Incite, page 1
INCITE
SCARS OF LUMIERNA: BOOK TWO
Kelsea Koops
Copyright © 2023 Kelsea Koops
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Belle Manuel
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Through Opaque Eyes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
“How many villages are we going to pass until we finally get to stop?” Ignis whines as they fly over hills, rivers, and one of the many small villages nestled between them. “We’ve been traveling for over two weeks. Just pick one,” he gripes.
Nearly dying from the flames of the Winged Cavalry, Stirling and Ignis had managed to escape the Isles of Wyverna with minor injuries in comparison to what could have been. The skin on the back of Stirling’s hands was seared off. Stirling’s clever idea to reveal he has been alive for the past three years to his father before he left took a drastic turn for the worse. How his father thought of him as a demon and threatened his life. He was chased into the street for everyone to bear witness to the unfolding of a new chapter, a new outlook on life in Wyverna. Ignis, exposing his existence, flew over Lumierna to rescue Stirling setting off the alarms, and deployed Amiria’s team into a manhunt in the clouds. A manhunt that Stirling barely survived and escaped onto the shores of Uviktiland.
Without looking back, they kept to their decision, the only information he provided Amiria, and they flew southeast. Unsure of their environment and whom to trust they haven’t conversed with any of the local citizens in this new foreign land. They can only presume Uviktiland does not stretch on forever, and they will eventually reach a new kingdom. Their question now is, have they passed the border, and if so, where are they?
They’ve passed countless small villages, but when a city appears on the horizon, they’ve gone out of their way to avoid being spotted, afraid a replay of Lumierna will happen.
Squinting through his lenses, Stirling searches the land stretching on before them. In the distance, small misty peaks pop over the horizon. “I guess we’ve traveled far enough. I haven’t seen another dragon since we left. How about at the bottom of those mountains? No matter the village, we’ll stop. It’s just comforting to be near mountains again.”
“Hold on. Wait a moment. I’ve realized something peculiar. If we were the only dragon flying over these villages, why haven’t we heard any of the people make any kind of commotion,” Ignis brings up.
Stirling blinks slowly as the thought finally occurs to him. “Wait, you’re right. I know people have seen us. They’ve looked up as we passed overhead now that I think about it. But they always returned to whatever task they were doing. It didn’t occur to me that we were not on the island anymore. Dragon sightings are not a regular occurrence. But even the people back home didn’t react so nonchalantly about it.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I have absolutely no clue,” Stirling admits.
They approach the mountains that are dwarfed in comparison to the towering peaks around Wyverna but are still mountains on their own. Like the forests and grasslands, they have been flying over, there seems to be an absence of pine trees that appear to touch the clouds, but the landscape is rich with oaks, maple, chestnut, shorter pines like juniper, and trees he has never seen before.
Smokestacks rise from a quaint-sized village settled at the base with a single dirt road cutting through the center and up the incline of the mountain.
The village’s homes are spaced out from each other in what at first appears to be scattered at random, but this is due to the fact the shack-sized houses are lining up with wells, avoiding spots tending to flood, and locations known to have frost pockets chilling the land sooner and longer than the rest.
Stirling remembers the market he grew up in. The buildings mashed together, each home supporting their neighbors' rotting structure. Below the jetties of the second floors are permanently flooded alleys too narrow for a grown man to fit his shoulders through. How the people who never leave and an ever-expanding population with each generation, packed themselves into the street, squeezed tight like a bundle of hay.
The homes here are mostly single stories, several possessing a higher roof to make room for a loft. They are small one or two-room homes made of piled stones. The tops of the walls are uneven leaving openings and gaps beneath the planked wood roofs laid across. There are simple fences made from various stones and branches enclosing individual gardens, chicken coops, and a few pens where goats nibble at the grass on the other side of the fence after already devouring what grew inside the pen. Dogs lay beside the front steps of multiple homes keeping guard while the humans leave or mill about their days.
“Let’s land in this pasture by the river and walk in. It’s less of a startling entrance if they haven’t seen a dragon before,” Stirling suggests.
“Whatever you say,” Ignis says, gradually beginning his descent.
Wooden gears complain as water pushes them to keep turning year after year are audible as they pass over the mill to the overgrown meadow.
A small herd of cows groans as they shuffle out of the way of the orange dragon. His wings send powerful gales as they steadily lower into the long, lush grass flowing like the rippling surface of a calm pond. His hind legs contact the marshy earth first. Tucking in his wings he catches the rest of his body by landing on his front legs, his claws sinking into the mud.
“Yuck.” Ignis shivers at the wet soil seeping between his toes.
“My legs are so sore,” Stirling gripes as he slides off Ignis’ back, his legs below his knees disappearing into the emerald sea.
“You’re sore? I’ve been doing all the work while you just sit there,” Ignis retaliates.
“I am not just sitting there. I’ve been holding on for dear life! After constricting your muscles for a long period of time they start to cramp and hurt. It takes a lot of energy trying to not fall to your death,” Stirling argues, throwing his hands up in the air. He runs his hands down his face, “Keep your head down, maybe we can pass you as an ugly horse.”
“I’m beautiful, remember?” Ignis gloats, lifting his head higher.
“Don’t you start with that again? Come on, let's go. I’m not even sure how we will communicate. I don’t know what language these people speak.” Stirling pulls his goggles down letting them hang around his neck. With a nod of his head in the direction of the quaint village, they begin trucking through the thick grass.
After struggling their way through the field Stirling steps out onto the pressed dirt road. Deep hoof prints made when the earth was saturated by rain retained their shape as the sun stole the water. Stirling follows the groves leading the way to the village.
There are only two buildings residing on the side of the road directly across from one another, not more than a stone's throw away. Connected to what appears to be a tavern or alehouse is a small stable to tie up your horse while you stop for the night.
“Look! A racer! A racer!” a young boy approximately five or six years of age squeals as he pulls his hand free from his sister’s—who is only a few years older—grasp.
“Wait, Gregory! You can’t run up to people like that,” she shouts after him. With his arms raised to the air, he doesn’t listen to his sister’s instructions as he bolts towards Stirling and Ignis.
Stirling halts in place as Gregory sprints up to him. The small child skids to a stop before colliding into Stirling’s legs, his slower sister in tow. With his chin to his chest, Stirling leans back to see the boy practically standing on his toes staring up at him starry-eyed.
“Can I pet your dragon? Can I? Can I?” Gregory asks, impatiently bouncing on his heels with his hands clasped together near his chest in a pleading manner.
Stirling stammers out, “I uh...you know what dragons are?”
“Sorry about these rascals.” A bear of a man with a thick beard dressed in a simple garb of a worn-out brown tunic and a red merchant’s hat slouching on his balding head comes jogging over from one of the buildings lining the road.
Stirling is tall, but he is slender. The man standing before him is taller in height by a hair and is double in girth. Stirling gawks bewildered. He was expecting some sort of reaction from the villagers to Ignis, but it wasn’t whatever this is.
“I’m Bernard. These are my children Delilah and Gregory. Competitors don’t normally pass through here. He got a little excited.” His voice is deep and heavy with a foreign accent. He reaches down, tussling Gregory’s hair.
Bernard’s children huddle around Stirling’s knees fascinated by the goggles hanging from his neck, the belt with a “T” shaped hook, and Ignis' entirety. The girl stands on her tippy toes trying to touch the engraved brass of his goggles shining like a necklace in the sunlight.
With his eyes still on Bernard Stirling clasps his hand protectively around the goggles pulling them slightly away. He raises an eyebrow, “Racer? Competitor?”
“You know, for the games next week,” Bernard states.
“Stirling, Stirling. They’re touching me with their little grimy hands,” Ignis says, lifting his leg in disgust at Gregory who had stepped around Stirling and is currently stroking the scales on Ignis’ front leg.
Stirling’s face is blank, his mouth hanging open slightly, he turns his whole body to face Ignis behind him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he questions, “Games?”
“Boy, do you understand a word I’m saying?” Bernard asks.
“Shockingly, yes,” Stirling utters.
“So, you own a dragon, but you don’t know about the games? It’s like owning a mill but not knowing about flour. Where have you been living? In a cave?”
He shrugs, “Yes, for three years.” Bernard stares absently. Feeling awkward, Stirling begins to tap his fingers to his thumb in a nervous habit. “So, what are these games?”
Bernard cocks his head, “You must not be from around here if you are serious about not knowing about the games. Even the neighboring kingdoms to the north and east know about it and sometimes participate. Unless you’re from—” He scratches his beard knitting his bristly eyebrows together. “The west? You do have an unusual accent.”
“I guess you can say that,” Stirling tells his shoes. “What–What do I sound like?”
“Like you are forgetting to pronounce parts of your words, you're a bit, how can I put it, choppy?”
“Choppy?”
“As long as you don’t talk too fast, I can understand you. Now, tell me.” Bernard leans in intrigued. “What do I sound like?”
“There are a lot of ups and downs, but also like you're talking in the back of your throat sometimes.”
“Huh, I don’t hear what you mean but it's still interesting. It's been a long time since I’ve heard a new accent. Well then–“he claps and throws his hands out, “Welcome to Patu the best village in the Kingdom of Tillfallya.”
“Tillfallya?”
“Yep, but tell me, if you’re not a professional rider then how did you come upon buying such an expensive imported dragon? Unless you have the riches of a lord, you would have to sell everything you own and then some,” he laughs.
Stirling blinks long and slow, so deeply lost in the progress of the conversation that he doesn’t know how to catch up. Every time this burly man speaks, he is only filled with more questions.
Bernard’s laughing comes to a stop as he becomes fully aware of Stirling’s confusion. “Do you not even know the species of your dragon?”
Stirling shakes his head. “I’ve always thought of him as a freak of nature.”
“Excuse me,” Ignis scoffs.
Stirling acts as if he didn’t hear him. “I’ve only known one species, the Wyverns.”
“Well, boy, that is definitely not a wyvern. I’ve seen a few of those at the games, but they are rare. They’re too aggressive for most to handle. The majority of people ride our common dragons, dracos for short. They’ve got wings like wyverns, but four legs like yours here,” Bernard informs.
“We have riders back home and all they fly is Wyvern,” Stirling adds.
“They must be very extraordinary riders to control such an intense creature. Takes a strong soul,” Bernard says.
“You don’t even know,” Stirling states. “But, if you know so much about dragons then what is he?” he adds, referring to Ignis who is pulling his wings up and out of the reach of the children.
“He appears to be a pier’yani zvir,” Bernard answers, inspecting Ignis.
“A what?” Stirling says, turning back to Ignis who only tilts his head in response.
“Pier’yani zvir is what they call them. They aren’t native here. They are more common in the northeast where it's colder. That’s why they have feathered wings. I haven’t seen one since I was a lad,” Bernard expands.
“Do people not fly them down here?” Stirling asks, still confused.
“No, not commonly. They are extremely intelligent creatures but compared to other dragons, they are very high-maintenance. They tend to be owned by only those who can afford the pricey bill,” Bernard rambles. “So, they are more for wealth status and not for labor or sport.”
Stirling stares at Ignis who returns the same expression of puzzlement. “So all along you’ve just been a noble person’s pet?”
“An extremely intelligent, elegant pet, thank you,” Ignis says in a snide tone.
“Oi, boy, you listening?” Bernard says, snapping his fingers in front of Stirling’s face. Stirling jerks his head back startled. “I was saying why don’t you come into the alehouse with me? I’ll tell you about the games and you tell me about where you’ve really come from. I know it ain’t anywhere in this region.” He suggests throwing his arm around Stirling’s shoulders. Without giving Stirling time to protest, he begins leading him to the only two-story building in town with a few wooden tables set up outside, warped and abused by years of weather exposure and use.
Several more children and their mothers begin to close the gap around Ignis.
“Wait, don't leave me alone,” he calls out to Stirling who is being guided away by Bernard.
“The Games, my child, are held once every year. The official name is Leucasia’s Skylit Endeavor, but that’s too much of a mouthful, so the Games it is. Here, riding a dragon is a sport, a profession done by the wealthier folk who can afford to purchase a beast. I’m serious if you thought horses were expensive—here, let me put it in perspective, you can buy an entire herd before you pay off a dragon.” He waves his hand in a broad arch through the air.
Bernard continues to explain, reaching the door to the alehouse, “Well, throughout the year all over the region are small tournaments for professionals or teams to compete in, but none of that compares to the Games. You see, anyone can enter the games. Professional, newbie, rich, poor.”
Using his free hand Bernard swings the door open and shoves Stirling through with his other. Stepping inside awkwardly Stirling glances around taking in the atmosphere.
Standing behind Stirling, Bernard inhales through his nose breathing in the beloved scent. His chest expanding as far as it goes, he lets out his breath satisfied through his mouth and carries forth his explanation, “It doesn’t matter where you came from or if your first time flying was yesterday. If you own a dragon you can enter. There are levels of course. Beginners won’t be flying against the elite.”
The alehouse is bustling. It seems as if every man in the village is here sitting around on wooden benches lined at tables across the dirt floor with scattered rush and straw to absorb the spilling ale. Large wooden tankards fill the tables in front of them as they laugh at each other’s stories. In the corner of the room, a few men play a gambling game with dice. The hoppy aroma fills the air with the lingering smell of perpetual stew simmering about the coals in a pot hung above the fire stuffing the air like humidity on a summer day.
“Anyone can enter?” Stirling repeats, his attention turning back to Bernard.
“Do you ever listen? As I said, if you got a beast and you got the entrance coin you can enter,” Bernard answers.
