His dark eyes paused on Mayra. She was too small to warm his bed, as was young Fleura, but Fyrid apparently thought otherwise. His nephew, while deep in conversation with Fleura, hadn’t noticed a thieving wee dragonlet take his fill of meat while Fleura charmed the young man.
At least the stolen glances at Mayra had a legitimate reason, and they had stopped. Her resemblance to some woman with the invaders had all along been the cause, and not hopeless infatuation, and that was good, for Payk wouldn’t have enjoyed intervening if the large and not-always-friendly Wolfe had been compelled to rid Fyrid of his misplaced fixation.
Payk returned his gaze to Shaura, the witch-Healer. While younger than Payk, she was also older than the other women were. She was a sad-seeming female who held herself away from the others. Her glorious crown of dark-red hair fascinated the blue man, who’d never seen such a color. As he wondered if all her hair had that unusual color, he got an immediate erection. He chuckled into the fur band at his neck and tried to make himself more comfortable.
An idea struck him. He waited until Fyrid was looking his way, then Payk appeared to try to hide a look of deep pain.
Ah, youth, so predictable!
Fyrid was on his feet at once, hurrying to his uncle’s side. Almost as planned, the boy shot a panicked look toward the Healer, but she had seen, and she hurried to tend to Payk.
Payk thought about removing his beard as the Healer examined the wound on his arm, a puncture he’d received when Gaulte had rescued him. He looked older with it, but it hid scars that most Phailite women found offensive. He glanced at Wolfe, noting that his many swirling black tattoos included thin ones on his temple and forehead. Payk had seen Mayra touch her fingers to them more than once. And the ritualistic scars and tattoos on the face and neck of Kirik didn’t seem to repel the women who talked and laughed with him. Perhaps, these witches saw scars as honors brandished by warriors and accepted them. He grinned into his fur—could they possibly even like them?
* * *
Wolfe Sieryd found watching Payk af’Unshyr’s maneuvering amusing. He leaned forward and slipped his arms around Mayra; she and Indiera were playing with the little dragonlet.
So, apparently Payk’s interest lay with Shaura. Wolfe wished Payk luck with wooing shy Shaura. They might make a solid fighting team if they came to care about each other. Fleura had enthusiastically taken on the task of transferring Fyrid’s interest, and that was apparently going quite well. The Phailites were actually fitting in well with the witch-warriors.
The relationships of the people they rode with were important to Wolfe and Mayra, but it was Wolfe, not his mate who kept abreast of who was sleeping with whom. He would not tolerate them fighting over each other.
Wolfe idly wondered what was happening at Fortress Trandye, the site of the dragons’ victorious battle to free themselves from the Phailites who had imprisoned them. Leisher Bren had taken the unusual step of suggesting Aristen Sieryd as the blood-bound Fortress Lord. King Forcial had granted Aristen those rights before the king really knew what Leisher planned. In a few brief days, Leisher and Aristen had bonded; an aging warrior perhaps slowing down, and a youthful one, eager to learn from the elder man. The business of the Fortress was essential to the King of Nesht and Wolfe doubted things were running smoothly. Aristen, given the responsibility of leadership, had embraced it wholeheartedly. Wolfe knew the younger Sieryd would find it difficult to humble himself before the king, a man the Sieryd brothers knew to be deeply flawed.
Mayra turned to Wolfe, a happy smile lighting up her face. She caught his grim look and her smile faded.
“Stop!” he whispered, and her amber eyebrows rose. “I want to see that beautiful smile back in place at once!”
Mayra’s eyebrows now drew together, reflecting her confusion. “What is wrong?”
“Not a thing. I can only blame the many nights separated from your sweet heat for making me ill-tempered.” He grinned as she blushed, but her smile returned at once.
“Wicked elf,” she whispered. “To bring me here to the barren cold and taunt me with promises of heated nights.”
Wolfe laughed and lifted her into his lap.
“Dark elves make dark promises,” he murmured into her hair. “We will soon be alone, and you shan’t be able to walk afterward, at least not for several days.”
Mayra blushed scarlet, and Wolfe laughed softly, his lips gentle on her temple.
I had planned to be the one to tease you without mercy, she sent to him, and then gave him a mock frown and a deep sigh. Once we were alone, but I fear it shan’t work.
Her mind-speak resonated in his head with a seductive allure that was as arousing as her sitting on his lap.
And you are too enticing for your own good, elf, he returned, and that brought a soft, contented smile to her lips. Wolfe carefully put her off his lap and returned her to her place next to Indiera. It was now necessary for him to wait a few minutes before finding a private rock after too much water and wine. Arousing elf—he smothered a yawn—he was ready for something other than a saddle between his legs. No, someone. He missed reaching for his woman in the night.
* * *
The final segment of the journey to the Ceshon Aerie began as the first sliver of the rising sun became visible in the sky. The witches were busy layering themselves in warm clothing. With nothing else to do, Fyrid joined Payk near the last remnants of the fire. Fyrid was packing away the sack of treasures he had taken from the stag-elk when his uncle grabbed his arm. Fyrid winced and tried to loosen Payk’s iron grip. But Payk’s round-eyed stare distracted him.
His own eyes grew wide. Mayra, Fleura, and one of the men—Qintas?—were moving items about, without touching any of them! The young Phailite sank to a log, his mouth hanging open.
A strange blue radiance danced from the palms of Mayra’s small, magical hands. The thin, sparkling lights frolicked about before settling over the stacked items, where the many objects shrank. As Mayra finished one pile, she moved away, and Fleura’s slender fingers made the stacks rise, march toward leather bags, and pack themselves. The two Phailites continued to stare in stunned silence, unable to grasp the measure of possessions that magically placed themselves into the expansive carriers.
Payk shook his head in fascinated wonder—the simple gestures of the witches sent vast amounts of supplies into small baskets; clothing, bedrolls, blankets, and other items went into leather bags attached to the dragons.
As Fyrid rose and wandered closer to the women, Nena and Balc, the two direwolves, whined. Payk opened his mouth to shush them, then remembered the last time Fyrid had silenced them, a dragon had been standing behind the two men. But what could worry the two canines that the dragons couldn’t sense? He called to Fyrid to return for them; the younger man sat back down on the wood log next to his uncle and pulled them into a playful embrace.
“No wonder we ate so well and slept so comfortably.” Payk said in amazement. “Now that the land we camped on is cleared away, I can see how much equipment they set out to use.” He watched the small amount of gear he and Fyrid had contributed vanish into a bag and shook his head.
As they were at last ready to mount the dragons, Payk realized that most of the witches and more than one dragon were giving him concerned glances—clearly they were wondering how he was going to react to his second ride on a dragon.
Jannia and Shaura were settled on Corren. Shaura smiled down at Payk and waved at him, inviting him to ride behind her. Payk saw Fyrid snicker; he knew his uncle wasn’t going to refuse! But once Payk neared Corren, he stopped short and ran his hand over his beard before he looked up at Corren. The reddish-brown dragon gazed back at Payk.
“That farking dragon is smug,” Fyrid whispered to his uncle as he walked past Payk and Corren, following Fleura toward Fauler. Payk chuckled and turned to watch his nephew.
Within moments, Fyrid was in Fauler’s saddle and the two direwolves were firmly secured in front of Fleura, already looking like
fools again, likely anticipating their next adventure.
Payk blew out another deep breath. Like Fyrid, he wasn’t familiar with a saddle, but the elder man had watched as Fyrid—duplicating Fleura’s movements—shoved his boot into the stirrup and hauled himself up. Payk followed their examples, grunted, and muttered as he pulled himself up into Corren’s wide saddle.
“I’m surprised you could pull yourself up,” said Corren snidely. For whatever reason, he seemed to dislike Payk and did not bother to hide it.
“Now, Corren, be nice,” said Jannia. She then turned to Payk and added in a soft voice, “You will be most comfortable there, behind Shaura, will you not?”
Payk’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Aye, my lady, that I will,” he muttered.
Both women laughed. Payk found that being positioned behind Shaura, his arms around her waist, promised to a trip that should be as pleasurable as dining with the gods, if not a little uncomfortable, for gentleman that he was, he tried valiantly to ensure that Shaura wasn’t aware of his pressing desire for her.
* * *
Fyrid, seated behind Fleura on Fauler, shook his head as he watched his lusty uncle arranging himself behind a woman who could send him flying off the dragon without a thought. Those smug thoughts took a tumble when Fleura leaned back against him, positioning the sweet flowery smell of her hair under his chin. To make matters worse, she then dropped her hand to his thigh—reminding him that she sat snug between his widespread legs—and patted him.
“We are all ready,” she decided.
They were at last ready to leave. To set out for the ruins of the dragons’ home. The humans grew silent, allowing the dragons to prepare themselves for whatever they might find.
* * *
As the last dragon rose from the flat, rocky plateau, a small, dark-red dragonlet scurried out from a crevice of rocks, claws scraping on the large stones that surrounded her as she pulled herself out into the sunlight.
A mitt-covered hand shot out and cuffed her; she squeaked and scrambled back into the rocks that so thoroughly concealed her. She gave a soft, mournful cry as the long, green tail of a dragon vanished into the soft mistiness of the morning clouds.
“Get out of sight, foul wyrm!”
A harsh accent served to enunciate those hate-filled words and sent the dragonlet scurrying even farther back into the crack. The little creature knew she wasn’t out of reach. As her captor reached for her, the dragonlet gave a soft hiss and took a swipe at the faint blue skin revealed by parted furs. But her small talons never made contact. Mittless fingers closed around her tail and yanked her out of the small niche.
“Let’s go. Get up here.”
The dragonlet squawked but went up onto her captor’s shoulder, then used her free hand to adjust the precious cargo pressed up against her chest, beneath a thin membrane. The tiny reptile turned her head, and her great black eyes peered up at the lightening sky.
Smok?
Chapter Nine
Ceshon Pass
Day four of the First Moon of Wynter
I dislike using instinct alone to guide us toward the Aerie, Fauler grumbled. I am more accustomed to relying upon landmarks.
Gaulte understood, though such a problem wasn’t entirely true for the black dragon. More than landmarks, Gaulte hoped to use the pull of his Aerie to guide him back to Hesta. He did not share that with the witchlings. Surely, the vestiges of Hesta would call to him, even though she was not in the Aerie. Each pair of mated dragons were bound by the joining of their very souls; such depth of emotion left a boundless trace on everything they touched.
He knew that once the draw of Hesta faded, it was likely the others would feel a similar loss of their mates. And if he allowed the pain of that loss to continue to eat at him, something akin to panic would again rise in him, impairing his judgment, and weakening him.
We have no choice.
Larek’s comment about Fauler’s complaint brought Gaulte out of his reverie and made him chuckle. The gold dragon flew closer to Fauler.
We must now assume that someone—friendly or not—might watch for our return. We must keep to the clouds as often as possible to avoid being seen by anything, dragon or human, below us.
Larek seemed more vigilant than usual but Gaulte thought the gold dragon was rightfully distressed. His progeny Mieran, a mischievous six-yearling, was one of the younglings Hyaera had met outside the Aerie and then sent to hide. Mieran was very much given to striking out on his own, ready to solve his problems. But more often, he made things worse for himself. None of the male dragons had seen the six-yearlings before they were captured.
As the travelers flew down below the clouds, patches of green amid the blue- and purple-shadowed snow appeared.
Gaulte had once, through mind-speak, shown Mayra and Wolfe a vast valley where soaring peaks formed a ring of mountains that guarded land that was cold, fertile, and thriving. It was there that a group of dragons had established the Ceshon Aerie, an abundant haven that had housed dragons for as long as could be chronicled.
The first rays of dawn lit up a narrow road that snaked its way up the mountainside and passed through two massive cairns. That passageway, viewed from the air, opened into a huge shallow canyon. The wide, rock-littered ravine that led into the shrouded Aerie lay covered in a dense morning fog.
* * *
Mayra pressed her hand against Gaulte’s pebbly black skin, feeling heat seeping out from beneath his cold scales. The various emotions—sadness, fear, anger—she had felt from Gaulte as they neared the Aerie vanished as soon as they crested a mountain and the valley appeared. His joy wheeled outward like a physical thing. All the dragons soared upward in a show of jubilation over their freedom. The various shrieks and shouts from some witchlings made the dragons laugh, but they ceased the dizzying flight at once and returned to a controlled, level decline.
Mayra felt Gaulte’s tentativeness threaded amid his joy—he couldn’t stay away from his home, but he was finding it difficult to prepare for what they might find in the Aerie.
She turned back to Wolfe. “Do you—”
She broke off. An uneasy, familiar feeling filled her. Wolfe’s black eyebrows rose. All the witches were stopping in mid-word, looking around, remembering that strange, prickling feeling—
Jannia threw herself over the whining direwolves and her sister Shaura pulled a bewildered Payk down close to her. Fleura had already done nearly the same to Fyrid. The other witches were hunkering down in their saddles, holding onto one another and preparing to cover their heads. Wolfe didn’t have to warn Poppie to crawl deeper into his bag, where Smok had already hidden away.
The dragons launched their Dragon-Song.
Deep and sonorous, it began in massive chests and burst forth. Mayra listened fearfully, certain the other witches did also, caught up in the memory of the thunderous sounds from deep within the dragons. It had been ferocious and violent during the terrible battle in Nesht, frightening the humans, and hurting their ears. Using the sheer force of the resonance from their Dragon-Song—and savage teeth and talons—the dragons had swiftly defeated the vile blue Phailites.
Now, sung in softer notes, the songs of the noble beasts expressed elation; the harmonies meshed with the winds that had taken them higher and faster. The witches relaxed and appreciated, if not the sounds, at least the emotions behind them.
And suddenly, they understood the words:
O sing free dragons, sing words upon lips, of witchlings strong and fair, who freed us.
O sing mighty dragons, homeward bound, free and avenged, we ready for one last battle.
O sing fiery dragons, bound again to witchlings, we seek our kin, there will savage retribution.
Sing. Sing.
* * *
Gaulte’s song celebrated the continuing triumph of his Clan. How glorious their Dragon-Song had been on that heroic day of victory! One day, others would create songs to acclaim the battle that brought freedom and vengeance to the Ceshon A
erie. They would tell how human witchlings had joined the dragons as in the old times, and had turned on the cunning Phailites. Those vicious blue creatures—barely human—had died like the cowards they were.
As they neared the ground, the Dragon-Song faded away. And the dragons’ jubilation which, so shortly before had known no bounds, died, too. Gaulte’s head drooped. What was there now—what had once been the home of Gaulte’s Clan was now nothing more than an empty, broken cave. He prayed to the Great White Dragon—She who knew all—that it soon would be home again.
* * *
Mayra smiled as the dragons’ profound, pulsating song faded. But at the end, she caught a wave of sadness that she could sense Gaulte was trying to hide from his kin and from her. The Ring-Witch understood—he was the dominant dragon. It did not serve him to look weak, to mourn. So she remained silent; now was not the time to offer her support or sympathy.
Perhaps the other travelers also felt the underlying sadness of the black dragon; all remained silent as they continued to sail downward, even when they broke through the last layers of clouds and saw all that spread out before them, amid the snowy mountains and valleys of Ceshon.
Her first sight of the Ceshon Aerie stunned Mayra. It was just as Gaulte had shown her, but he hadn’t been able to project the sheer size of his home. Magnificent rocky spires jutted skyward from huge, ice-covered rocks, in a semi-circle around a vast valley, dotted with patches of greenery. The towers of the castle-like structure were ice-covered stones, the sharp, soaring peaks fashioned by endless years of water and wind. Walls of rock formed two vast courtyards. Clouds of steam drifted lazily upward, escaping from vents that covered the heated water used to warm the ice-shrouded Aerie.
The Aerie was half the size of King Forcial’s massive palace, but soared higher to accommodate dragons.
As Gaulte circled to land, Mayra caught glimpses of the damage done outside the Aerie by the invading Phailites. Those men had captured the male dragons outside the Aerie. Hyaera’s story of what he had seen and heard during the capture of the females gave the travelers an idea of the wreckage they would encounter within the Aerie.
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