Young Writers Society

Soren and Einar stared at her.

"Let's go!" Kara repeated, moving toward the door.

"Tomorrow, princess," Soren laughed, "there's plenty of time to get yourself killed tomorrow."

"Who put you in charge?" Einar growled, voice thick with the remnants of the pastry.

"I did." Soren said, "Einar, the princess can't be in charge and neither can you - you look like you haven't slept in a week. Relax for a night. It won't kill you."

"Where is the Da Vinci Society?" Einar insisted.

"Tomorrow. Meet me at the Hallingdalplatz."

"No," Einar said shortly, shaking his head. THe Hallingdalplatz was an aorta of a street, one of Fjordheim's biggest, that ran from the slums to the South Pass. It was always clogged with crowds of people, a riot of colour and sound as perminant as the endless summer sun. He couldn't possibly go there with the dragon - or the princess, for that matter.

"Well, then. How about somewhere more... underground?" Soren quirked an eyebrow. "How about my office? We can go from there. You can get in through the back."

"Fine. I'll be there at nine."

Soren winked as he made to leave, "see you there, Einar..."

Einar scowled as the door shut. The pastry had left a craving in his stomach, and the only thing he had in his cupboards was a stale half-loaf of bread. He could remember snatching it from the baker's stall in the market the Sunday before, while everyone poured out of the bleak churches in one cursed crowd.

He turned to Kara, "I have no food. So, you'll have to last out until tomorrow, or maybe a bit longer."

She shrugged and offered a half-smile. It wasn't particuarly friendly. He scowled.

"You're okay sleeping on the sofa, aren't you?" Einar's voice was strained as he kept it level, gesturing to the stained sofa. She seemed to notice his restraint and become more infuriatingly nonchalant. "I'll get a blanket..."

He laid his sheeps' wool blanket out on the sofa for her and muttered goodnight to her as he collected the dragon and shuffled toward his room. He left a final, half-growled warning:

"Don't run away. Don't leave. Stay here - if you leave and you take the key, I'll find you."

"Goodnight, Einar! Don't you worry about me leaving - I'm very interested to see how all of this will play out."

"Brat," he hissed, under his breath as he shut his bedroom door behind him. He left the dragon dormant, lying on the floor like an exhausted hound. His bed was old, creaky, and could do with a wash but it had never looked so inviting. He lay down without bothering to undress and shut his eyes.

Einar woke as soon as his clockwork alarm began to chime. His hair was a mess, his face was a mess, and his clothes were a mess - he paid none of any mind. He washed the sleep from his eyes and almost tripped on the dragon's coiled tail as it lay curled on the ground. He glanced into the cracked mirror behind him as he washed, wincing at the bruises dirtying his pale back with swathes of violent purple.

Worse still were the brands, the X shapes inflicted by white-hot pokers criss-crossed on his back, stamped from his shoulders to the tuck of his lower back. They scars were furiously disfigured, some faded white and others still angry red. A dreadful tremble shuddered up his spine. He could remember exactly how each branding had felt: how he had begged as he watched the glowing metal come near, and how he'd screamed as his skin had blistered. It was the punishment for petty crime - luckily for him, the only crime he'd been caught comitting.

Einar sighed into the mirror. He looked like a dying addict, all bone, gristle, and broken dreams, with his face crumpling in slowly and his skin dulling into nothing. At least, he noticed, the hellfire-glint in his eyes hadn't been extinguished.

Kara was still asleep on the sofa. She was snowing softly with a string of drool over her cheeks, and over his softest blanket. He wondered briefly what kind of wakeup she was used to; probably not the one she was about to recieve.

He shook her shoulders violently, swallowing down a wicked cackle as she jerked awake.

"Get up. We're leaving in five."

"Whaa--? It's still dark outside..."

"It's called a polar winter, brat. Get up."

And so she did. She stumbled around looking for her shoes and her cloak. Like him, she'd slept in yesterday's clothes. How common, Einar sniffed as he watched her get ready. She staggered like a blind old peasant. As soon as she had pranced out of the door and into the cobbled street by the canal, Einar locked the door and mounted the dragon in the shadows that hugged the walls.

They'd soared into the morning darkness with two of the dragon's huge wingbeats. Its crumpled wingtip had brushed the slates on the gables as they rose up. The cloud was thinner that morning, a wisp of grey lit up by dirty orange. Einar growled as Kara clung to him, throwing her arms around his waist again and throwing his focus off. The dragon threatened to roll beneath him.

Soren's hideout was a large, velvet-covered room in the back of an incense-drowned brothel. It was the kind of place that stunk of pheremones and condemned women, the kind of place that set Einar on edge. Even as he landed the dragon softly outside, in one of the backalleys no-one dared to go in the dark, the stench burned at his nose.

"So, this is a brothel." Kara looked the building up and down. It was no different to the other houses - stone, plaster, and timber with the word Open hung on the door. It didn't need to be obvious about its services: word of mouth was more than sufficient.

"Yes. We're not here for that. We're here for Soren. Damn creep has his office here."

"Hmm. I suppose you like coming, then?" There was a teasing undertone there.

"No. I dislike everone here - including Soren."

"You're a strange one, Einar."

"Aren't you ever quiet?" Einar sighed as he wound his body around the smallest possible gap in the door. The last thing he needed was one of the girls trying to tempt him again, not that it would ever work. It was just awkward.

"Are you -"

"Bring the dragon in!" Einar hissed, "there's a gap! C'mon!"

They shuffled through the crimson corridors and barged their way into the door with the pine-needle wreath on it, Soren's office, and bolted the door shut behind them. Immidiately, a canine shape stepped out of the smoky gloom, barking.

"Agamemnon, down!"

The wolfish elkhound strained against its instincts as it sat by Soren's heels, growling. It had never grown used to Einar's shiftiness, the stupid beast. Its eyes lolled dumbly in its face as it whined.

"I don't know why you keep that thing," Einar drawled, leaning against the dragon as Soren got up to greet him. He was in his business clothes - an awful plum tailcoat and an arrogant cravat, cuffs with too many ruffles and boots made from musk ox's hide.

"He's better than you'll ever be," Soren chuckled, "he smells better than you, too. And he's cleverer by the looks of it - you took the dragon with you? For Gods' sake, Einar."

Einar bristled, fists tightening, "I--!"

"Relax, please. For an inventor, you're incredibly high-strung--"

"I'll --"

"I've got the map. Look," Soren spoke softer as he straightened out the map, "look. Here, near the Palace. In the Nordfjord. That's where we'll find her."

"Her?"

"It's a little complicated. I'll explain in due course. Now, let's move before the sun comes up."