Three days.
Eight days.
Two weeks.
Aleksei did not return, nor was there any sign of Bahlzair.
The grand spell or ritual or whatever was being worked immediately in front of Mikhail's tent had been well-prepared, but the mystic types that were attending it seemed to be growing rather weary of doing so. I tried not to pay more attention to Ivan than anyone would deem warranted- I didn't want my tail cut off any sooner, and I didn't want him to become the object of any suspicion.
The creek, half-dry when we'd first attempted our cross, seemed to be growing by the day. I wasn't sure what was feeding it, whether it was the melting frost from somewhere or some omen that I was too ignorant of magic to understand, but I began to get the feeling as though I really didn't want to be around when the waters of this rushing river finally jumped the muddy banks.
In fact, Arjaa- the guard who'd attempted to explain her slice of the group's history to me some weeks before- began to personally query some of the guards outside of the Hall, to see if there were any news of the "two-toned male." She was the only guard left to me, now, as I hadn't done anything overtly threatening and people were indeed truly beginning to believe me a convert to their faith. Genuinely curious, I did ask Arjaa some more things about her culture, only to be dumbfounded by the answers.
Just as with many other races, there were differing opinions on how the Dragonborn had come to be. A good deal of Dragonborn had absolutely no deity at all, being born to and wandering with clans that claimed no gods. Further, even the ones that did respect the power Io or Bahamut were not guaranteed to worship them, not were they always on the friendliest terms with other dragons, who had apparently enslaved them in some other land in a distant history. So Mikhail's absolutely rabid fanaticism for Tiamat grouped him with an exceedingly small slice of Dragonborn culture. Not only did he believe in the value of dragons where others did not, he venerated a particularly sanguine dragon goddess, the pinnacle of what other Dragonborn would scorn in their former masters. No wonder even other dragon-worshipping Dragonborn would take his beliefs to task.
Arjaa's family, like a few others in the camp, had been born and raised in Tymanther, which had freed itself from its dragon rulers and had been independent for some time before it crashed out of some other planet- or some such nonsense- into this one. Based on Aleksei's "mountain speech," as she referred to it, he was not from Tymanther, but some one of the other floating landmasses further north. Once I told her that no, he did not breathe fire, but frost, she was absolutely convinced that he'd come from some other land that she'd known nothing about. "Arkhosia" meant nothing to her- that is to say, it was neither her homeland nor a place she would have fought for. While other Dragonborn had mentioned the great empire to her, her family had been absolutely separated from it.
In return, I told her what I could remember of Vor Kragal, the capitol of Bael Turath- although much of it was diving between secret police and my brother's various sharp objects, and being practically put out of the city when he and both parents had died. Arjaa listened carefully, and seemed to dream of what it would be like to live where I had. I wondered what reason she had to do so, until I remembered that she'd pretty much lived most of her life either traveling or stuck on the banks of this pitiful river.
On the early twentieth day, I was jarred awake by a thunderous roar that shook the area. Arjaa, similarly disturbed, leaped up from her bedroll on the floor, grabbed my upper arm, and surged outside to see what was going on.
And before our eyes, in front of Mikhail's tent, was an unimaginably large red dragon, whose sudden presence had pushed just about everyone else in the camp to their knees or on their backs or faces. Arjaa and I stood there, and although she'd said that she'd seen such a ritual before, she seemed just a little too surprised for that statement to be true. Either that, or something was so hideously wrong as to render the ritual unrecognizable to her.
"What's the matter?" I finally dared to whisper as the others in the camp got to proper kneeling or prostrate positions. Arjaa seemed too stunned to move, but after a few more seconds, she spoke.
"He's- very old- very, very old," she breathed. "Old enough for his eyes to just be- globes of lava- ancient." She knelt down and yanked at my arm so that I would do the same, and my eyes scanned the area for Ivan or Silveredge.
I didn't have to look for long, as Mikhail, whose painted red swirls now covered every inch of his body that wasn't dressed, brought a quite-nearly-naked Silveredge before the dragon and knelt down. I couldn't hear what was being said, but after a few moments of what seemed to be peaceful communication between Mikhail and the dragon, the dragon cut a tight circle of fire around the couple and disappeared.
"Over three hundred thousand gold so that he can show up, give a counseling session, spit fire and leave?" I whispered. "Is there anything else to this ceremony?"
Arjaa didn't answer, but we watched together as Mikhail and Silveredge arose, stepped through the fire and made their way toward the gaping maw of a cave outside the camp tents. There was a bone, wood and stone construct that jutted out from the face of the cave as well as sharp objects buried into the ground, and it practically appeared as though the two were walking into a gigantic mouth.
"Perhaps the dragon commanded that the Shadar-Kai be changed first," Arjaa breathed, seeming to be so in awe that I didn't want to press her for details. "They're going to have to scrape up that gold all over again- they better up the toll."
When the two had disappeared into the cave for some minutes, the rest of the camp began to get themselves off the ground and go back to their proper functions.
A gentle breeze blew, and Arjaa had no contest from me as we walked calmly through the camp together. Until the wind brought a certain stench with it.
The smell was a clearer warning to me than a trumpet could have been. While others looked around themselves disgustedly, I grabbed Arjaa and pulled her toward the Hall of Horns.
"Your mate, where is he? Where's his son?" I demanded urgently.
"I don't know, working, I suppose," Arjaa replied blankly. "Someone's got to repair all the armor and sharpen all the weapons."
"Well, they'd better stop what they're doing and get in here. You'd better stick together, or you won't-"
Arjaa stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me. "Are you back to trying at your magic? What are you saying?"
"Go and get your family, is what I'm saying," I whispered fiercely. "I don't do magic; I never have, but I know that smell. There's going to be-"
"Attack! All to arms- to arms! We're being attacked!" came the shout from the eastern side of the camp, where Silveredge had once been held. In moments, there were people rushing around, grabbing weapons, donning armor and pushing non-combatants- which were few- inside their tents. I'd turned my head to see if I could see Ivan, but when I turned back, Arjaa was gone. I wasn't sure if she'd rushed off to take my advice or if she'd answered the call to arms. I realized in this moment, with all the guards and other fighters rushing around me, that I was practically free, so I ran toward Ivan's tent to see if he were alright or if he'd perhaps been pushed elsewhere.
I didn't get very far.
The sky came alive with fire-tipped arrows.
"Fire- fire!" some fighters screamed, moments too late for a few sorry souls. The camp now went from its initial state of relative battle-readiness to a wash of chaos. Tents had been expertly set aflame, and inhabitants had little choice but to get out of them, since the old hides and furs burned incredibly quickly. Kobolds flooded the camp, screeching and slashing with glee at the completely horrified Dragonborn. Surprise of all surprises, Humans and Elves swarmed in behind them, their armor wrapped with copper and forest green- city colors, obviously, but not from any settlement I'd yet seen.
The colors were the last thing I noticed, anyway, before something grabbed me from behind. Since my hair had been unbraided for some days, it wasn't difficult for the assailant to get a good fist full, thus keeping me from really turning around to get a good look. The hands weren't clawed and scaled, but they were rather warm. In moments, I could no longer see nor hear- it was as though I'd suffered some terrible blow to the head, but there was no pain at all. I know I hollered "Ivan!" but I couldn't hear myself. I was quick marched by my captor, and I could only imagine what was happening around me.
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