Baelac shot her companion an annoyed glance.
“I understand your point,” said Tyronious, responding as if he took no offense. He gestured for them to follow, and made for the child.
Baelac knelt down and gently picked up the girl. Jewel groggily looked up at her, blinked a few times, and then drifted back to sleep. The child was much too placid. Baelac had to wonder what the dragoons had given her to drive her into so sedated a state. She kept the question to herself.
“How can we repay you?” asked Baelac. “I have some silver caps if you would like.” She reached into a pouch and produced a few coins. It was all an illusion, of course, a construct of her magic, but she was certain the lie would suffice until they got away.
“Coin? Ha!” guffawed the dragoon. “No creaton will trade with me for coin. My friend, you have paid me dearly enough by coming here yourself. I could ask for nothing more.” The dragoon held out his hand in a gesture of farewell.
It was then that Baelac realized the other dragoons had risen from the fire. They were beginning to fan out in an encompassing arc, hemming them in. Baelac and Tyronious stood there a moment longer, their eyes set sternly upon the other. Each searched for a weakness, but in that instant Baelac saw something else entirely within those baleful orbs; a torrent in the darkness, smoldering like lightning on the horizon, but growing ever closer.
Without provocation, Tyronious lashed out with his wing blades, slicing across Baelac’s side. But Baelac was quick to act and she struck the dragoon firmly in his jaw. He crumpled to the ground in a momentary daze. Baelac yelled out to Horan.
“Go!”
Horan needed no second bidding. In the blink of an eye he transformed to his true form. Scales bristled, wings plumed. His voice tolled like the ringing of a bell as he belted out a magical chant. A hail of energy split the air, reducing a nearby dragoon to blistered flesh and white exposed bone. A second dragoon rushed Horan with his sword drawn. Horan didn’t bother to avoid the tiny blade. Instead he snatched the dragoon in his claws, and crushed the beast into the ground with his palm, grinding its screeching skull into the earth.
Dozens of dragoons poured out of the surrounding forest, charging on their location with wing blades poised for the kill. Taking this as their cue, the Luthuanian guard broke from their cover. Their bows twanged, and all about the field dragoons fell dead.
Rancor arrived to Baelac and collected the child from her grasp. His face was palsied in terror. He began to draw his sword with fingers that did not seem to know how to grasp the haft. Baelac halted his hand.
“Protect the girl and stay behind me,” she ordered. With that said, she transformed. Her massive frame towered over the downed dragoon. “You wretches have no right to be in this land,” hissed Baelac through the serrated teeth of her maw.
“On the contrary,” roared Tyronious, as he leapt back to his feet and approached Baelac with startling confidence. “It is my birthright. The Jetaess Op’mat has long awaited this revenge.”
Tyronious charged, hacking his wing blades into Baelac’s hide like a mantis striking its prey. His bony blades punctured through scales as thick as iron plate. The dragoon was shockingly fast, and every snap of a jaw and slash of a claw was met head on by one of the dragoon’s flailing limbs. After only a few attempts to swat the dragoon, she was bleeding heavily from a number of wounds.
“We need to go,” roared Baelac as she looked away from the dragoon for an instant, taking in the ghastly scene about her. Already, much of Rancor’s guard lay dead on the ground, overrun by the surging enemy. She glanced back to where Tyronious last stood, but the dragoon had vanished. She had made a fatal error.
Tyronious suddenly popped into view behind her, slashing across her right wing. A searing pain rippled through her body as thick muscles were cleaved in two. Her wing fell uselessly at her side. She stared at it in bewilderment, willing it to rise, but nothing happened. As if from thin air, Tyronious materialized beside her face. There was a sudden prick to her slender neck. Grinning, Tyronious sidestepped out of reach.
The sensation of suffocating knotted Baelac’s throat. She wretched. The black pool that formed at her feet confirmed her fear. She was gagging on her own blood. She tasted iron and fire. She tasted death. In the distance she heard a child scream. Horan’s voice bellowed like a banshee. The earth shuddered as if the world was breaking. Everything dimmed to a finite point, and only a single glowing figure was left before her.
Tyronious placed a reassuring hand upon her quivering snout, and there he remained, contentedly staring into her eyes as she choked to death on her own blood. There was such certainty within that hate-filled face Baelac could not help but allow the last modicum of hope to slip from her mind. Lightning cracked overhead, the storm had arrived. She was lost and the world closed about her. The last thing she ever saw were those two dim orbs, wreathed in a torrent of flame.
CHAPTER
IV
THATCHER
A low chatter signaled his quarry’s approach.
Careful to not make a sound, Thatcher set an arrow to his bow and slowly drew the line taut. He sighted a hollow between two slabs of rock. Although the hole was little more than a shadow in the predawn gloom, he knew exactly what was there. It was the entrance to a subterranean lair that coursed through the earth like a maze.
He drew the feather fletching flush with his cheek. His face twisted in a grimace as he focused upon the bleak task. He struggled to soothe his quickening breath. Perspiration settled upon his brow despite the unnerving chill that engulfed him. He exhaled slowly, finding the calm and certain point in the back of his mind; the place where the hunter lay in wait, the place where death was just a part of life. His pupils flared, granting shape and form to the shadows in the hollow.
“I see you,” he mouthed silently.
The ravager edged its body to the brink of the black chasm, urged on by its undying hunger. There it paused, its clawed toes nervously pawing at the soil. Its lengthy ears twitched spastically, listening for any sign of danger. Its long hind legs coiled, poised to leap at the first sign of danger. Beady eyes scoured the land as the creature cautiously turned its head. The twin black orbs settled upon Thatcher’s still form, then moved on.
The hunter went unseen.
The beast leapt from the security of its lair with an uneasy hop, and once again cycled through all of its hesitant motions. Step, pause, survey, step.
Thatcher pushed the last measure of guilt from his mind. It would be quick and painless, bringing an end to the rampage that had lasted far too long.
“What are you doing there, mate?” bellowed a voice from somewhere high above in the sky.
Thatcher cursed under his breath. He had no time to wait. The beast was frozen stiff, hind legs torqued, black eyes flared wide. Thatcher let the arrow fly. The nock of the arrow pulled through his fingers like sandpaper, the feathers brushed against the skin of his cheek. The arrow traveled the distance in the blink of an eye, but its steel head bounced harmlessly off the rocks. His quarry had bounded back within the confines of its lair in one deft leap.
“I said, what are you doing?” yelled Marshal, his voice rolling like thunder from the mountaintop. He crashed down on top of the rock slab. The crimson coils of his tail pulsated to and fro. His gaping maw was set with a toothy grin.
“I’m trying to end a damned plague around here,” hissed Thatcher. He hurled an arrow at Marshal in frustration.
Unfazed, the dragon collected the arrow mid-flight. He smiled wryly and began to use the arrow to pick at his teeth. “Hunting for breakfast, I see.”
Thatcher ignored his friend’s mocking gesture, and hopped down the scree strewn slope toward the small hut he called home. The frost-covered surface and shifting rocks made for a harrowing descent, and he found his creaton feet oddly clumsy this morning. The sun finally crested the eastern teeth of the mountains. Its beams sent curling tendrils of steam rising off Thatcher’s shaved head and rust-color
ed cloak. He imagined the vapor matched the burning ire in his stomach; he had waited all night to catch sight of his prey and in an instant it was ruined. Still, he couldn’t find the heart to be mad at Marshal.
The grinning dragon cleared the entire distance of the slope in one spry leap. Thatcher could only cringe and watch as Marshal crashed to the earth mere inches from his home. The carefully stacked slate walls of his house recoiled from the resulting earthquake. Thatcher thanked the gods it didn’t topple over. Marshal seemed to hardly take note; the elders never did have much regard for property. Thatcher’s father would always chide him for trying to live like a creaton; he would not apologize for residing in a proper house instead of a dank cave like his ancestors were wont to do.
Marshal began to prance around Thatcher like an eager dog. “What is this plague you speak of?”
“Plague, beast, ravager of my dreams, whatever you want to call it.”
“You mean that mountain hare?” asked Marshal, gesturing to the narrow plateau they had just descended from.
“That’s not what I would call the little terror.” Thatcher jutted his hands into his pockets and produced several green fragments. “Look what it did.”
“Left you a present?”
“It ate all my radishes!”
“Those don’t look like radishes.”
Thatcher glared at his friend, his lips twisted tightly in a scowl.
“Well, how’s this to cheer you up,” continued Marshal. “What if I said you had the chance to be in the audience of King Johan?”
“Aye, what if you told me such a thing.”
“Don’t be smart,” said Marshal, jabbing a clawed finger into Thatcher’s chest to prove the point. “Something is going on in the borderlands. Carrions they say. I received a message this very morn, and you wouldn’t guess who signed it.” He held out a crumpled parchment in his massive hand.
Thatcher gave the paper a critical eye. “My mother wrote this?”
“She and Dai Horan wrote their parts.” Marshal gestured to a point where the script changed.
Thatcher considered the implications for a moment. His parents seldom involved themselves in creaton affairs unless something was terribly amiss. In his heart, he doubted the carrions existed. This wouldn’t be the first time someone raised alarm over something that wasn’t there; last year it had been goblins, and the year before that the fabled cul were sighted south of the wall. But the rumor of undead in the borderlands could not be ignored. He imagined every sentinel east of Burrowing Hall had been roused to investigate. And if the elders were taking action, he was obliged to follow suit.
Thatcher looked back to his garden plot atop the plateau. He could spy the points of two ears bobbing amongst the furrowed rows of cabbage sprouts. “If I do this, you have to blast that hole with fire,” said Thatcher, pointing toward the den of the mountain hare.
Marshal smirked. “There’s no sport in that.” With a swoosh and a pop his wings caught the air, and he was gone, falling away from the ledge at a terrible speed. With practiced wing strokes, Marshal quickly slipped into the distance.
Rabbits and carrions. This was not how he intended to spend his day.
In the blink of an eye he transformed to his true form and took flight. Circling on the updraft, he rose hundreds of feet above his eyrie. His keen dragon eyes spotted the hare happily munching away on a fresh sprout of cabbage. Thatcher shook his fist at the creature. He would get his revenge upon the long-legged beast. Today was simply not that day.
Thatcher turned his body west.
League after league he chased after Marshal, tearing past powder-encrusted ridges and peaks of cold stone. He bent lithely over the last great spire of the Eng Range and plummeted toward the Soccoto Plains below. He raced onward, finally catching up with Marshal above an endless sea of auburn grass. The morning sun turned the field the color of shimmering flame. The old bull was moving forward with no great urgency, lazily flapping his wings with only enough effort to keep aloft.
“The Nexus awaits,” said the dragon, sweeping his hand out across the expanse.
There, in amongst the waving stalks, stood a ring of stone studded by a pinnacle of white marble. Bathed in the radiance of the morning sun, the citadel glowed with fervent light. Thatcher found himself shielding his eyes from the spectacle.
A great wall of stone, its face polished to a porcelain sheen, ran the perimeter of the city. The seamless rampart reached skyward with divine purpose, guarding the holiest place in Laveria. The former home of the gods, the citadel of light. Grand halls dotted the landscape, surrounded by elegant apartments and tower complexes. Gilded domes glistened as they did the day they were erected. Time and wear held no sway on the city. It was perfect beyond the mold of mortal hand.
Rarely did Thatcher draw close to the city—dragons were as welcome to the Seat of Caper as a leper was to a dinner table. Before the Guardians gave them civilization, this was where the elders would have come for food. He eyed Marshal’s mammoth frame; Thatcher was certain the dragon had feasted upon creaton flesh more times than he could count. Stone towers still dotted the cityscape, relics of a harsher time. Each was armed with a battery of ballistae. Some lessons are not easily forgotten, thought Thatcher. Men did not take kindly to dropping down a rung on the food chain.
At the center of the city stood a white tower that dwarfed all others. As far as Thatcher knew, nothing in the world neared the grandeur of Yasmire. The tower was built atop a free-standing rock monolith, and its pinnacle rose to such a dizzying height it seemed as if its builders were vying to reach the heavens. The tower walls were inlaid with silver, set in the fashion of archaic script. The inlay caught the rays of the sun, casting mirrored light across the city. The rooftops were bathed in the words of forgotten prayer. With a wide grin Thatcher raced toward the tower, drawn to the shimmering beauty like a moth to a flame.
As he entered the airspace over the Nexus, some base instinct turned on in Thatcher’s head. Although he had never tasted creaton flesh, he had the uncontrollable sensation that he was on the hunt. His eyes darted this way and that as he swooped low over rooftop patios, his pupils honing in on any scurrying shape. He imagined the streets would be packed to the brim with traders during the early morning hours, and in his mind’s eye he could see them screaming in panic at the sudden appearance of a dragon. Instead he saw hardly a soul. He scanned the barren city with worry.
“Where is everyone?” yelled Thatcher over the rushing wind.
Marshal made no effort to respond to the question. His attention was firmly planted upon the Tower of Yasmire. “Look to the tower,” said Marshal in a voice that would be considered a whisper to a dragon. “Do you see what I see?”
Thatcher’s eyes narrowed as he focused in on the monument. “It can’t be.” He tasted the first twinges of fire simmering in his chest.
“But it is,” murmured Marshal. “Dragons.”
Roosting upon the Tower of Yasmire were dozens of black serpentine figures. Their scaly tails coiled around the ledges and their clawed limbs grasped at the white stone. Tattered wings encapsulated the tower’s face, hugging the building with vestigial claws.
“What is this?” finally managed Thatcher. “Why are there dragons...”
His words were interrupted by a piercing whistle. The sound ripped through his ears, causing him to wince in discomfort. The frequency was far too high for a human to hear; it couldn’t be a signal to the people. His stomach dropped as he watched two of the dark forms slowly unwrap their bodies from the tower. They wearily lunged into the air, and with a few strong strokes made straight for Marshal and Thatcher.
“I don’t think we’re welcome here,” said Thatcher, his eyes glued on the rapidly advancing dragons.
“We’re going, now!” snapped Marshal. The tinge of terror in his voice was unmistakable. Already, he was speeding off as quickly as his wings could take him.
Thatcher dared one more glance at the dragons. He coul
d vaguely make out the familiar streaks of gray in their scales. They had the bearings of the Avofew clan, yet their flesh appeared diseased and grotesque. Thatcher didn’t have the slightest clue what was going on; no dragons served the Throne of Caper. But Marshal was right, they needed to flee.
Thatcher wheeled about, churning his wings as fast as they could go. A burning sensation rippled through the muscles of his back and chest as he exerted all of his strength to escape the city. Flaming saliva frothed in his throat, dripping uselessly from his jaw. He felt betrayed by his youth. If only he could use the strength of his birthright, then the pursuers would be the ones to turn in terror. Instead it was he who ran, and as the two dragons came on apace his mind frantically searched for an escape route.
The barren city streets seemed like a good alternative to the sky. He could transform into the guise of a man and hide somewhere. However, he feared he would find no more welcome on the ground; Capernican guards would have doubtlessly taken notice by now. And if the dragons did find him, he might not have the strength to resist them in his creaton guise.
One of the pursuers suddenly latched onto Thatcher’s hindquarters. Thatcher flailed his tail like a whip, feeling it rake against serrated teeth. A hand clasped about his thigh, another about the base of his left wing. Thatcher contorted his body and kicked his legs spastically in a frantic effort to throw off his attacker. His left wing involuntarily collapsed to his side, and he was sent careening into a rooftop. The impact was bone-rattling. He heard a crack and the earth opened up to swallow him. His world spun dizzyingly. A crushing pain galloped down the length of his spine. He came to rest in a hail of pulverized stone and plaster.
He laid still for a moment, in genuine shock that he was alive. He tried to fill his lungs with air, but the draught was polluted with dust. His vision blurred; he blinked several times but saw nothing. Had he gone blind?
Slowly his vision cleared, and what was revealed were thick stone walls, and above that the remains of a domed roof. Thatcher had fallen from the sky and landed squarely upon one of the city’s temples. It was probably the only reason he was alive. The structure had broken his fall, as much as a brick wall could. He eyed the gap in the ceiling where he had punctured through. The sun beamed through the shattered oculus in rays, filtered by the billowing dust. It was the only source of light within the otherwise pitch black temple.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 4