Act III: Sacrifice
Three years… One for each egg… James brooded wistfully.
As if on cue, his dragon subtly bucked, warning him they would soon be descending.
“It is time, young master!” Heimlock roared.
“Easy, Heim. Three Thunderborn souls at stake here. It would be wise to exercise caution over emotion.” James commanded.
“May the Draken-gods look favorably upon us!” Heimlock confirmed, banking left into a smooth looping glide to survey the forest below.
They’d been tasked to recover three whelp eggs of the Bright Sky, stolen by the Warsharn tribe. A particularly vicious gang of dark elves, they provided nearly one fifth of all dragon boons on the black market, known to the underworld as The Pitch.
All dragon riders worked tirelessly to disrupt every poacher who supplied The Pitch. But since James had joined the Bright Sky, it seemed for every band of villains they stopped, two more rose in their place.
It had been three years since James had completed his Sacrament trial. Three years since James last spoke with his adopted father. But that was not by his choice.
To this day, James clung to the last words Eigyys had spoken to him.
You must become accustomed to working with Heimlock. I shall not interfere.
According to Eigyys, they could no longer speak due to the bylaws of the Drakvrend twelfth amendment. And while James trusted his father, he was eternally skeptical of how often his father used ‘ritual’ and ‘tradition’ to do whatever he pleased whenever times got tough.
Three years… James thought to himself in sad frustration.
“Three eggs!” Heimlock boomed, “There!”
A few leagues away, five silhouettes surrounded a campfire. A band of dark elves preparing for another night of celebration. Their successful heist had scored three perfectly intact whelp eggs plus many other dragon artifacts and trinkets.
Suddenly, the movements in the camp below became frantic and stiff. They moved about like frenzied ants preparing for a harsh rainstorm.
A silent alarm had been raised.
“A ward has detected us! Orders!” Heimlock growled in disgust.
James closed his eyes and took a deep breath, half in annoyance, half in concern. After the mission, he was certain that most of the night would now be spent listening to drawn out apologies from Heimock for being so careless on this approach.
“I see them!” James shouted, “Keep going!”
Close to the campfire were three eggs. Each one of them the size of a giant’s head; one blue, one white, and one green. Upon seeing the green egg, James froze.
Eigyys…
“Orders! …Young master?!” Heimlock blared, snapping James back to attention.
“You take the three elves to the south, I’ll take the two north. Blue and white are yours. Mine, green. Dive now, quickly!” James howled, steeling his mind against his emotion.
With a flap of wings and a sudden burst of effort, their approach went from free-fall, into dive, then became a blur. The flames radiating from every orifice on Heimlock’s arrow-like head gave them the appearance of a shooting star falling rapidly to earth.
Elven shouts of command were the last sounds James heard before Heimlock reached ground. The dragon slammed his entire weight down between the two encamped tents, ready to engage. In one smooth motion he whipped his head to the left, a blaze of sapphire flame leaping from his mouth while his tail wrapped protectively around the blue and white eggs behind him.
Caught in the blast, one of the elves let out a scream of agony before his vocal cords turned to char. What was left of him crumpled into ash on the ground.
James heard more than saw his Drakvrend’s opening volley.