Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  “He has my mate and my nestlings.” Gaulte’s spoken voice was so quiet that the witches strained to hear him.”

  Mayra swallowed. Her inner connection with Gaulte showed her an anger that was so deep; he seemed like a child, turning to his mother for comfort. She turned away from the dragons to Wolfe.

  “Let’s go find the other witches,” she whispered. “I want to talk to that chieftain, too.”

  Mayra and Wolfe slipped out from Gaulte’s chambers in silence, leaving the two black dragons to search for any further evidence of Gaulte’s bold visitor. The two Ring-Witches were prepared to return to their common to search for the captive Phailite. But they didn’t have far to search; as they passed by the dragon common, they heard shouts of laughter from within. Everyone, even the surly Berent af’Torr, had gathered in the huge common room, where both dragons and humans were working at various projects.

  Fleura waved Wolfe and Mayra over to join her, Kirik, and Leyna. Fyrid and Fleura, and Payk and Shaura were showing them how to make snowshoes and eye shields. The three witches had been showing uncle and nephew how magic made certain aspects of their tasks much easier.

  Magic fascinated the Phailites as always, with Payk shaking his head and saying, “We will despair over having to return to a slower way to build what we use every day to survive in the Ceshons.” He gestured toward several sets of the essential equipment already stacked in the corner behind him and the witches laughed.

  Mayra looked around as she crossed the room to join Fleura. Indiera was in the far corner with several younger nestlings, telling stories to her enraptured audience. Gradually other dragons were joining them, and the room was warming with the heat from their bodies.

  As Fauler and Hyaera entered the common, Theura quietly followed them, surprising Mayra. The Ring-Witch wondered where Gaulte was. She hoped he did not remain hidden away in his chamber. His two nestlings were looking around for him; both turned away; she could almost feel their disappointment, but their attention returned to Indiera almost at once.

  Theura arranged herself close to the nestlings. Mayra could tell that Theura’s visit to Gaulte’s chamber had interrupted the task to which she now returned—showing several witchlings how to use dragon scales to make armor. Mayra didn’t join them, but she watched with rapt interest.

  * * *

  “Upon the rise of the sun, we ride as leaves in the wind. We feel the air all around us, cold and biting. But then, the winds still and the air further cools. The surrounding lands grow quiet, as nightrise comes and we rest, little knowing that—” The words of the witchling came to an abrupt stop.

  Gaulte, while passing through the largest common, searching for certain younglings, paused to listen to the soft, feminine voice of the witchling, Indiera. Her words carried her tale across the common and Gaulte did not interrupt her tale.

  The dragon jumped as two of the youngest, energetic nestlings came racing into the common, covered in jewels—what Mayra had called necklaces and bracelets—obviously pilfered from their mothers’ collections. The small siblings were laughing and squealing as the two direwolves chased them. Gaulte was so filled with joy that for a moment, he watched them and envisioned a day when his mate and youngest—when all the females and other younglings—returned to the Aerie. When the Aerie would be alive with the joining of dragons and witchlings as it was in the past.

  The two direwolves made their way across the chamber to Fyrid and collapsed down beside him. With their sides heaving and tongues flopping out, they were visibly exhausted.

  Indiera smiled at the direwolves and changed her story: “Little knowing that the direwolves are hunting for their pups.” Nena and Balc, despite being two tired young direwolves, perked up and looked around, and Indiera laughed.

  “Oh, Indiera!” One of the older nestlings called out. “Is this the tale—?”

  “Losa, don’t be impatient, my dear,” the Elder interrupted. As soon as she had entered the common and taken her place amid her kin and the witchlings, she had again placed herself firmly in charge of the younger dragons.

  Fauler’s green-scaled nestling dropped her bright gold eyes. “Yes, Grandmatron,” she said meekly. She looked up again, her smooth, rounded snout turning up at the corners in her version of a grin. “I apologize for interrupting, Indiera, to ask you if this was a tale of how the dire-pups came to live with dragons!”

  Gaulte huffed as Theura snorted. “Child of my youngest child,” said the old dragon, “you are as much a handful as was your sire. Now sit and listen quietly.”

  The black dragon continued to listen, realizing that it made him sad, yet oddly comforted, to see those humans sitting amid the small dragons, happily being the mothers to them that his own kind could not.

  He sought the four six-yearlings for a reason. Gaulte had more questions about what they had overheard the day vile Phailites had invaded his home and stolen his mate and child. He needed to question the Hyrnt chieftain, Berent af’Torr.

  But he wanted to linger.

  Fyrid and Payk were spread out in one corner with four of the witchlings, including Mayra and Wolfe. All, even the large male Ring-Witch, were working studiously on making snowshoes and goggles. Farther away, Payk and Shaura were guiding witchlings in making various protectors, using the scales the old dragon had previously ordered the small dragons to gather and stack near the front entrance. Upon completion, Gaulte knew his mournful tears would anoint the shields and chest-protectors. An ancient incantation would be used to empower them to protect the wearers.

  Many of the adult dragons were also there to be near their offspring and each other. The young ones did not know that their elders were readying for a battle, for neither witchlings nor dragons seemed anything other than happy, listening to the storyteller and enjoying the company of each other.

  Gaulte caught the eyes of Wolfe and Mayra, who were also listening to Indiera; a quick movement of his head and they rose at once to join the black dragon.

  He suspected his mind-speak would sound more terse than they had yet to hear it. He was a dragon with a purpose. I must find the six-yearlings who were here, and Berent af’Torr. I wish to ask them about the jewels and assure him we will return him to his village.

  Wolfe nodded. We’ll bring them to the nursery. I’ll bring Payk, too.

  All three moved but paused as the Phailite chieftain stepped away from the wall and made his way to them. Payk rose and followed. Mayra and Wolfe exchanged a glance.

  Payk had assured them Berent was honorable. Perhaps the man had decided it was time to prove that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ceshon Aerie

  Day seven of the First Moon of Wynter

  Berent Af’Torr had at first resisted joining his fellow Phailites amid a huge gathering of witches and dragons, but by the gods, he wanted to go home! And apparently, being agreeable was necessary before that would happen.

  But as he watched, he found himself drawn into the common cause of these strangely compatible beings. There was purpose in their small group—their mission so specific, yet so complex. Each human here was doing whatever he or she could to find the dragons that belonged to this Aerie. And Berent was looking forward to a chance for revenge on Plyn af’Nanyn.

  As Berent idly watched the other humans, the black dragon, Gaulte, appeared in the doorway into the common. A momentary knot of panic blossomed in Berent’s stomach—hell, through his entire body—but this time, it faded almost at once. Berent looked around the vast room, which now contained all the adult dragons in the Aerie, and he realized there was little happiness among them, not such as in the children.

  Children? He gave a slight shake of his head. If only his fellow villagers could see him now! The Clan had chosen as him as chieftain based on his posture of profound dislike and mistrust of the dragons that lived around them. That argument was beneficial to more than humans.

  He had relied on that stance to keep him and his safe, and to ensure the safety of certain
other dragons. And it had gone well until the day a blue man had taken him prisoner—a man who spouted such a hatred of dragons that Berent was taken aback.

  Berent had not been a cooperative prisoner, but he had been a curious one. He had gradually deduced that his captors would ransom him, which surprised him, for he had overheard their leader speaking of a great treasure. Not the jewels the dragons kept—and seeing these small dragons running about with treasures for playthings had been quite a shock—but something else with incalculable worth, kept at the Ceshon Aerie. How much wealth did the man need?

  His captors were troublemakers banished from the Sorst Clan. Their leader ranted against the dragons in the Ceshon Aerie and the men of the Sorst Clan, and that was when Berent learned who that leader was: a bad-tempered man named Plyn af’Nanyn.

  Plyn boasted to Berent, showed him magical weapons that shot a terrifying fire and could rapidly eradicate anything at which it was pointed. The man had never told him what destruction they planned for the weapons; now that Berent knew more of the truth, it sickened him, thinking about how elated Plyn had been over his new playthings.

  Berent had little problem figuring out why the Sorst Clan had cast the man out—he was a devious tyrant and quick to anger. Banishment had been a kind punishment; Berent’s Clan would have killed the treacherous man and his followers.

  Berent ate when fed, slept when he could, and he watched and listened. The next day, three of af‘Nanyn’s men returned to camp with several large leather devices, including a strange, pale-blue one.

  The chieftain thought af-Nanyn might have forgotten about him, had in fact planned how he might escape, when Plyn’s minions ordered Berent to don his outdoor gear and make ready to leave the camp.

  Plyn af’Nanyn took Berent with him when they made their way through waist-high snow, and two days later made another camp, this time in an area unfamiliar to the chieftain. Unfamiliar, that is, until the group swept down upon an Aerie that Berent recognized at once—they were attacking the Ceshon Aerie!

  Berent was certain they would all die. But instead, the chieftain was kept behind under guard and watched from outside as his captors led adult and young dragons from the Aerie, staggering along as though they had no will of their own. The leather objects proved to be saddles.

  Most curiously, the red dragon, the one who muttered curses most foul at the humans, wore a large basket across her chest.

  Plyn’s men placed four or five young dragons on the backs of two dragons. Plyn af’Nanyn himself forced Berent onto the back of the dominant red dragon, to ride with Plyn and one of his men. Dragons and humans rose into the sky. Berent was undoubtedly one of the first Phailites to ride a dragon—if not, certainly the most terrified. As they drew closer to a single, flattened mountain, the man behind Berent yanked a black cloth over his head and shoved him down to the man’s feet.

  In the cold, disorienting black space around him, Berent heard noises that still chilled him. Harsh, grating noises that might have been voices. He felt the air around him grow still colder; even through the cloth, he could sense it was darker. He assumed they had entered a cave. Within moments, someone pulled him off the back of the red dragon he had ridden and, while still blindfolded, he was dragged back outside. He had listened to her savage rantings and hidden a smile.

  He stayed outside with a handful of unruly guards, huddled over a meager fire, fed once—a rancid bowl of weak soup— and loitered around for most of the day before they finally moved him into the cave. Someone ripped the rag off his face and he realized they were inside a vast cave. The dragons were gone.

  The humans had given him more soup and some hard bread as they donned their cold-weather gear. As he ate he looked around.

  The huge cavern was shadowy and impossibly black in some places, but it was warm and dry. Strangely warm in fact, given the size of the opening. Berent thought he saw small movements in the shadows, but once he peered closer, he received a half-hearted cuff from one of his kind, and he returned his attention to his food. He'd barely finished the bread—chewing was a slow task with the unappetizing stuff—before they made their way down.

  Berent had almost commented that it didn’t appear they had worked their plan out very well, allowing themselves to be stranded at the top of the mountain with their mode of travel now gone. It was dark before they stepped off the rocky path that led back up to the cave. While Berent was freezing, starving, and generally in a terrible mood, his captors were jubilant.

  The cause of their triumphant elation still puzzled him: the saddles worked! What was so exciting about that, given the weapons the men possessed?

  Berent couldn’t have cared any farking less how happy they were. He wanted decent food, and he wanted to sleep. But no, through the night, under the full moon, they trudged back to the Ceshon Aerie.

  Why, in the name of the gods, did Plyn—who was plainly addled—want to go back to the Aerie? It took almost two full days and nights, with little rest, to cover the distance it had taken dragons little more than two hours to fly. By the time the group reached the Aerie, Plyn af’Nanyn was preoccupied and careless, and Berent escaped almost at once that second time.

  He stayed near the Aerie, knowing it was a deadly mistake to leave a place where he could find shelter from the cold and the wild direwolves that haunted wildernesses around the Aerie.

  And Berent, hiding in a crevice above the Aerie, learned why Plyn had returned there, why they had carried the saddles and horrific weapons. That was the last time he ever saw Plyn and his men. But it wasn’t until he was captured again—by four savage younglings—and his rescuers took him into the Aerie that he learned the end of the tale, and he saw the male dragons who had been taken away that day.

  By far the most terrible thing they had done—stealing the young dragons—had not even been their gravest error. That had been forcing male dragons to serve as their slaves, to carry them into battle and slaughter innocent people. Plyn’s plans for death and destruction had failed, and the man had died along with the others who had ridden dragons to the south. No doubt, it would have stunned Plyn af’Nanyn to learn just how much information Berent had gathered regarding where the former Sorst clansman had taken those dragons. If only he could find the farking place again.

  Now the chieftain watched as the two witch-leaders rose to join Gaulte. He pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning and watching, ignoring the surprised look of Payk and Fyrid. He followed the path of Mayra and Wolfe, and Payk followed him.

  From the first moments of his entry into the Ceshon Aerie, Berent felt different and out of place. And that included his own two kind, for something was different about the other two Phailites. Though he couldn’t determine why, they seemed to belong with both dragons and witches. Such feelings of being misplaced made him more anxious to return to his village and people.

  It was time to share what he knew and trust that the dragons would keep their promise and return him to his village, where the stories of his adventures with both evil and good dragons and Phailites, alike, would keep his people enthralled, and him chieftain, for years to come, or so he planned.

  * * *

  Gaulte watched as Wolfe, Mayra, Payk, and Berent, with Larek leading, disappeared down the corridor that led to the nursery. He meant to follow at once but wanted to speak to his young ones first and assure them that as soon as he could make ready, he and the others would be on their way, seeking their mother. But as he prepared to speak to them, he realized that the younglings of all ages needed reassurance. Why should his young alone be comforted?

  Gabrel and Aesta were with their uncle, Fauler, eclipsing the humans Fyrid and Fleura, who sat amid them. Neither of the nestlings knew why the witchlings were so industrious, but both were eager to help the humans.

  Gaulte huffed as he watched Gabrel; his heir was almost comical as he sat upright, on his back haunches, holding a long piece of reed in his talons. Gaulte could see a bit of his forked tongue poking out fro
m between his leathery lips. Though Gabrel’s attempts to plait the fibers, as Fleura was patiently showing him, weren’t producing even rows, he had produced a small piece of weave. Gaulte admired his determination.

  Gaulte started to clear his throat to catch the attention of the rapt young dragon, but stopped. Instead, he honed in on another bit of conversation that stopped him short.

  Sisters Jannia and Shaura were playing dice with Hyaera, when Shaura said, “Has anyone seen Smok? I haven’t seen him today at all.”

  “Or yesterday,” Jannia added. “At least not in the evening.”

  Rage rushed through the black dragon. He knew he should have ridded them—Stop. It doesn’t matter. There was no time to look for the treacherous little dragonlet.

  There was also no reason now to await a move from the rogue dragon that had invaded Gaulte’s chamber. It was time to gather information and put plans in place; time to find his mate, his child, and those of his kin.

  It was time for Hesta to come home.

  The dragon cleared his throat. Every being in the room stopped what they were doing, and heads swiveled toward him.

  “I wish you all to know,” he said quietly aloud, “that we will be on our way as soon as we finish making ready, to find the rest of our Aerie. Young ones, you must mind your Grandmatron or any other dragon or human adult who gives you direction. They will ensure your safety.” He hesitated, then turned away, sending out a call as he went.

  Fauler, come with me. Mieran, gather your friends at once and go to the nursery.

  The young bronze dragon met Gaulte and Fauler at the doorway in to the nursery. As the black dragon entered, he felt a small bump on his back leg and turned to find Gabrel, grinning up at him hopefully.

  “Father, I know something!” the young black dragon whispered, his starburst eyes alive with excitement. “I dreamed it and Aesta woke me, and together we remembered that it really happened!”