Mayra heard a roar of fury from Gaulte, echoed by one from Wolfe, who was urging Fauler closer to the rocky bluff. Hesta was enraged, snapping at Hagan, trying to catch any body part in her long, sharp teeth.
Mayra pulled rocks from in front of the hole, then bent down to peer inside. The basket was so still.
“Tamsin?” she called and reached in to get a firm grip on the heavy reeds of the container.
She pulled the handle and when it moved beneath her fingers, she started and gasped aloud. She chided herself for succumbing to nerves yet again.
And then, she heard a tiny whimper. Mayra pulled back out of the crevice and turned with a huge grin she hoped would tell Hesta and Gaulte that their nestling was alive.
Mayra froze. She pulled back from the basket and her mouth fell open. The strange sight and sound of Hesta, sobbing like a human, stunned the Ring-Witch.
“No, no, Hagan, you must free my child,” Hesta cried, her head drooping. Her strong shoulders shook. “Please, please free her…” Hesta trailed off.
What the hell is wrong with Hesta? What is that idiot dragon Hagan doing?
Hagan backed Hesta close to the wall that enclosed the bluff. Mayra glanced from Hagan to Hesta, then back at the red dragon, and relief flooded the Ring-Witch. That rogue dragon was proving himself to be more stupid by the moment—
It hadn’t taken Mayra but a glance to realize that Hesta was feigning the fear that was urging Hagan ever closer to her. As Hesta inched further back against the wall of rocks, Hagan was slowly presenting more of his back to Gaulte and Kantar.
Mayra dropped back to the crevice, wriggled in, and reached for the basket. The basket had moved further back into the hole. She turned her head for more room, and as her fingers brushed a corner of the basket, a lick of foul, gray magic blasted over her head, narrowly missing both her and the crevice that held Tamsin. Mayra jumped to her feet to strike back, but a small slide of rocks showered down over her. Her head exploded with those same vivid colors, followed by the pain of shards of splintered rock, digging into her back and shoulders.
She dropped and rolled into a clump of dried grass. She grimaced, wondering if anything was broken, and suddenly, felt movement beside her. Something tiny scuttled over the rocks above her head.
“Smok?” she whispered thickly and winced. “Where did you—”
Dimly, she could see Hesta spring to life and attack Hagan, who was far closer than he should have been to a distraught and savage mother. Blood spurted from Hagan’s shoulder, and he erupted with a terrifying roar.
That roar expressed extreme pain and rage, and Mayra wished more on the farking dragon. “Shouldn’t have shot your magic at me, durgen,” she muttered and closed her eyes.
She tried to move away as her dagger was roughly jerked from her boot. A moan escaped her; she felt a gentle nuzzling against her cheek and struggled to open her eyes again.
Smok stared at her and a huge tear rolled down his tiny snout. Behind him—Mayra groaned again. Cherra stared back at her; as Fleura had noted, Cherra was again Mayra’s double. The Phailite woman rose with Mayra’s dagger, hurried around the Ring-Witch, and dropped behind her. Smok whimpered as Cherra pushed the blade up against Mayra’s neck. As Smok moved aside, Mayra could see the gnome, Feshr, staring at her with a huge, happy grin.
“Poor baby,” Mayra whispered hoarsely to little Smok. She licked her lips. “Does she have your mate and eggs again? I understand. I forgive you.”
The ringing in her ears was louder. Smok was becoming blurry. Mayra closed her eyes again. Were the tears of a dragonlet magical, too? She forced her attention back on her predicament. She was going to feign unconsciousness and rest—the thought and her plan trailed off and her sham became a reality almost at once.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Aloft in the Ceshon Mountains
Outside the Cavern of Hagan
Day eleven of the First Moon of Wynter
Wolfe slowly grew aware of his surroundings, felt the saddle and dragon beneath him first, then his sword, hanging loosely from his hand. He blinked away haze from his head and then looked around. Where the hell had Hagan gone? Wolfe quickly sheathed his blade. Richart, riding Talft, was next to Wolfe; both the dragon and the man looked as confused as Wolfe felt. He leaned forward to peer into Fauler’s face.
“Do you feel strange?” he asked. “Where did Hagan go? One minute we were battling him, then he was gone.”
Fauler was unusually silent. Then the green dragon thrust his wings forward, providing Wolfe a head-jerking, midair turn. Wolfe could now see that across the ravine, Mayra and Hesta were trapped on a small bit of rocky mountaintop and Mayra was waving her arms, trying to get the attention of the dragons and riders. Relief flooded Wolfe. His eyebrows drew together. Why the hell was she flinging her arms all over the place?
“Fauler, fly closer to Mayra and Hesta,” Wolfe commanded, “I think that’s where Tamsin is.” But inexplicably, Fauler continued to hold back, refusing to comply. “What’s wrong?”
We must wait. Something—something is coming, friend Wolfe. Fauler’s use of mind-speak surprised Wolfe, especially after the green dragon’s earlier worry lest Hagan hear them. But Fauler’s confusion was even more worrisome. Wolfe needed a question answered—
Fauler growled and lunged forward. Wolfe grabbed at the reins and his eyes focused on Hagan. The dragon had just swung around the peak of a small mountain and landed near Hesta and Mayra.
Wild rage swelled up within Wolfe. He again tried to urge Fauler closer, but Fauler drew away from the rock-stack, ignoring Wolfe’s attempts to change his direction.
A black presence appeared in the corner of Wolfe’s eye; he spun around in his saddle. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened—“By the gods!” he breathed.
The huge, black wings of Gaulte seemed to spread out forever as the dragon sailed down the ravine toward them. Wolfe was further astonished to recognize the Phailite Elder—Fyrid’s grandfather, Kantar—riding Gaulte.
Gaulte slowed to a hover and Kantar rose in his saddle. He swept his intimidating staff in a wide semicircle, a gesture that encompassed the dragons and riders.
Fall back! My claim to this beast is far older. I will have my revenge against that demon, Hagan, atop the dragon I saved!
The dragons and riders gathered around the edge of the bluff were already backing up. Those whose faces Wolfe could see were as stunned as he was. The power of Kantar mind-speak astonished Wolfe—it was as strong as that of Gaulte and, Wolfe noted, it had undeniably caught Hagan’s attention.
But instead of flying up to meet Gaulte, the rogue dragon roared and snapped at Hesta, seemingly with all his might. Wolfe shook his head in incredulity. Surely, the farking dragon wasn’t that stupid!
Gaulte glided closer to his mate and Mayra. Kantar’s expressive face was now discernable; the Elder was as calm as he had been when he had told them a story in the warm comfort of his daughter’s home.
Wolfe narrowed his eyes. Mayra was screaming something at Hagan but—in the blink of an eye, rage seemed to encompass Kantar. He whipped the antlered staff up and pointed it at Hagan. Move away from them, foul creature! I will kill you where you stand!
Suddenly, Wolfe’s heart leaped into his throat as Hagan lunged forward and swung his tail at Mayra. Barely a breath later, Hesta attacked Hagan, and that dragon whirled, struck out at Mayra, and sent her flying into Hesta.
Kantar raised his staff and pointed it at Wolfe. The solemn Elder slowly shook his head no. And although Wolfe was seething with rage, he obeyed the clear message—do nothing.
Mayra jumped to her feet. Wolfe watched her leap around Hagan, run to a tangle of rocks and dried grass, and drop to her knees. He grinned and shook his head. He had himself quite a woman, didn’t he?
Mayra was again shouting; Wolfe couldn’t hear all her words, but whatever she was saying was seriously angering Gaulte. Wolfe swore softly. Of course, a father would be furious. Wolfe had already guessed
—they had found Tamsin. And he couldn’t help his mate, his child, or the human to whom he had bonded.
***
The reactions of Gaulte and Hesta added to the uproar and pandemonium around Wolfe. Gaulte’s enraged roar echoed through the mountains. Mayra continued to grope around in the rocks until abruptly Hesta ended the clamor by seeming to fold in on herself.
This time, Wolfe didn’t need to urge Fauler closer. The green dragon glanced back at his sibling but Gaulte’s eyes were fixed on his mate and on Hagan, whose back was slowly being presented to the other dragons.
Wolfe chuckled and leaned forward. “Stay, friend Fauler, Hesta doesn’t need us now,” he said quietly. “Can’t you tell that she is feigning surrender to move that bastard to his most vulnerable—”
Wolfe broke off—Hagan had just shot a stream of his foul, gray magic at Mayra and Wolfe broke off trying to calm Fauler down. The Ring-Witch’s world was turning red. Hagan hadn’t hit Mayra but the surge of magic struck the wall behind her, sending rocks and dirt tumbling down over her. Wolfe snarled incoherently, his furious frustration making him blind with rage.
Wolfe, stop. Now.
Gaulte’s calm mind-speak was like a balm—soothing and commanding. Wolfe took several deep breaths. Anger sparked a moment as he realized that Fauler, beneath him, was chuckling.
There is nothing on this earth that will harm either female, as long as Gaulte is here, Fauler sent serenely. They know this—why do you think they are playing so boldly with that vile dragon? They seek only to enrage him and make him do imprudent things.
The dust cleared; seeing Smok, scurrying across the ground toward Mayra stunned Wolfe; rage quickly followed. Where Hagan’s magic had struck the rocks, a small crevice had opened and continued to open wider, until Feshr and Cherra stepped out. Wolfe cursed heartily. The damned Phailite bitch had resumed her guise of Mayra!
The new arrivals remained back, unseen by Mayra, as Cherra slowly bent and picked up a rock.
“Mayra, move!” Wolfe screamed.
His words blended with the screams and shouts of both humans and dragons as they tried to warn Mayra.
Wolfe flung up his arms—and froze. How did he cast magic and not harm Tamsin? All around him, he could hear the frantic calls of the others, shouting Mayra’s name but—Wolfe’s hands clutched into huge fists—she neither heard nor saw them, waving their arms as she had moments earlier, trying to get her attention.
Cherra’s strike was fast and vicious.
Mayra slumped into the grass, and Cherra tossed aside the rock. The Phailite woman dropped to her knees next to Mayra, grabbed her boot daggers, and scurried back by her victim’s head. When Cherra handed one blade to Feshr, he pranced around as though he carried a small sword. Wolfe shook his head. Insane, armed, and too powerful to let live.
Although Wolfe expected it, when Cherra pressed the other dagger into Mayra’s neck, the male Ring-Witch felt the world around him fade as his senses sharpened. Whether he wished it or not, his body was readying to attack, and damn Gaulte’s warning and Fauler’s wisdom.
He felt Fauler’s warning: Neither Gaulte nor Kantar will allow this. Calm yourself, my friend.
Wolfe was dazed. His warrior’s heart was pounding with bloodlust, while his cold, analytical brain—in agreement with the green dragon—was trying to calm him. Wolfe was only vaguely aware that Hesta had attacked Hagan, that her teeth had finally found his flesh, drawing a fountain of blood. The dark Ring-Witch tore his eyes from Mayra—Hesta looked as if she were preparing to mount a full-fledged attack against the rogue dragon. Wolfe’s grin was vicious. He was prepared to assist—he froze as Cherra pressed the dagger across Mayra’s throat and Mayra gave a cry, though he knew she was still unconscious.
Hesta stopped her attack at once, hunkered down, and swung her head toward Mayra and Cherra. Hagan swiped his claws at the red dragon; Gaulte roared furiously, but the black dragon drew no closer.
Wolfe could only stare as Feshr clapped his hands and danced around insanely while Cherra, seeming to obey something only she could hear, grabbed Mayra’s arms and pulled her toward Hesta. The red dragon snarled at Cherra, the Phailite woman hesitated, then finished dragging Mayra across the dirt and snow and onto Hesta’s legs.
By the gods, why didn’t Hesta simply lean over and bite off Cherra’s—as though sensing his thought, Cherra resumed her stance at Mayra’s head, boldly within striking distance of Hesta. Wolfe had to admit the Phailite woman knew her strategy; Cherra had quickly realized that Hesta would not attack her, not with Cherra pressing the point of a blade into Mayra’s throat.
Wolfe needed to clear his head and think. The clamor was again rising around him, a host of seasoned warriors and dragons, helpless, all because they couldn’t endanger a magical young dragon. And a knife at Mayra’s throat but added to their inability to help Mayra.
Wolfe sought Mayra with his mind-speak, in that place they alone shared. What he found was as empty as a cloudless sky. He probed more deeply, trying gently to awaken her. Then he sensed her, as though she were in a deep cave. She called his name faintly, fearfully.
Fresh rage coursed through Wolfe. She looked so tiny, lying across Hesta’s front legs. And while cradling Mayra, Hesta was unable to attack the bleeding and limping Hagan. That dragon was making his way toward the rocky outcropping where Mayra had been kneeling, and Wolfe knew Hagan was going for the basket they had been seeking.
Are we going to sit here all day and stare at each other? Wolfe’s mind-speak was so forceful that the witches nearest him winced. He slammed a fist against his leg. What else could they do but wait? There was too much unknown about Tamsin and her eyes. He heartily—but mentally—cursed the dragons and their damned secretive ways.
* * *
Mayra could feel Wolfe, deep in her mind, trying to awaken her. She awoke with a point of icy metal at her neck, pressed gently but firmly enough to hold her still while she looked around and got her bearings. And then, she took stock of her own body. Nothing hurt too badly, but a hot trickle, probably blood, was making its way down her hairline and her head was throbbing.
She was lying on her side; even through her furs, she could feel something beneath her that was firm, lumpy, hot, and leathery. She opened her eyes to slits. It hurt too much to look out over the glaring snow, but up close, she could see the finely carved hilt of her own blade, held in a gloved hand against her throat. Above the fur, a sliver of skin, the color of her own, served only to further confuse her. The gloved hand was too small to be male.
“Feshr”—ice washed through Mayra at that voice—“get away from that damned dragon, you fool!”
That hoarse whisper was the last thing Mayra expected to hear. Farking Cherra an’Nanym—how the farking hell did she get here?
Her “bed” made a slight movement; Mayra’s eyes flew back open. She moved her head slightly—red dragon skin. For some reason, she was lying across Hesta’s front legs. Mayra suspected that Cherra’s holding a blade to her neck was keeping the red dragon still. Mayra wondered how much blood she had lost. Hesta suddenly stirred, sniffed, and made a slight purring sound.
Hesta had realized Mayra was awake. The Ring-Witch needed a plan. She closed her eyes again; the sun was starting its downward passage, but it was still bright. Perhaps if she made Cherra and Feshr think something was wrong with her, it might buy her some time.
“I’m so hungry,” the Ring-Witch whispered aloud. She moaned softly. “Why am I so cold?”
She jumped at the touch of cold leather on her face and opened her eyes. Feshr’s face was too close, and he was peering at her with black button eyes, narrowed suspiciously.
“Feshr,” she whispered as warmly as she could. “Where are we? I’m so cold, shouldn’t we go back inside?”
The gnome looked surprised and glanced over her head. “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded.
“Nothing.” Cherra sounded irritated. “Get away from her!”
It was time t
o further aggravate the Phailite bitch. Mayra moved to sit up. Astonishingly, Cherra moved back a bit. Mayra rose up on one arm, shook her head as though to clear it, then looked up at Hesta. Her mouth fell open.
“Oh, dear gods!” she screamed and struggled to rise. “Get it away, get it away from me! Oh gods, save me! Don’t let it eat me!”
The astonished look on Hesta’s face vanished almost immediately. Yes! Hesta was amazingly quick, wasn’t she?
“She is possessed!” the red dragon cried. “Get her away from me!” She quickly rose and flung Mayra off her legs and straight onto Cherra and Feshr, throwing them both back into the snow.
Mayra turned, jerked her leg up, and sent her knee flying into Cherra’s chin. The woman’s head snapped back, her head cracked against a jutting rock, and she fell to the ground. In the same instant, Mayra wrenched her dagger from Cherra’s numb fingers and turned on Feshr.
The gnome gazed at her with round eyes, and Mayra knew what he saw—a savagely snarling witch who was going to kill him. The dagger he held slipped from his shaking fingers; before he could move, Mayra grabbed him up by his tunic and shoved him into the crevice, her blade at his back.
“Bring out that basket.” Mayra bared her teeth at him, and the gnome whirled and scurried into the small break. She briefly closed her eyes as dizziness passed over her. Her head was throbbing.
As soon as Feshr pulled the basket out Mayra yanked off her mitten and her bare fist shot out and caught him in the jaw, He, too, crumbled to the ground. Mayra sheathed both her daggers, covered her hand back up, and reached for the basket.
The thundering of a dragon running at her made her freeze.
“Did you think you tricked me?” Hagan roared. “Are you truly that dimwitted?” Hagan’s roar turned to an odd gurgle as the entire bluff shuddered. Gaulte had landed.
Hagan whirled away from Mayra. Hesta’s roar was savage. The red dragon struck out at Hagan, her long front talons catching his snout and snapping his head back. Blood spurted, and he howled in pain. Hesta released Hagan and continued past him, running toward Mayra.
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