A Fifth Daughter [Book 1: The Dragon Rider]

Chapter ~ 17

~ Chapter 17: My Uncle Cuts My Hair and It Starts a War ~

I feel sorry for Filly.

My dress is bundled before me, leaving the back of my legs bare. Something soft, with a strange grainy texture, lands on my calves. It irritates my skin and, sadly, I instantly know what it is. Along with the absence of weight on my head, and the fact that I'm not bleeding, I know exactly what dishonor he was talking about. Damitri Damien Davenport, my supposed to be dead, mass-murdering uncle cut my hair because he thinks I'm a disgraced Elf: a mongrel. We're not in an era where woman with short hair are seen as discriminating or unholy, but there is something about having the knowledge that your hair was chopped because of who you are that puts you in a set of mind that's not humbling, but empty.

Rage hits me. A rage that doesn't blind me, but heightens all of my senses. I can hear Davenport's ragged breathing, his heavy boots hitting the floor, his pounding heart, and the soft drops of blood from the open wound in his forearm. I hear Mom's gasp and the silence of the hall as something holds everyone's mind in a captivating prison.

Everything becomes crystal clear.

The burning in my palm doesn't hinder any of my movements as I grab my second dagger. I twirl it between my fingers and feel the weight. It's perfect. It'll fly like a hawk from her post, downward to catch her unsuspecting prey. But before I can let her free, Davenport screams out something vulgar.

I don't understand it, and quickly I realize that's because it wasn't a curse.

It was a war cry.

I turn around, ready to cut him into little pieces, but he's not alone now. Two wraith-like creatures, black and surrounded by shadows, stand beside him.

Vespertilio.

Crap.

Their wings are invisible but not their ugliness. Round heads, squashed noses, pointy ears, beady eyes. A pair of bottom teeth jut out of their mouths and nearly stab their flat noses. Their name describes them: Bats. Their bodies are covered in metal armor, rough fur, and an even tougher hide. Wide arms, tree trunks for legs, and curvaceous claws for toes. They stand taller than Davenport, well over seven feet.

Davenport yells out something else in what I'm now assuming is some type of Demon tongue.

The Vespertilio float toward me, their wings making no noise, not even stirring the air as they snarl down at me.

It's when they're a few measly steps away that I realize I'm still on my knees; as if begging for mercy, cowering like someone who deserves to actually live instead of everyone else in this room. But if I die, who's to stand between Davenport and all of these creatures? Even if they were here, my little rag-tag team of friends are not true fighters. We've never killed anyone. The dummies that we slaughter in droves cannot mentally prepare us for whatever it feels like to take a life; an actual, breathing life.

There are plenty of soldiers in The Burrows who stare out at the world with dead eyes and tell stories of mass-murders, of the lives they took that basically ended their own. I don't want that for any of my friends. We might be Dragon Riders, but we're being trained as peacekeepers; as peacemakers, not warriors for the crown. It's supposed to be a time of peace, not the beginning of a war.

The Vespertilio have stopped. They stand just inches from me. I can smell the death that cloaks them.

My rage doubles.

How many have they killed under my uncle's hand?

How many families have they destroyed while listening to Davenport?