by Jess E. Owen
“And then?” Hikaru rolled and hopped after him, seeming to enjoy the freedom to stretch and work his growing body.
“And then…” Shard wove around a tumble of moss-covered boulders. Perhaps, if they crested the slope, they’d have a good view of what lay beyond the forest. He paused, looking at Hikaru.
I promised myself I wouldn’t keep things from him.
“We can’t speak to the wyrms. I have more enemies than friends in the Winderost now. We know that the wyrms are angry with gryfons and Sunland dragons alike, so—”
“You want to go to the Sunland,” Hikaru said eagerly. “Yes, I think that will be a good plan. There will be answers there, and friends.”
Shard chuckled, relieved. “Let’s hope so. But I don’t know the way.”
“I’m certain I can find it, when I remember more.”
“It may be a very long flight.”
Hikaru fluffed his wings. “I’m growing strong.”
Shard stepped forward to butt his head affectionately against Hikaru’s shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t be afraid.”
He was glad Hikaru agreed with his plan, though he couldn’t shake his own feeling that he was just running away.
It’ll be best for Hikaru to see his homeland, and he’s right, Shard tried to convince himself, we may have friends there.
Together they turned and trekked up the remainder of the slope, where a line of trees marked a low ridge. Shard paused at the top. The ground swept back down in a wash of shale, toward yet more forest. Beyond, in the blue haze, he made out a long, flat plain with marsh grasses, and beyond that, more forest. He didn’t want to walk through a marsh, and Hikaru had eaten an entire deer. He looked up at the dragon.
“Ready to fly?”
Hikaru laughed and launched from the ridge, shooting ahead like a serpent. Shard leaped and glided after, soaking in the warm sun after the chill of the woods. Every so often he checked over his shoulder. The wyrms must have been hunkered down away from the sun. There was another possibility, though Shard guarded his hope. It was possible that the wyrms may have lost them completely when the volcano erupted, and hadn’t followed at all.
“Let’s race!” Hikaru challenged, looping back around Shard.
“Ha! All right.”
Without hesitation, Shard narrowed his wings and shot ahead, twisting his body like a falcon to streamline his muscles and feathers. Hikaru took a sharp breath, then loosed a warbling shriek of glee. They raced.
Shard gained height and then darted ahead, using altitude and wind for his advantage, working as he had never worked before, holding nothing back. Hikaru, forced to keep up with the swiftest gryfon known in the Silver Isles or the Winderost, tested his wings to the utmost. In that way, without words, Shard helped Hikaru learn what he was capable of, and pride warmed him every time the young dragon pulled ahead of him by a nose.
Now and then they laid back, gliding on high winds to save energy, then they resumed the race and mocking, challenging calls.
Far below, the birds chattered about them. Alternatively racing and gliding, they crossed the rolling cedar forest and the long, flat marsh. The land bumped up into wooded hills again, and though it was winter the plants bloomed green and Shard spotted flowers. They smelled only earth and rain, not snow, and thought the mountain ranges must affect the weather and create a bowl of warmth.
“I’m getting tired,” Hikaru said, and it had been almost a quarter mark. The sun slanted low toward afternoon.
“A little farther,” Shard urged. “You can do it. You won’t be able to rest at sea, when we fly to the Sunland.”
Hikaru looked uncertain, then narrowed his eyes and set his gaze forward.
They flew another mark, and Shard was about to call a rest when he caught a familiar scent. Sharp longing ached in his every muscle. Hikaru smelled it too.
“What is that?”
Shard shook himself and answered, as calmly as he could manage, “The sea.”
At last he understood what instinct had guided him nightward, what pulled him from the Winderost. The vast land did have an end, after all.
They came to a silent agreement to keep flying until they reached the shore. The young dragon followed Shard doggedly through the final, long stretch. The sun lay across their backs, then sat in front of them by the time they reached the promised shore. The scent was so woven into the strange, ancient green woods, infused in the trees and in the sticky, warm mist that shrouded the temperate land that Shard had expected to see the ocean over every ridge. But it was long in coming.
At last, when Shard thought he only dreamed the tantalizingly familiar scent, the evergreen forest broke.
Hills and cliffs stopped short and lunged down toward a crashing sea. The sky stretched beyond, gray and pink with sunset.
Breathless, exhausted, Shard keened in pure joy and dove, tucking his wings to glide and roll along the faces of the foreign cliffs. Confused gulls scattered and scolded him. Waves crawled onto the broad, sandy beach before the battered rock abutting the sandstone cliffs. Juniper trees clung stubbornly to the shoreline, roots mixing with mountain and salt water.
Without thinking, Shard snapped his wings out and soared over the water. The scent of fish clouded the air. He searched for only a few moments to find a school, dive, gulp down a fish, and dive again.
After a moment he remembered that he’d left Hikaru behind.
Blinking saltwater from his eyes with chagrin, Shard spun in the air. Water flew from his wings in silver drops that turned gold in the light of the dying sun. A fat fish wriggled in his talons. He could have eaten three more, but this one was for Hikaru.
The black dragonet sat on the shore, his forepaws in the sand just where the littlest waves would roll over his front toes. His tail was coiled around his haunches, his wings open against his back, but drooping, his head dipped down to stare at the water. Shard raced back to him and thumped in the sand, laughing as he offered the fish.
“Hikaru, eat!” Shard sank his talons into wet sand and the feel of it brought a rush of bittersweet memories of his home.
Hikaru swung his head and stared at the fish, blinking. Shard realized the young dragon hadn’t been studying the water, he was simply so exhausted that he couldn’t raise his head. Then his jaws snapped out to gulp down the fish in one bite.
Shard made a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry. I should have let you rest. You’ll feel better if you eat.”
Hikaru smacked his jaws together, tasting fresh fish for the first time, then turned his gaze toward the setting sun. His soft, deer-like ears perked. “The sea,” he whispered. “I wanted to reach the sea. I know you missed it.” His talons flexed against the sand. “The sea. Sand. Water. The sun.” He dipped his head low, but his gaze lifted to the clouds of pale pink and marigold, feathered across the pale blue horizon. Shard listened quietly as Hikaru reviewed, leading himself to sleep. His wings trembled.
“Let’s go up shore,” Shard murmured, leaning into Hikaru’s shoulder. “The tide will be in by dark.”
“Tide?” Hikaru murmured, absorbing everything as fast as he could.
He has to learn enough to keep up with his size, Shard thought wryly. So Shard explained the tides and the moon as they walked up the beach to one of the cliffs, and climbed it to curl up in the shelter of a squatting juniper grove. Hikaru coiled around Shard, creating a warm, black nest of his scaled body. His enormous eyes barely blinked as he stared at the sunset. Every word from their travels was quietly reviewed as Shard let himself be lulled by the dragon’s voice.
“Earthfire…flight. Fear. Ash. Forests…” He yawned, jaws stretching and snapping shut. “Brother,” he mumbled, resting his head on the ground, eyes closing. The words rolled on and on and finally the last, always the last. “Shard.”
“Rest well.” Shard turned his face to the setting sun, and closed his eyes to breathe in the rich smell of the ocean. With that scent came a desperate longing for the Silver Isles, the crowdi
ng thoughts of the family and friends he’d left behind, and the resolve to do whatever he must to finish his growing quest and return home.
~ 8 ~
A Cold Welcome
SNOW BLINDED CAJ AS he dragged himself across the frozen peat fields of Crow Wing. Named for its shape from above, the isle actually had very few crows that Caj had seen. Rather, the scent of wild horses wafted with every breath, and their round, sliced tracks stamped the snow in every direction. The packed snow made for slick walking, but it was easier than wading through chest-high drifts, so against his better judgment, he followed the horse trails.
His wing ached. His muscles protested in sharp twitches and melted snow soaked the fine feathers of his face. He needed the warm down and long winter feathers of a Vanir for this kind of expedition—but he didn’t have that. Only his will. Only his need to find and redeem his brother.
“Sverin!” He ducked his head against a blast of wind that rattled his core. Snow stung like tiny stones. He thought of Sigrun and Thyra, cuddled up in their family den to wait out the blizzard.
Curse you, Sverin. Or curse me.
But he’d found the red feathers. His first day exploring the open, nearly featureless isle, and he’d found feathers near a pile of snow-covered boulders, where his once-king had obviously found shelter. To his relief, he’d found no green feathers—though perhaps Halvden knew to carry his away to avoid being tracked, if he’d dropped any at all. If so, Caj reasoned, he would’ve picked up Sverin’s as well. Or not. He could never tell if he gave the arrogant young warrior too much credit, or too little. A spasm shot through his wing.
Too little, he though ruefully. A growl built in his throat as he shoved forward against the wind and snow. The next rush of wind drew the breath from him in a gasp.
Time to shelter out the storm.
Caj paused, waiting for the wind to calm before he peered around. A gray mass stood out in the dimness of the snow, and he trudged toward it. Rock, tree, giant drift—it didn’t truly matter, as long as it blocked the wind.
The scent assaulted him in the same instant he realized what the shape was.
“All winds,” he breathed, staggering forward, ears lifted. At the top of a short rise, the mangled remains of a pony yearling marred the snow. Its short, fluffy mane ruffled with every shift of the wind, giving it the illusion of life. Caj climbed the rise and looked down at the carcass. Normally his appetite gnawed at the sight of a kill, but not since the vow. He and the others had vowed, before Ragna, Tyr, and each other, to take no more red meat from the land of the Silver Isles, unless it was for special reason with the wolves’ blessing, and unless they properly honored the animal they killed. There were only two who had not taken that vow.
Caj opened his good wing, his stomach roiling not in hunger but an eerie nausea he’d never felt before at the sight of a dead creature of prey.
Did this young hoof beast have a name? Awareness? Fear?
Surely, fear. Long talon marks slashing the hide gave no doubt as to the breed of killer, and Caj knew of only one who would hunt on the Crow Wing Isle.
“Oh, my king,” he murmured. If Sverin was still mad, still Nameless, of course he would be hunting on land. Of course he would have no awareness that their sun had set, the tide turned on the Aesir and what was once the only acceptable hunting was now forbidden by conscience and by law. The creatures of the Silver Isles already hated them. Caj feared what more damage this might do.
A strange drumming, a warm, thundering sound lifted his hackles. Yes, the yearling had a name—and a family.
Slowly Caj turned, his good wing still open but in a gesture that he hoped looked peaceful, as a dark line of horses pounded toward him through the storm. His instinct roared at him to ramp up, to flare, to challenge, to intimidate the ground-pounding foe.
Try my ways, Sigrun had asked of him after he took the vow. Try our ways. I have tried yours. There can be balance yet.
The indistinct line became individual beasts, flashing all different colors—gray, dun, red, splashes of black and spots, all coats shaggy and soft for winter. They broke into two lines and drummed in opposing rings around Caj, trumpeting challenges, tossing their heads. Their eyes rolled to reveal white rings when they caught a whiff of the blood of their fallen yearling.
Caj realized he looked challenging, not welcoming, and closed his wing. For a moment he stood very still, only breathing, noting with relief that their warlike dance at least blocked the wind from him for a few moments. They spoke a different tongue, a guttural, whickering, whistling language. Caj closed his eyes, listening to the throbbing of their hooves on the packed, frozen earth.
Then he bellowed from the earthy part of his heart, in a language he knew they would hear. “I come here peacefully!” He crouched back, lifting his talons to show they were clean. “I didn’t kill this young one!”
A mare nickered her disbelief, and all of their anger washed over Caj in waves. He shuddered, mantling his good wing as if he could block it. “Hear me! I seek out the one who did this, to bring him to justice.”
“Lies!” screamed a plump, spotted mare, whose coat matched the dead colt at his feet. “You killed my son! Poacher, thief, blasphemy under the eye of Tor!”
Caj lunged aside as the hysterical mare broke the ring and charged him. He whirled, ready to dodge again, but she shied at the sight of her own dead son, then her knees buckled and she bowed before the carcass, whinnying grief toward the earth.
“I will find the one who did this,” Caj said, raising his voice again over the thunder of the hoof beats. “If you can tell me if you’ve seen him. Him, with feathers like blood, or a younger, with feathers like spring grass—”
“No.” Another broke from the ring, a tall, well-muscled stallion that Caj judged to be middle years for a hoof beast. At his word, the horses began to slow, and turned inward, forming a dangerous wall of hooves and teeth. He tossed his pale head. “You are not welcome here. Not welcome to hunt, not welcome to walk, to fly, or to speak.” He stamped a hoof.
Caj curled his talons against the snow, savoring the feel of them breaking through the frozen pack.
A mare, older and the color of mountain stone, joined the stallion. To her, all the others bowed their heads.
So, Caj did too.
Her voice sounded like wind in a pine bough, high and breathy. “The Red Scourge has done enough here and on every other isle. You are not welcome.”
“I am friend to the Vanir,” Caj began, and the mare flipped her forelock out of her eyes in what he could only think was an expression of disdain.
“The Vanir are weak for allowing you here, and they are not welcome either. I will grant you this chance to leave and to never return.”
“Honorable…friends. I…” He swallowed hard against a lifetime of knowing a certain way of things, and a lifetime of pride. “Allow me to search this island. I’ll rid you of the…the Red Scourge. I am friend to Vanir, and to you. To the Silver Isles. I am Caj, son-of-Cai. Honor me with your name.”
“So humble!” trumpeted the mare, and her male consort nickered. A rustle of stamps and tail flicks indicated the herd’s agreement. Black, large, cold eyes focused on him, a ring of contempt. “So humble, when you cannot fly—yes, I see the mud cast on your wing. I hear from the birds that the son of Lapu would have killed you, if not for the mercy of wolves. So humble, when you have nowhere to run, Caj, son-of-Cai. So humble, when you have no friends.”
“I wouldn’t run from you.” Anger ate away at his calm. He smothered it. What did I expect? They would fall to my feet and make peace? At least he had tried. Perhaps he should’ve brought Sigrun after all. But these hard-headed beasts didn’t seem to hold the Vanir in high regard, either.
“A proud and bragging poacher from the Sun Isle,” said the mare. “If you will not leave, and you will not run, then you will die fighting. We don’t need your help ridding our isle of the Red Scourge. We don’t fear him, and we don’t fear you.”
She ramped, hooves flashing, and three half grown stallions whinnied their approval, broke from the ring, and charged Caj.
“I offered friendship!” he bellowed. “I offered peace!”
“We refuse,” shouted one of the half-growns, surging into a hard gallop. Caj judged distance, the horse’s height, and if he could make the leap and take his throat.
He crouched, muscles tight and ready, tensed—then thought of Sigrun’s face if she heard he’d killed an island horse.
With a grunt he rolled aside as the stallion trampled past. The second stallion, dusty gray, pivoted and charged Caj’s new position. The lead mare encouraged them, promising them glory and honor for a lifetime if they killed an Aesir conqueror.
Caj held his ground, breath short, and when the gray’s hooves touched down close enough, he shoved himself straight up, wings closed. He slapped a forefoot against the gray’s back, talons flat to leave no injury, his hind paws hit and he launched himself off the horse’s back toward the third attacker.
That one had less stomach for a full-grown gryfon warrior flying at him, broken wing or no. He shied away and instead of landing on a running horse’s back, Caj hit the snow and rolled. He groaned as pain shot up three different ways across his wing. No time for that. He spun and flung out his good wing, hissing warning at the three young stallions, who minced uncertainly, tails whisking, heads bobbing in challenge.
“I thought you wanted to kill an Aesir today!” Caj slashed his tail through the air. At his back and all around, the double ring of the giant herd hit their hooves against the snow to encourage the stallions. “Well? Shall we have words, instead?”
For a moment, Caj thought they were ready to speak, thought they acknowledged that he could have killed the young male horse, and hadn’t.
Then the wind stirred the scent of the dead colt.