Dragonsbane

by Shae Ford

  “I am. And when the sun sets upon my life, a new shaman will be born among the wolves. He will stay with his own pack, whether it be Fang, Mange, or Howl. And in the spring, when the wolves come together and live peacefully for a time, he will perform the ritual on all of their young — so that they may be reborn into their second shapes.

  “The Fangs have been unbeatable for many passings of the sun, as you can imagine,” Graymange said, nodding to Kyleigh. “But Bloodfang was fair. After his pack had their fill of prey, the Fangs would leave for a time — giving us all a chance to hunt on the best grounds. Other alphas wouldn’t have been so generous.”

  The mood grew solemn quickly at the mention of Bloodfang. Guilt chewed at Kael’s heart as the silence dragged on.

  “I’ve been told what you did for him. I know that you sent Bloodfang to the eternal woods.”

  Kael raised his chin and immediately found himself snared in the unreadable lines on Graymange’s face.

  “It was a mercy,” he whispered. “Being caged is what we all most fear: to have our claws tied, our voices hushed, to be trapped with nothing but stone beneath our feet — that is death. Bloodfang’s pack was gone. He was chained and alone. Now his spirit is free to roam the wilds once more, free to hunt with those he loves. It was a mercy.”

  Kael wasn’t sure what to say to that. He was afraid that if he tried to say anything at all, the thing that struggled inside his chest might punch its way out. So he clamped his mouth shut and nodded.

  He was thankful when Graymange’s eyes went back to Kyleigh. “I knew the moment you set foot among the trees. The forest sang with your coming, as it always does.”

  “It’s good to be back,” she murmured. “I thought the shamans had abandoned the Grandforest.”

  Graymange inclined his head. “When the King drove our people into the swamps, we had no choice but to flee. Our magic must be kept safe,” he said, touching the wooden medallion at his chest. “But I sensed a strange black cloud over the forest this spring … a great and terrible storm riding on shadowed wings. Something had changed — our order had been interrupted. Now I see why.” His fingers curled around the goose’s ribcage. Its bones snapped into little pieces as he clenched his fist. “Blackbeak has loosed Abomination into our world.”

  “Who’s Blackbeak?” Kael said.

  “The crow shaman,” Graymange barked. Then his head swung to Kyleigh. “I caught the scent of the bear not long ago. The shadow of the hawk follows me. The fox and lion won’t be far behind. It seems the black cloud has called to all of us. With their help, we’ll put an end to Blackbeak.”

  Kyleigh nodded, her eyes on the ceiling.

  Kael did a quick sum: that was only six. He could’ve sworn that Baird had said there were seven shamans. “What about the … sandpipers?” he finished lamely. He couldn’t bring himself to ask about Kyleigh’s family — not when he saw how very pointedly she was glaring at the briars.

  “Sandpipers?” Graymange rumbled.

  “I read about them in a story once,” Kael explained. “Quicklegs the sandpiper was the one who saved Iden the Hale from the … uh …”

  His story trailed off as Graymange stared at him. There was no softness to the edge of his gaze, no curtain over his eyes. “You speak of an ancient time, human. In the elder days, our talismans were strong. There were many families — so many that every child of the forest could belong to a flock or pack if he wished. As the world of men crept into our woods, fewer of our children wished to undergo the change, and families like your sandpipers died out. The shamans were the first in these woods, and now our families are all that remain.”

  Kael was still trying to wrap his head around it. “Talismans?”

  Graymange held the medallion from his chest. There was a wolf carved into its surface: its neck was arched back and its mouth opened in a howl. “The token that holds our magic, that allows us to perform the ritual. We shamans only perform it on our own kind — those are the rules. And we’ve never strayed from our law … with one exception.

  “Blackbeak gave himself up to the human King many years ago. He traded his freedom for power. He has always lunged for whatever trinket sparkles brightest.” Graymange’s eyes went dark. “Blackbeak has been using the ritual on our children for years, changing them before their time. They often go mad. Some are consumed by their animal souls. Such a deed is unforgivable. But what he’s done now is … Abomination.

  “Blackbeak has begun to perform the ritual on humans — creatures with no shapechanger in their blood. They are reborn as strange things. Some, like the creatures you saw tonight, are so twisted by evil that they have no place among the worlds of beast or men. They don’t answer to order, but do only as they’re commanded.”

  Graymange sank into a crouch and began moving towards the den’s entrance. “Soon, this will all be ended. Once the shamans have dealt with Blackbeak, there will be no new births. Then we will hunt and destroy the Abomination that remains.” He stopped to look at Kyleigh.

  She shook her head.

  The halfwolf sighed heavily. “Very well, then. I thank you for your help with the swordbearers, Emberfang. I know you don’t agree with the shamans’ decision … but we are grateful for your help. Return to the road quickly if you don’t wish to fight. The hour has nearly come. Soon the forest will be filled with our war.”

  He slipped through the briars and disappeared without another word.

  For not the first time that day, Kael was confused. “Why wouldn’t we fight with the shamans? Why wouldn’t we help them hunt Titus’s Abominations?”

  She gave him a hard look. “You shouldn’t use a word if you don’t understand its meaning. I’m all for fighting Titus — it’s the way the shamans are going about it that troubles me. Perhaps you’ll understand one day … but I hope you never have to. Now get some sleep,” she grunted, rolling over so he faced her back. “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”

  That was the end of it. Kael knew he would get no more out of her, so he didn’t waste his breath. Instead, he tried to sleep.

  He’d had every intention of using his rucksack for a pillow, but its bottom was still sopping from having been dipped in the river. So he grabbed Baird’s instead.

  It was a mistake.

  Not only did the filthy rucksack reek of mold, but it was also rife with all manner of noisy lumps. No matter how he turned, the pack made some sort of noise: it crinkled or rustled, sometimes it groaned. Sharp corners dug into his scalp.

  Finally, Kael lost his patience. He thrust his hand inside and ripped out the thing that’d been crinkling beneath his neck.

  It was a letter. He turned it towards the faint beams of light that drifted through the briars, trying to see whom the letter had been addressed to. There was a seal on its folded back. He ran his thumb over the wax and felt something stamped into its surface. He tilted the seal into the light … and the crest of Midlan leapt out.

  Kael’s tongue stuck to the back of his throat at the sight of the twisting black dragon stamped into the wax. What was Baird doing with a letter from the King? Had he been right about him being a spy?

  The possibilities whirred inside his head as he turned the letter over. He strained to read the words scrawled across its front. Each one was written in dark ink, looped and flourished at their ends. Kael was so mesmerized by how the letters danced that it took him several moments to read the message:

  His Majesty, Crevan — Sovereign King of Midlan — bids you open this message immediately.

  The words rang inside Kael’s head and down to his fingertips. Before he could grasp what was happening, his thumb slid beneath the fold of the letter. It moved slowly towards the wax seal —

  “No!”

  Fury blinded him as someone ripped the letter from his hand. He gasped, trying desperately to snatch it back. “I’m supposed to read that! He says I’m supposed to open the message immediately!”

  A pair of strong arms wrapped around his sh
oulders. He lunged against Kyleigh’s hold, moving her an inch. She said something in his ear, but he couldn’t hear her. All he could hear were the shrilling words of that letter:

  Open this message immediately! Immediately! Open this message —!

  “You don’t have to open the message,” a new voice said. The power behind it drowned out the shrilling words. “You don’t have to open the message.”

  As he came out of his fury, Kael recognized the voice as Baird’s. He had his knobby hands planted on either side of Kael’s head; his bandaged face was mere inches away. He said the words again and again, letting them fade a little each time until they were only a whisper.

  At last, the letter’s voice disappeared and Kael’s body relaxed. When Kyleigh released him, he collapsed. “What in Kingdom’s name was that?”

  “You shouldn’t fiddle with things that don’t belong to you,” Baird said as he crawled away. He snatched the rucksack up, stuffed the letter inside — and promptly sat on it. “You would’ve gone to Midlan, had you read it. You would’ve marched through those gates and straight to your death.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kael said. He was shaking, now. His limbs trembled with the lingering power of the message. There was no doubt in his mind that he would’ve done whatever that letter had said, had Kyleigh not held him back.

  Baird tsked and shook his head. “Just like all the others.”

  “What others?”

  Kyleigh sighed in exasperation. “The whisperers, Kael. How do you think Crevan got them all to go to Midlan at the end of the War? Did you think he just asked nicely?”

  Kael had never given it much thought. He’d always just assumed that the whisperers had gone because Crevan was King, and to ignore him would’ve been treason. He supposed he should’ve realized that such a powerful race wouldn’t have been fooled so easily.

  Now that he knew the truth, a sudden thought made his toes curl. “But why would Crevan force them to go to Midlan?”

  Kyleigh’s eyes went dark. “Why do you think?”

  The King summoned the whisperers to Midlan, where they were never heard from again. That was how Amos had told the story. He’d had never said for certain what had become of them. And in his heart, Kael had hoped that they’d only been captured. But the look in Kyleigh’s eyes told him the truth:

  Crevan had killed them all. He’d killed every last one.

  “Whispercraft,” Baird said, slapping a hand to the side of his rucksack. “A summons written by the Dog, himself.”

  “Who’s the Dog?” Kael wondered.

  Baird grinned. “Not the most talented craftsman, not by far. But he was a loyal pet. Whatever the King asked of him, he would wag his little tail and hop to obey — that’s why they called him the Dog. He had another name, but I’ve forgotten it. Something like … Horace, perhaps? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Magnus? No. Bertrand? Ah, dear me, I think I’m getting further away …”

  “Maybe it’ll come to you if you sleep on it,” Kyleigh muttered after he’d rattled off several other names.

  Baird looked as if she’d just suggested he stop breathing. “Sleep? I can’t possibly sleep — not with that little thief lurking about!” He jabbed an accusing finger at the wall to Kael’s right. “Besides, I’ve only just woken up.”

  Kyleigh groaned as she curled into a ball and pulled her hood over her head. “He won’t go through your pack again. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson … haven’t you, Kael?” she growled after a moment.

  He certainly had. Now he understood why Morris had warned him to be careful with his words. He’d had no idea that whispercraft could be so powerful. “Why do you even keep that letter?”

  “It’s no harm to me. I can’t see it,” Baird said with a shrug.

  “But other people can.”

  “Well, then perhaps other people should keep their eyes on their own things.”

  “It’s dangerous,” Kael insisted. “Why don’t you burn it and be done with it?”

  Baird gasped indignantly. “This letter is history, young man. History. No self-respecting bard would burn a piece of history. Besides that, it’s a powerful bit of whispercraft,” he added with a sly grin. “One never knows when it might be useful.”

  Chapter 9

  Merchanting

  The afternoon sun rose high, spreading its warmth across Gravy Bay. Golden light fell from between the clouds and filtered through the mansion’s windows. It climbed slowly along a desk in the library, creeping forward with the minutes until it finally came to rest among the strands of Captain Lysander’s wavy hair.

  He sat hunched over at his desk, a small mountain of unopened letters lying at the edge of his reach. A fresh sheet of parchment rested between his arms. One hand held the parchment down while the other was poised above it, gripping a quill.

  Drops of ink slid from the tip of the quill and splattered onto the blank white of the page, but Lysander didn’t seem to notice. His stormy eyes weren’t on the parchment: they were locked on the window.

  Sunlight shone brightly and the sea sparkled back. Lysander’s chest rose and fell with the crashing surf; his gaze grew more distant. His hand lowered slowly until it finally came to rest … squarely in a puddle of ink.

  “Swindlers! Thieves and pickpockets, the lot of them!” Uncle Martin stormed as he marched into the room. “Our fathers would roll in their watery graves if they could see us now — roll, I tell you.”

  “Be that as it may, you’re still going to have to pay the chancellor for those goblets,” Lysander murmured without taking his eyes from the window.

  “Oh, I’ll gladly pay him. But it won’t be coin he gets,” Uncle Martin swung his cane in a dangerous arc, “it’ll be blood!”

  “Excellent. Why don’t you take a crew and explain that to his armada?”

  Uncle Martin snorted through his mustache. “Maybe I will. I’d rather be strapped to the bottom of my ship than have to bow to the will of that stony-eyed monster —”

  “Fantastic idea. I’ll get the rope.”

  “We’re pirates, blast you — not coin-fondling merchants!” Uncle Martin’s shoulders went straight as he gripped the cane to his chest. “You’d do well to remember that, Captain.”

  No sooner had Uncle Martin’s stomping steps faded than two more sets shuffled in. The first pair belonged to Battlemage Jake. He leaned to watch Uncle Martin storm down the hallway and said, with no small amount of concern:

  “You don’t think he’ll really attack Chaucer, do you?”

  “That man is all mast and no sail,” Lysander replied.

  Eveningwing sprinted past Jake and bounded onto the middle of Lysander’s desk, startling his gaze from the window.

  “What have I told you about perching wherever you please?”

  Eveningwing cocked his head to the side. “You don’t mind it when I’m a hawk.”

  “Yes, well, you’re a good deal lighter then,” Lysander grumped as he pulled a book out from under his toes. “And your feet aren’t nearly as filthy. Now what’s this all about? I’m very busy.”

  Jake shoved his spectacles firmly up the bridge of his nose. “Captain, we’ve come to ask you, one last time —”

  “Are those lady’s gloves?”

  Jake stretched out his hands. A pair of black leather gloves covered him from the tips of his fingers to past his wrists. The seams were stretched almost to the point of splitting. They squeaked piteously as he flexed his hands.

  “It was an accident.”

  Lysander raised a brow. “How does one accidentally wear a pair of lady’s gloves?”

  “I wanted to make a new impetus, one that wasn’t so childish,” Jake said shortly. “I was just practicing with the gloves, but it wound up working rather well. I had to use a spell to make them a little larger. They aren’t perfect, but …”

  He stretched a hand out and a tail of green flame rippled to life on his palm. Then he slapped his other hand on top of it, snuffing i
t out. “See? Like a sword and a shield.”

  “How so?”

  “Don’t bother,” Eveningwing said, picking at the feathers that sprouted from his elbow. “He’ll say the same thing twenty times and then get ruffled when you don’t understand.”

  Jake made a face at him. “I couldn’t have possibly explained it any clearer. But we’re not here to talk about my gloves.” A knot bobbed up and down his throat as he swallowed. “We’ve come to ask you, one last time, if you’ll reconsider.”

  Lysander groaned and slapped a hand to his face — smearing a good deal of ink across his stubble. “This again? No, I’m afraid I won’t. I’ve told you a hundred times that Kyleigh knows what she’s doing. If she chose to leave, then I’m sure she had a very good reason.”

  “But they’ve got no chance at all,” Jake insisted. “They need our help.”

  “No chance at what? You don’t know where they’ve gone.” He sighed at Jake’s look. “How many times must I tell you? Kyleigh would never try to take back the mountains alone.”

  “But Kael would. That’s exactly the sort of thing he would do.”

  Lysander snorted. “Kyleigh would never let him. No, I’m sure they’ve gone off on another errand. We’ll attack the mountains next spring, just like we planned.”

  “Dig your head out, Captain,” Jake said, with a surprising amount of scorn. “You know full well where they’ve gone. If you sit around and do nothing, you’ll be sentencing them to death —”

  “Enough!”

  Lysander’s fist came down hard upon the desk. The noise startled Eveningwing so badly that he jumped into his hawk form and bolted out the window. Jake’s spectacles slid a considerable length down his nose, but he made no move to push them back.

  Lysander sighed heavily. He dragged a hand through the waves of his hair, leaving a streak of ink behind. “I know you’re concerned about them. I think we all are. But she always comes back — and when she does, I have no doubt that she’ll bring Kael and that horrible little cat-man —”