Dragon Forged: Chronicles of Dragon Aerie Young Adult Fantasy Fiction (Plague Born Book 3)

by Travis Simmons

  “Have they tended your leg?” Wylan eased to a stand, her legs protesting every movement. She stood still for a moment, trying to ignore the screaming in her muscles and wondered why the strength of the wyvern failed her now. Aches and pains weren’t something wyverns typically felt. The soul within them tended to ease all of that away. With fire, her muscles should be warmed and soothed pliantly.

  “Why would they tend to my leg? They’re just going to eat us,” Aariac groused.

  “Keep up with the attitude, and your meat might taste too bitter to eat,” Wylan said. “They will rue the day they took a bite from you. Hey, maybe that will help keep elves off their menu.”

  “Great, joking. Maybe you can put on a little show and they will let us walk right out.”

  “Well, that works for me, but you’d have to hop,” she said.

  Aariac snorted.

  She eased down beside him and checked his leg over. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the low light, she was able to see what was happening with his leg. Aariac’s foreleg bloomed with an angry, purple bruise, and the skin was swollen like a plum that had grown too large for its skin to hold it together. Thankfully from what she could see, the bone hadn’t broken the skin. Angry dark veins ran from the wound, and up his leg, under the trousers and out of sight.

  “I could set this,” she said, “if we had something to set it with.”

  “Well, I’m not stopping you. Check!” he said.

  Wylan searched along the walls of the cell, unsure what she thought she was going to find. It was highly unlikely the drakes would leave someone in a cell with anything that might be used as a weapon. Furthermore, if they hadn’t set his leg already, it’s because they didn’t understand the danger Aariac was in, or they didn’t care.

  The farther she went into the cell, the less she could see.

  “So,” Aariac said. He groaned as he moved.

  “I said stop moving,” Wylan told him.

  “That’s hard to do when a stone is digging me in the ass.”

  She ignored him.

  She huffed and turned back to the elf. “There’s nothing.”

  “Big surprise there,” he said. “So we have nothing but time. Amuse me.”

  “Great, from dragon guard to jester. How may I amuse you, m’lord?”

  “I don’t know, talk.”

  “About what?” Wylan wondered, sitting down across from the elf, her back to the wall and her arms draped over her knees.

  “You. Are you going to give Josef an answer?” he wondered.

  “Does everyone know about that?” Wylan scoffed.

  “Enough of us, and you’re avoiding the question. You’ve been together for a while now, why not just get married?”

  “This is what you want to talk about?” Wylan wondered. “We are stuck in a cell, in the middle of drake territory, and you want to talk about my nuptials?”

  “Okay, then how are we going to get out?” Aariac asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  Wylan sighed. “No. We need to see what we are up against. Maybe see where we are.”

  “How are you going to do that? Ask for a map? Do you speak drake?”

  Wylan growled.

  “Didn’t think so. So why not marry Josef?”

  “Because ‘why not’ isn’t a good enough reason to get married,” she fired back. “We could try magic,” she said. Wylan reached for the magic inside of her, felt it swirl in response to her call, and held her hands out. Since Lissandra could breathe fire, then Wylan could call it at any time. She’d been told that the wyvern ability wasn’t specifically magic. Calling the fiery breath of the wyvern was no different than shifting a part of her body at will. But still, when she read stories of magic, it was often just this—someone calling a power no human should be able to. She guessed it made a difference that she wasn’t exactly a human any longer, but she hated that thought.

  “You know what I mean,” Aariac broke through her concentration.

  “Aariac, really? Now? Aren’t you worried more about your leg?” she wondered.

  “Talking keeps my mind off the pain. Unless you have something to ease my pain, then talk.”

  “Have you ever thought maybe I’m just not ready for it?” She furrowed her brows and called for the fire once more. Normally she could produce a small flame to see by, even if she was half asleep, so why was the conversation preventing her from calling it now?

  “Tellik shit,” he said. “Do you not like him?”

  “Of course I like him,” she said. “And why are we focused on me? When are you going to ask Fara to marry you?”

  “Because Fara is as crazy as a fire lizard in an ice storm,” he said.

  “Then why keep her around?”

  He chuckled.

  Wylan scoffed. “Don’t answer that.”

  “Wasn’t going to,” he said.

  “And besides, Josef pushes too much.”

  “How so?” Aariac asked.

  “Nothing is ever just good enough for him. He always wants something more. When we first met, he jumped at the chance that I might like him and that we should be together. I had to force him to take it slow. We took it slow, and then we grew to like one another. Then he wanted to move in together. I wanted to wait until I was at least done with training, so again, I had to force him to slow down. Now that we are living together, he wants marriage. It seems like he can’t just take it slow. It’s exhausting. Is that really something I want to put up with for the rest of my life?”

  She held her hands out once more, and willed the fire to her hands—

  “But it’s not that at all. I mean, what comes after marriage? Neither of you want children. If you were that sick of it, you would have ditched him like all the others. It’s really because of what the blue dragon told you, isn’t it?” Aariac broke her concentration again.

  She growled a sigh, and turned to the elf. “Since you’re not going to let me keep working toward escape…”

  “I already told you it was pointless. They’re not going to leave things laying around in a cell. While you’re at it, why don’t you look for some weapons back there, or an open back door we can skip out of.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s because of what the blue dragon told me.”

  “So you really believe that you’re the plague bearer?”

  “Well, don’t you?” Wylan crossed her arms over her chest. It had been several months since the fight where she’d lost her arm, but the feeling of the scales on her arm surprised her every time she felt them.

  “That’s not what I’m asking,” Aariac said.

  Wylan sighed. “Yes, I do.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  Because it’s true? Was what she wanted to say. Instead she said, “it makes sense.”

  “How so?” he wondered.

  “Well, let’s list the reasons—I was born with golden eyes; I was born the night dragons returned; everyone that came in contact with me that night, caught the plague and spread it like sand in a stiff breeze. We already know that dragons hate wyverns because they’re half breeds, so it only makes sense they came to kill me. Besides, Kira called me it too. The dragon tamer senses that I’m the plague bearer. It’s not just dragons.”

  “Okay, well Kira is a baby,” Aariac said. It was a flimsy argument.

  Wylan scoffed. “A baby that’s able to control a handful of dragons.”

  “I don’t think you can fit many dragons in a hand. I don’t even think you can fit one dragon in a hand. Maybe if you were a giant. Like, a giant giant.” Aariac countered. “Anyway, sure, she has several dragons under her thrall. Maybe even an entire clutch. Some stay willingly, I’m sure. I’m not saying she isn’t strong; I just don’t think she’s as all-knowing as you seem to. I would even bet that she only knows what the dragons know, and if they think you’re the plague bearer, then it makes sense that she does too.”

  “Okay, even if you’re right with that, what about the other things?”

>   “Easy, it’s all coincidence.”

  “That’s a lazy explanation,” Wylan said.

  “Elves have a saying—the easy answer is likely accurate.”

  “So, basically, all elves are lazy and don’t believe in fate.”

  “I didn’t say we didn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or magic, or miracles, but we also don’t believe it because we are told it’s true. We have our prophecies, and we have our ways of magic, and even our religions, but we have those because we’ve been given proof.” Aariac gasped through a stab of pain, and moaned as it abated. He held up a hand, warding Wylan away from coming to his aid. “I can’t really get into philosophy with you, but we only believe in something we are shown.”

  “And you’ve been shown a prophecy? Every single one of you has seen a prophecy come true?”

  “No,” he said, “but we are a skeptical race, and when we have a vision, we accept that it is true because we have seen it.”

  “And your gods, you have seen them too?”

  “Our gods are nature. The rain, the turning of the leaves in autumn, the gentle insistence of the river. Yes, we see our gods all around us.”

  “And your magic…”

  “We aren’t blind, Wylan, we can definitely see when someone is throwing a ball of fire at our faces.”

  She grumbled.

  Aariac let her mull over what he’d told her.

  “All right, so, by elf standards, there is no plague bearer,” Wylan assumed.

  “Didn’t say that either,” Aariac said.

  Wylan growled at him and stomped her foot. “Then just friggin’ say it already!”

  “Well, how about you consider this instead: If dragons thought you were the plague bearer, and they came to kill you, why did they stop hunting you?”

  Wylan didn’t know what to say. He was right, the dragons hadn’t been hunting her lately. Sure, there had been attacks on Darubai, but that was always the case. It was a big city, and there was a lot of activity to be seen, especially with eyesight as keen as a dragon’s.

  “So you don’t think I’m the plague bearer?”

  “I haven’t seen enough evidence that you are, no,” he told her. “I’m not saying you aren’t; I’m just saying I’m not convinced that you are.”

  Wylan turned back to the dark end of the cell, but her mind wasn’t on looking for a splint, instead it was on something else he’d said. “You said elves had prophecies about the plague bearer?”

  “I don’t think I said that, but yes, we do.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “What am I? An elvish library?” Aariac laughed.

  Wylan didn’t laugh.

  Aariac stopped laughing.

  “All right,” he said, “from what I’ve been told the plague bearer is supposed to be a dark elf of impossible strength and magic. The walls between worlds will start to collapse when he is born; the dead will cross into the living realm more freely. Powers long dead will start to resurface, and yes, dragons will return to the low lands of the Dar Desert in search of him.”

  “Or her,” Wylan muttered. “And are you sure it’s going to be an elf?” she allowed herself a moment of hope.

  “Nope,” he said immediately.

  Her hope spluttered out before it could gain its wings. It died in her stomach, a cold pit that felt like tar.

  “What I’ve been told is just legend. It’s likely no one has read the prophecy in ages, so some of it’s probably made-up. For instance, he—or she—was supposed to be able to control the dead with a mere whisper. He was going to be the head of a great army of changelings, and he would use them to overthrow kingdoms and establish a new rule.”

  “That helps,” Wylan said. “I don’t have any plans for anarchy anytime soon.” She groaned and flopped her head into her hands. A headache bloomed behind her eyes, and she tried to will it away. But it wasn’t going anywhere soon. She felt it take root at the base of her neck and into her shoulders.

  “Well, if you’re so set on being the plague bearer, I can’t stop you. But, does it really change who you are? You’re still Wylan Atwater. You still care about your friends enough to worry that you’re some mythical villain. You still love Josef. You still care for Geffrey, and you put up with my shit. I think you can be forgiven that tiny misstep of releasing a destructive plague on the entire world.”

  “Great, an elf forgives the uncountable death I’ve been the cause of, the agony and pain people have felt.”

  “Whatever,” Aariac said. “You can keep looking for that brace now and pile the guilt on yourself. Just don’t forget my leg is broken, and you promised to fix it.”

  “I didn’t promise,” Wylan said, a smile whispering across her lips.

  Aariac chuckled.

  Wylan pushed to her feet, intent on searching every inch of their cell to find something she could use to brace Aariac’s leg with. She held her hands out before her again, waited a moment to see if Aariac was going to interrupt her concentration again. When he didn’t, she called out to the magic within her. She felt the fire respond in a rush of heat. All she needed was a little illumination to see farther into the cell.

  The power of the wyvern slithered up her spine, and swirled down her arms. But just as it reached her shackles, there was an electric thrum that blasted up her arms, and sent her stumbling backward, a gasp of pain on her lips. Her arms were numb, and the fire was gone.

  “What happened?” Aariac asked, alarm clear in his voice.

  “We have a problem,” Wylan said.

  “Yeah, we have several problems, what’s new?”

  “I can’t call my fire.” She swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat. “It’s gone.”

  “What in the long desert was that?” Marcella crouched next to Leaghan, her hands splayed over the elf’s body. Leaghan could feel a whisper of thought slide over her body as Marcella moved her hands, searching for any permanent damage or injury that needed tending by a green wyvern.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Leaghan said. She didn’t want to be laying there, thinking about the boy and the attack. She needed to be up, searching the keep, looking for where he’d vanished to. But if she found him, what then? If he truly was Andraal—and she had no reason to doubt that he was—how would she ever match him?

  The thought of him pressing his might against her, forcing his magic against the shields that kept her wild magic at bay was enough to send her shrieking into the night. Magic be damned, she wasn’t going to deal with that again. She’d had so much of her life ruined already because of the wild magic. She would not be its pawn again.

  “Who was it?” the yellow wyvern asked.

  “Some freaky little kid?” Leaghan said.

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Was he a wizard?” Marcella wondered.

  “Unless he came back from the dead.” She shuddered at the thought of even saying his name. Names had power, that much she’d learned from her studies and transcriptions. What if she said his name and it brought him back? She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “But I think I know who it was.”

  “Who?” Marcella asked.

  Leaghan opened her eyes and stared into the human’s dark eyes. She could see worry there, concern, and the need to protect her. She could also see fear. It was the same fear she felt. It was the fear that there was yet another power loose in the city that they had to deal with. Another power they weren’t a match for.

  “Andraal.”

  “We need to get you out of here. We need to move you to the barracks where it’s safer,” Marcella insisted, she pushed to her feet and tucked a stray lock of brunette hair behind her ear.

  “Like the barracks is going to keep me safe from him?” Leaghan eased herself to a sitting position, her back screaming in protest as she did. “He rearranged the furniture just by showing up. What would happen if he actually exuded a bit of his power?”

  Marcella di
dn’t answer.

  “Marcy, this is Andraal we’re talking about.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head and folding her arms over her ample breasts. “How can he be back when it takes a yellow wyvern to channel other dead wizards?”

  “He’s an arch-mage,” Leaghan said.

  “What does that mean?” Marcella huffed.

  Leaghan shrugged. The pain that little motion caused was extreme, and she growled through it. “I’m assuming that he’s stronger than mere wizards?”

  Even Marcella’s frown was pretty, her full lips arching downward, her eyes smoldering.

  “Anyway, why are you asking me all these questions? Aren’t you supposed to be a yellow wyvern? Shouldn’t I be asking you?”

  “Because I can’t sense anything,” she said. Her voice was as fiery as her eyes, and Leaghan could understand the anger at feeling powerless.

  “Okay, and why might that be?” Leaghan wondered.

  Marcella shrugged. “Normally when I can’t sense something, it’s not that there’s nothing to sense, it’s just something that I’ve never sensed it before, so my mind kind of looks over it.”

  “So we can assume that it’s something old,” Leaghan said.

  Marcella nodded. “I think you’re right. We need to ask Marcone.”

  “Are you rested enough for that?”

  Marcella nodded. “This is different than your lessons. This is just channeling him to ask questions.”

  “All right, let’s do it,” Leaghan said.

  Marcella pulled an overstuffed chair over in front of Leaghan, the legs scraped noisily on the floor, setting the elf’s teeth on edge. The wyvern took a seat, arranging her skirts around herself so that she was comfortable. She closed her eyes, and Leaghan recognized the deep breathing exercises she put herself through in order to attune to the nether realm.

  The keep was silent, and the night outside was nearly just as silent. The occasional sound of passersby whispered through the windows from the other side of the fenced lawns of the keep grounds. Street lamps were lit here and there, enough to see by, but not enough to draw the attention of anything flying over. Leaghan didn’t think it mattered how much light shown in the night, given the keen eyesight of the dragons they feared.