“I assure you,” Mayra said with a slow grin at Wolfe, “riding with a male is much more entertaining.”
While the others witchlings resumed talking and teasing, Gaulte again linked his thoughts with Wolfe and Mayra.
I sense the bonding of some witchlings and dragons, but for some, I fear it might never happen. Gaulte’s tone was sad yet hopeful, and the way his emotions tinged the words the dragon sent to her warmed Mayra. Some of my kin suffered significantly from their bondage. I fear that even now they see all humans differently. Not as their enemy, but neither yet their friends. Let me make two of the pairings, and a fierce foursome they might become, perhaps even friends.
Gaulte gazed around for a moment before finding the two who still held themselves apart from the humans.
Aleize and Jerek, Gaulte sent abruptly, and the two dragons snapped to attention. I will pair you with the Ring-Witches Kirik and Richart, as lone riders, that you may guide each other. I am sure the four of you have many tales to share.
* * *
The abrupt buzz of conversation between dragons and humans alike showed their surprise at Gaulte’s decision, but Mayra realized there was keen perception behind the pairings the black dragon had made. Gaulte had deliberately chosen Richart—a new Ring-Witch, but a strong reever who had learned his magic from Mayra, and Kirik—an older and experienced Ring-Witch who had been a Sorcery Guild weapons trainer before joining a reever clan, and to whom discipline was a conviction. Those two men would serve well as companions to the two aloof dragons, for both dragons were protective of their mates and still raging over the treatment of those dragons.
“The three male witches I saw as anxious already seemed more enthusiastic,” Wolfe observed with a chuckle. “Perhaps they’re motivated by the prospect of “protecting” a female.”
“Perhaps,” Mayra agreed. “But I know none of those females will yield to being cosseted. Those men had best be careful what they say.”
“I’m sure they know that,” Wolfe said. Did his own woman even realize he knew to be as careful? He hid a grin. Probably not; she viewed herself as evenhanded and rarely unreasonable.
Within a few minutes, she and Wolfe had determined who should be with whom. She hesitated over the last young woman, Fleura, who looked misleadingly delicate, and might need pairing with a man with knew how to keep his unwelcome opinions to himself.
Fleura, who had quickly become one of Mayra’s rare female friends, was at one and twenty, the youngest witch-warrior in their new Clan. She wasn’t fragile, though she could look so, if she desired. She was an uncompromising witch-warrior who feared little and loved her crafts. What Mayra appreciated by far was Fleura’s unabashed skill at using herself as one of her best weapons. A foe, upon seeing a slender, lovely, ingenuous woman, would lower his defenses. They would meet her magic or her blade long before realizing their mistake.
At the start of their journey Qintas, a burly witch-warrior, had ridden Fauler with obnoxious confidence. However, the first time Fauler had shot higher into the air, Qintas had turned close to the same green shade as the dragon. The tall, blond-haired warrior took the call for lovely Fleura to take Fauler’s reins and he to join her, more graciously than Wolfe had expected.
Fleura, pursed her lips, gave Qintas a hard look, and gestured him up behind her in the saddle.
“Don’t want you to overlook me if I start to fall off,” she said drily.
Qintas eyed Fauler. The dragon, shaking with laughter, presented a difficult climb. But the robust male witch-warrior obeyed the fierce-eyed little beauty, and hauled himself up and into the saddle, muttering under his breath as he went.
“We must ride all the harder now,” said Gaulte gravely, eyeing the rising sun. “There are certain places we must be at darkfall to ensure we are well-protected from those who might see us from the ground.”
* * *
Mayra was dozing, enjoying a sense-stirring dream that involved a nude Wolfe and a waterfall when Gaulte’s massive leather wings flapped. The movement startled Mayra awake; she inhaled a lungful of sharp, icy wind and coughed. Wolfe’s chuckle earned him a jab—her elbow into his hard gut. She was entitled to be jumpy; she might have taken to riding, but three days later, that didn’t mean it was always perfect. And though she would never tire of traveling with Gaulte and Wolfe, she was also weary and a little disagreeable.
Gaulte seldom had to propel himself onward, especially after the dragons had sailed into the thermals, but whatever he was doing now, he was doing at an alarming speed. Mayra breathed a sigh of relief as the black dragon leveled out again, and her irritation at both Wolfe and the dragon faded.
Mayra leaned over and looked down, then ahead of Gaulte. She looked back at Wolfe, puzzled. They hadn’t been flying more than half the morning, yet Gaulte had left the thermals. He was headed down and away from the winds, toward a flat, bare plateau, jutting out from the surrounding mountains.
She felt Wolfe’s perplexed thoughts join hers. It seemed too early to stop for a relief break or for food. Was something wrong?
Why are we already landing?
Gaulte did not reply.
Chapter Three
Above the Snowy Fields of Ceshon
Day three of the First Moon of Wynter
Savage gusts of wind sliced across the naked cliffs of the ice-shrouded Ceshon Peaks. Each blast felt as though the cold gods of the North, brandishing razor-sharp blades of ice, sought to torture any living creatures that dared expose themselves on the mountainside.
Young Fyrid af’Heyr was tired of being cold, but he endured it stoically. He was nearing the end of his ritual byoun—where at seventeen, the males of his Clan ventured out to face the elements and become a man—now able to take a mate if he wanted one, and own a piece of usable land.
Dressed in layers of fur and well-armed, he was already resourceful and canny enough to withstand the cold, learning to exist with nature, using what he found for shelter and food, all without complaint. Who would he gripe to—the two huge canines who accompanied him? They would bark playfully at his voice and chase snowflakes. His beloved direwolves loped free and uncaring alongside him through the rocky crags above the plateau. In their way, the siblings were as young as he was and equally adventurous.
At least my feet are covered far better than yours, my friends! he thought as he paused at his tedious task. The human male and two direwolves hunted well together, none was yet fully grown, but direwolves and human were already huge, well-made examples of their species.
Fyrid sat down to rest and looked around. How many hours had he already spent busily cutting apart the desiccated remains of an enormous stag-elk? He wasn’t sure, but he knew that he had been trying to pry loose the sharp hooves from the stag-elk for over an hour. His stomach growled again.
He could have spent an entire day pulling pieces of tendon and bone from the dead animal. They would bring him no small amount of barter back home, perhaps even some coin if he could sell the bits to hide-workers and toolmakers. But he needed to hunt, to feed his companions and himself. He rose and stretched.
As he put the last of the stringy brown pieces of flesh into a pouch across his chest, he hesitated. A dry sound, a whisper of leather, a feeling of movement—suddenly the hairs on his neck and arms rose. He looked around several times before he chanced to glance upward.
The world changed for Fyrid af’Heyr. A strange, hot flash of both fear and euphoria shot through the young warrior and crawled up his skin. For a long moment, the entire world froze around Fyrid. His heart pounded. A choked gasp escaped him and he sat down heavily into the snow.
Massive winged creatures—dragons—silhouetted against the weak sun as they passed overhead, silent but for an occasional dry whisper as wings flapped.
That brief sighting was all it took to send Fyrid staggering back to his feet, inanely thankful he had kept his skin-and-hide snowshoes fastened to his heavy boots. He looked around him, seeking shelter, as he realized th
at he must now keep himself and his companions hidden from something in the air.
The young Phailite seldom worried about anything around him seeing him, as he blended well with the blue-shadowed and snowy world around him, wrapped head-to-toe in furs as he was. Even when the fur moved away from his pale, blue skin, he was hard to see. But now, the one time he required unheard of protection—from dragons—he had foolishly left behind the essential bit of equipment those of his Clan usually carried that would have kept him unseen from above.
Lessons from the men of his Clan rushed at him. He covered the possible glare of the blade across his back with a cloth thrown over the hilt, then yanked out his wood-and-hide snowgoggles and pulled them on. With everything set, he turned to follow the path of the dragons, hoping both that he could keep up with them, and that they would land before he lost sight of them.
He called the two direwolves and took off running again, gesturing them back to his side as they ran through the snow. He knew he needed not worry; the four-legged beasts would not leave behind their two-legged pack lead. Fyrid led them away from the cliff edge in irregular spurts, darting between rocks and bushes, trying to ensure their movements did not call attention to them. Ungainly in the snowshoes, Fyrid avoided the larger obstacles he could see. The direwolves held back, following as he tried to work out where the dragons could be going.
Then Fyrid remembered the thermals and he stopped short. He could feel his heart pounding; he leaned against a boulder and took a deep, calming breath, wincing at the cold that assaulted his lungs. He removed the screening goggles he wore against the intense glare of ice and snow and looked up. After a while, he could trace the paths of the thin, darker clouds his uncle had pointed out to him last year.
Fyrid still enjoyed that memory. The excitement had bubbled up in him—alone in the high mountains with the man who had taught him most of what a male of his Clan needed to survive the harsh environment in which they lived. And then, unexpectedly, Uncle Payk had for the first time since the tragedy brought up the subject of the dragons living in the surrounding mountains.
“Dragons use the thermals,” the elder man explained, “to fly more efficiently across the vast skies. The river-like currents follow specific routes and can determine where dragons might be going.”
And then, Payk af‘Unshyr had spoken no more about the forbidden subject of dragons.
Fyrid could now see the streaks of dark haze, illuminated by the light of the pale sun. He replaced his goggles, called to the direwolves, and set off, spurred on by his uncle’s words to follow those long, thin, churning clouds. He ran until the icy air he was breathing was as sharp as a knife, stabbing him in the sides.
Finally, he had to stop to bring his breath under control. He frantically sought the dragons, looking around for a moment—the slits of his goggles were too narrow. The young warrior readjusted the bone inlay of the wood-and-hide covers. He had just replaced them when he again caught sight of the great beasts.
Fyrid coughed; he didn’t mean to suck in that icy air so rapidly and he winced. From his point of view, the dragons were gradually growing larger, and that meant they were dropping from the sky. Where, in this area, would there be enough room for dragons—several dragons—to land?
Fyrid slid down among a group of dark, stunted trees, and jumped down into a cleft in the rocks. The hollow was shallow, but wide enough for him and the canines that followed. He squatted and grew still, again working to control the vaporous clouds produced by his gasping breath. After a moment, he yanked off his snowshoes, dropped to his stomach and crawled forward, then raised himself up on one arm and cautiously peered over the edge and down.
The shot of pure elation that went through him almost set him to coughing again. He went reeling onto his back, staring up at shadowy, rippling clouds, his heart pounding again. Fyrid no longer worried about dragons seeing—he was now above the great beasts! He grinned as his heart continued to hammer within his chest. By the gods, he was shaking with excitement!
Several dragons, led by a massive black dragon, flew downward toward a huge rocky outcrop, below the level of Fyrid’s refuge. He couldn’t find sufficient words to describe how powerful and magnificent they were, their scales catching the rays of the sun and causing them to shimmer like beautiful jewels.
And a black dragon could mean but one thing. The Ceshon Aerie had returned! He could tell by the sounds he heard that they were landing.
By the gods, the first time the young man had ever seen a dragon—and it was the dominant black dragon of the Ceshon Clan, with part of his Clan! He couldn’t remember how many dragons the village Elder had said lived in that Aerie, now thought to be deserted, but Fyrid suspected all the males were there, on that plateau.
He waited, listening, as he prepared to look again, to see how close they were to him. He wished again he had that essential piece of equipment—the large, masking cloths his Clan used to hide under when they hunted. The dragons had landed on the flat piece of rock, a good stone’s throw beyond the other side of the crevice that separated Fyrid’s hiding place from them.
He moved around to get a better view when several of the dragons shifted apart from each other, and the watcher’s breath caught. Humans! The missing Phailites from his Clan? Astonished beyond words, Fyrid dropped back onto his stomach and slithered down into the next available depression, desperate to see more. The direwolves moved alongside him, bringing their welcome warmth with them.
He watched, marveling again at the spectacular dragons as he tried to count the humans that accompanied them. Humans and dragons traveling together, led by the dragons’ legendary dominant—it should not be possible! But undeniable, for the dragons were wearing saddles, by the gods.
No, the riders could not be Phailites. Dragons—these dragons, if rumors were true—would kill Phailites, not offer them rides.
As dragons and people moved away from each other, he counted twelve humans. Large men and—smaller ones? Too big to be children, he wondered if they were young men, his own age. All were heavily armed. Perhaps they also had such a ritual, around Fyrid’s age of seventeen, when one became a man, and instead of receiving a plot of scruffy land and the chance to claim a woman, they got to ride dragons!
As Fyrid continued to study the humans, one of them removed his headgear, and the young man abruptly realized that these humans weren’t blue, as were his kind. They were…strange. Not white, but the color of the palest sunrise—his black eyes moved to another, and his white eyebrows rose. That one had light brown skin. As Fyrid watched, the man removed his furry hat to reveal his hair, startling Fyrid. The man’s hair, hanging almost to his waist, was thick and shining black. Fyrid—whose long hair was pearly white—had never seen such hair or skin colors on a human. How strange these visitors were!
The young warrior wondered for a moment whether anyone in his village would believe him or this improbable story.
He had earlier planned to start down the mountain and toward home. And now? He had found a treasure! He and his furry companions had a mission now—by far the greatest one they had ever encountered in their fledgling lives. He knew endless tales about dragons, but nothing in his life—neither warnings nor cautionary tales from the Elder—had prepared him for this! He wouldn’t leave now, not for anything. Not without learning more about the beasts—and then being the first one back to his village with the news.
He had to look again. Fyrid widened the slits across his goggles slightly more, then pulled himself back up to the edge of the ridge and focused on the largest, the sole black dragon. He could now feel scant warmth seeping into his skin from his companions. The direwolves that hunkered on either side of him were motionless but for their deep breathing. They waited patiently until unexpectedly, one quietly growled. Fyrid lightly cuffed her, and the animal quieted at once.
Almost as though the black dragon knew someone was there, watching, he raised his massive, horn-and-plate-covered head and looked up toward Fyrid’
s hidden direction. By the gods, they were so close; he could see the strange patterns in the mesmerizing eyes of the black dragon. Fyrid drew back involuntarily; chills and heat battled each other, racing through his body, causing him to shake from head to foot.
Fyrid groaned, then another huge grin split his face. So much for his byoun! Some heroic Phailite chieftain he would make! Just glimpsing dragons across a rift had terrified him. But, by the gods, who wouldn’t have felt such dread-filled elation?
Fyrid stared up at the sky; the dim light of the morning was brightening as it stretched toward mid-day. He hadn’t realized that he had been following them for so long.
He supposed the dragons had stopped to rest, and so would he. He could at least relax his body, but sleeping was something he could not allow, not with dragons just a stone’s throw—he smiled wearily—or perhaps slightly farther away. He sighed and nestled closer to his direwolves.
Today was the first moon of Wynter, day three. He had left home on the third moon of Autymn, day thirty, which was also the seventeenth falling of his birth day, the traditional day to start one’s byoun. Five days earlier. He counted back; his face screwed up in concentration.
The hunters of Fyrid’s Clan had noted that the Ceshon dragons had gone missing around day one of the third moon of Autymn, and it was now the first moon of Wynter, so they had been gone one cycle of the full moon—thirty days. He wondered where the Aerie males had been all this time. Why they had left and what had happened to their kin?
And where had those humans come from?
Rumors and stories around the campfire told him something happened to the dragons of Ceshon Aerie. The Elders told tales of rogue warriors from the Sorst Clan of the Phailite people—Fyrid af’Heyr’s own Clan. Last year, Plyn af’Nanyn, a savage, foul-tempered dissenter, had disappeared with ten Sorst Clan men. To a man, all those gone had made no secret of their hatred of dragons. Though four months had passed between the disappearance of the Sorst warriors and the Ceshon Aerie dragons, the Sorst Elder, who was Fyrid’s grandfather, thought the two incidents were related.
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