Over the Hills and Through the Woods

Chapter 4

Much to Freya's surprise, she got an answer – but not from her old friend. "The answer to that would take more time than we have. A storm is coming; I'm sure you've noticed the stiff breeze." Freya turned and saw a red-scaled dragon, only about the size of a horse but with the proportions of an adult Red. He could no doubt fly and fight well, but he was only about one-third the size of an adult of his kind, and looked too small to carry a person aloft – though he might carry one on the ground. He looked like what most people picture when you say "dragon", with a narrow, tooth-lined snout, bat-like wings, clawed feet and forelimbs that were remarkably like human hands. Like other "true dragons" (as those intelligent enough for speech proclaimed themselves to be), he had a scaly frill on the back of his neck, with one bony spine running lengthwise through it for every century of age. This one was only around six hundred years old, and just reaching his prime.

Though Freya's mind registered all of that information, all she could think of was: A talking mini-dragon. What will they think of next?

The dragon's frill rose briefly indignantly, and he responded, "I am decidedly not miniature – I'm a pygmy. And still larger than yourself, I remind you. No, I wasn't reading your mind; you were thinking so loudly . . . ah, I think he's coming back around."

As though on cue, Gilneas blinked three times. "Well. Where am I? Oh, yes. Freya, this is Ragnarok. Ragnarok, this is my old friend and sparring partner, Freya."

She raised her eyebrows at the dragon. "What just happened?"

"Beg your pardon?" Gilneas asked.

"Nothing," Ragnarok responded. "Go on ahead, I just want to discuss the weather with her for a moment."

"The weather," Gilneas echoed. "Right." Obviously not believing a bit of it, he walked a distance from them anyway. Then, Ragnarok told Freya a bit more about the project Gilneas had been involved in, and about his partner during it . . .

A few moments later, Freya finally felt she had some idea of what was happening. "So, the reason for his strange – and disturbing – behavior is simply that he's too far from his partner, this . . . Zovaya?" Ragnarok nodded. "Do we have any idea where she is? Gilneas said she was supposed to be in Thesdren, which isn't too far from here."

"It's far enough that we won't be able to reach it before the storm hits us," the pygmy answered. Freya was about to protest when she looked around and saw that while she and Ragnarok had been speaking, the fog had dissipated, revealing angry-looking clouds faintly illuminated in the twilight. "And she was actually not in Thesdren. Just as Gilneas was placed back at the spot he was taken from, so was Zovaya. And she was taken from a small village on the last ridge before the Cleyran desert, some distance from Thesdren - and over difficult terrain."

"Shouldn't he have been improving since his departure from Burmecia?"

"Neither of them will improve until they're close enough for contact, and there's no telling how near or far that might be. Likely no more than a kilometer, and probably considerably less. The only good news is that they can still sense each other, though contact is impossible."

"If it's as you say . . . then we have no choice but to continue, in spite of the storm." A cold gust suddenly blew, the chill sudden enough to make Freya shiver in spite of herself. She could see Ragnarok draw breath sharply, as well.

"I believe the weather is largely self-evident by this point," Gilneas called out to them. "Unless my senses have failed me, we face a blizzard!"

"This early in the season?" Freya murmured to herself.

"Unfortunately, it seems we have no choice," Ragnarok answered with irony, "But to seek shelter for the night. There is a cave nearby that once was home to a friend of mine. If she's still there, I'm certain she won't mind us staying for a bit – and she may be able to help us find Gilneas' missing half in the morning."

She glanced over at her old friend, who had succeeded in capturing a large squirrel and had somehow convinced it to perch atop his head. "All hail the great General Fuzzkins!" he commanded in a slightly slurred voice, pointing at the squirrel. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he collapsed to all fours, shaking like a wet dog. After a few seconds of convulsions he fell the rest of the way to the ground, flat on his belly.

Torn between sympathy for her ailing friend and fear at the strangeness and unpredictability of his condition, Freya glanced back at Ragnarok "You assume his sanity lasts the night." The pygmy had no reply to that.

"Can either of you run?" Gilneas called out as he stood calmly from where he'd collapsed, breaking Freya's train of thought.

"Can you set a fast enough pace?" she retorted without thinking, before the suddenness of his 'sanity swings' struck her again. I don't know how much longer he can go like this.

Her altered friend chuckled briefly. "Perhaps you haven't changed so much, after all . . . very well then, we're off." Without another word, he turned sharply to the right and started running.