“North Wolf,” she said sadly. “That is what they call you, isn’t it? It is not you I will have my children eat.”
The dragons let out a torrent of green fire in ferocious unison, their fiery breath lighting the dark sky with the intensity of their power.
Let us be done with this parlay, for we have flown long across the waters of the dark sea and still have a hunger that must be satisfied.
They opened their mouths, displaying row after row of sharp, yellowed teeth. Then, slowly and tauntingly, they turned their heads to Soma and reached out their forked, black tongues to lick at the bound man.
“Yasen?” Soma asked, his body quivering. “Yasen! Help me, please.” With that, a trickle of urine soaked the front of his pants and ran down into the dirt.
“Soma!” Yasen said, bile threatening to rise beyond the boundaries of his churning stomach. “Wait! Please!”
Nogcwren watched with familiar delight, for this was not the first strong man she had watched beg her for her gift.
The jaws of the twin dragons opened wider, and he could see, even from where he stood, the evil fire that grew in their foul bodies. “Wait! Wait … I’ll take your gift. Spare him, and I will take your gift.”
The twin dragons smiled ominously and closed their jaws so that they might make way for their Queen.
Yasen reached down and took the patch that Keily had made him, holding it in his hand, a last token of a love he was sure he would forfeit in the light of this sorcery.
“He is not taking it before me!” Seig shouted in wounded defiance. “I am the governor of this colony, and I will be first to bend my knee and take your gift, my Queen … not some dog of a woodcutter.”
“Gentlemen,” she cooed in mock exasperation. “I have light enough for all of Aiénor. But very well, Governor, I suppose your time has come. I will let you set the example for your men.”
He brushed the dirt off of his large, black tunic, then settled his collar so as to make himself presentable for such a moment. “Thank you, my Queen.”
Come and kneel, Seig. Receive your Queen’s gift.
The dragons spoke the command in unison, and Seig kneeled before the mighty serpents, bowing his head in exaggerated reverence.
A blast of green fire issued forth from the nostrils of the dragons, enveloping the wide-eyed governor in a cloud of green flame. His men flinched at the sight of it, but when no screams were heard, and no smells of burning flesh could be smelled, they let out a collective sigh of relief.
Seig rose to his feet once the cloud had dissipated. His eyes had turned green like the surrounding hoard. He held his hands aloft, examining them almost as if for the very first time.
“Amazing!” he shouted. “Truly amazing! I can see!”
“And you, woodcutter,” she directed.
Soma met Yasen’s gaze. He watched the North Wolf place his eye patch on his wounded and bruised face, covering his left eye with the small token of Keily’s love. Then Yasen silently walked the fifteen paces forward to where the dragons stood waiting.
“No, Yasen … wait,” Soma protested.
“It’s alright, Soma,” Yasen said sadly. “I am so tired, so very tired of all of this.”
Yasen knelt without fanfare, though he kept his head held high.
“Your gift, woodcutter,” the Raven Queen whispered as she gestured to her dragons. A torrent of vile magic erupted once again and washed over the bloodied body of the woodcutter.
“Yasen, I am sorry!” Soma muttered.
The fog dissipated and the North Wolf bowed his head, holding his face in his hands. It was a long, uncomfortable moment before he rose to his feet and examined his hands, much in the same way that Seig had done.
“I can see,” he said as he looked into the face of his friend. “I am alright, and soon you will be, too.”
Soma looked at him, his expression wrinkled with questions.
“Wait a minute!” Pyrrhus blurted out. “His eye… why is it not colored like the Governor’s? Like those of your army?” His voice was wary with suspicion and hatred for the woodcutter.
“Willingness,” she said with a flit of her rune-covered hand. “I’ve seen it a hundred times. The more willing the subject, the more evident their blessing. However … willing or otherwise … my gift has made his will subject to my own.”
Pyrrhus nodded his understanding as she continued.
“His eyes will turn soon enough.” She laughed a satisfied laugh as she thought on the many whose strength and kingdoms had now become her own. “The more reluctant the man, the more ruthless they seem to become.”
“My Queen,” Yasen said, turning to meet her gaze. “I have held up my end of the bargain. Set him free.”
She looked at Yasen for a moment before a smile crept across her face. “Abaddon, Angrah … free the woodcutter.”
And in an instant, the dragons lashed forth and buried their yellowed fangs into the body of Soma, tearing him into two ragged pieces. Yasen watched in horror as they gobbled and swallowed his friend without so much as a second thought.
He wanted to scream in protest, but he knew that he no longer could.
Chapter Twenty
The water fell quickly upon Cal and Astyræ, though it was but a fraction of the strength of the Falls of Ammon. They passed with only a light soaking of their cloaks, and as they wiped the water from their eyes and swept the plastered hair from their vision, what they beheld captivated them in a way they could not have begun to imagine.
“Not a step farther!” came a commanding voice from the van of a group of guards. “Not one more step if you value your life.”
“Please,” Cal said as he held his empty hands out before them. “Tell me where we are … tell me we have found it at last!” He took an impulsive step closer, despite the guard’s threats.
“This is your last warning, stranger.” A man stood before him in a deep blue tunic and bright, brilliantly adorned armor. He motioned towards the score of bow strings that were drawn taut, pointing at Cal and Astyræ.
“I’m sorry!” Cal said, working to bridle his elation and pay the guard his due respect. “I mean you no harm, forgive me. But please … you must tell me the name of this place.”
“I am Sendoa, keeper of the Pass of Kemen. You are now at the mercy of the Lord of the Amaian realm,” he said, his authority unwavering. “You, unwelcomed strangers, might do well to mind your place before you begin demanding answers.”
“He didn’t mean anything by it … we don’t wish any offense, my Lord keeper,” Astyræ said humbly. “We have been searching long for you, is all … and we are just so happy to be here.”
Sendoa studied her, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her violet and amber flecked eyes as he proceeded to place restraining irons on both her and Cal’s wrists.
Cal allowed his gaze to wander to the line of the majestic mountains that hemmed in this hidden city of splendor. Spiraling towers made of stone, many arched windows on granite battlements, and a mightily fortified wall with but one small gate were just the beginnings of the ornately sculpted, stone works that flooded his sight.
“Tell me this, strangers,” Sendoa brought his attention back to the moment. “What kind of strangers travel with the ghosts of beauty’s long-dead offspring?” He forcefully held out a small birdcage taken from the nearby rookery with an azure-winged Sprite captive within.
“Deryn!” Cal shouted. “Are you alright?” The intoxication of their discovery was finally surrendering to the sobriety of the moment.
“I’m fine, Cal,” Deryn said calmly, “other than suffering from the smell of the messenger bird who inhabited this cage before me. Just tell him your story.”
“That is my friend,” Cal said, wary of the many pointed arrows aimed at him and his friends. “His name is Deryn, Sentinel of the house of Iolanthe who is Queen of the Sprites.” Cal answered him with a measure of his own authority. “I ask that you please let him free from that cage. We are not yo
ur enemies, not in the least.”
“And you? Who are you two?” Sendoa pressed. “Why would we presume to take orders from you, stranger?”
The groomsman spoke humbly. “My name is Cal. I am just a groomsman from Haven, the once-shining city from across the Dark Sea. And this … this is Astyræ, daughter of Dardanos. Her father, Aius, was once the king of that place, or so I am told.” Cal bowed slightly to the tall man before him. “Please, Lord keeper, we mean you no harm. We have been sent on a quest to find your people. Please tell me … is this … Shaimira?”
Sendoa tried to mask the surprise on his face at the secret word. He stared into Cal’s eyes for a moment longer as he surveyed the strange assembly before him. The legend of Aius’ daughter had not been hidden from the ears of the Amaians, for some of the Dardanians had wandered far enough north, bedraggled by sorrow and road-weariness, and had come into the keeping of the Lord of the hidden city.
He shook his head. “You had best be ready to give account for where it was that you heard that word, groomsman of Haven.” Slowly, he lowered his white leather gloved hand, signaling to his guardians to lower their bows. “In all my years as keeper of the pass, I have never seen a company quite like yours.”
Cal and Astyræ both breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, never in my wildest of fantasies would I have imagined a boy from Westriver would find himself on the Wreath.”
The keeper nodded, his countenance softening ever so slightly, though he still kept one hand upon the hilt of his sheathed blade. “I will suffer you entrance through the pass, though it will be with little hospitality until the lord of the hidden realm grants favor upon you.”
“Will you take us to meet your lord, then?” Cal asked hopefully.
“Yes, I will take you,” Sendoa agreed. “Though I will ask for your weapons until favor has been permitted.”
Cal’s bright and hopeful face fell at the idea of relinquishing Gwarwyn to this stranger.
“It will be alright, Cal,” Deryn said wisely. “This will not be the first time you have been a stranger in a strange land, and I do not believe it will be your last either.”
Cal reached to unbuckle the white leather scabbard, but before he did, he spoke with an authority beyond his station or his age. “Before I give you, a stranger to me and this ancient blade, keep of so mighty a weapon, you must confirm to me the name of this hidden realm.”
Sendoa raised an eyebrow. It was plain to see that these travelers were no rabble from the Greywood seeking shelter and handout, nor were they spies of the Sorceress. It seemed that both doom and magic were woven about their fellowship. He looked to examine the strange, flowering hilt of the white-sheathed blade.
“Were I to speak to you the name of this sacred place, our home, you would be bound, welcome or not, to its laws,” Sendoa said gravely, rubbing his greying, neatly trimmed beard with his gloved hand. “Though if my gut tells me true, your strange arrival here has already bound us to you.”
Cal took a deep breath. “Very well, then. This is Gwarwyn, and its silver-mooned sister is Arianrhod, both born of the mind and the craft of Blodeuwedd, the ancient Sprite Armorist.” Cal wrapped the leather thongs of the scabbard around itself and beckoned Astyræ for the bow and quiver. “They were gifts from the THREE who is SEVEN to us. Do not dishonor the Giver with negligence.”
Sendoa removed his helmet, whose sculpted rams’ horns peaked at the comb and came together to encircle the head of its wearer in fierce, silvery elegance. He bowed his head in respect to these out-of-the-ordinary strangers before he spoke.
“Garaile will see to their well-keeping, and I will accompany you myself to the heart of our city.” He signaled Garaile, his second-in-command, who came with an open, reverent hand and took the weapons as they were offered. The keeper turned and faced the gate guards at the wall, signaling with the high-pitched twill of a small wooden flute.
The sound of metal and gears straining let out an ominous rumble.
“But you did not-” Cal started to protest.
“Welcome, strange travelers,” Sendoa interrupted him. “To … Shaimira.”
They stood in silence for a moment as the truth of his words washed over them.
“I told you we would find it,” Astyræ whispered as she elbowed him playfully.
“You told me, huh?” he said with a deep, satisfied smile.
The line of guardians moved into column formation with Cal, Astyræ and their horses at the center, hemmed in as they marched beneath the only entrance to the hidden city.
Farran was sounding worse and worse with each passing step. His uneven gate and wheezing breath were giving Cal more and more unease. Although they had finally passed through Shaimira’s lone gate, they still had far to walk.
Beyond the battlements there lay an open field before them with row after row of vegetation, farms and fields, and small streams of waters. The surrounding borders at the foothills of the enormously high Itxaro Mountains were covered with great forests of all kinds of trees. The road before them was paved in shining, granite stone, and along its way were high lamps lit with fragrant oils.
“In the name of the THREE who is SEVEN,” Cal prayed under his breath as he patted the flank of his wounded friend. “I had hoped for a stronghold, a band of brothers, maybe even a tribe or two of woodsmen or something,” he told Astyræ. “But this … never in all my days did I imagine such a place beyond the walls of Haven.”
Tears flowed from Astyræ’s eyes, both hopeful and sad. “It reminds me of my home too, groomsman.”
The city of Shaimira sprung forth from the center of the encircled valley. Mansions and spired stables were surrounded by flowing fountains of crystal-clear waters; it seemed there were too many to count. At the heart of the hidden realm, a mighty, spiraled tower loomed over the open city before them. Astyræ gasped as she pointed at it, compelled by its sheer size and grandeur.
Sendoa spoke. “Kelila, we call it. A symbol of victory over the cruelty of the Raven Queen.”
Cal and Astyræ nodded solemnly.
As they passed along the roadway, a pair of massive, sculpted chariots flanked either side of the passage. Teams of armored horses, frozen and carved in stone, held these monuments of power in sedentary battle.
“You are passing the Oroitz Guardia, the pride of our long-forgotten home,” Sendoa said with a tilted bow to his head. The wheels alone were the height of three, maybe four men, and the chariots and riders dwarfed the passersby with their enormity.
“These statues remind us of who we once were … and who we have been saved to become,” he told them. “Our pride was once in the open field, and our chariots were many, but this,” he gestured to the encircled city before them, “is no place for chariots. Our strength has become the mountain itself. And the mightiest on the mountain is the ram, not the horse.”
“Chariots?” Cal said aloud. “Yes … we passed over a bridge days ago, with carvings of chariots, that must have been of your people.”
“That is impossible,” Sendoa said as he escorted them through the grid of the city. “My people abandoned our city over a hundred years ago.”
“I am sure of it,” Cal said excitedly. “The work looks very similar, though it was carved upon red stone not the granite you use here.”
Sendoa smiled, his eyes betraying his growing kindness towards these strangers. “Thank the Giver of Light, then! Perhaps her cruelties have not devoured all of our ancient efforts.”
As they walked into the city, thousands of people peeked out from windows and over garden hedges. They gathered in the squares and the markets and turned their attention to the parade of guardians and these new strangers. Children chased after each other, laughing and playing more freely than Astyræ had ever seen of any child. “This place,“ she tried to put into words, “I’ve … I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
The pace of their marching had echoed in rhythm together since the mouth of the tunnel, but the sound of something ou
t of place stole Cal’s wonder and hijacked it with worry. He tore his eyes from the majesty of it all and turned to look at Farran, whose eyes were turning a pale, spoiled color, and whose mouth had begun to froth and foam. His hooves clumped awkwardly and unsurely upon the paved roadway.
Cal reached up to steady his friend. “Astyræ!” he shouted. “Astyræ, help me! It’s Farran … something is wrong.”
Cal stopped in the midst of the procession, not sure what else to do. He took Farran’s head in his hands and spoke in a soothing voice. “Hang on now, boy. We are here! We made it! I’m sure they will help us now. Please, hang on!”
Farran swayed unsteadily, and Cal fought against the seasick motion of the mighty courser, willing him to stay upright and sure-footed. “Help me, please!” he begged, but the horse could no longer hold himself upright. Farran’s knees buckled, and in a painfully ungraceful manner, he collapsed to the road in a heap.
“Farran!” Cal shouted, and threw himself down to comfort his friend. Farran sighed an exhausted, congested, bubbling sigh. “Come on, stay with me,” he cooed to his friend. “Help him, please!” he shouted to the guardians of the realm. “He was wounded, poisoned by some green-eyed, damned beast of the Sorceress! Please! He needs medicine!”
The column of guardians had halted their parade, and Sendoa watched the wounded horse and its worried rider with true pity in his eyes, though his mind was still wary of some unlooked-for treachery of the Raven Queen.
“Please, I need medicine!” Cal said as he stroked the mane of the fallen horse. “A healer, somebody, anyone who could help him.”
The keeper knelt down and looked into the sickened eyes of the horse. What he saw there did not give him cause for hope.
“Luken,” Sendoa called out to the young man at the end of the column. “Send for Aysa, the healer, and have him see to the wounded animal. Tell him what you know, what the groomsman here has told us, and be quick about it.”
The young guardian bowed with a tilt to his head. “Right away, sir,” he replied. Wasting no time, he took off through the streets toward the house of the healer.
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 16