Yes, but I didn’t go far. Did you enjoy the clover?
Y-e-s-s-s. The dragon sneezed, sending a tiny fireball into the air. Then Flame hurried and hurried to find Morven.
You didn’t hurry too much. You stopped to sharpen your claws on a tree. Twice.
Morven saw Flame?
Not exactly. I can see your thoughts, remember?
Flame forgot. Morven is very clever, Flame thinks.
Thank you, said Raine.
Mauric trotted up on Goblin. “They’ve left their post,” he said, indicating the rapidly dwindling guards. “They can’t do that. They’ll be put in the stocks.”
“Tell that to their horses, if you can catch them,” Raven said. “What’s that you’ve got?”
Mauric grinned. “Dragon skin. Flame left it in the meadow when he was rolling about. It should fetch a dandy price at market.”
“Mauric Lindar, I might have known,” Raine said, outraged. “That’s why you volunteered to stay with Flame.”
Mauric gave her an injured look. “Here, now, lass. You can’t expect me to abandon perfectly good dragon skin. Think of the waste.”
A few miles down the road, they encountered the hapless guards returning south. Varl swore and jerked his horse off the road, staying well away from the dragon. The remaining guards did likewise. Two of them showed signs of having been unhorsed, their cloaks and leather hauberks mudded and smeared with grass.
“Varl,” Raven said, nodding to the guard as they rode by.
“Roark.” Red-faced, Varl stared straight ahead, his reins clenched in his fist.
“By Tro, they’re a gloomy, unpleasant lot,” Mauric said as the disheveled guards slunk past them. “What ails them?”
“Flame, I suspect,” Raven said. “I doubt they expected to encounter a dragon on their watch.”
“I should bloody well hope not,” Mauric said. “Crack their skulls open and have a look inside, if they did. Not at all the usual thing, you know, dragons on the North Road.”
“Thank you, Mauric, for stating the obvious.”
“You’re welcome. You need anything else explained, anything atall, you let me know.”
“That’s a great comfort,” Raven said. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”
“Think nothing of it, cuz. Delighted to be of service.”
Chapter 8
Trouble at the Gate
They traveled along the causeway until they reached a roaring river. Raven drew up at the foot of the stout bridge that spanned the watercourse.
“The Shara,” he shouted over the noise of the water. “The river flows out of the Black Mountains. This is the only crossing for twenty leagues.”
“That’s the Shara?” Raine stared in awe at the churning monster.
The Shara of her memory was a sluggish, brown snake, coiling through the brown foothills and soupy quagmires of Durngaria. This river was an angry torrent, snapping its rocky jaws as it surged past.
Raven urged Lúthon into a trot. The horse danced across the bridge, his unshod hooves plunking softly against the stone.
“Yo, up ahead,” Mauric shouted after them. “Our darling dragon’s in a dander, again.”
Raven wheeled Lúthon around. Mauric sat astride Goblin on the south side of the bridge. He flashed them a rueful grin and pointed to the dragon. Flame hunkered in the road, nostrils flared, and eyes narrowed to gleaming slits.
What is it, Flame?
Flame glared at the bridge in affront. Morven said no more wobbles.
Morven was wrong, but this is the last wobble, I promise. We’re almost at the Citadel.
Phhhh. The dragon exhaled rudely. Flame does not care about Silly Dells.
“What’s the hold up?” Raven demanded.
“Flame is upset,” Raine said. “He doesn’t want to cross the bridge.”
“Oh, for the love of Tro. I’ve had enough of this.”
Dismounting, Raven strode to the end of the bridge. “Stop this foolishness at once, you overgrown salamander, and get over here,” he said in a voice that carried over the roaring water.
Flame snorted and lashed his tail.
“It’s that way, is it? Very well,” Raven said. “Good luck living under a bridge. Should you change your mind, there’s a fat sheep waiting for you at the Citadel.”
Sheep?
“Come along, Mauric,” Raven said. “Flame has decided to stay here.”
Raven mounted Lúthon once more and turned the horse’s head to the north. Goblin clopped across the bridge and Mauric joined Raine and Raven on the other side.
Morven?
Raine heard the muffled scratch of claws on stone, then the dragon shot past them. Flame squatted in the middle of the road, his wings outstretched.
“What now?” Raven said wearily, halting Lúthon once more.
Flame will not live under a wobble. Flame will go to the Silly Dell with Morven, but Flame wants two sheep, not one.
“Flame says he’ll come with us, on one condition,” Raine told Raven. “He wants two sheep, not one.”
“Disgraceful bandit,” Raven said, scowling at the dragon. “Doubled the price, have you? Very well, then. Two sheep it is. Now, move your scaly arse out of our way.”
Flame snorted in delight at this abuse and galumphed off, churning up the hard-packed road with his clawed feet.
“What’s that?” Raine asked, indicating a verdant smudge in the distance.
“The Greenwood, the oldest forest in Finlara,” Raven said. “A gift from Reba to Finn when he was named first rowan. The trees there are called sentinels. They grow nowhere else in the world.”
They rode on, the green blur looming higher and higher, until it blotted out the mountains beyond. The North Road disappeared into the leafy gloom, a dark tunnel slicing the belly of the wood. They clopped into the forest and the outside world dropped away, the silence unbroken but for the soft thud of the horse’s hooves on the trail and the wind through the heavy branches. The air was rich with the scents of wood, sap, green needles, and damp vegetation. In the cool shadows beneath the mammoth trees, snow still mantled the ground and clung to the tree branches. Raine gazed at the sentinels in awe, towering giants with thick black bark, massive trunks, and limbs wide enough for two men to walk along side by side.
The trees seemed to murmur in awareness.
“They’re watching us,” Raine said in a low voice. “The trees are awake.”
“Aye,” Raven said. “They know we’re here, and they’ve taken our measure.”
Something scuttled in the branches overhead, showering them with snow.
Raine sputtered and wiped her face. “Hey,” she said. “Cut it out.”
Flame grinned down at them from a huge branch. Opening his wings, he glided out of the tree and landed in their path. He swished his tail and hissed playfully at the stallion. Lúthon dismissed this foolery with a flick of his ears.
Stupid shorse, Flame said, scrabbling with his claws up another tree in a shower of bark. Crouching on a massive limb, he twitched his tail, ready to pounce again.
“Someone’s found his second wind,” Raven said. “He’ll be ready for those sheep when we reach the Citadel, methinks.”
“Are sheep expensive?” Raine asked.
“Not particularly. Why?”
“I don’t have any money. I was wearing jammies when I came to Tandara.”
“Wearing what?”
“Sleeping attire. It was cold, and I was seriously underdressed. Mauric made me a cloak from a woolen blanket.”
Flame leapt from tree to tree, and Raven ducked to avoid another flurry of dislodged bark and snow. “A practical solution.”
“Yes, it was, though I wasn’t very gracious about it at the time, I’m afraid. I was mad as fire and standing barefoot in the sn
ow.”
“ʼTis a wonder you didn’t get frostbite.”
“I’m sure I would have, if Mauric hadn’t made me a pair of boots out of one of his vests.”
“Did he, indeed? I’d no notion Mauric was so resourceful. Why do you need money?”
“To take care of Flame and Chaz,” Raine said. “And myself, too. Tandara is my home, now.” She frowned, batting absently at a low-hanging branch. “Unfortunately, my skill set is limited.”
“You have your magic.”
“I’m not a wizard, not by a long shot. Bree says that sort of thing takes years and years of practice. In the meantime, I have to earn a living. I’m a fair baker. My aunt taught me. Maybe I can find a place in the kitchens.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’re the rowan’s guest, and so are Flame and Chaz.”
“For the time being, but we can’t stay here forever.”
“Worry about tomorrow when it comes. In the meantime, Flame should learn to fend for himself.”
“You’re right.” Raine frowned in thought. “It’s important for Flame to be self-sufficient, don’t you think?”
“Very dragon-ish. In a few weeks, when things get settled, I’ll take him into the mountains and teach him to hunt.”
“Would you?” Raine was relieved. “Thank you. That would be a great help.”
They rode out of the wood and onto a wide heath covered in gray-green furze and dotted with clumps of broken stone. An enormous peak rose in the distance, a black slab of rock thrust against the blue sky. A city spilled down the side of the mountain, the buildings clinging to the steep slope.
“The Citadel.” Halting the stallion, Raven looked back toward the Greenwood. “We’ll wait here for Mauric and Flame to catch up.” He pointed to the castle on top of the mountain. “See that building at the summit? That is Rowan Fast, where you’ll be staying.”
“And you? Where will you stay?”
“I have a house in the city. Hedda finds my presence…grating.”
“Because of the scandal?” Raine blurted and wished she hadn’t. Homecomings, she suspected, were bittersweet for Raven.
“Heard about that, did you?” Raven’s hands tightened in Lúthon’s mane. “The scandal is but half of it. I’m the rowan’s bastard, and that touches Hedda on the raw, for some reason.”
Raine made no comment, but she disliked the queen of Finlara already. She returned her attention to the mountain fortress. Soaring stone barricades with a multitude of towers and barbicans surrounded the city.
“The outer wall is roughly forty feet high and eight feet wide,” Raven said, noticing the direction of her gaze. “The inner wall is nearly twice as high. A wide, grassy space lies between the two walls. Hedda and her ladies-in-waiting enjoy a stroll along the green or playing at quoits. They’ve no notion, I’ll wager, of the green’s true purpose.”
“And that is…?”
“It’s a kill zone, Raine. Should the enemy breach the outer defenses, the defenders attack them from the inner wall.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Nay. Many years ago, an army of Torgs sailed across the strait and assailed the city from the mountains to the north. They got a stone giant soused and handed him a big club—stone giants are happiest when they have something to bash. This one hammered at the wall until it finally gave way.”
“What did you do?” Raine asked, intrigued.
“We waited until the Torgs came through the hole and greeted them with hot tar, boiling oil, and arrows. Torgs are fierce fighters, but they die the same as other men. That lovely promenade Hedda enjoys so much is fertilized by corpses.”
Raine wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. What happened to the stone giant?”
“We pushed him off the cliff with a battering ram. Stone giants are heavy, and they can’t swim. He sank to the bottom of the sea, where he made a fine reef. The fishing in that spot is grand, or so I’m told.”
Raine pictured the dull-witted stone giant sitting on the ocean floor, covered in barnacles with schools of colorful fish flitting around him. “What about the inner wall?” she asked. “Has it ever been breached?”
“Nay. The city’s position on the mountain and its many walls make it virtually impregnable. You’ll be safe in the Citadel. See that there?” He gestured to a hazy break in the city wall. “That’s the main gate, which faces south. There are gates to the east, west, and north, as well. The east gate is commonly called the market gate. The northern gate is small and seldom used. More of a bolt hole than anything else.”
Raine shielded her eyes from the glare of the lowering sun. “There are a lot of turrets.”
“Aye, more than two score. Ten of them are named for the gods, two for Tro, and one each for the other eight. There’s even a tower dedicated to Magog. Our esteemed founder was a firm believer in hedging his bets.”
“What about Xan? Does he have a tower, too?”
“Xan was not forgotten. Kron forged a likeness of him from sethral and set it in a garden in the city’s heart. The garden blooms year round. It’s a pleasant spot in winter…if you don’t mind the wailing tree. Reba planted it in memory of Xan, and it never ceases mourning.”
“Well, that’s creepy.”
Raven chuckled. “The tree has its uses. It shrieks in warning when the city is under attack. I heard it once, long ago. Couldn’t hear thunder for a fortnight.”
“When the Torgs attacked?”
“This was years before that, when I was new to the guard. Three ice giants attacked from the far reaches of the North, and the tree sounded the alarm.”
“Ice giants?”
“Glaciers that take living form, in a manner of speaking. They’re made of ice, not flesh and bone, and are practically unstoppable.”
“How did you defeat them?”
“We didn’t. The rowan and I rode out with fifty men to meet them, but we were sadly outmatched. It’s hard to fight a mountain of ice. We were done for until Gertie showed up. She’d dipped in the barrel rather heavily the night before and had a sore head. As you can imagine, she was none too pleased when the wailing tree woke her. She stomped out of the city, aimed a few pithy curses at the ice giants and shattered them to bits, then stomped back inside to sleep it off.”
Raine laughed. “That sounds like Gertie. The city must have been overjoyed.”
“Aye, they sang her praises until spring came and the ice melted. She made herself scarce after the flood.” He turned at a sound from the Greenwood. “Ah, here come our stragglers. I was beginning to fear they were lost.”
Flame bounded out of the woods and across the moor, followed closely by Mauric on Goblin.
“I couldn’t get him down from the trees,” Mauric said, looking much vexed. “He was scurrying about like a trodyn squirrel.” He rubbed his head. “Got me with a pinecone, a time or two, the devil. Has a hell of an aim with his tail.”
“Flame,” Raine scolded. “That is no way to treat a friend.” Flame lowered his head and looked abashed. “It’s all very well for you to act contrite,” she said, “but you owe Mauric an apology.”
Flame lifted his tail and gently brushed Mauric’s head with the tip.
“Oh, stop that.” Mauric swatted Flame’s tail away. “Leave be, Raine. ʼTwas all in good fun.”
See, Morven? Flame was having fun. The dragon yawned. Flame is tired.
Curling up on the heath, the dragon closed his eyes and went to sleep.
“Tuckered out, the poor beastie,” Mauric said. “Do we wake him?”
“No, let him sleep,” said Raven. “The rowan has given orders to bring him into the city after nightfall.” He squinted at the lowering sun. “We’ve a few hours before dark. Raine and I will ride ahead, make sure the gatekeeper has been apprised and the streets are clear. We don’t want a riot.”
Mauric nodded
. “I’ll stay with Flame.”
Leaving Mauric to watch the snoozing dragon, Raine and Raven continued up the North Road to the city. At the end of the broad causeway, twin towers bracketed a massive iron-bound gate. Braced against each tower was a gigantic stone bear standing upright on its massive hind legs, slavering jaws parted in a frozen snarl.
“Trowyn’s Gate,” Raven said, motioning to the colossal ursine pair that guarded the entrance. He pulled up. “Hear that? It’s the Wailing Tree.”
Raine listened and detected the faint doleful ring of a distant chime. “It’s rather pleasant, actually,” she said. “Not at all what I expected.”
“You grow accustomed to it. When it shrieks, now, that’s something else. ʼTwould wake the dead.”
The North Road split at the main gate, running abreast the outer wall in both directions to the east and west. They turned east and made their way around the mountain.
“Reba’s tower,” Raven said as they passed an ivy-covered tower. “It faces Fortenral, the royal seat of Tannenbol. The towers at the market gate commemorate Seth and Kron.”
They followed the road that curved around the sprawling mountain. Raine lifted her gaze to Rowan Fast, perched high above them in the scudding clouds. To anyone looking down at them from that great height, they would be reduced to ants.
A league farther on, they encountered a man on horseback hurrying toward them, a tall, raw-boned fellow wearing a sack hat and a harried expression. He drew up beside them.
“Roark,” he said, removing his floppy hat and wiping his brow. “I heard you were home. I’m the keeper of the east gate. Have you seen the rowan? It’s a matter of some importance.”
“Not since this morning,” Raven said. “Is aught amiss?”
“You could say that, sir. Frankly, I’m at my wit’s end. It’s one of the Kronlings, you see.”
“No, I don’t see. Speak up, man. What is it?”
“It’s a frost giant, m’ lord.” The man looked close to tears. “He’s blocking the gate and won’t budge. Says he’s waiting on someone called Raine.” He jammed the shapeless hat back on his head, his cheeks blotched with indignation. “I’ve tried reasoning with him, but he’s dim, I tell you. Dim.”
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