Or from you, Keriya thought, though the sudden sharpness and detail in the surrounding world told her this conversation was real. Shivnath had done a fancy bit of magic and intruded in her head to talk.
“Fine. I was dreaming about the bogspectre.”
“Oh?” Shivnath’s brow ridges rose in interest.
“And . . . Necrovar. You were there, in the dream, and you called him Helkryvt,” said Keriya. “Why?”
“Do you know who Helkryvt is?” Shivnath asked, her eyes narrowing to midnight slivers.
“Everyone knows Helkryvt. Even the Allentrians use his name.”
A low rumble echoed along the length of Shivnath’s armored throat. “Enlighten me.”
“The dragon-god Shivnath is the ruler of all that is good and just, and the evil god Helkryvt is her worst enemy. The two have been locked in conflict since the time before time, Shivnath fighting for balance, Helkryvt for power.” Keriya quoted a passage from her favorite book, an ancient tome she’d read so often during her childhood that she’d memorized its pages.
“Helkryvt is not a true god, as you overheard,” said Shivnath. “He is—or rather, was—a mortal. The mortal who offered himself as a vessel for Necrovar.”
Keriya’s jaw dropped. She knew the story, of course: Necrovar itself was no more than dark energy, and it had no power over man unless man chose to give it power. In the Second Age it bonded with a mortal host, gaining a soul and the ability to wield magic. Though Empress Aldelphia had explained this months ago, it had never occurred to Keriya to ask about the Shadow’s human vessel.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Why what?” said Shivnath, a dangerous snap in her voice. “Why did Helkryvt do it? Why did he condemn the world to ten ages of imbalance and suffering? Why did he throw away his life, his identity, and allow a parasite into his soul?” Her nostrils flared and she let out a slow breath. “I suspect it is the simplest and most complex of explanations, the best and worst reason anyone does anything.”
Here was the ambiguity Keriya hated so much. She’d come to expect disappointing answers from the dragon, so she didn’t press the topic. Instead she asked, “What does it mean?” Shivnath cast her a curious sidelong glance. “You said dreams reveal the most meaningful parts of our souls, and I was dreaming about Necrovar and Helkryvt. So, what does it mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
Keriya sighed. As cryptic and evasive as always. Shivnath was constricted by a set of binding magical laws that prevented gods from meddling in mortal affairs, so she seldom gave a straight response.
“Come now, Keriya,” the dragon rumbled. “If I tell you what it means, you will never discover what it means to you.”
Keriya glared through her bangs before dropping her gaze to the floor. “I think it means I’m afraid,” she admitted. “My life is good. I have amazing friends. I’m a hero, I killed Necrovar. But I can’t stop thinking about him. I remember every word he said to me.” A shiver ran through her as his voice, deep and tempting and filled with dark promises, stole through her heart. “I’m afraid the war isn’t over.”
She looked at Shivnath, perhaps hoping the dragon god would tell her to stop being foolish, but Shivnath was fading. The cavern was growing bright and indistinct. Keriya was slipping back into reality.
I’m not ready to wake up yet, she thought as a weightless sensation spread across her body. By now Shivnath was little more than a greenish blur. Shivnath, wait! There’s so much more I want to ask you!
“Goodbye, Keriya,” Shivnath whispered before vanishing into the dim glow of the place between slumber and consciousness.
Keriya’s eyes sprang open. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat and she was trembling. She blinked and saw Thorion standing beside her cot, staring at her with his head tilted to one side.
“I’m fine,” she murmured. Just a nightmare and a run-of-the-mill conversation with Shivnath. Nothing to worry about. She gave him a shaky smile, which turned at once to a frown.
“Are you ill?” She took his head in her hands and turned it this way and that. “The scales around your eyes are dull . . . and you’re cold.”
Thorion rustled his wings in a shrug. “I don’t feel ill.”
“Alright. We’re fine. Everything’s okay,” she said, scrubbing her hands over her face. She took a few calming breaths and shoved the nightmare into the furthest corner of her mind.
“It’s your birthday,” said Thorion. “And it’s human tradition to give gifts on one’s birthday. I have a gift for you.”
“You—what? You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes I did. Come on.”
Keriya dressed and left her private wing. Fletcher and Roxanne were waiting for her in the main hall. Fletcher gave her a small dragon statuette he’d crafted from a piece of wood. Roxanne gave her a bracelet woven from brightly colored feathers.
“These are both wonderful,” said Keriya, slipping the bracelet around her wrist to admire it. “Where’d you get the feathers?”
“From a friend,” Roxanne said evasively.
“Come, come,” said Thorion, bumping his head against Keriya to get her moving. “My present is outside.”
The drackling led the humans past Rainsword, who was on duty at the infirmary doors. The captain nodded to his subordinates and two guards peeled away from their posts to tail Keriya onto the green. She didn’t care. Nothing could dampen her spirits. For the first time in her life, she was having a proper birthday.
“Where’s this present?” she asked, watching fondly as Thorion romped through snowdrifts ahead.
The dragon turned, his scaly lips pulled into a smile. He opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he let out a choking sound. His legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed.
Instantly Keriya was at his side. She fell to her knees and took his head in her hands again. She raised one of his eyelids with the pad of her thumb and saw his pupil had gone round and wide. The eye rolled madly in his skull.
She heard Fletcher and Roxanne run after her; she heard the shouts of the Galantrian soldiers; she heard the infirmary doors burst open as healers streamed out; but none of it registered with her. Her attention was fixed on Thorion.
Suddenly his eye stopped rolling. His pupil contracted and he focused on her. The red-violet orb shone with terror, unshed tears, and an eerie, spectral light. It glowed like a small sun.
“Run,” he whispered.
CHAPTER FIVE
“It has always been too late to hope for peace.”
~ Kibar Weldren, Second Age
Fletcher watched helplessly as Thorion lay twitching in the snow. He hovered by Keriya’s shoulder, wishing there was something he could do to help.
Memories of his travels with the young dragon flashed before Fletcher’s eyes. After a nasty encounter with the bogspectre, Thorion had fallen into a coma and become a prisoner of Necrovar’s servants. Fletcher had saved him and reunited him with Keriya. During their trek, he’d taught Thorion the basics of the Allentrian language and they had become friends.
Maybe he hadn’t realized how close they’d grown. He’d only known Thorion for three months, but now it felt like his heart was breaking as he stared at the sick dragon.
Thorion stopped shaking. He looked at Keriya. Fletcher’s stomach twisted when he saw that the dragon’s eyes were glowing.
“Rynraté.” Thorion choked out a word in his native tongue. For some reason, the word made Fletcher’s blood run cold.
“What’s he saying?” he asked, crouching next to Keriya. Her eyes were glowing, too. Fletcher had witnessed this phenomenon before, and he knew what it meant. His stomach, which had tied itself in a complex knot, dropped like a stone.
“Come on, you bloody idiots,” Roxanne was yelling at Rainsword and th
e healers. “We need help!”
The healers seemed to be taking an impossibly long time to reach them. As Fletcher watched, one healer faltered and crumpled to his knees. He fell forward, revealing a black arrow sprouting from his back. Crimson seeped onto the white ground beneath him.
“We’re under attack,” cried Fletcher. “Find cover!”
Rainsword and his men assumed fighting stances. One soldier raised his hands and a sheet of snow rose before him, turning to liquid water as he wielded it. The healers scattered. A woman stopped to help her fallen friend, though he looked to be beyond help.
From the north, through the thicket of bamboo that surrounded the hospital to provide privacy, a group of riders cantered onto the green. Fletcher squinted at them and saw that they wore the gray garments of the Imperial Guard.
“Chaeraté nhite!” Keriya put her arms around Thorion’s chest and tried to heave him upright. Fletcher desperately wanted to help, but there was nothing to be done—he knew little of magic, for his power was weak, and he knew even less of medicine. Thorion squirmed from her grasp, thrashing violently.
“Get away from him,” said Roxanne, pulling Keriya back from the flailing mass of talons. The girls broke apart when another arrow sank into the ground at their feet.
The close miss seemed to focus Thorion. He growled and managed to rise to all fours. Nostrils flaring and eyes wild, he looked at Fletcher.
“Keep . . . her . . . safe,” he hissed in choppy Allentrian. His wings, which spanned nearly three heights across, snapped out. He launched himself skyward with a flap that sent flurries of snowflakes swirling into tiny hurricanes.
“Kemraté a’eos, Thorion,” Keriya screamed. The drackling didn’t heed her cry. He banked south, toward the towering gates of Irongarde. She made to run after him, but Fletcher grabbed her arm.
“No,” he said sharply, tugging her toward the trees. “He’s out of harm’s way and well enough to fly—and he wants you to stay safe!”
She struggled against Fletcher as the glow faded from her eyes. Her crazed fervor gave her the upper hand, and she broke free from his grasp to tear after Thorion.
Rainsword’s troops had engaged the Imperials, but the Galantrians were outmatched by the elite soldiers, who were all Tier Seven wielders or higher. One Imperial veered away from the battle and galloped toward Keriya. Roxanne stepped between the rider and his quarry, her hands balled into fists. Instead of wielding, she merely stood there.
“What are you doing?” Fletcher cried.
“I’m dealing with it,” she snapped.
Fletcher didn’t question her—he trusted Roxanne’s abilities. He was vague on the rules of the scientific system used to rank wielding power, but he imagined Roxanne was in one of the top tiers. She could hold her own against most enemies.
He raced after Keriya and grabbed her again. “You’re not helping Thorion this way. The best thing we can do is find safety and find out who’s behind this attack.” Fletcher’s money was on Tanthflame—the general couldn’t be too happy now that Keriya had exposed him as a traitorous murderer.
Keriya stared at Thorion’s receding form, but she pursed her lips and nodded. They changed course and ran for the trees. Fletcher glanced back to check on Roxanne and saw her hurrying after them. The horse had thrown his rider, who lay motionless on the ground.
“What did you do?” Fletcher asked when she joined them.
“I dealt with it,” was the curt reply.
They stopped in a bamboo thicket to catch their breath. Rainsword and his men weren’t faring well on the green.
“Thorion told me he felt something,” Keriya whispered, watching the battle. “Something like what happened when we fought Necrovar in the rainforest.”
“Is it the darksalm?” said Fletcher. He didn’t want to believe it, but what else could explain the drackling’s behavior? Darksalm was a substance comprised mainly of necromagic and dragon blood. If it touched you, it burrowed into your magicsource and bound your soul to Necrovar.
But Necrovar was dead.
“That can’t be,” said Roxanne.
“Thorion left to get out of range of whoever was twisting his soul,” Keriya explained. “We need to find that person.”
“I don’t think any of these soldiers are doing it,” said Fletcher, scanning the Imperials. “Keriya’s eyes would be glowing if she were close to necromagic, but the glow stopped once Thorion flew off. There was probably a shadowbeast somewhere who was wielding.”
“Why are there shadowbeasts anywhere?” said Roxanne. “This shouldn’t be happening.”
“I need my sword,” Keriya declared.
Roxanne groaned in exasperation. “For Shivnath’s sake, now is not the time to be thinking about that piece of trash.”
“It isn’t trash! It’s magic—it protected me against Necrovar. It can deflect and repel necromagical attacks. If I have the sword, then I can protect Thorion.”
It was the only plan they had, so the three of them slunk through the grove of bamboo and evergreens toward the inner city. They emerged into a scene of chaos: townspeople were running everywhere, shouting and screaming. Flames licked at the charcoal sky to the north. Fallen servicemen were strewn about the cobblestone streets, their bodies riddled with arrows. It was horribly similar to the attack on the Galantrian Village, when Fletcher had first learned of darksalm.
“Dragon Speaker!” A nearby nobleman who was fleeing the fire veered toward Keriya. “We need Lord Thorion. The town is under attack!”
“Thorion is in danger—but we’re going to help him, and we’re going to save Irongarde. I need to find my sword, which is in the armory. Can you tell me where that is?”
With a shaking hand, the man pointed to the haze-blurred spires of the fortress. “In Indrath Olven.”
Keriya nodded her thanks and dashed off, Fletcher and Roxanne close behind. “That’s where Max is staying,” she panted. “I’m sure he can open the armory for us.”
The further they went, the worse things looked. Fletcher gazed down side streets in dismay. Though the buildings were mostly built from iron, still the town burned. He spotted a band of Imperials approaching and pushed Keriya and Roxanne to hide behind an overturned wagon. They huddled in place until the soldiers tromped to a tower and kicked open its door, marching inside.
“They’re searching for something,” Fletcher murmured as Keriya darted into the fray once more. If the Imperials had only come for Thorion, they would have focused on finding him. These men wanted something else.
They passed a large cross-street and reached the gates of Indrath Olven. A group of Galantrians stood guard before it and raised heavy crossbows when they saw the Aerians.
“It’s me,” said Keriya, pointing to her eyes. “I need to go to the armory.”
“No one’s to be let in,” said one muscular soldier.
“My sword was put there for safekeeping, and I need it. Without it, Thorion will die.”
Fletcher thought this was a bit melodramatic, but it got the guards moving. They stood aside and the great iron doors swung inward.
“Follow me,” said the muscular one. He led them across a drawbridge over a moat, heading for the fortress’ doors. Indrath Olven’s dark metal sides had been polished so precisely that they were as smooth as a mirror, and almost as shiny. High above, pointed towers clawed at the snow-heavy clouds.
“Do you really think Thorion might die from the darksalm?” Fletcher whispered, glancing at Keriya. It was only then that he noticed her eyes were glowing once more.
“Stop,” he cried. “Your eyes, Keriya. If we go in there, we’ll be heading into a trap. Someone inside is wielding necromagic.”
“I’ll be able to protect us from the necromagic as soon as I get the sword,” she argued. “I have to do this.”
“Is there another way in?” Fletche
r asked the Galantrian. “Somewhere we can enter unnoticed?”
A thunderous blast shook the drawbridge, preventing the soldier from answering. The gates had been attacked. Their doors hung askew on their hinges, flames skittering across them. In the street beyond, a band of Imperials approached.
With a sickening thunk, the Galantrian soldier fell to the ground. The shaft of an arrow protruded from the side of his skull. Fletcher gaped at the fallen man. Nausea rose within him, making him lightheaded and numb. It was unreal how easily life could be snuffed out.
“Keep going,” cried Roxanne. Her voice jolted Fletcher into action, and they started running again. A heavy iron portcullis blocked Olven’s main doors. Fletcher didn’t know how they would get in without the soldier to admit them.
Ahead, Roxanne wielded with a sweeping gesture. The portcullis slowly rose, groaning in protest.
“How did you do that?” Keriya asked as they reached the artfully carved oak doors beyond. Fletcher grasped the handle and pushed one door open. The three of them ducked in and quickly shouldered the door shut again.
“Iron is a part of earth. I’ve been around enough of it the past month to learn the weave of its threads, but it’s draining to wield,” Roxanne replied through gritted teeth. She unclenched her fists and Fletcher heard the portcullis slam down outside. “That might slow them.”
“This place is huge,” said Fletcher, staring at the vaulted ceilings and the hallways stretching away from them.
Keriya nodded. “How will we find the armory? Or Max?”
Roxanne sighed. “Give me a minute.”
She closed her eyes and stood still. Fletcher wasn’t sure what she was doing, but he suspected some sort of magic was involved. After a few moments of silence, there came a squeak. Fletcher leapt backward when he saw a fat, mangy rat crouched at his feet.
Roxanne opened her eyes and looked at the animal, seemingly unsurprised to see it there. Its whiskers twitched and it scurried down one of the long halls.
“This way,” said Roxanne, and she took off after the rat. Fletcher and Keriya exchanged another bewildered glance. “Come on!”
Dragon Child Page 5