Naga's Ova

Chapter 1

Aurora

     There are days when I forget that my life is always in danger.

     There are days when I forget that magic thrills through my veins, as true and real as the sun that shines in the sky.

     The days when I forget are usually days like today. When the sun is high in the sky and its light is sharp and bright and piercing.

     Lodra, lush, fertile Lodra, is always beautiful. But today the air is crisp, and the wind is sweet and balmy against my skin. Today, I can smell the scent of the sweetgrass and the rirzed herbs. The two beautiful, brutal fragrances intertwine around one another, and I inhale deeply before I turn to walk back to the smithy.

     Lodra may be beautiful, but it is early in the morning and already hot. I dread walking into the smithy because I know the temperature will only get worse, and standing before a roaring fire isn’t the best way to cool down.

     I have braided my hair away from my face, and I am wearing the standard clothing I always wear when working in the smithy with my father. A light cotton shirt and a pair of cotton trousers. Cool and not easily flammable – high fashion for a smithy.

     Today my father works on a batch of swords for the naga. This agreement between our smithy and the naga is one of the few things that keep food on our table. The fire is spitting when I walk in.

     What I do next is a reflex more than anything else. I twist my hand and grab at the fire and the energy it throws into the air.

     I quiet the flames with a whisper of magic as soon as my father turns his head, but not soon enough.

     “Rory!” My father’s voice is sharp and tinged with disappointment, even though we’re alone in the smithy, with no one around to see that I have magic and snitch on me to the naga.

     “It’s okay, Father,” I tell him easily. Then I go over to the table where gold is melted down and the liquid poured into molds. I spent most of last night picking out imported zanthenite to be secured to the hilts of the sword.

     “There isn’t anyone around to see me,” I continue, giving him a kiss on his sweaty cheek.

     “I don’t want you using your magic outside the house. In fact, I don’t want you using your magic at all.”

     He hisses the words as though someone might be listening in on our conversation. And to be fair to my father, no one could put that past the naga.

     The naga hate human women with magical abilities. I have been hiding my magic, the origin of which is still inscrutable to me, my entire life with the help of my father.

     It is difficult to suppress this part of myself every day, but it is for my own safety.

     “They’re coming for the swords tomorrow,” he tells me.

     Now the heavy lifting begins, I think as my father moves away from the forge and I take his place.

     We have already selected the stock for the swords. Now I have to actually forge the swords and sharpen the blades.

     My father has finished ten swords thus far, and now it is my turn so that he can rest.

     Using metal rods, I weld some pieces of the stock together before immediately thrusting the welded stock into the forge. Then, grabbing the heaviest mallet I can find, I begin to forge.

     The smithy is extra hot today, I think as droplets of sweat form on my forehead.

     The heat of the forge is incomparable to anything else that I have ever experienced before. Not even the heat of my magic, heat that I can feel inside me, can match up to the heat of the forge.

     The flames lick at me. I wear thick leather gloves that reach up to my upper arms, so I am mostly safe from the relentless fire.

     But this fire is old and stubborn, and my father has been stoking it for months now because the older the fire, the better the forged product.

     I dunk the first blade into water for a second, and then start hammering at it again.

     My back aches and my upper arms, already muscular and hard after working in the smithy my entire life, are straining for relief.

     But there is no time for that. Instead, I drag the grindstone closer to the forge, and I start sharpening the blades of each sword.

     Now all we need to do is attach and secure the hilts to each sword, I think to myself when I finally allow myself to take a break.

     My father stands outside the smithy, selling some of our everyday wares.

     The sun hangs lower in the sky now as it is easy to lose time in the forge. The fire swallows everything, including space, time, and common sense. At least, that’s where Father says my sense goes.

         I hear him chattering with neighbors before I even step outside to join him. We live in one of many small, human villages in Lodra, and while we do trade in goods and services, the main currency in Lodra is gossip.

     “Have you heard?” Sierra is an older woman with several children who stops by the smithy every other day. I joke that she has a crush on my father, but I also don’t think it’s a joke.

     “Yes. I think we all have.” My father looks at me wearily, and I stiffen as I realize what today’s gossip is.

     Vippera.

     The naga who could become the Queen of Lodra very soon.

     In fact, there is no ‘could’ about it. She is betrothed to the Prince of Lodra, and there is no turning back from a betrothal for the royals.

     Every human in this village has been afraid ever since the news was announced.

     Vippera is a particularly cruel naga who hates humans. Especially humans with magic.

     My father looks over at me before he finishes helping Sierra with her purchases. Several thoughts run through my head as I watch them.

     Why does she need more spoons? She buys spoons every week! 

     You’ll be hunted for sport, is a rather less cheerful thought that crosses my mind.

     Bile rises in my throat, and I feel stickier than usual, so I turn sharply and walk back to the smithy where I know I’ll be safe.

     The flames will protect me, I think as I stand and inhale the smell of burnt metal and smoke.

     I draw on the energy of the fire. That’s how my magic works, after all. I use energy to manipulate the world around me. Except I can’t use it, because I am not supposed to exist, and if anyone other than my father ever finds out, I’m a dead woman.

     The fact that I’ll be hunted for sport is not an exaggeration, it’s the truth. Queen Vippera makes a sport of hunting magical humans.

     She has even hosted hunting games in the past.

     The fire has soothed some of my nerves, and I decide to clean myself and the inside of the smithy up slightly. I am covered in metal flakes and sweat and drops of blood on my chest and upper arms where my clothing did not protect me.

     I go behind the screen which my father placed in the smithy when I started helping him years ago, and I change into a different cotton shirt and trousers behind it. This set of clothing is slightly too small for me as I purchased it from a local cotton weaver about two years ago.

     Since then, my hips have widened, and my rounded ass has grown bigger. My breasts have been full from the moment I reached womanhood, and the shirt stretches over the front of my chest.

     “Just put on an apron, Rory,” I tell myself. I reach for the leather apron that my father keeps ready for me at all times. “At least this fits,” I grunt.

     I’ve just tugged the apron on when I hear the shouts from outside. The commotion sounds as though it is coming from the center of the village.

     “It probably isn’t serious,” I tell myself. “Leonard is probably having a jam sale again.”

         In our village, things like jams and preserves are hard to make because the ingredients are so expensive and it is very time-consuming. Most everyone grows their own fruits and vegetables, but not everyone has the money or time to make preserves.

     Leonard is a villager who has made it his life’s work to make jams and preserves, and we’ve been known to stampede when he has a sale.

     Didn’t he just have a sale? I think to myself as I start to pick up the discarded pieces of metal from the floor.

     I put on a mask before I start sweeping since it won’t do anyone any good if I inhale ground-up pieces of metal, and then I put my back into it.

     I would have expected the commotion over Leonard’s jam sale to have died down after a few minutes when everyone found their place in line, but the noise remains for the entire hour that it takes me to sweep up the smithy and stoke the forge a couple of times.

     Eventually I go out to see what is happening. The day is almost over anyway, so I’ll need to help my father bring our wares into the smithy and close up for the night.

     I’ll finish the swords tomorrow morning, I think to myself as I take off my apron. The hilts will go quickly.

     My father, when I see him, is ashen.

     “Father?” My voice is soft, hesitant. I don’t miss the dread in his eyes. “What is it?”

     Sierra comes running over to us then.

     “I suppose you’ve heard?” She puffs the words out in the direction of my father.

     He nods.

     She turns to me and speaks quickly. Her black eyes are sharp and beady.

     “A naga army is approaching the village. Right now.”