Grey Eyes, Green Eyes

The seated figure bent forward and added a small twig to the fire, waited a moment to see how much smoke it would make, then added a second. Again he checked for smoke, a scraped-up pile of dirt at hand ready for instant smothering.

The hands adding the twigs had long, slender fingers. A gold ring circled the middle finger of the right hand; the crest on it well-worn, indistinct. Their palms were heavily calloused, as if belonging to one accustomed to survival only by the heaviest sort of toil and one finger was missing its final segment. The hands were however an odd mix of hard living and fastidiousness, for the nine remaining fingernails were surprisingly-well groomed, clean and carefully shaped to square ends.

The fire picked up a little and the figure in its worn grey cloak settled back between it and the rock face. Some, he knew, would build a big fire against the rock, work hard to feed it and risk unwanted visitors drawn by the light. He on the other hand would be as warm from the reflected heat of the small fire without having to worry nearly as much about what it might attract. He knew he was a match for most things in this forest, but still preferred to avoid being noticed.

A thin improvised mattress of layered pine branches stretched out along the rocks, a worn grey leather pack resting at its head. A short, heavy-bladed sword in its scabbard leaned against the pack, hilt close to his hand. A man-tall wooden staff leaned against the rocks to his other side.

The man shrugged his shoulders inside his padded jerkin. Examining himself, he frowned and swept sand and leaves from the knees of worn baggy trousers. The boots into which they were tucked were clearly of superior workmanship, but now retained little of their former luster.

"You've come down in the world, Aldar," he muttered to himself.

The smell of the broth over the tiny fire reached the figure's nose. Leaning forward again, he looked in the copper pot, nodded to himself and pulled it off the fire. Cupping the hot vessel in a fold of his cloak, he settled again in his seat and pulled a wooden spoon from the top of one boot.

One hand casually brushed off the cloak's hood, revealing the wearer's head. Thin-faced, yet with strong features, he carried a well-trimmed, pointed beard and moustache, mainly grey amid rusty remnants of youth. Deep lines in skin darkened by the sun emphasized how long it had been since that youth had passed him by; his grey eyes were almost buried beneath thick eyebrows framing a long, aquiline nose.

Bending forward, he ladled a spoonful of thin broth into his mouth, sucking in air to cool the too-hot liquid. He put down the pot for a moment, pulled his pack towards him and, rummaging through it, pulled out a well-traveled partial loaf of barley bread. Reaching into his right sleeve, his left hand brought out a thin-bladed bronze knife with a bone handle. The blade featured intricate engraving, now almost obliterated by time and much use. After cutting off a frugal serving, he returned the knife to his sleeve and the remainder of the loaf to the pack.

He continued his meal, dipping the hard bread into the soup and saving the last crust to wipe the pot clean. Setting the empty vessel down by the fire, he began to run his fingers over a scattering of rocks he'd moved aside when constructing the bed. Selecting a small smooth stone, he began to whet the edge of the sword, running it up one side of the blade, then up the other. From time to time, he stopped to thumb the edge to check its sharpness. Eventually satisfied, he set the stone aside and began to hone the sword's edge on a scrap of hard leather pulled from his pack. He paused from time to time to check his progress by shaving his forearm with one part of the blade, then another. The fine hairs fell easily to the razor-sharp edge.

Returning the scrap to his pack some minutes later, he rolled his head on his shoulders, as if stiff. A low crack  brought first a grimace, then a low smile of relief. He looked up, regarded the evening sky for a few moments, pondered the death of a falling star.

Leaning back against the rock face, he grasped his staff by the middle, examined a couple of low-relief carvings on it. Keeping the sword across his lap, he spoke without looking up, his voice loud enough to carry.

"All right now. You've been watching me all this time. How about you show yourselves? I prefer neighbours I can see."

The silence grew, if possible, even deeper. A few seconds later, two slender figures, one a handbreadth taller than the other, stepped noiselessly into the small circle of light. Both were cloaked in worn but carefully mended homespun cloaks, hoods covering their faces. Below the hems of the cloaks could be seen the cross-gartered cloth leggings worn by both sexes of the region. Their feet were covered with home-made turnshoes, each fashioned from one piece of hide stitched into form and then turned inside-out to protect the welt.

The man sat unmoving, his hand resting lightly on the sword hilt.

"Show yourselves, I said."

The two figures turned briefly to look at each other before, as one, sweeping the hoods off their heads. Two rather dirty faces were revealed, both with long hair carelessly braided and falling over one shoulder. The shorter one had fair hair, that of the taller one was a coppery-brown. Both appeared to be in their mid-teens; there was clearly a family resemblance in more than just their green eyes.

"So, neighbours, what is it that you want?" His voice was deep in tone, low in volume and without menace, but clearly not without wariness.

The two again looked at each other.

The shorter one spoke in a high voice, the local accent evident. "Shelter, good sir."

The man waved his hand around the clearing. "Not much shelter here," he smiled lightly.

The shorter one glanced at his taller companion, shrugged.

"Good sir, you are a soldier, from the looks of it..."

"Was," he grunted. "The war's over."

"Not for such as ourselves."

The man grunted again, nodded briefly. Peace between empires might have been declared, but there was but little comfort in that to the thousands of unpaid and hungry troops on both sides suddenly dismissed from their employment. Nor to the peasants, merchants and pilgrims trying to live in the lawless chaos that was the Marches.

"Again," he said, not unkindly this time. "What is it that you want of me, lads?"

Together, wordlessly, they sat down on the dirt, almost a matter of collapsing. Aldar could see fatigue in their faces, streaks on their dusty faces, ones he was sure they would not admit were evidence of dried tears.

"Our family was... destroyed," said one.

"We've nowhere to go," said the other.

The man nodded. It was a common-enough happening these days. The only reason, he thought to himself, that corpses were not more common along the roads was that the wounded generally crept into nearby bushes for shelter before dying.

"Well, you can see that I haven't much at all. I don't think I can feed you, lads."

One brightened. "Oh, but we have food!"

A dirty hand emerged from under a cloak, holding the body of a large hare by the hind feet. From under the cloak of the other was produced a basket half full of greens and mushrooms, a wizened wild apple resting on top.

The man laughed, a deep rumble. "And how did you come by all that, may I ask?"

The two flushed under his gaze. The short one answered heatedly. "We're not thieves!"

The other said, rather more loudly, as if for emphasis, "We... we were out of the village, tending snares and gathering legumes when the bishop's soldiers came."

The man's hand left his sword, went to his mouth in a sign for silence. "Hush now! Softly! Voices carry and I have no desire to bring vermin down on us, be it bears, bandits..." He paused, smiled wryly. "Or bishops."

He thought for a moment, apparently considering his options, then nodded. "All right," he said. "For this night only, you can stay. Can you cook?"

"Yes. A bit."

"Then one of you skin that coney and the other fetch some water from the brook over there." The two started to rise. "But first, drop the cloaks. I want to see you better."

Again, the two looked at each other. Apparently acknowledging their lack of alternatives, the tall one shrugged. Setting down the food, they rose, reached up and unpinned their cloaks, pulling them off their shoulders.

Both wore homespun thigh-length tunics, secured around their waist with knotted belts. In accordance with universal custom, a short but sturdy utility knife was sheathed on each belt, along with a small leather pouch. The two would have been unremarkable in a score of surrounding marketplaces.

"Turn around -- slowly," he directed. They did so, puzzled.

Looking them up and down, the man gave a low grunt. "So, not lads then?" he said softly.

Both figures pulled their cloaks up in front of them, as if to shield the owners from his eyes. An undeniable tear trickled down the cheek of the shorter girl. Both looked desperate.

"But you're not armed," he smiled, thinly. "One needs to know. All right, dress yourselves -- it's getting colder. Now let's make dinner. I'll get the fire going again."

Between the rabbit, the mushrooms, the greens and barley bread crumbs as thickening, the three of them produced a stew which, if not a gourmet treat, was at least more substantial than the broth he had been sipping shortly before. After tasting it, his hand slid into his pack, emerging with a twist of much-folded paper. From it he produced a large pinch of brownish salt. Thus seasoned, the stew proved more to his liking and the three finished eating in silence.

With the meal over and darkness falling, the three cleaned up their limited camp.

"You two may make your bed over there, he said, pointing. The ground will still be warm from the afternoon sun. You have time to lay down some branches for a bed."

The two girls glanced at each other briefly before their gazes returned to him.

"Actually, sir..." said the taller, beginning to smile.

"... we would prefer to sleep in your bed," the shorter continued. She too began to smile.

"How old are you?" he asked.

The two rose, began shedding their clothes as they walked slowly in his direction, leaving a trail of discarded garments behind them.

"Old enough," they said in unison.

Lush hips and very shapely breasts were separated by slender waists. Aldar's hands could have spanned either one of them.

He shook his head. "I think not. Get dressed and come back in five or ten years."

"It's not our fault that we're dirty," the shorter one said.

"There's no bath hut here," added the other.

"I've not complained of that," he retorted. "Now, I said for you to get dressed!"

The two glanced at each other briefly, nodded as if agreeing to a question unspoken.

Cat-fast, the two leapt. In mid-air, their forms flickered briefly, shifted.

Their figures changed little, but their slim legs now tapered off to scaled, taloned feet; their fingers ended in wicked-looking claws. Small horns rose from their temples.

Their unnaturally pale faces were dead, devoid of all emotion or expression; there was not a shred of humanity, warmth or mercy in them. Deep-set eyes were shadowed in dark sockets. An observer, provided by some miracle he or she survived, would be hard-pressed to say what colour those eyes had been. Their lips were full, but in contrast to their pale skin, were deep, almost blood-red.

The two stank of mold, corruption and slow death.

The pair landed on him and Aldar's arms were slammed back against the rock wall. He flexed his arms, testing their hold. The two proved to be implausibly strong; his tentative stretch barely shifted them or him.

The short one smiled at him, licked his neck with a very long tongue, nipped the skin with needle-like teeth.

Her companion licked his face several times, then whispered to their captive, "Oh yes, hungry for something else, we are."

"I have gold," he said, looking rapidly from one to the other.

Both of them giggled slightly. "Now what would we want of that coldest of metals?" the blonde creature hissed.

"Let me go," he said flatly, "and we'll say no more about this."

"You won't, for certain," one replied.

The other smirked, giggled. "But we might play a little first."

Aldar sighed but appeared curiously unafraid.

He blinked, slowly. When his eyes opened again, they were bright yellow, with vertical slits for pupils. He smiled thinly and shook himself like a wet dog. The two creatures on his arms quivered like bells on a horse.

He closed his eyes again and stiffened. Beneath their claws, his thin form altered, grew. Lean muscles gained definition, bulked.

The two demons, fearing to let go, could only cling tighter to his arms as he stood. They felt their feet leave the ground as he grew taller.

Aldar's nose and chin faded as his face lengthened into a lizard-like snout. Great spiral horns grew from the back of his head, leathery wings spread from his back. Beginning over his heart and rippling outwards in a circle of Change, his skin morphed to fine bronze-coloured scales, gleaming in the flickering light of the tiny fire. The tips of saw-edged fangs protruded from his thin lips. Bony ridges framed his eyes.

Towering over the two demons, the dragon was beyond magnificent, awesome in both beauty and menace.

A small puff of flame spurted from his nostrils as he opened his eyes. Suddenly, lightning-fast, he twisted out of their grasp and grabbed them by their throats, effortlessly holding them in front of him. His own claws were extended in his anger, but the legendary furore draco  had not yet possessed him and their carefully-controlled tips barely dented the demons' flawless skins.

"I am beginning to understand why the bishop sent his men after your clan," he said, looking from one to the other. His voice was so deep as to be as much felt as heard. The two stared at him, eyes wide in shock. In panic, their hands began to claw futilely at his forearms until he closed his fists in unconcealed threat. The two promptly ceased their attempts to escape and his grip eased, allowing them to breathe again. He gave both a shake for emphasis.

"Do... not... try... my... patience... again," he warned, speaking very slowly for emphasis. The words came almost as a hiss through reptilian lips.

The two nodded, or at least attempted to and, without releasing them, he lowered them so that their feet touched the ground.

"If you attempt to flee, I will  catch you," Aldar warned. "You do not wish me to have to catch you. Will you sit if I release you?"

They nodded meekly and the dragon's hands relaxed. Wordlessly, they folded their legs beneath them and sat, letting their wings wrap around their bodies.

The dragon loomed over them, then sat himself.

"How long have you been preying on travelers here?" he demanded.

The two glanced at each other, concluded that deceit would be as futile as physical resistance.

"As long as either of us can remember, Lord," the blonde whispered. "More than 50 years."

"It is all we know, Lord," added the other. "How else for our kind? Are we to live only on grass and berries?"

"Have you not even heard  of the Great Convention?" Aldar demanded.

The smaller creature hung her head. The other looked away, then spoke softly. "Please, my Lord, my sire taught me that it was a foolish thing, a craven surrender by a carnivore to its prey, something not worthy of our race."

"Your sire was a fool, child," the dragon muttered. "His failure to at least be discreet in his predations has cost him dearly -- and you no less so."

His sighed at the surliness on their faces, shrugged as he remembered his own far-distant youth.

"Still, for your kind, daughters of Nyx, you two are still young. After all these years, I forget the impulsiveness of youth -- 50 years is scarcely time to learn survival, much less wisdom."

He leaned forward. Both women's eyes opened in apprehension.

"Listen to me!" he commanded.

"The Great Convention. It is not written down, nor even formally agreed to by all concerned. It is merely a consensus among our kind," and here he waved a great talon back and forth between them, "which has kept us alive for thousands of years."

"Consensus?" asked the tall one, daring greatly.

Aldar stared at her. Smoke trickled from his nose.

"Consensus, a general agreement."

"Among who...?"

"Ah," the dragon rumbled. "At last, the key question. Among the survivors. Our survivors."

"I do not understand, Lord."

"The Mage Wars almost ended our kind, child. For while each of us is more powerful, more lethal than ten, a hundred, even a thousand humans, the humans still won. Not every fight -- how could they? But they won every so often -- and that was enough, for like rodents, they bred fast and their numbers seemed endless.

"And it didn't help us that, despite their short lifespans, petty feuding and ridiculous rivalries, they were still able to cooperate better than our kinds. We were solitary or, at best, lived in small groups. They would form whole armies, with men of a dozen duchies and kingdoms working in concert under one leader.

"Just one of us slain was a victory for them, even if a thousand of them died to achieve it. We were building a mountain of their skulls -- but there were fewer and fewer of us each solstice to salute those mountains.

"After hundreds of years of 'winning', we Higher Peoples had almost been exterminated. The survivors among us withdrew, went into hiding. The Great Convention became the term used for an unspoken understanding among us to cease living in the open, to remain unseen.

"It has worked, to some degree at least. In their fleeting generations, humans began to look on the Higher Peoples as mere myth, something to frighten children with. 'A vampire? Don't be silly, sir, it must have just been a deranged human. A dragon, my child? Nonsense -- there are no such things. The sun must've been in your eyes.'

"And so, it remains -- until some arrogant, ignorant fool  ignores it and draws attention to not only himself, but to his clan and, sadly, to all of us."

The two demons remained sullen. The taller of the two scowled at the insult to her late sire's memory.

"Watch your manners," the dragon growled. "His refusal to abide by the Convention has led you to where you are now." He paused. "While we are at it, I would have you in your human forms."

The two stared at him, almost defiant.

"Now!" he snarled, leaning forward. They shrank back, clearly terrified. Wings folded against their backs, disappeared. Horns receded; and scaled toes were replaced by human feet.

In seconds, Aldar was facing what appeared to be just two quite bare, very dirty young women. They reached for their clothes.

"Not yet," he commanded. His voice rippled with overwhelming authority and the two froze in their nakedness.

They watched as his form too transitioned, half-way back to human. The lizard face, talons and wings disappeared, leaving a lean, tall human form still covered in scales. The dragon eyes remained too, and the two shrank from his gaze.

Not bothering to dress, he again settled down with his back to the wall, one hand motioning the two women to sit in front of him.

"Let us first understand each other," he growled. "Your attack failed. Did your fool of a sire bother to teach you the consequences of such failure among our kind?"