Nightborn

by Anders, Lou

“It’s a little dark.”

  Orm spat again, and Karn really did jump as a small fireball erupted from the dragon’s mouth. The flame burned where it struck, a wad of sizzling, molten spit that cast a circle of reddish light.

  “Is that adequate?” Orm asked with mock politeness.

  “It’ll do.” Glaring first at the dragon for startling him, Karn turned his attention to the paper. Neither the parchment nor the writing was particularly old. So it wasn’t ancient or valuable. Someone had copied this down recently. That meant what it said was more important than what it was. He studied the words.

  “It looks like a riddle,” Karn said.

  “Read it aloud,” Orm commanded.

  Karn did so.

  “First to a Castle in the Briars,

  Where ends all of life’s desires.

  Over Oak and under Corn,

  There to seek the soundless Horn.”

  Karn looked up.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What does this mean?”

  “I suspect it is a clue to the whereabouts of the second horn, a clue the dark elves are following. The opening line awakened a memory in me.”

  “ ‘First to a Castle in the Briars’?”

  “Yes. I suspect that is a thinly veiled reference to the city of Castlebriar. A former Gordion outpost in the country of Nelenia and now an independent city.”

  “Okay. Makes sense. I’ve heard of Nelenia—it’s way south and east of us, somewhere near the middle of the continent—though I don’t know the city. But what does this have to do with me?”

  “What does it have to do with you?” The dragon looked surprised. “Isn’t that obvious, Karn Korlundsson? I want you to go and find it.”

  Karn nearly dropped the parchment.

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Why not you? You’ve proved resourceful in the past. Intelligent. Clever. You defeated Helltoppr in his barrow. Why—you’ve even bested a dragon.” Orm narrowed his eyes menacingly. “Isn’t that what they say in the markets of Bense?”

  Karn slapped a palm to his forehead.

  “I knew that was going to come back to bite me!”

  “You want me to bite you?” teased the dragon.

  “No! No!” Karn cried hastily. “It’s an expression, a figure of speech.”

  “Very well. No biting, then. The riddle is very old, but I believe the dark elves have ascribed new meaning to it in light of recent events.”

  “You mean they’ve heard some of my story?”

  “All of Norrøngard seems to have heard. It isn’t unlikely their spies heard as well and came here to seek the truth.”

  “Um, I’m sorry about that. But I still don’t know why you need me. I’m a farmer now. I don’t run off on adventures. Why not ask someone else? Why not ask Thianna? She’s bigger, stronger. She’s much better with a sword than I am. She knows what the horn is and how to use it. After all, her own mother’s people made it. And she’s even going that way. Really, no matter how you look at it, she’s obviously a much better choice than me.”

  “I thought so too,” said the dragon calmly.

  Karn stared into the great linnorm’s eyes.

  “Oh,” said Karn.

  “Oh, indeed,” agreed the dragon. “I summoned the wyvern and fetched Thianna after the dark elves invaded my home. Yesterday, the wyvern returned without her, having missed their prearranged rendezvous. I believe she has run afoul of their schemes.”

  A fear worse than winding up as dragon dinner gripped Karn.

  “Thianna,” he said, his skin growing cold. Then another emotion burned the fear away.

  Karn was shouting and shaking with rage, swinging Whitestorm back and forth in the dragon’s face. He was furious that Orm had sent his friend off into obvious peril. Then he realized the danger of hurling insults at the largest dragon in this part of the world. He froze midswing and mid-insult.

  “Are you quite through now?” said Orm.

  “I think so,” said Karn. “Um, I’m sorry.”

  “I should expect so.”

  Karn sheathed his sword and dropped his head. He went over what he knew. “So, Thianna might be in trouble. And you want me to go find her?”

  Orm nodded.

  “Why don’t you go yourself?”

  Something flickered across the dragon’s face. Distaste? Could it even be fear? “I forswore the south long ago,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Not your business.”

  “Neither is tracking down magical horns.”

  Orm’s nostrils flared. “I lost something there. Something very dear was taken from me. I left and I never looked back. Leave it at that.”

  “And ate several legions of Gordion soldiers when you got here. That always seemed extreme to me. Was it the Gordions who crossed you?”

  “I will not discuss this with you,” Orm growled. “Let it go.”

  Karn didn’t want to, but arguing with dragons was not a wise activity. Still, he began to suspect that Orm hadn’t come to Norrøngard by accident. Norrøngard was the farthest corner of the continent from the heart of the old Gordion Empire. The dragon had chosen this remote location on purpose. When he came here, he had been fleeing something. What could have happened to so rattle a creature as big as Orm? He filed it away to consider later.

  “All right,” said Karn.

  “You will go?” asked Orm.

  “I would do anything for Thianna,” Karn said. “Though I’m not sure what I can do without her.”

  “You will have to be sufficient on your own. But perhaps I can lend you some assistance.” Orm sniffed at Karn, his snout nosing at the sword at Karn’s side. “That weapon isn’t one of mine. But I smell its potential. Draw it from its sheath.”

  Ordinarily, Karn would doubt the wisdom of raising a blade to a dragon, but he’d already threatened Orm with it once today, so what did he have to lose? He withdrew Whitestorm and held it before him.

  “The sword has a more storied history than you know. Once it was a weapon of great power.”

  Orm readjusted his great bulk, then reached forward with both of his foreclaws. Karn squared his shoulders and kept Whitestorm steady. The dragon placed his claws to either side of the sword. Orm closed his eyes, and Karn heard a rumbling in the dragon’s throat. Words he didn’t recognize in a language he did not speak. It was the secret language of dragons. The skin on Karn’s arm tingled. The blade seemed to pulse with energy.

  Orm opened his eyes.

  “It is done. I could not restore its lost magic completely, but I have lent it some of my own. You will find it easier to wield, though it will only augment your own skill, not replace it.”

  Karn stared at the blade. Did it seem to glow faintly in the twilight?

  “Thank you.”

  Orm’s eyelids dipped and rose in subtle acknowledgment.

  “Now,” he said, “how is your Common speech?” The dragon was referring to the language of the old Gordion Empire, which now served as a shared tongue amid the many countries on the continent of Katernia. Karn knew he couldn’t expect his Norrønian to be understood all the way in Nelenia.

  “Rusty,” he admitted.

  “Ah,” said the dragon. “Then I am afraid you will like this next bit even less. Place your head in my mouth.”

  “Men die. Cattle die. Only the deeds of heroes live on.”

  Bandulfr was roaring loudly in Stolki’s Hall. The fisherman had heard Karn tell of his recent encounter with Orm and was overjoyed that the boy might be setting out on another quest. Others were less thrilled at the prospect.

  “Nonsense,” said Pofnir, the freeman who managed so much of the business of Korlundr’s Farm. “Karn needs to stay and conduct the trade. He doesn’t have time to go gallivanting off on some strange dragon’s errand. Tell him, Karn.”

  “Well, I—” began Karn.

  “Bah,” snorted Bandulfr. “Life is brutal and short. Old age is an embarrassment.”

  “Um,
I wouldn’t really be embarrassed—” said Karn.

  “Of course you are,” said the fisherman, clamping an arm around his shoulder and trying to pull the boy away from the freeman. “Karn knows that songs of praise and a noble name are what matter.”

  “No, wait,” said Karn, who wasn’t appreciating the way everyone was speaking for him as if he weren’t there. Also, he was looking for a polite way to point out that Bandulfr was hardly a noble name in Bense. Nor was the fisherman particularly young.

  “Karn doesn’t want to listen to this foolishness,” said Pofnir, prying Bandulfr’s arm off Karn and trying to lead the boy away in a different direction. “He has to go over the exchange rate for unblemished cattle hide in preparation for tomorrow’s negotiations.”

  “Yes, but—” said Karn.

  “Cattle hide?” roared Bandulfr, planting a palm in Pofnir’s chest and shoving the freeman aside. “Karn, tell Pofnir how you’ve already outwitted trolls, beaten an undead draug, outsmarted a dragon, and saved your father’s life. Tell him that you don’t have time for cattle hide! This will be an adventure for the skalds to write songs about!”

  “Well, I never—” hollered Pofnir, poking Bandulfr with a finger. “Karn knows you just want to pack him off on an adventure so you don’t have to haggle with him anymore!”

  Karn watched the two men argue—one so eager to see him rush off into danger and the other reminding him of all his responsibilities. He looked hopefully at the door to Stolki’s, hoping that his father would return from the day’s negotiations. He wanted Korlundr’s advice. Karn didn’t feel strong enough or brave enough to tackle the challenge ahead alone. And not just alone—he wouldn’t have Thianna with him.

  Thianna. Missing and in danger. Karn’s uncertainty vanished.

  “A boy is counted a man when he can swing a sword, hurl an insult—” Bandulfr was yelling.

  “I’m going,” said Karn loudly.

  “What?” Pofnir blinked. “But the cattle hides?”

  “Can wait,” said Karn. “I know. And I’m sorry. But I’m going. Not for the dragon. Not for the horn. Not—I’m sorry, Bandulfr—for the songs. I’m going for Thianna. Because she needs me.”

  “But what can you do?” said Pofnir, still blinking at him.

  “What I can.”

  Pofnir looked like he might object, but there was a commotion by the door. All eyes turned toward the disturbance.

  Karn craned his neck for a glimpse over the crowd. He hoped Korlundr had returned. But that wasn’t what he saw.

  Pale-skinned people with black hair and black clothing were pushing into Stolki’s Hall. Norrønir grumbled and spat at the sight of them but fell back to let them in nonetheless. Though Karn had never seen these strange folk so close before, he knew them instantly.

  “Dark elves,” he said under his breath.

  “Be healthy, gentlefolk,” said Stolki, bustling over with mugs of mead in his hands. “It’s a long time since we’ve seen the Svartálfar in Bense. Will you be wanting food as well as drink?”

  “Neither,” said a haughty elf with a sneer. He wore a yellow-patterned long coat. “We’re looking for a boy.”

  “A boy?” repeated Stolki.

  “Yes,” said the elf. “A local legend, this boy.”

  “No boys here.” Bandulfr charged over, managing to somehow show off the ax swinging at his side. “Only men among the Norrønir. Hard men.”

  “Busy men,” added Pofnir, stepping up. “Men with work to do.” Karn felt a rush of gratitude. Both of them were protecting him. Others in the crowd placed themselves between Karn and the dark elves.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “This way.” It was his sister Nyra. “Keep your head down,” she said, taking his hand. She led him through the crowded hall. When they came to the back door, she turned to face him.

  “Go and rescue your friend,” she said. Then she pushed something into his palm. Karn saw that it was her coin pouch.

  “I can’t take—”

  “Of course you can,” said Nyra. “Now, go be a hero.”

  “Will you…?”

  “I’ll tell Father. He’ll understand. And Mother. She won’t like it. But she’ll understand too.”

  Karn gripped his sister tight.

  “Take care of them,” he whispered.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said.

  Then she shoved him out into the night.

  —

  I really thought I was done with being chased, thought Karn. He was moving as swiftly as he could while still being cautious.

  For the most part, he was avoiding the city streets, creeping over fences and through backyards instead. Unfortunately, stepping off the wooden planks that formed Bense’s main thoroughfares meant that his boots were now thoroughly caked in mud. They squelched as he ran.

  Karn was heading for the center of town, to a spot where several streets came together to form the large Trickster’s Market, where everything that wasn’t fish, fur, or steel could be bought. It was mostly deserted at this time of night, everyone having retired to a tavern or hall for the evening.

  He slipped from the shadows and stepped into the market. Stalls and tents ringed the area, which was dominated by a heap of stones piled roughly at its center. The stones were known as a hörgr, a shrine to one of the Norrønir gods. This one was to Lothar, the god of trickery and mischief. Karn was heading for the stones now.

  Unfortunately, a dark elf stood between Karn and his destination. The elf was dressed in black with orange markings. Hooded. Slight of build. Possibly female, but he wasn’t sure. Standing with back to the hörgr and seemingly alone. Good. Karn sized up the situation and decided how to play it.

  “Looking for someone?” he said, stepping deliberately into the elf’s line of sight.

  A pale hand dipped to a leather satchel. Karn would bet there were weapons stashed inside. Nasty ones.

  “I haven’t seen you around. New to Bense?” he asked. “Then you may not know that this is called Trickster’s Market. Care to guess why?”

  The hand by the satchel hesitated. The elf was trying to work out what Karn was on about. Time to bring him (her?) up to speed.

  “Let me show you.”

  Karn let out a loud, long whistle.

  The wyvern reared from behind the stones of the hörgr, screeching horribly and spreading its wings to their full extent.

  Startled, the elf jumped clear of the stones. Karn almost laughed as he (she?) dove to the ground and threw his (her?) body into a roll. Instead, he seized the opportunity and raced past. Bounding from stone to stone, Karn reached the wyvern and swung into the saddle.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The wyvern took to the air.

  Below them, the elf hurled something that burst against the reptile’s belly in a noisome purple cloud, but it dissipated quickly in the beat of the wyvern’s wings. Then the town of Bense dropped away and Karn was heading over the waters of Serpent’s Gulf. He allowed himself a last look behind as the shores of Norrøngard receded. Then he turned his face to the south and the excitement of the adventure to come.

  —

  Once again, Desstra was both terrified and exultant under the open sky. Only this time, she was a part of it. Here, above the clouds, Desstra felt like she was one of a hundred thousand points of light, a shooting star hurtling across the world. The cold air whipped through her hair as she flew through the night. Her pale white skin positively glowed in the moonslight. She gripped the ruff around her wing’s neck and bent to rub her face in the soft brown fur. It squeaked in pleasure and wriggled its head.

  “I don’t know why you two are so happy,” said Tanthal, who rode slightly ahead of her. “After all, we lost the Norrønur.”

  Desstra’s ears twitched angrily. Did Tanthal have to spoil every good moment? Probably so. It was what he lived for.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Your rather unsubtle plan to barge in and nab him worked brilliantly.�
��

  Another elf riding nearby chuckled at that. Tanthal’s expression darkened. He didn’t like to lose any face in front of the team.

  “You were the one he got by in the market,” he said. “He was alone then. Just one boy.”

  “He wasn’t completely alone, now, was he?” objected Desstra, thinking of the enormous reptile that had so startled her. Yes, it irritated her that Karn had gotten away, but she wasn’t going to take responsibility for such a poorly planned operation and a surprise wyvern. “Anyway, how was I to know he could fly too? Norrønir don’t fly. Not like this.” Thoughts of flying lifted her spirits again. She patted the head of her wing. “Nothing is as good as this, is it, boy?”

  Flittermouse squeaked again. Desstra was amazed by how quickly she had formed a bond with the giant bat. When the Keeper of the Wings had brought them into the roost, Flittermouse had dropped from his perch and flown down to her immediately. Some of her classmates had shied away from the sharp-fanged creatures, unsure and intimidated by them, but Desstra had run to Flittermouse and flung her arms about his neck.

  “You’re too soft on your wing,” Tanthal said. “It will run right over you if you don’t show it who’s boss from the start.”

  “Flittermouse will do no such thing,” said Desstra. “We understand each other just fine.”

  Tanthal snorted.

  “Anyway,” he said, “Bense wasn’t a total loss. I only thought that the boy could tell us something of his recent experiences with the horn. Instead, the presence of the wyvern means we now know he seeks it too. And that he does so because Orm has most certainly enlisted him. Our paths will cross again, and we’ll know not to underestimate him next time.”

  He watched Desstra stroke Flittermouse’s fur. Irritated by her affectionate treatment, he made a course correction by cruelly jerking on his own wing’s sensitive ear. The bat squeaked in pain, but it flew where it was told.

  “Stone-hearted, Desstra,” he said. He fished in a pocket and tossed something to her. She caught it. It was a round rock.

  “What’s this?”

  “A reminder,” he replied.

  “Of what’s in your head?” she mocked.

  “Of where we come from,” Tanthal snapped. “I expect you to be strong as the rock of our home. And I’m watching you. If I don’t like what I see…” He let the rest hang in the air, unspoken. As if she needed reminding of who held the reins of her future. “Maybe we should start by teaching you to stop pampering that bat. It’s a beast of burden, not a pet, and it only responds to force and authority.” He tweaked his wing’s ear again, as if to demonstrate what he meant, but this time the giant bat buckled under him. Tanthal was nearly thrown from the saddle. He cried out and clutched tightly to keep from falling.