Dragonshadow

by Elle Katharine White

  How do you fight a gale? My mind raced; I turned just enough to see the Hall below me without losing sight of the nixies. A heap of peaty ashes sat in the fire pit, cold and dead. I swore. The nixies hopped closer to the edge of the sill, following my every movement with fourteen pairs of faceted eyes.

  “What do you want?” I asked, hoping at least one of the nixies spoke Arlean. For good measure I repeated it in Low Gnomic.

  One of the smaller nixies leaned out over the sill and said something in Galeg that made its fellows laugh.

  “I don’t speak Galeg.”

  “Nor good we speak Arle,” the nixie said. “Want we what?”

  “Yes, what is it you want?” I asked again.

  “Want we what? Blood. Much blood, hot to drink!”

  A second nixie looked over the first’s shoulder. “And fun, all having!”

  “Chase!” hissed another.

  “Hunt! Long hunt, many prey!” said the first.

  “Why are you hunting us?”

  The other nixies looked at the smallest, who seemed to be the leader of their little gale. “Hotfire you dragons, not welcome.”

  I stood. Slowly, slowly. “We’re only passing through. We’re not here to harm you.”

  “Ah, but harm all you we will.” The leader rose on double-jointed legs and spread its wings behind it. The teeth-baring grin returned. “Run you now?”

  “No.”

  “Now?”

  “No!”

  The other nixies followed their leader. Some rose a few inches into the air, their wings moving as fast as a hummingbird’s. All grinned at me. All chorused the single word, “Now?”

  Don’t run. Don’t run. Run, and they’ll swarm. Swarm, and they’ll kill you. Sketches from the Chronicle crowded into my head with images of Riders who’d fallen afoul of a gale, their cheeks torn open, teeth broken, ears missing, eyes plucked from their sockets. Or you’ll wish they had. They hovered in front of my face as I backed toward the stairs, each step steady and deliberate. A drop of sweat slid down my nose and fell trembling from my chin. My calves burned from the effort of moving slowly. “Why are you fighting alongside the valkyries?” I asked.

  “Bird-brothers find fun sport!”

  “Don’t valkyries eat nixies?”

  The small nixie spat. Its spittle struck the board next to my boot, sizzling on the damp wood. “Like them, no, but they eat brothers now no. Haark forbid it.”

  My hands shook. “Who’s Haark?”

  “Old, old wise bird-brother!” The second nixie flitted ahead of the leader. “Us give good chase, good blood, good hate, all fun!”

  The first nixie hissed something in Galeg and the second retreated. The sounds of battle from outside grew louder as I reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not your enemy.”

  “All not-us folk make enemy!”

  “I can prove it. I-I have a gift for you.”

  The leader’s eyes narrowed. “Gift?”

  “A treasure.”

  “What treasure?”

  “Come see.” I backed toward the middle of the Hall, toward the fire pit and the pile of furs. The gale followed, whispering to each other in Galeg. Without taking my eyes off the nixies I pointed to the silver box. “It’s there.”

  The first nixie flew past me and landed on the lid. “This what?”

  “Open it and see.”

  “Tell you first. Inside what?”

  “Humans can’t look.” Inspiration struck. “Only the strongest of the Oldkind can open it.”

  A greedy light shone in those faceted eyes. “Strong we, yes!”

  “Take it! It’s yours.”

  The nixie tapped the silver with one fist, its head cocked to listen. The second nixie flew to its side. “Only box?”

  The leader frowned. “Open it only me. Back.”

  “Back, you. Open it me.”

  A third nixie flew forward. “Open it all.”

  “Strongest!”

  I felt for the corner of the bearskin.

  “Open all, open now!” another demanded and, seizing the edge of the lid, tried to force it open. The lid didn’t budge. The other nixies laughed and the leader shoved the struggling nixie out of the way, but it had no more luck than the first. It piped something shrill in Galeg. The remaining nixies surrounded the box. “Wait,” the first nixie said. “Wait . . . now—!”

  I flung the bearskin over the gale. The nixies shrieked and clawed at the pelt, but the hide was thick and even their teeth couldn’t pierce it. My hands trembled as I rolled together the ends of the bearskin and cast around for something to tie it with. A length of cord hung by the door. Not wishing to turn my back on the nixies, even trapped as they were, I hauled the bearskin bundle to the wall to collect it. The nixie’s shrieks grew louder, punctuated by a metallic thunk as the box tumbled around inside.

  “I’m nobody’s prey, thank you very much,” I muttered as I tied the sack shut and covered it with another pelt. Only when it was secure did I collapse against the nearest wall, allowing myself a shaky smile. Ha! Seven Tekari caught, no blood spilled, and I hadn’t broken my promise. If atonement could be made for my mistake in the marsh, perhaps it would start here.

  A roar shook the lodge, crackling with fury and dragonfire, and the nixies’ screeching turned into a wail. I sprinted up the stairs two at a time to see Akarra’s return.

  The first true rays of dawn shed a rosy light over the battlefield. Akarra wheeled against the brightening sky, chasing the last of the harbinger away from the Hall. Columns of smoke already billowed up from piles of charred valkyrie corpses. Lydon and Johanna and their beoryns were finishing off a few that hadn’t died, and next to them, on foot but alive and unharmed, was Alastair. My heart nearly burst with relief.

  The wooden beams above me creaked. “They failed,” croaked a voice from the eaves. It was a deep, feathery voice, ancient and full of malice. My breath caught and I drew back into a shadow. “My children failed me.”

  “There will be other opportunities,” another voice said—or rather, two voices spoke at once, familiar and not familiar, filling me with old fears and new horrors. My mind clouded with swirling images, red and piercing green and a shock of blond hair belonging to someone long dead. Impossible. It was impossible. “There will always be other opportunities, brother. This was only a test. But now, retreat. The battle here is lost and we have other work to do.”

  The beams creaked again as if something heavy had taken to the air.

  “Aliza?” Alastair called as he banged on the door. “Aliza, it’s over.”

  In a daze I headed downstairs. It couldn’t be. Tristan Wydrick is dead.

  But that voice . . . I knew that voice.

  It took two tries to wrestle the plank from its place in front of the door. The beam landed heavily on the floor, missing the sack of nixies by inches. Alastair stood on the threshold, his sword bloody, his armor spattered with mud, grinning from ear to ear, and I forgot the voices on the roof and the horror they inspired. It was all I could do not to throw my arms around him. Praise rose to my lips, thanks for his protection, or perhaps congratulations on his battle prowess, but I only managed a stupid, “You won!”

  His smile widened. “Yes, we won.”

  The Tams and their beoryns followed Alastair into the lodge. Johanna and Magany stayed outside. Alastair leaned close to me as Lydon and his parents tended to their weapons. “How quickly can you be ready to go? I want to put as much distance between us and the battlefield before dark in case other harbingers catch the scent.”

  “Give me a minute, I have—careful!”

  He looked at the bearskin he’d been about to kick aside, then back at me. The Tams raised their heads from their weapons.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I, um, seem to have caught a gale of nixies.”

  “You what?” more than one voice said together.

  “Under that bearskin.”

  Prudence and Roland watched with swords drawn as Ala
stair edged toward the bundle, more cautiously this time. He nudged it with the toe of his boot. The gale, which had fallen silent when they first heard Akarra’s roar, shrieked all at once, spitting curses in Galeg.

  Alastair threw back his head and laughed. So did Roland and Lydon. Even Prudence cracked a smile. “How many, Lady Daired?” she asked.

  “Seven.”

  Lydon bent down to inspect the knots. “How did you manage it?”

  I told them how I’d captured the gale. The nixies’ argument over the box amused the beoryns to no end. “Petty creatures, gale-folk,” said the silver male, whose name was Hurrummell. “What do you plan to do with them, young mistress?”

  “I haven’t thought that far yet.”

  “Let us take care of them,” Embardoben said. “Unless you want to keep the box?”

  Alastair and I looked at each other. Gift it might’ve been, but we were still no closer to discovering the giver, and as yet it’d proved nothing beyond its use in capturing nixies. “It’s no trouble to leave it. We didn’t mean to bring it anyway,” I said. “Are you sure you want it here?”

  “It won’t stay long. We’ll have Johanna and Magany take the lot to the Dead Reaches at sunset,” Prudence said with a grim smile. “Your gale friends won’t be fit to trouble anyone after a night out there, and if your strange box is still around in the morning, well, let it stay there. Now—not to be rude, but when do you plan on leaving?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Ah. Good. Not that we wouldn’t welcome you to stay, but Ben’s right,” she said, resting a hand on Embardoben’s flank. “Something tells me you shouldn’t linger here. The harbingers have never shown such single-mindedness before. They may try again if you stay much longer in the Widdermere, and if not valkyries then some other Tekari. Others among the Oldkind may look for a chance to try their teeth and talons against Daired steel. However,” she said as Lydon tossed the sack of nixies over his shoulder and carried it outside, “since that won’t happen in the next fifteen minutes and I’m sure you’ll all be leagues away before the Tekari can sort themselves out, first: breakfast.”

  We ate quickly, hunched around the rekindled fire pit with bowls of porridge, bacon burned to flaky black cinders, and mugs of bitter tea. The food all had the same marsh water tang, but I didn’t mind. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was for something that wasn’t travelers’ fare until I’d scraped the bottom of my second bowl of porridge.

  Johanna did not join us. When I asked where she was, Lydon shrugged and said she was on patrol. As we ate, Alastair told the Tams about the dead centaur and slaughtered troll we’d found at the border of the marshes. “Do you have any ideas about what could’ve killed them?” he asked.

  “That doesn’t sound like anything we’ve seen in the Widdermere,” Prudence said. “We don’t get many Rangers out this way and even fewer Vesh. Certainly none so stupid as to go through all that trouble and danger for a single heartstone.”

  “Sorry we can’t help you,” Roland added.

  “Seems to me the Tekari have all gone mad since the waking of the Worm,” Hurrummell said. “We never made it as far south as Hart’s Run, but we saw our share of horrors in Hatch Ford. Tekari running unchecked through the city, plucking children from the streets, slaying Shani at will.” He shook his head. “Be vigilant, Master Daired. The Worm may be dead but fell things are still moving in the dark corners of Arle.”

  His words had the weight of premonition. “How far is it to the next town?” I asked.

  “Six or seven hours northeast as the beoryn runs. Little town at the foothills of the Langloch Mountains called Lykaina.”

  Alastair stopped with his last slice of bacon halfway to his mouth. “Lykaina?”

  I’d heard enough of the various creature tongues to recognize the root of the name, even if I didn’t understand the rest. Lyka, the native tongue of direwolves, wulvers, and, if Henry could be believed, the mythical lunehound. Lykaina. Wolf town.

  “That’s the name. You can bet they’ll be happy to see a dragonrider there too. Foothills east of the mountains is direwolf territory,” Roland said before turning to help Lydon with an armful of dried peat.

  As they were occupied with stoking the fire, Alastair leaned close to me. “We should go,” he said in an undertone. “Now. We’ve lingered too long already. We need to get to this Lykaina before dark. I don’t want to be in direwolf territory any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  Knowing the circumstances in which he’d first met the Brysneys, I understood he had reason to fear direwolves more than most. Tristan Wydrick’s betrayal had left a young Alastair to take on a pack alone, and if it weren’t for the intervention of Cedric and Charis Brysney, Alastair would not have survived the encounter. He’d carried from that day not only a lasting hatred for direwolves, but also, as I’d noticed during our time at Pendragon, a keen desire to avoid even ordinary dogs. In any case, I didn’t disagree with him. I had no wish to linger any longer than he did in known Tekari land.

  “Tams, thank you for everything you’ve done,” he said as we rose. “We won’t trespass on your hospitality any longer.”

  “Bah, it was nothing.” Prudence touched four fingers to her forehead. “Nothing any decent Rider wouldn’t do for another. Mikla watch over you, young master, and Thell take your enemies.”

  They saw us out to the front of the lodge, where Akarra waited next to the smoldering pile of valkyrie corpses. We bid the Tams and their beoryns goodbye and set off, Akarra’s wings stirring the smoky air as we turned northwest, toward the northern mountains and direwolf country.

  Chapter 13

  The Indifferent

  Akarra flew close to the ground for the rest of the morning. A weak sun poured through rents in the clouds and burned away the mist, and for the first time I saw the true extent of the Widdermere. It spread in pools of silver and green for leagues in all directions.

  It was three hours before we spotted the first signs of the edge, where the greenish-gray of bogweed melted into the hardier browns and yellows of autumn grasses. Trees dotted the landscape below us, first in clusters of twos and threes, then in small stands, then in groves as we continued north.

  “Is this Rushless Wood?” I shouted over the wind as the dark line of forest loomed ahead.

  “The Wood is back west,” Alastair said. “You can’t see it from here.” He called to Akarra in Eth. Her rumbled response sent us tilting toward the earth, and I clung to the saddle.

  “Why are we landing?”

  He didn’t answer until we were on the ground. “We need to eat and Akarra needs to rest her wings.”

  “Do we have to do it here?”

  “We’re at the very edge of the marshes. I’d rather land here than in direwolf territory.”

  “Don’t worry, Aliza,” Akarra said, “I’m not going anywhere until you two are safe in Castle Selwyn.”

  Alastair settled down on the grass next to her, broke open a stale loaf of bardsbread, and offered me half. I looked down at my hands. Dirt lined the beds of my fingernails. Thick black muck mottled the backs of my hands, washed away only where drops of sweat had slid over them. I didn’t want to know what I smelled like. I turned down the bread and picked my way through the sedges to the pool at the bottom of the hill.

  “What are you doing?” Alastair asked.

  “Washing my hands.”

  “Washing in that water’s not going to get you much cleaner.”

  “It’s better than nothing. I’m wearing the Widdermere—” I straightened. “Alastair.”

  “What?”

  “Come here.”

  He was at my side in an instant. I pointed to the small, whitish shape floating on the surface of the water. At first glance it looked like a duck, but it wasn’t a duck. Then, for one terrible moment I thought it might be a hobgoblin, but it wasn’t a hobgoblin either. A pearly substance spread in slow ripples on the surface of the water around the floating thing. Akarra dr
ew it to the shore with one wing.

  “Thell,” Alastair swore.

  It was a dead will-o’-the-wisp. I’d flipped past renderings in the Chronicle and my sister Mari’s bestiary, but I’d never seen one up close before. I knelt next to its tiny body, mud and stink and dirty hands forgotten. Though the resemblance to Tobble Turn-of-the-Leaves or any other hobgoblin grew less pronounced up close, I couldn’t shake the nightmarish image of my friend’s body spread out on the water. Will-o’-the-wisps were Idar, mischievous creatures, but mostly harmless to humans and almost impossible to catch. This one was no larger than a goose, with a smooth, flat face, and long, needle-thin fingers, on which would’ve danced the flickering flame of its marshlight when it was alive. Its eyes were open and staring. Phosphorescent blood stained its skin, which gaped open at the chest.

  Its heart was missing.

  “Same as the troll?” Akarra asked.

  Alastair nodded and knelt next to the water. He examined the will-o’-the-wisp’s body without touching it. “This is more recent,” he said at last. “Whatever did this did it today. Maybe only a few hours ago.”

  I tore my eyes away from the stunned expression on the creature’s face. Tears blurred silver blood and green marsh water until I could see nothing but broken streaks of anger, fear, and helplessness. The troll and the centaur I could understand; they were Idar in name and practice and often dangerous to both humans and Shani, but will-o’-the-wisps were Idar in name only. The only danger they posed was to foxes, and even then only to stupid ones. “Why?” I asked. “There’s nothing to gain from this, and no one needed protecting. Why would anyone do this, Alastair?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re both missing the most important question,” Akarra said, her voice low. “This thing, whatever it is, has been keeping pace with us. Possibly even from Pendragon.”

  Alastair straightened with a fierce frown. “You think it’s Selwyn’s monster?”