The Witch and the Dragon - Beta

Chapter Five

Dawn crept over the edge of the world. Alannah stood and brushed the larger clods of dirt off her dress. The forest at the base of the cliff stretched on for miles, a tangled thicket of dark trees. On her left the sun was rising, dusting the trees with gold and lighting up puddles on the plateau. Alannah yawned widely and stretched her arms overhead. A few hours spent cramped against a stone wall were not conducive to a good night's sleep.

Alannah glanced back at the cave. It was still dark, still quiet. Better to be out of here before he wakes up. Alannah tugged her feet out of the mud and grimaced. Silk slippers were going to be more of a hindrance than she'd thought.

The cliff looked easier in daylight. She kept one hand on the rock and went slowly. Nettles tore holes in her dress as she descended – nothing but an improvement, at this point – but the path took her east, following the ridge of the cliff until the trees became less a carpet of tangled leaves and more a canopy above her head.

Only once she was among them, hidden from the dragon's cave, did the final shred of tension bleed out of her muscles. They weren't going to believe her when she got home. Escaped from a dragon: she could charge for that kind of story.

The forest stank of damp moss. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in gold-green shafts and skylarks twittered in the trees, but there was no sign of human life.

"I wish I'd checked that cave for a weapon," she muttered. Maybe there'd been a dead knight or two she could have scavenged from. Dragons were one thing, but who knew how far wolves came in off the mountains, not to mention the pixies and the wood spirits. And the Fae. She'd have to tread carefully.

Alannah tugged at a loose, pearly thread in the skirt of her dress and it unravelled with ease. Shoddy workmanship. She snapped off a piece a few inches long. Grandmother had her stave, and other witches had swords or daggers; thread was the only thing her magic seemed to respond to. Much to Grandmother's scorn.

Muttering an incantation, she let the severed thread fall to the ground. It pointed forward and slightly to her right. The way home.

But the line was very slightly crooked. She frowned at it. "Don't be stupid," she said, grateful there was no one around to see her talking to her magic. "Of course I want to get home." She was tired, her focus was probably off. There was no other reason for the thread to be pointing towards the dragon.

Sighing, Alannah picked up the thread and wrapped it around her finger. Then she picked up her skirts and stalked through the forest in the direction her thread indicated.

After a few minutes the light began to brighten as the sun rose towards its zenith.

Four hours, that dragon had said. On foot that could be days. And she had nothing but this hideously impractical dress and silk slippers to keep her going, not even a crust of bread. The mayor will pay for this.

Alannah stumbled over a root and swore. And that damn dragon. I wouldn't be in this forest if it wasn't for him. Alannah stopped again and recast her thread. It pointed to her left: she'd gotten off course. There was still a crooked bump right in the middle. The magic tingled in her fingers and she would've sworn it was laughing.

"I'm being ridiculous," she said and rewrapped the thread, ignoring it.

The light gradually changed as she walked, shadows shortening and lengthening again. Her feet ached with each step and her ankles were scratched, practically raw. Every now and again her stomach submitted a complaint and she did her best to ignore it. Nothing seemed to grow in this forest but belladonna and she wasn't stupid enough to touch that.

She'd been walking for two or three hours, staring sightlessly at the ground beneath her feet, when the earth changed. Sunk into the mud at regular intervals were the imprints of boots. Alannah stopped, narrowed her eyes. A trail of packed dirt cut right across her path and then ran parallel to it, dotted with footprints, all different sizes and all travelling the same way. Large bootprints flanked it, crossing the path at intervals and circling around it. Whoever they were, perhaps she could bargain with them to let her tag along.

Alannah quickened her pace. They were heading north-east, the same as she, and made no effort to hide their progress. After about an hour – and one too many stinging nettles for comfort – the quiet birdsong became the murmur of voices. Alannah slowed down to listen.

"Come on, get a move on," she heard. A man – mid-forties and with an addiction to tobacco, judging by the timbre of his voice. "Better hurry if we want to be in port by dusk tomorrow."

"Pick up your feet," cried a second man. Then there was the crack of leather on flesh and a cry – a human cry.

"Stop snivelling. You'll be sold soon enough, then you won't have to keep walking, will you?"

The other man snorted. "If your new master doesn't make you work for your living."

Slavers. They must be taking their newest haul to city for auction. Alannah hiked her skirts up and started walking at right angles to the group. She was on her own; she could move a lot more quickly than a group of slaves could. If she went around them, she could avoid them entirely.

She trod cautiously, avoiding every stray twig. Luckily the ground here was still soft from the rain and it absorbed the sound of her footfalls.

"Come on, come on, break's over, get a move on." Another whack of leather on flesh; these slavers didn't spare the whip. Alannah held her breath. She was almost past them.

"What's this?" She spun around. A heavy-set man with a moustache grabbed her, grounding her as solidly as if she'd been chained. "Sonia, we've get another one!"

"Let go of me," she spat, prying at the fingers that sat like meaty sausages on her arm. "I swear I'll – I'll set you on fire! I'll curse you!"

The man dragged her though the trees and into a lighter clearing. "A spitfire, this one," he called.

Four other slavers stood in the clearing, dressed in wool and leather with whips coiled at their hip. A string of twenty people stood huddled in the middle, ranging from older men to young girls and even children. Their hands were tied to a single rope, which stretched between them in a long line. Goddess, she was in so much trouble. "I'm serious," she insisted. "I'm a witch. If you don't let me go right now, I'll –"

"Quiet." The man threw her to the ground at the foot of another slaver. "Found her trying to sneak round us."

"Where are you going?" she asked. "Maybe I could tag along-"

"Shut up." This slaver was a woman with a thick blond braid. She plucked at Alannah's dress, turning the material over in her fingers. "Silk, eh? Pretty expensive for a witch."

Damn. She should have known this dress would do her in one way or the other. "It was a gift."

"This is something a noble would wear." She straightened. "Or a princess. And we don't get many princesses around here."

Behind her a man crowed. "Yeah, we should know about that right?" They guffawed and the slaves in the centre hunched down even further.

Alannah grit her teeth. "I am not a princess." She gestured at her dress. "Would a princess really wander round this forest, on her own, dressed in mud like this?"

"Whatever you say." The slaver pushed her to the back of the procession. "Get in line with the others. We'll add you to the auction."

So she found herself trudging along at the back of a slave train, her hands tied at the wrist and her dress hanging off her in mud-stained tatters.

Princess my ass.