by Jess E. Owen
To Shard’s right sat Stigr, Valdis, Brynja, Ketil, and the she-eagles Hildr and Grunna, who spoke for the Brightwing aerie, the strongest and largest of the eagle clans. Next to them stood two painted wolves, Ilesh and his mate, their rangy, spotted coats exotic in the morning light, their dark faces shadowed and enigmatic.
Mbari the lion chief lounged with Ajia, and from the corner of Shard’s eye their crests of feathers made him think of gryfons. The lioness caught him looking, and held his gaze before lifting her eyes briefly. Shard looked up, heart thudding as if he might see wyrms there. But vultures circled, curious at this gathering of enemies, hopeful, perhaps. Beyond them, silver clouds feathered a pearly sky, not yet blue with morning.
May we rise higher, Shard thought, closing his eyes, though the voice in his mind sounded more like Ajia than his own.
Kjorn’s deep voice gathered his attention. “Welcome, friends, allies, warriors.” Low murmurs answered him. All watched, ears lifting, heads tilting to regard him. Lofgar was looking away toward the canyon.
Subtly, Shard touched his wing to Kjorn’s. If he felt it, the big gryfon didn’t respond, but continued. “As all of you know, our scouts have found no trace of the wyrms in the Outlands. It is my . . . it is our belief they have left these lands.”
“Truly,” Hildr the she-eagle exclaimed, opening her broad wings to look larger amongst all the large creatures, “we put the fear of bright Tyr into their hearts at the Battle of Torches. We should have known that when they fled, it was forever!”
Kjorn dipped his head to her. Shard noted disgruntled looks on some of the Aesir faces—the Lakelanders, Queen Esla herself. He realized they still couldn’t understand half of what Hildr said. He had grown so used to listening deeply to understand creatures other than gryfons, he’d forgotten not everyone listened so. Nervous, he glanced around for signs of understanding, even as Kjorn spoke.
“Yes,” Kjorn agreed. With a look around, he seemed to note what Shard had, and repeated what she’d said. “It seems we did, and they have fled. And now—”
“Now, we’re better off without a battle,” said Hel, and Shard remembered that she had called herself a coward. “If any of you can’t see that, you’re bigger fools than I thought. Though we could have told you the wyrms were gone.”
“Then why didn’t you?” asked Lofgar, glaring.
“They wanted to see us all fly out here for nothing so they could laugh,” muttered the female beside him. Hel crouched back, narrowing her eyes.
“I would expect an exile to come running at the promise of a meal,” snipped Valdis from beside Stigr. The black gryfon eyed her reproachfully, for he had been an exile from his own pride, and not out of opportunism. She flattened her ears and looked away as she appeared to realize her sharp tongue would not aide Kjorn’s cause.
“I am disappointed,” rumbled Mbari, though the lion chief didn’t stand. His tufted tail dusted the ground, and he watched Kjorn with hooded eyes. “Very disappointed indeed that this battle did not come. We would have sung of it for many generations.”
“But,” added Ajia, eyeing Mbari sternly, “we do not believe you deceived us, Prince Kjorn. As healer and singer of my pride, I am glad not to see battle. I will say it, and proudly. In my dreams you raised the Sunwind, but now a new wind is blowing. I hope it will lift your wings higher, beyond war.”
Kjorn inclined his head to her, and was about to speak, but Lofgar barked, “What are they saying? Tell them to stop grumbling like savages and speak properly. Tell those eagles to quit chittering.”
“Tell him,” Hildr rasped, a warning look in her eyes, “he may not understand us, but we understand him.”
Mbari stood, and his full height and girth was nearly a match for Lofgar. “Yes, tell him we understand his disrespect all too well.”
“Gibberish.” Lofgar watched the big lion stand, looking smug. “Maybe it’s the soft muzzle that does it . . .”
Mbari bared his long, shining fangs. “Tell him he will not find my muzzle soft, if he does not shut what remains of his beak.”
“Lofgar,” Kjorn warned.
“Why is he here?” growled Ilesh, suddenly, the painted chief’s round ears laying back. “He has no wish for harmony in these lands, only fighting. Many times we tried to speak to the gryfons of the lake, but they do not hear. I will not speak to those who cannot hear.”
“What’s he saying?” grumbled Lofgar.
“I’m beginning to agree with you,” Stigr muttered to the painted wolf, who made a low noise.
Lofgar raised his wings. “Listen, you—”
Nilsine made a sound of disdain to cut him off, tail ticking back and forth. “If you would listen properly . . .”
Lofgar’s attention whipped to the smaller Vanhar, and he broke the ring, stepping forward in threat. “Don’t preach at me, fishmonger. Your kind are so soft-hearted and cold it’s a wonder you don’t melt in a hot summer win—”
To Shard’s surprise, it was Rok who lunged first, smashing into the wider Lakelander with a vicious snarl. Asvander’s father Asrik, and the female beside him leaped to Lofgar’s aide. Mbari darted in with a delighted snarl, claws flashing, even as Shard and Kjorn rushed forward, shouting for all to calm down.
Shard whirled about, opening his wings when he heard others following. He stopped Stigr, Valdis, Hildr, Grunna, and Asvander all from diving into the fray. “No!” When the painted wolves trotted forward, Shard snapped his beak. “Ilesh, stay here!”
Behind Shard, he heard snarling, lashing wings and snapping beaks, and Kjorn’s voice, demanding that all of them stand down.
When the gryfons and other creatures before Shard halted, he whirled and grabbed the cool end of a burning branch, leaped over the fire and joined Kjorn, slashing the fire in warning at the tangled knot of gryfons and lions fighting.
Cries of alarm and flailing wings and paws ended with Rok and Mbari scrambling back, Ajia slipping to Shard’s side, and Kjorn lunging in to shove Lofgar back and out of the circle of leaders. Asrik and the female Lakelander shrank back from Kjorn’s fury.
With a snarl, Lofgar swiped at Kjorn, and the gold gryfon bellowed a roar and broke into an eagle screech, leaping so fast and unexpectedly even Shard stared. He knocked Lofgar to the ground and, using his momentum, shoved the Lakelander through the dirt to the edge of the canyon and pinned him there, locking talons over his throat.
“You will leave this meeting. I need honorable warriors who know when to fight, and when not, who don’t insult and pick quarrels with my allies. You are dismissed.”
Lofgar grunted, wings splayed, and eyed the canyon below him. If Kjorn shoved him, he would have little time to correct and would likely end up dashed on the rocks below. “You can’t—”
“I am.”
The wispy clouds above had burned off, and light came over them, shining on Kjorn’s bright feathers, lighting the faces of all who stared. Kjorn raised his head and Shard watched, setting his brand back in the fire.
Swiveling, but still holding the Lakelander down, Kjorn declared to the gathering, “Know this! We came here for a war, but that war has already been won. I thought, truly, that the wyrms remained, that we had a battle still to fight. I tried to trick none of you, I came in good faith as you did. Now we fall back into old enmity, old disputes.”
Clenching his talons against a protest from Lofgar, he continued, tail lashing, wings lifting. “I see a gathering of creatures bold and willing, ready to fight and to die for our land, our families. But are we willing to do anything else? Are we willing not to fight? I thought my challenge here was the great enemy, the wyrms. But I see it is not. I see clearly now that my challenge . . . our challenge on this day, my friends, is not war.”
His gaze raked the staring eyes and found Shard, locking hard on him. Shard lifted his head in encouragement.
Kjorn, his voice strong, his eyes lit with the understanding of what Shard had tried to tell him all along, said, “It is peace.”
> ~36~
The Silver Dragon
THE DENSE PINE FOREST OF Star Island should have surrounded Ragna like an old friend, but it had grown alien by time and distance. The scent of resin and green needles reminded her of younger days, adventures with Sigrun, Baldr, and Stigr, and filled her heart with longing.
But she couldn’t afford to long for younger days just then. She stalked through the forest, every feather on end, hissing Sverin’s name. She had pursued him and the dragon through the rain all the way to Star Isle, watched the horrible creature flying, then slowing down, bellowing rage.
Then, for apparently no reason at all, the monster had retreated. The last Ragna saw of her, she was roaring for her horde and flying nightward in a weary, lurching way.
Reptiles, she thought grimly, entering a clearing still patched with snow where the shadows of the trees kept the ground cold. Perhaps, like true lizards, the beasts would have been slowed by the freezing rain and the icy Silver Isles night. With any luck at all, they would be too sluggish to move for awhile, recovering from the cold and whatever long flight they had made over the sea.
Ragna knew she should have checked in, told the pride she was alive, found out who all had been lost, but a more pressing duty urged her to hunt through the forest.
“Sverin!” Ragna hissed, perking her ears. The clearing stood silent. Not even the birds sang as the sun rose and glittered trails across the snow. All the islands seemed shocked by the arrival of the marauding dragons.
Ragna thought grimly of Sigrun and how she would be worrying, but her worst fear was that Sverin had been scared Nameless again, that he would once again plague the islands with his thoughtless killing and terror.
Although, compared to the monsters, Ragna supposed Sverin was about as dangerous as a snow bunting.
She risked raising her voice, not sure where the wyrms were sheltered, when they would stir, or how well they could hear. “Son of Per!”
Surely he would’ve remained on the island. He was hesitant enough to fly before, and now that they knew the monsters flew in the day time, she doubted he would open his wings at all.
The crunch of talons in snow sent Ragna whipping around, heart soaring to her throat, wings flinging open. Not realizing how terrified she’d been that the wyrms might appear any moment, it was strange to feel calm and relief flood her at the sight of Sverin, slinking toward her from the cool morning shadows.
“What are you doing here?” he rasped.
Ragna eyed his wings, unbound and half-furled over his back like a shield to ward off attack from above. She had never seen him on the Star Isle, and he looked strange and more out-of-place than ever in the dense pine trees.
“Looking for you. Or was my calling your name confusing?”
“Where are they?” he growled. Ragna, eyeing the sky, slipped out of the clearing to join him in the trees. Her heart still trotted in her chest like panicked deer.
“I don’t know. If they’re smart, they would’ve flown to Pebble’s Throw for the warmth.” The idea occurred to her as she said it, and scant relief slowed her blood. Yes, they would’ve followed any currents of heat toward the lava flows . . .
Ragna blinked, looking at Sverin’s open wings, and with sharp amazement remembered him snapping the chains. “You,” she breathed, glaring at him. “You could have done that any time. Those chains never held you.”
For a moment he didn’t speak, and she feared for his mind. At last, the great scarlet wings folded, with neat precision, and he raised his head to a formal angle. “I told you,” he said quietly, “I wish to see my son again.”
Ragna simply looked at him, feeling foolish, feeling patronized. “You did it for show.”
“I did it for you, yes,” he said. “For you, and for Thyra. To show them I acknowledge you both as queens.”
“We don’t need . . .” She stopped. They did need his acknowledgement, she and Thyra and even Kjorn, or the old Aesir would not follow them, despite all Sverin had done. Now, by allowing himself to be imprisoned, he had still done what was needed to give the pride what small scrap of stability he could.
For whatever it’s worth, now, she thought bitterly.
“Thank you,” she said, knowing her voice sounded too cool, and not caring.
“You came for me?” His voice was quiet again, his eyes on the jagged slivers of sky between the trees.
“Of course I did.” Ragna lifted her head, sniffing warily, ears flicking, and heard nothing. It was more eerie than calming. “What would we do if you were flying about Nameless and these creatures were terrorizing the islands?”
He looked down, his gold eyes spearing her like a talon on a fish. “I don’t think I will fall Nameless again.”
Ragna wasn’t so sure, but she wasn’t going to argue with him. “Let’s go. We must return to the pride, we must go underground.”
Crimson ears ticked back uncertainly. “Underground?”
“Yes. Where we hid before, when . . .” When you killed Einarr and threatened the rest of us with exile or death. She met his eyes, said it all in her silence, and he looked away. Ragna realized she didn’t quite know where there was an entrance to the underground labyrinth on the Star Isle, but she didn’t want Sverin to see her uncertainty.
Turning, she boldly walked into the open field and strode across, not looking back. After a couple of heartbeats, she heard Sverin follow.
They re-entered the chilly cover of trees on the other side of the meadow, and Ragna kept her eyes sharp for holes in the ground, and scents of gryfons or wolves. Not a bird or a small creature moved in the brush. It was as if the islands were deserted, afraid to release a breath or a sound.
The flick of a shadow in the corner of her eye made Ragna pause mid-step, talons raised. She squinted, sniffing slowly.
“Do you understand, now?” Sverin asked quietly.
Ragna loosed a harsh breath, flicking her ears forward, away from him. The faint smell of wolf drifted to her, but in the cold she couldn’t tell how fresh it was.
“I understand why you wanted to take your son away, but not everything after. Not the Conquering. I will never understand that.”
He fell silent again. If he had hoped for more understanding or reassurance from her, she had none to give.
Then, he spoke her very worst fear. “If Rashard flew to the Winderost, you must know that he probably met these monsters.”
“I know,” Ragna said tightly. An icicle of fear twisted through her chest.
“You must be prepared. Both of us must be prepared.” His voice was like iron—cold, hard, yet with a heady strength. “If our sons—”
“Shard lives.” A voice drifted from the trees, a female voice Ragna knew, but it was not a gryfon.
Sverin’s hackle feathers prickled, and he and Ragna turned to behold a pack of wolves approaching through the trees. Relief swelled over Ragna at the interruption. They had kept Sverin from speaking a horrible possibility—instead, Catori said what Ragna most needed to hear.
Ahanu, the young wolf king, led them, but beside him walked Catori, and it was she who had spoken. Behind her walked Tocho. The rest of the adult pack halted, then milled, behind them.
Ahanu stopped, lock-legged, when he saw Sverin.
The sight of the red War King in his forest laid back the young wolf’s ears, raised his lip to a snarl to show yellow fangs. The wind stirred the feathers braided into his shaggy coat, and they flicked together, gray and gold. Signs of friendship and trust.
Sverin’s gaze drifted to the blue feather Tocho wore, then settled on the gold feather at Ahanu’s neck. No one spoke.
Catori caught Ragna’s gaze, dipped her head. “We heard the terrible battle. We saw the creatures. We checked the tunnels and found your pride there. Caj told us that you led the largest of them away, and I promised Sigrun I would hunt for you. Tocho told Caj he would hunt for you, son of Per,” she said softly. “And he chose to remain with Thyra.”
A grating growl
rolled from Ahanu’s chest. Catori nosed his cheek. “Brother. We left our war and our hatred on Black Rock this winter.”
“He was not with us on Black Rock.”
Sverin stepped forward, toward the wolf king, whose forests he had poached for ten years, whose brothers and sisters he’d sent gryfons to kill, and whose father had died by Sverin’s own talons.
The pack shifted behind Ahanu and Catori, and Ragna held her breath.
Sverin opened his flight-feathers, and Ragna tensed, but the War King splayed his blood-red wings low, and mantled before the king of Star Island.
As he had with every Vanir who stood before him and listed his sins, he lifted his eyes to Ahanu’s and said, low but clear, “Forgive me.”
Ahanu tossed his head as if struggling to release himself from the yoke of his anger, from the growl locked in his throat. His sister pressed to him with a low, comforting sound. As a mother, Ragna almost longed to go to him and wrap him in her wings. But it would not do. Instead, she gazed at Sverin, unbelieving.
“We have a common threat, now,” Ahanu said at last, shaking himself hard. “We will stand with the gryfons of the Sun Isle, for we also have a common hope, for peace, I think. I see Tyr’s light in you now, Per’s son, if not Tor’s. I see you have changed. I see all that, and still my heart hurts for all that has passed.”
“Know that mine does too, Helaku’s son.”
Shock slid down Ragna’s backbone to realize that he understood the wolves, and she wondered when he had started truly listening. She wondered if it was when Kjorn had left, or during his imprisonment, or perhaps when Vidar had forgiven him. He caught her stare, and tilted one ear in acknowledgement of her surprise, but gave no explanation. Perhaps even he didn’t have one.
Ahanu saw that he understood as well, and to hear his father’s name seemed to pull a shadow from him. Ragna saw him remember that his father had also been lost to anger and hatred, nearly Nameless by the end. His amber eyes pierced, then lightened. He looked from Ragna to Sverin and slowly lowered his tail. With his pack surrounding him, the wolf king managed a stiff dip of his head. “Then let us have an understanding at last.”