Dark Wyng

by Chris D'Lacey

  Ren looked around. The faces were still in shock. “Aye, mebbe.”

  “Good. Then summon it.”

  “What?”

  More gasps. Among them, Mell’s. “Bring one here? Bring a skaler amid us?”

  “Why not?” said Ty, looping his whinney to a post. “What better passage to those peaks can you think of, other than wings?”

  They retired to Mell’s shelter: Mell, Ty, and Ren. Pine lingered at the flap for a moment or two, but left in a cloud when Ty said gruffly, “The whinneys need water. And my rein was broken. See to it, girl. While I rest.”

  Ren was happy to watch her go.

  He was less happy, however, seeing Ty on the hides his father had owned, as if they were Ty’s to inherit now. “I would speak with the boy alone,” Ty said. “There is a fury coming. You should be no part of it.” He touched Mell’s arm, letting his finger slide down her pale skin.

  Not unkindly, she removed his hand. She took a cloth and soaked it in a pot of cold water. “Whatever plans you make will be mine to share. I will not part easily with Ren again.” She held his hair aside and began to bathe the cuts on his forehead. “Is it true, Ren? Can you truly summon skalers?”

  “Only one,” said he. He looked stiffly at Ty, who had slid off his boots. “His name is Gabrial. But he will not come yet. He is injured, though dragon wounds quickly mend.”

  “Dragons?” said Mell, pronouncing it well.

  “Their name,” said Ren. “That is what skalers call themselves.”

  “A harsh word,” said Mell. “I like it not.” She dipped the cloth again.

  “Injured how?” asked Ty. “Tell your story, boy. My ears grow ever keen to hear it.”

  With a nod from his mother, Ren told all he knew. He started with the Kaal being driven from the mountains when the dragons had burst through their fire star, and how he had crossed the scorch line in defiance and become involved with Grystina’s young.

  “You risked your life to save that little one?” Mell said. “I didn’t know that.”

  Ren gave an unhappy shrug. For therein lay a terrible irony. His father had taught him all life was precious. But if his father and the tribe had listened to Ren’s story when he had carried Gariffred back to the settlement, Ned Whitehair might be alive today. No spiker scratch nor dragon bite hurt as much as that harsh loss.

  The talk then turned to the battle with the darkeyes and how those creatures had come to be.

  “Goyles?” said Mell. “This word also means nothing to me.” She dabbed at a gash by Ren’s left ear. There were many broken spiker thorns still to be removed.

  “If dragons eat too well of a rock they call fhosforent, they turn into goyles,” Ren said, wincing away from his mother’s attentions. She tapped his face and made him still. “They have closed their mines a’cause of it. Yet many dark rumors drift among them. Some say these goyles are the servants of a dragon whose name my tongue cannot twist enough to utter. A black beast, worse than a goyle. They fear this creature is about to rise and turn on their world. A place they call—”

  “Do the dragons believe all the goyles are dead?”

  Ty had been listening intently, picking slowly at the ends of his fingers. His sudden interruption slightly startled Ren.

  “Aye. The goyles were all defeated. I faced the last on a high ledge on Longfinger.”

  “On Longfinger?” Mell put a hand to her breast. The horrors were stacking up.

  “I saw it burned, Ma. A beast as ugly as you ever witnessed.”

  Mell wrung out her cloth. “So many dangers. It weakens me just to hear tell of them. And see how these ventures look on you. If you helped these … dragons in their quelling of the goyles, why do you return so beaten and scarred?”

  Ren looked to one side, his eyes filling with resentment. “Seven moons after the fighting were done, they threw me into a pit.”

  Mell rested a comforting hand on his face. “Why, Ren? What wrong had you done?”

  “Nought, Ma, I swear.”

  “He does not need to do wrong,” said Ty, loosening his robe at the neck. He picked up a piece of skewered hopper and ate without waiting for an invitation. “The answer is plain: The dragons fear him. Show your hand, boy.”

  Ren held up the hand that Gariffred had bitten. On the back was the star-shaped scar.

  “That wound was made by their fangs,” Ty said. “If Ren has their blood, they will worry that he may boast some of their gifts. They will not want their powers spread among the Hom.”

  “Is this true?” asked Mell, stroking the scar with a gentleness that might yet smooth it away. “Are you changed, Ren? Are you no longer the son I bore?”

  Ren thought on this a moment and shook his head. “I have no wings on my back nor fire in my gut. I speak a little of their tongue, no more. I am still yours, Ma.”

  That pleased Mell greatly. She brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them. “You bear the weight of many odd whispers,” she said. “They say you once brought fire from this hand and vanished like smoke on the day Ned died.”

  Ren glanced at Ty. The stranger’s eyes had dipped toward his arm, where the faintest sheen of scales was showing. He drew his robe down and Ty averted his gaze. “Gifts or none,” said Ty, “it is a wonder he looks into your pretty eyes now. Most captors would have killed him already.”

  “You speak as if you know their ways,” said Ren, remembering Grystina’s warnings about Ty. She had been decidedly quiet, as if she feared coming forward in his presence. She was there, all the same, prowling the distant borders of his mind, monitoring every word Ty uttered.

  “I merely speak what I find to be clear,” Ty said. “When providence dropped you into my path, you were fleeing from harm, were you not?”

  “Bringing the forest with you,” Mell muttered, moving her attentions to the scratches that covered Ren’s legs. “How is it you have thorns where every hair grows?” She teased out another and threw it aside.

  “I fell,” said Ren, offering no more explanation than that. Fleetingly, he thought about Grendel and how she must be feeling. Deeply concerned, no doubt. As soon as possible, he must i:mage Gariffred. But not here, not in Ty’s presence. He trusted this guileful stranger less than he trusted Veng Commander Gallen. “I would hear something of you,” he blurted, cutting Ty off before he could raise another question. “Why should I call a dragon to your aid when I know nothing of your purpose?”

  To his surprise, it was Mell who spoke up. Almost in jest, she said, “Ty has plans to steal a dragon heart.”

  “What?”

  A pot fell over, caught by a sudden jerk of Ren’s foot.

  His mother sighed. “Not from a live beast.” She righted the pot.

  Ren’s gaze drilled into Ty’s. “What do you know of dragon hearts?”

  “I know that one exists in those mountains. My feathered servants have seen it, held in a cave, guarded only by—”

  “No.” Ren pushed forward suddenly, as if he would tear out the stranger’s throat. “No. You cannot take that.”

  “Ren!” Mell bore his weight against her hands. “Stay, boy. What vexes you so?”

  “The heart he speaks of belonged to a spirit that helped me escape. I made a pledge to it … I …”

  “Ah.” Ty nodded slowly. A sly smile touched the corners of his mouth. He tore off another piece of meat. “Now I see your unfinished business—or some small part of it. You wish to reconnect this spirit with its heart. A dangerous errand, Ren. One that will find no favor with Bryndle or any Kaal who curses your name. They would wave you off and be glad to see you chewed by the first beast you meet, despite your talk of saving Rolan. And yet you yearn to have their regard. Despite their resentment, you would give them justice and see their lands restored. A fine hero you would be if you drove the beasts off. And there is a way. A way that I can help you with. Cob Wheeler and others fell wrong in their quests because they carried their resentment on the point of their swords. I offer you a diffe
rent kind of counsel. You do not have to cut off a thousand scales to achieve your end. If the heart was returned to the spirit you raised, that spirit would promise an oath to you. Then you would have a powerful ally, a force that might be turned against those who imprisoned you. A spirit reborn is a thing to be reckoned with. Tell me, how did the dragon die?”

  “Cruelly.”

  “Then it will have a loathing to bear.” Ty slapped his knee. “There, Ren, we have our quest. For the good of these people, I offer you my service without condition. Summon your skaler and we will talk on this again.”

  Ren shook his head. “I have no need of your help. I command a fearsome dragon. What would sway me to join a mere band of caarkers?”

  “An outcome neither you nor your dragon could accomplish. But one that is vital for your success. Now, I have journeyed long and my eyes are heavy. Woman, may I rest my head here awhile?”

  Mell blushed a little and fussed with the cloth. Her head was spinning with a host of contrasting thoughts about Ty, but she had never been one to refuse a traveler rest. “Aye, if it pleases you to stay.”

  “It does not please me,” Ren spat.

  But his mother refused to hear his protest.

  Defeated, he pushed her comforts aside and stood up to leave. “I say again, what lure do you offer me, stranger?”

  Ty lay back and closed his eyes. “The heart has turned to stone around the fire inside it.”

  “I know this. What of it?”

  “Neither you nor your dragon can break it—I can.”

  “How?”

  A smile flickered across Ty’s face.

  “How?” Ren demanded.

  “Ren, you have your answer,” said Mell. “Ty’s promise alone is your lure.”

  She nodded at the world outside.

  And all Ren could do was storm from the shelter, bitterness chewing at his aching breast.

  He went to the river to brood there awhile, for wherever he walked around the settlement, people went about their business and would not speak. Mothers drew their children away. Even the mutts took nothing from his hand. He had become that worst of all things: an outcast among his tribe.

  “Where are you?” he said to his reflection in the water.

  I am here, said Grystina. Calm yourself, Ren.

  “I cannot.” He rested his chin on his knees. “I am shunned worse than a stinking snorter. And Ty is making eyes at my ma. And she at him! Yet my father’s spirit is barely loosed.”

  That may be the least of your troubles.

  Ren picked up a stone. He threw it at his face, making ripples of his eyes. “Who is Ty? Whence did he come?”

  What is Ty? would be a better question.

  Ren shook his head in confusion. “I see nought but a man.”

  I sense more than a man. He shadows his auma and he does it well. But in moments of anger, a glint of darkness reveals itself. Think closely on the things he says. He rightly supposes that dragons would not want their power spread among the Hom.

  “So?”

  How does he know that dragons refer to men as Hom, when you are the only Hom who speaks our tongue?

  Ren blinked and thought about this. “Does he read me the way some dragons can?”

  Perhaps. More likely, Ty is like you. Somehow, he has gained some dragon auma.

  “Then why is his manner so sly?”

  I do not know.

  There was a pause. Downriver, a honker called.

  “What should I do?”

  Join him. Form your alliance and go to the mountains.

  “What? Previous you spoke against this.”

  Sometimes deceit must be met with the same. We must learn what Ty is about before we can turn the Wearle against him.

  Ren thumped his hands flat on the riverbank. “But I don’t go back to aid the Wearle. You know my quest! I would save Rolan’s life, return Grogan’s heart, and … and take my revenge on Gallen and Grynt!”

  He almost felt her snort. Ren, put away this folly. I read you better than you read yourself. Vengeance is not what you truly want. Justice, yes, Ty is right about that, but not war. You will die if you attack Grynt’s eyrie. So will Gabrial. Grendel will be banished and my wearlings made savages. Grogan will be forever in torment. His spirit will haunt you all your days. For all your anger at Grynt and Gallen, they will sway in your favor if you unmask this creature that walks like a Hom and says it can open a dragon heart. There is a threat about Ty that I cannot gauge. He should be the one in their grasp, not you.

  Ren slapped his hands to his face in dismay.

  You know I speak wisely, Grystina said. Honor is something we treasure, Ren. It’s true you have been badly treated, but do not turn against the dragons now. Trust me in this. Be guided by the love you have for Gariffred. Would you slay a dragon in front of the drake?

  “No,” Ren said weakly, beginning to see her way. He could picture the horror in Gariffred’s eyes if such a scene should ever come to pass. But the balance of power was rapidly changing. Gallen and Grynt must know by now that the simple Hom boy they’d thrown into a pit was more of a threat than they’d bargained for. And so Ren made a pact with himself: He would be peaceable if the dragons were. Let that be his one concession to “honor.”

  He cleared his hands from his face. “Then let it be so. I hear your counsel and will follow it—unless the Wearle should turn on me again. Shall I summon Gabrial as Ty demands?”

  Not yet. There is more to learn. Take me to the horse.

  “The what?”

  The white whinney. We call them horses. They are gentle creatures, simple of mind. With my help, you might commingle with it. I tried when we journeyed through the forest, but it was difficult while you slept. I wish to know more of the enchantments on it. The vanishing trick it performs can only be a clever act of phasing, which must have its origins in dragon auma. If we can learn how it—

  A twig broke.

  Ren turned to see Pine, standing behind him on the rise of the riverbank. The way she crept up like that unnerved him. His mind immediately flashed back to the night she had betrayed him to the oafish scoundrel Varl Rednose. An act that had led to so many deaths. He looked beyond her, worried that a mob might be coming. But it was just the two of them. And a flower, of course.

  “What do you want?” he said, jumping up. He shuddered as he realized he’d rather have his back to the river than to Pine. Her strange new teeth made his flesh prickle. He was still uncertain where she stood in all this. Did she ride with Ty of her own free will, or had he dragged her under his spell?

  “Bryndle Woodknot is bearing an ax,” she said, her words floating like seeds on the wind.

  Ren’s heart missed a beat. He couldn’t be sure what was more unsettling: the unspoken menace in Pine’s short message or the calm with which she’d delivered it. Had he heard correctly? Bryndle, with an ax? What was that about?

  She plucked a petal. “He says he will have your head afore this night.”

  Now Ren looked with some urgency at the shelters. They were a hundred paces off, behind a cluster of trees. There was no sign yet of any ax-wielding madman.

  In one movement Pine sat down on the spot, her legs crossed, her feet tucked neatly beneath her. Almost playfully she said, “I come here to warn you. Bryndle makes haste to your shelter. He goes calling Ty’s name, fully and loud. Tywyll! Tywyll! Show yerself, rogue!”

  Tywyll. The name sat up at the front of Ren’s mind. And Grystina was suddenly alive again. Ren, do you know the weight this word carries? Do you understand the fear it raises in dragons?

  He didn’t. Not fully. Though he thought he remembered Grynt speaking it once, banning its use throughout the Wearle. Tywyll. Was this not the root of an ancient legend that Gabrial and others feared so much? A word that warned of an evil black dragon? Tywyll. He rolled the word over his tongue. And suddenly, there was an answer. The crispness of “Ty” was softened when the name was spoken in full, but it was there all the same, plai
n as the blackest nose on a mutt. Ren gritted his teeth, cursing himself for not making the connection earlier.

  We must escape, said Grystina. Now we must summon Gabrial in haste.

  “No,” Ren muttered, unaware that Pine was merrily lapping up his confusion. He failed to see a faint smile flash across her lips. “Why does Bryndle come for me sudden?”

  “He accuses we three of murder and magicks.”

  “We three?”

  “Me, you, Ty. Your ma, Mell, also. I ran to the water, afeared of his wrath.”

  Ren tightened his fist. Magicks? He had done no magicks. He dashed a look through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a man’s brash voice was calling out a brutal challenge to another. “Girl, be done with your riddles. What gives Bryndle cause to rage at any of us?”

  “The blight he found on Shade.”

  “What blight?”

  Pine pointed to the back of her knee. “The scar that also showed on Wind.”

  What? Now Ren shook his head as if nought but fluff was pouring out of Pine’s mouth. In all the years he had known the waif, she had barely spoken a jot. These two new teeth had made her chatter like a rattling pan. Here she sat, telling a tale about Wind? Wind was his father’s pure white mare. She had died during Ned’s ill-fated mission to the darkeye cave. Ren remembered his father telling him so.

  He heard a woman scream. It could have been any woman. But it could, just as easily, have been his mother.

  “I smell blood,” said Pine. She picked the last petal.

  Ren—

  Grystina wanted to speak again. But Ren’s energy was all in his feet. He pounded through the bracken, between the first shelters, and burst, panting, into the clearing.

  Bryndle Woodknot was writhing on his back, his last breaths eking out of his mouth.

  Buried deep in his chest was an ax.

  A stain as big as a basket of berries had already spread the width of his robe.

  All around him, scavenger crows were gathering.

  Ren skidded up and knelt beside him. He tried to clasp Bryndle’s hand, but Bryndle with his last act beat the hand away and clawed at Ren’s throat as if he would tear Ren’s soul right out of him. “Villain,” he croaked. And, with a stuttering sigh, he passed into the world of spirits.