She didn’t want to get caught in the shredding winds and pelting sand, but the drakes below were mounted on telliks, and the six legged beasts tore across the desert in fast pursuit. They were keeping pace with her, and she’d taken to flying in strange patterns, just to keep their aim unsteady.
:Do you see anywhere to land?: Wylan asked Aariac in her mind. Elves eyesight was nearly as good as the wyverns, and she hoped maybe he spotted something she hadn’t.
:Nothing I can see,: he responded.
The wind tore at her wings, slowing her flight, and she knew that the drakes could keep up their pursuit for a long time. She’d considered going into the storm, but as she watched the swirling sand, the flashes of lightning and heard the booms of thunder, she dismissed it as a bad idea. The storm would kill her and Aariac just as surely as the drakes beneath them would.
She scanned the horizon, and let her gaze trail over the desert. It had been nearly twenty years since the dragon plague swept the lands and destroyed the lives and small settlements in the Dar Desert. It was no surprise that there weren’t any villages in sight. They’d all been reclaimed by the long desert.
:What are you thinking?: Aariac asked. He pressed himself closer to her shoulders and neck, bracing himself against the wind and her erratic maneuvers.
:I’m open to suggestions,: she admitted.
:Well, hear me out,: his voice was hesitant. Wylan had a feeling she wasn’t going to like his idea. :That storm can hide us.:
She studied the storm, the sand kicking up before its gale, the lightning flashing within.
:That storm will also kill us. But you’re right, it will certainly get us away from the drakes.:
:It won’t kill us if you fly smart, and don’t go too deep,: Aariac said. :They will likely not follow us close to the storm. They will turn back before we get to the worst of it.:
Wylan was silent for a moment. Before they got to the worst of it. How much damage would that cause her? And she had scales. How much damage would it cause to Aariac, who didn’t have her protection? She would have gladly taken on the drakes, but she didn’t think they’d be as easy to kill with dragon fire as the wraiths were. For the time, she was high enough to be mostly out of their reach, but that didn’t mean they weren’t trying. Below, the drakes were attacking in vain. Lightning flared from their fingers, fire bloomed from their mouths, a rolling, icy mist followed in Wylan’s wake. If she engaged them now, she and Aariac would be done for.
:Well?: Aariac spoke into her mind.
:I guess it’s our only option. We aren’t losing them.:
:And even if a couple follow us, that’s better than the thirty that are following us now.:
:There’s thirty?: Wylan asked.
:Well, counting isn’t my strong suit, you know. I mean, I can barely speak,: he said, scornfully.
Wylan huffed a laugh, smoke puffing from her nostrils. :All right, into the storm.:
She shifted her mind to the other presence, the wyvern soul inside her. :What do you think?: she asked. :Fly high above it?:
:We can’t go higher than the storm, Aariac would freeze,: Lissandra’s voice rumbled in her mind.
:But we can handle the edge of the storm?: Wylan asked.
:We should be able to. Let me do the work,: Lissandra said.
Wylan didn’t like relinquishing control to Lissandra. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the wyvern soul, it was more the fact that she felt trapped, enclosed in her own body when the other mind took over. It also made her feel like she wasn’t good enough to handle the dangers that came her way. When she first started shifting, Lissandra did most of the work until Wylan got the hang of it, and then the wyvern let her take over. It was strange feeling the wyvern soul take over now. Lissandra slid to the forefront of Wylan’s mind, and Wylan became an observer unable to control any of her functions.
The membranous first eyelid slipped into place as Lissandra pushed them toward the storm. The closer her wings drove them to the bank, the harder it was to see anything other than the storm. It was impossible to imagine that the desert existed beyond the towering maelstrom of the earth. Lightning flashed purple and angry red deep within; yellowed by the midst of the storm, and Wylan had a fear that something else lurked within the storm.
She combed her mind, trying to remember anything she may have read of beasts that could live within sandstorms, or a beast that may have created it, but she couldn’t remember if one existed. Seeing the dense, swirling cloud, and feeling the initial sting of sand against her lids made her wonder what kind of beast could survive in the storm.
She was aware of Aariac on her back, digging his knees in to fight the might of the storm, and stay in place. She felt him slip, and his hands scramble for purchase. His body slumped so close to hers that she could almost feel the rush of air through his body, or the beat of his heart. They had to be careful not to go too deep into the storm, Aariac would likely be torn to shreds.
The rush of sand was more than a biting, stinging annoyance. In mere seconds, she could feel the storm seeking out place within her body that scales should cover. Abrasions formed on her scales, and sand snaked between them. Her second lids slipped in place over her first, and she could feel the grit that had already formed on her first lids. The sand sought to consume every part of her, to intrude on any fissure of scales, to make her part of the long desert, to see her lifeless body beneath its might.
Lissandra blinked, and the scrape of sand over her eyelids made her shiver. Her eyes watered, and sand ran free. She glanced beneath her, and though her vision was opaque from two layers of membrane lids, she saw some of the drakes were fleeing. In the quick glance, she figured about half of the drakes were retreating from the storm.
The storm came on gradually. From far away, Wylan could imagine that the storm would take them suddenly, and all at once, but that didn’t happen. They were already in the storm and had been for a while now. Granted, it wasn’t the tempest of the storm, but the pain of the sand against her lids, the roar of the wind buffeting her from side to side, tearing at her wings, made her wonder how much farther they had to go to be free of the drakes.
Wylan could barely see the drakes beneath her now. They were dim silhouettes in the storm—shadows that flashed lightning or fire. From the bursts of magic, she could see there were only a couple left.
Lissandra faltered, her right wing tucking down against the wind. They were rolling right before she could get her wing open again. The wind pinned her wing to her side, and her muscles flashed liquid fire as she tried to snap her wing open once more.
It didn’t work. The wind was too strong. She couldn’t correct her course. They were winning the fight against the drakes, but losing to the menacing desert storm.
:We’ve come too far!: Aariac called. There was pain in his mental voice. :We need to get out.:
They were headed toward the ground at a speed that terrified Wylan. She glanced behind her, but she couldn’t see the drakes. Whether they had turned away, or if the storm had finally hidden them from sight, Wylan couldn’t be sure.
Finally, in a haze of numbing pain, Lissandra snapped her wing up, caught the wind, and glided up once more. But pain crippled her wing, and the wind was relentless. She was tossed back, away from the storm, and her wings did little to hold their position.
She tried to roll left, to ease the pain in her right wing and to gain traction once more, but her right wing went completely limp, and they were spiraling toward the ground.
:We’re going down!: Wylan said. :Hold on.:
Aariac had no time to answer before they smashed into the ground, and everything went dark.
A sandstorm was coming. From the parapet along the city wall, Josef could see the menacing cloud. It hadn’t been warning of dragons, but warning of a sandstorm.
“Just a sandstorm?” Drex wondered, peaking over the edge of the parapet. The wall that ringed Darubai had been built for humans, and it was almost high enough that the dwarf
couldn’t see much of what was happening.
“Just a sandstorm?” Geffrey asked. “You say that like it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Looks far enough off that it might not be much to worry about,” Drex said.
Josef ignored them, trying to see if there was another threat in the storm. He could see flashes of purple and red lightning within the consuming bank. Neither of those were normal colors for lightning. He’d guess that there was some power behind this storm.
“Still, it’s something to worry about,” he said.
“Like what?” Geffrey wondered.
“Can you sense anything about the storm?” he looked down to the boy. As a yellow wyvern, if there was something amiss about the storm, he should be able to feel it.
Geffrey’s eyes went vacant for a moment as he sent his mind flying over the dunes of the Dar Desert, and toward the roiling storm. Josef spent the time surveying the storm, trying to see if there were silhouettes of wings within it. It was still too far away to be sure, and where it raged, it completely blocked out the sun. He watched through several flashes of eerie lightning, and thought he saw shapes within the storm, but he couldn’t be sure if it was a figment of his imagination or not.
“Are there dragons there or not?” Drex grumbled. “We’re wasting time.”
“Making sure the city is safe isn’t a waste of time,” the city guard beside them said. He was dressed in a brown tunic and breeches. A scar ran the length of his weathered face, and his black hair was dappled with traces of silver.
Drex grumbled, but didn’t respond.
With an exhale of breath, Geffrey came back to himself.
“What did you sense?” Josef asked the boy.
“Not a normal storm. There’s dragon power behind it, but I didn’t sense any dragons. It’s almost like they started the storm to see if they could.”
“You can tell all that from a little bit of mind play?” Drex asked.
“Did you hear that, Nevik?” Josef asked the guard.
Nevik nodded. “I will be sure to tell the clutch commander, wing leader.”
“Thank you,” Josef said. Nevik was one of his more responsible wyverns. He trusted that Garrett would be fully briefed on the situation.
“What now?” Drex asked.
“We go see about the forge.”
The Dwarven District had cleaned up well. The buildings had at one time been scrubbed clean, as they were in the Elven District, but over the weeks and months of smoke and fire from the forges, and dust from the mines, the walls had returned to their previous state. There were no flowers or medians of foliage, and there’d been no attempt to make any. There was, however, a life-size, iron statue in the square. Josef didn’t know who the statue was meant to represent, but it was a female dwarf dressed in flowing robes, that looked like they were floating on the breeze, even though it was made of iron.
He remembered when he was young people would joke about dwarves. He’d often hear people say things like “how do you know the difference between a female dwarf and a male dwarf? The females take better care of their beards!” But from what he’d seen of dwarves, Josef could tell that the women didn’t have beards.
They were, as a race, short, robust, and often violently loud. So it was the Dwarven District was near deafening with raucous conversation, the ringing of hammers on anvils, and laughter that somehow carried over the din.
Drex smiled, his face relaxing in a way that reminded Josef of returning home after a long day of work and taking off his shoes. Whatever the reason for his missing beard, the other dwarves didn’t seem to treat Drex any different, and Josef wasn’t about to ask him about it.
Geffrey seemed just as at home here as he did in the other districts. His eyes rested on the statue, as always, and Josef wondered what he—as a yellow wyvern—might see in the trace energies that surrounded her.
“Here it is,” Drex said, drawing to a stop.
The forge in question was huge and Josef was dismayed to see that it was the largest forge for making the mithril weapons. His mind flashed back to what he’d heard the empress say before, on one of her many public appearances. He didn’t like what she had to say against dragons, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there was some merit in her words. If the dragons were going to attack a place that would cripple the future of the dragon guard, and their efforts against the draconians, this was the perfect place.
Sure there were other mithril forges, and many other regular forges that could pick up making the dragon weapons, but not with the speed this one had.
Just as quickly the thought struck him that anyone trying to frame the dragons would have picked this as a target also. The fear it would generate with the weapon production slowed was assured.
Josef didn’t waste any time getting to work. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to find that others before him hadn’t. The outside wall had been blasted away, bricks and mortar missing. The walls were black from the scorching fire of the dragon’s final moments. But everything had already been cleared away. The inside of the forge was immaculate.
“It was picked clean earlier,” Drex said. “We are just waiting on the go-ahead to start rebuilding it.”
“Geffrey, do you know if the yellows picked anything up?” Josef wondered.
The boy shook his head. “Nope. Just like the roof, there wasn’t anything they could read. The energy was muffled.”
“The fire fruit?” Drex wondered.
“I haven’t seen any rinds,” Josef mused.
He searched high and low for any clue someone might have missed, but at this rate, any evidence he found couldn’t really be called evidence, since so many people had already been in and out of the scene.
Josef frowned, a familiar, pungent scent catching his nose, but as soon as it came, it had gone and he couldn’t place it.
“What did you find?” Geffrey asked when he emerged.
“About as much as I suspected.”
“What do we do now?” Drex wondered.
“We go find us a dragon.”
Marcella wasn’t herself.
The woman sitting across from Leaghan Windstar, looked like Marcella. She had the long, wavy black hair, the high cheekbones, the caramel skin, and the hypnotic brown eyes, but there was something different about her. Her face was slack, where it was normally filled with expression, even if that expression was often scorn. Her eyes, normally so lively, were glazed with cataracts, distant, and hard to read. Her hair seemed to flutter around her, as if stirred in a slight breeze, even if there was no breeze through the musty stone chamber they sat in.
But she was a yellow wyvern, and that meant she could channel the souls of those long dead. At the moment, she wasn’t Marcella, but a wizard who called himself Marcone—and he was training Leaghan to be a wizard.
A long oaken table sat between the elf and wyvern. Its top was pitted and scared from ages of life and use. Baskets of dried herbs, stones, and various colored dragon scales were strewn across the top. Leaghan was in the process of crushing dried rose buds in a mortar. She was only halfway through the basket of roses. Marcone looked at her work from time to time to tell her if the powder was fine enough or not. When it passed his inspection, she would empty the dried contents into a bottle that would later go on one of the various wooden shelves around the musty room.
Though this is the way she’d trained for several months, it bothered Leaghan to see Marcella in such a state. The yellow wyvern had assured her that she was used to channeling, and she was in no danger. At any time, she could oust the spirit and take control of her body once more. The assurances had done nothing to calm Leaghan’s nerves. She remembered all too well what it was like to be in the grip of a power she couldn’t control.
When the wizardry had first come to Leaghan, it had taken over her small frame, using her as a vessel to wreak destruction on her on her mountain settlement of High Haven. She had been a prisoner in her own body, forced to sit back in some forg
otten corner of her mind and watch as the magic destroyed her home. But it had been worse than that. The magic not only destroyed her home and killed a couple people with its discharge but also acted as a beacon and called dragons to their peaceful village.
The village wasn’t there any longer.
Leaghan tried to ignore the memories. She tried to ignore the fact that her friend, Marcella, wasn’t the one inside of her own body. Or if she was still in her body, she wasn’t the one who controlled it at the moment. Leaghan and Marcella had been training like this for the last several months. Once a week Marcella—not in possession of the wizard’s soul—and she would venture to the top of the mountains at the northern edge of Darubai, and scout for more herbs to load up their baskets and take back to the Wizard’s Keep.
While the view was beautiful, affording her a glimpse of the Elven District—where her settlement had relocated inside of the city—and the rolling dunes outside of Darubai, the work itself didn’t fulfill her as she hoped the magics would. There had to be more to magic than simply gathering flowers and grinding them to dust.
Leaghan was tiring of her training, and it had only just begun. For months she’d been learning from Marcone, and they hadn’t progressed past theories, diagrams, components, and ancient languages. She had yet to practice any kind of magic, and when she brought it up to Marcone, he would either ignore her or tell her she was learning wizardry.
“I just don’t understand why wizards were so feared, if all they did was garden and study ancient scrolls,” she groused, setting down the pestle. She rubbed her tired hands, feigning a cramp so the ancient wizard would allow her this moment of reprieve. She watched as a warm breeze fluttered the gauzy orange curtains that hung over the window, their hem trailing on the floor. The breeze did nothing to cool her and only accomplished gusting dust around the room. It seemed no matter how many times she swept, mopped, and took a rag to every conceivable surface, there was always dust. And the musty smell.
Dragon Forged: Chronicles of Dragon Aerie Young Adult Fantasy Fiction (Plague Born Book 3) Page 5