Author's Note: This one's been incubating since––well, since I saw the cover of Vol. 4. In the end, it's half 'sketch' file that I wrote years ago labeled 'Prior to Market Day' and half…something else. Thanks again to BlueTrillium for all the feedback. You were right, it should be a colon.

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How to Greet a Dragon

The winter of the Year of the Awakening was unusually warm and wet. Not that it snowed much in the mild climates around the Midland Sea, but the excess of rain had all the farmers forecasting a dry spring and drier summer, no matter what the seers said.

For his part, Izark was grateful for the lack of cold, and particularly the lack of snow––it meant that the mountains were traversable. Between dense rainforest and barren, timeworn mountain, Zago was a rugged place. If the passes had been closed by snow, the warrior would have been forced to choose between taking Noriko through the troops camped in the lowlands or waiting out the winter in some foothill shack.

Neither option was very appealing. On his own, Izark could have gotten through––he was used to dodging conscription––but he had this girl on his hands. There was almost nothing more potentially dangerous to a fetching little thing like Noriko than an army of bored, leering men, and that went without considering that she was also the Awakening for which every military in the world was searching.

Staying in one place would have been even less prudent. The combination of a traveling warrior and an island girl was already conspicuous, and stopping would only make them that much easier to trace.

Also, Izark wasn't sure he could stand being holed up with the Awakening for over a month.

It wasn't that he disliked Noriko––quite the contrary. If he was honest with himself, the young man would admit that he enjoyed her company more than he would have thought possible.

He liked Noriko: her small peculiarities, her fascination with everything she saw.

Her friendship.

Her smile.

However, the prophecy of the Awakening was a near-constant shadow in the back of his mind. No, as the Sky Demon, Izark was already too much involved; he couldn't afford to become anymore attached, and waiting for the passes to clear would have driven him mad (if he wasn't already––he sometimes wondered).

Nonetheless, the warrior set an easy pace for his charge's sake, and for the horse's. They traveled slowly, walking and riding at intervals along winding mountain roads that barely anyone used during that time of the year, and stopping when it rained. He saw no purpose in haste––without evident pursuit, running would just be a waste of energy. It wouldn't do for either the horse or Noriko to sicken from exhaustion. With any luck, they could mosey along the entire way and still reach Gaya's town before the middle of spring. No, there was no need to rush.

On an unseasonably warm and sunny noon near the end of winter, a shadow passed over the sun. Izark pulled the horse up short, staring skyward. Noriko followed his gaze but saw nothing unusual; just the sheer rock walls of the gorge through which the trail ran. Twisting around to look at the man seated behind her, she was slightly disconcerted to find that the intent, measuring gaze he had trained on the firmament was now directed at her. "Izark?"

Quickly the warrior weighed the risks against the opportunity that had just presented itself at the top of the cliff. It was unreasonable to expect heights-shy Noriko to go up that way, but there should be another route. The horse couldn't come in any case. But if I'm right, he rationalized, then there's a settlement around here somewhere…

"Izark? What––what is it?" Noriko was asking in her foreign accent, looking from him to the top of the gorge and back again with uncertainty.

The young man dealt her a small smile, just the barest lift of the corners of his mouth to show that circumstances were not dire. "Never mind. You'll see."

As Izark had predicted, they came to a ramshackle hamlet at the opening of the gorge––a cluster of five or so rickety stone buildings with mossy roofs and listing foundations. There was neither inn nor stable––not even a tying post–– but that was to be expected. These folk had little use for horses; littler still for visitors.

Noriko stood back and held the horse as, near the largest house, Izark exchanged some words with a weedy, grim-faced teenager working in a rocky vegetable garden. The Japanese girl couldn't make out what was said, but after a moment the mountain boy put down his hoe and trotted into the house.

The result: an equally weedy, grim-faced older man emerged to plant himself firmly between the travelers and the tumbledown gate. He carried a quiver slung across his back; a longbow strung in his hand. He had the look of a man whose life had used him hard, bringing some of the aspect of old age to a countenance that was otherwise barely past the prime of life. At first his posture was guarded, even hostile, but after some tense discussion his air changed to thoughtfulness, then to interest. The way he kept peering over Izark's shoulder at her made Noriko wonder if they were talking about her, and worry about what that could mean.

Finally, the mountain man's gaunt face split into a beaming grin (pleasant, despite a number of missing teeth) and he responded positively to the last thing Izark had said. He even invited them inside, directing the boy––his son––to put their horse in a small shed at the back of the house and to care for it while he did business with the visitors.

The man, Perik Sabra Lukar, sketched out a map while a granddaughter handed around the makings of a light midday meal. (From what Noriko could gather, the settlement was populated solely by Perik, his children, and their families.) The patriarch's enthusiasm in regards to whatever Izark was proposing was in startling contrast to his initial unwelcome. He thumped the young warrior on the back (something Izark tolerated with discomfiture), ruffled Noriko's hair, and asked all manner of questions. Where were they from? Where were they bound? Seconds, anyone? He laughed at how the 'island girl' butchered the name of his little domain––he found the way her inexperienced tongue turned 'Rinaxucal' into 'Rin-akisukara' highly amusing––and, grinning impishly, said several things that Noriko did not understand, but that caused Izark to blush and stammer denials. When he finally sent them off, it was with an invitation to stay the night, as well as a promise not to let the horse get eaten.

Recalling that last, Noriko could only conclude that she had misinterpreted, or maybe it was one of those cultural idioms that would take her years to figure out.

Shaking off the suspicion that she'd understood perfectly, she returned to the task at hand.

They were halfway up a set of near-vertical stone stairs, Izark following to guard against mishap. Noriko had just paused for a breather. She did not have to rest nearly as long as she would have when she first came to this world––riding the horse was a surprisingly vigorous activity, and the young woman's endurance had increased dramatically over the last several weeks. She was less confident in regards to coordination, and was both grateful for and embarrassed by her guardian's insight on that point.

She renewed her progress up the stairs. Actually, she thought it would be more accurate to call it a ladder, with notches cut into the rock walls to serve as handholds. A good thing, too, because the steps were slippery with condensation and worn smooth by running water.

Running water? She wondered where she got that impression. But yes, now that she looked, the steps were rounded on the edges, with pits and grooves where flood-borne debris had carved out intrusions in the softer stone. The steps of ancient temples were not worn this way, but hollowed towards the center by the passing of hundreds upon hundreds of feet. These stairs had that kind of wear as well, but under the marks made by water. No recent pilgrimages, then, but they were still old. Very old.

Reaching for the next handhold, the girl winced when her hand scraped against a sharp edge in the wall. Aside from the notches, they were completely un-worked. Whoever made the stairs had taken advantage of a natural crevice in an otherwise impassable mountainside.

It certainly looked impassable, at least from the outside. Noriko had been apprehensive when it seemed like Perik's map led up and over a sheer cliff––since coming to this world, she'd cultivated a new appreciation for guardrails––and was greatly relieved when Izark showed her the narrow fissure hidden behind a jumble of rubble. The shape of the mound had struck her as unnatural, and she realized now that someone had deliberately piled those stones in order to disguise the entrance to the stairs.

Why? Noriko wondered. Where had the stairs' makers intended them to lead? Where did they lead now? She had asked Izark where they were going during the short hike to the cliff, but the warrior had just said, "You'll see," and smirked.

Humph.

Unbeknownst to Noriko, Izark had continued to stand where he was and was watching her climb. Or rather, watching her think as she climbed. It was interesting––fun, even. He could almost see the wheels turning as she gathered information to make up for answers he had purposely denied her. Still, he was confident that what lay ahead would be a complete surprise and, he hoped, a pleasant one.

The swordsman was gratified by the look of astonishment that came over the girl's face when they reached the top of the steps.

Much like Perik's hospitality, the wide fertile valley that spread out before them was entirely unexpected after weeks of nothing but mountain scrub and bare rock. A watercourse wound lazily down from hazy mountains, reflecting a perfect blue sky. Tall, yellowing grasses grew in the flood plain on both sides of the creek, and a group of giant rabbit-like creatures grazed serenely. Here and there, a raccoon-ish burrowing rodent poked its head up to look around.

The warrior had no way of knowing it, but Noriko had another reason to stare.

'A stream runs through it.

A shade of blue beyond description.

Beautiful, peaceful animals.'

But for differences owing to the change of seasons, it was all shockingly familiar.

It was her dreamscape.

Izark consulted the map. Then, taking a careful moment to fix the position of the stairs in his mind, he led the way down into the valley. Noriko followed, still feeling a bit overawed.

Another brief trek brought them to a clump of trees and tall shrubs that had seen better days. It looked to Noriko as if something large and ungainly had rested here recently. One or two lower branches hung down from splintered bases, while the dry winter grass was decidedly flattened.

Observing the damage, Izark nodded, then lowered himself into a sitting position with his back against the trunk of an ill-used tree. "Noriko," the warrior murmured, and motioned for the girl to sit beside him. The look she gave him was questioning, but she did as she was asked, folding her legs neatly beneath her in what he assumed was proper etiquette wherever she came from.

Nodding again in approval, he raised a hand for stillness and quiet. "Hush," he ordered, and settled back to wait.

Noriko obliged, though she was bursting to ask what had made such a huge dent in the undergrowth. She wanted to know why the stairs were built, why they were hidden, who had hidden them, what they were waiting for, etc. She wanted to verify whether Izark knew that she had a connection to this place, and if so then how he knew. She wanted to know any number of things, but suspected that the young man would just say "You'll see," and shush her again. He usually explained things. What was the point of her being able to understand what he said if he wouldn't tell her anything? Frustrated, she bit back a petulant huff.

The wait ended.

Noriko stiffened as the ground quivered. Greenery rustled and snapped as something huge shifted on the other side of the trees. Twisting toward the sounds, she jolted in fright when an eye bigger than a softball peered back at her from the bushes.

A reassuring hand settled on her shoulder, as a beige head the size of a man's torso nosed through the foliage, followed by a long neck which bent with serpentine grace. It possessed a set of giraffe-like horns, while the nose was vaguely equine. However, the creature's milky amber eyes were not that of an herbivore, but set forward in the skull like a predator's. Darker amber pupils expanded from slits to wide ovals as they adjusted to the shade on this side of the trees.

Calmly, Izark reached up his other hand. The beast lowered its head to sniff his fingers, and was rewarded with a pat on the nose. Immediately, the dinosaur––for the finely beaded texture of its pale hide resembled nothing so much as that of certain types of lizards–– stretched its neck down and twisted so the warrior could scratch behind its jaw. Chuckling, Izark obliged for a moment, then guided the animal's head around to Noriko.

After some prompting from the swordsman, the girl slowly reached out a tentative hand to stroke the smooth, warm nose, and couldn't help but giggle at the happy whining noises the creature emitted from its nostrils when she did. Its breath didn't smell so good, but then neither did a dog's.

"Izark? What is called?" she found herself asking her guardian.

"We call them winged dinosaurs," the young man answered, and watched as the girl dissected the phrase.

Noriko certainly was 'dissecting' the creature's name. The dinosaurs part wasn't difficult––a plural form, it combined a word that she was pretty sure meant 'reptile' with a sound that conveyed great size. And winged––birds had wings.

A winged dinosaur––a big reptile that has wings––

…Wings?

Izark, observing with interest, tried not to smirk as Noriko's eyes moved up the creature's neck to stop at the foliage hiding the rest of its form from view. Slowly, so as not to startle the large friendly beast, he stood. Noriko looked up when he moved, and was mimicking him before he had a chance to tell her to stand. Nodding, the warrior turned and stepped away from the dinosaur's head, pacing backward in a straight line and gesturing for the girl to follow.

The dinosaur was not ready to give up being petted, and the ground trembled slightly as it maneuvered after them through the trees, bending branches almost to the breaking point, and flattening a small bush with one taloned foot while several more fell victim to its tail.

Noriko stared. It did have wings: immense bat-like appendages folded tightly over its back like a bird's.

It was not quite a dragon––with only two back legs and no arms, her science-fiction author father would have called it a wyvern, and she doubted that winged dinosaurs could breathe fire. Nonetheless, this was the stuff of her father's novels, and it was very real.

And very needy. Having freed itself from the underbrush, the dinosaur lurched forward on its raptor-like legs to stick its nose under Izark's hand, making soft keening noises and plainly asking for another scratch.

Unlike Guzena, Rienka, and a few other countries around the Midland Sea, Zago didn't have a national flight of winged dinosaurs. As far as the monarchy knew, there were no winged dinosaurs in Zago.

Almost everyone else knew better.

Generations of mountain smugglers guarded the nearly inaccessible valleys that served as nesting grounds for the slow growing reptiles. Though wild dinosaurs were ferocious predators, new hatchlings imprinted easily on humans. If you could successfully incubate an egg and then spend the next ten years training the hatchling, you'd have a gentle and obliging mount that could cover six hundred miles in less than a day. If it happened to be a female and you had plenty of help, then in another five years you could have up to four growing young dinosaurs capable of carrying increasingly heavy loads of contraband that would follow their mother anywhere––like Geeko, where government control of pearl fisheries in the Gulf of Isabesh had prompted a thriving black market. Or, if you were really ambitious, to the Free City of Rienka, whose geography made it the trade capital of the northern Midland Sea, and where the merchants were notoriously unscrupulous concerning what and who they dealt with.

"Business is slow," Perik mourned over supper, "what with troops swarming the lowlands; it's not safe to fly in case we're seen. Worse, Geeko and Yansk keep sending their flights straight over top of us. Guzena did too, at the very start, but not anymore. I hear they were attacked by Rienka's mercenaries––lost most of their dinosaurs. They won't risk sending out the ones they have left." He sighed. "Me neither, until things calm down a bit. I can't stand the thought of any of my darlings being captured by those brutes."

Catching only every third word as she was, Noriko couldn't tell if Perik was referring to his grown children (also smugglers) or the tame dinosaurs that inhabited the hidden valley.

"You saw Pearl, right?" The mountain man asked Izark, who murmured a confirmation. "She's our matriarch––while she's alive, the only dinosaurs she'll tolerate in the valley are her babies and the passing male. Everyone knows that Grand Duke Kemil is just dying to get his hands on a matriarch so he can start a national flight. If the government finds out about the valley––about any of the valleys–– they'll confiscate everything––Pearl, her kids, the valley; me, my kids, their kids––everything."

The next morning, Izark paid Perik for their room and board, suffered a vigorous handshake, and refused the mountain man's offer to adopt Noriko ("I'm a little short of daughter-in-laws," was how Perik put it) before collecting the horse and loading his drowsy charge into the saddle. Apparently, once he ascertained that they were in no way connected to the government of Zago, Perik just loved entertaining visitors. He'd talked for the better part of the night.

Riding the horse still required some focus on Noriko's part. After an hour or so, she was awake enough to broach a few subjects about which she had questions. "Izark?"

"Yeah?"

"Perik…do not like government?"

"No. He's a smuggler."
"Smuggler…?"

"…Well––"

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Author's Note: Pearl's (that's right, the dragoness) personality is based on that of my absurdly friendly cat, Hermes, who not only enjoys hugs but will hug you back––then attempt to claw his way back up if you put him down before he's finished being cuddled.

~Lanta

P.S. If you like this story (heck, if you don't), let me know! I appreciate hearing from everyone.