Dendreth considered this. Transporting the heavy stones in a concerted effort meant an organizing entity drove the dragons—the beasts did not possess intelligence above the most rudimentary animal. A force unknown to Dendreth had to have taken control of the dragons. But what could it be? The Wrathful? The shade High King Nialls had borne witness to in the Rosemere? Another entity still unseen? Dendreth’s thoughts swirled with the possibilities. But what the force was did not matter; what mattered was discovering what kind of harm with which the dragons could attack the Kingdom.
“We must go where the stones are being taken,” the Pontifex said to Sion.
The Feyr stood stoic, his lavender eyes steady. “Yes.”
Sion had found a purpose since arriving on Falkind, no more locked up in a stuffy room or out on a boat where his skills were not used. He would follow Dendreth because of their growing friendship, but also because of the Feyr’s own affinity for doing something constructive.
“We cannot offer you much help, I am afraid,” Brunckal stated apologetically. “We have barely enough to hold ourselves together and can't risk trampling a countryside overrun with those horrendous beasts.”
Dendreth nodded, expecting this. “I misjudged the dragons on our first venture into the Highland. I will not do so again.”
“And your power will protect you?” the Arklinn leader looked perplexed.
“It can, for small amounts of time anyway. The All Father protects those who ask it.”
Brunckal gave Dendreth a look that expressed quite clearly he did not believe it.
“It will be dangerous,” Sion added. “Finding our way will not be easy, but if I scout far enough ahead I should be able to eliminate being caught by surprise again.”
“I can help,” Janniva broke in.
“Janniva!” Brunckal scorned, his concern for the girl making him angry. “We’ve talked about this. They nearly killed you last time!”
She stood and stared down upon the overweight man, her liquid brown eyes shining in the torchlight. “I know, but it was only the one time.”
“And one of these times it will be your last,” he responded, exasperated. Whereas Janniva saw the Arklinn leader trying to control her, Dendreth saw the leader protecting the interests of their future.
“Brunckal has the right of it,” Dendreth nodded. “We are the outsiders; we can make our own way, child. The All Father will provide for any help we need.”
The girl gave Dendreth an icy look of betrayal.
“Can you supply us with the lay of the land, Brunckal?” Dendreth asked.
“You honestly plan to do this, sir, don’t you?” he questioned. “Travel into the north where the beasts are thickest?”
“We have to,” Dendreth said as he gingerly rose from the mattress. “The Kingdom—and all of her subjects—may depend on it.”
* * * * *
While mist crawled over the island cliffs and shrouded the waves below, Dendreth, Sion, Captain Moris Tiril, and the rest of the Warden moved from the cave's protection onto the side of the cliffs and into the early morning. The day was gray and damp, and the smell of fish and brine invigorated him. He had spent too much time in smoky quarters of the cave. Below him white shadows swooped through the grayness of the surf; seagulls, become quiet, scavenged for a meal while the weather cloaked them from death.
As Dendreth gained the heights and said his farewell to Brunckal, he wondered how the High King and the boy Sorin fared; he wondered if what he was doing would make a difference if the others failed. As usual, “ifs” outweighed reality.
With their horses’ demise the journey would have to be done on foot. Before they had left the safety of the cave, the leader of the Warden had questioned Dendreth as to the need to be put in harm’s way once more.
“It is essential to discover why the dragons are here, Tiril,” Dendreth had said. “With Sion scouting ahead, we can ascertain any danger to the Kingdom.”
“I see,” Tiril had said brusquely, leaving to bolster his men’s courage, keeping his true feelings hidden.
They now moved along the coast, avoiding the inner part of the island where the dragons presumably still resided. The Highlands were above them, a plateau of vast reaches, but the western side of the island was rockier, with a crumbling mountain range and few open meadows for the dragons to hunt. Far to the north, Dendreth recalled that two mountains named the Spears punctured the sky, but they were invisible in the foggy conditions; later in the day, with strong enough sunshine and enough distance covered by the company, the massive peaks would be visible, perhaps holding the answers Dendreth sought.
Sion led the companions at point, his Feyr senses more acute than those of the Kingdom men, and he moved westward, keeping the southern seas in sight. The day warmed, the morning fog burning away to pale blue skies. The group took a brisk pace, keeping to the rocks as much as possible, Sion returning periodically to show them the way. The Warden kept a nervous eye on the northern skies, as if a beast would descend any moment. None came.
By early afternoon, jagged boulders had replaced the velvet grass carpet so pronounced on the western island, the tiny trails littering the countryside disappearing as the sheep who were now gone had rarely entered the rocky terrain. Small trees grew in stunted relief against the sky. The company stopped for a quick lunch, but while the others focused their attention on the north, Dendreth looked south.
Puffy clouds ambled across the blue pasture of the sky, but beyond them a bank of thunderheads sped eastward. It was a large storm, one that would drench the Kingdom. The Pontifex rose and stretched his loosening muscles. The storm he watched ventured to the Kingdom, but Dendreth was not allowed that course. Not yet, anyway.
His mind wandered back to his pressing concern. The dragons. What were they doing?
As the day wore on and the group’s journey covered rockier hills and worse footing, they came upon a slow-moving rill, its waters tumbling down through the countryside to the ocean. Sion had stopped there, unmoving.
“What is it?” Captain Moris asked.
A wind from the far distant storm pushed at the Feyr’s gossamer white hair, and the barest and briefest smile crossed his angular face as he pointed ahead.
Janniva stood waiting, leaning up against the skinny trunk of a tree with her arms crossed, her dark eyes inky and roguish.
“The wiles of childhood.” Dendreth suppressed a grin. “I should have known better.”
“Yes, you should have,” she said, brightening.
Dendreth shook his head, mostly out of annoyance. “If there is no stopping you from this, I will accept your aid. But I feel it is important to speak true that when we are done with this business I will not be taking you with me to the Kingdom. You will remain here. In the meantime, Sion will use your knowledge, and you both will guide us.”
Janniva turned to Sion, conflicting emotions shining in her eyes, before she disappeared from view with her new tracker leading the way.
Late in the afternoon, as the sun was swallowed by the southern storm clouds on their way westward, Sion and Janniva escorted the group into a deep bowl scooped out of the rock where an enormous lake shimmered in the fading light. They were making their way down toward it carefully, the shale of the path broken, when Dendreth grew light-headed and stumbled upon the path, the world sagging around him as though melting.
“Are you okay, Pontifex Charl?” One of the Warden reached out to steady him.
Faintness stole over Dendreth, his eyes blackening at their edges. It was like he had been suddenly plunged in ice water, his body shocked and his connection to the world severed. The Pontifex shook it off, gulping deep breaths, and quickly felt better again. He looked around, his vision returning to normal, the colors of the world sharpening once more. The world appeared as it had been, but he was suddenly weak, like any wellspring of youth he had left had dried up in an instant.
Before Dendreth had time to ponder this, he was stumbling along the edge of the lake, its black d
epths spreading from a pebbled beach. A steep rim cupped the northern part of the lake in a formidable crescent. Silence suffocated the bowl, and the water was still like ice.
Janniva was pointing in front of him. “On the other side of the lake, a path is cut into the side of the hills that cuts back and forth into the higher mountains. Farther north, the mountains climb into the Highlands and above them. If we stay to the heights and avoid the plains of the Highlands, we should stay safe from the dragons.”
Sion was leading them around the side of the lake when an ear-piercing scream sounded above, chilling Dendreth’s blood. The company looked up in unison, fear etched in their faces.
A dragon, its wings spread, clutched the stone of the rim and roared. It was scrawny, but still strong, intent on those who had stumbled across its path, its spikes and sharp angles held in relief against the sky.
In response to the company’s fear and astonishment, the blue-green beast leapt into the air, tucked its wings in, and dove, screaming its intent.
The Warden had pulled their weapons and were already pushing the group flat against the jagged rock wall of the rim. Janniva had tucked herself into a crevice, fear twisting her youthful face. There was nowhere for them to go; they were trapped, no route of escape feasible, no caves to offer them protection or solace.
Frustration mounting inside of him, Dendreth sang, the lyrics dead in his mouth. He prayed for the same type of wind he had called days earlier, to slam the creature against the rock face it descended along and ultimately throw its momentum—and its broken, mortally wounded body—into the lake.
The soncrist finished, Dendreth waited with great anticipation. Nothing happened.
The dragon’s mass plummeted toward the group unhindered, and just as it appeared its bulk would crush them, the beast threw out its leather wings and careened away from the wall toward the lake. One of the Warden went screaming with it, clutched in the dragon’s talons. In a smooth motion belying his speed, Sion pulled his bow, and arrows leapt from his practiced hand toward the beast. But the dragon ate undeterred, ripping the man’s armor forcibly from his body to get at the tender flesh beneath, the sound of the man’s screams suddenly replaced by the snapping and cracking of bones. The dragon’s feverish gaze never left those it would soon come after next.
With Janniva pulling manically at his cloak, Dendreth sang with burning authority, the words again coming easily but still having no effect. Panic seized him. Two thoughts shot like lightning through his mind almost simultaneously.
Sorin had failed. The All Father was no longer at his calling.
Dendreth had led these men to their doom.
Having consumed the first man, the creature blew a gust of fire at them in challenge, the heat melting the rocks of the bowl floor but falling just short of the group. The beast came forward, its talons curved and long, its jaws agape with rows of teeth, its weight a thunder spraying loose rocks everywhere. Tiril shouted orders to those who remained, sending his men out into a circle to try take its attention away from the Pontifex. Singly, they stood a better chance than lumped in a group where a lone gout of the dragon’s flame would kill them all.
Dendreth scanned the surroundings. No escape offered them freedom; not the lake or the open hills beyond it leading to the ocean; not the path at the far end of the crescent leading into the mountainous climes, not the cliff face they were backed against. There was nowhere to hide. The old Pontifex knew the men would put up a good fight, but they were too few and their deaths were assured.
“Sing, Pontifex!” Tiril screamed.
“I tried,” Dendreth answered back, his new weaknes threatening to bring him to his knees. “It won’t answer my call.”
The girth of the animal was in front of them, choosing which man to destroy first, when it screamed suddenly, more hurt than angry, with oddly feathered arrows sprouting from its bluish hide in dozens of places at once.
The beast shrieked at the cliffs. Dendreth followed its line of sight and shook his head in disbelief.
Above and around him, protected by rocks, were nearly three-dozen Feyr warriors loosening in quick succession a menagerie of bolts into the creature. Taken by surprise and in pain, seemingly overwhelmed by the numbers of Sion’s race, the dragon roared once more in anger as it backed away. It quickly lost both eyes to arrows. Fire shot out over Dendreth’s head and swept the bowl, the creature maddened into a frenzy, but the flames had little effect. The dragon bled from a multitude of wounds, its blood darkening its leathery hide to crimson.
While the dragon floundered beneath the assault and backed toward the lake, half of the Feyr guard filtered down from the cliffs with speed and agility, their swords drawn and spears held at the ready. They descended on the dragon like death, cold and calculating. The dragon flailed about, looking for an escape that was not there. With precision unmatched by even the Warden of the Kingdom, the Feyr surrounded and distracted the beast as one Feyr prepared to dart in for the kill. The dragon turned and exposed his neck, and in a silver arc of motion the Feyr’s sword met the dragon’s jugular.
The nimble Feyr rolled away even as blood spurted forth.
The others of his kind backed away then, awaiting the inevitable.
Gurgling its final breath before collapsing half in the lake, the dragon became still.
Once it was dead, a Feyr with deep lines around his eyes approached, his hair dyed a vibrant green like forest foliage. The Kingdom men lowered their weapons, amazed. Only Sion remained ready—his sword now unsheathed as though there were another foe to fight.
The newcomers quickly moved in on the Kingdom Warden and surrounded the group as if the momentousness of their killing the dragon was suddenly meaningless. A sweat broke out on Dendreth’s skin; he had a flashback of standing on a pier in darkness as dozens of white-skinned Feyr swarmed over the docks to trap him against the rhythmic, black lapping waves of the ocean behind him, a book clutched to his chest. It felt like an eternity ago, but it was still poignant in his mind.
“I think our past has caught us,” Captain Moris whispered to Dendreth.
Confusion swirled, but even before the Feyr began to forcibly take the Kingdom men’s weapons, Dendreth knew with an aching clarity what was happening.
“I am Royal Guard Commander Willory cha Bot, Pontifex Dendreth Charl,” the old Feyr said, his eyes hard and unyielding as they bored directly into Dendreth. He ignored everyone else. “With the authority of Ambassador Mikel and empowered by King Belinorn, I place you under arrest for murder and thievery against the Feyr people of the island nation of Westor.”
The Feyr turned to Sion. “And for you, Guardian of Westor, it is high treason.”
Dendreth barely had time to register the Commander’s accusation when the ground beneath their feet began to shake with a strength that sent men and Feyr alike to their knees.
An earthquake tore at Falkind Island.
Chapter 42
When the last few tremors shaking the mountain subsided and the world became stable once more, Sorin Westfall crawled through the ice and snow searching for Arianna. Snow buffeted him, and the frigid cold stabbed like knives with every breath. He could not see past his immediacy and only knew where the High King’s Shadow had been before Kieren used the Hammer to destroy the Rune of Aerilonoth. Sharp shards of stone and fragments of sappy wood littered the landscape. The blizzard continued unabated; the snow accumulated. Sorin moved through it all, alone, praying he had the strength to overcome the elements long enough to find Arianna and some form of protection from the storm.
All the while, a single litany accusingly repeated itself in his mind as he searched through the wreckage of the mountain.
He had failed.
He found her, still bound and gagged, shivering in the frigid cold despite her furs and clothing. She was awake and alert. With fingers going numb, Sorin tore at the knots of her bonds and freed her.
“We need to find shelter. Fast!” he screamed at her through
the howling wind.
She nodded, her cheeks reddened and chafed as she hugged herself for warmth.
Sorin was about to call Artiq when the snowflakes and wind disappeared entirely and peace returned around them. Dazed at the sudden change, Sorin looked up to see an enormous shadow step into their midst. Relnyn was an immutable presence but his eyes were warm and familiar. The blue glow of his staff emanated outward as if in protection and warded them from the storm. Although the air remained frigid, the absence of wind made it bearable.
In the Giant’s arms, Evelina rested and was surrounded by colorful blankets like a newborn baby. Relnyn knelt in the snow, maintaining the power of the staff while he cradled the old woman. She looked deathly ill and barely alive, her eyes darkly sunken and each breath a struggling wheeze.
“What’s wrong?” Sorin asked knowing the answer but afraid to concede it.
“I’m dying,” the old woman croaked, pointing down. “Lay me down, Relnyn.”
The Giant reluctantly laid Evelina down onto the icy white grass. She was decades older than when Sorin had last seen her, shrunken even in the blankets that surrounded her, the wrinkles of her face deep chasms. Her skin, so luminescent days earlier, was leathered and pocked with age spots and blue veins. The grey bun upon her head—once so proper and perfect—had been reduced to stray, straggly strands. Age had visited her harshly, but the light of her faith shown in her yellowed, watery eyes. She did not have long to live, and Sorin edged toward tears at the knowledge.
“How did this happen?” Sorin questioned.
“The destruction of the Rune,” the old woman said, her voice little more than a whisper. “It was the connection for Godwyn to the All Father, but there are those of us who have lived longer than normal. Our connection and faith upheld us, and now that link is gone, as is anything we have achieved over the centuries that is connected to the All Father. Even now I can feel the life withering inside of me, awaiting its final release to the Beyond.”
Eyes burning, Sorin looked away. “I failed.”
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