Insignia, page 30
Sixty-One
Stumbling in the shallow surf, Ignis carries Stirling sprawled over his back up onto the sandy beach of the Uviktiland.
They are far from the port town of Vistjaldenne, the faint flickering in the distance of the large torches in the harbor. The Winged Cavalry is still in pursuit, believing they are hidden in the clouds since their looks outs on top and bottom have had no visuals of the perpetrator. As they move away from the island, they have more sky to cover, lowering their chances of finding Stirling as the distance between each member grows.
“We still need cover.” Stirling croaks, his throat sore from the salt water and coughing. His teeth chatter as he continues to speak, “Let’s at least make it to the tree line before we rest. We’re lucky there won’t be any dogs or foot soldiers this time, not until they are granted permission from the king of this land.”
Ignis manages an exhausted nod, his feet slowly dragging through the sand leaving behind a trail.
Barely passing the first trunks, Ignis collapses to the ground, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. His scales and feathers are already beginning to dry from the short amount of time they’ve been on land.
Stirling, with the harness still attached to him, tumbles off Ignis onto the soft dirt. His clothes are soaked through and clinging to his skin. His body vibrates as he tucks his knees into his chest, pulling himself into a fetal position.
“It’s—so—cold,” Stirling says through his shutters, his jaw locking up with the convulsions of his body.
“A fire won’t be a good idea,” Ignis reminds him.
“I know.” Stirling agrees, knowing it will give away their location.
Forcing his shivering body to unravel, Stirling peels himself apart. Instead of only unlatching the harness from him he undoes his entire belt instead. His trembling fingers, pruned and numb, make it difficult to take off. He slides it off, letting it plop to the ground beside his hips.
Slowly rising to his feet, Stirling pulls off his goggles sitting crooked on his face, and tosses them beside the harness. Removing his cloak, he slings it over a thin tree leaning over in the shape of an arch. Reaching over his head, he grabs the back of his collar and tugs off his tunic and undershirt.
“Why are you doing that? Don’t clothes keep humans warm?” Ignis asks, his head drowsily lying on the ground.
“Clothes take too long to dry. They’ll keep me wet and colder longer,” Stirling explains. He holds his tunic out in front of him and rings it, twisting the fabric free of water.
A painful throb pulsates through his hands as the skin stretches over his knuckles. Almost dropping the fabric, the pain across the back of his hands becomes apparent. Spreading from the bottom half of his fingers down to the back of his hands are severe burns. His skin was seared off, leaving oozing red with the edges singed white. It is as if his hands waited for him to notice before releasing the full extent of his pain now radiating up his forearms. His grip loosens with the shock of his wounds and the tunic slips from his hands. His hands become rigid, stuck in the open position.
Stirling is brought back to the day Ignis wounded his arm. He remembers the white-hot pain and the sight of the glowing iron pressing against his skin, melting it closed. How he could smell the cooking skin. His stomach knots, making him want to puke.
“You okay?” Ignis asks curiously, tilting his head.
“No, I got burned pretty badly. Even the air touching it hurts. I’m guessing it’s from when you had the fire showdown and when that happened.” Stirling says, nodding his chin at the charred harness sprawled on the ground, the front of it eaten away by flames.
“I took most of the blast, and I’m okay,” Ignis says.
“You also have naturally armored skin,” Stirling points out. “Uagh.” He winces as he leans down to pick up his tunic. His hands are unforgiving of any movements he makes.
He semi-shakes some of the dirt loose and tosses it over the tree with his cloak.
Stirling breathes, readying himself for the pain he knows he’s going to endure. Careful not to bump the back of his hands, he slowly drops his trousers down to his medium-length braies that come to the middle of his thigh. Stirling curses and pulls his arms in close as the pain refuses to subside.
“I guess we’ll get some rest for now, and we’ll start moving by foot at dawn. We’ll have to stay on foot for a while until we think it’s safe to fly again.” Stirling says, shuffling his shivering body back to Ignis. “I wonder if any of the stuff made it.”
Stirling tenderly unties the water-logged bags, rolled hides, and blanket off Ignis. His fingers barely want to move, the tendons disturbing the burned skin. Stirling sighs as he inspects the bag of food. The bread, cheese, and meat pies are destroyed. They are no more than a soggy lining on the inside of the bag. The pears and apples are in no better shape; they exploded as if someone struck them with a blunt weapon. He turns the bag inside out, letting the contents litter the ground.
He opens the next bag and is thankful to see his tools have made it. He hangs the bags and his blanket up on the branches to dry.
Stirling unravels the hide encasing the bow and the one around the quiver.
His head hangs, dropping with his hope as the bow breaks in half in his hands.
Large splinters run along the once beautiful wood. With his confidence at the bottom of the ocean, he opens the quiver.
The arrows remain inside the quiver since he had tied it closed but the majority of them are broken in some way. The quiver had caved in on them as if it had been crushed with a large rock.
Amiria had given these to him.
Stirling sets the bow and quiver off to the side. Not only did he break a gift, but he also lost all his food and broke what will help him obtain more.
Depressed, Stirling crawls over to Ignis, who raises his wing, inviting Stirling to hide underneath. Stirling huddles against Ignis, cradling his stinging hands. Ignis closes his feathers over Stirling as the only form of protection from the night.
Sixty-Two
Taika’s talons tear into the side of the mountain as she pulls herself inside Stirling’s cave, her tail slithering in behind her, disappearing into the shadows and out of view from any of the Winged Riders.
Amiria slides off Taika’s back, her movements slow as if her limbs are pushing through water muddied thick with sorrow. The sounds of her boots and armor echo in the vast empty pocket hidden away deep in the mountains. A place she ran away to. A place where she was happy. A place where he was always waiting for her.
He left her behind. He asked her to come along, but she has a duty, a responsibility. She wanted to go with him. She desperately wants to escape this restrictive life, and never see those people in the castle again, but he sprung it on her. He didn’t give her a chance to prepare herself. He left her behind with no intention of even saying goodbye. Did she mean anything to him?
Amiria stares down at the cold ashes of the fire pit. Remnants of the fire not long ago, warm and homely, provided them light as they sat together for what she now knows was the last time. She remembers the way his hair glowed like a halo around his head.
Anger surges through her—screams of abandonment escape from her lungs. Taking a lunging step towards the fire, she whips her foot forward, kicking as hard as she can. The inside of her foot clashes against the rocks piled into a circle sending a few rolling into the ash and coals. One rock jumps away from the rest, landing near Stirling’s bed.
Ash clouds into the air, her fists clenched at her sides. She breathes heavily as the cloud settles into dust on the cave floor.
Still pent up with rage, she steps around the fire pit, scooping up the rock. Squeezing it, she curses under her breath, “How could you leave me here? You think you had it worse than everyone else. You think you were forgotten about, doomed to die alone in this cave. That no one cared.”
Amiria chucks the rock out over the cliff’s edge. “I CARED!” she yells as the rock disappears, her eyes wet with tears she has never let fall.
Turning, she kicks the wood branch supporting the wall tented over Stirling’s camp. The branch snaps where her foot makes contact. It buckles under the weight, snapping in half, it tilts the wall off balanced to one side. The remaining support slips out from under the wall slamming down on top of the bed. The triangle of stacked logs beneath it rolls out flattening everything to the ground.
She can’t see it in the dark, but she can hear it. The sound of pages fluttering. She squints into the darkness around the wall lying by her feet.
Amiria tosses a few logs into the pit without bothering to fix the rocks. She meets Taika’s eye and nods her head to the logs.
Taika extends her neck out to the fire. The spikes lining her jaw barely skim the cave floor. Her chest glows dimly like a newly lit candle. She exhales a soft breath. The light travels out of her chest, along her neck, and across the logs. The hot breath ignites them instantly.
Turning back to the bed, Amiria investigates the sound. She kneels, going all the way down to her elbows to peek underneath the wall hanging about fist high off the ground as the bed structure prevents it from fully touching.
She still can’t see anything. She lifts the wall enough to clear the bed and pushes it off. Stirling had removed all the pelts, leaving behind only the pine and rush. Amiria searches through the plants for the source of the noise. Aggravated and impatient, she begins heaving the long pieces of wood away. Each landing on top of the wall while pine and rush fly out into the air, carpeting the area.
There lying below where the bed was, are two items; a poorly constructed journal with no cover, only paper bound with a string, and a wooden dragon.
She pauses, staring at the contents. She snatches up the journal and begins flipping through the pages. She opens the first page; they are picture notes. Notes Stirling took while watching her class. Pictures of the dragons. Pictures of them learning to fly. Pictures of her class sparing. Pictures of her.
She tears each page from the journal as she turns the pages. She doesn’t care that they fall to the ground and pile at her feet like autumn leaves.
He learned everything from her and this is how he paid her respect.
Dumping her here like his old forgotten notes.
She stops.
She stares down at a sketch of her pressing her forehead against Taika’s.
A moment of privacy etched with charcoal.
The journal crumples in her grip.
She is done with it.
She doesn’t need to see the rest.
Without blinking, she tosses the paper into the fire and watches as the picture of her goes up in flames.
Sixty-Three
Stirling always believed the coldest part of the day is just before the sun starts to turn the horizon a deep gold and the stars slowly begin to fade away to wherever it is they go during the day.
His bloodshot eyes strain to open from both the exposure to salt water and lack of sleep. They sting as he rubs them with his forearm, his hands too sensitive to use. He didn’t dream at all during the short night. He couldn’t fall into a deep enough sleep between shivering and startling awake at every sound emitted from the surrounding trees.
He tries to focus his blurry vision on the coastal trees beyond the gap of Ignis’ wing. His eyes water and refuse to stay open. He pushes against the wing and shimmies out into the open, his body shuddering at the touch of the early morning air.
With only one eye opened, Ignis watches Stirling groggily.
Ignis doesn’t need to say what he is thinking for Stirling to understand. “I know, but we have a long day ahead of us. We need to start covering as much ground as we can. The further we get, the better our chances. Maybe we’ll reach another ocean. Maybe this land stretches forever. Either way, let’s find out.” Stiffly, he shuffles, dragging his feet over to his clothing hanging dry on the tree.
Shivering, Stirling slips on his trousers, tying the waistband tight around his hips. The fabric is as frigid as the air around him.
“To the Southeast?” Ignis yawns.
“To the southeast,” Stirling confirms.
Sixty-Four
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!” the Crier shouts, ringing his bell, gathering the murmuring crowd’s attention, “The boy who you may have witnessed illegally riding an unknown species of the dragon will not be publicly announced. He and the dragon have been shot down by King Dietrich’s top Winged Riders. Both perished and were lost to the water’s grave. The riding of a dragon without wearing the mark, no matter the species, is a treacherous crime and is punishable by being hanged, drawn, and quartered without trial. The act of practicing any trade that is not marked as your insignia is punishable by hanging. Guards are now permitted to access any home and shop without the consent of the owner, according to King Dietrich’s orders to maintain security in the kingdom. No more information will be given at this time. God save the king.”
Blending in with the rest of the townspeople, Giles stares, listening to the crier. It was a boy? The boy is dead?
People begin to chatter amongst their neighbors in hushed tones out of earshot of the city guards, “Who could it have been? Why won’t they tell us?”
“I bet you it really was the baker’s son. I saw him leave the bakery with my own eyes.”
“Impossible. He died years ago.”
“He ran away, but the body was never returned.”
“Where would he have been living this whole time? The forest? He would definitely be dead by now?”
“Then who was the rider?”
“Was it a lie that the boy died those years ago?”
“Is he really dead now?”
“Hush, do not speak against the king’s word. People will hear.”
Giles can’t take any more of the whispers. He turns, pushing his way out of the crowd to return to the comfort of his bakery.
“There goes the baker.”
“He must know something.”
“It was his son.”
“It was his son.”
“It had to be his son.”
Giles slows as he reaches his bakery. A man in his late twenties wearing formal attire, a long tunic cinched at the waist with a full gear belt, leather vambraces, and riding gloves. The Winged Cavalry’s emblem embroidered on his sleeve stands out like a black splotch on white parchment. The man stands bored, holding onto the reins of three horses with red and purple caparisons, a fabric cloaked over the horse with a significant color and pattern.
Three, Giles thinks, now hyper-aware.
One step at a time, Giles convinces his feet to move toward his bakery.
“Is there something I may help you with?” Giles asks the Rider holding the reins.
The man’s eyes dig into him like an icy pickaxe. “Do you go by the name of Giles Bakere?”
“Yes, sir,” Giles replies.
The man smiles, but his eyes remain cold. “Good. My colleagues are waiting inside for you.”
What more do they want from me? Giles wonders as he walks up to his front door.
The Rider’s stare sends pin picks down his spine. He opens the door with a fresh hole where the broken paddle had stabbed through the night before.
Calix and a senior member of his squad with hair starting to gray on the sides, Dicun, stand in the bakery. Calix is holding the broken paddle, examining it while Dicun leans against the table with his arms crossed.
Both of the men’s eyes land on Giles as he closes the door nervously behind him.
“You were waiting for me?” Giles asks.
Dicun steps towards Giles, his face a permanent scowl. “We’re inquiring about some information about your son, Stirling Bakere.”
Giles tries to hide it, but his emotions are obvious. They are stamped on his forehead for anyone who mentions his son’s name like the insignia tattooed on his arm. He gulps, terrified of their presence.
“Would you like a seat?” he manages to say.
“There’s no need. We shouldn’t be here much longer,” Dicun turns him down. “Mr. Bakere, are you able to tell us the last time you have seen your son?”
“Around three years ago, the day he ran away,” Giles responds with a quiver of uncertainty in his voice. In an attempt to play casual, he slowly steps toward the table in the middle of the room. Dicun keeps his chest facing Giles as he passes, discreetly stepping back and replacing Giles’ old position blocking the exit.
“We have witness statements reporting they saw you and what appeared to be your son Stirling Bakere exiting this bakery last night. There seems to have been some kind of—” Dicunrereads the whole in the front door, “Altercation. Do you recall any of this, Mr. Bakere? If it was not your son, then who exited your bakery last night and took off on an unregistered dragon,” Dicun demands.
Giles, weak in the knees, leans against the table, staring at them in disbelief. He thought he was done with interrogations. He thought he was past all the questions about his son when those guards came to his home, informing him of the news that Stirling was dead. They were the ones who wrote the report that his son had perished from a fall in the mountains.
Turning ghostly, he utters, “My son is dead.”
“Mr. Bakere, we have multiple witness accounts,” Calix points out, setting the paddle down on the shelf.
Giles slams his hand on the wooden table in distress. “My son died three years ago!”
Calix grabs the arm Giles slammed on the table and places his other hand on the back of Giles’ head. In one motion Calix rips Giles’ hand free of the table and pushes his face down against the solid wood.
