1st 5 Pages Oct Workshop - Barrios

Name: Anita McDivitt Barrios
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: Dragon's Leap

Chapter 1 - The Call

Iric MacDraegan woke to a heavy drone of two dissonant notes clawing against each other, grating through his dreams and dragging him awake. The dragon lung pipes spewed their strange tones, ebbing and flowing through the farmhouse walls with each heave of the bellows. They surged louder and sighed, fading, only to breathe and surge again.

Another Leap, he thought and rubbed his eyes. Another chance lost.

He sat up in bed, ran his fingers through the mass of black, corkscrew curls that fell to his shoulders. He pulled at the worst knots, working his fingers through them, and finally shook his bangs out of the way. The droning vibrated in his chest and tickled his ear drums.

The worst part is that it won't stop until the Leap is over. The pipes will drone for a fortnight or until the dragonlings answer the call, whichever comes first. Everyone in earshot's getting ready to fling themselves over the cliff, hoping they'll be dragon-chosen, except me. I'll be mucking stalls and mending fences. They're so damn lucky. I bet their parents can't wait for them to Leap. They're not harping on how you're going to bust your head open on the Beach of Sorrows if the River Maw is running low. Mom'll never let me go. The Glacier Maw could melt and flood the valley and I'd still have to stay home.

He tried to think of something, anything, else. I don't have lessons today so I don't have to trek to the Widow Affrey's for maths and reading. A dozen or so other ranchers' sons, like Baltair and Ealar, read from the Annals and learned basic arithmetic under her watchful eye, enough to negotiate their quotas each year, but mostly the old woman used them as free ranch hands. Uncle Luak did all that, leaving Iric the fences to mend and firewood to chop. He'd stumbled into bed late last night and snuggled into the wool blankets, grateful for the warmth after sleeping on the ground two nights in a row while he rounded up his mother's flock. It took him that long to find all the sheep.

An eerie dragon cry, like he'd never heard before, came down the mountains and scared the sheep to the far edges of neighbors' pastures and into the pine woods. They bolted through the fences to escape the high-pitched scream and mournful keening that followed.

Silly sheep. There's no escape from a noise. Like the droning, it had to be endured. He tracked down the last of them by the peaceful stream that ran along the western edge of his mother's ranch and walked most of the night to drive them home. Sleeping under the stars was exciting when he was nine, knowing his mother and Uncle Luak trusted him to stay out all by himself. But now he was 14, it was barely spring, and the ground felt lumpy and hard and the nights were bone cold.

Laid out for him, on top of the covers at the end of his bed, was a freshly laundered pair of breeches and wool tunic. He snagged them and pulled them on under the warm covers. His mother's simple gesture nagged at him. It was as if she was saying, "Get up. Stop dreaming. Get out there. Ignore the call to Leap. Get to work."

He pushed off the blankets with reluctance. As a little boy he'd race into his mother's sleeping room, jump on her blankets, and pretend to wake her. He'd demand what she called a "soft cheek" kiss. Now he ran a hand over his chin, felt the thickening streak of soft, fuzzy black hair growing above his top lip. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stolen a "soft cheek" kiss. On a ranch there was always work to do and he was the only man to do it, except when Uncle Luak came to visit.

He yanked on his father's boots, which pinched his toes, and a knitted, cable wool sweater. Making no sound, he slipped through the total darkness in the dirt-floored house, navigating the sparse furnishings: a wood table and long bench, a couple of chairs, a rocking chair, a spinning wheel and a small frame loom by the fireplace. He shrugged into his father's oiled sheepskin coat, which he hung from a nail by the front door. He slipped his hands into his mittens and stepped outside.

He sagged against the doorway, his knees weak. The pasture was empty.

"Gone?" His warm breath steamed in his face. He pulled at his curls.

Of course. The pipes! The sheep are afraid of the droning and they bolted. But they should know this sound. Or would they? He considered.

The Mews only sounded the pipes four times a year. It was up to the dragonlings to respond and sometimes none did. It'd been a while since he'd last heard them.

Maybe they're still skittish from that horrible dragon cry two nights ago? If so, they'll keep running until the pipes stop droning. Finding them could take days.

His legs ached, dreading all the walking he'd have to do. He groaned.

That's what I get for sleeping in a soft bed under warm blankets last night when I should've been mending fences. Not a single ewe left.

Uncle Luak insisted sheep would stay in their corrals and not bolt if they felt safe. So why didn't the stupid creatures ever feel safe on our land? Why did they always bolt at the slightest little thing?

The dawn was still too dim to track them. In his mind's eye, he imagined the land below the ranch. Tall pines, a shade of deep green, almost black, hid the River Maw's arms. By following the color he could make out where the River split at the head of the plateau. There the trees cleared in a wide swath to allow for sheep drives and cart traffic to and from the castle. Bridges and barges crisscrossed the water. On the other side, a single, wide cobblestone road led straight to the castle Mews. It, and the Amphitheater behind it, were grey specks in the distance, covered in a perpetual haze of fog and smoke.

He knew from listening to his mother and Uncle Luak that beyond the Amphitheater lay the Fields of Prey, where all their sheep ended up as dragonling-fodder. Beyond the Fields and at the end of the plateau was the Leaping Cliff, a 150-foot drop into the rejoining arms of the River Maw.

The sheep'll get closer to it than I ever will, he grumbled.

The lung pipes droned, incessant.

I bet everyone's gathering at the cliff right now, watching the sky for the dragonlings' arrival.

He threw his head back, blinking away tears. There's no point in thinking about it. He let go of his curls and stood up tall. I have to round up sheep. Again. He kicked the dirt.

Where do they feel safe? Old man MacSeaghan's place, for sure, although Lord only knows why. I found a few by the stream after that strange dragon cry. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe the whole herd'll head there this time. He gritted his teeth. If I work fast, I can get the chores done and eat before I leave.

He hated doing chores. They were always waiting for him, more work to be done.