The Girl and her Beastie.

Chapter 1.

                  She limped. But then again, she’d always limped. Or at least, for the majority of her grown years she had. She could even remember what had been the main cause of it. She’d always had a bad knee, really, but there had been three major incidents that had caused the limp. The first was her stepfather, back when she was eight or so. He’d been angry, and he’d slammed his boot-heel down on her knee and ground it down against the floor. It had taken her months to recover from that. The second mishap was when she was fourteen or fifteen. She’d been riding, rather haphazardly—one usually did when one was running from soldiers. When she’d gone around a turn, the horse had slipped—it had been a rather stupid choice to steal something just after a heavy rain—and crashed into a tree. Her knee had taken the brunt of the collision.                   

                  She’d always favored the knee after that, but the third and defining injury had happened no more than three or four years ago, when Arakhar had taken a rather tragic fall. It had been a stormy day, and the weather conditions hadn’t been the best for flying. The pair had discovered early on that they weren’t going to be able to rise above the clouds like they usually did. Still, the Dragon dipped and wove between clouds, carrying her safely as he usually did. They would probably have made it safely to their destination, had a rogue band of Caernie Warriors not run into them by chance. The beast-like little men had rained down on the lone DragonRider, their own draglets squealing like some imagined creature from the Underworld.

                  Though their size was not but a tenth of the Dragon’s, their numbers were massive. Beside their own gnashing teeth and the electric sparks that flew from their disgusting little mouths, their riders had pitchforks that sent a volt of electricity into the Dragon on contact. With odds like this, it was lucky that either of them had survived. The only thing that had saved them was Arakhar taking an unchecked plunge towards the earth, spiraling madly, trying to evade the little beasties. He’d succeeded, though at the same time he succeeded in crashing into the ground as he tried to turn and slope upwards. His Rider’s entire right leg had been crushed between his massive, scaly body, and the rocky ground beneath.

                  She wasn’t angry with him, though. That much needed to be understood. He had done what he’d had to in order to save their lives—though they’d been lucky that he hadn’t killed them both. Sacrificing his side had been the only thing that had rescued them. Had he gone head-first into the ground, he’d have snapped his neck, and she would have died the instant he had—the Spell of Bonding would have seen to that.

                  Her limping steps slowly carried her to where Arakhar lay, gigantic body curled up in a clearing, mammoth head resting quietly atop his golden-clawed feet. His scales were black and shiny, even in the dim light of the crescent moon. One lidded eye opened, and a jade flame winked at her within the glassy orb that was his eye. She smiled warmly, one gloved hand reaching up to pat just beneath that eye. “Evening, old boy,” she cooed softly. In size, she was barely the size of one of his teeth. He was one of the oldest of his race, and that in turn made him one of the biggest.

                  *The moon,* he replied, ancient voice rumbling within her skull. *She sings to me this night. Mischief is afoot.* His eye sparkled with laughter.

                  She smiled, though it was forced, and she knew her eyes glinted with bitterness. “Perhaps,” she replied.

                  She moved around to his right side, amber eyes tracing along the scars that danced upon his ribcage. They were hardly noticeable, and looked now like little more than imperfections in his scales. Eventually, they would be gone, just like the rest of his battle scars. A Dragon’s lifespan was so long that scars were not of import.

                  *They are fine. Why do you worry so about them?* His eye swiveled in his head and focused directly on her. *The crash was years ago.*

                   “The crash wounds aren’t the only ones I’m concerned with,” she replied sharply. “You say that the draglets are nothing but a nuisance, and yet you’re still sensitive where they burned you.”

                  His reply came grudgingly. *Electrical burns hurt longer than fire.*

                  Well of course they did, she wanted to say, but she caught herself. The Dragons were sensitive to this fact. Their scales barely felt the burn of a flame, having been practically made of it. The Legion’s creation of the Draglets, and in turn the electro-pikes, had been a dire advancement. The draglets were Dragon embryos, stolen from the eggs of Dragon Lairs, and genetically mutated into the small, swarming beasts they now were. There was no bond between they and the Caernie warriors, not like with the DragonRiders and their Dragons. The draglets were merely broken beasts, like a horse, doing what they did because they thought there was no other way. Even the presence of them sent many female Dragons into a rage. Lately, the Riders’ bonds had been restricted almost completely to males, because it was lethal to be atop one of the females when they went into their rage.

                  She traced the leather-encased finger down one of the scars, then shrugged and turned to fetch the beast some water and a meal. Often, the Dragons were left to find their own food, being given reign over the countryside of enemy lands. Any and all livestock were theirs for the taking. However, the country was currently in a peaceful state, and the Riders were back to hunting to keep their Bonded fed and cared for. She grabbed one of the cow carcasses off of the hook in the cooling shed, then dragged it back to Arakhar and dropped it down in front of him. The giant tub to the left of him she glared at for a moment, then began the process of filling by hauling bucket after bucket to his trough from the river. Eventually, it was filled, and by this time he was finished with the carcass. He hardly ever ate, for his age and magic preserved his body well. Still, though, he needed fuel. The pair were one of the Order’s most valuable—and least paid. Almost rogue, they were, rarely taking direct orders and fulfilling missions as they saw fit. The Order didn’t bother them about it much, though; after all, as long as it was done without their own hands getting dirtied, they didn’t have much to complain about.

                  As she had once been told by a captain, back when she was only “fresh meat”, her results were “unquestionable, but Kierna, your methods...” He had not chosen to continue the sentence.

                  The Dragon taken care of, Kierna went to the pens. This was what she called the fenced-in area of her little world. It contained some chickens, a few hogs, and one milk cow. She felt guilty every time she fed Arakhar a cow, since she knew that Toody must have shuddered each and every time. She had already fed them, she just wanted to make sure they were all settled in for the night before she turned in herself. They were, of course, so she turned out the dogs—three great, lumbering Wolfhounds—and then headed away, knowing the dogs would look after the stock until morning.

                  Kierna watched the Dragon for a moment more, and then turned back to the shack—she preferred to call it a “humble abode”—and made her way towards it. The door was barely on its hinges, and had so many cracks in it that it did little against the wind. She stepped in and left the door open, so that she could see Arakhar from the bed. It was a one-room “humble abode”, with a weapons’ rack on the south wall, a fireplace on the west wall, a bed on the north wall, and the door and a trunk of belongings on the east. The door was put on this side so that it would forever be facing the Empire’s capital. She may have been considered practically rogue, but her heart would forever remain loyal to her country, and to the man who led it.

                  She sank down onto the bed, ignoring the remaining niblets of cheese and bread on the table near the center of the room. She’d finished off the meat, an apple, and most of the cheese and bread, but she’d gotten too sick of it, so it remained on her table. Some little creature would come in the night and scavenge it. She lay down, now, her head at the west end and her feet at the east. She put her back to the north and peered out her door. The Dragon rustled for a few moments, prodding the cow carcass with his nose. Dragons hated their leftovers to just sit around them. She had almost sat up to go and get it, when Arakhar took the carcass in his clawed hind feet and launched himself into the air to go and dump it somewhere. His mighty wings’ beats shook the “humble abode”, and for a moment, Kierna was afraid it would collapse at last.

                  It didn’t, however, and soon the shaking ceased. She lay back once more, and shut her golden eyes and wrapped herself up in the tattered quilt. Sleep came easily to her these days, with few worries and even fewer cares. Her knee was the only thing that woke her sometimes, throbbing incessantly in the night. It ached to be flying again, with the Order. The exercise it received in battle helped it more than hurt it, and it had begun to truly resent the last year or two she had spent lounging.

                  Regardless, we were speaking of her sleep, and that is exactly what she shall do: sleep. Now is the time to sleep, for when Arakhar returns with his news, it will be a long time before she receives any real sleep again.