by Megg Jensen
Sweet smoke filled the air. Ira hadn't allowed smoking in his pub. He was too worried it would burn down. Tressa had learned that the fear of fire was a monetary concern. The owners here were either very brave or very wealthy. One glance at the decor told her wealth was the answer.
Golden filigree tipped the statues on shelves near the ceiling. The room glistened and glittered. The men sitting at the tables gambled at cards. Stacks of coins spilled in front of them. The thrill of the game mattered more than the money they took home at the end of the night. It was a far cry from the dirt and dust in Ira’s pub.
Henry pushed ahead of Tressa, knocking her to the side with his elbow.
She wanted to say something, but she'd promised Jarrett she'd keep her mouth shut. Instead, she shot him a dirty glance.
"Come on, boys, let's grab a table." Jarrett flourished his black cape.
The room went quiet.
The servers scurried over to them before Tressa’s butt touched the bench.
“How can we help you?” A young blond smiled at Tressa. Her white teeth spoke of wealth. Even the serving girls probably had more money than Tressa did.
“We’ll take a side of meat, a loaf of bread, a bowl of grapes, and a flagon of your finest wine.”
The serving girl’s eyes sparkled as the boys poured water into their cups. “We just got in a shipment from the The Dragon’s Tongue Port, sir. The wine is perfectly aged and smells of vanilla and raspberry. Very rare. Imported directly from The Sands.”
Jarrett reached into the bag hanging at his hip and pulled out a handful of gold coins. “I hope this will cover the cost.” He held out his hand to the girl. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers. Even Tressa had to hold back her surprise. It was a sizable amount of money. More than Tressa had ever seen in one place.
“Yes,” the girl bowed and back away, “yes, that will do, milord.” She spun and ran off to the kitchen, probably to brag about the tip she was about to receive tonight from the men in the Black Guard.
“Impressive,” Tressa said.
Jarrett shrugged. “It’s a small amount to me. I have plenty more where that came from.”
Henry paid little attention to them. He was far more interested in the fireplace. He’d wandered over and stood warming his hands.
“Who are you?” Tressa asked. Every moment with Jarrett brought more mystery and less understanding.
“Who are you?” Jarrett leaned his chin on his fist, his elbow propped up on the table. “We both have our secrets, but we have a common goal. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“You’re exactly like your father.” She laughed, remembering a similar conversation with Leo.
“I’d love it if you could tell me more about him.” Jarrett leaned in closer.
A crash on the other side of the pub wrenched their attention elsewhere. Tressa glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a fight. They were common at The Rooster’s Wattle. Nothing worth worrying over.
Except when Henry was involved. The boy's arms were above his head, the man behind him held Henry in a headlock.
Jarrett jumped to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Let him go."
"Just because yer in The Black Guard, it doesn't mean you can steal from me."
Henry stood still, not even fighting back. Tressa had a hard time believing the boy had stolen anything, yet hanging in a limp hand was a golden trinket. She thought she'd seen it above the fireplace when they walked in. Yes, it was the golden cat statue.
The pouch filled with gold still dangled from Jarrett's hip. Why would Henry steal when Jarrett had enough money for all of them?
"Are you the owner of this establishment?" Jarrett asked the man who held Henry in a headlock. The man nodded, but didn't relax his hold on Henry. "This was just a misunderstanding. I'm sure Henry was just looking at it. Weren't you Henry?"
"It's mine." Henry stated.
Jarrett sighed.
Tressa stared at Henry in earnest. He'd barely spoken until then, and now he was saying the wrong thing.
"Give it back to the man, Henry. Now," Jarrett said. "It's not yours."
"It's gold. It's mine." Henry tightened his grip on the trinket.
The owner didn't appreciate Henry's attitude and kicked him in the back of the knee. He let go and Henry fell to the floor in a tired heap. "Give it back, you pissant. It's not yours." He reared, ready to deliver an even stronger kick when Jarrett wedged himself between them.
"I'm sorry." He wrested the trinket out of Henry's hand and handed it back to the owner. Then he reached into his pouch and plucked out a few more gold coins. "Take these for your trouble. We'll leave and we won't be back."
The owner's eyes narrowed. "The two of you are welcome." He pointed at Jarrett and Tressa. "But not him. I don't care if he is part of the guard. There's something wrong with the boy and I don't want him scaring off my customers. How did someone like that make the Black Guard anyway?"
"They protected him, they did."
Tressa turned around. It was a man at another table, taking a break from playing cards. Everyone in the place had stopped to watch the fiasco.
"He was the boy who didn't fight a lick. Couldn't even lift his sword. Anyone who went to watch saw it. A lot of good men died. Men who could have stood proudly in the place of him. But, no, he made it in anyway."
Jarrett hooked his hands under Henry's arms, pulling him to his feet. "Let's go," he said to Tressa. She took one last drink from the mug. The bitter wine rushed down the back of her throat.
Henry struggled only half-heartedly against Jarrett's tight grip. "I want it. It's mine. Give it back." He twitched, then shook violently in Jarrett's grasp. Spittle formed at the side of his mouth.
"Get him out of here. He's diseased or something. I won't have him ruining my pub," the owner shouted behind them.
Jarrett dragged Henry out into the street. He tugged him around the corner into a dark alley. Tressa followed behind. Peeking over her shoulder, she was relieved to see no one else was watching them.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked Jarrett.
Henry fell to the ground, his arms and legs spasm violently. Jarrett knelt next to him. "You're about to learn our secret. Keep guard and make sure no one comes back here." He grabbed Henry's collar and pulled him farther back into the dark alley.
The sound of wretching was accompanied by a stench worse than week-old raw chicken. Tressa kept watch at the end of the alley, but no one walked by. She abandoned her post and ran into the darkness. Whatever was going on back there needed to be seen. She no longer cared if anyone stumbled upon them. If there was any chance Jarrett was in danger, she felt compelled to check on him.
Her feet crunched on the occasional pebbles underfoot. The dirty alleyway was littered with rubbish from the pub on one side and the inn on the other. She glanced up. No windows to cast candlelight on them also meant no one could spy on them.
"I told you to watch the entrance to the alley." Jarrett said, his voice stern.
Tressa held her arm over her nose. The smell was nauseating and only grew worse with each step she took. "I was worried you're in danger."
"I'm not," Jarrett retorted. "Damn it, if you're not going to be the guard, then I have to protect us. I don't have time for this."
Muffled sounds echoed in the darkness. Tressa could only see whispers of shadows until a small burst of wind rushed past her toward the alley's entrance. A light glowed at the end of the alley, forming a shimmering barrier between them and the street.
She stumbled backward and tripped, falling to the ground. Her fingers felt something cold and scaly. "What is that?"
"Henry," Jarrett said. "Or do you mean the barrier I put up over there? That protects anyone from seeing what's happening here."
Tressa didn't know where to start. Henry's reptilian skin or the magic Jarrett had just cast.
"Yes, it's magic. Yes, I did it. Yes, Henry is changing."
Tressa gasped. "Can you read my mi
nd too?"
Jarrett laughed. "No. It's pretty obvious what you were thinking."
A small light came to life, illuminating their corner of the alley. A bauble floated in the air, not far from Jarrett's shoulder. Tressa glanced down at Henry. His blond hair had all but disappeared, replaced by a head all too reminiscent of the dragon that crashed into Hutton’s Bridge.
"Dragon." Tressa wasn't even sure she said it out loud until Jarrett responded.
"Yes."
"But Henry is human," she said, stumbling over her words. She reached out to touch him, then thought better of it and jerked back her hand. "Isn't he?"
"In a way," Jarrett said. "Now you know about us."
Tressa let loose a nervous laugh. "Know about you? All this has done is raised more questions. I don't know anything. I know less than I did when we sat in the pub. No, I don't know anything about you." Her nervous rambling didn't help calm her. Henry continued to convulse and change. From the neck down, his body was contorting, changing into something else, something she wasn't even fully sure she believed in until that moment.
The dragon that broke through the fog died within moments. She only saw the claws that pulled Connor's body through the doorway. Both seemed distant, somehow disconnected.
But this. Henry. He was more alive than any of the others. He'd been warm on the way to the pub when she'd put her hand on his back to guide him around a corner. His blue eyes had sparkled. He was fully human, a fact she never doubted.
Yet now he was something else. The metamorphosis took only a few more moments. His shoes tore, talons poking through the leather. Then he rested. It was done.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The people of Hutton's Bridge gathered in the center of town. Packs hefted on their backs, weapons in their hands.
Huddled in small groups, they whispered. Nervous conversation permeated the entire town square. Bastian strode through the crowd, Farah’s hand in his. He nodded to Lukas. "Now."
The boy's aunt patted him on the head, then pushed his back. Lukas smiled and came running to Bastian.
"Take care of my little girl." He knelt down and handed his daughter's hand over. "Maybe someday the two of you can be joined."
Farah’s eyes lit up. "I'd have to choose his ribbon, Papa."
The little boy looked less excited. Bastian laughed. "Where we're going, there isn't any need for ribbon picking, Farah." Then leaned over and whispered in Lukas’ ear, "Don't worry. I only said that to make her interested in sticking with you. There are no promises being made today."
Lukas let out a long sigh. "I will protect her, sir." He looked down at the little girl's doe eyes. She fluttered her lashes at him.
Carrac stood at the edge of the fog, a torch in his hand.
"That won't help. The fog will only extinguish it," Bastian said.
“It is not for you. But this is.” Carrac extended an open hand into the fog. Instead of disappearing, his hand glowed.
Bastian took in a breath. “What is that?”
“Tallow. I supervised the dressing of the dragon and had some fat on my hand. I must not have washed so well and when I went to bed that night I noticed my hand was glowing. I snuck out under the cover of darkness and cut the rest of the fat off. Then I made the tallow. If you rub it on yourself, it will glow. Even in the fog.”
“Can we use it?”
“Of course!” Carrac laughed. “It is yours to take. I had hoped it would aid you, but I didn’t want to mention it until I was sure. It took time to create and test the candles. I’ve handed them out to the torchbearers. When you’re ready to light them, just say the word. I’ve already instructed them on what to do.”
“Thank you!” He squeezed Carrac’s shoulder. "You are staying behind with Udor? Making sure he doesn't mess things up for the town when we collapse the mist?"
Carrac nodded. "I have been considering this as well." He looked down at his aged, frail body. "What can I do out there? If the beasts you spoke of are true, I am no match for them. All I could do is stand in front and be a victim, maybe stop them from hurting another. Slow down their progress."
"I'm not asking for blind sacrifice." Bastian looked at the old man's rheumy blue eyes. After Sophia died, he was the oldest person in the village. His opinion mattered. His experience and his kindness were invaluable. "Stay here. No one will interpret it as weakness. In fact, I'd consider it a personal favor. If Tressa makes it back to the village, I don't want her alone with Udor."
Carrac laughed, his bony shoulders shaking. "I think Tressa can handle herself with Udor, but I appreciate the sentiment." He looked over Bastian's ragtag army to the village beyond. "Yes, this is my home. I'm too old for a new journey. I will stay." His eyes met Bastian's again. "I hope to see you again."
"I hope for the same, Carrac." Hutton's Bridge held nothing for him now. A new life awaited him and his daughter beyond the forest. He’d be back for her as soon as he destroyed the barrier, never to return.
Bastian turned to the townspeople.
"Today we leave Hutton's Bridge. When I left not more than a few months ago, I never expected to survive, much less come back. When this is all done, you have a choice. Leave and find a new life in parts unexplored, or come home and help revive Hutton's Bridge."
Bastian looked toward the village hall. "Those of you who have volunteered to stay here with the sick and the children will follow Udor’s command.” He hated giving Udor that power, but someone had to lead them. He was the obvious choice.
"For those of you who’ve chosen to fight, if you choose to return, life will not be the same. Many of the protections put in place will no longer apply. The yearly group forced into the fog. The ribbon choosing. The lack of weapons and training to use them. Hutton’s Bridge will be born anew."
No one responded. Not a cheer of excitement, nor murmurs of dissension. The silence frightened him most. If there was no fervor, not one way or the other, Bastian couldn't be sure he'd succeed. He needed commitment from them. Not resignation.
"Then let's march!" Bastian waved his sword in the air. He spun toward the fog and marched off. The sound of reluctant shuffles followed behind him. Bastian's heart thudded in his chest. He knew what hid on the other side of the fog.
Anger grew inside him. How could they be so dispassionate? They knew he was the only one who ever returned. Fear, trepidation, anything would be better than their lack of caring. But this was pathetic. His hands formed fists, but he held them firmly at his side. Taking his anger out on them wouldn't help. If they didn't believe it for themselves, he couldn't force them to.
The fog reached out, caressing Bastian like an old lover tempting him back into a destructive relationship. Tendrils swirled around his ankles, leaving russet droplets on his brown boots. A reminder of what was and an invitation of what was to come.
He could delay no longer. Bastian took a deep breath and stepped into the fog.
Within moments, his vision left him. The familiar darkness overcame his senses. "Don't be alarmed," he called behind him as gasps from his fellow townspeople drifted to him on the light breeze.
The silence of the dead forest combined with the blindness. A familiar disorientation settled over Bastian. Even though it was his third time through, he still felt his stomach turn. Maybe because he knew what was out there, hiding, waiting to devour him.
Long moments passed, enveloped in the damp curtain of fog. Bastian put one foot in front of another, traveling in a straight line toward the end of the fog. Maybe they’d make it through without running into the beast. If killing Vinya was its last act, maybe she’d bought freedom for all of Hutton’s Bridge.
"Bastian."
So it wasn’t dead. It sounded like Tressa, but it was only a poor imitation.
Bastian's lip curled. Did the beast really think the same trick would work on him twice? Maybe that was the only trick it had. At least he was prepared this time.
"Bastian." It came from his left.
"Bastian.
" From his right.
"Bastian." A screechy chorus of death surrounded him, followed by a cacophony of names.
"Draw your arms!" He yelled to his men. "Don't listen. It'll try to trick you. Make you think you're hearing a loved one. You're not.”
A fury of howls ripped through the mist.
Them. More than one beast. From the sound of it, they were surrounded.
Chapter Fifty
"Now," Bastian yelled. Light from Carrac’s dragon candles blasted through the fog. Twenty beasts stood in a semi-circle in front of the ragtag army.
Their fangs bared, dripping with blood and spittle, the beasts towered over them, twice as tall as the humans, bodies covered in bristled hair, claws longer than Bastian’s sword.
Bastian's legs trembled. His stomach rebelled. But he held his ground, not showing the monsters his fear. Instead he gazed on them with darkened eyes and a fire burning in his soul.
"Bastian."
The voice came from the beast in the center, its lips moving, mocking Tressa's voice. Snarling, its jaw dropped, releasing hideous laughter.
"Attack!" Bastian broke free of the safety of his group and lunged for the beast in the middle. His sword swung in the air, dropping in a deadly arc toward the beast's belly. Roars enveloped him, masking every other sound in the forest. The cries of his people fell away. It was only him and the beasts.
He hacked and slashed, using every ounce of his strength until his muscles shrieked for respite. Fur flew in the air, followed by flesh. The light gray fog quickly changed to maroon, oozing with the blood of the beasts. Or of his companions. Bastian wouldn't turn away from the battle to see.
A wooly, muscled arm flung out at Bastian, knocking him down to the ground, taking all of his breath in one fell swoop. His sword slipped, just beyond his reach. Bastian shook his head, forcing clarity to return.
Through the mist, he saw a pike sticking out from the chest of one of the beasts, one of Bastian's men hung from the shaft, his legs dangling in the air. Still he didn't give up, Tom thrusted with all of his strength, desperately attempting to drive the spear deeper into the beast's chest. The beast howled, sending chills down Bastian's spine.