And Fyrid had found the dragons. With that thought, Fyrid closed his eyes—just for a moment.
Fyrid did not sleep, but he dozed, and when the slight warmth of the sun kissed his face, something—a sound or a movement—startled him to full awareness. As Fyrid moved back to the edge, he heard heavy wings flapping and froze. He took a deep breath and dared raise higher for a look—and his heart pounded almost painfully in his chest.
The dragons were taking off! He dove back into the crevice. After a few moments to calm his heart and catch his breath, he found a toehold in the crevice and lifted himself higher to look around.
Relief flooded him. His hiding place was still safe. The dragons had taken to wing but the humans remained behind. He suspected the dragons had left to hunt and would soon be returning. They ate animals such as the stag-elk, which would now be lumbering about in the warmest part of the day, leaving their deep thickets to find more tender greenery in the hidden meadows. Thinking about the huge beasts brought to mind the smells and sounds of a great slab of meat roasting on his mother’s hearth and Fyrid’s stomach growled.
The female direwolf growled again and then whined, and Fyrid wondered what was wrong with her. She never voiced while hunting with her human.
The two direwolves had been out with him many times before the ritual of his byoun. The canines were the sole living creatures allowed to accompany him because the Elders knew Fyrid would not leave them behind. Fyrid had rescued them a year earlier, newly born, from their dead mother and the male who had killed her. His uncle had killed the savage male and Fyrid had stuffed the pups into his tunic. With his mother’s help, he had been their parent, and become their pack leader. They obeyed none but him—and his mother if she insisted.
He reached over and scratched behind the male direwolf’s black ear. Only his animal carried such black marks. Fyrid turned his attention to the female. The look she turned on him was pure adoration, and he grinned. Yes—they had survived three nights alone in the High Ceshon Valley, they were also very hungry, and he was on his way home as a man. With a story that would ensure his fame his entire life.
He turned his attention back to the humans the dragons had left behind. As their unseen observer watched enviously, they stirred up fires to use for cooking. Fyrid shifted about. He was determined to see everything the busy humans were doing—
He froze. He felt movement several feet above him. He turned, recoiled, then hunkered farther down into the small space, thinking for one moment that something was attacking him.
But no—two large, fur-covered arms emerged from the brush, holding a giant bow nocked with a thick arrow. Beyond massive shoulders, part of a grim, scarred blue face momentarily appeared; almost at once, the man disappeared behind his furred arm and raised the bow. Fyrid gulped—was his life was in danger?—but no, the arrow continued its downward trek until it presumably found its target, well beyond Fyrid.
Panic filled the youth. The dragons! Could they be in danger of harm from a waiting human’s arrow? He would not take that chance!
And by the gods, why weren’t his direwolves helping or attacking or doing anything, other than sitting in the snow, their heads tilted as they watched him.
Fyrid blinked in confusion. For a moment, he thought he had seen—no! It couldn’t be his uncle! Why would he?—This was supposed to be Fyrid’s adventure, alone!
The young man scrambled to his feet and up the side of the crevice, throwing himself forward and grabbing the arrow. Rough hide on the palms of his fur mitts caught the wood, and he pulled downward. The stout bolt didn’t break, but Fyrid must have startled the archer, as arrow and bow loosened and tumbled into Fyrid’s hands. He peered up into the scrubby bushes—
“Uncle Payk!” he whispered hoarsely.
That bearded face, glaring down at him, sent a shiver through Fyrid. Where had he come from? Before Fyrid could start to deal with this problem, he again heard the sound that had first caught his attention—the unmistakable sound of massive, leathery wings. The dragons were returning!
* * *
Wolfe and Mayra sat amid the other witches, sharing a huge fire, as well as the rest of the food they carried. He was stretched out, his head in her lap.
“I should have remembered how much some of you men eat,” Mayra mused as she slanted a glance at Wolfe.
Indiera, who was riding Larek with Harald Bren, rolled her eyes. “I have never seen a man eat as much as this one.” She grinned at Harald. “I think he eats more than Larek! And Larek conducts himself better at mealtime!”
Harald flushed, but he clearly enjoyed her teasing. “At least the dragon knows what dining utensils are,” he muttered.
“Are you saying I have worse dining conduct than a dragon?” the black-haired Indiera demanded. She sounded insulted, but she continued to eye the handsome, fair-haired Harald with obvious desire.
Harald shrugged. “They can be quite refined, despite the size of those talons.”
Indiera opened her mouth to retort when Mayra raised her hand. They all looked up, then out across the ravine, hearing the whispery sounds of huge wings as the dragons began to return.
“That was incredibly fast!” Richart noted. “The animals around here must not be accustomed to dragons hunting them.”
Some of the great beasts carried the carcasses of small deer-like animals in their talons, and in a thick net that hung from the neck of Hyaera, a young, red-and-black male, was a bounty of fish. Mayra had reluctantly admitted she would consider eating the creatures—which she did not consider animals—if she didn’t have to kill or clean them. Wolfe teased her, saying he had attached himself to an odd female—but that, perhaps, she was more intriguing for that.
Mayra looked down at Wolfe, running her finger across his lips, then around the thin, black runes tattooed on his temple and part of his forehead. He was wearing a lazy smile that awakened a fire in her that none but he knew how to quench. She wrinkled her nose as the odor of fresh blood washed over them.
Then her stomach growled; Wolfe laughed as he sat up.
“Perhaps we’ll turn the two of you into meat-eaters yet,” he said with a grin. Mayra and another male witch-warrior, did not eat animal meat. Kirik, a strong, pale man from the eastern lands of Nesht, who also wore ritualistic tattoos, not unlike Wolfe’s, chuckled. That dry sound conveyed Kirik’s doubt.
The fires were roaring, and the witches huddled around them, cleaning meat and fish and preparing them to roast, Mayra and Kirik picked over fruits and vegetables, some known and others never-before-seen. The dragons assured them they were edible. Not tasty—according to a dragon—but the fruits and vegetables were eaten by the Phailites, and would not poison a human.
* * *
As Gaulte watched the witchlings ruin a perfectly good piece of meat by burning it, his eyes went over two witchlings—Indiera and Harald—in the far corner. They had not seemed to notice that their companion, Larek, the rare gold dragon, was missing. Gaulte looked out at the sky. Or perhaps they thought Larek needed to find a midden to relieve himself.
Gaulte’s attention returned to the point across a fissure where he thought he had seen the glint of metal—the reason he had first landed on this plateau. Larek, upon hearing of Gaulte’s observation, had veered off and away from the hunting party. The gold dragon was the most protective member of the Clan. Whatever Gaulte might have seen was gone and too much of the day had passed for them to continue.
You should rest yourself while the others do. Fauler’s mind-speak scolded. We know what awaits us—as do the witchlings. Our kin will be vigilant. Fauler expressed weariness as he moved his shoulders and gave a great sigh.
Gaulte grunted. Although his “vigilant” sibling had failed to notice one of them was missing, Gaulte said nothing.
I hurt. The tone of Fauler’s mind-speak was resigned as he stretched again. I cannot fathom how the simple task of carrying witchlings and their meager possessions would cause that. Gaulte started to reassu
re his sibling when awareness unexpectedly startled the green dragon.
By the Great White Dragon, where is Larek?
* * *
Fyrid blinked in confusion. Had Payk been waiting for the dragons to return? To shoot at them? The thought sobered Fyrid at once and almost without thought, he grabbed the fur-clad arm of his uncle and yanked.
“Down here, Uncle!” Fyrid whispered furiously. “Before they see you!”
The bear of a man jumped lithely down beside his nephew. They hunkered down and scurried back to the crevice Fyrid has been using. The silence returned almost at once to engulf the two men. The dragons had landed. Fyrid scrambled up the side and took a quick glance across the ravine before his uncle pulled him back down beside him.
Fyrid turned to his uncle, glaring at him until the elder man chuckled. Before Fyrid could voice his righteous indignation, Payk af’Unshyr said, “’Tis unfortunate we don’t have a hunting cover. But who thought we would run into dragons!” His grin returned. “Aye, I’ve been following you. Took on the duty, since your father—well, ‘tis typical for an elder relative to follow, to ensure—well never mind. You never needed my help for anything. And you outdid the most seasoned male of our Clan, didn’t you? That’s Gaulte’s Clan. We need to report this to your father and the other Elders.”
“But—my byoun, Uncle. I—”
Payk clapped his nephew on the shoulders roughly, affectionately, and said, “Aye, boy, the siting of that Aerie shall belong to you! I will report that you made a fine showing. You stalked a Clan of dragons, and they never noticed you, even though they flew overhead. You silenced your direwolves so you could observe and report.” He cleared his throat and added, “And you rested.”
Fyrid’s blue skin turned a pale purple and Payk laughed. “I knew you’d be a fine warrior. No doubt, you will be rewarded with a rich bit of land. And mayhap a chance at that wench, Tesha, that I’ve seen you making eyes at.”
Payk chuckled as color again infused Fyrid’s face. Fyrid watched his uncle a few moments longer, but Payk hadn’t flinched when he mentioned dragons; oddly enough, he had seen the beasts and could still reference them. Perhaps—because they were still so far away? Or perhaps—he truly was braver than Fyrid gave him credit for.
The elder man was digging around in the pouch strapped to his chest and now pulled out a packet of dried meat. The two direwolves whined, and Fyrid felt like joining their vocalizations. Payk gave the two animals a generous portion, then divided the rest between himself and his nephew. Fyrid noted that he, though younger, received the more substantial share, still less than the direwolves.
“They’re bigger than you, my boy,” Payk said quietly, as though asked. “They need more food to keep you from becoming their next meal. Now, let’s sit and chew this into something edible and you can tell me about your adventures.”
Uncle and nephew spent another half-hour tucked away in the snug crevice, warming themselves as Payk told Fyrid one of the stories reserved for men to share. At last, after a moment taken to comb the food particles from his bushy beard, Payk began to pack the leftover food away, saying it was time to start down the mountain before it got dark. They would, he decided, make an effort to locate the stag-elk carcass Fyrid had discovered, and finish taking whatever was left of it that was useful.
Payk af’Unshyr proclaimed stiffness, but he gave a huff of laughter as Fyrid struggled to help him out of the crevice they’d used for protection from the wind, as well as concealment from the dragons.
Both men laughed at each other as they climbed up from the crevice and gathered their gear. Their laughter died as they turned to find a gleaming pair of gold eyes, in a mind-numbingly large gold head, gazing down at them curiously.
Chapter Four
Ceshon Pass
Day three of the First Moon of Wynter
Mayra leaned back against Wolfe, savoring the warmth of the fire as it grew, fed with small pieces of wood, and enjoying feeling full. The fish—well, they were fish. Unintelligent, neither magnificent nor spirited, not the typical food of one who had always been a strict herbivore—but Wolfe had at last gotten her to try the cold, scaly things, convincing her that their nutritive value was essential to her well-being. Two of the witches had cooked the repulsive things within leaves that had made them tender and sweet, and almost palatable.
Fleura and Mayra thought they recognized some vegetables that she and Kirik had picked through. Using fragrant leaves that smelled familiar, they had prepared a delicately flavored dish that even the men seemed to enjoy.
Although Gaulte had told them they would not leave until dawn tomorrow, the dragons were flying overhead, almost as though they were searching for something. Mayra tipped her head back to watch them, flying at varying heights above the plateau they were now occupying. She thought they were probably just eager to resume the trip. The gods knew she was.
She shivered in her furs, wondering if she would ever be warm again. If only she wasn’t so idle lately, she might warm herself. She had already tried to join the others by helping with setting up camp or preparing food, and later cleaning up. First Fleura, and then Wolfe had told her to stop. Mayra and Wolfe were their leaders, having earned that position through their powerful magic and cold, lethal blade work. Mayra would do whatever it took to keep the responsibility—a faint smile touched her full lips—therefore, she also had to accept the tributes that went with the position.
Mayra’s shoulders drooped. That meant she couldn’t join the other women as they gathered and trimmed wood for the fire, but she could at least walk around and stretch her legs!
As she rose, she hesitated. Something—just on the edge of her mind—scrabbled as though it wanted in. She cautiously opened her thoughts and felt around her, and almost at once felt a presence. Something hid close by, something in pain.
She stood up and looked down at Wolfe. His smile faded as soon as he saw her face. She raised a finger to her lips—be quiet, something is there—down the path, just beyond the bushes—watching us.
Wolfe rose to his feet and gave Mayra a quick hug, then leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You go forward, I’ll go around.”
Mayra walked at an angle, alongside the fire-ring, toward a clump of bushes. She moved back and forth, bending and retrieving small sticks until she neared the edge of a scraggly thornbush. She dropped the sticks, fell to her knees, and grabbed for a dark object in the dirt, hidden beneath a thorny branch of leaves.
“Damn, what the farking—?” Thorns stabbed into her skin. She grimaced, but her strong hands found something dry and hot, and she tugged.
A ferocious barrage of growling and snarling burst forth from a creature and, minuscule as it was, its ferocity so startled Mayra, she almost dropped it. A tiny, reptilian head, caked with dirt and blood, thrust itself out from beneath the bush, baring teeth that were small, but looked sharp.
Shiny blue eyes, enormous in its scaly face, stared at her for a moment. She stared back. By the gods, it was a tiny little dragon! Not a youngling, but a fully formed dragon, hardly bigger than Poppie, Wolfe’s black cat.
The filthy little dragon whined and put up another effort—growling at her, claws clambering for a hold on the ground, but as soon as she drew it closer to her, it quietened. A small, scrawny body followed the head, which wasn’t as large as she first thought. She tucked it in the crook of her arm and then rose with it.
* * *
Wolfe, watching Mayra rise and turn toward him, took a moment to realize what she carried. A dragon? For a moment, he stared at the little beast in mute astonishment. The spirited thing growled again and bared its small, sharp teeth.
Wolfe lunged at it with both hands, certain it would bite Mayra. Mayra caught his wrist and stopped him. Wolfe gave her a grin and backed away. Her strength, though far surpassed by his, never failed to surprise him, and that saucy little smile always aroused him. Damn, they needed privacy!
But now, Wolfe’s icy-blue gaze returned to the
creature. From snout to tail, the wiry beast wasn’t much longer than Poppie, who was not going to like this wee interloper.
The male Ring-Witch shook his head. Mayra needed a baby. She was using the bottom of her undertunic to wipe down the little thing. Her ministrations were gradually revealing a pale blue beast. It rolled around in the soft cloth, making strange little chirping noises.
Never mind Poppie, Wolfe mused, how was Gaulte going to take to the newcomer?
* * *
Fyrid and Payk stared up at a beautiful, gleaming gold dragon, face-to-enormous, terrifying face. Fyrid’s entire body froze for a moment—all the while his brain screamed run—then, as he tried to follow that command, his legs and arm jerked, and he felt as though every muscle in his body had weakened.
The acrid smell of human waste-water being released assailed Fyrid’s nostrils; it took a second for the younger man to realize the odor wasn’t coming from him. Shame and empathy flooded Fyrid. Could he pretend he hadn’t noticed his uncle had peed on himself? The younger man inanely wondered if the dragon had detected it.
“How heartwarming.” The great dragon sounded sincere, but its huge eyes gleamed with what looked suspiciously like amusement. “Father and son?”
Fyrid gaped—how the hell could he recognize amusement in a dragon—while Payk remained petrified and speechless. It took a few moments for Fyrid’s head to clear and for the young warrior to realize that of the two humans present, he was the only one thinking.
Fyrid cleared his throat, swallowed and said, “No, um, Sir Dragon. My uncle.” Fyrid straightened. Evidently, he was going to have to take charge of this setback. His voice was sketchy, but it wasn’t shaking, and finally, neither was the rest of him.
“I see.” The dragon made a show of extending his muscular neck upward and glancing down the mountainside. He made a tsking noise and shook his head. “I must warn Gaulte to better choose our resting place next time. We were quite a target.”
Dragon's Revenge Page 4