Dragon & Dreamer | ONC 2023 honourable mention

1 - The son of the blacksmith

The hiss of a sword drawn from its sheath sliced into Liha's uneasy sleep. In the crisp chill of the air, the lingering pictures of his dream dissolved into a bleak winter morning. He rolled to the side, his left hand fumbling for his dagger while he shoved his blanket aside with his right and scrambled into a defensive crouch to face his adversary. The dark stranger pointed the tip of his sword straight at his face. Liha lunged to force the blade aside with his shorter one. In the split second his manoeuvre gained him, he turned to run.

Only to face three more men with three more blades.

He shrank back and turned in a circle, searching for an escape route. There was none.

One man, a burly figure with greying hair and a bristly beard, lifted a hand. "Ho, young one, steady, there. We won't kill you if you can give us a valid reason for camping on the king's land."

"The king's land?" Liha's hand cramped around the heft of his dagger. He let his gaze wander from the speaker to the fresh grave mound behind him at the forest's edge. His brother's grave, the cairn he'd built yesterday with his own hands.

"Right. I'm sure you heard of the king ruling the land Kelèn?" The leader of the group smirked and two of his comrades chuckled as if he'd made a brilliant joke. Only the face of the lithe warrior who had confronted Liha first remained unreadable. He slid his blade back into its scabbard with neat precision.

Liha straightened up, keeping his hands from shaking and his voice steady. "If this land belongs, in fact, to King Mirim, then you're trespassing as well."

The men, except for the dark one, shook in laughter now. But the leader interrupted the merriment. "Enough. We're the king's soldiers, peasant, so you better explain yourself."

Liha frowned and studied their equipment. Didn't the king's men wear the symbol of the sun on their breastplates and shields? He had seen groups of them parading on market day in Salar. These here looked more like men on a long journey, their clothes showing traces of wear, while their weapons seemed to be in pristine condition. They reminded him of the mercenaries he had learned to fear. The brutes who'd slaughtered his family.

With a sigh, he lowered his eyes and sheathed his dagger—and dashed away between the leader and the dark one, running for the safety of the forest.

He didn't get far. Before he passed his brother's grave, someone tackled him from behind, got hold of his dagger arm, and twisted it upwards between his shoulder blades. A moment later, Liha lay in the last autumn's rotting leaves on his stomach with a heavy weight on his back. He wriggled to free himself and tried to kick his captor, but his effort was in vain.

"Shh. No need to run." The voice was low and quiet, almost soothing. Liha twisted his neck to confirm it belonged to the dark warrior. He shouldn't have underestimated that one. "I'll let you go if you promise to answer our questions. Deal?" Then he lowered his head and breathed into Liha's ear. "You cannot outrun a throwing knife or an arrow. Next time, you might be less lucky."

The fight left his exhausted body as Liha let his shoulders slump. The wet leaves were cool against his cheek, but hot tears burned in his eyes and he closed them in shame. Men didn't cry.

His captor stood and nudged him with a foot. "Get up now. I'd like to know whose grave we've been disturbing."

Liha sat up and reached out to replace the stones dislodged from of the cairn by the brief fight. Once finished, he looked up at his adversary. "It's my brother. He died yesterday from his wounds."

The dark one reached out a hand to help him up. "You were in a fight? What kind of fight?"

Liha took the offered hand but pressed his lips together. Could he trust these men? The bearded one stepped up and hooked his thumbs into a broad leather belt. "We can't lose time with this chicken, Berim. We need to get back to the capital."