SINGED

I only remember fragments of my first days on the surface. My mind was going through another phase of development in which my two conflicting selves more fully divorced from each other, causing acute disorientation.

I woke on the beach, dreams of flying over ocean waves lingering in my mind. Rising, I found claw marks leading up to where I lay. My first impulse was fear. Had some beast crept that close to me while I slept? Only then did I realize they were my tracks. I must have changed during the twilight of my dragon time, but I was human again in the light of day.

The skies remained cloudy like my mind. I do not recall where I acquired clothes. Days and nights did not follow consecutively. More and more often I woke in the morning as my dragon-self seemed to prefer the night. The dragon continued to fade so that it seemed that part of my life was less real. Sometimes I thought it had been a dream.

I entered the city after wandering drunkenly about its walls for days. Here was the multitude that had called me from my slumber. It was morning and great crowds of people and animals were entering through the west gate. The musky scent of horses and human sweat mingled in the breeze.

“Where you headed, lad?”

I turned to see a well-dressed gentleman wearing a broad brimmed hat and a fine embroidered doublet of vermilion with gold stitching along the hem. He was setting on a Rhone mare. A rapier hung at his side and riding gloves were tucked into a broad leather belt about his waist.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I nodded. Constant hungerhad plagued me since I hatched. Foraging had only produced a handful of roots and mushrooms. Vague memories from my dragon time suggested I may have caught and eaten something, a rabbit perhaps, but nothing more.

“I need laborers. I will feed you for your troubles,” he said. “A bowl of porridge before you begins, then a decent dinner when the work is done. Agreed?”

His words caught the attention of others. A few, like me, voiced an interest but some frowned and turned away. I caught a hesitant glance from a kindly woman. For a moment, I thought she would speak but, looking nervously toward the horseman, she bowed her head and departed.

Poor boy, she thought as she left.

My eyes narrowed. I wasn’t a boy. I was only pretending to be one. I followed the horseman, with the other young vagrants, to a cart, driven by a man with a patch over his left eye, an ugly red scar peeking out from under it. We climbed into the cart. Patch snapped his whip, and we wobbled over the cobblestones, through the sea of people.

As promised, I received a heaping wooden bowl of gruel, tasteless but filling. Then Patch nodded at a long low barge tied to a pier and we went to work. I received side long glances from my fellow laborers until I realized I was much stronger than I should be, lifting casks of wine alone and carrying crates stacked one upon another. I began mimicking their slow efforts, sighing and wiping my brow.

“Spare your back,” the dark-haired boy beside me said. “I was eager my first time too, but you must pace yourself. You will be exhausted before we are done.”

He was right. Even I felt the strain as the day wore on. We unloaded two more vessels and then reloaded them with new cargo.

Not all assisted with the lifting. There were several well-armed individuals standing about. Patch watched us, as he cut and ate bits of a mottled pear. Abruptly our employer barked at Patch who, turning vanished.

Then there was the clatter of hooves and armored soldiers with crimson tabards coursed down the dock behind a man who wore a broad brimmed hat like our employer. He was well dressed, with golden buckles on his boots and a glittering saber at his waist.

“Alister Crow,” the gentleman called in an overly friendly tone. “How fare thee this fine evening?”

All work came to a halt and the watchers that remained moved closer with hands hovering near sword hilts.

“’It is a fine evening at that, Master Lampwick, or was,” our employer said coldly. “What brings you out to harass me and delay honest labor?”

Lampwick laughed as if a fine jest had been made.

“Why Master Crow, you of all people, should know my errand. These are my docks, and as such, I have come to claim what is rightly mine.”

“The docks are owned by the King of Lindor, last I heard,” Alister replied, “and the vessels and cargo are mine, so I do not see why you need be involved.”

Patch returned with a clutch of burly reinforcements in tow.He looked dangerous and determined, until he saw the column of cavaliers that sat silently upon their chargers, visors closed. They seemed empty suits of armor, cold and inhuman. I shivered.

“Well, yes, of course they are,” Master Lampwick conceded indulgently, “but they are mine to manage per the trade guild, just as the west gate is yours. You are out of your territory.

Now I understand you have other financial investments, but when you attend them on my docks, as you know, you must request my permission and pay for the service.”

Alister scowled but his eyes drifted to Lampwick’s escort. Hesitantly, he nodded.

“I did not expect the Red Guard to enforce your extortion,” he said.

“Why ever not?” Lampwick queried. “After all, I am the official port authority of Lindor and within my rights to fine you for unauthorized access.”

He produced a scroll emblazoned with a gilded seal and tossed it to Alister who caught it with a sneer and tore it open.

“I won’t forget this,” Alister replied after a glance at the scroll’s contents, but grudgingly he withdrew a heavy purse from his cloak and handed it to his competitor. “Feel free to count it.”

“Not necessary,” Lampwick winked. “I know where to find you.”

He wheeled his mount and withdrew up the dock. The Red Guard followed, hooves striking sparks on the cobblestones.

“Master Crow cares naught for the lost coin, neither,” my companion whispered. “He is angry to have been called out in front of his crew. That hefty purse means nothing to a trade foreman.”

Alister spoke heatedly with Patch who bowed his head and withdrew. Unexpectedly, the foreman turned to meet my gaze across the quay. Startled, I turned back to my work. We continued until dusk crept in over the water.

“My name is Cayn,” the dark-haired boy said.

We were fed a thick potato and leek soup with bread crusts and sharp cheese. Dinner was served in one of the drafty old shacks where cargo was stored. We sat about on crates and barrels. My stomach felt full for the first time.

“Maybe I’ll see you,” he said, rising.

He raised his hand in parting and drifted away into the deepening twilight. I realized the others had left as well. As I rose to follow I could see Patch setting by the open warehouse door, smoking. His pipe glowed brightly for a moment as he inhaled, and I could see his good eye staring at me before the light faded. The sweet smell of tobacco scented the cool evening air.

Abruptly I was blind and gasping as rough burlap covered my face and rough hands seized me. Then something struck the back of my head and darkness enfolded me.