BLIND SPOT, Chapter 5

They Do this With Smoke and Anvils

Disclaimer: I don't own the galaxy, so that means I don't own much of what's in the galaxy, including the characters of HTTYD. They belong to Cressida Cowell and Dreamworks. Time theories are a homage to Heinlein's World of Myth theories.

"One can judge from experiment, or one can blindly accept authority. To the scientific mind, experimental proof is all important and theory is merely a convenience in description, to be junked when it no longer fits."- R. A. Heinlein, Life-Lines

And another Heinlein chapter. This one is otherworldy, but in the sense of metaphysics or quantum theory. I am no expert in this, so it's mostly presented here for a "what if" rather than a
"why this is" viewpoint. A lot of Heinlein's fiction was on the "What if" angle. It may not be possible (and probably isn't), but it's interesting to play out the idea it could be and explore what this would mean to humans and dragons.

This is a quieter chapter, one to introduce some important ideas for this and some other HTTYD stories I plan to write. Things will start picking up action again in the next chapter.

Oh, and thanks to WhiteFang333 for his basic ideas I used for the Sarmatian Love Song contained in this chapter.

"Ah, it's a new day! Morning! One more day closer to facing death! Joy sings in my heart at my mortality and how I will one day feed the maggots!"

I looked up from my nosing around for grass and saw Gatalas was awake and greeting the day in that embarrassingly fluffy way Sarmatians often do. I shook my head but let him have moment of soft sentimentalism, though it was not easy to hold back a sarcastic snort.

Sometimes our cuddly wuddly cuteness just is way too sticky sweet for me to handle.

Gatalas clumped down out of his wagon, dressed in bright green and blue, intricately embroidered, caravan clothes. They suited his coloring well. He had learned to fold his clothes in certain ways by color, and he had some hidden instinct that, blind as he was, he wound up being a snazzy dresser on those rare moments in the caravan when he could dress with a bit more style.

He yawned and leaned backwards, arms held out clasped behind him. He grunted in satisfaction as sleep cramped muscles loosened back into position.

"So, I sense the sun is coming up. What kind of day is it, friend?"

I scoped the horizon, ::It will be cloudy, I think. But no rain. Cold, though. Winter's coming.::

"All is well, then. Each day is a gift from Marha. Then, doostam, I greet you for the day." He did the traditional Sarmatian greeting, stretching out his hand and giving a little bow to me. He would do this to me as his Partner, but also to any Sarmatian Firemaker friend he met.

I ducked my head in respect and touched my muzzle to his, affirming our bond; a Firemaker would have reached back and clasped hand to hand, ::I greet you, Rider. May it be a good one for all of us.::

There is a saying among the Scythians and Sarmatians: Each day, greet first your god. Then greet your spouse. Then greet your horse.

Gatalas added extra to it and threw his arms around me, hugging me, as he often does. I breathed in the smells of the herbs he used in the steam bath and the mint he used when he cleaned his teeth

I put my head over his shoulder and nickered, and we embraced as bond Partners. We needed no words, but we were so glad we had found each other. I was his eyes, and he was my touchstone for trust in myself, because he trusted in me so much.

The only thing that would have made it more complete was if there had been a middle part to the "Greet Your Day" trilogy, the spouse bit. I hoped someday there would be a man and a woman who came down those steps to greet me.

Then we broke away before it became too fluffy.

::I saw Toothless on the Dreampaths::

"How was he, Horsebutt?" Gatalas asked, concern coloring his deep, gravelly voice.

::I did not talk to him. I think after what happened, he may be very upset with you and me. Besides, I think this moment was meant for the kitten, not for me.:: I shook my head to clear sleep mice out of my own brain and gave a yawn to match my Rider's, ::He had a black eye and an injured shoulder and some scars, but otherwise he seems to be doing well, considering the circumstances.::

"Good to hear. That snippety Lightning Breather made it clear Toothless was gravely injured and done for. I'm glad if he proved her wrong."

::He still seemed to be hurt in spirit, though:: I thought-sent, bunting my muzzle against my Rider's shoulder, :: I did not hear what he told the little one, but I could sense sorrow about him. The little one did make him laugh, and he seemed more hopeful after that.::

"And, tell me, dear one, what are you not saying? Probably the same thing I am not saying?"

::But of course, Rider dear. Whether we intended it or not, we wronged Toothless. First the River Rat boy shot off his tail fin. And, now, you and I did an action that let his people shoot him straight into borderline insanity and oblivion. How do we fix that? Our innocent actions have crippled Toothless... again!::

Gatalas bumped his head against my neck, wrapping an arm around my jaw. I laid my head on his shoulder, "It's been on my mind ever since Her Divineness told us. We have dishonored a friend and, by so being, dishonored the family name. We'll have to mention this to the priests and face the penance if there is any hope of restoring honor."

::But, that means...:: I thought, mentally inserting the requisite: Dat, duh, duh.

"Honor fight to the death. Retribution, however in the name of the Lie, you could get us to meet Toothless when we are so far apart from each other," Gatalas sighed, "Dreampaths, most likely. But we have to do it. Otherwise, as part of a dishonored family, Darya has no chance of finding a spouse- and people might not want to even trade with her."

This was, indeed, true. Honor is all important to our people. Gold and jewels and cattle can be taken from you, but no one can take away your honor if you have preserved it justly.

Okay, you can stop laughing now. I know we must sound like the feral barbarians we are, way too naive for our own good (at least we're naive until you engage us in battle). That's the problem with civilization and places like the Bizzy-whatever Great Prison. They corrupt your thinking, make you ally with the Lie under the Earth, sell your honor for espionage and wealth and power. You get lots of money and then lock yourself behind your wheel less wagon because you can't trust anyone you meet since they might be out for revenge.

Come to think of it, wasn't the Great Prison founded by Broomheads? Well! There you go!

I know you're probably thinking: well, duh- why doncha just NOT tell the priests about it? Nobody knows, everything's fine.

Nope, sir or ma'am, that ole sight hound just don't spot the prey. You see, Gatalas and I would know about it, and it would affect our demeanor. People or horses would know something was wrong. And, with Lil Miss Blabbermouth out there gladly sharing the Tale of the Traitors who Trashed Toothless, the Priests would find out.

Better all around to face the situation with honor and accept the price for our actions.

I still could not stomach the thought of taking on Toothless. I had seen how big he had grown, and how powerful. While small for a dragon, he was at least as tall as me- and far heavier. And he could do short enough glides on his injured tail fin to be able to attack me from the air. It would not be glorious- blind guy armed with a bow, riding a crazy mare, taking on a swift and dangerous plasma striking dragon. Either we go down, burned and slashed open, or the dragon goes down, writhing in agony from a well shot scythian-tipped arrow into the eye.

Not pretty.

I also could not, in the history of both Sarmatian and Turkmene, remember a case of an honor fight between a human and a dragon. It certainly would be more like an honor suicide mission.

"Well, the Priests will advise and lay the proscriptions on the family, if needed," Gatalas straightened up from me. He turned around and leaned now with his back against my neck and shoulder. He crossed his arms and smiled sadly back at me.

I broke the contact and changed the topic. No use worrying about things we cannot control at the moment.

::I think Toothless opened the kitten's mind. The little guy actually mindlinked with me earlier this morning. He's welcoming contact with us! He has no reason to trust us, but at least he is willing to Mindlink. So there is hope.::

"Good. So, where is he?"

I jerked my muzzle showing where the kitten's basket was placed, well behind me. Before I had been sung onto the Dreampaths with the little dragon kitten, Darya and her friends had hitched up some oxen and moved Gatalas' wagon from the circle so the kitten would not be surrounded by impressions of Firemakers. Other then the Healer, no one yet knew about the dragon. Gatalas had gotten away with the ruse that he was still not used to being among so many people yet after being many months alone on the steppes.

We were still, though, within Mindlinking distance with other Firemakers and Turkmenes in case of danger.

::He's sleeping now. I think he'll be sleeping a lot. He needs it, the poor kid.::

"Bale. He has little reason to trust us, that's for sure." Gatalas stood up again, "Well, I had a nice evening with Darya and her friends. It was lovely to be around her and trade insults. I also learned a pretty love song that Saios wrote for his lady. Remind me to sing it for you, sometime. And we had garlic lamb kabobs and someone even broke out a flask of khoumas."

::Never a good thing in my horsey opinion.::

"Always a good thing in my Firemakery opinion! Khoumas is ambrosia!" Gatalas laughed and kissed the index and third finger of his right hand, raising it to the sky in approval of something delicious.

::Look, Monkey Boy, if the Sky Lady had intended for Firemakers to get drunk on milk, he would have had us mares give fermented milk. Probably would not be good for the foal population, though.::

"Spoilsport."

::Shallow hedonist.::

"Whatever. Obviously we have different views on the virtues of mare's milk as an adult beverage", Gatalas laughed low in his throat. He and I enjoyed bickering this way, and it had not happened often enough, lately, "Anyway, one of the blacksmith apprentices came to our fire and asked me to come visit the forge today... and to bring you."

I tossed my head, ::That works out well, then. Blacksmiths are priests, so we'll just deal with this dishonor thing and take it from there.::

"Indeed." Gatalas said, solemn again, "Well, at least they'll feed us before they destroy us."

We made sure the kitten was tucked away safe under the wagon. He seemed pretty deep in sleep again after the dosed broth, and we hoped he'd have the presence of mind to stay in his basket. He did seem to have a good sense of self preservation about him, and I hoped we'd shown him enough that he was safe for the moment.

Gatalas swung up on my back and, within moments, we were trotting towards the separated area of the forge wagons. We could have walked it, but we have our pride. Everyone knows Sarmatians ride everywhere whenever possible. He rode me bareback, as we often do for short distances. Since a Firemaker stays on a horse mostly by gripping the knees, there was no real need for a saddle for such a short trip. And he turned me by a squeeze of his leg or a thought, so having a bridle had never been necessary for our kind of partnership.

I rather like the bareback riding myself. It puts us in better contact with other, and we subconsciously move in rhythm as though we were one creature. Our thought speech even gets stronger. Maybe that's the story behind the half horse/half man being the Greeks created, the centaur. Back in our timeline, Greek traders would often visit the steppes and do business with both our Scythian cousins and us. They'd come back with tales of how closely humans and horses lived together. It takes just one more step for people who have never seen us to imagine we were actually one creature.

As we approached the portable forge, I snorted, expecting smoke, but none was burning yet.

Instead the smiths were at their morning prayers, ringed around a natural small hill not far from the forge. All four of them had their heads down, arms crossed in front except for the Master Smith. He held a beautiful, slender akinake sword with a ring pommel. Even from our distance I could see the distinctive Sarmatian tamga runes chasing up its blade.

Behind them, a large group of our Firemakers had gathered. The ritual lent a sense of order to their day, so many attended.

The Master Smith/Head Pries nodded to Gatalas as I trotted up and came to a halt. My Rider slid off me and joined the group, helped in the right direction with a nudge from me. Folding his head, he lowered it and joined their prayers, incidentally standing next to the smiths.

I found it touching how small and scrawny he seemed among the bulkier smiths, even though Gatalas is neither.

No words were spoken. The Master Smith, a grizzled sandy haired elder, nodded at Gatalas. He then raised the sword over head, turning it so the edge pointed down. With a grace that seemed odd for his massive arms, he swiftly plunged the blade into the grassy mound so the hilt stood out.

He started to chant aloud, singing the morning fire song of the sun, thanking the gods for giving us a new day. Asking Marha, god of fire, of dragons and of the forge to bless our people and speak their will through the smiths' hands. Whatever they created today would reflect the minds and intents of Marha and his brethren, so the smiths wanted to give their best work. He also gave thanks to Tabiti, the Earth Mother, among the strongest of the deities.

Every once in a while, the others would agree with a soft-spoken "Bale."

As the Forge Priest sung, he bent down and picked up a small dish filled with blessed sheep's blood. He poured it over the ground at the base, and we all watched it soak in, nourishing the Earth Mother's soil and the Wind and Fire gods' sword. While the priests were honoring Marha, they also were paying respect to the wind god. The sword represents the wind, and blacksmiths make swords. It all is interconnected.

We remained at the mound and said our own prayers in our thoughts. While Marha and the Wind God are not my deities, I do think Gatalas was asking for guidance for how to deal with two certain dragon fellows who had come into our lives.

One of the other smiths approached the portable forge and corked open a ram's horn that contained still living embers from yesterday's fire. This younger and leaner smith touched the coals it to the fuel that had already been laid out (precious wood, dung, turf) He blew on it until the fire caught. It burst into life in tongues of red and gold, and behind him was a sigh of relief. It's a good sign when the fire starts quickly.

Then someone cheered, followed by everyone else.

One of the local kids who had been the bellows volunteer built the fire up more as the Forge Master Smith made the final blessing with his hands.

His face split into his usual, cheerful grin, showing a few missing teeth from a forge accident many years ago, "Then, so the day begins. Good bread. Good meat. Good gods, let's eat! "

When he was not being a mighty and powerful priest (and all that implies), Dasados was a gentle bear of a man- the total image you think of when you think "blacksmith." He had receding, close cropped sandy hair and, unusual for a Sarmatian, kept his round, heavily jowled face clean shaven. Most of the blacksmiths tended to have shorter hair and no beards- long hair attracted sparks.

His gray-blue eyes were warm with friendliness, but they had a strange otherworldly look to them, usually a sign of him dreaming of a new design or invention to make our caravan life easier. He wore the typical kurta and riding trousers, but he had no shirt under his kurta- it would soon get too warm over the fire for him even to wear that. The arms and chest we could see under the rose-brown kurta had the blurrier lines of age, but there was still a lot of power and strength in the muscles- certainly Dasados was stronger than most of our archers.

He placed his massive hand on Gatalas' shoulder, "I greet you, Gatalas! May your phlegm always run clear. My, you have grown! I remember when you were a slip of a thought, a little freckle faced scamp with those big... big... uh... I can't remember what color your eyes were."

"Neither can I," Gatalas shrugged sadly, "Don't worry about it. It is nice to meet you again, too, Dasados."

"Well, I'm being insensitive, " the smith boomed, "Thank you for coming. And, please! Join us for breakfast."

We broke our fast outside, then, as we waited for the fire to gain in strength. Smiths started rolling out bright, beautifully woven carpets onto the grass and began opening covered dishes and flasks. More Sarmatians came out of wagons, bringing covered dishes, never one to miss a communal feast. Soon a group of black smiths, Star Priests, apprentices and many of our neighbors were sitting on the blankets, munching on bread, fresh milk and dried apples, steamed barley, dried meat jerky, lamb stew, boiled milkweed pods and more.

Banter and happy chatter floated over the air to where we horses stood, munching on our own alfalfa hay with a few dried apples sneaked in for treats.

This was a daily ritual that had started when we made the Crossing. The blacksmiths had to eat breakfast, and they needed a lot of food for their strength. People enjoyed bringing leftovers warmed over and joining in an impromptu potluck breakfast. I thought it was amusing that, to an outside observer, it would be hard to tell the priests from the non priests. Everyone was dressed colorfully, and Sarmatian priests are nomads on the move- they have to live practically, and many are skilled horse warriors in their own right, many with Turkmenes. They need to always be ready to move, so no heavy draping fabrics or head gear. Still, their clothes bore intricate designs.

I liked the blacksmith priests. They needed to have no pretense or mystery about them; their magic was in what they created. Their worship was simple, and they were a people who worked hard, laughed hard and played hard.

But their faith was very real. You had to have the Gift for it, and you had to spend many years apprenticed to learn the craft- and the rituals. Blacksmiths are the mediators between Marha and the Sarmatians, and to a people on the steppes, their inventions may be beautiful, but they also spell the difference between life and death. Plus, they maintain the fires- the loss of a fire to a caravan was a very serious matter. It's even more serious when a fire jumps out of control and destroys things.

More laughter. A strawberry blond young man started singing a love song, accompanied by a plump, pretty young woman on a flute.

So, now you have my heart, my love.

It lies beating in your hand, gentle rose.

So sweetly your sword tore it from my chest.

May the dripping blood not ruin your clothes.

My guts cry to be wrapped around your sword

And I would wish you to pull them out as far as they go.

For, I bet, as long as they seem to stretch.

My devotion for you is longer, you must know.

I always want to remember you this way

With a feral grin and blood on your face.

"Oh, please, don't let this feeling end," I pray

As you smash an axe on my head, with wond'rous grace

Oh, I love you, woman, I truly do!

I regret how quickly our times together pass.

After a night of love, I'm not always left in one piece.

But I know that bruises and cuts don't last.

Whistles and claps filled the air in admiration for the youth's clever song skills. More than a few young women blushed, hoping that they would make a young man feel that way someday.

Some sparks danced from the fire, flying up towards the movable pole where the Forge Priests had hung a cat-sized sculpture of Marha riding his golden dragon, the god watching over the forge. Almost every wagon in our caravan has a tiny replica of these that the family places on a pole near its cook fire, and they all were made by these smiths out of finely crafted bronze.

The god is a built like our azatani archers, lean, wiry, agile as a flame. He is the color of flames: golden skin, streaming long, red hair and beard ,and amber eyes. He wears a golden replica of the our archers' leather cuirass and trousers, but no helmet. He holds a flaming arrow to his bow, ready to strike out at those who are untrue and dishonorable.

His dragon, of course, is our legendary Sauromatae Draco, like the one who sits atop our banner pole. But this one has a full body with two sets of wings and birdlike feet, and long antenna streamers flying from its muzzle, imitating Marha's streaming hair. This dragon wears a saddle and harness similar to what we Turkmenes use, with the flat saddle pad, fendered edges and a neck collar and handle.

But the thing most distinctive about this little sculpture is that Marha has only one leg: he was freed of his lower left leg by Broomheads during the Thundering Victory.

The Broomheads thought they were being funny and putting the barbarian god in his place by sawing off Marha's leg, but they soon found themselves facing down a charging group of battered but not beaten blacksmiths, proving their tools could be used for more than forging. Still, the Broomheads' horses were faster than the smiths' cart horses, and they made off with the statue. Later, they had returned it us, but only after our priests agreed to "liberate" it with gold.

When we had surrendered and made the Crossing (yes, I was around for that, but still very, very young and recently bonded), the statue of Marha had been one of the first items pulled out of the wagons. Dasados had lifted it up and examined it, shaking his head at how battered it was. The Broomheads had not treated the little statue well. Around the Master Smith, a few of the smiths started crying, as did many of the non priest Firemakers. The statue was a flawed depiction of Marha. It would have to be destroyed, but so many of the Firemakers had grown up seeing that little dragon rider hanging over the forge fire that he had become a symbol for our caravan,

Dasados had not said anything. He just took in his breath, wiped a bit of the mud and ash from the dragon's face. He touched Marha's now-knife gouged forehead and kissed his hands.

Then, whistling quietly as if nothing was wrong, he pulled out the pole, erected it next to the forge, and hung our amputated dragon rider statue in its usual place. "Damned if I am going to throw away an old friend who's always watched over us," he had said hoarsely, "I don't care if the avatar is one legged. It does not matter. He's like us. He rides rather than walks. As long as he has the Draco, he'll be whole. Same as us. We're battered, and we lost our homeland and our way of life. But we're going on with our life in this new place and time. And he'll watch over us. As always. I think Marha would understand that. He doesn't need two legs to create fire. It comes from within."

Someone had started to stomp in approval, followed by more stomping, clapping and loud ululations of joy. Even we Turkmenes shrilled neighs of approval.

So, our damaged avatar watches over the forge. And all the new incarnations of Marha and the Draco that have been made since the Crossing always show Marha as one legged. It's who we are, now: the Broomheads clipped our wings, but we still can fly.

Breakfast began winding down, and people started dispersing, picking up bowls to take back to their wagons.

Finally, Dasados, the Master Smith , nodded and wiped his face, "Gatalas, we have some things we wanted to discuss with you."

Gatalas, who had been picking at the delicious food, looked up, "Sir?"

"Bale. We knew you were sent back from the Sandspitters with an honorable discharge."

Gatalas nodded, "I disobeyed orders. I know. I won't offer any excuse for it. But, sir, isn't this in regards to the Lightning Breather, Toothless? I understand my Turkmene and I wronged him. His people destroyed his brain as a..."

In spite of his calm nature and fierce face, Gatalas' voice stretched a bit thinner. The thought of a beautiful creature and friend suffering because of us was hard.

"What are you talking about, son of Gatretes?" Dasados interrupted my Rider, the smith shifting himself on his crossed legs to a more comfortable position.

So Gatalas told him everything, describing our meeting with the female Lightning Breather and what we had learned. Around him, smiths had started laying out implements for the day, and the air started to fill with quiet discussions about the projects: a sword, repair to a Side Strangler chamfron, some new Marha avatars for two new families who had joined our caravan.

When he finished, Gatalas adjusted his peaked leather hat on his head, as if trying to make himself look as dignified as possible for the final blow. By now the other smiths had stopped and were listening as well- the word "dragon" tends to be an attention getter among our people.

Three of the Star priests had also come back and were leaning against the cart, two women and a man.

"I... see," Dasados said, softly, "So, you wish to regain your honor in a fight with your Lightning Breather friend? Really? A human duel with a dragon for honor?"

Gatalas nodded and, behind him, I stomped a front hoof in agreement.

Dasados quirked an eyebrow, a move that made him look like a puzzled bear, "Well, that's a new one. Considering the circumstances, though, Gatalas, it's not you who challenges this, uh, Toothless. If he has been wronged, then he has the right to challenge you, but that has to be his choice. You'll have to let him decide." The smith stretched, and we all heard the crack of his spine, and his pleased grunt as it brought his sore back relief, "But, you know the outcome of this, already. The Firemakers of the Western lands tell great stories of how one lone human and a horse can defeat a dragon. But we Sarmatians know the only way we have been able to drive back the invading dragons lately has been as an army. "

The smith blew out a sigh, "Essentially, you'll be exposing yourself to Toothless to kill you. If he kills you on the Dreampaths, you'll die in reality. You do know that."

"Yes," Gatalas said, "I know."

"And, yet, you still would put yourself at this risk? Are you crazy, lad?" Dasados' voice rose in surprise.

"Yes. To both questions, sir." Gatalas tried to look his priest in the eyes, and, as usual, was off in his positioning. But his words were spot on, "Remember, I have a sister. Darya's all that's left of my family, now. I won't have my lack of honor destroy her chance of a future."

"Sarmatian, through and through," One of the smiths said, the lean one who had started the fire, "Crazy as they come. You know most people would find it insane you want to fight with a dragon... for the dragon's sake."

Gatalas smiled, showing feral white teeth, "Like you say sir. I'm a Sarmatian. It probably means insane in some language."

Dasados started to laugh, "Especially, the Sarmatian language."

Gatalas continued, "And you all know dragons are worthy of honor and respect. You interact more with them than I ever have. Toothless is not an animal. He's a thinking creature with his own system of honor, which is why he helped us. Don't I deserve to offer him the same honor?" Gatalas nodded his head.

The smiths all looked at each other, along with the Star Priests. They seemed to exchange some hidden message, and they all nodded.

It was downright creepy.

"Gatalas, you ask good questions. We've been noticing that over the last few years, well- heck- since you bonded with Eyeful. Yesterday, you even caught our good Healer at being literate in Broomhead reading- as, indeed, he is. As, indeed, we all are. But you kept that to yourself when asked. As you have been doing all along. You observed it and kept your thoughts to yourself rather than cause trouble.

"And you've come back from your discharge with grace and honor, not with a need for revenge. We noticed that. Then we see that you and your mare always come back whole and hale, but with a large supply of Red Death tails: six this time around- and this was a short journey. You and Skuda are the only two azatani who ride alone. It seems amazing that a blind man would be able to survive like this, but yet you do, and you do well. You and your Turkmene obviously work well together."

::Well, of course.:: I thought humbly, ::It's my winning personality.:: I ducked some dried grass thrown back at me by Gatalas. It completely missed my head.

The smith had started to raise sausage sized fingers as he counted, "And, now, you approach us with a wrong you committed and seek a possible death to salvage the honor of a creature most Firemakers despise."

Both Gatalas and I just waited, not sure what to add to this.

"We wanted to talk to you because we need your help for a mission."

"Sirs?" Gatalas learned forward, placing his elbows on his crossed legs. His voice had a lilt of eagerness in it. And an equally strong lilt of incredulity.

Dasados continued, a smile on his face, "As you have surmised, we are not what we seem to be. True, all of us have been born as Sarmatians, but to put it lightly, we are Sarmatians but yet not Sarmatians- let's just say we have a different history from your own. We have been taught- trained if you will- in some techniques that will help our People keep this steppe land free of its invaders. Techniques that are not native to Sarmatia but which would not affect the Firemaker cultures of this Timeline era. These techniques come from... well... another origin, from a group of people whose mission it is to keep fringe tears on the timelines from damaging other Timelines.

"Who are these people?" Gatalas asked, softly. I could tell there was a prick of doubt and even "oh, yeh, right" going on in his mind, but he still wanted to get all the facts.

Dasados shrugged, "I can't get into that, now. Suffice it to say, there are members who are Sarmatians and Broomheads and many others who are working together for this. It was Broomhead members of this organization who chose our Dragon units to be the ones to make the Crossing to this Timeline."

::Wonder if there are any River Rats?:: I thought-sent to Gatalas.

::I doubt it:: he thought back to me, ::They're River Rats, for sweet sake! They'd raid all the other members and sell them as slaves down the River::

"You do have some issues to work out before we think you are fully ready," one of the Star Priests said, her rich alto voice tinged with seriousness, "Keep that in mind. And we'd like to see how you accomplish this task for us, first."

One of the Forge Priests, the newest and youngest one, was leaning on the wagon close to her, and he nodded in agreement. He was extremely small and wiry, his hair hidden by a brown rag wrapped around his head, "But we have faith in you, Gatalas," he said in a clear tenor.

The male Star Priest nodded, a fine old man with a snowy mane of hair woven into many braids that hung to his hip. "One more thing swayed us. The Healer also told us of a certain little - parcel - you found on your way back to our caravan. " His light brown eyes twinkled, "For fear of totally making you go running away shrieking how crazy we are, I will keep things simple. Our organization believes in balance. Actions that happen in one end of a continuum will cause a ripple on the other end. Your Toothless' data pointed out that clearly. Dragon raids are happening far in the Northlands to the west of Europe. Now they are starting to happen here, in the eastern fringes of Europe.

"One has impacted the other." he said, his voice soft as duck down, "Toothless seems to have bonded with a Firemaker in the West, and they seem to be a key to understanding what is going on there."

"Yes," Gatalas shifted again, lifting a knee up to place his chin on it, "But Banadaspos is working on it on our end. He's brought most of our Dragon unit on that mission to use Toothless' data for locating the source of the raids.

All the priests stared sadly back, and one of them sighed. Sounds from the caravan floated over head: lowing cattle, laughing children, someone washing clothes. A girl singing a merry melody about the clothes for her funeral.

"That was exactly the wrong thing to do, and that's why we're worried." Dasados said, solemnly, "While I don't doubt Banadaspos' judgement as a Scepter Holder, he is approaching this like a Firemaker would. We don't know what's causing this, but it's for sure not going to be of this world. And it involves dragons, too boot"

"But 'Only a Dragon can defeat a dragon," Gatalas said, quoting the Sarmatian proverb, "Technically we are dragons, too- just human ones. So, a Dragon can defeat a dragon."

The alto Star priest laughed richly, tilting her veiled head back in grace, "In this case, the meaning is the literal one. Toothless is a dragon. Banadaspos- and none of the other azatani- are."

"So fill in the blanks," the lean Firestarter black smith said, a smile on his handsome, clean-shaven face, "A dragon flew west to help..."

Gatalas startled, "... and a dragon flew- or more likely was carried- east... to... help?" He rubbed a hand on his face in puzzlement, "Noooo, How can he? He's just a kitten! And he's hurt and hates Firemakers. I think it's just a coincidence."

"Possibly, " Dasados said, "But it seems a strange irony that Toothless would go to the land of River Rats, and River Rats would bring a dragon to this land. It's a strange balance, indeed. And not the dragon I would expect. But it could be of significance. He may have a purpose, and we have to keep him safe and heal him. He'll show us if he's meant to be the balance on this side."

"Oookay," Gatalas said in that tone of voice where you don't want to show disrespect but you are pretty sure your elders are wrong on this one, "Don't worry. He's with us now. We'll take care of him. But, what is it you want me to do."

Dasados smiled, "Thought you'd never ask. Simple. You ride one of the fastest- if not the fastest Turkmene in this caravan. We need you to catch up with the Banadaspos' dragon. We have some items we've developed that might help them in this outcome. And you're the only one who can get to them in time."

I pricked my ears at the thought I would get to use my speed and endurance training. If Gatalas' ears were any longer, he would have pricked them,

"We'll do it, sirs! "

He saluted in eagerness.

"And don't forget to take the little dragon with you. For balance. Or, if you don't believe in what we just told you: for luck." Dasados stood up and brushed dead grass blades from his woven riding trousers, "By the way, the most important thing you'll be bringing is a new, improved version of the Draco banner head. We've done some tinkering with it so it will be more effective."

::Wha-ha-ha-ha?:: Gatalas' thought voice clipped in my mind, ::But the Draco is a symbol. It's cloth and bronze on a pole. How do you improve that? Put a bigger, prettier tail on it? Make its tongue redder?::

I could not have agreed with him more. The main practical purpose of the Draco banner is to be a windsock for the Firemaker archers so they know where to bend their bows. Otherwise, it is mainly symbolic. Therefore, pretty much useless.

::Either they are really trying to test us, or this is a nice way of getting rid of us. With honor.:: Gatalas snorted.

What better way to test our honor than to send us on a useless mission that, hopefully got us killed?

::No. We can't judge yet, Rider. If they say they have improved the Draco and it is important enough for us to deliver it to Banadaspos, then there must be truth to it. These are Sarmatians. ::

As if he had read my mind, Dasados walked over to the forge fire, flickering merrily under the dangling sculpture of Marha. The smith stuck his braceletted hand over the fire, and other smiths and Star Priests joined him.

"This is an important task, young Gatalas, though it may seem crazy. We need your help, and we tell you the truth. We all swear it on fire."

They stuck their hands and linked them over the flame. There was a nice set of sparks that blew up as a small log broke, sending up golden lights that fountained safely beneath the priests' hands.

Dasados looked up at the statue of Marha and his Draco. He grinned and laughed, "Nice special effects, sir!"

The Forge Priests promised to visit us later with some useful things for our journey.

Gatalas was now drying out and cleaning the riding gear and his clothes. He had spread his now clean riding clothes and under garments cross the wagon rail to dry, and now he was soaping my saddle and harness, cleaning it of sweat and mud, bringing it back to its original mahogany color.

Suddenly we heard a squall of terror. The dragon kitten had awakened again and greeted us with a snarl and hiss-spit. It was though he were coming out of a nightmare. He looked down at his bed-basket and let out a tiny mewl of embarrassment. This, of course, turned into a spitting and fang showing display as he saw Gatalas and I regarding him. He then crouched further down into his fouled basket, eyes shut, waiting for a fist blow.

Gatalas sighed, but it was in pity, "Poor kid, " he whispered to me, "So young to have such nightmares. "

I knew the kitten would never listen to Gatalas, as unfortunate as that was, so I stepped in.

::Hold:: I told the dragon, ::Peace. It does happen when you're getting over a bad time, and it's happened to those stronger than you. Don't be ashamed. You've been through a lot. We're not going to hurt you, kitten. But you do have to let my Firemaker pick you up and take you out if you want that basket cleaned. ::

The kitten kept his eyes closed, breathing fast, ::He's a Firemaker . They are all Monsters. He just wants to hurt me! Well, he can hit me. You can hit me. Go on. I know you want to. I don't care.::

I snorted softly, ::Do you really believe that, doostam? Do you really not care? I can't believe that. You are small and hurt, but I can see you are a fighter. It's good. I am a fighter, too. But why waste a good fight on someone who is actually trying to help you? Save it for your real enemies. That's half of the game right there- you have to pick your fights. I happen to think we are not your enemies. And, being female, I'll let you know I don't like to be wrong. ::

The kitten was young, so the joke was lost on him.

::Are you, really, not an enemy? Maybe you just want to pretend to help me and then hurt me! :: the kitten made a squeak of protest, followed by, ::Oh... poofcrud! Why can't I make a halfway decent roar? Why can't I scare the Monster and the Creature?::

I know he did not intend me to hear that- thought speech was still so new to him, so I kept my laughter to myself, ::You've been through a lot, kid. You have no reason to trust us. But if you want to get out of that basket and get cleaned up, you need to trust us. Really, it's hard to go it alone in life. In order to survive, to live to fight again another day, you have to trust someone else, eventually. Admit it. So far we've fed you, given you healing and warmth. We've been your best bet so far. You should try to trust us::

The dragon kitten relaxed in his basket, ::Aye. For now I will. I have to, don't I? But I still hate you.::

::You don't have to like us, doostam. You just have to work with us.::

I translated the kitten's thoughts to Gatalas, who snorted softly, "I see a certain boy I knew a long time ago in there," he whispered to me as he reached in and gently lifted the dragon child out of the basket. The dragon lay limply, eyes shut, breathing fast. The poor little punk still was expecting to be hurt by us. He actually let out a squeak of surprise as Gatalas gently lowered him onto a free space of the blanket where my saddle was drying after its cleaning. It was a big enough patch where he could lay without touching a saddle- or a Firemaker, for that matter.

Still weak, he wobbled and fell face down on the blanket, broken leg stretched out. When he realized how comfortable and clean the blanket was- and how much space he had- surprise showed in his eyes, which were now clear of the fluid. I noticed they were an unusual color for a dragon's- or any creature's, when I think of it: a golden orange color flecked with red. It put me in mind of the tart-sweet gold-red Astrakhan apples from the Kazakh region of our Steppelands. This is where all apples originated, and they still grow wild there, their red flecked amber color a symbol of pride for the Kazakhs.

The kitten watched as Gatalas took the basket and moved away, whistling a morbid song of celebration. He knew the layout of the wagon well enough that he did not need my help to guide him around the area. My Firemaker briskly cleaned the basket with some water brought to us by one of the children whose task it was to bring water buckets to each of the wagons. He started rubbing the basket with soap. As he did so, I took a gamble and started licking the dragon kitten's face and neck and back, cleaning him as mares clean their foals.

::I hate you:: the little dragon told me with matter of fact calmness, ::But that does feel... right, somehow. So.. maybe I hate you less... than I hate others. ::

I did not reply, though his comment touched me in a sad way. It's sad to judge your life by how you hate everyone around you.

It was not worth pursuing. I just cleaned the dragon, until he lay on his side, squeaky clean and purring in content, surprised by this treatment.

::Why is it a surprise?:: I asked him, ::It's the normal way of things. I have to admit, you're kind of making me look like a sissy mare, but my Turkmene People do wash each other to show our concern for each other. We just don't admit it in public. I think dragons do, too. I mean, there is a lot about you folk that shows you are like steppe wolves or wild cats. And they groom each other, too. It's a way of showing you are accepted. A small gesture, maybe, but small things can mean a lot, kitten. ::

::Dunno. I... just... didn't. No one has ever... cared about me that way. Well, maybe once a long time ago, but I cannot remember that so well. And, I think it would hurt me too much to remember it. It's just so strange to have someone actually do something that did not hurt me. It's strange. I want to like it, but I am not sure...::

And I felt his anger at himself that he allowed that thought to slip out to me. He did not want to appear vulnerable to hurt in any way, and I could not blame him.

He hissed quietly, just to remind me he still could fight me, if he wanted. ::If you hurt me, if you betray me. I will fight back.::

::Drama, drama.:: I snorted, ::I'll have you know, if you hurt me, I will fight back, too.::

::Heh, as if I could fight:: But I also heard a silvery bit of a dragon kitten's laughter under the thoughts.

Gatalas returned with the basket, now lined with a clean blanket and cleansing herbs. He laid it on its side, "In you go," he said, softly to the dragon

The dragon kitten saw the basket and purred some more. But he did not make a move to go into it.

::I want to...:: he told me, ::But I also want to stay here. But I'm cold, too.::

He finally snorted and muttered, ::I am such an idiot. My muzzle is in front of my face, and I cannot see it.::

He crawled into the basket, but he turned around so his head stuck out of it and he could see the world in front of him, :: I can stay here and be warm, but I can still watch things. The things are strange to me, but I like to see them::, He scratched his chin with his good front leg, ::They help me to remember. Remember the happier layer of memories. ::

It was what Gatalas had intended the little kitten would do. My Rider shared a grin with me.

To my surprise, the scarred kitten looked up at both of us and held our gaze. He did not flinch or cringe from either of us. Given his recent circumstances, that took a lot of guts on his part.

Small steps forward are still steps forward.

Some terms:

akinake- A slender sword with a round, ring-shaped pommel. These were used by Sarmatians, Scythians and Parthians. The ceremonial versions were often decorated with jewels.

bale- Yes

kurta- A sleeveless kaftan type shirt that opened in the front and wrapped across the chest from right to left. It was usually made of deer leather or wool cloth. A longer shirt could be worn beneath it

Tabiti- The Sarmatian Earth Goddess