“Once, not as long ago as it now seems, a golden king ruled from the throne room of Orinskeep; his name was Richard, though the common people called him ‘the Fae’, for his beauty was ethereal and his sense of justice and compassion rivaled the gods’. He’d taken a wife, a girl as delicate and innocent as a doe whom he loved fiercely and tenderly, but she died young bringing Richard’s heir into the world, and in mourning he never married again but brought up his son as best he could.

“The boy, Edwin, was spared no pleasure, but the King was sure not to spoil him, and he grew up as unworldly as his father. Looking out over the ramparts of the Keep, often the young prince could be seen riding his roan mare through the apple orchards at any time of year, from spring’s thaw ‘till the deepest snow blocked his paths.

“Little did we know how short our time of peace and plenty would last!

“When Edwin was ten and two years old, his father was most foully murdered by poison, and others in the city also fell ill and weak, poisoned by the same substance, though not as strong. We did not have to search out the perpetrators of this deed, as soon dread barbarians from the sands far to the east laid siege upon our walls and that they were treacherously polluting our water supply with poison.

“Their general was a cruel man who had organized the hordes into a deadly and efficient fighting force, and with so many fighting men falling ill from tainted water or dehydration from no water at all, we had not the force to repel them.

“The king’s elite, the Knights of the Hawk, were cut down and slaughtered under the attack. They cannot be blamed for their failure; there were five barbarians for every man in the city and they hit us like a sea-storm. Few men survived, and those that did were treated as slaves until they managed to die or escape.

“Alexander the Gothic Sword- the commander of the Knights- was one of the lucky few to have escaped the bloodshed and tyrannical reign, perhaps only to commit honorable suicide in the lonely hills or to die of a broken heart in lands far from the city he loved.

“No one knows what became of the young prince Edwin, though he was almost certainly killed as well.”

The older man sighed and closed his eyes wearily, his voice beginning to shake with rough emotion.

The wind swept around the burned-out husk of a once marvelously beautiful stone room, swaying the tattered remnants of tapestries and standards and running chill fingers through the hair of the men gathered there. The last of the dying daylight shone orange through the shattered stained glass windows, turning everything golden and giving a feral glow to haunted eyes.

“They still hold the city, and we meet here in peril. If we are caught we will be sent immediately to the block without even the dignity of trial.

“I am the last of the Knights of the Hawk remaining, and well I remember that day that we fell! Well I remember the night that Alexander kissed me on the cheek when we parted paths! I swore that dawn that someday the barbarians would be driven back to the Wastes from which they came, and I would see a proper king on the throne once more.

“Mayhap even Alexander’s younger brother, Thorn.”

The grizzled warrior gestured to one of the men standing behind him who nodded in acknowledgement.

“Aye, and well told, Bayolin,” he said, stepping forward toward the young man- no more than a boy, really- who was sitting in a chair and to whom the story had been retold.

“Jonathan,” Thorn addressed the boy, “we are the new Knights of the Hawk. We number seven as that is a sacred number, and we will return Orinskeep to the glory that it has been robbed of. We will face persecution, terror, danger, and most likely, death. We will fight and no one will save us if we fail; the world will be plunged into a dark time of ignorance and barbarism. Do you still wish to come with us and join our ranks?”

Jonathan- who’d awoken that morning as a simple farm boy- looked at the assembled men. He found little comfort in their blank expressions and fighter’s garb, but he saw something else there as well, something that eased his mind and relaxed his lips. He looked bravely back at the tall man with cropped black hair that stood before him. “Yes.”

“Be it so,” answered Thorn. He nodded brusquely, and then turned to those waiting behind him. “This is Jonathan, the last new Knight of the Hawk!”

The mountain pass was narrow, and the drop off of it steep and jagged; Jonathan could see eagles’ nests below him from his place in his saddle. His hands were clammy and his heart pounded as he tried to guide his temperamental pinto safely on the path. Taking his eyes off the ground for a moment, he was amazed to see Randall leaned back casually in his saddle sketching their surroundings.

The red-head paused a moment to study his drawing, then added a few more strokes that developed into a vague image of Kendel and his horse. Grinning, he turned and waved his paper at Jonathan.

“Eh, you!” he shouted above the steady clop of their mounts’ steel shoes hitting the stone, causing echoes to scatter through the canyon like startled birds. “What do you think? I’m not sure if I like this style.”

Jonathan shot Randall a tight-lipped look. “I don’t believe you. We’re riding a path from which we can easily slip and plummet to our deaths, and you’re drawing!” His horse stumbled a little, and Jonathan shrieked and threw his arms around its neck as he was given a new and more terrifying view of the drop-off.

Randall laughed and turned to face front. “You worry too much. Your horse wants to die less than you do; it will not slip if it can help it. In fact, I think it likes frightening you like that.”

“Keep it down,” Falcon snarled back from somewhere ahead of them. “Everyone in a ten-kano area is going to know we’re here, thanks to you two.”

Randall chuckled to himself. “When Fennick hasn’t done anything Falcon can be angry about, he’s just as irritated as when he has!”

As if on cue, notes of a Sand-Cat song difted back through the line of horses and men, the words lilted in Fennick’s odd mewling voice.

Jonathan grinned and for a moment, relaxed his death-grip on the reins. “By the gods, you can hear the teasing smile in his voice!”

Randall nodded, his chuckles escalating into full laughter. “I can’t tell if he’s out of key or not!”

Ahead of Randall, Kendel gave a long-suffering sigh. The beautiful blonde warrior adjusted his tunic and gave a moment’s serious thought to jumping off his horse, onto Fennick’s, and strangling the Desert Fox with his hair. He clutched his long braid with one hand.

Falcon snarled again, snapping out something to his brother in their native tongue.

Fennick, duly chastised, fell silent.

The wind swirled through the narrow pass and down into the canyon, trilling like a savage raptor descending upon its prey, and whipping away the sound of the ponies’ hoofbeats and men’s conversations.

The little village they were riding down to was nestled snugly in the rolling, verdant hills in the distance, as evidenced by curls of cooking fires rising from quaint and quiet houses barely visible even from their high vantage point in the surrounding mountains.

Thorn sighed heavily as the sloping gradient increased leading down into the valley. He was glad to finally be at their final stop, and he was sure his men would be as well.

The seven men accepted the stares they received riding into the sleepy little town as their proper due, nodding politely at the gawping villagers and talking quietly among themselves. Except for Jonathan, they were all used to being the center of attention, and Jonathan was smart enough to follow the others’ lead.

Thorn was leading the line, his blue eyes panning slowly across the rows of cottages and buildings in search of an inn or tavern. His eyes were so pale he looked sunblind; even the pupil was not pure black, but appeared to be a deep, cloudy shade of blue. They were stern, commanding eyes, set in a nest of crow’s feet; the lines of his face were not gentle, and some—like Bayolin—could not help but to compare the younger man to his brother, who had been strong enough even after weeks of famine, dehydration, and war to escape the ravaged city. A large green pendant swung easily across his leather jerkin, and an elaborately decorated sword was strapped to his hip.

Falcon rode just behind the Thorn, nudging his horse impatiently until the aggravated mare danced in the street, tempted to throw her sour rider. Falcon held the reins in iron-strong hands and did not look about him, but stared straight ahead. He knew the gawking country folk were staring at him. He was different. His ears stood straight and pointed from the top of his head, roundly triangular in shape and covered with delicate golden fur. His hands and arms were also covered in this fur to the elbow, with dark leathery pads on his palms and fingers. Viciously curved claws rested retracted into the tips of his fingers most of the time, though sometimes they protruded the smallest bit to display his mood. The furred digitigrade feet that rested in the stirrups were more paws than feet, and his body-length tail rested across the mare’s sloping withers, the tufted tip twitching and betraying his smoldering irritation with the situation.

Falcon’s brother, Fennick, rode next, seated easily on a light, spirited gelding, a faint smile playing on his Cupid’s bow mouth and in his dancing green eyes. Fennick’s traditional Sand-Cat tunic—a glorified cape, really— rippled in the gentle breeze revealing his deeply muscled and bronzed back in addition to his bare chest. Both the tunic and the loose, billowing, wide-cuffed pants were vibrant purple, trimmed with starbursts of canary yellow and saffron to honor Fennick’s birthname, SunDance. A few dyed leather pouches dangled from his waist. Like his brother, he also displayed the unusual physical features of their tribe, from the pointed tips of his cat-like ears to the sweep of his white-tipped tail. Unlike his brother, Fennick looked friendly. He cast a fang-ringed grin over his shoulder at Kendel.

Kendel Trent didn’t smile back. He simply raised an elegant dark blonde brow and sighed. He wished briefly that they could stop traveling and go home, that he could be allowed to fulfill his saitori. But Kendel simply sat up straighter in his saddle, ignoring the cramping pains from riding all day, and nodded at the townspeople courteously. He held himself like a prince, his pale, slender hands holding the reins lightly, his blonde mane drawn into a spun-gold braided rope down his back. His thick fitted leather boots were finely made as all his clothes, and there was the hilt of an enormous ancient sword looming over his right shoulder

Randall was leaning over the neck of his horse with another piece of paper and broken chunk of charcoal, trying to draw once more. He would glance up now and then to assess their surroundings, his brow furrowed and pink tongue-tip poking out, before returning to his smudgy sketch. His broad, long-fingered hands were covered in smears of black dust, and as he reached up to brush strands of reddish-gold out of his eyes, he left a dark blur along his temple as well. His features were handsome and youthful, with open amusement and joy sitting pretty on his face even in these hard times, and his smile made hearts flutter wherever it landed. He rode lightly, his body seeming to be a part of the animal beneath him.

Jonathan bit his lip nervously at the hard stares their party received, and tried to wave and smile politely. He was young and average-looking; he was rarely noticed for long by very many. His thin frame was jolted by ever step his pinto took, and his long, skinny legs wrapped almost completely around its barrel. He looked slightly ill and out of place; he was worried about his mother, about where they were going and what was going to happen, and about the possible prospects of whom he was going to be sharing a room with this evening. His shaggy light brown hair badly needed a trim, and he scratched at the heavy growth of bread that had accumulated since leaving home, sighing softly.

Bayolin brought up the rear of their ragged line, his hazel eyes flicking over buildings and people, sizing them up and dismissing them quickly. He was a the oldest riding with the Knights, the grizzled remnant of the elite fighting class of Orinskeep that fell almost twenty years ago. His long dark mahogany hair and thick beard were both streaked with wide bands of pure white; his face was a map of creases and scars tracing the way back into another time and place. His hands rested upon his thighs, callused from much sword-play; the tip of his index finger was gone to the first joint.

Thorn finally stopped his horse outside a large white building with a broad sloped roof and a gold and green sign proclaiming itself as “The Silver Fox.” He dismounted and stretched, his back popping loudly, and the others followed his lead. A small, bright-eyed girl with a mass of braids came running outside, bobbing her head and smiling. She gathered up four sets of reins and led the first set of horses into the stables alongside of the inn and covered by the same broad roof; then quickly ran back and gathered up the next three and a shining coin from Thorn. The men walked into the “Fox.”

Thorn, Randall, and Fennick took seats at the bar, the former trying to catch the eye of the busily cleaning proprietor, and the latter two grinning and rubbing their hands like greedy children in anticipation of cold mugs of foamy ale. The other four men slouched gratefully around a table, glad simply to be sitting on something that wasn’t moving. Bayolin and Falcon unbuckled their swords and hung them over the backs of their chairs, but Kendel refused and so sat awkwardly, his back pressed into the scabbard. Jonathan watched Thorn, hoping upon hope that Fennick wouldn’t cause any trouble, a hope that he knew by now was in vain.

The portly, dark-skinned woman finally straightened up from her floor scrubbing, and wiped her hands upon an intense red ruffled apron as she stared at the men before her. Her gaze swept over most, but lingered briefly on Bayolin and Thorn. Her expression was not like those of the villagers they had met riding in: hostile, puzzled, or curious. There was a shrewd, clever look in her dark liquidy eyes as she focused on Thorn.

“Allya wanna spenda night?” she asked, picking up a rag and stroking the bar. She kept looking at Thorn, steadfastly ignoring Randall’s flirtatious, come-hither gestures and Fennick’s toothy grin.

“Aye.” Thorn dropped a thick roll of coins on the counter. “Four rooms, stabling for seven ponies. We might be here a few days.” He paused a moment, glancing at his men.

“That’s not allya wan’,” the woman stated, sweeping the coins into her apron pocket.

Thorn shifted uncomfortably. “No, ma’m,” he said, almost apologetically, “We’d also like to know about the dragon.”

The Knight’s casual chatter fluttered to a stop, and they turned to their leader and the bartender with a solemn curiousness. Even Fennick’s grin dropped, and he rolled his ears back against his head as if the subject distressed him.

The women’s busily scrubbing arm stopped, but she did not seem otherwise surprised. She gave a sideways glance at the Randall and Fennick, then leaned in closer to Thorn. “That’s jes’ a local myth,” she told him. “’s prolly no’ even true that there be any real dragons.”

Thorn hesitated a moment, his stern face open as he considered his options. “There are real dragons, m’am,” he said finally. “I’m a expert on the creatures, and the local lore brought me and my men to this town. Please tell me what you know.”

“Tha’s an intressing way o’ puttin’ that,” the woman said, smiling with bright white teeth that contrasted to her darker skin. “Ya gotten the feel of a prince ta ya, ya do,” she added elliptically.

Thorn stiffened, and Bayolin’s hawklike eyes narrowed tensely.

Jonathan frowned in confusion at the two older men’s sudden wariness and leaned over to Kendel. “What did she mean?”

The blonde tipped his elegant head toward Jonathan, keeping his blue eyes focused on the bar. “Thorn has the very rare gift of drajki-spake,” he muttered quietly. “People who have this are called dragon-princes, and somehow this woman could sense it within him. How, though, I don’t know.”

“And you, m’am, must have some way of knowing that,” Thorn said finally, rubbing his hand against the sandpaper of his unshaven face, looking at the woman shrewdly. His lips quirked up in a very small smile as something passed between him and this strange woman, and he shrugged as if the subject was no longer interesting. “My men are thirsty and hungry.”

The woman nodded, at ease once more. She pulled two thick pints of creamy lager for Randall and Fennick, then headed into a back room—presumably the kitchen.

“What was that all about?” Randall asked, pitching his voice low. He sipped appreciatively at his drink, sighing in exaggerated happiness.

“Don’t worry about it,” came Thorn’s firm answer. He was still smiling, and taking this as a good sign, Randall shrugged and set about drowning himself in golden foamy liquid.

Not long after Randall finished draining his mug, the proprietor and a younger woman can out, holding study wooden platters of steaming food and drink, which they set before the hungry men.

“Kasha, woul’ ya take care o’ these gennelmen?” The older woman pushed the girl behind the bar, and gestured to Thorn. He stood and followed her through a set of wide swinging doors, and his Knights watched with raised brows before plowing into the food. Thorn’s business was his own.

Fennick and Randall grinned at each other, nodding toward Kasha, then turned their good humor to her.

“So there, darlin,” it was Randall that started, “mayhap my drinking partner and I could have another mug of this delicious lager and talk to you for a spell.”

Fennick’s ears were once more up and leaning curiously forward, his green eyes gleaming mischievously. His gaze swept over the girl’s lean, willowy form, taking in her bright patchwork skirt and white peasant’s blouse with a look of amusement. He smirked, revealing pointed, elongated canine teeth, then licked his lips hungrily. “Yes, we’re very interested in getting to know the townspeople,” he added.

Kasha raised a dark brow at their flirtations, but poured them their drinks. She gave them an odd look before leaning against the back wall. “Ya’ll don’ see like a type I woul’ wanna know,” she said depreciatingly, then glanced at the others sitting at the table, her eyes lingering on Kendel briefly.

Fennick followed her gaze and snorted laughter into his mug.

Falcon rolled his eyes and growled, slicing at the roast chicken with a black, wicked-looking dagger and shoving it quickly into his fanged mouth. His face crumpled into its usual scowl of disgust as he glared across the table at Kendel, as if his brother’s misbehavior could all be blamed on the beautiful blonde warrior.

Jonathan just kept his eyes on his plate, trying to avoid getting mixed up in Randall and Fennick’s mischief or catching Falcon’s surly attention. He leaned his forehead on his cupped hand, shielding his expression effectively and hoping Thorn returned soon.

Bayolin tucked his food away like the experienced veteran he was, eating swiftly and heartily, not seeming to mind any of the chaos that was beginning to break out around him.

Kendel toyed with the mushrooms on his plate, sighing heavily. He had seen the young girl’s interested glance, and wished dearly he could escape before all hell broke loose. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his faith and the 14 katei he was supposed to follow. “I want to go to my room now,” he said quietly, standing and dropping his napkin onto his chair. “Good night.”

Both Kasha’s and Fennick’s gaze followed Kendel out of the room, the former looking on with the hopeless eyes of the young and romantic, the latter in an excited, pleased way. Randall gave his compatriot a nudge and grin. “Mayhap he would like a glass of wine before bed, eh?” the redhead suggested very softly.

Fennick trembled at what Randall was hinting, his tail flicking wildly. “Mayhap,” he agreed, feeling suddenly electric with anticipation. “Later.” He turned back to the bar and sucked down the rest of his mug in an attempt to steady his nerves. He wiped his mouth with his furry arm and smiled disarmingly at Kasha. “Hey love, ‘nother mug?” He waved the glass.

Falcon snarled again.

Thorn came back out through the swinging doors, looking very satisfied. He nodded at Kasha and gestured at the two at the bar, who immediately followed him to the table where the others sat. Thorn snagged a chair next to Bayolin, gracing his old friend with a rare, open smile. Fennick took Kendel’s abandoned seat, and Randall plopped next to Jonathan, patting the young man reassuringly.

“Where’s Kendel?” Thorn ran his eyes around the table.

“He got up and left,” Falcon answered, raising his lip in a slight sneer. “Said he was going to bed. Funny since we don’t know where our rooms are yet.”

Fennick raised his eyes to his brother’s, a flushed angry look upon his face. His lips parted and quivered, as though he wished to speak, but under Falcon’s flinty gaze, he turned away to stare at Thorn.

Thorn simply nodded. “Jonathan, please fill him in later,” he requested. He leaned forward. “The woman who owns this place—Shasi— was very helpful. She told me where in the mountains the dragon is rumored to live. He’s an ancient wyrm; I’ve never spoken to one so old as this, so I don’t know what will happen. It could be his voice will drive me mad on hearing it… I don’t know.” Thorn’s eyes brightened as if he were excited, not frightened, at this prospect. “It’ll take us two days to get there, so we’ll ride out tomorrow.”

“What was it about that woman, Thorn?” Randall asked, brow furrowed.

“She is a descendant of the wyrm,” Thorn explained. “Many generations ago, the dragon frequently assumed humanoid shapes and interacted with people, and, apparently, bred with them. I didn’t know this was even possible. But that tiny portion of silver blood allowed her to be able to sense me.”

“Interesting,” Bayolin muttered, tugging at his beard.

“Yes.” Thorn stood up. “Fennick, would you please find Kendel and bring him up to the west corridor to our rooms?”

Fennick nodded eagerly.

“Good. Try not to scare him this time.”

Fennick knew where to go. He knew Kendel. The sand-cat waited at the table until the others went up to bed; then he stood, feeling the five pints he’d slammed down sloshing his brains about. He put an unsteady hand on the edge of the chair and worked his way around it slowly until he felt comfortable with the way the room dipped and swayed like a listing ship.

He went out the front doors and paused, breathing in the chill nighttime mountain air. This helped to roll back the alcohol glaze from his eyes, and he rummaged about in one of his leather pouches in order to find his pipe and a match. It was a thick, straight piece, carved out of heavy white quartz with a steel bowl. His face was briefly illuminated with a lurid orange glow as he lit the match and bowed his face over the pipe, taking slow, deep breaths. After a few minutes of smoking, Fennick was pleasantly incapacitated of reasoning thought once more, and packing his pipe away, he headed into the stables.

He found Kendel there, sitting in a patch of moonlight and rubbing his sword—no, his master’s sword, Fennick thought—as if it was his lover. It almost made Fennick jealous, but he bit back the feelings and sat next to the other Knight.

Kendel paused, aware of the sand-cat’s body heat, soft breathing, and the smoky green scent covering his own natural musk. The realization of these sensations made him shiver; the realization that they had sent a bolt of pleasure through him made him ashamed and angry. He slid the enormous sword into its scabbard. “What is it, SunDance?”

Fennick snorted softly into the dark, swaying even while sitting, his head buzzing and making it difficult to think. Kendel’s scent had changed; what did that mean? “Are you going to come in to bed, Ken?”

“With you?” The blonde managed—barely—to keep the resentment and frustration from his voice, knowing that it would be sensed anyway. He couldn’t hide things from Fennick.

The other man turned to look at his companion, his cat’s slit pupils dilated in the dark. He inhaled sharply and flicked first his ears, then his long tail. His expression was surprisingly blank for once. “Kendel…”

“You’ve been drinking and smoking again.” Kendel’s own crystal blue eyes narrowed, his almost femininely beautiful features hardening like ice. He jerked himself to his feet and paced a few steps away, slinging the scabbard to his back and securing the straps.

Fennick turned his own face away and shook his head, pulling his pain into himself and savoring it bitterly. His ears pressed back and his tail lay like a dead thing, and he bit his lip, wondering if there was any way to salvage the conversation. It seemed that every time they spoke it came to this. He looked at his hands folded in his lap, sighing. “Kendel,” he tried again, “please go to bed. You won’t do anyone any good, sick from cold and exhaustion.” He pushed himself to his feet and started for the open stable doors, wishing that he could be angry about being spurned time and time again. At least anger would be warm.

Kendel watched him reach the door and lean on the framework, trying not to notice the dispirited walk or the pristine tail-tip dragging on the ground. He tried instead to force himself to remember the codes of behavior he was supposed to follow, the moral codes that stated explicitly that giving in to the rush of emotions that got caught up in his chest whenever Fennick was near him was wrong, was dirty, was evil. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, willing the burning behind his eyelids to dissipate. He could feel his resolve faltering.

Fennick paused against the doorframe of the stables, looking up at the clear sky and making a wish like a heart-broken child, a single tear coursing down his cheek.

“We’re in the west hallway. Night, Ken.” The purple clothed figure and its sweeping tail disappeared around the corner.

Kendel slammed his head and fist into a wooden support, cursing the malicious joke that is life. Unsatisfied, he slammed into it again and again until the tears held within could pour free. He sank down in the fragrant hay and held his face in his hands.

He stayed there for over an hour before slipping into the inn and upstairs, quiet as a cat in the dark. He stopped outside the first door, running his hands along the smooth finished wood and hesitating. His heart pounded in his chest like a runaway horse, as he finally turned the brass knob with hands slick with sweat.

He stepped inside.