No amount of magic could have saved them.
The dragon slammed into the wooden shacks near the South Pass - the middle-class, suburban part of Fjordheim nearest to the South Pass through the cruel Hallingdal mountains - and ploughed into the beggining of the tiaga, driving itself into the mud and pine needles as it came to a half. The conifers were sparse and here they came down, on the lower slopes among timber cabins braced against the rain and twisting oil lamps spewing golden light. Further up, the boreal forests began with throngs of evergreen trees that covered the mountains like mange.
Einar and the brat were thrown from dragon's back when it crashed, violently, and flailed helplessly into the air. Einar was flung against the base of a spindly spruce trunk, where he lay limp like a mule dragged out from the mines as he listened to the aching-stabbing of his ribs, his face and, now, his crumpled right arm. Everything was silent as he lay there - silent like the forest before the fox is shot - and the faintest wisps of coalsmoke washed over him.
A single eye flickered open, flitting for long enough for Einar to see the shape of his dragon rammed into the permafrost, its bronze haunches bunched up and strained with its wings rigid at strange angles. Panic broke like a cloudburst and rushed down his spine in a freezing torrent as he pushed up against the ground, leaning back onto his haunches before he forced himself to his feet. Step by unsteady step, he made his way to the dragon's flanks with dread coiling snake-like in the pit of his chest - please say I didn't break it, please say I didn't break it, please say I didn't -
"Hey! Thief! I told you this would happen!"
The other side of the dragon, the brat was staggering towards it, too, her form murky between the shapes of the trees and the mist. It was a miracle - or perhaps a curse -, he thought, that she hadn't simply snapped or broken apart upon landing, with her skinny arms and her toothpick legs and skeleton face perched on a skeleton neck. Her eyes glinted out of her ghostly frame like jewels out of a rusted crown, eyebrows furrowed down as he gaze turned to Einar.
"You!" he growled, clutching his arm and stepping forwards. Anger shuddered over his skin, pulling every muscle taut. "The dragon is mine. Back off, brat."
"My name is Kara!" she shouted, still advancing. "And I want the dragon! I did half the work helping you steal it, so I'm going to share it!"
"No, you're not," Einar said, keeping his voice low, controlled, and rasping as he approached the dragon's side.
He ran a hand along the metal plates, marvelling at the way they interlocked almost perfectly, and patted the wing as if to reassure it. Awe and pride warmed his stomach as he brushed his fingers over the smooth metal. It was cold and covered in a sheen of water in the chill of the night its the rain. Smoke drifted from its nostrils and, for a moment, it was alive in Einar's eyes. It was childlike in its innocence, how it lay trusting and blind to the world. The feelings such experiances gave him were almost alien; the insatiable urge to protect, to nurture and provide for - the kinds of instincts he associated with tender mothers rather than slum-hardened monsters.
Einar looked up in time to see Kara shook her head and her curl her hands into fists as if she - a pampered palace puppy - knew how to fight. From the way she stood, self-righteous and arrogant with her shoulders forced back and her back rod-straight, It was obvious she hadn't been injured during the crash. Lucky brat, he thought bitterly. The hairs on his arms crackled and stood up as he forced his magic down to his hands. Magic reminded him of the huge electric storms that gathered in the summer - it was lightning-like bursts of energy which everyone had the potential to make, but not everyone had the potential to train.
He had spent years training, and he was going to win the fight.
"I don't want to hurt you! Why can't we share it?" Kara's voice was strained and pleading.
She didn't move as Einar stared her down from just two bounds away. If he didn't end it quickly, the Royal Guard would end it for him. He knew they would be galloping up to the foothills on the backs of draft stallions dressed up in armour and the Queen's crest as they deliberated, kicking the horses faster up the hill through their foamy-mouthed exhaustion.
He slid his knife out of the pocket of his soot-stained overcoat and locked the blade into position with one fluid, well-practiced motion. His little knife was his first, instinctual, weapon - besides his own wit. Magic was draining, and was to be used as a last resort or wildcard during a fight - a rule Einar had learnt the hard way. Adrenaline was numbing the pain in his ribs, his face, and his arm and sending shivers of fear down his back and across his arms. This was going to hurt, of course, but so did everything else.
Einar lunged forwards and bought the knife across her torso, before delivering two slick cuts to her left arm: a warning. Kara stumbled backwards, her gaze flitting from the cuts on her arm to him. Einar allowed himself to smile - she was a silken-coated kitten taking on a bitter fighting dog - and he dived forwards again.
It was a dance he knew off by heart. So many times he'd slit throats and scuffled in the backalleys, teeth and claws bared - he'd left his humanity someplace lighter and less desperate - as he fought and, almost always, emerged as the victor.
This time, however, she leaned into his attacks and grabbed the wrist of his bad hand with all of the brash confidence of a teenager. Einar faltered as she twisted his arm ruthlessly and pranced backwards. Kara clapped her hands together as he began another attack, turning the palms of her hands toward him with a shout of triumph.
Einar was blown backwards over the dragon by the force of her magic. He skidded to a halt near an oil lamp, groaning involuntarily as the adrenaline ebbed and the pain returned. Sharp pain rocked his ribs whenever he breathed, his arm whenever it moved, and his nose. He shuddered and stayed on his stomach as he heard the threatening crunching of Kara's footsteps approaching. She held out a hand and motioned for him to stay put on the ground, crushed by his own humiliation and heart-wrenching fear.
Kara crouched beside him with the kind of smile a tiger wore while towering over a deer , fiddling with his knife as if it were some sick hunting trophy. She reached down with spindly spiders' fingers under the collar of his coat, bringing out the dragon's key on the worn, dirty string. An angry lump grew in Einar's throat as she fastened the necklace around her own bony neck.
She began to speak. "So, thief -"
"Einar," Einar hissed.
"Oh, so you have a name," she smirked, her voice still jovial, "okay, Einar. You're going to share everything with me - the dragon, your home, your way of life. Teach me what it is to be a person in this beautiful city... Or I'll hand you in to the Royal Guard myself - you know what they do to criminals -, and I'll make sure the dragon never sees day again. So, we have a deal?"
There wasn't much for Einar to consider. His mind reeled with questions - how was her magic so strong, how did she knew how to fight, why did she want to share everything, why, why why? - but he did know one thing, at least: how much he didn't want to be handed in to the Royal Guard.
Einar nodded sullenly.
Kara stood up and offered him a hand.
"Brilliant! Please, show me the way home."
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