The Brikhvarnni nation is a curious one,” says professor Alamon, Dean of Sociology at Assandial University, with a twinkle of delight in his eye. “It was once a land of feuding clans, each one said to correspond to a different element that kindled within them. That is long over, and now the clans are divided into smaller Bloodclans and unified under the Dynasty of Growth.”

  To the question of why so little is understood about the dragonfolk, the professor laughed. “They aren’t xenophobes like many seem to think. Really, they are just private creatures secluded by the desert. They actually embrace outsiders who adopt their values. They even have a funny little name for them: Newts.”

  -Interview with Georg Alamon

  The Explorer’s Magazine

  Syrdin woke to cold weight strangling zhem from the inside. Zheir body bent itself, convulsing as is pushed water from zheir stomach, zheir lungs. It burned in zheir nose and throat, choking zhem all over again. Darkness rimmed zheir vision. Through it, zhe could see zheir gloves clenching red mud under water that rose past zheir elbows.

  As the darkness cleared and zheir eyes began to focus, zhe saw a reflection. It rippled between zheir arms, gasping and wheezing at zhem. The movement of the water erased zheir scars, leaving the smooth, cruel face of Syrrah, daughter of Seph. Her eyes glimmered back at Syrdin. Zhe splashed the reflection away.

  Syrrah is dead. She died.

  Zhe gathered zheir strength to look around. The sky was still overcast, the last drops falling across the water’s surface. Several trees loomed close around Syrdin with shreds of black linens tangled in the one nearest. Bark clung to zheir hood and satchel, which was still wrapped tightly against zheir back.

  Syrdin could remember the second stormwall hitting, losing grip, and nothing after. There had been no dream, no death. Zhe was lucky to be alive. Lucky to have been thrown into this cluster of trees.

  Zhe rose, zheir limbs heavy and half-numb from cold. Something moved in a tree. Syrdin spun to catch the flick of a striped tail disappearing into the folded leaves not a stone’s throw away.

  Zhe stilled. Panthrae. This was a pack animal. No doubt a family of them lurked in the flood, seeking weak or wounded creatures in the aftermath of the storm.

  At that moment, Syrdin was that creature.

  Zhe lowered, ready to spring.

  A blur of motion streaked out from a tree on zheir other side. Syrdin rolled toward it so it overshot, and then sprinted–or rather sloshed–away. Fear pushed zhem onward over leaden feet. The creature hissed frustration behind zhem. Syrdin heard wood creak above zhem as the other one caught up in the trees.

  As its claws scraped the bark for a pounce, Syrdin swung zhemself around a tree, out of the way, and then up into its branches. Zhe was met by a third, smaller panthrae. It reared back, showing its cruelly curved teeth in a snarl. Another branch offered a quick escape as zhe dodged its claws. From there, Syrdin could see zheir best hope: highground. A tall palm had fallen, propped high out of the water at a slant by the trees it crushed.

  Zhe jumped and was hit from behind. Pain ripped across zheir upper back, unprotected by the satchel’s bulk. Midair, zhe pulled a dagger and twisted. It pierced the creature’s shoulder as they both landed in the flood. Syrdin’s nose burned anew with water. Still, zhe rolled upright to see the one panthrae had backed away, howling in pain. Zhe did not wait for it to recover, or for the others to attack, but lunged toward the fallen tree.

  The three panthrae gave chase. Time seemed to slow, every splashing step an eternity. The panthrae leapt deftly between trees around zhem. Zhe gripped the dagger, ready for another attack. One pounced in front of zhem, intending to cut zhem off. Zhe threw the dagger to meet it in the air. It skimmed the cat’s side as it dodged in its flight. Though Syrdin missed, so did the panthrae. Zhe plunged past. I need a better weapon.

  In a few more steps zhe was among the debris piling at the base of the fallen tree. From it, zhe snatched a hefty stick and swung that at another panthrae as it tried to jump in front of zhem. It ducked back down.

  Zhe jumped onto the fallen log and ambled quickly to where it rose above the trees, wielding the stick like a club. A glance toward the water where zhe had tossed the dagger told zhem it was lost until these panthrae were gone.

  With zheir bag closed tightly to zhem, zhe couldn’t reach zheir sabre inside it. This stick, a few hidden daggers, and the high ground were all zhe had. Zhe tightened zheir grip on the makeshift staff. Time had called upon zhem to once again stand alone, and zhe would do it with all zheir courage. Zhe readied a swing.

  Just as Syrdin released the swing into a resounding thwack on the creature’s cheek, a cacophonous ringing erupted in the forest..

  The drakeman!

  Krid charged toward zhem with a roar, banging his sword on his shield to draw the creatures’ attention. Lagging behind him, Syrdin thought zhe saw a bit of waterlogged dress.

  A splash beneath zhem alerted them that a panthrae below had pounced. Zhe swung the stick to meet it in the air.

  Its wet fur smacked against the gnarled stick, the creature whimpering as it went down.

  Krid took a deep inhale. Syrdin thought zhe felt the air still. It was like the air before…

  Zhe lept on instinct–just in time as lightning shot from the Drakeman’s open mouth into the panthrae next to zhem.

  Thunder boomed as zhe splashed into the water away from the drake and girl, almost crashing into one of the the three panthrae as they fled from before Krid. With another guttural roar, he disappeared into the water-logged forest after them.

  Syrdin stared after the place he had disappeared. In addition to the burning scratch on zheir back, points on Syrdin’s skin stung, and zhe could smell charred wood behind zhem. Krid was Thunderkin. “Thank the shadows of Morinmar for that drake,” Syrdin muttered in Dark Elvish.

  “Syrdin have you seen Fenn?” It was indeed the delicate Flower Princess.

  Syrdin pulled zheir hood further forward and turned. “If I’d seen your boyfriend, you’d be seeing him now.” The news that he was missing was unwelcome. Zhe needed him alive as much as the rest of them. He was the key to returning, and very possibly to more.

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  “R-right.” Her shoulders sagged. Waterlogged, the girl looked a bit like a plucked bird, her hair stringing close to her head and her dress ripped and tied around her knees.

  Syrdin, finally throwing aside the hefty stick, set about dressing the cuts and bruises zhe’d collected. While zhe dabbed at the cut on zheir back, Gale offered no healing, and zhe did not ask–not from her. It was nothing Syrdin couldn’t handle alone.

  At last, Krid sloshed through the trees to rejoin them, growling with contempt. “Those beasts had better not come back if they know what’s good for them.”

  “I doubt any beasts will be coming near you after you just shot lightning from your throat.” Syrdin rinsed a cloth in the flood. The wound was shallow, but bled eagerly.

  “I agree. You should’ve mentioned you use magic!” Gale clasped her hands excitedly.

  “Magic?” Krid huffed. “That’s no magic. Drakemen who have the power have it by nature.”

  Gale blinked with her silly, stringy head cocked. “I see.”

  “What I see,” Syrdin cut in, “is that we are missing two people, a healer and the bookworm we need to end this trip. I think we’d better find them.” The less conversation zhe had to endure with Gale’s stupidity, the better. Everyone knew the dragonfolk came in several kinds, and that many, though not all, possessed an energized “breath:” fire, acid, lightning–to think of a few. But better to be thinking of how we find our real magicians.

  “And we’d better find them,” Syrdin said.

  Krid scratched his throat thoughtfully. As much as he wished to find the Newt, his brother, he couldn’t track someone in a flood. Scents and prints would be lacking. Krid seared out the concerns and pains that rose at the thought of losing such a kind, loyal friend. The three of them could circle for ages, but that would disregard Ferngal’s instructions, and she wasn’t a patient she-bird.

  Gale bit her lip before speaking her mind. “Do you think they were washed far? Syrdin was here. Maybe they’re nearby.”

  Krid shook his head. “Fenn knows my power. If they haven’t come at the sound of my thunder, then we won’t find them here. If they’re alive, they’ll know to continue in the direction we were told, as should we. Let’s return to where we weathered the storm and check our rations. We can continue from there.”

  “But what if they can’t move? What if they’re hurt or drowned?”

  Syrdin crossed zheir arms. “Hate to agree with her, but it’s not very heroic of you to abandon the folks who hired you.”

  He frowned. If you want to search, you should just say so. “I wasn’t hired; I came of my own will. And a warrior can’t protect them from storms. No, we should return to where we came from, unless one of you has a means to find them by magic. I can’t smell them in the water and calling won’t do any good if my thunder didn’t. The best we could do is make a few wide sweeps on our way.”

  Syrdin huffed but didn’t argue. Light shone through a singed hole in zheir hood as zhe turned zheir head away, sending a shutter through him. He hated to resort to his exhaled weapon when an ally was exposed. It churned up inside easily, but it lacked precision. In one burst, he could hurt his friends as much as his enemies, the tendrils of lighting penetrating their skin to burn them through. Today, Syrdin had dodged. If zhe hadn’t jumped… But zhe had.

  “Syrdin… you don’t happen to have the scrying crystal, do you?” Gale asked.

  “No.” Zhe stuffed wound dressings into zheir bag and shouldered it, ready to leave. “I left it with Mell.”

  “Maybe she’ll be able to find us with it.”

  “More likely she would find Fenn, first.” Krid pointed out. They seemed to be limited in how often they could use the thing, and Fenn was the most necessary for escaping this world. And perhaps the most vulnerable.

  The she-elf took a hefty breath and nodded. “That’d be for the best. She can heal herself and him, if either of them need it.” She was trying to stay optimistic, but her eyes were glassy.

  With that, Krid spread them out and led a few wide sweeps of the area where they’d found Syrdin before they returned, hoping Fate would provide. There was nothing. Syrdin remained vigilant, but the acrid scent of worry wafted from Gale, a reflection of Krid’s own feelings. But there was no telling if Fenn was alive or dead. If he was dead, they all were. He was the one who could open the Door out.

  Once returned to where they’d weathered the storm, he forced his mind to assess the situation. Syrdin’s rations were, of course, unharmed in a magic bag, but his were mostly soaked beyond repair and Gale’s were squished half to crumbles–edible still. They had two tents to work with, but inches of water covered the ground. Camping was not yet an option.

  A glance to the trees showed him a great shoth larger than a man. It eyed them from the upper canopy, its pick-like head cocked. It licked its beak. Krid stared it down, daring it to attack until it swooped away. Good. He hoped the leaves would unfold soon and provide them cover once again.

  “Looks like Ferngal’s minions are keeping an eye on us,” Syrdin noted. “Better not stick around after all.”

  Krid grunted. He hadn’t thought of the shoth as working with Ferngal, but the idea made him uneasy.

  Out of nowhere, Fair Gale burst into tears. She blubbered something completely unintelligible, followed by the loud wail, “Fenn!”

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Syrdin snapped, apparently understanding the speech. “Drowned now, eaten later, what difference does it make? We won’t know unless he and Mell show up. So stop crying. You’ll attract the attention of predators.”

  Gale only melted more into her tears. “He’s gone and I’m the only one who cares! Fenn!!”

  Krid’s gut twisted. She thought her lover hurt or dead. Of course she was upset. “Don’t say so..” Krid stepped toward her, but hesitated, unsure how to comfort a she-elf. “He’s been a brother to me, and if he’s dead, I’ve failed my oath to him.” He held back fierce emotion as spoke, remaining firm.

  “Then how can you move forward without him,” Gale whimpered, grasping at his arm. Her face leaked the sadness of the soft-skinned. He glanced to Syrdin for help and saw the whites of zheir eyes shift in an eye roll.

  Scowling zheir direction, he put a hand on Gale’s shoulder and patted it. Drakewomen don’t act this way. Fridana would’ve hacked a tree or kicked the water and demanded a search. Perhaps we should make another round. But if Fenn and Mell are on the move, are odds are poor.

  A large pair of wings swooped into a high tree, followed by a twin pair, even larger than the first. The strange shoth with the pick-head had returned with a friend. “Syrdin is right. Crying and pouting now puts us in more danger. We have to trust our friends to find us. For now, we should keep moving and avoid Ferngal’s anger.”

  She gasped and pushed away. “But…”

  “We can leave behind messages. Bits of fabric or paper for them to follow.” He pointed up into the waving palms at the two shoth. “But we should avoid being attacked.”

  She flinched at the sight of the great shoths, but her eyes had lightened at the idea of leaving trail. Quickly, she ripped off a stringing rag from her skirt and tied it to a tree. “Winds guide you back to me,” she whispered to it in Elvish. This phrase, Krid knew from an elven blessing Fenn had taught him.

  “Come,” he beckoned, “let’s move.”

  Anxious thoughts still battered the fringes of Krid’s mind, but he pushed them away. Fenn could be lost. Krid might have failed. But if he couldn’t protect Fenn, the least he could do was protect his betrothed.