, curse the idiot who told me so!”

The two men had picked themselves up off the ground and looked at the dean before pouncing on the newcomer again. Grudgingly, Harald shook his head and then gestured to the bar behind which the barkeep was refilling a jug.

“Sigurd, pour the drunkard a drink so he’ll leave us alone.”

“I see you have a dragon out there,” the drunkard hastened to say, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I’m looking for dragons... Where did you catch it?”

“Please, sir...”

“Alden. Alden Debald.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Debald. We’re in the presence of a distinguished dragon rider. In case you don’t know, there are barely twenty like him on the entire continent. So, please show a little more....”

“Then let’s toast to the rider!” he cut off just before burping.

At that moment, moreover, his glass arrived. Alden took it and without even looking at the concoction clinked his glass with those of the diners. Some did it out of politeness and reluctance, others were fed up, but An Long smiled as if he was very amused.

The drunkard drank the glass in one gulp, before Sigurd had left, so that he could order another as soon as possible. He slipped in a gold coin and handed over the cup. The innkeeper looked at him incredulously.

“Sir... This wine is not so good... Your gold...”

“Oh, pour me wine up to what you reckon that coin can pay. And if I am still standing with my eyes open, pour me more wine, and pour yourself gold coins accordingly.”

Sigurd inspected the gold coin with a gawking face, then turned to the dean, who had the same quizzical expression tattooed on his face. An Long, on the other hand, laughed.

“That gold coin is too big to be a Dareniel real,” the dragon rider declared.

“Oh, it sure is. And that’s precisely why I expect it to pay for more wine. This bag is full of Alderion plots.”

“What are you doing so far from home?” asked An Long.

“Oh, my home is much farther away, my friend. But that’s the least of it. I didn’t come here to tell my life story, but to drown my sorrows. Which reminds me... Where’s my wine?” The barman came rushing out from behind the bar with the glass and a decanter full of wine. “Perfect! I’ll drink straight from the decanter, if you don’t mind.”

He put the decanter to his mouth and began to swallow and swallow. When he finished, he wiped his purple lips with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Well, I hope your sorrows can’t swim,” An Long joked, which caused several laughs, even from Alden.

“I think they’ve learned, or maybe they float. But no matter, I’m here to have fun, I like stories. Who doesn’t like stories?” He paused, but no one answered. “I knew it. We all like stories. Why don’t you tell us how you met your dragon, mate?”

“I’d like to hear that story too,” Harald admitted.

Other heads nodded. And other voices seconded. For the first time in his life, the rider realized one thing. He was no longer the beaten-up kid at school. He was no longer the skinny kid everyone ignored. He was no longer the outcast kid. Now, he was a dragon rider and was not only respected by his peers, but by everyone.

“It’s a long story,” he said, pretending some reluctance.

“We have plenty of time,” said the dean.

“And plenty of drink,” Alden pointed out.

An Long laughed at the comment. He took a long swig from his tankard, wiped the foam from his mustache with his shirt sleeve and cleared his voice with a throat clearing.

“Well, then, get on with it.”