Dark Wyng

by Chris D'Lacey

  But lightning. That was a different issue. If a bolt were to hit, the charge could traverse the entire body network, disrupting navigational aids and weakening the seams along the framework of the wings. It was by all accounts an uncomfortable experience, one to be avoided wherever possible. But Gabrial had never heard tell of a dragon being frightened of a strike. Wearlings, maybe. But not a grown adult like Goodle.

  Grendel explained how his fear had come about. “I’m two turns older than him,” she said, “but our family settles were close. When we were young, we sometimes played together. One day, we were flying through a deep-ridged valley, practicing rolls and other tricks, when we were caught in a storm and a bolt struck Goodle directly on a wing. He was a slow developer and his wings were weak. It burned a hole in the canopy and he lost control. He spiraled down and struck his head on a rock. He tumbled, unconscious, into a river. When I reached him, his head was underwater. He was too heavy to lift, but I was able to support him and keep his head up. I had to wait for the storm to blow out before any of our wyng could respond to my calls.”

  “You saved his life.”

  “I suppose so, yes. We never speak of it, of course, because no dragon, especially a male, wants to be reminded of a fall like that. But it left a scar in his mind. Look at him. See how anxious he is?”

  Goodle was paddling his feet, quaking to the rhythm of the rolling thunder. He did look very uneasy.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We bring him inside, away from the edge.”

  Gabrial looked bemused. “How’s that going to help? Anyway, he can’t leave his post. What if Gallen or one of the search team flies by?”

  “They’ll see you, a blue dragon, huddled up in the rain and assume that all is well. If you keep your head down and draw your chest in, you and Goodle are virtually identical. It’s only a precaution anyway; they’re not likely to fly in this. Even the Veng don’t enjoy lightning.”

  “So we swap positions. Then what?”

  “We let him sleep the storm out.”

  “Sleep? You want me to cuff him?”

  “No, Gabrial. I don’t want you to cuff him. What is it with males that they always want to hit things? I’m Fissian, remember. What are dragons born of my bloodline known for?”

  Their ridiculous plans? Gabrial thought it best not to say. “You’re going to sing to him?”

  “Yes. He’s emotionally fraught. That makes him more vulnerable to sleep—and to suggestion. I think it will work. The moment he’s under, I’ll go and find Ren. Then we’ll wake Goodle up again and let him go back to ‘guarding’ us.”

  “Grendel, wait.” Gabrial hooked his tail into hers and held her back. “Assuming this works and you do find Ren, what then?”

  She wiggled her nostrils a little. “We hide him.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, in the eyrie.”

  “Here?” Gabrial arrowed his isoscele at the cave floor.

  “Yes.” She glanced over her shoulder at Goodle. Thankfully, he hadn’t heard. “There are lots of deep tunnels into the mountains. We could hide Ren and feed him for as long as we like. It’s perfect. They won’t think to look right under their snouts.”

  “They won’t have to. As soon as Ren’s back, Gariffred and Gayl will be all over him. How do you plan to shut them up?”

  “That might need some work,” she agreed. “But the only dragon likely to come close to them is Grymric, and he’s on our side.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Not about this.”

  “Well, then, he gives us away!” she said tautly, blowing smoke sideways from the corners of her mouth—a typical show of frustration in a dragon. “What would you have me do, Gabrial? You said it yourself; if we don’t act now, our chance is gone. You know you’ll never forgive yourself if he falls into Gallen’s claws again.”

  “But what if Garodor was telling the truth and Grynt is prepared to let Ren live?”

  “What if he is? All they want Ren for is information. Once they know what’s in the mind of this Hom they’ve captured, Ren is just as much a ‘threat’ as he ever was. Then he might as well be back in that pit.”

  “What if the information is important, though? What if the Wearle is under threat? You heard what Grynt said. Two Veng dead, the Hom probably involved. And now this peculiar business with the crows.”

  Grendel leaned close. “If we take Ren, we control what happens. We’ll work out a way to get him to this Hom, and between us we’ll find out what the man knows. By then, you’ll be fit again and ready to act. Ren is bound to be more willing to cooperate with us than with Grynt or Gallen.”

  Gabrial tugged his upper lip back. “He also has his own way of doing things. If this goes wrong and he’s captured again, or he dies while we’re trying to—”

  “Gabrial, it won’t go wrong,” she said quietly. “Listen, Ren’s not far from here. If I’ve read Gariffred’s i:mages correctly, one quick flight and it’s done. Come on, while the storm is still growing.” And she unhooked her tail from his and led the way to where Goodle was perched.

  The guard sat up straight when he saw her coming, puffing his rain-soaked chest to its maximum. Water vapor was steaming off his neck. His appealing blue eyes were filled with alarm. “Grendel, you must stay back,” he said, doing his best to muster an air of authority. His gaze shifted behind her to Gabrial, who had wisely sat down a short distance away.

  Grendel stopped walking as a sheet of blue lit up the cloud base and flickered like Goodle’s anxious hearts. “Dreadful night,” she said, humming a melody under her words. One of the strange peculiarities of Fissian females was their ability to talk and hum at the same time. The most talented of them (and Grendel was one) could harmonize the sounds and create a vibration that was almost as unsettling as it was appealing. It was having an effect on Goodle already. The small frills around his ear holes were beginning to quiver. He tilted his head as she carried on speaking. “A storm like this is enough to make any dragon drop their scales. I expect Gallen and the others have settled somewhere safe. Not one of them would want to be where you are now.”

  “I have a duty to perform,” the blue said proudly.

  A loud rap of thunder boomed across the cave mouth, screeching as it split into three sharp echoes.

  Goodle gave a start and leaned out of the wind.

  “My father used to tell me that was the roar of Godith,” said Grendel, blending a deeper tone into her song. “She wouldn’t want to see you suffer like this.”

  Goodle gulped. His opened his wings a little and shook them. “Grendel, please go back,” he begged.

  She took a step closer instead, weaving her beautiful, beguiling head in a manner that encouraged him to follow the movement. “Goodle, we’re old friends, you and I. I know better than any dragon what you’re feeling. Come inside, away from the storm.”

  Her eyes were glowing brightly now, their centers pulsing, seeking his. Somehow, he managed to break her stare and glance at Gabrial again. Grendel was swift to regain the initiative. “Gabrial wouldn’t go out in this. Not with his wing the way it is. You remember what the storm can do to a wing, don’t you?”

  Goodle shuddered and dipped his head.

  “Come inside,” she said again, adding a chorusing echo to the words.

  And as her song increased in volume, he finally slipped under her spell and began to move slowly out of the rain, deeper into the cave.

  “You’re not a guard,” she said. Come inside. Come inside. “You were born to be a healer or a spiritual leader. Remember how we talked about it when we were young?” Come inside. “Remember how we would close our eyes and pray to Godith to let us become what we wanted to be? Do you remember that, Goodle?”

  “Yes-ss,” he muttered.

  “Look at me,” she sang.

  He lifted his head. She brought her foreclaws together, and he did the same. “Close your eyes now. Close your eyes and listen to the song of Godith.”

  A
nd she sang to him openly. A lullaby that could have soothed the wind. As the melody spiraled deep into Goodle’s mind, he relaxed with his head in his chest.

  “It’s done,” she said to Gabrial.

  No response.

  “Gabrial!” She poked him sharply with her isoscele.

  “Um? Wazzat?” He sat up, losing his balance. He had all but nodded off as well.

  “Wake up. Goodle’s asleep. I have to leave.”

  Gabrial shook himself back to full alertness. “Right. Yes.” He checked to see what the wearlings were up to. They had both moved into the spare chamber of the cave, away from the storm. “You’re sure about this?”

  “As sure as I’m ever going to be.” She rose into launch position. A heavy sheet of rain lashed across the cave mouth. “Be ready,” she said. “This won’t take long.”

  And she propelled herself into the storm, her wings flashing as she found the wind, which took her in a rushed glide away from the mountain.

  She found Ren hiding in a tall fissure that cracked the mountains like the slit at the center of a dragon’s eye. He had i:maged it for Gariffred as best he could, though the storm and the darkness had made the drake’s reproduction murky. The i:mage that better guided Grendel to the site was the outline Ren had provided of the mountains, seen when looking away from the fissure. He had managed to i:mage two graceful humps, one about half the height of the other, with a lopsided spread of snow in the bowl-shaped dip on the incline between them. Keeping that i:mage at the front of her mind, Grendel had circled the fhosforent mines, flying as low as she dared, recalculating distances, angles, and altitudes until her optical triggers locked on to a match. It was a technique mappers used all the time and, despite her lack of training, she trapped the location easily enough. Once she had that position fixed, it was a simple matter to land, look around, and find the fissure.

  “Ren,” she called through the driving rain, wary that her voice was drifting on the wind. It was unlikely that the search wyng would settle this low, but it did no harm to be cautious. “Ren, are you here?” The fissure was too small to take a dragon of her size, and instinct warned her not to poke her head into an uncharted gap. “It’s me, Grendel. Galan aug scieth.” It was the first phrase of dragontongue Ren had learned. We are one, it meant. If anything would gain his trust, it would be that.

  She scented him as soon as he moved. Rather than stay at a level where he might be spotted easily from the air, he had climbed down and entered the cleft at its natural opening by the foot of the mountains. He poked his head out and saw her perched on a trail of rocks that formed the bed of a shallow creek. A threadlike waterfall, one of many to be found around the mines, was pouring down between them.

  “Where’s Gabrial?” he whispered, shaking rain off his hair. He checked the skies for Veng. Nothing.

  “Long story. He’s hurt.”

  “How bad?”

  “A wing clip. It will mend.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “A brush with Gallen. Gabrial saw the i:mages you sent to Gariffred and went to the quarry to look for you. Gallen found him there and accused him of freeing you from the pit.” She dropped a wing, inviting him to climb onto her back. “Quickly. We must leave. There’s a search team sweeping the mountains. They’ll take cover while the storm is bad, but that won’t be for long.” The rain was easing, Grendel noticed. Gaps were appearing in the body of cloud. Her primary heart pumped a fresh run of blood through her veins. If this went wrong, she could be taking her last ever flight.

  Using the bones of her wing like stepping stones, Ren clambered into the gap between her shoulders and reached out to hold two stigs for support. “What of Gariffred?”

  “He’s fine. Concerned for you.” She readied her wings.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To an eyrie Grynt gave us. We can hide you there while we decide what to do about you and your friend.”

  “Friend? What friend?”

  Grendel chewed her tongue. She shouldn’t have let that detail slip. “The Veng have taken another Hom captive.”

  “Where from? The settlement?”

  “No. It was—”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Ren, please—”

  “Take me to Grynt! I’m going to—”

  “REN!” She growled and flicked her ear stigs until he was quiet. “I know you’re angry, but this must wait. If we linger, the search wyng will find us. We’ll talk it through when I’ve got you safe. Hold tight. You’re going to be exposed to the storm. It won’t be pleasant, but the journey isn’t long. Shout if you think you’re losing your grip.”

  She beat down hard to gain height and momentum. Once up, she swung away from the mines and plotted a direct course for the eyrie. On the way she had seen no sign of Gallen and was confident his wyng was seeing the storm out. But her self-assurance swiftly evaporated when she spotted two silhouettes in the sky. They were flying some distance apart, but clearly searching in parallel.

  “What’s the matter?” yelled Ren. He had felt the subtle change of rhythm in her wings.

  “Stay down, we’ve got company. Roamers, I think. They haven’t seen me, but if they get too close they’ll have my scent. Hold tight, I need to change course.”

  And she banked toward the western slopes of Mount Vargos, only to see another dragon flying solo near the rim at the mountain’s peak. In the gloom, it was hard to pick out the coloring, but the shape suggested it could be Veng, possibly even Gallen. Her primary heart beat double. Her only hope now was that the cloak of anonymity extended both ways. At this distance, she could be any dragon. And if she tilted her body carefully enough, Ren would be hard to see. With that thought in mind, she went into a glide, pretending to search like the others. To panic now and flee would be a dangerous mistake. The best she could do was to hide in plain sight.

  For a few moments it worked. Then the sky paled again and Grendel was lit several times from above. She heard the solo dragon call and thought it had seen her. But when she glanced up, she saw it joined to the clouds by a jagged spike of lightning, dancing and crackling across its wingspan. It called again as the bolt released its grip. It was hurt and wanted assistance. Grendel looked toward the two in the distance. They had heard the call and were responding to it, already making a turn that would bring them directly across her flightpath. The squalling rain would blur her identity for a few moments more, but she had to move, and it had to be now.

  “I need to phase,” she said urgently to Ren, not knowing her words were blocked by the wind. Immediately her mind was filled with doubt. A short skip through time would get her out of there, but what would it do to Ren? There was no time to commingle and fix a common destination point. What if she disappeared and he was left floundering in midair?

  Too late; it was a chance she had to take. She angled her sights on a suitable patch of ground, thinking land would be the safest option. In an instant she was scrabbling on the mountainside, spreading her purple-gray wings across the scree to camouflage herself. The oncoming dragons soared overhead. Grendel sighed with relief. She was safe, but lighter.

  Ren was gone.

  Gone, but not dead. In the instant that Grendel had phased, Ren was left floundering in the air. As the storm pressed in and he began to plummet, Grystina rushed into his mind and screamed at him to i:mage a safe place to land.

  The i:mage that entered Ren’s mind was a tree.

  Once, during one of his climbing lessons, he had taken a chance on a slippery rock and had fallen into the branches of a tree that had seeded at an angle to the mountainside. It had left him with scars he could trace to this day, but had crucially not broken any bones or joints.

  It was a tree that saved his life now. Not the tree that had caught him back then—his i:mage was far too vague for that—but one of the cluster of tall green spikers that formed the Whispering Forest. With a crash that scattered a hundred birds and broke more branches than the number of tee
th he could count in his head, he came to a halt. His feet were caught up higher than his knees. His back was sorely twisted. Trails of blood were already racing along his arms. Spiker needles had taken root in every area of uncovered skin. His robe was torn, exposing one side. He was a mess, but he was alive.

  You are clear of the mountains, Grystina said, with a slight element of wonder in her words. She was probably surprised that he’d managed to survive at all, more so that he’d managed to phase this far.

  Ren was in no mood to offer any answers. His pain was too great for that. He reached out and curled his fingers around a branch, wincing as the needles punctured his skin. It took a gargantuan effort to pull himself upright and the same again to free his robe from where it was caught. Finally he was stable, with room enough to move. He was glad of the rain filtering through the trees then. The damp spots tapping at his head and shoulders, combined with the continuous swaying of the trees, kept him awake and made him work. For what seemed like an age he toiled at his wounds, plucking out needles and cleansing any gashes with shreds of his robe. It was some way into this process that he realized he was being watched.

  Ever since Gariffred had bitten his hand, Ren’s capacity to pinpoint sounds and scents had improved beyond measure. The faint but deliberate rustle of a leaf confirmed that something was moving through the trees. He strongly suspected that one of the tribe that called themselves Treemen had heard his fall and come to investigate. But there was none of the mossy odor that usually accompanied a treeman’s presence, just …

  Twisting sharply to his left, he raised a fist to strike. Immediately, he wondered why he’d put his ribs through agony again. There was a bird half hidden among the branches. A dark bird. A caarker. What the blue dragon, Goodle, had called a crow. Its shining black wings flicked up at the shoulders, settling again as Ren lowered his arm.

  It watches you, Grystina said.

  “Aye, let it,” Ren said, with a shrug. Caarkers could look at whom they pleased, couldn’t they?