The Fowl Proposal
(a series of Dragon Blood bonus scenes)
by Lindsay Buroker
Copyright © 2016 Lindsay Buroker
Foreword
This series of four bonus scenes, which take place after the events of Soulblade (Dragon Blood, Book 7) and before Shattered Past (a stand-alone DB adventure with Therrik as the hero), was originally published on my website. Readers asked for a version they could keep on their e-readers, so I’ve combined the scenes into a short ebook. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading!
Scene #1: Fowl Advice
General Vilhem Ort dismounted in front of General Zirkander's house, removed a thick envelope from the saddle bag, and turned his horse free to nip at the grass on the undeveloped lot across the road. The placid mare would not go far, and the dead-end street had no other traffic to worry about obstructing. Usually, it had no other traffic. This afternoon, a couple of other horses were tied to trees at the edge of the lawn, and a line of unfamiliar men and women, some holding children's hands, were queued up on the walkway, as if waiting their turn to get into one of the popular dance halls in the city. Vilhem couldn't imagine anyone voluntarily dancing in the living room where Ridge and Sardelle kept that dreadful couch that had been a gift from Ridge's squadron. Maybe the people were here to see Sardelle for healing.
Vilhem headed for the door slowly, not certain if he should barge to the front of the line, or if those waiting might revolt. He hadn't come on business and wasn't in uniform. As far as they knew, he was nothing more than another supplicant, though he hoped he was fit enough that he did not look like someone who needed a healer's services.
A few people in the back did give him disgruntled frowns as he headed for the door. One lifted a finger, an objection clearly on his lips. Before the woman could speak, Sardelle poked her head outside.
"Ready for the next person," she said, her face pleasant and serene, as was usual for her, but Vilhem thought he caught a faintly frazzled look in her eyes.
"Sardelle?" he asked, almost inquiring if she was all right, but if she wasn't, she wouldn't want to speak of it in front of strangers--or supplicants.
"Oh hello, Vilhem." She smiled at him. "Are you here to see Ridge, or are you, too, coming to see if you've got dragon blood flowing in your veins?"
"I--ah." What? He frowned at the people in line. Did these people think they had the aptitude to become sorcerers? Maybe that was why the children were here. It boggled his mind to imagine people lining up to be tested, perhaps for entrance into Sardelle's up-and-coming mage school, when less than a year ago, people suspected of having magical talent had been drowned or shot. The last he had heard, that still happened in the rural areas and some smaller cities too. "I'm here to see Ridge," he said.
"He's in the duck blind, but he most emphatically told me that this is his day off. It's the first he's had in three weeks." Her smile turned into a slight frown. An accusing one? True, Vilhem was Ridge's superior officer, but he had little to do with all of the work that overseeing the flight academy and the flier battalion involved. Vilhem had been promoted to brigade commander when Ridge took over his old position and knew all about work and infrequent days off.
"It's not about work. Well, it is, but I think he'll want to hear about it." Vilhem lifted the envelope. "This morning, our flight engineering team brought in the designs for the new fliers. I thought he'd want to see them. Er, did you say he's in a duck blind?" Vilhem had known Ridge for years and couldn't remember him ever speaking fondly of hunting, unless it involved hunting pirates, smugglers, or imperial invaders.
"Yes, out that way." Sardelle waved toward the large pond that lay at the end of the street, aspens and firs ringing it, though a path meandered along the shoreline. "I believe you're right that he'll be excited to see that envelope." She gave him a more genuine smile, then waved for the person at the head of the line to come into the house.
Since she disappeared inside without offering further instructions, Vilhem headed for the path. As he followed it between the trees and the reed choked shallows, the front yard and the line of people disappeared from view. He soon spotted the low roof of a squatty stone-and-mortar structure with a long rectangular window overlooking the pond. Vilhem did not see a hunter's shotgun sticking out from it. He stepped off the path and onto rocks and branches that had been laid across mud to provide a dry way to reach a low wooden door that appeared to be a recent addition to the back of the structure.
Vilhelm felt silly knocking on the entrance to a duck blind, but he didn't want to be shot by an overly eager hunter, so he did so.
"Come in," Ridge Zirkander's familiar voice came from within.
Vilhelm pulled open the door and ducked his head to peer inside. What he had expected to be a damp hole with a muddy floor turned out to be a surprising cozy little room. A woven reed rug covered the floor and two hideous but comfortable looking lounge chairs had been stuffed inside, along with a side table covered with books and magazines. More books occupied a shelf behind the chair that Ridge sat in, and a phonograph also rested on top. Ridge lounged in civilian clothes in the far chair, a book in his hand, and his leg hooked over one armrest, while the heel of his bare foot tapped a rhythm on the side. A sword in a scabbard leaned against the stone wall beside his chair. Was that Tylie's soulblade? Vilhem had only seen it once, when Ridge had been using it to drive a dragon away from the capital.
"General Ort," Ridge blurted, scrambling to his feet and almost cracking his head on the low ceiling. "I thought you were Sardelle." He started to salute, but seemed to realize they were both in civilian clothing. Three months after his promotion, he still had trouble remembering that he could call Vilhem by first name now. "Though I suppose I should have realized you weren't. She has a sexier knock."
"How does one knock sexily?"
"Not how you did it. Can I get you something? Beer? Sarsaparilla?"
Vilhem had only intended to stay long enough to drop off the envelope, but he spotted a sarsaparilla bottle on the table by the chair and promptly decided that a drink would be nice. Summer had finally come to Iskandia, and it was warm out there. He wouldn't be surprised to return to the street to find that his mare had wandered into the pond.
"I'll take a beer if you have one." He glanced around, half expecting an ice box somewhere in the room. A cracker tin and a grease-spotted paper bag from Donotono's Bakery sat on the shelf next to the phonograph, but he didn't see any other beverage bottles.
Still barefoot, Ridge padded toward Vilhem. "Beer's on this side." He pointed toward the window overlooking the pond. The water reached halfway up the front wall, with the surface only a couple of feet below.
A few ducks paddled about nearby, not concerned by the chatting men or the window looking out upon them. Someone had cleared the reeds to make a view, but Vilhem did not see any hunting weapons, unless Ridge zapped ducks with the magical sword.
That would be most unsporting, a voice said into his head. Tylie feeds bread to the ducks, so they swim over whenever a human approaches.
Vilhem jumped, knocking his head on the low roof. He knew that Sardelle was telepathic, though she didn't make a habit of speaking into his mind, and he'd also heard from the dragon that thought himself a god, but he didn't recognize this voice.
He looked toward the sword leaning against the wall.
Was that you? he asked, feeling silly for asking questions in his mind, but he would have felt even sillier asking aloud, since Ridge hadn't given any indication that he had heard.
Naturally. I'm Wreltad. Tylie left me here, since Sardelle has sent her on a herb collecting task out back. It's a test on gathering ingredients for potion making. I am not supposed
to assist, not that I am overly familiar with Iskandian herbs. Nonetheless, Tylie left me here, and I do not mind. Ridge and I are reading a fictional accounting of the first flier squadron. He appreciates my commentary.
I'm... certain of that, Vilhem said tactfully.
Whistling, Ridge grabbed a rope that Vilhem had not noticed, the end anchored inside with something that looked like a cat-shaped bookend. He hauled up a net full of bottles, fished around inside, and extricated one.
"This pond is full of glacier-fed water from the Ice Blades," Ridge said. He used the edge of the window to snap the crown cork off and handed the dripping stoneware porter bottle to Vilhem. "Better than an icebox, since it never needs to be replenished." He let the net settle back below the surface of the water, weighted down by several more bottles inside. "Have a seat, General." He waved to the chair on the other side of the table from his, one upholstered in a striped mustard yellow and dirt brown fabric. A rip on the seat had been stapled together.
"I think I'll stand." Vilhem nodded toward the window. "Enjoy the view."
Ridge grinned. He had heard Vilhem's disparaging remarks about his couch--all of the couches he'd had. Who knew where he had picked up these chairs? Some house abandoned in the last century, perhaps. Or from a sale at the city junk yard. Perhaps the overseer had paid him to take them away.
"Help yourself if you want another drink," Ridge said, waving toward the rope. "Sardelle keeps the duck blind stocked."
"Does she? That's thoughtful of her."
"She likes it when I hide from her students and dragons out here instead of on base. Then when she's done, she can pop out, find me, and we can..." Ridge glanced at the chair he'd offered Vilhem. "Enjoy the view together."
Vilhem found himself even more glad that he hadn't sat in the chair. "She's a good woman. You better marry her soon. Some of the elder gods object to men and women living together when they're not wed."
"Yeah, but I don't follow any of them. I always prayed to Cloud Rider as a boy--imagine that--but I think I may be worshipping Bhrava Saruth, these days. He blessed me, you know."
Vilhem took a slow swig of the beer while he digested that. "You think?"
"Well, I'm not sure how legitimate it all is. Just because he says he's a god doesn't make him one, right? I'm not sure on the rules of how one gets deified. He is four thousand years old, I understand. Though he slept through most of those years in that cavern."
There is nothing unwholesome about a long nap, the soulblade observed.
Ridge glanced over, the words having apparently been shared with him this time. "I like napping as much as the next fellow." He flopped back into his chair. "Was there something that brought you by, General? Vilhem," he corrected, glancing at the envelope. "Aside from the need to suggest I propose to Sardelle?"
"Yes."
"I want to, you know," Ridge added before Vilhem could open the envelope. "I'm just not sure how. It should be a surprise, right? But she's telepathic, so she usually knows whatever I'm thinking before I do. Oh, she doesn't always monitor me, but Jaxi seems to like fishing around in my head a lot. I'm not sure how I could keep a marriage proposal a secret."
"I... don't believe it has to be a secret," Vilhem said, thinking back to his own proposal more than thirty years earlier. He was fairly certain Anatosia had seen it coming. She had said yes before he even got the promise necklace out. Since he had never remarried again after her passing, he had only the one proposal to draw upon. Perhaps it was too far in the past to be useful to someone today. Times had changed. Still, Ridge was looking at him, his eyebrows raised, as if he actually wanted some wisdom. Vilhem