Friendly Fyre: Chapter 29 - The Jorrians

Mirzayael leaves to gather her guards as Beryl, Nek, Hetlanir, and I head for the tunnel to the surface. Dizzi and the other non-combatants stay behind, but no one objects to me accompanying the leaders. I can practically feel the tension in the air around us, winding tighter with every passing moment. 

“I will do the talking,” Beryl says as she leads the way up the slope. “No one is to take any action without my say so.”

“If a fight breaks out, you will be in danger,” Hetlanir points out. “They’ll target you as our leader.” 

“Better me than any of you young ones,” she grumbles. 

“FYRE!” Ollie cries, the cave shaking as he races up the slope behind us. “WHAT’S GOING ON? CAN I COME?”

“Go back to your cave, Ollie,” I tell him. “It might not be safe.”

“Perhaps that’s all the more reason for him to come,” Nek says. “It might dissuade any inclinations to pick a fight.”

“Or encourage it,” Hetlanir says. “I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t be nervous staring such a creature down.” 

“LAST TIME YOU SAID I COULD COME PROTECT YOU IF YOU WERE IN DANGER,” Ollie says, displaying better memory than I gave him credit for. 

“Only if I’m in danger,” I agree. “Which we might not be.”

“REALLY?” Ollie asks. “THEN WHY IS MIRZAYAEL ALL DRESSED UP?”

Ollie pauses, squished up against the side of the cave to let Mirzayael and her guards catch up with the rest of us. Sure enough, she’s now wearing armor. She and all of her guards carry spears.

“Ollie can come,” she says shortly. “We may need him.”

I sigh. “Let’s just get to the surface and take it from there. But please, Mir,” I say, looking to her. “Let’s try the peaceful way first.”

“If the peace is broken,” she says, “it will not be our doing.”

I guess that’s as good an assurance as I’ll get.

Ollie excitedly follows us up the tunnel as we all ascend. Mirzayael is giving orders to the other guards, assigning positions and telling them to be ready to act at her word. She even assigns two guards to Beryl and the young guard, Zakaiya, to personally protect me. I’m partly flattered, but at the same time, a thrill of fear runs through me. This is all starting to feel very real, very quickly. 

In another few minutes, we reach the surface. It’s dusk out on the ice, the sun just starting to set over the white plains. In the distance are the mountain peaks of the Jorrian capital; Mirzayael had pointed them out to me on a previous clear day. Typically shrouded by clouds and snow, today the plains between us remain clear. The mountains are stained red by the setting sun, affecting a grizzly appearance of bloody fangs. And beneath them, rather closer than I was expecting, are the forms of an approaching group. Two flags are being carried on either side of the unit, and though they’re too far to make out, I strongly suspect they bear the same shield and eye I’d seen before on the direwolves’ collars. 

“Ollie, get behind us,” I tell him. The dragon is currently off to the side, his tail swishing haphazardly over the snow, stirring up flurries and spraying us with ice. 

“BUT—”

“Now, Ollie. I’m not asking.” 

The dragon dips his head, but slides around behind us. Good. He’s safer further away from the front lines, and less likely to inadvertently start a geopolitical conflict. 

Plus, his presence at our backs looks pretty damn intimidating. 

As the Jorrians approach, I see they’ve brought backup of their own. The party consists of twenty humans. Two bear the flags I’d seen before, a dozen carry bow and arrows, and another six bear swords and shields. Two more ride atop a pair of intimidating white wolves the size of horses. Their lips are peeled back, revealing the pink of their gums. I’m suddenly glad Ollie came with us. 

I Check everyone as soon as they’re close enough to distinguish, starting with the wolves and their riders. 

[Greater Direwolf, level 26. Steed to Biorne Gylfis]

[Greater Direwolf, level 24. Steed to Alis Gylfis]

[Biorne Gylfis, level 34 human. Ice Paladin.]

[Alis Gylfis, level 29 human. Court Inquisitor.]

The archers are all between level 18 and 27, with an occasional magic bent thrown into their class name—most of them fire related, a couple ice. The swordsmen are all around level 25. 

Not the highest levels. But compared to our group, my concern is only growing. I’m still only level 21, Mirzayael is 29, Nek is 26, Hetlanir is 27, and Beryl is 39, though she’s an alchemic healer, not a fighter. At least we have Ollie at an astounding level 43. But even with his size and brute force, we’re outnumbered. I don’t like our odds if it comes to a fight. 

I’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t.

The Jorrians stop a respectful distance away—or maybe they just wanted to keep outside of Ollie’s jaw snapping range. For a moment, their troops shuffle in a space of tense silence. A flurry of snow blows between us. 

One of the riders, Biorne, urges his wolf to step forward. He’s dressed in layers of thick fur, but the sunlight catches on bits of armor complementing his attire. His face is sun-tanned and weather-worn, eyes and hair equally dark. 

“Hail,” he calls to us. His voice carries easily across the quiet scene. “My name is Biorne Gylfis, ambassador to my kingdom. I speak on the behalf of all of Jorria, ever faithful servants to Lorata. We have not seen signs of travelers so deep into the Wastes in many years. What cause draws you to such a desolate place?”

I can feel Mirzayael tense up beside me as Beryl steps forward.

“My name is Beryl, elder of my people. I speak on behalf of Fyreneth’s Keep, our home, ever faithful servants to those in need. We have not been drawn anywhere, nor are we traveling. You stand on the doorstep of our domain. Should you be capable of keeping the peace, I would invite you inside.”

A stir goes through the Jorrian soldiers, and likewise the Fyrethians shift uneasily at the open invitation.

This time it’s the other wolf-rider who moves forward. “You are disciples of Fyreneth?” Alis asks. The woman appears much like the man, but older, her frown crinkled with crows feet. 

“We are her descendants,” Beryl says. 

Alis wrinkles her nose. “Then we have little to discuss.”

“Wait,” I say, stepping up alongside Beryl. At the same time, Biorne interjects. 

“Perhaps a mutual agreement can be discussed, first,” Biorne says, looking sidelong at his relative. Alis’s face is sour in apparent disagreement. 

“Precisely what I was thinking,” I say. “As a third party to this… historical meeting, my perspective is limited. But surely avoiding bloodshed would be preferable to all involved parties.”

“A bold assumption,” Alis says. 

Biorne silences her with a sharp gesture. “I would like to think tensions between our people could be resolved peacefully. I am willing to explore such options. Tell me, Forsaken. What are your intentions?”

“Intentions?” Beryl repeats. “Our people merely wish to survive. We want peace.”

Alis looks displeased with this response, but Biorne tilts his head thoughtfully. “You have no intent to resurrect Fyreneth’s Fortress?” he asks. “No plans to gather troops? To challenge Jorria?”

Mirzayael’s lips peel back in a sneer. “Marching on the enemy rather sounds more like your territory than ours.” 

“Mir,” Beryl snaps, silencing her. 

She huffs, but respectfully bows her head. 

“No,” Beryl says to Biorne. “We have no intention to do any such things. We are much too preoccupied with our own survival.”

Biorne looks pointedly to Alis, who shakes her head. Even so, he turns back to the rest of us. “If you speak truly, then I would be more than happy to leave you to your own devices. Your ancestors were driven underground as penance for defying the gods: should you remain there, I see no reason for conflict to escalate further. It is our duty to stop any uprisings. Perhaps I am more liberal in my interpretations of the creed than some of my peers,” he says, and Alis scoffs. “But to me, the verdicts can be read to mean uprising as in emerging from your confinement, rather than simply growing in number or becoming organized, as some choose to interpret.” Biorne offers a smile. “I hope we are in agreement?”

It’s laughably offensive. We’re supposed to accept being forced to live in the caves not only as a mercy, but as a favor. If Biorne is more open-minded than the rest of his kingdom, then I shudder to think what the rest might think of our existence. 

Then again, best not to poke a sleeping bear. As problematic as his reasoning may be, at least he’s willing to leave without a fight. 

Mirzayael lets out a low growl, luckily too quiet to drift across the ice, and I put a hand on her arm. 

“We can’t start a fight we can’t win,” I say to her quietly. “Wading through politics with the Jorrians can be saved for another day. As Beryl said, we are preoccupied enough with survival as it us. Let’s just focus on that.”

“They deserve to face justice,” Mirzayael says, voice lowered. “They deserve to be held accountable for their crimes.”

“These individuals are not responsible for what happened to your ancestors,” I say. “Though they seem to hold… problematic views of their own. Please. Leave it for now. We can’t win against them.”

Mirzayael’s grasp tightens on her spear, her knuckles going white. Then she breathes out with a shake of her head. 

“We are in agreement,” Beryl calls to Biorne, voice clipped. “You will return to your mountains, and we to our caves.”

“Good. Good!” Biorne says, smiling. “I’m glad an agreement could be reached. I told my sister you all could be reasoned with. Even those Forsaken can be redeemed, don’t you think?”

I can practically feel the hate radiating off Mirzayael in waves. I tighten my grip on her arm, and she grinds her teeth. 

“Then unless you’d like to speak on any other matters,” I say, deciding to cut in before Mirzayael replies with anything that would undo all the tentative peace that was established, “we will be returning to our home, now.”

Biorne tips his head. “The same for us, then, as well.”

“IS THAT IT?” Ollie asks, causing me to flinch as his voice booms into my head. I guess even I’m a little jumpy right now. “THAT WAS BORING. ALL YOU GUYS DID WAS TALK.” He stretches his wings. “CAN I GO FLY NOW?”

“Maybe later,” I think to him, nervously glancing toward the Jorrians. The wolves growl, and some of the soldiers stir at Ollie’s movement. “After our guests have left.” 

“UGH. BOOOOOOORING.” He yawns, revealing his rows of dagger-like fangs as he lets out a long rumble. 

Several of the archers nock arrows. 

“Wait!” I call. “He’s just tired. It’s not a threat. Don’t hurt him.”

“It sure looks like a threat,” Biorne says, reining in his wolf as the animal growls. 

“He’s restless,” I say. “Just wants to stretch his wings. But I promise, he means you no harm. He’ll settle down after a flight.” In fact, he crashes practically every time he comes back in from a few hours of soaring. 

“Flight,” Biorne repeats, a dark look passing over his face. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. The verdict that you all return underground includes your… pets as well.”

“Ollie is not a pet,” I snap. “He’s as intelligent as you or me.” Well. Maybe not as intelligent. 

“He is a dragon,” Beryl adds. “You cannot expect him to stay underground.”

“He poses a threat,” Alis says. “He kills our livestock. Terrorizes our people. That beast is a menace.” 

I wince at the mention of livestock. I knew Ollie had been finding animals out on the ice to eat, but I’d been too preoccupied with my work on Fyreneth’s Fortress to pay attention to Ollie’s diet. Had he really hunted some of their animals? Or is that just being used as an excuse to ground him?

“He can move hunting grounds,” I say. “Keep out of the skies near your kingdom.”

Biorne sadly shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand. He cannot be allowed to roam the surface any more than the rest of you. The fact that he is a tamed beast makes no difference.”

“I’M NOT TAME!” Ollie objects, growling. “I AM A MIGHTY DRAGON! RAWWWWR!” And before I can object, he roars for emphasis. 

One of the arrows looses from an archer. It snaps toward Ollie before I even have a chance to react—where it skips off a plate on his chest and vanishes into a snow drift. 

“HEY!” Ollie objects, wide-eyed. “THEY JUST THREW SOMETHING AT ME!”

“Hold!” Biorne calls. 

But anger erupts within me. “Don’t you dare touch him!” I shout.

Images of my daughter flit through my mind, when she was still just a child, sitting on the playground and clutching a scraped knee as she looked up at me with tears in her eyes. The look begged me to help her make the pain go away. To protect her. 

Fire sparks in my palms at the thought. I’m shaking with fury. A hair's breadth away from unleashing everything I have on these people. Consequences be damned. “You will not harm this child.” 

“Is that a threat?” Alis demands. She lifts a staff. “They mean to attack us!”

“You just attacked us!” Mirzayael cries, taking a step forward. “Hypocrites, the lot of you! Claiming to want peace, but really you just want us dead. Or the next best thing—suppressed.” 

“WHY IS EVERYONE YELLING NOW?” Ollie asks. His tail swishes back and forth nervously. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

My heart clenches in fear. We can’t fight—not especially with Ollie here, where he can get hurt. It takes all my willpower to wrangle my instincts back under control. I breathe in, and when I breathe out I clench both fists, snuffing out the fire. 

“Ollie, get back inside,” I mentally tell him. “It’s too dangerous out here for you.” 

“Please,” I say, raising my now-empty palms. “We don’t have to let this escalate any further.”

Still, Ollie hesitates. “BUT ECHO SAYS YOU’RE IN DANGER!”

Echo? What is he talking about?

“Escalate?” Alis scoffs. “They’re going to set their dragon on us! Archers, at the ready!”

“Guards,” Mirzayael calls as well. “Arms up.” 

“Hold,” Beryl snaps, but the guards seem uncertain if they should listen to Beryl or Mirzayael.

No, no, this is all spiraling out of control too fast. But there has to be a way out. A solution—

“Biorne, please,” I say. “Call them off!”

But his face is grim. “Do you agree to restricting your dragon’s movements to below ground?”

“We can’t,” I say, crestfallen. “He needs to fly. He needs the fresh air. The food. He would waste away in the caves. Please understand!”

But Biorne only presses his mouth into a line. 

Alis smiles. “Archers—”

“Attack!” Mirzayael cries.