by Kelley (anotherwellkeptsecret)
And now, looking ahead, I can see the vitally important cup clenched in one of the dragon’s forepaws. The denseness of the forest and it’s awkward three-legged gait have slown the creature down enough for me to see that it is small, still – no taller than Dauntless, no longer than fifteen lengths at most. It is still quite young, probably not even out of it’s first century yet.
I reach for Pip again, fearful that the dragonet will spit fire back over its shoulder at us, but Pip is faster than me. Pip’s jogs have conditioned her to running and she speeds, now, after the horrible little lizard, as she once did after Lordling Gyre.
There is a crash and a howl behind me, the frightened whinny of Karl, and then Kintyre is shouting, “to one side, brother!” I flatten myself against the brush and Kintyre speeds past me, Foesmiter flashing. I follow at his heels.
“I’ve waited an age to have you between my claws, Kintyre Turn! Murderer!” the drakeling hisses, rounding suddenly in the middle of what appears to be a close clearing.
A trap! We’ve been led solidly and stupidly directly into a trap. Now the drakeling has room to maneuver and it rears back and slashes at Kintyre. Pip skids to a halt on the edge of the clearing and I fetch up behind her. She grabs my hand, but I do not know if it is out of fear, or awe, or to keep me charging into the area with Kintyre.
I am swift with Smoke, but my sword does not have the heft and strength of Foesmiter. To go in there would mean a broken blade for me, and potentially my death or that of my brother if he is distracted in defending me. No, I am smart enough to know when I am outmatched.
Pip strains forward, shouting. “Stop! Both of you, please, stop!”
“Murderer, murderer!” the drakeling snarls as each of its strikes are turned back.
“Forsyth!” Bevel shouts from behind me and it is just enough warning for me to shove Pip and I to the side to avoid the wide arc of the Rogue lad’s sword. There is blood on his chin and fury in his face as he slashes at us, clumsy in his anger.
“You leave her be!” he snarls, “You’ve done enough!”
“You’re the one hacking at me,” I snarl back. “Stand down or I shall—“
I needn’t finish telling him what I shall do because in an instant, Bev has the boy flat on his face in the dirt, the tip of his sword pressing into the soft flesh at the back of his neck. He is sitting on the boy’s waist, his hands pinned to his sides at the wrist by Bevel’s knees.
“Let’s try this again,” Bevel says.
The Untold Tale – December 2015
The Garrulous Ghost of Gwillfifeshire , an Accidental novella – Spring 2016
The Forgotten Tale – June 2016
The Wondrous Woes of the Writer, an Accidental novella – Fall 2016
The Silenced Tale – December 2016