“We are if there is a—” Ker cut himself off.
The black wolf gazed between Mott and the human captain. “Did you plan this, Mott?” he growled.
Mott gave a long sigh as he turned back to face Ker and Gaiden. “I shouldn’t have to show you what is at the end of your nose, Ker. Gods, the truth is plain enough.”
Ker creased his lip; he seemed lost for words, maybe a bit foolish. Gaiden looked embarrassed.
The old Rukin smiled. “Well played, young Mott, though I fear the issue remains. We still need a leader; we are too many not to have a strong chain of command.”
It was the old Rukin’s turn to raise his chin, all but declaring himself. Ker sighed. Taking a deep breath, the black wolf looked ready to start the arguments again, however…
“I’m in charge,” Mott shouted, interrupting Ker, and loud enough for all in the clearing to hear. So loud, in fact, that Nacole thought half those in the valley would hear it, too.
Gaiden coughed a laugh. “You’re just a pup, boy; you know nothing of organisation.”
“I am Third, Gaiden. Toban is in Bailryn, Aleban is south, I am in charge. This is battle-brother business; you know the law.”
Gaiden opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. He looked around. The tall human soldier who had come with Mott shrugged, and the other Rukin raised their brows, but none spoke. Nacole didn’t know what Mott meant by “battle-brothers,” but whatever it was, it seemed to work.
Ker had a smile on his face. Nacole didn’t know why; half of Mott’s comments were directed at him, too. Maybe he liked seeing the old one put in his place. But that would mean Ker was in favour of Mott leading them, which was hard to believe. The old grey wolf was still thinking, trying to come up with a response to Mott’s declaration. But after a long moment, Gaiden sat down.
He might actually do it, Nacole thought. Mott might actually bring us together.
The tall man that had come with Mott took a step forward. “My name is Ishban,” he said to Ker. “With your permission, I would like to propose a committee, made of three Rukin and three Wildlings, to help oversee the running of this coalition. I think—”
“We are Broan, Ishban. Some call us ‘Wildlings’ and maybe we are, but those of us from southeast An’aird, those from river country, call themselves Broan Wolves.”
“My pardon,” the tall human said, bowing. “Then perhaps two Rukin, two Wildings, and two … Broan, if that pleases you, sir.”
The tall human cupped his hands and waited for an answer. These southerners were nothing like the Salrians; not only were they taller, and with a head full of hair – or at least most of them – they had good manners, too. Nacole didn’t think a Salrian would ever bow to a wolf, never mind call one sir.
Ker seemed to appreciate it. He nodded to Ishban. “Agreed, as long as I don’t have to be one of them. Maybe Nacole and Suresh could be our representatives; it sounds like female work.”
Nacole and Suresh – who had not long since arrived – growled. “What do you mean ‘female work’? We will stand on the line the same as you.”
For once, Nacole agreed with her. It was becoming a day for agreements, it seemed. And why was Ker giving her another job? She had expected him to jump at the chance to be in this committee.
Ker grinned, again. “We will decide who joins this committee later, for now; we should talk about who—”
A loud bang came from the east. It sounded like a sharp roll of thunder, only there were no clouds in the sky. Nacole, and almost every other wolf, flinched as the sound echoed around the valley. The humans’ horses stamped and jostled in their lines. Mott looked to the east; Nacole looked for her pups.
Captain Rarshman stood in his stirrups, trying, probably unsuccessfully, to see over the low ridge. “That came from Redgate.” The town was only a few miles away – less, if they went across country. The captain turned to his men. “Form up, back to the road.”
“Did you see anything?” Mott asked the captain.
“No, but that sounded like a hundred barrels of lamp oil exploding. It happened once, in Hallam – nearly took the docks with it.”
“We will follow,” Mott told him.
Why does he want to follow? Does he think…?
Then Nacole remembered. And no sooner did the thought occur to her, than a shadow filled the eastern sky. In fact, there were a number of shadows.
“Gods, are they dragons?” Ker whispered. “Under the trees! Get to the river! Run!”
Nacole fought against the flood of wolves running towards the river. She couldn’t move; her pups were sheltering under her; if she moved, they would be trampled for sure. Mott and the tall human pushed their way to her side. Ishban – she thought it was Ishban; though in all that fuss she couldn’t be sure – picked up all three of her pups and cradled them in his arms. The pups didn’t like it, and one snapped at his chin, but the tall man kept running.
“Come, we must get under the trees; we can’t stay out in the open,” the tall human said.
“Do you think they will attack?” Nacole asked.
Mott pushed his way through, waiting every few steps for her and Ishban to catch up. “I don’t know. It’s doubtful they will land, but…”
Before Mott could finish, Nacole heard shrill yelps and whining coming from the river. A bright plume of blue-green fire lit the eastern horizon. Long streaks of flame peppered the tree line, illuminating the bellies of the beasts who seemed to hang in the air as they rained fire on those below. The shrill sound of dying wolves faded as the sound of roaring dragons filled the sky. There were only three dragons, and two of them were nowhere near as large as she had expected – their bodies bigger than a tall horse, but not by much – and yet they were killing at will. There was nothing for the wolves to do but run.
Nacole made it under the trees in time to see Rarshman and his horsemen thundering past. The humans galloped in lines of four abreast, arrows at the ready. Rarshman gave the order and the first three ranks fired, immediately followed by the next three. Nacole watched as their arrows shattered against the beasts’ scales.
“Try for the wings,” Mott shouted, but none of the horsemen heard.
Rarshman circled around for another pass just as the dragons turned their attention on the horsemen. The blue-green flame engulfed at least fifty humans and horses. Men were screaming. Some ran their mounts straight into the river, trampling wolves as they went. Horses threw men from their saddles as the panicked animals ran in all directions. Rarshman attacked again, but the dragons were already leaving. It seemed the wolves were not their target, just a fortuitous extra for them to burn along their way.
Nacole watched the beasts climb into the air. One had an arrow stuck in the pit of its wing. The thing seemed to struggle, if only a little. At least they could be hurt. Dark smoke rose from the riverbank. A dozen trees were on fire, spreading an orange glow along the valley. Wolf and human alike walked in a dazed stupor around the central clearing. Others were frantically howling. The Voice was full of cries for help. Nacole looked down at her pups and then up at Ishban. “Thank you, I don’t… We would not have made it without your help.”
The tall human said nothing; he didn’t even nod. Eyes fixed on the scene, Nacole thought she could see a tear in his eye.
“How are we to fight that?” Ishban whispered.
* * *
It took three dragons less than two minutes, but two hours later the humans were still helping Mott and the others pull dead wolves from the river. And it wasn’t just wolves: twenty-eight humans had been laid in a straight row along the bank, their faces covered with their tabards. Another twelve were burned too badly to move. It was horrific. But as bad as it was, the wolves had suffered worse. Crushed into the valley, they were an easy target: nearly three hundred lay dead, with another hundred injured. All around, the air was full with the sounds of howling wolves and the scent of charred bodies. Rukin, Wildling, Broan; none had gone unscathed.
For the first time since meeting Dras, Mott doubted his conviction. He could think of no way for wolves to attack such an enemy. Was he leading them all to slaughter? He knew he wasn’t the only one to think it.
“They took us by surprise,” Rarshman said. “We’ll be ready next time.”
“So it has begun?” Nacole asked him. “Why would they attack? We are days from Bailryn.”
“Supplies,” Rarshman told her. “They obviously have intelligence on our movements. Redgate is our main eastern supply town; crippling that will have a grave effect on the capital. We will have to route goods and troops through Townhill, now that they have proven that Redgate is too close to the border. It will add a week to our supply lines.”
“So you think they are going to attack Bailryn within the week?” Mott asked him.
“I didn’t say that. But now you mention it, it would make sense. Either way, we should go south, travel along the Raithby and up through Hallam. It will be safer.”
“I don’t think we have time to play safe, Captain,” Mott said.
Ker, who had been passing, turned on the tall human. “You can run south if you wish; we are going straight: east all the way. Damned if we’re going to run anymore.”
The Voice was full of rage; even Mott could hear it. At that moment, he didn’t think anything would stop the Broan and Wildings from marching to the capital. As tragic as it was, the deaths of three hundred brothers had united the wolves in a way Mott could not have wished for a few hours earlier. Guilt bit at his gut for thinking such a thing, but even the Rukin seemed determined to march on regardless. Like it or not, the wolves were in this war until the end, no matter what the outcome.
CHAPTER 32
Dragon Wing
It was getting lighter; the cave mouth was perhaps two hundred paces away. Gialyn gazed at the dawn light as it filtered through the strange tooth-like pillars that filled the cave entrance. The chill morning air made the cavern pleasantly cool; he could hardly wait to get outside and feel the fresh air in his lungs again.
Considering what had just happened, the mood was oddly subdued. Olam had been walking quietly, still lost in his own thoughts. Ealian – or was he still Alacin? – was at Olam’s side. Arfael strode out front, as if he knew exactly where he was going, which he probably did – he hadn’t said much either, not to Gialyn at any rate. The three poachers, along with Bre’ach, were bringing up the rear, and Elspeth walked with Brea, a few paces behind Arfael. Gialyn walked a pace behind Elspeth, gazing at her heels, wondering what he could say to make her continue their talk and tell him who she was in love with.
Unfortunately, the two girls were happily chatting away as though they had been friends for years. Gialyn wasn’t sure he liked their sudden affability. He certainly didn’t like the fact Elspeth had latched onto the Oracle. Or was it Brea who had latched onto Elspeth? The Oracle was undoubtedly grateful that Elspeth had destroyed the Shard and saved Rek’s life. Elspeth, who Gialyn knew wasn’t the most approachable of girls, took the Oracle’s overfriendliness in her stride. She seemed to like the girl a great deal. That, or she was glad for the excuse not to talk to him.
“I like your bow,” Brea told her.
“Oh, thank you,” Elspeth said. “One of the Rukin gave it to me. It’s made for my height, apparently.”
Brea smiled back at her. “The grip is interesting. Is that bone?”
“No, I think it is grappala horn. He did say, but I was too busy, uh… doing something.”
Elspeth turned and looked directly at Gialyn. He could remember what she was doing; she was watching him throwing her knives at the archery target back when they first visited Illeas’den. Why wouldn’t she admit that?
“Horn?” Brea said, with what Gialyn thought was an exaggerated look of interest. She stroked the grip with her fingers as if testing the quality. “It’s very ornate for a bow. It matches your hair. You know what would really set it off – some ebony inlays along the limbs, and maybe a rose motif, or… or… perhaps a dragon. Hmm, yes, a dragon. Rek would like that.”
Brea patting the dragon’s neck, but Rek was too busy looking hungrily at Trapper to respond. Elspeth’s new pet would have to be careful where it walked.
It was getting ridiculous. For half an hour, the two of them had talked about clothes, interspersed with comments on how nice Arfael’s hair would look cut short; another twenty minutes debating the virtues of leather over satin, and now… what, ornamental bows? Gialyn was glad the two of them had only just met; they would still be in the Am’bieth Marsh if Brea had started the journey with them.
Ealian, or rather, Alacin, still held a thunderous expression; he had spent twenty minutes telling Arfael what a disaster it had been that Elspeth, and not the Cinnè’arth, had destroyed the Shard. He was probably being defensive; or feeling guilty, maybe, over trying to hold onto it. After all, if he had his way, both Arfael and the dragon would likely be dead now. Little wonder if he felt on the wrong side of everyone.
As for Arfael, Gialyn wasn’t sure he was glad about the way things had turned out, either. Arfael had said, quite plainly, Elspeth should have taken matters into her own hands, and instead, let him destroy the thing…
That was when Brea stopped swooning over him. “What, and let Rek die?” is all she had said. He hadn’t helped matters by saying it was for “the greater good.”
Apparently, Arfael could remember everything now; all the old battles, his home, the Kel’mai. He promised to tell everyone all about it, when they got back to Braylair. Olam, though, had insisted on asking him one question. When Arfael relented, the question Olam asked was most unusual – about someone called Gullien Hanta? Arfael nodded, saying something about a man called Be’olde, or Le’ode, whoever that was. It was obviously the right thing to say, because Olam had embraced his old friend, looking very happy indeed.
Gialyn thought Olam was testing him, checking he was the real Arfael. If that were the case, Gialyn could hardly blame him; this new man looked nothing like the old Arfael, apart from his eyes. The new Arfael looked… normal. No, that wasn’t right; there was nothing normal about him; he was ridiculously handsome and built like a hero from the old stories. No wonder Elspeth giggled and blushed every time he looked her way. Now, Arfael could blend in with the Surabhan; he certainly looked human enough. Maybe he’d choose to live in Bailryn? Gialyn didn’t think so; he could remember Arfael saying something about going home to visit his people.
The only other question Arfael answered was one from Brea. She had asked him if he could still change into the beast. Arfael had said yes. And what’s more, now he could alter his form when he wanted to, rather than being forced into it, or having to feel threatened before changing. As proof, he had run his hand along the tunnel wall, changing it into a huge claw as he went; then immediately changing it back again. Gialyn did not know if Brea was satisfied with the answer or not, but she did nod her head as though the answer he gave meant something to her.
The Salrians were quiet. Maybe they were worried about entering Aleras’moya, or perhaps the fact that there was no going back home through the tunnel. If they wanted to go home now, it would be a two or three week hike around the Karan, and half of that through Aleras. That could be a problem if they wanted to go alone. Maybe one of these friends of Brea’s might help; she said she was from a village not six hours away. Ha, not six hours! When did that seem like a short distance?
It would be good to see Brea’s village. As scary as the idea was, Gialyn found the dragons fascinating. Of all the things he had seen, they were the true wonder of Moyathair; and its greatest danger, so it seemed.
For some reason, that made him think of his father. He would probably be in Bailryn by now. No doubt arguing with the king’s aide, or maybe even the king himself. He wondered, too, if the Cren and the wolves would be there by the time he arrived. What was happening with the wolves? Had Toban persuaded them to help in the coming battle? The king’s forces could definitely do with t
hem; that valley they had come through was already filling up with Kel’madden, and Gialyn didn’t think that was one-tenth of the witch’s forces.
Well, maybe their actions had slowed them down a bit. At the very least, they would probably want to go through a different tunnel. Stories of that White Dragon would have put most off, hopefully.
What are you thinking? You don’t know anything!
For all he knew, the Kel’madden could already be through the Tunnels, maybe held up in another valley somewhere west of Barais’coi. Gialyn sighed; worrying about that was a job for others, now. He just wanted to get to Bailryn, see his father again, and then, maybe get a boat home. Yes, a boat; seasick or not, it would be better than walking.
The dawn mist had cleared when they finally walked out of the tunnel. The sky was a pale blue and the eastern breeze was crisp. It might have been warm, but after the tunnel it felt as fresh as an autumn morning. Gialyn took in a deep breath and held it for a long moment. “Safe at last,” he whispered.
Elspeth smiled at him. She, too, looked happy to be the right side of the Karan. For that matter, so did the Salrians.
Arfael pointed at his pack, still resting by the frog-shaped boulder, and laughed. “Who is going to carry that now?”
He had a point. Although Arfael was still big, he was not much taller than Olam. The pack was the size of a small cart.
“We’ll break it down,” Olam said. “We can leave the pots and poles; we won’t need them again.”
“Better if we took them,” Brea said. “Clay pots are hard to come by this far north.”
That made Gialyn smile. A Dragon Guardian, and she was worried about saving pots. “We can take one each.” He bent down to pick up a pot. “If they’re empty, we can—”
The pot exploded into a thousand pieces. Gialyn jumped back, still with the clay handle in his hand. “What the…? Who…?” Scared now, he quickly looked around the small bowl of rock that encircled the tunnel’s entrance. Squinting to the east, he saw the shapes of maybe two dozen men, looming over the ridge, bows in hand.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 82