Sand-Drake

By Eva-Joy Schönhaar

Cyra, how will you do this?

I have no answer to give myself as I trudge across this scorching desert. I only know that I must try. Shimmering columns of heat rise before my eyes. I am tempted—so tempted—to discard the armor that protects my arms, chest, and legs. Although the metal is lightweight and has been tempered to withstand the heat of Akiva’s twin suns, the desert’s stifling atmosphere increases the armor’s weight tenfold.

Will this heat finish me off before I find the sand-drake?

For Karima’s sake, I pray not. The memory of my sister coughing up blood, her face covered in a golden rash that is both beautiful and hideous… that is what pushes me forward. I have little hope left, but I must do everything I can. For Karima. And my father.

“I cannot lose both of you.”

My heart still ached with the memory of my father’s words as I slipped out of the palace early this morning.

He has fought and won many wars, my father. But my sister’s illness is one that cannot be fought—not without a sand-drake’s blood.

When I first set out across the unstable desert, I could see nothing save sloping dunes of sand. But I have walked a great distance, and cliffs loom before me now. Despite their name, sand-drakes do not live on the desert wastes. They prefer rocky cliffs where they may hide in the caves—those large enough to conceal them. It is wise for them to do so; my father has warred against the sand-drakes since before I was born. I do not doubt he will continue to fight them if I should die today. That thought should perhaps comfort me, because if I am killed by a sand-drake, I will be avenged.

But I am not comforted.

I walk on. Cliffs now rise on either side of me, constricting the sky above into a sliver of blue-gold. The narrow path between the cliffs will give me little room to draw my sword and fight. That, however, is exactly what I must do if Karima is to live. At least the suns are not so oppressive here, although their steady heat remains.

Movement catches at my eye. I whirl, sword drawn.

A desert mouse burrows into the sand a few feet away. It is no threat at all, yet my hands now shake uncontrollably.

And, suddenly, the rasping call of a sand-drake fills the hot, still air. It is close. Very close. I swallow, but my mouth is bereft of moisture.

With a swiftness that shatters any courage I have left, the sand-drake rises before me. Sand slides from its scales as it breaks through the ground. I stumble backward, a crevice in the cliff face trapping me.. Even if I could flee, I would not. Karima’s life depends on this.

With a snuff of breath, the sand-drake lowers its head and steps closer. Horns ring its head, a fearsome crown.

My sword shakes in my hand. How could I have believed I could kill this monster? The scales are too thick, the teeth too large. It will kill me before I can take its blood.

So I do the only thing I can.

I let my blade drop to the ground.

“Please.”

The word emerges cracked and dusty, barely a whisper. But the sand-drake hears, I know it does, for its gaze settles on my face and I see more than life there. More than dumb curiosity. I see understanding. The legends have been true thus far. May they hold true a little longer, a little farther.

“My sister—” I swallow, painfully. “My sister is dying of desert blight. They say that—that the blood of a sand-drake can heal the disease.”

The sand-drake continues to stare, unmoving. And unmoved, I fear.

“I know you have no reason to trust me, or to help me—or my sister.” Not when my father has made war against the sand-drakes all his life. “But please. Please. I beg that you would do this one thing for us.” My feeble strength wanes. I have walked so far, wracked by fears and doubts with each step. I sink to my knees. “I have no power to promise a treaty, or anything of that kind, but—” Tears cluster in the back of my throat, behind my eyes. “My sister. She needs… she will die without you.”

“My mother. Your people killed her.” The sand-drake’s voice is the hiss of a blacksmith quenching a new blade.

Hope slips away like the shifting sands. “I-I am sorry.”

“You apologize, even though it was not your fault.” The sand-drake seems to consider this. Its scales ripple, like the waves of the Great Sea. “I would do anything to bring my mother back. It is too late for her, but it is not too late for your sister, not yet.”

The sand-drake throws back its great head. A horn catches the skin of its back, creating a small tear. A thin stream of shimmering blue-green blood trickles from the wound. The colors of life, here in this harsh desert. Blue for water and the sky that rains. Green for grass and trees and all things that grow and live.

I pull a small glass vial from my tunic’s pocket, light-headed with both relief and awe. I scramble to my feet and step forward until I am close enough to fill the vial with the precious blood.

“Truly, I—I cannot thank you as I should,” I say. “But I do thank you. Again and again, I thank you!”

The sand-drake bows its head. In sadness, in respect… I cannot tell. “Use it well, brave sister.”

I clasp the vial to me. It does not only mean life for Karima, but also a chance to change my father’s heart toward the sand-drakes. A chance I will not fail to take.

“I will not waste your gift,” I say. “I promise.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eva-Joy Schönhaar has been writing since she was thirteen. While westerns are her happy place, she enjoys experimenting with and writing in a variety of genres. Eva-Joy lives with her family in snowy Alberta, Canada. When not writing, she loves to read all the books, watch old movies, and drink copious amounts of coffee.

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