The Land of Dragons

The map is crumpled from Arthur’s fingers. He sits by the fire, letting the orange glow flicker across its edges as he traces the red line that marks their route, Enger’s route to get out of Tanerag, through the salt-crusted valleys, and up into the mountains.

“This is absurd,” Asa says, rubbing her arms for warmth. “We’re heading straight into Draventhur. You think we can handle the cephels with their insane skill with bows and arrows?”

Arthur doesn’t look up. “Enger says there is a place where we can find dragons in Draventhur, which is the only way we can possibly come to Kaelmoor.”

“That may be true, but the cephels patrol their borders heavily and the peak is almost impossible for humans to climb even without being hunted,” Asa argues.

Arthur sighs. “Yes.”

There’s a silence, one that stretches tightly, like a drawn bow.

Then Spidaract’s voice slices through it: “Should we introduce ourselves?”

Arthur blinks.

“We do not sneak,” Spidaract continues. “We come with names. Our party has the hero of, the genius princess of Tanerag and king of Velkath. I think that feels like an ambassador team to me.”

Asa raises a brow. “You really think they’ll roll out a red carpet for us?”

“No,” Spidaract replies. “But I think they’ll open a door so that we can beg for a ride.”

Arthur looks at the map again, then up at the horizon where the white peaks of Skaraden rise like broken teeth. The thought of another negotiation, the idea of a hero talking rather than acting, feels uncomfortably in his chest. But it worked in Velkath, so this can be his niche talent in the story - a really lame one at that.

He nods. “Let’s try the front door this time.”

Three days pass.

The forest gives way to steep cliffs, then to bare slopes where only low moss and frost cling to stone. The path is not marked, only the sun and the enormous wall, which the prideful race has built to protect their holy land, tell them they’re on the right track.

Nights are colder now. Asa changes the barks of trees to gas, making them much easier to be used as fuel, while Arthur curls closer to the fire and Spidaract stands really close to his friends with his eight eyes scanning the dark.

On the fourth morning, snowflakes begin to fall.

And that’s when it happens.

Fssst-thunk!

An arrow is fired into the ground beside Arthur’s boot. He freezes, another pierces the rock near Spidaract’s limb.

“Down!” Asa shouts, dropping into a crouch.

From the snow-dusted ridges above, several slender shapes emerge - tall, with eight folded limbs and wide, staring eyes. The cephels emerge skin glistens in shades of wet stone, their thick clothes rippling despite the windless air.

One of them notches another arrow. Its bowstring makes a strange noise with unnatural tension.

Arthur throws up his hands.

“We’re not enemies!” he shouts. “We’re from Tanerag and Velkath! Hero, princess and king. We are diplomats! We seek alliance with the great cephels and dragons!”

His voice echoes.

The Cephels stop attacking.

Instead, one of them steps forward, riding a massive gray carthorse whose breath clouds the air. A long, forked staff rests on the rider’s shoulder - one with various different symbols and carvings. The leader tilts on his head and murmurs something to the others in their clicking tongue.

Without a word, they descend.

Arthur rises slowly. “Look at us! We are not hostile.”

“They’re assessing,” Asa whispers in his ears.

“I don’t like how quiet they are,” Spidaract mutters.

“They may be careful thinkers,” Arthur says softly. “Their speech should come after their decision.”

The lead cephel approaches and dismounts his horse. He firmly gestures with one limb.

Arthur nods. “We’re ready to explain everything.”

But the cephel doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls a small cylinder from his belt and tosses it to the ground.

Gas bursts out, a thick and blue chemical sprays.

“Wait!”

Arthur’s words come too late.

The world spins.

His knees buckle.

He sees Spidaract leap, then fall mid-motion.

Asa stumbles backward, her eyes wide with fury and shock.

Then darkness covers his view.

When Arthur is awake, the cold is gone.

He blinks.

Stone walls curve around him. Bars shimmer in the dim blue light. The ceiling is too high to see, swallowed in mist. Arthur sits up - at least tries to - and finds his arms bound by a tough and thick rope made from grass fibres. They feel like silk and sound like metal.

He is in a prison.

A smooth and soft female voice cuts through the silence.

“You were not harmed. That was sleepdust made from the oregarum ore. It was safe, at least for us higher beings, despite sometimes being slightly unpleasant.”

Arthur turns to the right, he sees nothing.

“You moron, I am standing right here!”

A cephel stands just beyond the bars, looking down on an inferior species, two of her limbs clasped behind his back. Her face is unreadable as Arthur can’t find where her mouth is.

“We received your request. Don’t be too worried, dirty eggs, we are flattered that you all have finally seen the only way forward. But you must understand…we can’t allow unknown forces to approach the true lords and souls of this world.”

Arthur breathes in, steadying himself. “We came in peace.”

“And you still are in peace,” the cephel says. “You will be held safely until the ruler finally has the free time to decide what to do with you.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “And the others?”

“They are safe,” the cephel replies, tilting her head. “The spider, especially. It has an impressive strength. And as you can see, that’s our sole weakness.”

She walks away.

Leaving Arthur with a bad impression and a plummeting expectation in this plan.