Chapter 2 - The Sprint
"How quick you are to disparage His Majesty's request," a voice snaps the moment Zarracen arrives where the messenger stands.
The words are not addressed to Zarracen but to Sir Gibraltar, who stands with a deep frown on his face. Despite the thick yet groomed beard, the annoyance around his lips is clear. She knows she must intervene before the messenger says something that angers Gibraltar further. Not that she cares if the messenger has Sir Gibraltar killed for disrespect—only that any messenger from Mitra who has ever met her on the battlefield comes from two people: Ducane Norcross, or His Majesty Bhaltair Sebastian Lomidze Iximdor.
Neither of whom should be ignored for self‑preservation.
Sir Norcross is the Grand Shield Knight, the highest‑ranking knight answering only to the Emperor himself. To ignore or disrespect a messenger of his is equal to asking for death. Though some have the acumen to stay their hands, Zarracen does not have that leeway. So she hurries forward to greet the glaring messenger, whose pristine garments show he did not rush to deliver anything.
"Greetings, Herald of His Majesty," Zarracen intones, stepping forward to make her presence known.
The Herald turns. Though he glared at Sir Gibraltar, a small pleasant expression appears on his face when he sees her.
"Herald Stace makes greetings with the Grand Knight of Valor, En Zarracen," he says, bowing slightly at the waist—low enough to show respect, but high enough to show he does not believe he must. Zarracen internally groans, hoping this Stace will not bring her trouble. Gibraltar's glare deepens, and she hopes he keeps himself composed.
"Herald Stace, what message do you have for me?"
"With the defeat of the Dragon of Arcus, His Imperial Majesty requests that you make haste to Mitra with the dragon's heart."
"That was the plan. The men should already be clearing up the dragon," Zarracen replies, not even questioning how word of its defeat spread. Herald Stace sniffs indignantly.
"Speaking of which, what pray tell gave you the idea that this dragon was fine for consumption? Going against His Majesty's wishes."
Ah. So that was what his earlier remark was for. Zarracen shrugs and smirks.
"His Imperial Majesty requested only the dragon heart. My orders said nothing of the rest of the creature. Do you have issue with what I do with my kill?"
"His Majesty will," the Herald states bluntly.
"Then it is His Majesty who will voice his displeasure—not a lowly messenger." Zarracen's tone is as icy as the northern lands, barren wastelands where little flora or fauna flourish. The Herald flinches, her aura enforcing his fear and causing him to tremble.
"Of course. Apologies, En Zarracen. His Imperial Majesty will be expecting the dragon heart within a week."
"A week? That is impossible! It took weeks on its own for us to even arriv—" Sir Gibraltar stops abruptly as a sword touches his throat.
"Quiet. You will not speak ill of the request made by the Star of Ixmtaraza." Zarracen's new sword slices a few hairs from his beard before she lowers it. "Understood, Herald of the Star. I will arrive at Mitra within a week with the dragon's heart on full display. Also, it is no longer En Zarracen. It is Galt Zarracen."
She remarks this pointedly. She had let his passive‑aggressive tone slip to avoid friction, but she must remind him she is no commoner. At least, she hasn't been one for months now.
"Ah, of course—Galt Zarracen. I will relay this message to His Majesty with haste." The Herald bows lower this time before disappearing in a gust of wind, leaving only smoke behind. He was no herald, but a simple spy that came with the knightage, it seems.
"Sir Gibraltar, I am aware of the distance and the haste required. However, had you questioned too much, you would be dead now," Zarracen reminds the old warrior. She does not know him well—only by word of mouth—but enough is known to her that such a loss to the Empire's military would bring sadness to many.
"Apologies, Galt Zarracen," Gibraltar says, giving a slight bow, knowing she may well have saved his life.
"Now to dinner! I leave at dawn!"
"But we are to escort—"
"The pace I must make is inhuman. Unless you can keep up with my legs."
"Legs? En Zarracen, you don't intend to run?"
"To reach the Empire in a sennight, I must move swiftly enough to reach Arthwa, the City of the Transients. There, I can perhaps rest upon a carriage."
"But you must also carry the dragon's remains."
"I am aware. Tonight, have someone prep the cart and add the dragon."
Sir Gibraltar nods and escorts her to the dining area. There she feasts until her gut is full. Her fellow knights part with liquor they must have snuck in a few barrels. Sadly, she cannot indulge. She has an early morning.
After she eats, Zarracen takes hold of both the dragon's heart and flame sac, sequestered within two separate clear marble containers with preservation enchantments etched onto them. She brings them into her tent—she does not trust her fellow soldiers with something so important to her mission. She lays upon her bed with the jars beside her head and slumbers. It is a restless sleep, too worried that someone who dislikes an individual of her lowly origins now elevated in status might try to take her hard‑earned favors.
When morning comes, she is not as rested as she should be, but better than if she had left immediately after the Emperor's request. Fully dressed in light armor, her crest—a growling jackal with condor feathers splayed behind its head—rests on her left pauldron. The knight insignia for valor, a griffin circled by a wreath of borage, sits beneath it. On her hip is a simple short sword she grabbed from a barrel of weaponry stocked for their short campaign.
She packs the heart and flame sac in what appears to be a normal rucksack. Inside, however, it is large enough to hold both comfortably—though likely not much else.
Zarracen adjusts the straps and steps out of her tent. She walks to the center of camp, gaining a few salutes along the way. The company is packing up as well. Most tents are down, and equipment is being stuffed into carts. They seem prepared for a last bastion, judging by how much equipment they brought. She does not blame them. Dragons and their ilk are classified as one of the five Fierce Cognifiends—creatures capable of decimating countries without fear of being stopped.
Though such destruction depends on their strength compared to their defenders, very few can stand equal to a Cognifiend, let alone a Fierce one. Their distrust in her ability to win—and their expectation that they would have to deal with what remained of an angry Fierce Cognifiend—is no different from her own. She won by luck. By the magic of an old trinket she had not thought of in years but kept out of nostalgia. Given to her by a figure who is now no more than a shadow in her memories. It is a wonder who that figure truly was, to possess an item capable of standing up to such immense power.
Zarracen has questions—questions ten years too late to be answered. At least she can ask the squire from yesterday for directions.
"Squire!"
Caleb leaps up and turns—he is the only squire in the vicinity. He quickly salutes her.
"Galt Zarracen! How can I help you?" His entire body is stiff, far stiffer than yesterday when he escorted her.
"Have you seen Sir Gibraltar?"
"No, Galt, I have not." He shakes his head. "I did hear he was setting up your cart and provisions toward the southeast of camp."
"I see."
Zarracen turns and begins her trek. The crowded camp thins out the further she goes. As usual, she receives customary salutes. No one moves to greet her, and she is grateful—not wanting to talk to anyone. The Emperor is calling, and it is time to move.
The cart holding the dragon is easy to spot. Sir Gibraltar's booming orders echo as lesser knights rush to tie down the dragon and reinforce the cart. As he takes a bag from a nearby squire, Zarracen arrives.
"Sir Gibraltar, is my cart prepared?" she asks.
"Ah, Galt Zarracen!" He salutes quickly. "I've prepared the cart. There's also a bag of a week's worth of supplies."
"Can you even spare that much? It's a large camp."
"Do not worry, Grand Knight. There should be enough for the company's return, and we can gain supplies on the way. We are knights and warriors alike."
"Hmph. True." Zarracen steps forward, taking in the sight of the dragon—its skin peeled from the bones in some areas, glistening white scales in others. The cart seems sturdy, but it will be tested if it can keep up with her pace. She wonders how many nights of sleep she will get.
The land toward Mitra is harsh—rolling hills and plains hiding deadly snakes and insects, Cognifiends and Opaquest that even strong warriors struggle against. Luckily, the path does not lead toward mountainous regions like the one she just left. Those areas teem with beasts both weak and strong, some with odd abilities.
She is prepared. None are worse than her prior foes.
Zarracen straps herself to the wagon as if she were a Great Tars needing a harness. With a passing nod to Sir Gibraltar, she leaves the gate. A gust of wind and a crack signal the speed of her departure. The knights watching hope she will not overdo it and destroy the carriage.
With no set path despite her pace, Zarracen knows enough not to damage the carriage. She slows and braces when needed to avoid foliage, rocks, or grazing animals. Occasionally, she casts fortification enchantments on the carriage.
This continues for hours until the sun rises to its highest point, bearing down hellish heat. She is used to sunlight and could keep going, but it is a good time to rest.
She skids to a stop.
Skrreech!
The carriage wheels make an ungodly noise as they slow. They stop within seconds. Her boots feel warm. She looks down and groans—the soles are worn down as if through dozens of marches, yet they were new from the quartermaster.
They will not last the rest of the day. She will be barefoot. It is not the first time, but shoes are a luxury she never wishes to go without. As a youth, she stepped on unmentionable fluids and messes countless times. Cuts on her feet constantly got infected. Fear of losing a foot is burned into her mind. Fortification magic will not help.
"Hah."
She releases an annoyed breath and packs the shoes away, deciding she will buy new ones in Arthwa. That alone will be annoying, and she will have to be more on guard.
Speaking of—she murmurs, "Trard tahear," a small threat‑detection spell.
Once done, she sits on the carriage, biting into her rations as she relaxes slightly. This break is only to replenish food and water and rest her legs. She still has not fully recovered from the battle with the Arcus. If she had, she could cut her journey in half.
Though she feels strangely rejuvenated despite her injuries, it is best not to strain herself.
Ping!
1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Zarracen counts. Her eyes dart around, tracking where her spell detects enemies. They are invisible—or she lowers her eyes to the grass.
A Cognifiend.
She concentrates on hearing. Something brushes against the ground. A snake‑type. Normally she would have no issue fighting them, but she would rather not tire herself.
A large snake, almost as big as a horse, darts from the high grass. Bladed teeth as long as a short sword glisten with poison. Her sword is in hand immediately.
A weak Cognifiend. A Glazed Serpens. A serpent‑class Cognifiend whose rank is afforded mostly due to poison capable of killing most tier‑one warriors. Normally her presence alone would keep them away. Cognifiends can sense who can destroy them.
Yet despite this, the spell detects more coming as she beheads the first. Her best option is to run instead of being swarmed. If poison touches the dragon, it will not bode well. She cannot allow them to foul her prize.
Loath as she is to run from a fight—especially one that would give valuable material—she quickly sheathes her weapon. The remnants of her food and drink are packed away before she takes off again. While in motion, she re‑harnesses herself to the cart. If this happens again, it will be clear she cannot stay still for long.
As if the thought itself spells disaster, it comes true. Anytime she stays motionless for more than a few moments, the spell picks up Cognifiends in droves. It is as if they are summoned to the dragon—its remains calling out for anything to feast upon.
She is not getting any sleep tonight.