Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  Gaulte stretched the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He was weary but he still could not sleep. He moved his massive black body to better shield the witchlings asleep around him from the swirling, biting-cold winds.

  The black dragon gazed out at the males of his Clan, feeling affection for each dragon. They were even-tempered beasts, keeping themselves away from others of their kind, but on amicable terms. The Ceshon Aerie had always avoided the Phailites, but the dragons had not been antagonistic. No, those blue-skinned demons had ended that peace, not a dragon.

  His attempt to remain calm and soothe himself failed, for his ever-circular thoughts returned almost at once to the witchling he guarded discreetly, again reliving her rescue of him from the vicious slavery of the Phailites.

  Gaulte growled under his breath. Planning the demise of those beings took up an excessive amount of his time. He devised in careful detail, and then refined his schemes to kill the remaining blue men—tearing them limb from torso, bit by bit until they returned his mate and nestlings to him. It would be much more satisfying than the short, vicious executions of the Phailites who had forced the dragons to fly them to Nesht. Much more gratifying.

  Gaulte stirred and in the light of the full moon overhead, the black dragon saw Fauler, his one whole-sibling and the Aerie’s second in command, open his gold eyes.

  Gaulte—Fauler’s thoughts “spoke” to his nestmate on a high level, so as not to disturb the witchlings. The other dragons slept soundly. Though your young witchling would understand your plan to kill the Phailites, might your bloodied images frighten her? Fauler’s mental admonishment brought something like a chuckle from Gaulte. Fauler hesitated as though considering something. Is she able to be frightened, Gaulte?

  Gaulte was still staring up at the stars but he answered. I actually do not know what she fears, Fauler. However, I will show more caution when reassessing the plans for revenge that my inner eyes see, Gaulte returned dryly. He considered then continued. Perhaps I am not as attuned to the fears of the witchlings as I should be. Mayra did not receive her injuries from my captor. She tried to meet that human head-on, but he was a coward. He sent his demon-thing after her. It was a bushdog that injured her so gravely. And she alone destroyed it with her magic and her blade. She grievously injured the Phailite and his weakness allowed me to kill him. She—

  Gaulte?

  The slight, female mind-speak of Mayra interrupted them, and a drape dropped over the dragons’ mental conversation.

  Gaulte and Fauler glanced at each other. They had scolded the witchlings for not guarding their thoughts, yet now they themselves had done the same. Gaulte’s low, rumbling laugh made Mayra smile up at him, though she was still half-asleep.

  There is still time to sleep, Gaulte told her. I suggest you use it.

  She nodded. She nestled deeper into Wolfe’s arms and fell back to sleep.

  We must also rest. Gaulte sent a mental touch out over the other dragons of his Clan. All of them were still sleeping amid the witchlings. The Valley was quiet. There was no need for a guard. None but other dragons would dare attack them, and here, on this small bit of rock, there were neither dragons nor an opportunity for Phailites to perpetuate their underhanded trickery.

  As he continued to gaze out at the silent landscape, the clouds overhead caught his attention. A soft rumble went through him.

  Fauler, do you see above us? They look like—come and cover these two, I will return shortly. The black dragon shifted to the edge of the flat rock, leaving Fauler to take his place shielding the witchlings from the cold. Gaulte dropped over the side, unfurling his wings as he fell. The icy wind was like magic as it caught his wings and he shot upward.

  Yes! He had his answer almost at once, for as soon as he felt a touch of warmer wind on the scales of his face, he knew he had found the thermals—the currents of air that floated high above the icy mountains of this land and would carry them home swiftly and effortlessly.

  The moon was at its zenith when Gaulte returned from his short flight. His landing awakened the other dragons, and he shared his discovery.

  At last, I feel the bite of the cold wind lessen as it threads with warmer currents. We have found the thermals! He rumbled with his distinctive laughter. Those magical winds will warm our witchlings, and take us home, at least a day sooner.

  Chapter Two

  The Ceshon Mountains

  Day two of the First Moon of Wynter

  Mayra had been the prideful High Ring-Witch of the Kioreu Clan of reevers, the magical element in a large unit of warriors. She had been linked to a Clan that blindly served the king since she was five and ten. The reevers acted as King Forcial’s voice, his command, imposing his rule across the kingdom. They were the king’s means of maintaining his strong reign without having to expend much effort himself. Mayra had wielded magic as strong and fearsome as the warriors’ blades. She had undergone a lifetime of training and conditioning to have the ability to save Gaulte and his dragons.

  She now lay wrapped in the muscular, tattooed arms of Wolfe, her Ring-Witch mate, once a highly paid assassin and spy—and perhaps, he would always be, for those were talents that could serve him anywhere. But Mayra would never again ride with reevers. Reevers rode, fought, and wielded power in the name of the King of Nesht. The witches had trusted King Forcial, and he had betrayed them.

  Betrayal had enabled her to leave behind a life she had loved, but it had not been simple or painless. It had never mattered to her that the king was her grandfather, and so his was not the betrayal she would never forgive. She would never forget Leisher Bren but never, never would she forgive him.

  Mayra shivered and Wolfe’s arms tightened around her. She smiled as she felt another small source of warmth, Poppie. The black cat nestled between the two witches.

  Snatches of an odd conversation between Gaulte and Fauler had awakened Mayra earlier, but the dragons were now silent.

  There was nothing to do but lean back against Wolfe, and smile at Poppie’s protest over being disturbed. But as soon as Mayra closed her eyes, pictures from the dream that had awakened her this time, returned. Entwined with the conversation of the two dragons, that dream had chilled her more than the cold. She wished she had listened longer before calling out to Gaulte.

  Her fingers unconsciously traced over the wide black Rings that encircled her wrists. As her fingers touched the deep engravings, gentle vibrations traveled through myriad filaments that lined the inside of each Ring, some so fine that they were barely visible. The sensation that emerged into her body sent comforting calm spreading within her, for those filaments were now part of her, having grown into her nerves until their augmenting capabilities spread throughout her body. Ring magic, she thought, with a sleepy smile. My magic. Amplification of all that I know, all that I can do.

  “What’s wrong?” Wolfe’s deep voice was a scant whisper, but she knew he was wide-awake.

  “Nothing,” she returned. “I awakened too early.”

  “Yes, and one time we would have had the perfect activity to put us back to sleep,” he groused. Her fingers brushed his black Rings and she felt him jerk. He squeezed her against him. “Don’t tease me,” he warned. His rough whisper sent heat through her that was almost as warming as his touch.

  She leaned around Poppie and brushed her lips across his. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “Think of this as an exercise in self-control.”

  Wolfe chuckled. As Mayra watched his moonlit face, his eyes closed. Within a few moments, he was asleep. She envied his ability to fall asleep so easily. But she also appreciated the time she had to reflect before she drifted to sleep.

  Wolfe did not ask about her dreams although she knew he suspected what had awakened her yet again. He didn’t know all the details of what had happened to her when she rescued Gaulte from the Phailites, but he had seen enough to know it was violent and bloody.

  Once the witches had realized how to break the enchantment over the dragons, the invad
ers had quickly fallen. By the gods, that battle had been as savage and remorseless as the Phailites themselves.

  The image of Leisher Bren, Warlord of the Kioreu Clan of reevers, once again coalesced in her mind. Leader of the fiercest clan of the king’s enforcers, he had been her mentor, her father figure, what she strived to be as she grew and learned from him. In those years, he had been all that was honorable and valiant. Seeing him as he had been before they parted had both broken her heart and hardened it.

  Leisher Bren had deceived her all their long relationship. He had betrayed Mayra, for his action of saving her life had unmasked him as a powerful Ring-Witch, where before he had scoffed at and dismissed her magical prowess. But worse, he had betrayed the entire kingdom. Leisher Bren, a reever warlord who had often disparaged royalty, had also been revealed as the true King of Nesht. He had been little more than a child when he had changed places with his look-alike cousin—because he had not wanted to bother with ruling a kingdom. And for that alone Mayra would never forgive him.

  The memory of her words still echoed across the stable-yard of the Fortress as he was readying to leave and return to their Clan, as though nothing had happened.

  “You were honor-bound to your duty,” she had cried out. “An honorable man undertakes his obligation and endures as best he can until he fulfils it, or he dies. You cannot—quit!”

  Her words still rang in her head. Leisher Bren had turned his horse and left. He had not looked back.

  * * *

  Wolfe awakened alert and hungry. He instantly knew that Gaulte was gone, but he wasn’t concerned. The black dragon might be scouting ahead, but more likely was hunting for food for his kin. Wolfe was far more aware of the lithe elf-like woman in his arms, her breathing deep and even as she slept. He lowered his nose to smell her hair and then her neck, aware that this was a mistake. How the farking hell was he supposed to make love to her while they lay surrounded by dragons and other witches—any of whom would gleefully watch and probably offer suggestions.

  That thought made him chuckle. Mayra was a shy and reserved woman, and not a one of their friends likely knew that.

  Friends? Did that mean the dragons, as well?

  The witches and dragons had quickly blended into a rare group. Either species were strong as individuals, but while together, as one element—their strength knew no bounds, no fear, no hesitation to fight. As one, dragons and humans were witty and earthly, teasing each other, and—with their virtues and vices so similar—not unlike a large family of steadfast siblings. Yes, friends meant dragons, too.

  Wolfe moved again, then stopped short and grimaced. The sharp stab of an ice-cold piece of metal penetrated his tunic. It was a tube of silver metal, a relic from their battle at the Fortress—a weapon that was almost as long as Mayra was tall. The Phailites had used them to shoot ravaging fire and they had proven to be far deadlier than dragons or witches. Wolfe had scooped this one up after Mayra’s battle with the Phailite who had wielded it and hidden the thing when they left Nesht. He had brought it with him, anxious to discover who—or what—had made it. No one had yet been able to make it work, but all had seen its lethal effectiveness first-hand.

  Mayra was stirring. Wolfe kissed her forehead, pulled her closer to him, and slid his warm hands beneath her tunic. He would awaken her by lighting a pleasurable fire in her, but this time there would be nothing to quench that heat. As Wolfe opened his eyes, he caught Poppie’s blue eyes following his hands as they went up Mayra’s tunic. He felt the cat tense to pounce, and gave her a warning shake of his head, then grinned.

  Having two strong-willed females to contend with was proving to be as trying as his brother, Aristen, had predicted it would be.

  * * *

  Mayra awakened with a gasp. Massive arms were holding her; a large, rough hand slid up her stomach and chest, pausing to cup her breast. Her eyes flew open as Wolfe’s fingers slid across her nipple, and she felt it tighten. Abruptly, a large hardness pressed against her back and bottom. She smiled. At least some parts of Wolfe were awake and ready to—

  The other witches and dragons were rising. Mayra wanted to lie in Wolfe’s arms, enjoying the warmth he provided, but it was time to continue to trip to her new home. She turned over and gave Wolfe a teasing grin.

  “So sorry,” she whispered. “We must wait longer.”

  “Perhaps,” he growled. “If you weren’t so farking vocal we might—”

  She laughed and covered his lips with her fingers.

  “You just wait.” He drew her close to him and again she felt just how much he needed and wanted her. A pleasurable jolt went through her. “I am patient,” he growled, “but each day that passes, my sweet, will make it that much harder for you to walk.”

  She smothered a laugh. “Not if I attack you, first.”

  He grinned. “I like that idea. You come to me, then, and make me ravish you.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” came a gravelly voice from overhead. Gaulte’s sharp-tooth grin was more a leer. “The two of you are conveying your lust all over the encampment.”

  And as both males expected, Mayra blushed bright red. Gaulte, was learning to recognize the odd emotions of his new companion and he seemed to enjoy teasing her. His deep, raspy laughter erupted from him, and he suggested they rise for the day.

  * * *

  Following his discovery of the thermals, Gaulte realized that he needed to modify the present flying arrangements of witchlings and dragons. And for that, he would have to use the diplomacy Mayra accused him of lacking in dealing with humans. That had brought roars of laughter from his kin. He chuckled. Some of those witches would have been appalled to know how transparent their feelings were to Gaulte, but it made working with them less complicated.

  Using the windstreams allowed the dragons to increase both their speed and the heights at which they flew, but they had to fly much higher than they had been. Gaulte sensed that three of the witchlings were growing more fearful; as the dragons rose higher into the sky and flew faster, he smelled, even tasted their fear.

  The dragon said nothing for now. The three witchlings who were now pale and sweating were male, and according the Mayra, it would ill-serve them to point out their fear. But they couldn’t cower and feign fatigue; Gaulte needed their sharp eyes to watch below for any danger.

  The dragon tightened his thoughts to encompass Mayra and Wolfe.

  Some witchlings grow fearful as we fly higher. An odd snrking laugh escaped the dragon. Your male kindred would sooner perish than let anyone know. But their fear prevents their vigilance, and while they must search below us for Phailites or other dragons, they are incapable of even looking down.

  Mayra and Wolfe exchanged incredulous glances. They didn’t need to speak aloud to know what was going through their minds. After enduring what it took to have their Enhancement Rings placed around their wrists by the Sorcery Guild—usually done when they were children—how could a Ring-Witch fear anything, least of all how high they flew? Having their wrists cut open to place myriad filaments within, allowing those golden wires to fuse with their nerves and grow throughout their bodies had been known to make the most hardened warriors faint away at hearing of the process.

  What do you propose we do? Wolfe looked the other men over—by the gods. He chuckled. Gaulte is correct. You can see just by looking at them, they aren’t happy travelers.

  I have an idea—Mayra’s mind-speak was thoughtful—we will move everyone around. Yes, I believe that will work, and we will not single out those men. We will use an old reason to move them about—a male, given the task of protecting a female, through their size differences. She stopped as the dragon snickered.

  Gaulte couldn’t picture a female dragon requiring the protection of a male for any reason.

  Mayra leaned down closer to Gaulte’s hidden ear. “Was that a wicked laugh?” she whispered.

  That might be a plan, but what do magical females need protection from?

  “Th
at’s true,” Mayra admitted aloud. Using mind-speak too long made her head hurt. “And if you were to suggest such a thing—these females might be tempted to show you just how much they need protecting! What are you planning?”

  You shall see, dear witchlings. Gaulte did love being mysterious.

  And so, as humans and dragons made ready to travel on the third day, Gaulte addressed the Clan. The witchlings were huddled around a large fire, drinking tea and chewing on hard bread.

  “The winds grow quite strong,” the black dragon mused, as though he hadn’t already decided what he was going to say. “I will feel more comfortable if a male and female ride together—the larger male to help ensure the smaller female doesn’t get caught up by the wind and fall.”

  He quieted their expected protests at once, raising one razor-taloned hand in a wholly human mannerism borrowed from Wolfe, though the witches would never have told him that.

  The currents can be treacherous—Gaulte paused as he saw winces in some witchlings—the mind-speak was still too strong for some of them, and so he switched back to spoken words. “The stronger human males might be called upon to keep another rider with them safely in the saddle.” He grinned, showing an alarming amount of long, sharp, curved teeth. Though at one time, such a gesture was certain to negate the warm feelings the witches got from him, they were growing accustomed to dragons, smiling. “And tell me, would you not find it more pleasurable to ride with the opposite gender?”

  The snickers among both human and dragons turned to laughs as the witchlings threw friendly punches at each other. The black dragon gazed at them indulgently. Unlike most humans, they were ferocious warriors who often acted in ways similar to his own younglings. He swung his head toward Mayra and Wolfe. I shall leave the pairings to the two of you.