by Jess E. Owen
He was silent, laying there like a large, red stone, his gaze searching.
“Caj said you asked to see me.” Her tail ticked, back and forth, her talons flexed on the cold rock floor.
“Yes.”
Slowly, and ominously, Sverin pushed to his feet. He seemed taller to her, impossible in the cave, as if he wouldn’t have fit coming in. A trick of the light, the smoke in the air, her own nerves.
“You once told me that you admired the way I love my son.”
“I do.” She worked not to hold her breath, not to back away or flare her wings. She didn’t understand what he wanted from her. “I always will.”
“Now, he battles an enemy that I should have defeated in my youth, not fled from and caused a generation of misery.”
“Sverin,” she said, “speak plainly, and quickly, in this dark hour, I beg you.”
He lifted his wings a little, and they caught the faint light, stirred the smoke. “My son has exiled me from the Dawn Spire. I will not live the remainder of my life as a prideless rogue, and so, I ask to serve you. Let me live at the edge of your pride, as you lived at the edge of mine, but let me live, and serve.”
Ragna stared at him.
Then she laughed.
It was all she could manage. The bitter, hard sound cascaded up and down the rock, and Ragna barely managed to keep from flinging at him with beak and talon in a wash of angry disbelief. “You’re mocking me.”
“You saw me bow to Shard. I was not mocking him. I’m not mocking you now. Let me serve. And more, I ask your blessing to go to battle.”
“Battle.”
“Yes.” He spread his wings, and from tip to tip they nearly filled the cavern. He looked like the king he had never, ever been. “What good am I if, in these hours, I cannot practice my single, admirable quality for my queen? Let me go to battle, and protect my son.”
The tightness of regret, of anger, and of something else closed her throat for a moment. He watched her face, and for the first time since she had known him, the severity in his eyes was not cold, but hot, like the sun.
“You have my blessing,” she said, very softly. She didn’t remind him that he had fled the last time he had seen the wyrms. She saw something new and fierce shining through him. She saw love, and she thought it might be enough to help him remember who he was when he faced the wyrms.
Or, at the very least, who he wished to be.
“Sverin,” she said quietly. “I think, if we had met in another time . . . we might have been friends.”
“Oh, if.” His expression quirked. He mantled, then folded his great wings, and turned toward the exit tunnel. Ragna moved to follow and he stopped, swiveling his head to see her. “Where are you going?”
She growled low. “I have fled from a fight too many times in my life. I won’t do it again. I too will fight this battle.”
He watched her, sizing her up, looking as if he might object, and she waited for him to remember he had just pledged to serve her. “If there comes a choice,” he said, his voice so low and gravelly she barely heard, “in the battle, of who to help, I will choose Kjorn.”
“As it should be,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I have always chosen Shard.”
Behind them, a cry pierced the cave, another of the gryfesses to begin labor. Sverin’s gaze flickered, hardened.
Battle-born, Ragna thought, though she disagreed with Sigrun that they would be ill-fated. They will be stronger, she decided, as if she could decide. All their kits will be stronger than their parents, as we were stronger than ours, committed to peace because they were born in war. They will be better than us all.
For a moment they stood in the half darkness of the cavern, looking at each other, not saying more, then when another cry echoed their way, Sverin turned to the tunnel, and Ragna followed him up into the dark.
~47~
Fire over the Sea
CLAWING AT HIS DREAM-PRISON, Shard battered at Rhydda with images of pity, with pleading, and with apology. He should not have reminded her of the wyrm’s horrible death in the Winderost. She remained obstinate, spiteful, and silent.
Then, after a stretch of time Shard could not perceive, something flicked at the edge of her awareness.
Something real, something outside of their shared dream.
Shard—also Rhydda—lumbered about, waking, lifting herself from warm black lava stone to stare windward, toward the most massive isle where she knew the gryfons dwelled.
She had been waiting for something, waiting for her brood to return from . . .
Horror chilled Shard’s blood when he perceived what she’d hidden from him earlier. Her brood had gone to the Sun Isle. They were hunting. Digging. Digging out Shard’s pride.
Confused at the darkness through which they stared, Shard realized night had fallen. He’d spent his whole afternoon dreaming with her, trapped, useless.
The sun had set.
His own body was nearly frozen to the earth. Still he dreamed with Rhydda as if they were one creature, but she was awake now. She was awake. Something distracted her from Shard, and she forgot about him, and her prison of hate and fear crumbled away.
When she looked windward toward the Sun Isle, Shard saw what she saw.
Stars floated toward them.
Golden stars, waving, bobbing, glittering in the gusty dark. A cluster of stars twinkled toward Rhydda and the lava isle, and she raised up, staring.
Then she roared, flinging open her massive wings, and Shard was shocked from his communion with her, flung back across the sea channels to his own body and awareness.
He woke, sucking in a sharp breath. His muscles locked as he wrenched to his feet and breath fogged the dark, freezing air. He smelled wet frost, night.
Rhydda had left his mind, or he’d left hers. But he already knew what he needed to know.
“Curse it, Kjorn!” He surged forward, nearly falling on his face when his muscles seized and cramped. He had to fly. He had to get to Pebble’s Throw, but already he feared he would be too late.
Shard, watching through her eyes, knew what she saw approaching, and it wasn’t stars.
It was fire.
Damp, cold wind battered Shard’s face and shivered across his back. He soared high and fast, cutting across the sea route starward of the Sun Isle, past the other islands toward Pebble’s Throw.
Distantly, flickering gold stars matched what Rhydda had seen when he dreamed with her.
Torches.
“Kjorn!” he bellowed, though he was ridiculously far, too far for the prince to hear him.
They hadn’t even discussed it. Kjorn hadn’t even asked his wishes, and these were his islands. Maybe Kjorn’s pride had overcome him, and he wanted the opportunity to have his glorious battle, to redeem whatever he thought he’d lost when the wyrms left the Winderost. Shard didn’t know, and didn’t care.
Live by war, and you will die by war, he thought grimly.
And now Kjorn kindled war in the Silver Isles.
Again.
Shard couldn’t believe it. He pumped his wings, his chest straining, swearing into the night. He wished to glowing Tor that Stigr was with him, that his best allies Ahanu and Catori and the rest of the wolves could come to his aide. But they kept vigil on the Star Isle, some on the Sun Isle near the gryfons, and they could do no good against the wyrms at Pebble’s Throw.
Shard was alone.
Then . . .
“Wingbrother!”
He checked behind to see Hikaru speeding toward him, his silver scales washed in starlight. The wind flicked his mane like silver flame. Shard thought he looked like the Silver Wind incarnate, and called to him gratefully. “Hikaru! What’s happening? Why is Kjorn flying to Pebble’s Throw?”
Hikaru shot through the air until he flew even with Shard, breathless with dismay. “I’m sorry, Shard, I was too slow to tell you. I was helping them drive off the wyrms. They attacked, Shard. You have to know that. They were digging at the tunnels. Kjo
rn thought he didn’t have a choice. Catori ran to tell you, but I’m guessing she was too slow?”
“She was,” Shard growled, though he didn’t blame Catori. Someone should have flown. Someone should have risked flying, or run faster, or done something to tell him what was happening.
“He had no choice,” Hikaru said, his voice almost a whimper, as if he couldn’t bear knowing that Shard might be angry with Kjorn again.
Aching moments passed as they flew, as hard and as fast as they physically could, and Pebble’s Throw felt no closer.
Shouting and roars began to echo distantly to them over the choppy black water. Screams. Wyrm roars shattered the peaceful Silver Isles night.
Torches sparked ahead. Kjorn appeared to be using the same strategy as he had in the Winderost. Surprise, flame, and pure bravado. As if the wyrms wouldn’t have learned from that. But maybe Kjorn hoped to drive them off with a show of pure strength and courage.
Or maybe, his pride and anger burned hot from the dragon’s blessing, and he didn’t care about anything but his battle. Shard believed Hikaru, but he also remembered Kjorn’s regret that he hadn’t gotten to fight the wyrms once and for all. And he couldn’t help thinking that desire, partly, had driven him to battle.
Familiar voices clashed with wyrm roars. Shard sought Rhydda in the dark, though he was still too far to make out individual wyrms or gryfons. He only saw wings, torches, flashing spade tails.
As he drew nearer, he discerned the gryfons in their formations.
Trios of gryfons, lined up in wedges of twelve, circled and drove with stunning precision at their chosen targets. The wyrms scattered and flew in wild disarray, lashing at the gryfons while fumbling farther from Pebble’s Throw toward the ocean channel.
With a grudging spark of admiration, he saw that Kjorn’s strategy was to drive the wyrms away from the warm lava of Pebble’s Throw, out over the cold and windy sea channels where they might grow too cold and weary to fly.
However, it didn’t seem as if the plan was working, for the monsters appeared to whip around in almost gleeful disorder, refusing to be herded by the force of gryfons. The one thing they appeared to be doing effectively, as far as Shard could tell, was keep any gryfon from breaking loose to confront Rhydda, who circled high above.
Shard heard Asvander, Nilsine, and Rok, shouting orders over the wyrm roars. Emerald wings shot by his field of vision—Halvden, leading a screaming mass of Aesir to aid the gryfons whose formations were scattered.
To his dismay, Shard also heard Frar. Vidar. Ketil. His Vanir, maybe hoping to atone for failing against the Aesir conquerors once, had chosen to go to battle.
“Shard!” Hikaru pointed silver claws. “I see Brynja! We have to help!”
Shard followed his pointing claws in time to see a black wyrm surprise Brynja’s triad from above. It dove, slashing the air, knocking one gryfon from the sky and his torch into the sea. Before Shard had time to react, he heard fierce shouting and saw Nilsine driving her own triad to batter at the wyrm and give Brynja time to recover.
Brynja and the other gryfess, a Vanir who’d flown with them from the Silver Isles, broke off and sped toward Asvander’s main force.
A heady roar stopped Shard from flying to her. He knew that roar. The other wyrms heeded it, redirecting their flights as if listening to whom they should attack. Shard watched them split away from the triads of gryfons to regroup.
Rhydda gave her brood their only sense of order. Rhydda was their queen. It was Rhydda who must be stopped.
Shard winged a circle around his dragon brother, who watched the battle desperately, unsure of what to do. “Hikaru, go to them. We have to stop Rhydda. I have to stop Rhydda. It’s the only way. If you can distract the other wyrms, maybe I can reach her.”
Hikaru looked at him with huge eyes orange in the torchlight, then flung himself toward the fray. His musical, metallic roar at least got the attention of the wyrms, and they scattered in shrieking surprise.
Ragged gryfon cheers rose and the gryfons regrouped with Hikaru at their head.
Above it all, Rhydda circled, and boomed another angry roar.
A quick, hot fury blazed to life in Shard’s chest and gave him new energy. Everything, everything he had flown for the last year was to seek peace, and it had come to this after all.
Shard dove forward, seeking hotter drafts to give his weary wings lift. The warm thermals of Pebble’s Throw swelled under his wings and he wheeled tightly, higher and higher, fighting his strained muscles and his short breath.
But then he saw that one gryfon had already slipped the notice of the screaming brood below.
One gryfon soared high and silent toward the she-wyrm, and the reflection of torches below made him look like a lancing bolt of gold.
~48~
The Dragon Blessed
KJORN’S TRIAD, MADE UP of Vald and Rok, formed the head of a spear that managed to force at least one wyrm out to sea.
Halvden’s group noticed their success and joined Kjorn, managing to drive and force the shrieking monster down, down into the merciless waves. Once it fell, it could not fly out, but thrashed, bawling with horrible cries until its strength gave out and it sank.
Halvden bellowed in triumph, and others raised their voices high. Kjorn tried to join as he winged back toward the fray, but it seemed such a small win.
One wyrm. One drowned. And the rest grew angrier for it. It was like wrangling eels with his talons, or trying to grasp water.
Stupid, stupid strategy. If only we’d had more surprise!
They’d at least driven the digging wyrms away from the Sun Isle. While half the forces refreshed their torches, the rest harried the wyrms starward, back toward Pebble’s Throw, until they fought over Kjorn’s chosen ground. The sea channel.
He had a hunch, and now his guess was confirmed—the cold weakened them, and they could not swim.
But it was little help so late in the battle, with gryfons falling left and right around him.
“Halvden! Spread the word! The water is their weakness!”
“Yes, sire!” Halvden sped off toward the main knot of fighting, trying to order and inspire the others to redouble their efforts.
“Rok,” Kjorn said, for the former rogue flew close by, waiting on his orders. The torch he carried flickered blue, close to guttering—the windy, damp air challenging all the fire they had left.
“My lord.” He watched Kjorn steadily. This gryfon, this lanky, mouthy rogue had pledged his loyalty and his life to Kjorn. He owed it to Rok and every other gryfon in the sky not to fail them, not to lose this battle he’d started.
“Help Halvden. If it becomes necessary, call a retreat. We’ve done what we hoped to, we drew them away from the tunnels for now.”
Rok eyed him suspiciously. “Why am I calling retreats, and not you?”
“Because—”
A bright, metallic roar cut him off, and silver shot past Kjorn’s amazed eyes and the wind of great wings buffeted his feathers. The dragon Hikaru had rejoined the battle. Asvander and other gryfons raised a cheer. Certainly he looked impressive, but he was no longer than the largest of the wyrms, and then, more delicately built. Kjorn feared for him, feared even this boost would not help win them the day.
“Because,” Kjorn growled, his gaze darting high. “I’m going to cut the head off this monster.”
“Let me come,” Rok said. “You can’t do it alone.”
“No. Too many of us, and they’ll stop us again. I have a chance to slip through now.”
Every attempt to fly at the she-wyrm that Shard called Rhydda had ended with a knot of wyrms flying at them, driving them away. But if Kjorn slipped out of the battle now, while Hikaru distracted them, there was a chance.
Rok stared at him. “Sire—”
“I have the strength of dragon’s blood,” Kjorn said, telling himself it was true. “I will end her. And if I don’t return, tell Thyra—”
“Tell her yourself,” Rok snar
led. “You will return. Or you’re not the king I thought you were.” He tucked a wing and dove to fulfill Kjorn’s orders, and Kjorn was briefly alone in the sky.
He spied Rok, speeding toward Hikaru, and with satisfaction saw the dragon change his strategy from mere attack to a dazzling, spiraling display of flight meant to confuse and distract the wyrms.
Every time they dipped in to try catching him, the silver dragon slipped around and away, like water, like fire. It reminded Kjorn of Shard’s duel with Asvander. It was a perfect distraction.
With a soft snarl, Kjorn turned and flew at Rhydda.
He would offer no roar, no challenge. He had just a single chance at surprise and a single, deadly blow.
As he beat his wings against the lukewarm air, he remained below and behind her, just out of her line of sight as she watched the battle. The smaller wyrms took no notice of him, too absorbed with Hikaru and the masses of gryfons who rallied to the dragon’s side.
Kjorn angled himself to stay even with Rhydda’s tail while she circled, staying out of her line of sight. In fighting the wyrms, he hadn’t seen any obvious weak points in their leathery hides or their horned, armored heads.
He would take a guess, a desperate guess that her throat, like other reptiles, was flexible and soft.
As she banked to continue her wide circle and observe the fighting, Kjorn shoved with three quiet, powerful wing beats to fly directly under her belly. She did not see him. His head nearly brushed the massive fore-claws that hung relaxed below her chest.
Her horned head swung back and forth, surveying the battle, as if she hunted. She didn’t notice him.
With a beat of his wings he was even with the underside of her neck, every muscle tense and every feather working to keep even and coordinated and silent.
Kjorn spied the paler, loose skin of her throat, flexing as she drew great gusts of air. He gathered his courage and timed his wing beats with hers. Then, he plunged forward along her underside, his wings flashing in the torchlight.
In that instant, she heard, or smelled, or saw him, and jerked her head in surprise. Kjorn hurtled under her neck and flipped upside down around to latch talons, beak, and hind-claws onto her throat.