Chapter 15: Old Friends

Lindír, whose neck had been curled back and wings flared out in a gesture of grand intimidation, froze. Razan wore the same armor as she had when they had first met, or at least the same style, the same overlapping scales and the same high-peaked helm. It had been so long, nearly four years, that he had almost forgotten the truth of her appearance in exchange for the distorted mental image of it.

At once, the dragon dropped low, wings held close to his side, neck stretched out across the ground such that he had to look very slightly upwards to see Razan’s face when she was mounted. 

“Razan!”

“Indeed, it is I. Tell me, Lindír…”

“Lindír Heimirsson. Still Lindír Heimirsson.”

Razan nodded solemnly. “Tell me, Lindír Heimirsson, is this your domain? I had not heard that there was a dragon in these parts.”

Razan’s mastery of the tongue of Hvalheim had increased greatly in the four years since she and Lindír had spoken last. Though she still struggled with some of the sounds, her understanding of the grammar was as poetical as any native, if not more so than most.

“No, Countess Halldis Fast-Tower still rules here. I am merely a guest and ally of hers, and I live here by her grace alone. Razan, why are you leading the army of Hvalheim? You are not even a knight of that realm, let alone one who outranks all others. Shouldn’t… another be standing where you stand?”

“If you wish to talk,” Razan said, “we should not do it in front of the soldiers. I assure you, these folk have good ears, they can hear you perfectly well.”

“Of course.”

Lindír looked once again at the host of Hvalheimers which Razan had gathered together for an attack on Stokvöllur castle. From close by and without the stress of an impending battle, he noticed something rather odd about them. Half of them were dressed as he might have expected from an elite fighting force, with great helms and a mix of mail and jacketed armor, favoring the former. These were dismounted knights of the realm and their squires. But the other half, numbering perhaps a score of scores, were armed differently. These fighters bore peaked helms with open faces, and scaled armor or boiled leather, and their swords were short and stout instead of long and thin. Indeed, by their countenances, they were not Hvalheimers at all, but heavy-browed and sun-darkened Akunians.

All of them were terrified of him. As they should have been. He flashed his teeth at the army and was met with the sudden scent of urine on the air, along with many a muttered curse. “Will this host attack without you, then?” Lindír said, sensing an opportunity. “Or shall we have to postpone our talk until after the blood has ceased to flow?”

“Indeed. Men of Hvalheim! Fall back to camp! We shall attack at a later time!”

At once, the order was taken up across the host by a handful of lesser sergeants, and as one the army began to dissolve once again. Razan then gestured for Lindír to follow her, before turning her horse about and moving into the camp.

“You are correct that there should be another in my place,” Razan began. “I lead the army as representative of its proper commander, Prince Ásgeir. But you are also wrong on another account. I am a knight of the realm. The late King Heimir—I am sorry for your father’s death, and twice-over if this is the first you’re hearing of it…”

“Don’t be,” said Lindír. “I despised the man. I hope his drowning was long and painful.”

Razan gave him a look, a very long look full of understanding and pity. “The late King Heimir made me a thane of the realm. Indeed, I believe Ásgeir gave me a strip of farmland somewhere in the east of Kojur as a gift once. But more importantly, I am also the Captain of the Akunian Legion, which grants me a great deal of authority.”

“The Akunian Legion? There was no such thing when I was in Hvalheim.”

“I should hope not,” said Razan. “It would be a shame if I and your family had spent the last four years building it, only to discover that it had already existed. Forging a proper fighting corps out of a collection of bandits and mercenaries is not easy.”

It was then that they reached Razan’s tent, recognizable as such because it was the largest tent in the entire camp. It was a long, rectangular thing, the shape almost reminiscent of a castle’s great hall, and the canvas skin of it was painted by a crude soldier’s hand with elaborate spiraling symbols. Lindír barely fit inside. He had to bow his head low so as not to punch through the cloth with his horns every time he turned his head, and wrap his wings around his belly in order to not have them run into the walls. There was not even enough width inside the tent for Lindír to curl up as he was accustomed to. Instead he was forced to tuck his limbs beneath himself and stretch out lengthwise, with his tail outside of the tent entirely. And that was all after Razan and several attendants had rearranged all of the furniture.

Eventually, though, Lindír was able to settle in semi-comfortably, and Razan removed her armor, leaving her in a workman’s trousers and a tailored silk shirt. She stretched out upon a low cloth-backed chair, rubbing the sore muscles of her broad shoulders with the calloused fingers of the opposite hand. Lindír could not help but watch her.

“I have thought about you, once or twice,” Lindír said. “How could I have avoided it, considering what you did for me? But… I never expected this.”

“Neither did I,” Razan said with a grin.

“You’re a mercenary, a foreigner! I’d thought that you’d be paid for the duration of a battle then sent on your way, or made a glorified bodyguard. Not given command of the army!”

“Some would say that a general who serves a king is not so far from a glorified bodyguard,” said Razan.

“Nonsense. Is Ásgeir even here?”

“He is not. He will be here soon enough.”

“Then my brother has handed full responsibility of the invasion over to you,” Lindír said, clapping one claw onto the back of the other. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Because he knows a good fucking commander when he sees one.” For a moment, Razan’s eyes went hard and reflective; those were not the eyes of Razan, the woman, but of al-Khanjar, the general. “Heimir, and Ásgeir after him, they see the Zaiqa sultans as the model of true imperial strength. I served under the Zaiqa sultans, and learned some of their techniques. And I can teach them.”

“And what is so special about the Zaiqa sultans?” said Lindír. The word “sultan” was unfamiliar; his tongue stumbled across it.

“They conquered all of Namar,” Razan said, throwing up her arms. “With blade and bow they claim ownership over an area nearly half the size of Witland, and twice as rich. Last I heard, they were even making war upon the olive princedoms and winning. No Northlander kingdom can match that.”

A brief shiver passed through Lindír, starting at his wingtips and terminating at the scars wrapped around his snout. “And my brother wishes to be the first?”

Razan nodded subtly, barely a twitch of her chin. Then her expression softened, and she seemed to sink into her chair under a huge weight. “But we have spoken enough of that. Where have you been, these past four years?”

Razan had stolen the words from out of Lindír’s mouth, and so the pivot to more light-hearted conversation was made with effortless ease. Lindír made no effort to summarize the whole course of his freedom. Instead he leapt from place to place, from time to time, skipping over that which was painful and illustrating in fine strokes that which was brilliant and bright. He told the story of how he met Ámnistr, of when he first spoke in front of a crowd to terrify hecklers. Lindír and Razan shared a great deal of opinions about Northlander pastries, mostly agreeing that they were good, but arguing with fervor about which ones were the most disappointing.

When Lindír remembered to tell the story of his encounter with the hellira, Razan’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open in an expression of wonder. She did not interrupt the story, not even once.

“Ah, how God shows His favors,” Razan sighed. “I’ve wanted to meet a hellira my entire life, but never so far. And you met one within two years of leaving home.”

“Oh, yes, it was an awe-inspiring sight. I hope to meet them again; though, given that the incursion of homunculi has no doubt been extinguished by now, I’m afraid it will be even less likely.” Lindír turned his head inquisitively. “But why do you wish to see them?”

Razan hesitated a while, too long to be natural. Her eyelids fluttered, mouth in a slight pout as though upset. Then she pulled a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and said, “Two-arm-tall warrior women who have never felt the touch of a man? Only a fool would not wish to become familiar with the like of them. And I, for one, am no fool.”

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Razan’s tone announced that this was some kind of in-joke, one which Lindír did not understand. But her eyes were entirely unconvincing. Lindír gave it no more than a moment’s thought, and when Razan quickly resumed with an anecdote about her time in the service of Hvalheim, he soon forgot about it.

Eventually, having spoken for hours, Razan took notice of the warmth in the air and the high angle of the sun. She stood up and brusquely announced that it was time for lunch, and that Lindír should return to the castle so that she could leave her tent without squeezing herself between his bulk and the walls.

“I am glad,” Lindír said as he slowly backed out of the tent, “that I found you in command of this army, and not my brother, or mother, or any one of the other knights. If it had been him or any of his minions, there would have no doubt been a terrible battle.”

“And I am glad that, of all the castles upon which I could have been sent to lay siege, it ended up being the one you had chosen. Adds a great deal of interest to the affair.”

Lindír snorted, pausing a moment while he navigated his haunches around a passing soldier. “You will be returning home, won’t you? You would not dare deliver siege upon Stokvöllur castle while I still inhabit it.”

Razan froze, her expression suddenly quite dour. She made a long exhalation, unburdening herself of the air in her lungs while her hands slowly gripped into fists. “No, Lindír,” she said with a voice wet with sadness and exhaustion. “Why would I do that? You said yourself that this is not your castle, you are merely a guest here. You may leave whenever you wish, not that I could stop you even if I were inclined to.”

Lindír stopped, lowering his shoulders. “I made an oath, Razan. I am not merely the Countess’s guest, but her ally. My mission here is to ensure the safety of her domain, to protect it against the invading army.”

Razan’s movements became suddenly very careful and measured, and she did not speak for a long while. Instead, without seeming to have moved at all, her hand fell upon the short hilt of the sword still slung at her hip. “Lindír. I am the commander of that invading army. For so long as I act in Ásgeir’s stead, its will is my will.”

“But you do not have to be,” said Lindír. “No fetters bind you to this post. You are as free as I am.”

Razan shook her head. “I will not betray Hvalheim so easily, Lindír. I was sent here to seize Stokvöllur by force, or else to return having given my best efforts. You do not need to do this. Fly, dragon, and leave this battle of humans, to humans.”

Lindír remained, frozen in place, caught between the natural ease which Razan’s presence brought and the tension of an enemy force. “I shall return. When next shall you be available to speak to me? I very much enjoyed our conversation.”

Razan met Lindír’s gaze, her eyes deep pools of grief. “Overmorrow.”

“Overmorrow,” Lindír said, nodding quietly. He allowed his shoulders to relax, his flames be extinguished, and resumed extracting himself from the tent. Neither one of them spoke.

With a few brief flaps of his wings, Lindír returned to the castle. With the secret of his presence revealed to all, he knew there was no need to conceal himself below the wall’s rim. So instead he returned to the high tower and stretched out there, the vast membrane of his wings soaking up the northern summer sun. At least, he did so until a voice called out his name in anger.

With a single long pounce, Lindír leapt from the tower down into the courtyard, slightly arresting his fall by half-flaring his wings, landing on fore claw then hind claw. The source of the voice had been Halldis. She was not clad in the fine silks and furs of her station. Instead, she was covered from head to toe in mail, and wore an open-faced helmet topped with a fine silver circlet. Flanking her were eight knights, each of them in the finest mail and surcoats, grasping long lances in their hands. Her fury was palpable in the air.

“You called for me?” Lindír said.

“Why do you nap upon the roof of my castle when there is still an army camped beyond our walls? I tolerated your desire to parley with the enemy instead of fighting, but that was with the assumption that you were going to convince them to retreat. Explain yourself.”

Lindír hugged his wings close to his chest and shrank back slightly, tail coiling around himself. “You knew already that I have a connection to the kingdom of Hvalheim,” he said.

“You said that you despised them. I heard you speak of wrath and red ruin upon them.”

“And I do. I do despise them. But for one. The general of this army is known as Al-Khanjar, and she is rather dear to me, as the one person in all of Hvalheim to have ever given me comfort. I do not wish to have to fight her, but I am afraid that if I do battle against the invaders, I will be forced to.”

“And this friendship matters more than your oath to me? You swore to be my ally, Lindír Heimirsson, and that does not mean allowing an invading army to sit upon my doorstep because of your own soft heart.”

She pointed an accusing finger at Lindír, purposefully or otherwise aiming directly at the patch of skin on his chest. All at once, rage flared within him. A shower of sparks fell from the dragon’s jaws, and he slammed his wing-claws into the earth.

“Would you force me to fight?” he hissed.

“You know as well as I do that I cannot,” Halldis responded. “But I had thought that your own sense of honor would drive you to my defense.”

“Give me time,” Lindír said, desperate to trace out a path between his two drives. “I have arranged to speak with Al-Khanjar again, overmorrow. I will convince her then to retreat.”

“Overmorrow? You expect me to wait two days for even the potential of a resolution to this battle?”

“I cannot do any better.”

The Countess sneered at Lindír, her teeth pale yellow daggers behind dark red lips. “Do you know what war does to a place? Have you even the slightest inkling of how many will sicken and die within the walls of this city, each day that passes? Every night that the Hvalheimers make camp in my domain, they will go out and raid the countryside for food, burning fields for miles around and stealing every grain of barley and strip of meat that they can find. Each day which passes is a catastrophe, and the suffering of my people shall only grow more intense with every hour that this siege continues.”

“I will end it soon,” Lindír repeated. “I will convince her.”

“Fine, then. Do as you wish. But if you cannot convince her… There are better ways to violate an oath than this, Lindír.”

“A dragon’s oath is inviolable,” said Lindír. He drew himself back up to his height, looking down upon the Countess with all the sincerity and certitude that he could find. “I will save Stokvöllur. That much I can promise.”

The Countess had nothing more to say. She merely nodded, and with a gesture and a word called for her knights to all turn about and return to whatever business was at hand. Lindír turned about as well and crawled back up to the roof of his tower.

 

 

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