Dark Wyng

by Chris D'Lacey

  High in the sky, Pine reappeared and smiled.

  She held up the heart and caressed its folds. “Time to call our dark wyng together,” she whispered. “Take us to the trees now.”

  And Shade flashed her wings again, setting a course for the body of trees the Kaal called the Whispering Forest.

  Even for a dragon of Gus’s size, it required some effort to recover Rolan. By wedging himself between a side of the rock where Rolan lay trapped and the sturdy backbone of the crag, the dragon was able to use his weight to snap the rock apart and pull Rolan clear. The Hom was silent, limp but alive. Gus laid him down as gently as he could. His primary orders had not gone well.

  While he was bending over the body, concerned about the spreading pool of blood, Gallen unexpectedly turned up.

  Gus shuffled to attention.

  “What’s going on?” the Veng commander snapped. “I smell fire. Where’s the other prisoner?”

  Gus hardly knew where to begin. He blurted out his report.

  “Fighting? You were supposed to be GUARDING them!”

  “I was. I … I did,” Gus spluttered. He looked down at Rolan. “This one lives. Just.”

  Gallen made a grating noise deep in his throat. “You’re certain the other one is dead?”

  Gus nodded, relieved that a question, not a fireball, had entered his ears. He pointed at a blackened area of stone, the backdrop to Ty’s explosive end.

  “Which way did this girl and her flying beast go?”

  “West. Toward the forest. Commander, she was carrying—” Gus had forgotten to mention the heart. But Gallen was already in the air. In a single wingbeat, he was away toward the distant trees.

  “What shall I do with the Hom?” Gus cried.

  Gallen roared something terse in reply. But by then he was a dot among the clouds and his words were just as puffy. The order sounded like “Don’t let him die,” though it might just as easily have been, “Squash him and fly.”

  Gus drooped his wings and settled back again.

  Not for the first time, the wind began to sling icy spots of rain across the crag. Gus turned down his scales and checked the horizons. Grainy clouds, fully laden with moisture, were ghosting across the mountain peaks. Yet another storm was coming. He shuddered and put a wing over Rolan to shelter him. In a strange way, he wished he could do more for the Hom. The man had shown bravery against the crow, which was clearly some form of malevolent spirit. It irked Gus that Commander Gallen hadn’t paid more attention to that. Surely this clash between the men was important? Shouldn’t the Elders at least be advised that one of the prisoners had turned into a bird? At that moment, Rolan swam back into consciousness. He groaned in pain, his fingers clawing the bleak, cold rock as he clung to the frail precipice of life. Gus shuffled uncomfortably. What had appeared to be an easy assignment was turning into a difficult test. If his orders were to keep the Hom alive, what was he to do? He could fly the man to healer Grymric’s cave, but that would mean deserting his post and taking the prisoner back into the inner domayne. But if he stood here tapping his claws doing nothing, the Hom was going to die.

  Leaning down, he gave Rolan a nudge with his snout. Gus had never understood why the Hom didn’t try to heal themselves. They covered their wounds well enough, but never seemed to lick them or bathe them in healing auma. Dragons had learned many centuries ago that healing stemmed from the fire within. Not every blow could be repaired, of course. A strike to the eye was often fatal, as was a thrust to the primary heart. But common cuts, no matter how deep, were easy to mend, especially if herbs were taken to aid the recovery. Rolan groaned again. There was a gash in his shoulder the size of a claw’s width. A trail of small creatures with hardened shells and feelers that looked like minuscule stigs were starting to explore it. Gus snorted and blew them away. The flow of air made Rolan open his eyes. He saw Gus arched over him and groaned as if he’d stepped out of one bad dream and straight into another.

  “Kill me,” he grated, his chest whistling from more than one hole. “For the sake of mercy, let me suffer no more.” He looked at the dragon’s powerful isoscele restlessly making patterns in the sky. One blow from that would take him to the Fathers and end this misery for good. But his hand had no strength to demonstrate the motion. So he closed his eyes and tried to roll, thinking he might throw himself off the mountain.

  Gus immediately prevented the fall.

  “No,” croaked Rolan, coughing up blood. “Let me die, skaler. Let … me … die …”

  But Gus would not allow it. With one claw, he hooked up Rolan’s robe and dragged his prisoner to a position of greater safety.

  The movement caused Rolan to howl in agony.

  That was it. Gus could stand it no longer. He studied the shoulder wound from two directions, then put out his tongue and licked the groove clean of dirt. Rolan yelped like a newborn wearling. Gus licked on and ignored the cries. Discomfort during healing was to be expected; the man would thank him when this was done. He seared the cut as he would any wound, stemming the steady ooze of blood and pouring saliva over the quivering flesh. Lastly, he spread the end of his tongue, using its array of flexible barbs to catch the wound and draw the walls together, fusing them with more heat as they joined. Rolan arched his back. His high-pitched scream seemed to split the air and had birds responding with similar cries. His body was gripped by such a wave of tremors that his head fell sideways and knocked against the rock. His eyes rolled. His legs thrashed out a disjointed rhythm. Bubbles of red froth popped from his nose. Gus leaned back, unsure of what he’d done or what now to do for the best. The Hom should be feeling better, not worse. But the convulsions raged on, and were still active when De:allus Garodor and the blue roamer, Gabrial, suddenly descended on the crag. They landed, spraying water off their wings, steam rising from every pore. Both had a frantic look in their eyes.

  Gus sighed through his spiracles.

  This duty was going from bad to worse.

  To add to Gus’s wave of confusion, the Hom boy, Ren, immediately leapt off Gabrial’s back and knelt by the prisoner, urgently speaking Rolan’s name.

  Gus had a mind to swat the boy aside, but did not wish to anger the De:allus. Garodor was the senior dragon here now and a show of respect never went amiss.

  It was Gabrial who opened the dialogue. “Where is Ty, who calls himself Tywyll?” He was panting lightly, his hot breath flying away on the wind.

  Gus aimed a puzzled look at both dragons. The flush of color in their necks suggested they had flown here at battle speed. Maybe the rush of air through the nostrils had fuddled the blue’s brain. Why would he ask a question about the Tywyll?

  “The dark Hom, the second prisoner,” Garodor explained. He noted the flame marks on the crag.

  “Dead,” said Gus. “By my own flame. Tywyll?”

  “Gabrial, why is Rolan shaking like this?”

  Ren had his hands on Rolan’s shoulders, trying to steady his fit. Rolan’s eyes had swollen to the size of pebbles and were staring into the mournful sky.

  Gus explained: “The men were fighting. The dark Hom changed into the form of a crow. He attacked this prisoner and cast him from the cliff. I was chasing another beast, a strange flying horse.”

  “A horse—with wings?” Garodor queried. He and Gabrial exchanged a glance.

  “Now we know how it reached my eyrie,” Gabrial muttered.

  Gus nodded. “It disappeared as I phased. The crow was in my line of fire … I couldn’t help it, De:allus. I—”

  “He’s talking,” said Ren. Leaning close to Rolan, he whispered, “Rolan, it’s me, Ren Whitehair, son of Ned. I pledge you my help, but I need yours also. Ty is dead. But there is evil around us still. If you can speak, friend, say what happened at the cave.” He put his ear to Rolan’s lips.

  “De:allus—?”

  Garodor raised a claw to quiet Gus. “Wait. I want to hear this Hom’s words.”

  “Ty took a knife to Pine,” Ren reported. “Rolan th
ought she was slain, but … a mist came out of the cave and entered her through the wound Ty made. She woke anew. He says Pine was weaker than Ty. She called him Master, but lately turned against him. They argued, a’cause some of the mist went into Wind …”

  “Then the auma of the second goyle was split,” said Gabrial, “between the girl and the horse?”

  “It would appear so,” Garodor muttered. “It may even be stronger for it. This beast,” he said to Gus, “which way did it fly?”

  “In the direction of the forest,” Gus said. “Veng Commander Gallen was here before you. He is in pursuit of the creature. De:allus, the girl had a dragon heart with her.”

  “We need to go,” said Gabrial, grinding his claws. “Gallen may be in danger.” He flicked his wings and looked toward the forest.

  “Wait,” said Garodor, “the man has more.”

  Rolan had gripped Ren’s robe and pulled the boy to him. He spoke in fragile whispers, twice prompting Ren to say, “What?”

  “Well?” said Garodor. “Quickly, Ren.”

  Ren sat back on his knees. “This makes no sense to my ears. He says Ty spoke of raising a creature whose blood is in the mountains … ”

  Gabrial stilled his wings. “What creature?”

  “Go on,” said Garodor. “What else, Ren?”

  “He speaks also of a heart, but it can only be babble.”

  “He must mean the heart the girl stole,” said Gabrial.

  “Where?” said Garodor, leaning forward. “Where, Ren? Where is this heart?”

  Ren shook his head.

  “Where?” pressed Garodor.

  “The air.” Ren lifted his shoulders. “He says the creature’s heart is in the air.” He looked up as a band of crows flew over.

  At that moment, Rolan convulsed again and spewed bile from the side of his mouth.

  “Garodor, we should fly,” said Gabrial.

  “No,” said Ren, hugging Rolan to him. “Gabrial, don’t leave. My friend is dying. You have to help him. Please. He may yet know more.”

  “Ren, his wounds are too great. And you said yourself, he is speaking nonsense. I must pursue this enemy. My duty—”

  “He’s not dying,” Garodor intervened. He turned sharply to Gus. “Guard, as we arrived, I saw you hunched over the prisoner. Did Gallen order you to kill him?”

  “No!” cried Ren, thinking they might.

  Gus rattled his scales. “My orders were to keep the Hom alive, De:allus.”

  “You were trying to heal him, then?”

  Gus swallowed, sending a ripple along his neck. “I seared a wound. Was that wrong?”

  Gabrial glanced at the exposed shoulder and the hot red seam that Gus had created. Was it his imagination, or was the repair beginning to show the soft shine seen on emerging dragon scales?

  “The Hom are not like us,” Garodor said. “Your intentions, though noble, may have caused him greater harm.”

  Gabrial immediately turned his head. “But Ren survived Gariffred’s bi—”

  The De:allus raised a claw to silence the blue. Looking at Gus again, he said, “Take this man to healer Grymric. Explain to Grymric exactly what you’ve done. This command supersedes anything from the Veng. When you’re finished with Grymric, fly to the Prime and give him your report. Tell him that Gabrial and I are following Gallen in pursuit of this girl. Do not speak of your attempts at healing. Prime Grynt will not be pleased about that. Take Ren with you to Grymric’s cave.”

  “Me? No!” Ren protested.

  “Ren, the De:allus is right,” said Gabrial. “The situation has changed. You know your own kind better than Grymric. You can help him save this man. You’ve done what you can for the Wearle and we’re grateful. But there are unknown dangers ahead. I can’t have you on my back in a fight. How would I protect you?”

  Ren stood up, beating his chest. “I made a pledge to Grogan to return his heart. And I know Pine better than any. Mebbe I can protect you.”

  But Gabrial would not be persuaded. He aimed the slightest of nods at Gus.

  Ren screamed another fierce protest. But even as the words were leaving his lips, Gus picked up him and Rolan and flew them away.

  “Brave to part with him,” Garodor said. “He will not forgive you easily.”

  Gabrial spread his wings, tilting them to minimize the buffeting of the wind. “Is he right—about the girl? Could he have helped? Is she still Hom, or just a cloak for the goyle?”

  The rain began to fall in sudden earnest, poking glimmers of brightness in the gloom. Garodor slid back his eyelids to light the way. “If I’m right, the goyle will adapt itself to her neurological systems and look for ways to enhance her, physically, much as it has with the horse. But it will use the Hom senses in the same way she would. In that respect, she is still the girl she was, and will act like it. So, yes, Ren has a point. But this is not his battle. We must destroy this goyle and recover Grogan’s heart. You must have no qualms about attacking the girl should it come to that. Likely she will die if the goyle leaves her anyway. Now, follow me to the forest.”

  “De:allus—one last question. If she—it—plans to challenge us, why would she fly to the forest, not the mountains?”

  “There are trees there,” Garodor said. “And trees offer shelter to the creatures who serve her.”

  Gabrial threw him a searching look.

  “Birds,” said Garodor, pointing at moving specks in the sky. “She’s calling the crows. The forest is where her dark wyng will gather—and where the true evil will rise. Fly.”

  Although speaking while airborne was never ideal, especially in the sort of slanting rain that Gabrial and Garodor found themselves flying through, dragons could still rely on the telepathic exchange of thoughts to hold a dialogue. And that was exactly what they did. Gabrial dropped back alongside the De:allus, opened his mind, and said, I don’t understand. What evil? And why would she call a wyng of crows? They have no strength or power.

  A strange answer came back, one that sent a shudder running all the way to the blue dragon’s wing tips.

  How much do you know about the black dragon?

  A gush of rain swept across Gabrial’s face. He vaporized the water in his nostrils and said, Only what my father told me as a wearling.

  And what did he tell you?

  That when the world began, there was a dragon named Graven, who so angered Godith that She tore his third heart out of his chest. Godith turned the heart to stone and broke it into a thousand fragments. She hid it from Graven so he could not rise again. Why are you asking me this?

  The yellow eyes glinted in the rain. I have a small confession to make—about the stone Gariffred found in your eyrie. I was able to unlock it quite quickly and transfer its memory core into my mind. I’ve been working through the contents ever since.

  I thought I noted your displeasure when I mentioned it to Grynt.

  Yes. I didn’t want to give Grynt any details until I was clear in my mind about what I’d found.

  Gabrial looped his wings against the upward flow of air, making the downdraft powerful enough that he could glide and catch a moment to think. Does it say … about the fhosforent?

  Yes, but in a way you’ll find hard to believe. Givnay didn’t create the stone. I suspect he stole it from the Kashic Archive before he was posted here.

  Stole it? Why? What does it reveal? And why are you telling me, not the Elders?

  Because you’re brave, like your father. Trustworthy. Strong. Clever—when you give yourself time to think. Most of all because you tried to save Graymere. He wasn’t just my pupil; he was my son.

  Your—?

  Stay close, Gabrial, we don’t have much time. We’ll reach the forest soon, and there is no telling what perils await us there. Listen to me now and listen well. Protect this knowledge and let it guide you; it may have a bearing on your wearlings’ future. The stone contains a record of Erth’s history. The Higher have known about this planet for centuries, as far back as you o
r I could imagine.

  Gabrial tightened his eye ridges, causing runnels of water to trickle down his snout. You mean … we’ve been here before? Before the first Wearle?

  Long before the first Wearle. If you had been present when the dark Hom, Ty, was captured, you would have seen evidence of it. He knew words of dragontongue and spoke about a history of dragons on Erth. The words he used are easily explained by the presence of the goyle controlling him, but the goyle should not have known about the colonizations. Even senior dragons like Grynt and Gossana have no knowledge of Erth’s true place in our history. This suggests to me that the goyle was accessing memories in the man, memories so faint that time had almost wiped them out or made fables of them. Ty used them cleverly to save his life.

  Memories?

  Stories of our visits, passed down through generations of Hom.

  Is this a threat to us?

  The stories? No. It’s what else the goyle might have found that concerns me.

  With a swoosh, the De:allus banked to his left to avoid the turbulence rippling his wings. The large sails of tissue on a dragon’s wings were as tough and sturdy as a row of scales, but a sudden head-on gust could set up a wave of undulations that would make the most experienced of fliers giddy.

  Gabrial swept alongside again. Is this to do with the black dragon?

  Garodor changed his beat, found a new current, and peered ahead. Despite the poor visibility, he could see they were still some way from the forest. He had already calculated that they could have phased closer, in stages. But without a specific location to aim at, there was little point wasting energy that might be required later for battle. And there was still a good deal to tell.

  To answer your question, we must go back to the first time Erth was colonized. The memory stone’s archive chronicles the work of a young De:allus. His name was Grendisar. He had powerful transference skills and was considered to be what older dragons call a Sensaur.

  He saw spirits?

  Something like that. Grendisar detected a presence here. A dark force he could not identify or trace, though he was sure it was carried in the minds of the Hom. The Hom in his time were different from the men you and I have encountered. They were hairier, less upright, far simpler of mind. But their use of tools, and traps to catch prey, marked them out as potentially intelligent. Grendisar captured a Hom and commingled with it. He found no hint of the force he was looking for, but there was an unusual admiration for a prominent species of dark bird: crows.