by Forthright
Up until now, all the houses in Glintrubble had been home to rabbits. The horses were less inclined to build. When they needed rest, they reverted to truest form and dozed in the wide valley beneath the Vantage, safe under the lead stallion’s watchful eye.
But things were changing, little by little.
The first house would belong to Dwennon and Myla, and the second would suit the needs of Trisk and Glinna. Plans were in the works for personal quarters for each branch family; however, Glintrubble’s boundaries would need to expand to make room for them.
That was the reason Fira knew so much about their plans.
She and Willum were expected to push the boundaries outward, adding new wards with what crystals they had available. Fira had pored over the maps, tuned countless crystals, and walked the proposed perimeter at least a dozen times. With Willum grumbling all the while about the need for a fresh supply of green, two more blue, and—if Cadmiel himself would be so kind—the added blessing of a sizable pink.
Needless to say, the miners were motivated.
“Here she is. Come, little warrior.” Dwennon beckoned for her to join a gathering of bucks and stallions. “Willum tells me that you are the one I need most right now.”
Fira fidgeted under the weight of so many gazes. “Because there are dragons?”
“No. Well, yes. But … no.” Dwennon sank to his knees before her, hands offered in urgent supplication. “I need you because one of my sons—a strong colt of the herd—is a reckless fool.”
Reckless Fool
Fira knew, but that made it no easier to ask. “Ricker?”
“We are the only ones who know.” Dwennon’s gaze slanted toward the mares’ quarters. “I did not wish to worry the mares.”
She harbored the uncharitable opinion that the mares wouldn’t have offered anything more than polite dismay, but Ricker’s absence would most certainly cast the foals into turmoil. For their sake—and his—Fira held her responses in check. But her thoughts were abuzz.
“ …before anyone noticed.”
Dwennon was on his feet again. Someone had been speaking. Had it been Willum? She’d missed every word. Shaking her head, she stammered, “Wh-what?”
Bavol pushed forward, holding her shoulders, filling her view. “Trisk circled around to check on the area where he was attacked. No signs remained of the wild dragon, but he wanted to be sure her nest had grown cold.”
“Do you mean … eggs?”
Gently, patiently, Bavol went over everything again. “He discovered three surviving hatchlings, still small, but growing fast and sure to become a threat to the herd once their hunting range increases. Dwennon wants them removed. Trisk proposes elimination. By the time a message was composed and a messenger sent to the nearest heights, Ricker was already gone.”
Dwennon’s voice tightened on the verge of breaking. “He took one of Trisk’s swords.”
“Ricker knows how to use a sword?” Fira asked, trying to picture it.
“No.”
“Then why would he try?” Fira couldn’t make sense of the risk. “To impress the mares?”
Bavol spoke soothingly, like the healer he was. As if she were injured as well as afraid. “My brother rarely proceeds with so much forethought. Ricker is impulsive, acting upon his feelings. And … he has paid little heed to the mares since midsummer.”
A greater motive occurred to her. “Are the foals at risk?”
Expression softening, Bavol said, “He is protective of them. And of all the herd.”
“Always has been.” Dwennon reached for her hand. “But I would wager that his reasons are entirely coltish.”
Fira had to ask, “What does that mean?”
“He wants to be chosen.”
She already knew that.
Bavol sighed. “On some level, this is a display.”
“I wonder if Ricker even realizes?” Dwennon leaned close and lowered his voice. “He is trying to impress a dragon-slayer.”
All Speed
Fira reached for the song of the green stone still woven into Ricker’s forelock. Her gaze swung to the northwest, and everyone in the group oriented on the direction as if she were a compass.
“Thank you, little warrior,” Dwennon murmured. Then he raised his voice. “Where is Trisk?”
Bavol said, “With Willum, gaining strength for the fight to come.”
The lead stallion let loose a piercing whistle. Moments later, Trisk and Willum emerged from the woods, strides matched as they hastened to join the rest.
Fira had to admit she was curious about tending. Outwardly, the two did little more than hold hands, yet Willum always emerged from their sessions with starry eyes and a smile that lingered for hours.
It was a little easier to understand what Trisk gained from tending, for the air around him hummed with vitality, as if he had more power than he knew how to contain. In an intriguing clash of impressions, Fira felt sure that Trisk was becoming both more dangerous … and more dedicated to Willum’s safety. Which was very good for all of Glintrubble.
Alliance. Cooperation. Trust. Was this to be her future as well?
“How many do you suggest for the rescue party?” Dwennon asked Trisk.
The bat clansman’s gaze lingered on each face, and he spoke with grim formality. However, he used the old language, and Fira understood nothing.
Inclining his head, Dwennon offered a clipped translation. “Trisk will reclaim his blade and become Ricker’s defense. Bavol, get to your brother’s side. He may need a healer.”
“I am going, too!” Fira exclaimed.
Dwennon nodded at Willum, who gently placed Lufu’s lucky stone on Fira’s palm.
She stared at it blankly for several moments. “But … my sister cannot be without this. You said it yourself. Lufu is a beacon.”
“I tuned a set of amethysts to Lufu’s song. She is well and truly warded.” Willum closed Fira’s fingers over the crystal. “Bring him back.”
“I must.” She tucked the stone in the pouch at her hip. “That is the only outcome.”
When she turned back to Bavol and Trisk, signaling her readiness, both balked. Worse, they backed up a step. Did they think she’d harm them? Fira didn’t catch their mumbles, but Dwennon snorted … and explained. Trisk, who would allow no other male to touch Glinna, was loath to hold another female. And guided by these same scruples, Bavol did not wish to give Synnis reason to doubt the singularity of his ardor.
“What do you suggest?” she asked sharply, frustrated even though she admired their newfound convictions.
“Leaving. Now,” snapped Dwennon. “Hold tight, Fira.”
Dwennon swept her up and swung her onto his back, much as Ricker had done. So she wasn’t surprised when he transformed under her. But she was surprised. The sire of the First Herd, taking a rider. Fira knew enough now to understand the honor she was being afforded.
He sprang, and she quickly tangled her hands in his mane, which rippled in a pale cascade right to the ground. Or would have, if he hadn’t left it far below.
Leaning low over his shoulder, Fira asked, “Can you hear me, or should I guide you with my hands?”
Belatedly, she remembered that Dwennon had no voice to answer. And hers would not last if she was shouting against the roar of the wind. So she resorted to a series of tugs and pats, only raising her voice when the green stone’s song changed.
“I think he is fighting,” she relayed, heart pounding.
Dwennon increased his pace, but Fira was very afraid it wouldn’t be enough.
“I think he is injured.”
Her mount flattened his ears and rolled an eye at her, and she felt his urgency. Wrapping hanks of hair around her fists, she cried, “Onward!”
In one burst, the stallion showed his true strength. Rather than riding a horse, Fira felt as if she was astride a bolt of lightning. Thunder boomed in their wake. And it was too much for her.
Her heart squeezed, and she could not find he
r next breath. Dazed and deafened, she lost her hold on consciousness. But then the bolt struck, and there were arms to catch her. Strong hands pried at her fingers, and a mouth slanted over hers, pushing air into her lungs.
Fira gasped and coughed and pushed weakly at Dwennon’s shoulder.
“Breathe, little warrior,” he ordered.
Bavol was there, berating his father even as he claimed Fira, all traces of hesitation gone as he cupped her face, searched her eyes, and bade her to take deep breaths. He was in healer mode, and he did not relinquish his hold until he was sure Fira was steady on her feet.
“No wonder we could not find him,” Dwennon remarked, ignoring his son’s remonstrations. “This is a long ride from the place Trisk marked.”
Fira spun on her heel, only swaying a little at the scene before her. Ricker had barricaded himself in a rough-hewn gully, thickly overhung by trees. None could have spotted him from above, nor the trio of fanged lizards trying to prise him from his paltry shelter.
Lean bodies. Curving claws. Twisting horns.
Ricker’s eyes were wide and wild, and bloody scratches scored his face and arms.
Trisk was a blur of shadow, knocking two of the dragonlings sideways before joining the colt in his niche. He held out a hand. Ricker surrendered the sword and sank to the ground, head bowed as the bat clansman proved his predatory superiority.
With ruthless efficiency, Trisk engaged two of the dragons at once.
They hissed and keened and snapped their jaws.
One fell under his wicked blade, and one fell back. But where was the third? Fira shuffled forward, searching for some sign of wine-colored scales.
Dwennon’s hand was at her elbow. “Can you stand?”
What a thing to ask.
Not only could Fira stand, she found that she could run.
Warrior Maiden
Fumbling in her pouch for the heirloom stone, Fira set her feet and framed the clear crystal between her fingers. She found its song, tuned it to the strength of her need, and narrowed her eyes at the dragon slinking over the rocks above and behind Ricker’s hiding place.
“Trisk, get down!” bellowed Dwennon.
The bat clansman left his sword quivering in the heart of his remaining opponent. One glance Fira’s way, and Trisk dove for Ricker, tumbling him to the side, rolling him out of range. In that moment, she smiled. She appreciated Trisk’s intent, but the move was unnecessary. Her power could never harm Ricker.
Fira released the cry of her soul with a furious shout. She wouldn’t let the monsters of this world harm the ones she loved. Not when she had the power to stop them.
Her resolve tore through a single moment, lengthening it, distilling it. With the same precision with which Trisk wielded his blade—and to much the same effect—Fira unleashed the blessing she’d once considered a curse.
The beast ceased to be a threat, for it had ceased to be. Its body lay empty, its song ended.
Willum stepped in front of her—lowering her arms, cradling her hands, coaxing the crystal from her grasp. She focused on his freckled face and began to tremble, shaken by what she’d done, by what could have happened.
He pocketed the precious stone and busied himself running light fingertips over her palms, checking each finger. “All here, and no burns.” Pride shining in his eyes, Willum said, “My apprentice has improved.”
She blinked several times, trying to quell an unexpected threat of tears.
Dwennon stepped up behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. “Well done, Fira. This is a far better outcome than I could have wrought alone.”
“Ricker?”
With a low, nickering laugh, the lead stallion gave her a gentle push in the right direction.
Bavol knelt with his brother, hands seeking and finding each rip and scratch, muttering all the while. At first, Fira thought scolding was simply part of Bavol’s bedside manner, but as she came even with them, she caught a few phrases, then her own name. Bavol touched the green stone in Ricker’s forelock, and Fira realized he must be explaining how help had come in time.
Ricker saw her coming, and his lips parted … but no words passed them.
Bavol turned and beckoned her closer. “He was wanting; you were willing. A good balance.”
The wording threw her off. It was the same phrasing used regarding the suitability of stallions. Surely, Bavol only meant the search. Or maybe the rescue?
Ricker looked as tongue-tied as she felt.
“Scold him thoroughly and make him mind.” With all his customary solemnity, Bavol pressed a bottle and cloth into her hand. “Cleanse the wounds quickly, in case the hatchlings boasted a poison touch.”
He withdrew to help Trisk and Dwennon, leaving her alone with his brother.
Ricker lowered his gaze, shoulders bowed.
Was he truly expecting criticism? She was sure Bavol had only been teasing about the scolding.
Kneeling before him, she set aside the medicine and reached for his chin. His gaze jumped to hers, and she moved slowly, mindful of all the little injuries she was supposed to be tending. But this came first. Kissing his forehead, Fira poured all her admiration into a handful of words. “Ricker, you are so brave.”
Bucking Tradition
Arms wound around Fira, pulling her tight against Ricker’s chest, and he pressed his face to her heart, which warmed along with her cheeks.
“I do not feel brave. I was so afraid.”
“Me, too.” She touched the stone woven into his hair. “If not for this, I would have been useless.”
His upward glance held disbelief. “You are brilliant in battle, ablaze with fierce light. You captivate remnants and cull dragons. You are the farthest thing from useless.”
Fira wasn’t used to being heaped with so much praise. “Fierce, am I? Should you really be holding onto something so dangerous?”
Ricker’s expression turned pensive. “I am not sure.”
“You may consider the matter while I treat your injuries.” With insistent pokes, she freed herself and began daubing Bavol’s sharp-smelling concoction on Ricker’s face. “The tunic is spoiled. Off.”
He complied with a grunt, and more lacerations came to light. Across his chest, along his forearms, a deeper gouge in his thigh. Bavol would need to check that one. But there were no cuts on Ricker’s back. He had not turned from his fight.
“You are so kind,” he murmured.
“So you say.”
“Because it is true.”
Fira knew that they were dancing around something important. “I think you are mistaken, good colt, if you think I am here out of the kindness of my heart. Just as you are mistaken if you think me enormously brave. You stole all my courage with this stunt. Next time you decide to vanquish a dragon, at least take me with you.”
“Next time?” He seemed flustered by the suggestion.
“Because of the crystal my parents left for Lufu and me, I have always had a dragon-slaying weapon close to hand. But carrying a weapon is not the same as knowing how to use it. I could hurt the monsters, but not without hurting myself.” She set aside the near-empty bottle and studied her hands. “This time was different because of Willum. Having a mentor made a difference.”
Ricker was listening, but she could tell he wasn’t getting it.
“If you want to use your strength to protect the herd, do that,” urged Fira. “Ask Trisk, since you admire his swordsmanship. Maybe he would be willing to take a reckless apprentice under his wing.”
Understanding dawned, and Ricker gathered her hands between his. “You …! Fira, you …!”
She smiled, glad to see a return of his usual enthusiasm.
But a moment later, his smile faded, and he mumbled something, too soft to hear.
“What was that?”
Ricker blushed. “I wish you would lead me to a quiet place.”
She knew what that meant. He was inviting her to choose him.
Dwennon had hinted. Bavol
had provided an opening. But did Ricker really mean it? A minute ago, he’d been unsure. Yet his open expression suggested he was serious.
Fira hoped so. “You are very mixed up, Colt Ricker Thunderhoof. If I am not mistaken, you have led me to a quite place.”
The others—and the bodies of all three dragons—were gone.
Ricker’s face registered shock, then chagrin. Even though they were alone, his next words came in a small voice. “If a colt of the herds were to find a human female admirable, which customs would they follow? Because the colt only knows how to bide until he is chosen, yet the woman is accustomed to the arranging of males.”
“You would choose me?” she asked.
“If the choice were mine.”
“What if it was?”
The hint of a smile appeared. “Then I would lead my lady to a quiet place. And if she followed, I would give my pledge.”
“What sort of pledge?” asked Fira. “I would not want to share you with half the herd.”
He snorted. “The mares do not want me.”
“That could change.”
“I will not.” His lips pressed softly to hers. “Do you want my pledge, Fira?”
Her heart danced, her soul sang, and her words failed, so she kissed him back. Long and lasting, as any pledge should be. Deepening like devotion. Affecting in its affection.
Fira lost track of all else, until a teasing voice said, “Now, son. Do not be so hasty.”
Ricker hastily ended the kiss and blinked up at Dwennon.
“Let her go, son,” commanded the lead stallion.
The arms around Fira only tightened. Ricker said, “Fira is my choice.”
Dwennon’s gaze tracked to the side, bringing Bavol’s and Trisk’s presence to Fira’s attention. She didn’t realize she was glaring until they failed to hide their widening smiles.