The morning was cold, of course. It was almost always cold in the morning. After he woke—grumbling—and stretched the aches out of his back and sides and legs, the dragontamer scrounged up a few twigs and managed to revive his campfire. There was nothing to eat, again, so he took the letter from his shirt pocket, sharpened his pencil with his twin-bladed knife, and read what he had written so far. 

April, 1884

My dearest Juanita, my darling Isabella, and my delightful Alijandra, 

Hopefully, this letter finds you soon and all is well at home. I have found a dragon. It is a venomdrake, a female, and I believe it is lairing in the Great Mountains. It is a long journey to make on foot, and it will not be easy, but 

but I am determined to bring back a dragon.

I’ll worry about then when I get that dragon, he told himself.

I have been heading north and west. The days have been hot and I do most of my traveling at night. Water has been hard to find, but I am all right. Please don’t worry about me.

He wrote. 

I am now deep into the Uupohna lands, and I am very alone. I don’t know if I will ever manage to get this letter to you. Still, it comforts me to write. Sometimes I think it would be better if you and the girls had stayed in Ysparria and forgotten about me. Then at least you would not be living out here, so far from

Something coming, he realized. He reached for his holster, remembered again that the captain had taken his pistol, drew his twin-bladed knife from his boot. He slid to his belly and stuffed the letter and the pencil into his shirt pocket.

Phud phud phud phud phud phud phud phud

A black horse trotted out from behind a small stand of scrawny pines not far away. The horse had a pack, a saddle, bit and bridle, but no rider.

Isn’t this something? the dragontamer thought. I’ll tell the world. 

The horse stopped and began nibbling some of the brush growing near the pines. Slowly, the dragontamer got to his feet. Hands at his sides, he slowly approached the horse. “Hello, pretty boy,” he said, softly, gently. “Hello, pretty boy. Who’s the pretty boy? Yes, you are. You’re the pretty boy.”

The horse skittered several yards away, then stopped again. The dragontamer also stopped.

“It’s all right,” the dragontamer said. “It’s all right. Who’s the pretty boy? Who’s the good horse?” He took a few steps closer. The horse watched him, but didn’t move. 

“Who’s the pretty horse?” the dragontamer asked. “Hello. Hello, pretty boy.”

The dragontamer slowly moved closer. He squatted and plucked a handful of long, skinny spinegrass, and carefully plucked the sharp tips off before offering it to the horse.

“Who’s the good boy?” the dragontamer asked, as the horse’s great round nostrils went open and shut, open and shut, sucking in the scent of the grass the dragontamer held. “Do you want some? Would the pretty horse like some grass?”

The horse plodded forward a step. Then another. The dragontamer held still. “Nice grass for such a pretty horse.”

The horse’s ears twitched as it considered. Then it took another two steps closer and opened its mouth—impossibly small for an animal so large—and took the grass.

“There’s a good boy,” the dragontamer said. He held still as the horse ate from his hand. Then, very slowly, he squatted down and picked another handful of grass. The horse didn’t wait for him to pull off the sharp tips.

“Easy, pretty fellow,” the dragontamer said, as the horse gobbled down the grass. “You’ll poke the inside of your mouth.” But the horse paid him no mind. It lowered its head and ate more grass at the dragontamer’s feet. 

“Good boy,” the dragontamer said, patting the horse’s neck. “Good boy.” Holding the horse’s reins, he examined the pack and saddle. Ysparrian, all right. Isn’t that something? How much you want to bet, boss, that this horse used to belong to one of Captain FancyHat’s boys?

The dragontamer looked around. No sign of the red-jacketed Ysparrian horsemen.

Still holding the reins, the dragontamer passed in front of the horse, going around to the other side of the animal. “You’re in good shape, aren’t you, pretty boy? Yes, you are.” But what’s this? he wondered. 

A big patch of something dried and matted on the horse’s flank. Blood, of course. A closer look showed that it wasn’t from the horse.

I’ll tell the world, the dragontamer thought, as he mounted his new horse. 
 
 

“We found them yesterday,” Major Cerikov said. “At the north end of the site. Spying on us, of course. We shot two of them right away, but the others fled on horseback. Our own cavalry pursued and shot three more. The other three tried to make a last stand, but we wounded them all and brought them back. Two didn’t last through the night—I had some of the natives cremate them. The last one won’t talk.”

“And you haven’t been able to pry anything useful out of his head?” General Porev asked, turning to Onisimev.

“It doesn’t work like that,” the fat seer whined. “I can’t just look inside his mind and pull out what we want to know. Reading thoughts is more like...like fishing in a river. You have to be patient and see what you can catch as it goes by. Most of his thoughts are about how hot he is.”

“Hmm.” General Porev frowned and looked around. This was the first time that he had come here, to the work site, almost four miles from the camp by the river where most of his army of two hundred and fifty thousand waited. This was the place that Onisimev and his charts had said to dig for the yellow stones. And so, dig they had. Or rather, the natives—hundreds of them, chained together and closely overseen by Dhyuzmanii soldiers with rifles—dug, shoveling deep pits in the desert floor, raising huge mounds of red dirt and gray gravel and thousands and thousands of dusty brown stones.  

“Well, let’s take a look at him,” the general said, taking a few steps towards the only pit that had soldiers standing guard by it. They bowed; he nodded. While one pointed his rifle into the pit, the other two lowered a thick hemp rope. After a moment, they started hauling it back up, straining under the effort in the hot, late afternoon sun.

An Ysparrian cavalryman appeared, holding onto the end of the rope. His red jacket and hat were gone—taken by the Dhyuzmanii—and his shirt and pants were dusty and stained brown with dried blood. His head and ribs were bandaged, his face was swollen and had many scabbed-over cuts, and his hands were chained together at the wrists.  

“Captain Altamirano, I am General Mitrofan Porev of the Fourth Expeditionary Force of Her Highness Sofya III, Czarina of Dhyuzman,” the general said, in Ysparrian. “I will speak with you in my quarters.”

Captain Altamirano said nothing.

General Porev turned to Major Cerikov and addressed him in Dhyuzmanii. “Please see that the Captain is bathed and given a change of clothes. Have the doctor check his wounds. Then have my cook prepare two meals. I will be writing a report and do not wish to be disturbed until the Captain is ready for me.”

“As you say, sir,” the major replied, bowing.

General Porev turned back to Captain Altamirano and resumed speaking in Ysparrian. “Major Cerikov will make sure you get a bath and some decent clothes and better medical attention. Then you will join me for dinner. We have much to discuss.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Captain Altamirano replied. “I won’t talk.”

“Perhaps,” General Porev said. He nodded to Cerikov, who saluted, then led Captain Altamirano and the three soldiers away.

Captain Altamirano made no reply.

“He’s very stubborn,” Onisimev said. “He won’t tell you anything.”

“He already has,” General Porev replied. “And he’ll tell me more, later. At least I’ll have gotten something from the trip out here from camp. Now,” he said, “I want to know why we haven’t found any yellow stones.”

“The charts say they should be here,” Onisimev replied. 

“Your charts are in error,” General Porev said. 

“My charts are not in error,” Onisimev insisted. “I—” 

“You have not recovered one stone yet,” General Porev said. “Over a week of digging, and not one.”

“We’ll find them,” Onisimev. “We only just started. Anyway, it’s not my fault: Cerikov needs to get these lazy natives to work harder. But my charts are right, and—”

“Your charts are obviously wrong.”    

“If you don’t like my charts, why don’t you ask your pet native where to find the stones?” Onisimev asked, pointing to Chief Nan-tan-ah, who waited, shackled and guarded by two soldiers, a few yards away. 

“Don’t take that tone with me,” the general replied. “Return to your quarters and work your spells or hold your readings or whatever it is you do until you learn where we can find those stones. We’re behind schedule.” 

“Yes, General,” Onisimev said, bowing his head curtly.  

“You’re dismissed,” General Porev said.

“Yes, General.” The fat man bowed his head again and turned away. 

The general beckoned for the Uupohna chief to be brought to him. Nan-tan-ah bowed his head and waited to be addressed.

“Your people are very hard workers,” General Porev said, in Ysparrian. “They have been digging for many days and nights, but still we have not found any of the yellow stones.”

“There are few of those stones in the Uupohna lands,” Nan-tan-ah said.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” General Porev asked.

“Would you have believed me?” Nan-tan-ah replied.

“No,” the general admitted. 

“I told you that those stones are evil,” Nan-tan-ah reminded him. “This land is good. Good people live here. If you want to find those stones, you’ll have to go to evil lands, where evil people live. There, you will find plenty of them.”

“And where would that be?” General Porev asked.

Chief Nan-tan-ah pointed south and east. “That way. Where the Diheneh live.”

“The Diheneh—another nation, I assume?” the general asked. Nan-tan-ah nodded. “Doubtless, given the scarcity of food and water in this area, your people and theirs are bitter competitors. Enemies, even. Sending my men into the Diheneh lands would be doing your people a tremendous favor.”

“Yes, we are enemies, but it is because the Diheneh are evil,” Nan-tan-ah said. “We would share our sheep and crops with them, but they would rather steal all of them. They kill our women so that there are fewer Uupohna babies. Their elders are witches. In war, they bring evil spirits—dragons, you would call them—out of the ground and give them prisoners to eat, and send them into battle.”

“Dragons?” General Porev asked. “Only Ysparria has dragons.”

“The Diheneh have always had dragons,” Nan-tan-ah said. “They taught the Ysparrians the secret of dragontaming.” 

“Did they? Interesting.” General Porev pondered this. “But your people don’t have dragons, it seems,” General Porev said. “Else they would have used them against us already. How is it that you have managed to fight off the Diheneh all these years?”

“The Uupohna are better warriors,” Nan-tan-ah said. “And the gods bless us.”

“Hmm,” General Porev said. “We’ll discuss this more, later.”

“What about my wives and children?” Nan-tan-ah asked. “I have served you faithfully, as I swore when your men took our village. Let them go, General. It is not easy for me to beg, but if I must, I will.”

“It’s true that you have served the Czarina well,” General Porev said. “Perhaps soon I can release them, to return to your village. I must think about this.”

Chief Nan-tan-ah bowed his head in the Dhyuzmanii way. “As you wish, General.”

Accompanied by his guards, General Porev went back to the tent they had set up for him here at the work site. The guards assumed their posts outside while he went in, where it was cooler. Inside was a bed; his trunk of clothes and personal items, which they had brought from the main camp; a small table with a mirror, a basin, and pitcher for washing; a few wooden chairs for meetings with his men; and another chair and a small writing desk. He removed his hat and long brown coat—the uniform of a Dhyuzmanii officer—and hung them on his coat rack. He poured some water from the pitcher into the basin, then dunked his hands and splashed his face, rinsing off the red dust that seemed to be everywhere in this land.

He sat down at the writing table and noticed that someone had left a packet of papers for him. He opened it, and quickly read it. It was the monthly report from Colonel Nykonov, back at the base by the shore, many miles away, across the Great Mountains. The report told General Porev how many tons of lumber they had cut down from the forest; how many tons of fish, and how many seals, and how many otter pelts they had taken from the bay;  how many more native villages they had raided; how many Korakahu had been taken as slaves, to cut down the rest of the forest, or help build Dhyuzmanii settlements, or simply to be sent, on one of the great steamships that lay at anchor, to work for the rest of their lives in the mines and fields of Dhyuzman, far across the great, grey ocean. 

General Porev folded the report and laid it on the desk. The first phase—the landing and establishing a beach head—was successful. It was here, at the second phase, that there were problems.

He checked his shirt pocket and took out the small watch he kept there. Checked it. Put it back. He reached inside his shirt for another, secret pocket. He carefully unfolded the letter he had put there and read what he had written so far.
 

April, 1884

My dearest Ekaterine, 

How are you, my darling? What a wretched place this is. The shore where we landed was beautiful, and reminded me of home: high cliffs and tall green trees, and clean air. I wish I could have stayed at our camp there and overseen building the colony. 

Since we crossed the mountains, the land has become ugly. The desert is searing hot in the day and colder than I had expected at night. There is not as much sand here as I thought there would be, but there is a great deal of dirt and dust. I have set up a main camp by one of the few rivers to be found, and a separate work camp a few miles further east, where the natives dig for stones we need as part of the Czarina’s plans. 

The seer they assigned me to find the stones is incompetent. His magicks have taught him nothing of use to me, and we have thus far found no stones. Merevoff told me before I left that the reason why this idiot was sent was because he had fallen out of the Czarina’s favor: something about an incident with the Czarina’s youngest nephew. If he cannot find any stones, I will send him back to Dhyuzman, where he will, no doubt, wind up in a work prison. 
 

I lose at least a dozen men a day to the heat, or to venomous snakes (or spiders, or scorpions, of which there are many), or to accidents while traversing the terrain. It seems that everything in this land is dangerous. For example, there is a spiked plant, a type of bush, whose leaves are so strong, and the tips of the leaves so sharp, that one of my junior officers was killed when he fell off his horse onto one of these plants. I’m told that the natives use the tips of the leaves for sewing needles. 

The desert natives themselves are curious to me. They live in small villages of several large, extended families, several generations all living together in houses they make out of mud and straw. There is apparently water deep underground, which they access through natural wells, and they use it to irrigate small fields of corn and beans and cotton. They raise sheep and goats, and make all their own goods or trade for items with neighboring tribes (when they aren’t fighting with them, that is). It is a primitive life, and they have no machines, no writing, seemingly little government: each village might have a chief, but they have no overall ruler and no armies.
 

 
Subduing the natives is not always easy. When we can locate and surprise a village, battles are short and our casualties are negligible: the natives have a few rifles that they have either bought or stolen from the Ysparrians, but most of them use bows and knives and axes. The difficulty is dealing with them when they have the element of surprise. They are fond of carrying out swift raids at night, from several directions at once, killing a few of our men, stealing supplies, and vanishing back into the desert before we can react. My men find this style of warfare cowardly and frustrating, but I must admit that it can be effective. My response has been to increase the numbers of sentries at night and to conduct pony-mounted patrols. We have had varying degrees of success.

One of the guards outside called to him. “General, the prisoner is here.”  

“Send him in,” General Porev replied. He folded the letter and put it back in his secret pocket. He put the pen and ink bottle in the desk drawer, and stood to receive his guest.  
 

Evening was coming, and the dragontamer had found a good place to camp. After weeks of walking, he was delighted to re-discover the speed and ease of riding. He stopped the horse, dismounted, tied the horse’s reins to the branch of a nearby tree. How far do you think we went today, boss? he wondered.

I don’t know, but we’re that much closer to the ‘drake’s nest. 

You still sure that’s such a good idea, boss? he asked himself, as he unsaddled and unpacked the horse. Captain FancyHat said an army was on its way: does it really make sense to go riding right towards it? And even if we avoid getting spotted by that army, there’s still the problem of finding the right mountain that the venomdrake is perched on, and climbing up it, and—oh, by the way—getting close enough to capture it before it spots us and swoops down—like it did last time—and kills us instead of just trying to scare us. Wouldn’t it just be better if we took Captain FancyHat’s suggestion and went home, already?

The dragontamer pondered that for a moment.

Nice horse like this will make going home easier than sweating on a June afternoon. We could be back in a few days, and then—

And then what? he asked himself.

And then we pack them all up and get them out of here, boss, like FancyHat said. Take them somewhere they’ll be safe.

Take them where, exactly? 

Same place—wherever that is—that you intend to sell this venomdrake , once you catch it. IF you catch it.

The dragontamer untied the horse and led it down to the shallow arroyo nearby, where a trickle of water, no wider than his hand and as deep as his shortest finger, slowly wound its way south. The horse lapped water greedily.

Did I mention the fact that all you have to protect yourself from said venomdrake and said invading army is your shadowknife, boss? Just thought you might need a reminder. 

I can’t go back without money, the dragontamer told himself. I can’t. 

Dragontaming has not exactly been lucrative, boss. Not since we left Ysparria.

“I can’t do anything else,” he muttered. “Our Mother knows, I’ve tried.”

“Our Mother knows?” Thought you didn’t believe in that superstition. Juanita would be proud of you for finally finding religion.

Shut up. 

The horse finished drinking. “How was that?” the dragontamer asked. “Good? Glad to hear it. Did you leave some for me?”

He led the horse out of the arroyo and tied it to the tree again. Then he got his canteens and went back to the arroyo and hunched down. He waited patiently as the stream filled each canteen. 

We’ll have to take a look and see what our Ysparrian friend left us in his pack for our dinner, the dragontamer thought. For what seemed to be the hundredth time today, his tongue poked the still-sore hole where one of his molars was a few days ago, before his encounter with Captain Altamirano and the other horsemen. If our Ysparrian friend was the same one that lost our tooth for us, I’m hoping he’s dinner himself right now for our good friends, the buzzards. 

He finished filling the canteens, stood up, and headed back to his camp. Lots of wood around here: should be easy enough to get a fire going, and then—

The horse was gone. So were his newly-acquired packs, and the gear he had brought from home.

No, no, no, no! he thought. He looked around. Honest to good gods, I—

Something crashed into the back of his head, and for a moment, the world disappeared. When it came back, two heartbeats later, several rough hands were yanking him off the ground. Another hand grabbed his hair and jerked back his head.

Fhr—he began, but the Dhyuzmanii soldier smashed him again with his rifle butt, this time in the face, and the world went away for quite some time.
 

“Right there,” General Porev directed, pointing to a spot near his writing desk. Soldiers brought in a small table and two chairs. The cook held a covered silver platter. General Porev’s servants hurriedly set the table with a white linen tablecloth and napkins, white porcelain plates, silver knives and forks, and crystal wineglasses. 

While the servants poured the wine, two soldiers brought in Captain Altamirano, who had been bathed and changed into clean clothes. His hair still wet, he waited, unmoving, his hands shackled. General Porev smiled. “Thank you for joining me, Captain. Please, sit,” he said. 

Captain Altamirano considered this for a moment, then complied. 

“I hate dining alone,” Porev said, as he sat. “As long as I may have your word, one officer to another, that you won’t try something that will only accomplish you getting killed, I’ll have those chains removed.”

Captain Altamirano said nothing. 

“All right?” General Porev asked. “Your word, then? No stupidities?”

Captain Altamirano. “You have my word.”

“Thank you.” He turned to the guards and spoke to them in Dhyuzmanii. “The Captain will not need those chains any longer.” Taking a key from his belt, one soldier freed Altamirano’s wrists. 

The cook presented his meal: roasted boar cuts with mushrooms and potatoes, in a brown sauce. “Wonderful,” the general said, nodding at the cook, who bowed deeply several times. The servants carefully ladled food onto both men’s plates and tucked napkins under their chins. “You’re dismissed,” the general said; the cook and the servants bowed and left. “Some privacy, please,” the general ordered, and the guards took up positions outside the tent.

“Please, feel free to begin,” General Porev said, cutting into a slice of boar. “I’m sure you must be hungry. It’s a recipe from my own province in Dhyuzman, Khyar-zyn. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? A beautiful place, with plenty of forests and rivers. Not at all like here.”

Captain Altamirano did not move. 

“I asked you to dinner in the hope that we could discuss our situation, one gentleman to another,” General Porev said, around a mouthful of food. “What happened to you and your men was a mistake—a mistake which we cannot undo. All we can do now—you and I—is make sure that we do not compound our error. Given the already-existing tensions between our nations, this…misunderstanding must not escalate into further hostility. In times such as the one we find ourselves in, wars have started over smaller incidents.” He nodded at the captain’s plate between them. “Won’t you have some?”  

Captain Altamirano said nothing.

“Were you and your men sent to learn more about us, or did you just happen to come across our expedition?” General Porev asked. “I’m strongly inclined to believe the former, as you’re hundreds of miles from Ysparria. Well, I’ll be glad to tell you about our operations. We have nothing to hide.” He helped himself to a long sip from his wineglass. 

Captain Altamirano made no reply.

“Have you ever seen any of these?” General Porev asked. He reached into his pocket and took out the small, dusty yellow stone that Onisimev used to carry in a double-locked box. “It’s the reason for our expedition.” 

Captain Altamirano continued to stare straight ahead.

“Centuries ago,” General Porev continued, “our seers divined that on the ‘other end of the world’ from Dhyuzman—in other words, this continent—is a source of great power. What that source actually is, no one knows—the seers were never able to determine what properties it had, what it looked like, how one could harness it, what one could do with it. 

“Since that time, Dhyuzmanii explorers have been looking for that source of power. Eight years ago, one of them traveled this area and traded with the natives. He brought back this stone as a curiosity for our Czarina. Our seers examined it, and discovered that this stone does indeed have some extraordinary properties.” General Porev leaned closer. “This stone, and others like it, might be the source of that power. To be used for good, of course,” the general assured him.

Captain Altamirano made no reaction.

General Porev set the stone in the middle of the table, next to the platter of food. Then we went back to his meal. After a few minutes, he looked up again from his plate.

“Captain, your food is getting cold,” General Porev pointed out.

Nothing. 

“A shame,” General Porev said. “You’re denying yourself an excellent meal, even if the meat is a bit too salty. But that’s to be expected, being so far from home.” General Porev helped himself to more sliced boar, mushrooms, and potatoes from the silver platter. 

Captain Altamirano made no move to join him. His gaze flickered to the stone on the table.

“You’re curious, of course,” General Porev said. “Please, feel free.”

Captain Altamirano reached out his hand. Stopped. Put it back on his lap.

General Porev took another sip of wine, went back to his meal. “So far,” he said, “we have not been able to find any more. Do you know anything about these stones?”

No response. 

General Porev put down his knife and fork. “Captain, I was looking forward to telling you that as soon as you were sufficiently rested, you would be given clothes, a horse, and provisions, so that you could return to Ysparria. I have given you information to take back, to so that your men did not die for nothing, and to assure your superiors that this expedition is no threat to Ysparria. But I cannot let you go without something in return. You must—”

“Don’t patronize me, General,” Captain Altamirano said, quietly. “I’ve seen your army. And you know I have, too.” 

“No,” General Porev said, “I did not know. But I suspected. You know what has to happen, then?”

Captain Altamirano said nothing. 

The general finished his meal. Pushed his plate to the side. Finished his wine. Captain Altamirano waited.
 
 

When the world came back to the dragontamer, he found himself draped across the saddle of a horse, feet dangling off side of the horse, arms dangling off the other. He tried to lift his head and found that his face was somehow stuck to the saddle, as if it had been glued there. He tugged—gently, because tugging hurt his face and his neck—and there was a quiet crackling sound as whatever was sticking his face to the saddle came free. He lifted his head and peered down at the saddle and realized that what had stuck his face there had been his own dried blood.

White glimmers of light appeared at the edge of his vision, and the world decided to tilt crazily and begin spinning. The dragontamer put his head back down on the saddle and closed his eyes until the world stop spinning and tilted back to its original position.

After a long time—how long, he didn’t know—he opened his eyes again. It was dark, and the horse was plodding through the desert. The rope around his wrists squeezed like a python. It hurt, and the prickly ends of the rope fibers scraped and chafed his skin. The rope was so tight that he couldn’t move or even feel his hands: they were two pieces of meat flapping at the ends of his arms. 

Though he could only feel them, not see them, his feet seemed to be stuck together, too. If they were tied together—which he assumed they were—at least his boots had kept that rope from cutting off the blood to his feet. We have so much to be thankful for, don’t we boss? he asked himself. 

All around him were the sounds of other horses walking along. Slowly, so as not to provoke the world into spinning again, he turned his head to the right. A Dhyuzmanii soldier in a high collared uniform, his rifle resting on his lap, rode a shaggy pony. He saw that the dragontamer had awakened, but said nothing. 

The dragontamer slowly turned his head to the left and saw three more Dhyuzmanii ponymen in front of his horse. Past them, not far away, were the small lights of several campfires. 

No point in asking where we’re going, boss, the dragontamer told himself. I doubt any of these gentlemen speak any language you know. He looked down, looked right, looked left again. Well, we found our horse. Isn’t that grand, boss? Who was right about the going home idea? 

Shut up.

As they went down narrow paths out of the hills, the dragontamer saw that there were more Dhyuzmanii ponymen with them: five in front, and three behind, and the one right in front of him had his pack. How much you want to bet that that fellow has your shadowknife, boss? Maybe your letter, too. Doesn’t look like you’re going to get to send it. 

The camp was lit by torches on poles, and small fires. They entered the camp, picking their way past tents and around gaping pits in the ground. What is all this? he wondered. They starting a mine or something?

When they came to the middle of the camp, they stopped, and the Dhyuzmanii dismounted. Now the fun really begins.

They pulled him off his horse and set him on his feet. He looked down. Right you were about the rope around the ankles, boss. He swayed, tried to lean back the other way, lost his balance, and for a terrifying moment, the ground rushed up at him. Then several hands caught him and the soldiers pulled him up straight, and they laughed. He made a smile flicker across his face, forced a weak chuckle out of his mouth, but inside, it was Don’t laugh at me you stupid goatfaces I’ll put my fist right up your noses I’d—hoy, that’s Captain FancyHat. What’s going on?

A Dhyuzmanii officer and two soldiers were leading Captain Altamirano—also in a Dhyuzmanii uniform—from a big tent nearby. The captain glanced over and saw the dragontamer, but said nothing. What’s he doing here? the dragontamer wondered. The mop heads got him, too? But then three of the ponymen turned the dragontamer around, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him away.

The ponymen brought the dragontamer to a campfire and plopped him down—not gently—next to it. One of the ponymen sat down behind the dragontamer and wrapped both of his wiry arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Another ponyman straddled the dragontamer, sitting on his legs so that the dragontamer couldn’t move those, either. The third ponyman had taken the dragontamer’s knife and put it on his belt. He unsheathed the knife and came closer. 

This is the part where they torture you, boss, he told himself. When they get tired of that, they kill you. Just so you know. 

The dragontamer tried to wiggle and jerk away, but the ponyman with the knife grabbed a fistful of the dragontamer’s hair. With a quick flick of the ponyman’s wrist, the knife chopped off the lock of hair, the two blades scraping the dragontamer’s scalp, drawing blood. OwowowowowowowOH HONEST TO GOOD GODS THAT HURTS, the dragontamer thought. Don’t make a sound don’t a sound, he told himself. Don’t let em know how much it hurt don’t give them the pleasure owowowowowauuuugghh

The ponyman continued this rough haircut, shaving the dragontamer, cutting him each time he lopped off more hair. Then the man sitting on the dragontamer’s legs took the knife from the other ponyman while that fellow grabbed and held still the dragontamer’s head. Gods damn you gods damn you I’ll kill you you ugly goatfaces, the dragontamer thought. As the man sitting on his legs leaned in close with the knife, the dragontamer spat in his face.

The ponyman calmed wiped his face with his hand, then grabbed the dragontamer by the throat, squeezing hard with a hand that felt like it could crush pebbles. Roughly—very roughly—the man hacked off the dragontamer’s beard, scraping and cutting him with each swipe.

When they were done shaving him, the three ponymen stood up. The dragontamer flopped over into the dirt, blood trickling from several small cuts on his face and chin and jaw. Then the man whose face the dragontamer had spat in stomped on the dragontamer’s back, and this time, the dragontamer couldn’t help but scream.

The dragontamer writhed on the ground. You’re a dead man a dead man a dead man iffn I get hold of you you wormy whor—

Something somewhere, not far away, made a popping noise—pocpocpocpoc. The ponymen turned to listen.

Rifles, the dragontamer thought. Who’s shooting?

The ponymen hauled him to his feet. 

Altamirano, the dragontamer realized. They just shot Captain FancyHat. 
 

General Porev sat at his writing desk, the wine bottle beside him. He had taken the pen and ink bottle from the desk drawer and was hunched over the letter that he kept in the secret pocket of his shirt.
 

Tonight, I interrogated an Ysparrian officer who had been spying on our work site. He had resisted my men’s previous efforts, so I tried persuasion. He rebuffed my offers of hospitality and fellowship. Though I showed him the stone, he would not let his curiosity get the better of his discipline. I offered to let him go, but he saw through my ploy. 

In the end, he finally told me what I had suspected: that he had seen our army, and he knew that we were not merely on an “expedition.” I don’t know why he told me. Perhaps he had tired of the charade. Perhaps I had offended his pride. In any event, once I knew what he knew, I had no choice. I could not allow him to leave, and could not take the chance that he would escape. It is a shame. He was a good soldier. 

General Porev picked up the wine bottle. It was too light. 
 

I miss you and our boys. Yesterday, it was exactly seven months since our fleet left Tsi-Kamanuv; seven months since you and I said goodbye. I received your letter from December, but nothing since then. I can only hope that you are receiving my letters.

I hate this place. I hate being away from you, and Timofei, and Lyov. I wish I had had the courage to turn down this assignment, though it would have meant the end of my career. I am trapped here, a prisoner in this hellish place on the other side of the world from you, and I have no idea when, or if, I will return.

General Porev put down his pen. Carefully, he folded the letter in four. And then, very carefully, he tore it into tiny pieces.
 
 

© Kenton Kilgore, December 2007