Excerpt: Fledgling Dragon

Chapter One

The road the family traveled was a lonely one. Most of the refugee traffic trudged east, away from the advancing American army—as if, Nik thought, that would do them any good, with the Soviet army advancing almost as quickly from that direction. But Nik and his family headed northeast, toward the Harz Mountains, their only remaining home, and their road-less-traveled was almost deserted. The Odenwald pine forest crowded close, branches meeting overhead, throwing the ruts into an everlasting twilight, reaching low enough to scrape Elva and Willi on their seat atop the wagon and trailing across the four harnessed mares’ backs. Nik and twelve-year-old Hugo, riding the two stallions, ducked in their saddles and brushed needles from their faces.

Soldiers in grey uniforms stepped from cover with their rifles raised, so close to the wagon there was no chance to resist. The officer in charge, an obersturmführer wearing a Waffen SS uniform once smartly tailored but now faded, his eyes such a light blue they too seemed washed-out, glanced thoughtfully at Hugo then demanded their papers.

Nik hesitated, his heart starting to pound; he hadn’t waited for a travel permit before leaving Baden Baden, hadn’t even bothered to apply to the dying local government. But thoughts of bluffing their way past trouble were dashed when one of the soldiers, a tall and blocky sturmmann with a scar puckering his right cheek and chin, thrust the barrel of his rifle into seven-year-old Willi’s face.

“He wants to sacrifice a son for the Fatherland,” he said to the obersturmführer.

The world around Nik faded into something distant and misty. He handed over their papers, fumbling a bit through his gloves, and waited, the bay stallion Geist restless beneath his clutching knees. If they arrested him for running for home without a permit, well, he’d just have to deal with it somehow.

“All right,” he said. “You win. Lower your weapons; we won’t fight.”

The sturmmann giggled, a sharp, shrill sound that sent cold fingers up Nik’s spine.

The obersturmführer glanced through their papers, stared at him with expressionless eyes—the Nazis always did, when they saw his title—then he returned to the papers and perused them more thoroughly. Willi trembled and pressed closer to Elva, who gathered the reins into one gloved hand and wrapped her other arm around her child; the sturmmann giggled again and waggled the rifle barrel as if taunting a cat with a toy.

Hugo, atop the chestnut stallion Zauber on the far side of the wagon, watched Nik as if waiting for his cue. The sharp breeze from the west cut through the moaning branches and ruffled his black hair as if with fingers. His square, taut face was pale, and his grey eyes were narrow but steady. Calm.

Trusting.

Hugo always trusted him, as if he, Nik von Bisnon—the man still not used to wearing gloves after forty years—couldn’t possibly do anything wrong. Even though, at that moment when he should have managed something to protect his family, all he could do was stare at the front of the obersturmführer’s tunic, where a dark spot showed a stain that hadn’t come out in the wash.

Then the obersturmführer froze in place. His nearly white eyebrows drew together into a tangle, and for a long silent moment he peered at one of the booklets. Without looking up from what had mesmerized him, he nodded.

And the grey-clad soldier standing closest to Hugo reached up, grabbed the back of his coat, and hauled him off the horse.

Without thinking, Nik reached for the hunting rifle strapped to Geist’s saddle. Before his hand touched the stock, the sturmmann, teeth bared and lips curling up in something that wasn’t quite a grin, stepped back and widened his field of fire to include Elva, too. She, Willi, and all six horses started in unison at the sudden motion; they froze as Nik slowly lifted his hand away from the rifle. Hugo convulsed once in the soldier’s enveloping muscles then froze, too, blotches of color darkening his cheeks, staring at the sturmmann as if his gaze alone could kill.

“You may leave now,” the obersturmführer said.

Seconds drifted past Nik like sluggish water. When he finally forced himself to speak, his voice sounded hoarse. “What do you want with him?”

Without answering, the obersturmführer turned away, as if they no longer existed, at least not in his world. But the sturmmann thrust his rifle back into Willi’s face. “He wants to sacrifice two sons for the Fatherland!”

Even the seconds stopped. Even his thoughts. His heart. He couldn’t risk Willi. He couldn’t leave Hugo. They’d lost Helga last winter; he couldn’t bear to lose another child.

Hugo looked up at him, still awaiting that cue. His nostrils flared, testing the gusting breeze for any scent of danger, as if he already knew he’d have to solve this on his own.

While he shivered inside, too weak to move, Elva took charge. She lifted her chin in salute to Hugo, snapped the reins on the mares’ backs, and drove on. Zauber, shivering without a rider in the saddle to guide him, followed without hesitation; Geist, almost as riderless, paused, as if waiting for instructions, before trailing along.

Nik turned in the saddle and met Hugo’s eyes one last time. He hadn’t moved, and remained with the soldier’s arms wrapped about his little chest and neck. Fury still seeped from him, but for a moment Nik could have sworn that his elder son was attempting to send a message of comfort his way.

Then the twilight of the forest fell between them, and Hugo was lost to view.