Dragonhand: A Woman With Raven Hair

A Woman With Raven Hair

The sky was raining boiling blood, the thick scarlet drops landing in puddles on the yellow earth below. Melting the coarse grass the blood slowly seeped into the dirt, staining it dark and rendering it steaming. The roars of a hundred dragons rang across the vast expanse of the plains, roars of pain, agony, and death. The air was scorching with the heat of their fire, the ground gouged and bruised by their massive fights. Clouds were gathering across the vermilion sky, thick and gray, an obvious sign of an approaching storm.

The first bolt of lightning struck the ground and killed the small team of men in its path. Bodies went flying through the air and landed dead with little thumps, their entrails spilling from their bodies onto the ground. There would probably be no funeral for those men, not even a proper burial, they would be left there or burned as the living moved on. Thunder boomed and more lighting fell from the sky, killing and wounding as it went. The dragons were dying now too, if a bolt hit the right spot it could kill even them. The scene was much less a battle now, more like a massacre on both sides.

Soldiers fled and took cover, hiding in abandoned caves and little ditches. Praying to whatever gods they worshiped for some form of mercy. Praying that they would not be left there with the dead, there was no glory in failure. The dragons took no precautions, just continued to fight as if nothing was happening. A young soldier observed the scene from below objectively, there were thirty dragons left fighting on his side, and fifteen left on the opposing side. By that logic they should be winning, but the opposing dragons were larger than his side’s, older and wiser too.

His side had speed and more recent techniques, but these were formidable foes. Former students of the Dragon Academy, they had graduated at least ten years ago and knew just about as much as the ones they were fighting. The recently graduated class, and some students. The newer generation had been taught things the older generation had not, the young soldier could only hope they would put those skills to good use now. What was he against the Dragonhands? Nothing of course. He was just a lowly soldier, a man forced into the army by circumstance. What was that against a dragon and rider?

Oh right. He was not just a lowly soldier, the man was just a little more than that. He was a Djinn.

A smirk crawled up his face as another opponent came at him, one of the many men the old Dragonhands had recruited for their cause. The man’s swing was clumsy and obviously not practiced, the Dragonhands really were desperate then. He parried the blow with a flick of his wrist, their swords clashing and scraping against each other in mid air. The man stared in horror as his sword snapped like a twig, while the soldier’s sword began to glow faint red at the edges. His blade was enchanted, but the man’s was just a typical iron stick.

“I could kill you,” the soldier said over the battle cries and death screams, “I could kill you right now”. He rose his enchanted blade to the man’s chest, “My blade could cut right through this pathetic armor. I could kill you with a single blow, and I would not mind one bit…” He paused a moment, barely able to contain his laughter at the man’s expression.

He lowered his sword. “But I will not. And you will not kill me, this much I know. Now turn and flee”.

The man gaped at him, sputtering like a fish out of water. Groping for words but finding none that fit the situation.

“Go!” The soldier hissed, his eyes glowing green with his irritation. “Go, you fool! I showed you mercy today, but no one else will.” He pointed his sword to the east, where he had sent most of his other opponents. His next words came telepathically, through a secret line of contact only he had access to. Go east and speak to the Moon Lady. There are others like you, they will tell you the rest.

The man stood still for another second then ran, having to avoid no other soldiers. The soldier he had fought was alone. As he reached the forest’s edge he turned back to look for the strange Djinn wearing armor that was covered in no gore, only the blood of dragons raining from above. Hoping for just one more glimpse of the man who had spared him, but also the man who had sent him to gods knows where else.

But he was gone.

The young Djinn had left well before the man he neared the forest, vanished in a flash of green the man had failed to notice in his great hurry. The man had no other option now, he turned and ran blind toward his destiny.

The soldier went about his business in the same manner for another hour or so, rarely did he ever meet a man or woman in even combat. Always did he send them east, he knew that was where they must go. Always, until he met another.

The man was not like the others, he was trained and well armored. Tall and a mass of muscle, his dark hair and eyes gave him away as a barbarian of the South. Generally speaking they were actually good people, but this one was obviously different. The Djinn could See right past the armor and colossal war ax, right past his tanned skin and ivory bones. There lied seven massive points of ugly black energy, the Mark of a man who had sold his soul to a dark entity or spirit long, long ago. There would be no trip East for this man.

His opponent had the obvious advantage, size, power, knowledge, and quality weapon. But there was one thing that the barbarian did not have, and it was what the Djinn did have. He dropped his enchanted sword, shivers running up his spine as its electrical, magic hum was lost to him. The barbarian swung his massive ax, roaring his sure victory against the skinny little Djinn wearing unstained armor.

But the ax never made its mark.

A familiar burning in his muscles crept its way up to the points of power in both of the Djinn’s palms, green fire sprouted along his hands and down his arms. He reached up to grab the ax right by the blade, and the puny metal melted into cherry red liquid that ran into the ground. The rest of the weapon then caught fire, and the barbarian howled, throwing his flaming weapon several feet away. But the flames had already gotten to him, that quick, they spread rapidly across his body and cooked the man inside his iron suit.

The Djinn looked down at the charred body with no remorse, and waited patiently for what would happen next, taking a few steps back.

One

The armor began to split open, shadow seeping out of the cracks. The Djinn watched closely.

Two

The armor was blown into pieces, and the shadow began eating away at the dead body. The Djinn prepared his attack.

Three

The shadow began to steadily form into a thick cloud, a screeching sound filling the air with the bite of the icy winds of the North. The Djinn drew in a deep breath, body calm and poised to strike.

Four

The screech rang across the plain, paralyzing those who were weak to it, the shadow came flying to him, seeking to kill. The Djinn was ready and waiting.

Five

The shadow was upon him, just inches from his face. The Djinn unleashed his attack.

A final screech and a great green light enveloped the cloud before it could touch the Djinn. A crackling sphere of electric green energy swallowed the shadow, crushing it slowly until it no longer existed. Then both faded out of existence and the Djinn moved on.

Several hours later the battle went to the newer generation, and the Djinn was the only one not cheering. They burnt the dead they found as they flew out of the plains, stopping an hour or so later at a Northern city under the authority of the king. The young Dragonhands and weary soldiers found rest there, tending to wounds, polishing weapons, or drinking into stupors. The scene was no different than the last battle, only that they were missing several faces. The Djinn was content to just sit and sip at his wine, enjoying the taste of it. He hated most of the Northerners, but they did make good wine…

“Brynjar,” he looked up from his glass to see the smiling face of Else, the blonde haired woman who had been selected as the leader of the recent graduates at the ceremony. He liked Else, she was a great asset. “You look so melancholy over here by yourself”.

Brynjar smiled, barely. “Is this your ‘subtle’ way of asking to sit with me?”

“Yes”, she slid into the seat across from him while Brynjar poured her a glass of wine. She accepted it gratefully, taking her sweet time to take the first sip. She talked to him for a long time before she finally sipped, describing her fights with the other side in great and gory detail. And when she was done she finally tried the wine, proclaiming it disgusting right after and refusing to drink anymore. Brynjar just laughed and drank it for her.

“But listen to me ranting on and on,” Else said while she toyed with a few strands of her short hair. “I should not talk about these things after they are done. It is best we forget it and move on”.

“Not so, it is wise to remember what you did during your first battle. Then you can look back later when you are fighting your fiftieth battle and laugh”.

Else burst into laughter, “Or I can laugh now at your odd sense of humor”.

“Not odd, just not generally considered normal”.

“And normal is?”

“Valid point,” Brynjar relaxed back into his chair, pensive. “I suppose I do have an odd sense of humor. But that is because I think logically and objectively rather than thinking about the things I wish were happening”.

“And what do you want to be happening?”

He paused and drained his glass of wine, leaning forward and knitting his fingers together with his elbows resting on the hardwood table. His green eyes clouded over with the mists of thought and wonder.

What did he want to be happening?

If he had to consider it, which he did, he supposed he would want to be back home. The home he always fantasized about in his dreams. The small inconspicuous tree house that was several times its size on the inside. At least seven rooms on the inside, all spacious, three bedrooms, a bathroom, a living space, and a kitchen. It would be made of oak of course, and would be clean and orderly for the most part.

There would be a large black bear, several times the size of a human black bear, curled up in the living room on her favorite rug. There would be his sister sprawled out on the couch snoring away, his mother shaking her repeatedly in vain attempts to wake her. His father laughing at them both, sitting in a comfy chair trying to read a good book. There would be a golden dragon sleeping in a huge padded indentation in the floor, of course the house would be big enough for him on the inside…

A woman with long red hair, fox ears, and nine tails cuddling a scarred, white haired Hellspawn on the other couch. Both laughing at the ridiculous scene in front of them. Three other friends leaning against the walls or lounging on the floor…

He swallowed past a lump growing in his throat.

A woman with long black hair that was a mass of wild curls. Her pale skin glowing just slightly with white light, that skin was decorated with many tattoos. Her strange eyes looking up at him expectantly, a smirk on her beautiful pink lips. So close, so kissable…

Brynjar yanked back with a start, realizing he had slipped into a trance. Also realizing he was just inches from Else’s face, and her pink lips...So close, so available…

But not what he wanted.

“I am sorry,” he stood up much to her confusion. She tried to stop him but there would be no stopping him, none whatsoever.

He sat in his room alone for the remainder of their time in the city, only venturing out when they took flight again. Brynjar was riding with Else, he could not refuse her offer.

She turned to him when they were high up in the sky and whispered to him in her mind voice, Did you hear?

What?

The egg is in Alexander.

So soon?

She nodded, brown eyes full of deep sorrow. Mid-Winter is upon us, and with it come the Dragonhands.

He shook his head, Poor souls...Poor innocent souls…

It has to be this way.

I know.

Just as you must love another.

He only nodded, the grief clouding his green eyes again.

Is she a good woman?

There is no other on this earth like her.

She snorted, Everyone says that about the one they love, Brynjar. And she is dead is she not? I can see the grief in your eyes…

He did not say anything, but his anger was slowly building. She did not know the story, and she never would. No one could know that story but the ones who witnessed it. Not dead. She is lost, not only to me, but all others.

Then she is dead.

No, lost.

She rolled her eyes, the anger swelled within Brynjar’s chest. The burning sensation creeping through his muscles again, if only she would just leave it alone…

Fine. Grieve how you wish to, I am patient enough to wait for it to leave.

She turned back to face the front, and Brynjar was practically boiling. But he said nothing. Nothing good would come from conflict. He closed his eyes tightly, focusing on the breeze until he was no longer angry.

They arrived in the Capital just a day later, and they were led through the streets as war heroes. The young Dragonhands had gone to war for the first time and won, and among them was a collection of lowly soldiers...So they thought. They were brought into the palace and as the gates closed behind them, no one laughed, no one spoke, just walked down the long twisting halls like ghosts. They were back in prison.

The throne room was colossal, as one would expect, it housed nearly ten full grown dragons, the king, the Elite Dragonhands, and of course Scar…

Scar was bigger than all of the dragons below him, his wings served as curtains to keep out the light streaming through the long, tall windows. Black and terrible sails of death, the rest of Scar was just the same, black and terrible. All except for his eyes, which were a poisonous green. Even his claws, spikes, and teeth were jet black.

The king was sitting on his throne, as he almost always was. The chair was pure gold and the seat covered in cushions, for obvious reasons. The crown that gleamed upon the king’s head was stolen, stolen long ago from his old enemy, the Elves. His hair was long, a faded shade of blonde, but not from age. He was an old mind in the body of a twenty year old man with angled, pale blue eyes, so pale. Pale like his skin.

His voice was snakelike, but not a hiss. It was alluring and damn near musical, it made you want to do whatever he said. Made you want to drink in every word he spoke and cherish it. But it also made your bones quake. “You have done good by me, my children. You have proved yourself worth all the necessities you greedily guzzle up. You have made me proud, you will not die today”.

No one spoke, all remaining locked in their stiff bows.

“Rise now and leave me. Do what you will and report to me tomorrow”.

All rose, three hundred blank faces.

All left the palace, three hundred ghosts.

All but Brynjar.

He had broken into a run the instant he was outside the throne room and left that horrid place well behind him. He took refuge in his favorite Inn instead of the barracks, which would be full of the same coldness the palace poured out, and drank more wine.

A woman came up to him, her breasts heaved up high and waist pushed in ghastily thin by a corset. She had a pretty face, nice eyes, pink lips...She was flirting with him in a subtle manner, careful to not come off as ‘easy to catch’. But the reality was she was a whore. The literal version of whore, not the slang version. She was a prostitute.

She was in the middle of offering him various services after he had refused her once when he stopped her. “Ma’am you are confused. I do not refuse your offer because you are ugly, I refuse your offer because the woman I treasure is very beautiful. Very beautiful in every sense, and to be quite blunt, none of your bed tricks would compare”.

She had gotten quite angry with him after that and tried to attack him, but he was already gone and she toppled to the floor. He had teleported to his room, where he would stay for the rest of the night if he could help it. It was a small room lit only by an oil lamp that was quickly fading away, but he did not mind the dark. A bed was pushed up against the wall, and a desk was pushed against the other, but that was all. Not even a chair for the desk.

He stripped out of his armor and removed the shirt that was underneath that. In the faint light his blue skin almost glowed, and his green eyes burned like hot coals. He sprawled out on the bed in that manner, shirt gone and armor sitting on the floor. He did not worry about it being stolen, he had a spell for that. He did not worry about waking up late, he had a charm for that…

He yawned and rolled onto his side, his long black hair tickling his cheek, he was sore and weary. Sleep would probably help that...He felt his eyelids droop closed and saw the room turn black. But soon it flashed in front of him again in his mindsight, a display of shining gem colors. He could still hear, he could still feel, smell, and could even taste the remnants on his tongue. But he was also asleep, and his dreams danced among the gem colors.

The woman with black hair, smiling, kissing his lips ever so softly one last time before her body shattered into shards of glass...