On Wings of Thunder (On Wings Saga 1)

by M. D. Grimm

  It was as Trystan sat on a mound of gold that he decided he would try to touch Asagoroth’s mind with his own. He’d never attempted it before, not without Asagoroth already in his head, but his choices were limited, and it was his fault this happened.

  Trystan closed his eyes and thought of Asagoroth. He remembered the enormity of his body, the heat of him, the way his touch could elicit such pleasure. He remembered the glow of his eyes, the warm tenderness of his kisses, and the passion of their lovemaking. Trystan remembered the contented sensation of waking in his paw and the delight he found when scratching his eye ridge. Trystan focused on all that and pushed his consciousness outside his body. He did so timidly at first, but then with growing urgency. He searched in that strange, unseen dimension, one only meant for spirit, for incorporeal beings.

  He did what his school lessons had taught him, what he’d learned in approved books, and what he’d heard from Annalise. He hoped with the fact that Asa’s mind had already touched his and that they had already established that link, the search would be easier. Besides, his blood flowed through Asagoroth’s veins.

  Asagoroth.

  Trystan’s mind brushed against something dark, vast. Hot. Trystan nearly jerked back into himself in shock but managed to hold on to his determination. Hardening his will, he brushed against that impenetrable darkness. He knew it was Asagoroth. This time there was no doubt in his mind.

  He caressed the darkness gently, tenderly. He tried to be persuasive, to at least make Asagoroth curious as to what was brushing his mind. For a moment there was only a solid darkness of immeasurable strength. Then it was as though he fell into a hole and landed in a warm, deep lake.

  Trystan?

  Trystan grinned proudly at the shock in Asa’s voice.

  Asagoroth, I do love you. Trystan actually felt the stunned silence. I’m sorry I didn’t say so before. I was scared.

  Scared. Why?

  Trystan could barely contain his joy that Asagoroth was talking to him.

  I grew up an unchosen, Asa. I believed myself unworthy and unwanted. A burden and shame to my family. That you could want me the way you do…. It’s hard for me to comprehend and to accept. Can you understand that?

  Trystan suddenly felt a pressure inside his head, and warm, phantom arms wrapped around him.

  Yes, I see and feel it through your mind, Asagoroth said. In doing so, I also understand your questions and your fears about Roland. Look into my mind now, Trystan. Feel my devotion for you.

  Trystan did. Asagoroth’s mind became an open book and he felt his love and devotion and it overwhelmed him. It was amazing and unbelievable but all true. There were no words to describe Asagoroth’s need for him, the desperate, all-consuming hunger and dependency. Trystan had to gulp in air as it all flashed over and through him.

  Asa, you humble me. I need to accept myself as you have accepted me. Trystan sighed, easing his consciousness away from Asagoroth. Return to me. Please. I need you as you need me.

  Asagoroth rumbled out a purr that shivered inside Trystan’s mind.

  Watch the skies.

  Trystan grinned and slowly disconnected his mind from Asa’s. It wasn’t long before Trystan was fully inside his own mind. He opened his eyes, his vision blurry. He blinked several times and gripped his dizzy head.

  Watch the skies. Damn right he would.

  Trystan waited for his mind to settle before leaping into the air and standing on the roof of the temple. He watched all sides, incredibly proud of himself. He got his dragon back. He got his love back.

  His mate.

  Trystan stood, playing with the sleeves of his robes as he watched the skies for any black shadow. How far had Asa gone? Where had he gone? They were at the edge of the Upper Realm, with only black nothingness for a neighbor. Asa wouldn’t go any closer to the angelic cities for obvious reasons.

  Trystan blinked. Asa. He’d used that nickname before, hadn’t he? Where did it come from? He wouldn’t be surprised if Roland called the dragon Asa. It was an intimate, playful name, one that almost diminished the power of Asagoroth, made him approachable. He liked it, and since Asagoroth hadn’t told him not to use it, he would when the mood struck. It was nice to know he could be comfortable with Asagoroth in such a way.

  Trystan looked up, far up. The few stars visible twinkled mischievously, the planets barely distinguishable from the flaming giants. It was a gorgeous place for them to live their lives, to bond, to make love, to sleep in each other’s arms.

  It was their place, even as it was once Roland and Asa’s.

  Trystan frowned at himself and shook his head. He was once Roland, right? That meant this place was always his. That also meant Asagoroth was always his. And that was enough time spent on thinking about Roland.

  Hearing something on the wind, Trystan turned. He expected to see a black shadow or a storm cloud. But neither was the case. What he saw made his heart stop and his mouth drop open.

  Angels. Legions of angels. They nearly covered the sky, swarming like birds of prey. Trystan froze in shock. Light glistened and shone off armor and blades and wings, pale limbs barely visible. Hair shimmered, feathers fluttered, and Trystan’s heart pounded against his ribs.

  The legions flew straight toward the temple, and Trystan finally jerked into action. He dove into the temple and quickly hid. He had to keep out of sight and wait for Asagoroth’s return. He knew even with the legions they were no match for his mate, but if they got their hands on him, he would be used against Asagoroth. He was the dragon’s weakness, and everyone knew it.

  Trystan felt the tiniest bit of pressure in his head, and even as angels began to swarm inside the temple, he touched that pressure and urgently coaxed Asagoroth to enter his mind more fully.

  Trystan?

  Angels are here, Trystan said in his mind, keeping his mouth firmly shut. He crouched at the base of a column, in a dark corner of one particularly ruinous chamber that looked unsafe for anyone to stay in too long. Large stones had fallen from the walls, and one column was on its side diagonally across the torn, uneven floor. Trystan knew the chamber was sturdier than it looked, but he hoped the angels would think the opposite.

  Asagoroth’s growl of wrath shook Trystan to his core. They did not heed my words of warning. They shall all die.

  Trystan bit his lower lip. He didn’t want a massacre, but what defense could he give? Asagoroth had been clear in his warning. The angels’ arrogance was going to get them killed.

  A unit of fifty soldiers swept into the chamber he was in, and Trystan crouched farther into the shadows, trying to become as small as possible. The unit split off into pairs, swords and daggers drawn. The pressure in Trystan’s head intensified painfully, and he fought against the rage that bubbled inside him. Not all of it belonged to Asagoroth but he had nothing to gain in trying to take them on by himself. He didn’t stand a chance.

  As a pair of soldiers came closer and closer to his hiding place, Trystan took a deep breath and tried to hold back his panic.

  Asagoroth!

  I am here.

  Even as those words entered his mind, Trystan heard a thunderous roar that shook the temple on its foundations. More stones fell, crashing to the already cracked floor, and the shaking loosened clouds of dust, partly obscuring his vision. Darkness was like a living thing, covering the light that filtered through the holes and crevices in the roof as well as the expertly carved windows.

  Trystan watched as soldiers flew around in startled chaos for a moment before collecting themselves and swiftly speeding away to join the rest of the army against Asagoroth. Trystan took two deep breaths before flying out of his hiding place and exiting the temple.

  Asagoroth once again used the storm—the wind was his breath, the thunder his roar, the lightning his gaze. He flapped his enormous wings, spreading the darkness, the storm that steadily grew to encompass everything around them. Furious fire burned bright under his scales, seen with every movement of his body. His eyes were b
lue flame, clearly visible against the onyx.

  In stark contrast the angels were tiny, only shards of the whitest light that flared against the black. There were thousands of angels, and many were initially caught in the storm, disappearing into the darkness. But more than half avoided it and were sending spells of their own against the dragon. They swarmed around him, blades flashing, spells hissing. The light broke some of the darkness, but to Trystan’s mind, the angels didn’t stand a chance. For every moment of victory for them, there was a gigantic one for Asagoroth.

  Trystan hovered there for a moment, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to watch Asagoroth slaughter his people but he knew it would be suicide to charge into the battle.

  Asagoroth! he thought as hard as he could, pushing against the pressure and the wrath inside Asagoroth’s mind. Even if you kill them all, the Upper Realm has more angels to send, soldier or not.

  Asagoroth didn’t respond but let out a trumpeting bellow that actually threw back a formation of charging angels. He flapped his wings hard and blew others away, and they spun, head over heels, feathers ripped away.

  The darkness didn’t spread as it had in Emphoria—the angels were continuing their spell casting and disintegrating the black before it could expand. Asagoroth didn’t seem to be putting much effort into creating the darkness, and Trystan realized he wanted this fight. He didn’t want to immobilize the angels; he wanted to destroy them. He wanted the challenge. He wanted the battle.

  So consumed was Trystan by the conflict before him, he didn’t notice the angel behind him until it was too late. A flutter of air alerted Trystan, and he spun around even as his arm was grabbed.

  “Get away from me!” He kicked out, struggling.

  “Damn you, Trystan!”

  Trystan gasped when he realized it was his father who held his arm in a painful grip. His father was in the emerald armor of command, and silver designs swirled from his helmet to his breastplate, down to his gauntlets and bracers. He gleamed radiantly, and Trystan remembered how, as a child, he had always loved to see his father—and his mother—in their full regalia in defense of their home. His mother would wear armor of sapphire, and they would look like unbreakable gems, unstoppable forces of war.

  His eyes burned even as he continued to struggle.

  “Why are you doing this?” Trystan tugged at his father’s wrist. “Why can’t you just let us go?”

  “You will not be the shame of our family. Not again,” Gabreld said fiercely.

  Trystan’s heart died just a little. The pressure in his head flared, and wrath not his own entered it.

  Snarling, Trystan turned his head away. “Asagoroth!”

  There was another roar, and the storm sped toward them, thunderous and flashing with lightning. Trystan turned back to his father in time to see the fist. He ducked and the punch landed on his shoulder, a burst of pain that momentarily rendered him weak.

  Gabreld wrapped a wide hand around Trystan’s throat and squeezed while he wrapped his other hand around Trystan’s back, keeping his wings immobile. Trystan could barely breathe. He clawed at his father’s arm, but the gauntlet protected his father’s sensitive skin.

  “You betrayed us, Trystan,” Gabreld hissed into his ear. “Now you will pay for your treachery. I smell him on you. You disgust me.”

  Trystan’s vision tunneled and his thudding heart was soon all he heard. His lungs burned for more air, but his father—no, Commander Gabreld—never loosened his grip.

  The storm reached them, surrounded them. But unlike before, Gabreld chanted a spell, and the confusing element of the black didn’t affect him. The lightning tried to strike him, but he blocked it with an arm and a flash of light.

  “You will not win, monster!” Gabreld bellowed into the storm. Thunder crashed, lightning struck, wind howled. “I know you can hear me! You will never own one of us, not then, and not now. Not ever! Go back to the pit where you came from!”

  Suddenly all the pressure in Trystan’s head left. Asagoroth’s presence vanished. Panic compounded the pain in his chest, in his heart. Had Asagoroth abandoned him?

  Then there was silence.

  Absolute silence.

  No wind, no thunder, no lightning. No roar or the flapping of wings, not that of the dragon or even Gabreld’s. No screams of soldiers. Simply utter silence, the kind one might find should one go past the Outer Borders into the nothingness.

  Gabreld’s grip on Trystan slackened. Trystan sucked in more air. He didn’t struggle against the commander, but he wheeled his eyes around, trying to see what was going on. Black surrounded them, and they were the only light. Gabreld had stopped chanting but since the black didn’t affect him, Trystan surmised Gabreld still chanted in his mind. Only the most skilled angels could do that.

  Trystan felt something—something large—move in the black, just out of sight. Gabreld felt it as well since he spun around in the air, his eyes never still.

  “Trystan,” Gabreld said. He spoke softly, but it seemed to echo against the silence.

  He loosened his hold on Trystan further, and Trystan coughed, sucking in precious air.

  “You think you have power here, little angel commander.”

  Trystan shuddered, his eyes widening.

  That voice was… evil. It was soft, silky, a seductive sort of voice, a voice of power and confidence, of humor and not one ounce of fear. It mocked and insulted at the same time.

  “You have less power than an insect before a hurricane.”

  The voice seemed to circle them, and Gabreld spun around, trying to keep his back away from it. Trystan grew dizzy from the spinning.

  “You are as insignificant as a pebble on a beach, as a drop of water in a rainstorm, as one demon in an attacking horde. Your light is fickle and fleeting and only as bright as those around you allow it to be.” There was a deep, profound pause. “I, however, am forever.”

  Enormous eyes, brighter than stars, suddenly appeared in the darkness, cutting through the black. But these didn’t have pupils. Instead they were a startling blue that pierced through to the core of a being before ripping it apart. Then the rest of his face became visible, and if Trystan wasn’t mistaken, Asagoroth seemed to have grown bigger. If that were even possible.

  “You barely have a claim to your own life, little angel,” Asagoroth continued, his voice growing harder, edgier. “Let alone the life of one I have claimed as mine.”

  The outline of wings suddenly appeared on either side of them, flapping languidly but never once stirring the air.

  Trystan felt Gabreld tremble and heard him gulp. It would seem he had finally realized just what he was up against.

  One did not fight a force of nature…. One simply survived.

  Gabreld’s voice shook. “You listen, monster—”

  “No, the time for talk is over.”

  Out of the black came Asagoroth’s glistening tail. He shot straight for Gabreld’s head, and Trystan took the coward’s way out, turning away before impact. He felt it along his body and heard the distinctive snap of bone and the ripping of flesh. Trystan was flung with Gabreld’s body, but struggled to release himself from the hold of a corpse. He shoved at the arms and flapped his wings, pulling free. He turned just in time to see the headless body spiral down into the black.

  Weak and shaky, his hovering jerky, Trystan struggled to stay in the air. He cried in grief despite Gabreld’s words. That angel had been his father, the reason he was alive. Despite everything he couldn’t hate his own father.

  Trystan felt something under his feet, and flinched violently before he realized it was Asagoroth’s tail. Smooth heat met his feet again as he lowered onto the scales, folding his wings behind his back. He knelt, rubbing his aching throat, tears streaming down his face.

  “I will not ask for your forgiveness.”

  Trystan’s lips trembled as he turned to look at Asagoroth, and he saw himself reflected in a black pupil. He could only shake his head and hold back his sob
s as best he could.

  “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” Asagoroth continued. “But neither will I offer you my regret or remorse. Both would be false. And I have promised never to lie to you.”

  Trystan continued to cry, his body shaking with it. He closed his eyes, confused as to how to feel. He felt something warm brush against him and looked to see it was Asagoroth’s paw. Trystan shimmered his wings intangible before curling into Asagoroth’s palm. Asagoroth closed his talons around Trystan, carefully enfolding him in warmth and safety.

  When the sounds of battle bombarded his ears in the next heartbeat, Trystan popped his eyes open and looked out a small gap between Asagoroth’s talons. Angels were still fighting, still throwing spells. It would seem Asagoroth was able to hold the rest of the army off while speaking with Gabreld, and only now was actively rejoining the battle.

  The power of Asagoroth was immeasurable.

  Seemingly willing to end the attack, Asagoroth pulled back his head, expanded his chest, and spewed out fire as hot as a star. Angels fled or died if they weren’t quick enough to escape the plume. Asagoroth spun in a circle, covering all sides of himself with fire. Trystan felt the heat, began to sweat, but Asagoroth’s own onyx skin protected Trystan from the flames.

  Chaos reigned, and in the confusion, Asagoroth dove straight down. He hurled into the clouds, leaving the Upper Realm behind.

  “Asagoroth—”

  “Trust me. I will not bring you to the Lower Realm. But there is another realm that is neither for demons nor angels.”

  Trystan tightened his grip on Asagoroth’s scales.

  “The Middle Realm,” he whispered. The realm of earth and flowers and trees, of oceans and mountains, of rounded edges and soft lines. The place where Emphoria had gotten her garden. The place he’d always wanted to see.

  “Yes,” Trystan said. “That is where I wish to be.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Colors more vibrant than those of the stars in the sky delighted Trystan’s eyes as the Middle Realm came into view. Warmth lingered here, and the sun was an odd but pleasant yellow color as it glowed with happiness down upon the greens and blues and browns. Order marched alongside chaos, alongside order. Nothing was planned here, not the trees, the rocks, the mountains, or the lakes; they had simply formed, allowed to evolve and adapt as needed. Nourishing water lapped at pale, sandy beaches and wind rustled leaves of numerous trees, far too numerous and strange for Trystan to begin to identify.