The wagon jolted as it hit a sharp dip in the muddy country  road, roughly rocking the occupants on top and clattering the goods held in the bed of the wagon. The wheels let out a squeaking protest at the poor road, but otherwise the wagon kept rattling along. 

The sudden dip had the side effect of knocking Markas’ head against the low walls of the wagon he’d rested his head against at some point in the journey, forcing him out of his brooding thoughts to take a look at his surroundings.

His eyes met the same image he’s been seeing for the past two weeks now. Rolling green countryside rising and falling in small wave-like hills and continuing on up into the mountain range to the north. The hills were occasionally broken up by the occasionional bush or tree and sometimes, depending on which direction you looked, the very same muddy road the horse-drawn carriage was traveling.

“You ‘wake there, boy?”  A gravelly voice, like stones tumbling down a flowing stream, drew Markas’ focus  to the head of the wagon. The driver had not turned to look at him, but the young man could feel the weight of the man’s attention on him anyway. 

“No thanks to you.” Markas grumbled under his breath, shifting himself from his laying position to hang his legs off the back of the wagon as he rubbed the sore growing on his head. “It’s like you’re hitting every rock and hole on purpose.”

He hadn’t meant for himself to be heard, but the old man seemed tickled to inconvenience Markas at every turn. The man’s weathered and dirt stained face turned to regard Markas with a nasty smirk. “You’se payin me ta get you ta Nachdaine, not ta make it comfy. ‘f you’s don’ like the road, take it up wif you’s precious drake fu’kers”

Markas fixed the man with a dirty glare, watching with disgust as he spat a glob of… something off the side of the wagon.  “Wyverns.” He corrected.

The man turned to look at him with his own glare. “Wassat?”

“Wyverns” Markas stressed the word long and clear. “If you’re going to insult them, at least do it properly. Everyone knows they hate drakes just as much as the next guy.”

The man scoffed, dismissing his words with a roll of his sallow eyes. “Drakes, wyberns. All da same ta me. They say da Drakes come ta kill us all. All I see every year da same. They fly round da sky all fancy like all day long while I break ma back in da fields, yet no drake. An’ a whole fourth ma crops go to dem fu’kers an’ I don’ get no pay? They looks to have enough gold ta pay me, with their sparkly castles and all, an’ yet they don’.  Liars and thieves, far as I see it.”

Markas’ mind flashed back to the last memory of his father and he gritted his teeth. He spluttered as he tried to find words, only to eventually let out a weak “They are not!”

The man grinned at him again, lazily flicking the reigns of his horse. “They you’s hero then boy?”  His chuckle was mocking. “You’s wanna go fly round uselessly all day long over da rest of us? They won’ accept a twig like you’s. Think they better than us, they do.”

Markas’ hand shakily drifted to the long wrapped object next to him, gripping it tightly as he fought down his anger. He fought to remember his mother’s words, his father’s example, but his own rising anger was a beast of it’s own right. If the man did not shut up, he would find himself losing his last remaining teeth.

The man’s mocking was miraculously interrupted by a timely loud swoosh overhead, and the boy’s blue eyes snapped to look up.

Above them, the large form of a wyvern lazily flapped it’s wings as it banked around the hill and swooped down the narrow valley below it. The wyvern’s rider guided the large beast into the canyon between the many hills, using the narrow walls and the many trees growing next to the river below as a natural obstacle course. The beast’s feathered ruffled in the wind, audible from even here, as it gracefully twisted and turned in the air. It’s movements were as graceful and as agile wasn eagle’s, despite the beast’s massive size.

Markas stared after the beast with wide eyes and an open mouth, the breath driven from his lungs. He hadn’t seen such a sight in years, not since his mother moved them to become a governess. He’d forgotten…

He shook his head, turning to look at the driver of the carriage, who was cursing and covering his head like the Wyvern would come back to snatch it off. A ridiculous notion, in Markas’ opinion. The horse knew better than it’s owner and had continued on its path with barely a glance upwards, making Markas smirk inwardly. What a good horse. “How close are we to Nachdaine?” 

The man grumbled, sitting up to straighten his tunic in some sort of attempt to look unaffected. His tone went back to mocking now that the ‘danger’ had passed. “It’s jus over da hill, why? You’s gettin antsy?  Desperate to be off ta play mae believes wit you ‘s heroes?”

Markas stood in the back of the wagon, ignoring the man’s protest as he used the man’s seat to look over the hill they were even now cresting. Sure enough, he could just barely make out the top of the castle from his new position. 

“Well, it seems my journey with you has come to an end.” Markas hopped back into the bed of the wagon, grabbing his various things and slinging them over his shoulder. “I’d say it was a pleasure, but then I’d be a liar.” He tossed a small bag of coins at the man as he walked away.

“Hey, boy! You’s owe me a gold piece! Dis is copper pieces!”

“You tried to steal from me multiple times, you’re lucky I’m paying you at all!” He shouted back.

Markas ignored the man’s continued shouting as he hopped off the wagon, climbing the hill for a much more direct path than the loping dirt path

Markas climbed the steep hillside easily, his steps sure despite the slippery grass and crumbling stones. His path up the hill was quick, and soon he stood at the very top, far out of the yelling range of the man below. He could see the man just barely setting back off, and he could just barely see some fresh grass stains on the man’s tunic. He’d likely tried to chase after him, only to slip and fall. Markas snorted at the thought, sorely missing the sight. The man had been a pain since the moment they’d met, and if he could he’d take back ever having met him.

Markas turned away from the road behind him and fixed his gaze to the castle ahead, taking it all in.

The town of Nachdaine sat at the base of the mountain range, groupings of houses all built along the town’s streets in surprisingly neat rows. The smallest houses lay at the flattest part of the mountain’s base, closest to the farms and the lake that supported the town’s population. The town’s streets and the town itself wound itself up to a large hill at the base of the mountain, much taller than an average hill and yet too small to be called itself a mountain. The hill jutted out from the mountain, leaving itself a solitary point almost separated from the particular mountain it shared a base root with. Houses and people could be seen winding itself up the hill in a large circle, the sides of the hill having been flattened in a large spiral up to the top.

At the top of the hill sat the castle the town was known for. It’s walls were oddly octagonal, almost looking to have naturally grown in the shape of an octagon. The castle glistened in the sun, the spaces between the stones reflecting the sun like a mirror.

Unlike the castle of the noble his mother had been employed under, this castle was not built with most of the standard defenses against men. The gatehouse and the single wall at the narrowest part of the hill connecting the castle to the topmost part of the town were the only two visible standard defenses Markas could see from his position. Rather, most of the castle’s defenses seemed to be geared towards protecting from skyward opponents. The crenellations were much taller than average, curling inward toward the inside of the castle walls. 

From his position, he could also see large ballistas pointing skyward on all of the battlements, of which there were several. He would need to get closer to be sure, but from where he stood he could spot nine towers from which defenders could be stationed, positioned so that the tallest tower at the back could oversee all the shorter towers in front.  The main castle was square, with two towers standing apart from the main castle in the front and the largest tower standing alone in the back. A very low wall was built around the back of the castle, built into the drop off of the cliff and overlooking the main part of the town. From it’s walls, markas could see more ballistas pointing skyward.

It was a beautiful castle, much more striking in appearance than the dull grey castle the noble he’d grown up near had lived in. Markas was too far away to see all the minor detailing, but the black stone that did not seem to be native to the area and the reflective bits between them set the castle apart from any other structure Markas had ever seen before.

Markas shook his head, closing his mouth where he had been gaping. He grumbled to himself as he set off, grudgingly respecting the castle, if not the order it belonged to. His thoughts were a confusing jumble of respect and anger, his interaction with the man before not helping his conflicting thoughts.

He started to carefully climbs down the hillside, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and holding the stones below him with his hands to avoid slipping. His thoughts might be conflicted but his path forward was clear.

He had to get to the castle if he wanted to live up to his legacy.