Vimos and Doravan loaded Shen’al with sacks of gold. It wasn’t as much as Mengor needed to get rid of, but it would pull the Hoarder’s gaze to Shyyda. Shen’al didn’t look Doravan in the eye.

  Their journey was long and slow, but thankfully peaceful. Doravan might have worried about bandits if he didn’t care about the fate of the gold–and if Shen’al weren’t the one carrying it.

  Amalla invited Doravan to switch her and ride her white gelding, but he declined.

  “Your dragon friend is awfully quiet today,” she said, watching Shen’al circle slowly overhead.

  Doravan looked up at the dragon as well. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t be surprised if he moves on soon.”

  “Moves on? Aren’t you his companion?”

  Doravan laughed bitterly. “No. I thought I was going to be, but he has never offered his magic to me.”

  Amalla mused. “I wonder why.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” he said. “I was hopeful for too long.”

  “I’m sure there’s a reason.”

  Doravan shook his head and found a new subject. “Why hold the feast in Shyyda? Couldn’t we have given them gifts in some less hostile country?”

  Amalla’s voice dropped. “There are no other countries with castles left. The Hoarder has destroyed them all.” She looked at Doravan. Her gaze was kind, but it still pierced his soul. “You know, if you did become a Dragon Mage, you could help defend Mengor. The Hoarder will come for us whether we are wealthy or not when there is nothing else for him to do. Find out what Shen’al needs from you.”

  “He hates that I’m a liar. I had to con my way into getting a meal for years, Princess. It’s second nature to me now.”

  “You just don’t let anyone else advise you.” She pointed at him. “Your dragon and I both tried to talk you into ways to solve your problems. Maybe just listen once in a while.”

  But your ideas were insufficient.

  He remained quiet for the rest of that day, and slept fitfully on the ground that night. He was no stranger to sleeping out in the dark, but it had not been in many years. And now he had the luxury of a sleeping roll. He once feared all night that someone would come take his life from him, that he would be left to fend for himself with the worldly wisdom of a child and the appetite of a young man.

  But when he woke up the next morning, he had a warm dragon slumbering next to him, and he was surrounded by the crimson and silver of Mengor’s royal tents.

  Shen’al walked beside him that morning, but they did not speak. Doravan thought about confronting him a few times, but the rest of the company was quietly focused, and he did not want attention.

  The road slowly devolved into a tiny dirt path, and that path disappeared into a thick jungle. One of the soldiers gave Doravan a knife, and Doravan began hacking through the thick, tangled brush. Their progress was slow, and the jungle was hot by midday, but Doravan just wanted to unload all of that gold.

  While he cut, he was struck with a realization. Amalla had tasked him with gaining the status of Dragon Mage. She said it would help her.

  He grinned to himself and chopped the bushes faster. She had practically fed him a way of gaining her trust and favor.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He switched off with some other soldiers chopping through the foliage. Amalla offered him a waterskin, which he accepted gratefully.

  The soldier at the front of the group swore loudly.

  “What is it?” Eremis called from inside of his carriage.

  The soldier raced through the now excited company. He bowed to Eremis.

  “The Ganton, Your Majesty,” he said. “It’s nothing but ashes.”

  Amalla furrowed her brow. “Soldier, The Ganton is an entire country. Surely you just mean the forest on their side of the river has burned down.”

  Doravan pushed through the line of panicking nobility and soldiers. Horses stomped restlessly, and their riders tried to calm them. He burst through the treeline, nearly straight into the raging Black River.

  Everything beyond the river, all the way to the horizon, was gray. Ashes floated down from the pale orange sky, and black smoke flew up in plumes in the distance. Doravan sank to his knees. He spotted a giant shadow skirting along the sky, spraying streams of fire on the earth.

  “Ka’ran’ere’geth,” Doravan whispered. The Ganton had earned the attention of the Hoarder, and now it was completely gone.

  Shen’al landed on the riverbank. His voice was a reverent, grave growl. “I suppose you were right, Doravan.”

  Doravan stood. He didn’t want to fight anyone about this anymore. “Mengor is going to become this.”

  “It won’t.” Shen’al tossed his head. “Why do you think I’m carrying all of this baggage? He’ll go to Shyyda instead.”

  Doravan surveyed the smoking wasteland before them and didn’t answer.

  Most of the bridges across the Black River were gone. They set up camp at the edge of the jungle, scattered across the sparse riverbank. Some soldiers began murmuring about going back, how it was impossible to get to Shyyda without a bridge.

  Doravan sat with his aching feet in the rapids. The Black River looked like the swirling smoke spreading through the sky. He wondered if he could hear screaming, dying people in the distance–or if he was only imagining it.

  He produced his journal from his sack of supplies and unlocked it. At this point, running away from Mengor might be a wise decision. He flipped through his coup plan; there would be no time to take over the country before the Hoarder came for it.

  Maybe he should start over somewhere else.

  Doravan scanned old sketches of the little villages of Mengor he had traveled to, the people he had swindled. No. He couldn’t do this anywhere else. He had a debt to repay to the country he had stolen from, to the people who had unknowingly fed his emaciated body and soul.

  Doravan slammed his book shut and stood. He turned and yelled into the camp.

  “Did anyone bring an ax?!”

  No one responded. Low voices sprang up and a few soldiers checked in their tents, but no one stepped forward.

  “We can’t build a bridge ourselves, Doravan,” Amalla said. “It would take weeks, even if we had an ax.”

  Doravan grabbed a sword from one of the soldier’s scabbards and headed for the nearest tree. He raised the sword and swung it, barely making a dent in the bark. But even with an ax, these ancient trees would take time. So he was patient.

  He swung and hacked again and again. No one else in the camp joined him. Some of the nobles packed their tents and soldiers, leaving right in front of him. His sword grew dull, and felt ready to fracture in his hands. He discarded it and turned to retrieve another.

  Shen’al landed in front of him.

  “You’re mad,” the dragon said. “But if you let me help you, I will.”

  Doravan laughed. “What are you going to do, pull these out by their roots?” He gestured to the tree he had barely made a dent in. “These are larger than you are.”

  Shen’al lowered his face until his green, crocodilian eyes stared right into Doravan’s. “Prove to me that this is what you really want. Cross The Ganton, and I will help you protect Mengor.”

  Doravan stayed quiet for a long moment. He wanted to give Shen’al an ultimatum, make him choose Doravan as his human companion or leave forever. But having a dragon to help with this, when no one else could do anything, might save Mengor.

  He gestured to the jungle. “What did you have in mind, Shen’al?”