The dolphins and young whales he had sacrificed to the hatchling had filled Dendrok out, nourished his young body, which was sickly no more and growing at a startling rate. In time, the drago-serpent would come into his full power with the ritual human sacrifice he had planned on the upcoming moon.
The merchant-chief Evren had proven useful in keeping the Red Claws distracted. The longer he prevented them from moving against the pirates, the more chance his plan of conquering the islands had of succeeding. Cyrus had only to whisper a suggestion into Bralig’s ear and the lad parroted it back to his father.
Likewise, the doubt and fear he had instilled through dream images into Darek’s mind had done their work. Summoning the oracle’s divinatory cloud, Cyrus looked within its enigmatic swirls and saw how the boy woke in a sweat every morning, gasping, with wide, staring eyes, looking for ghouls hiding in the shadows. Poor fool! Cyrus’s lips curled in a grin. So much could be done from the safety of one’s cave.
A loud, mournful roar played across the crimson waters. Cyrus blinked, his concentration broken. Dendrok seemed to be growing impatient at the late hour as the sun set over the waves. He called off his winged horrors. Enough havoc had been wrought for one day. Valoré had tasted his fill of blood and licked his teeth with a rattling purr of relish. Cyrus turned his dragon around. He summoned Fercifor and Dendrok and Samon and Windbiter, fierce dragons in all, who served as Dendrok’s nursemaids.
Fercifor resisted the command, toying with a still-breathing farmer like a rag doll.
Insolent creature. “You mustn’t kill them all, Fercifor,” Cyrus teased. He gestured a hand. “Windbiter, fetch me three live sacrifices! They will feed new serpents’ bellies before the moon wanes.”
While Windbiter flew off to the town to search for survivors, Dendrok’s fangs glinted in the sallow, late afternoon light. The half dragon hovered before his master, teeth flecked with bits of fabric and bone, his blue snout dripping with slime and blood.
At last, Fercifor bit into his kill. Dendrok flew over to investigate and Fercifor snapped at his tail, a show of playful rivalry, or was it more? Dendrok gave a low, warning snarl.
Cyrus scolded his serpent with a jaunty laugh. “Fercifor, don’t be jealous!” But then his expression blackened.
“Where is Samon, my serpent?” he bellowed. His eyes strayed to the surf, where a coiled form lay washed up, half concealed in the wreckage-strewn waves. A large chunk of flesh had been gouged out of the serpent’s back and claw marks raked its broken body. Killed by a dragon.
“What have you done?” he yelled at Dendrok. “She was my pet. A faithful servant of mine and the first to raise you from a hatchling—”
Cyrus realized all in a split of a second. The feral creature was not to be trusted. Perhaps the old fool Agrippa was right. Anything with serpent blood would bite the hand that fed it. Most of his serpents followed his commands, but infusing serpent blood into the dragon and treating it with such cruelty had made it rebellious.
He discarded the thought. The voice of a weakling. He mustn’t let such doubts influence him. He straightened his back and spoke in stern tones. “I see I will have to discipline you more harshly, Dendrok! Even if it means I must keep you under tighter leash next time. Come, you ghoulish wights! Let us away to Curakee!”
The grisly troupe prepared for the long journey back, Windbiter, gripping the end of a cart of wailing citizens in his teeth, while the ashes of the town cooled and the cries of despair echoed over the smoldering buildings.
* * *
Two days later, Cyrus touched his dragon down in an area well back from the Rookery. He crouched in the trees atop the hill, looking out from between a twisted pair of tall dogwoods. The position offered him a fine bird’s eye view of the training grounds. Such a quaint little place! Too bad it would have to burn.
He considered his options. A mage blast from his vantage would draw quite a stir and likely provoke a counterattack. No, it would not do to draw attention to himself or have that mage boy and his infernal rider friends come charging after him. Something subtler was in order—but with equal devastation. Of course!
Squinting in the bright light, he studied the layout of the Rookery, rubbing his chin from time to time with the beginnings of a plan. The riders passed inches from those large floating balloons on their route through the obstacle course. A tempting target to plant an explosive there. It would be quite the tragedy if the mage boy happened to be near one when it went up in flames… Nighttime would be best for setting the trap, but he needed a distraction.
Sending a mental command, he called for aid. He cached his dragon higher up in the woods and donned his beggar’s garb. Then he limped down to the town square where he met with Bralig, the young town guard, his accomplice. Cyrus favored the curt youth with a conspiratorial wink. “Hoy there, Bralig, what are you doing so far from your post?”
Bralig grimaced. “You again. Begone, beggar. I’m searching for a thief who came this way.”
Cyrus scowled. It was curious the way his commands caused Bralig to delude himself. The mage lifted a palm. A scarlet gleam radiated from the runestone clutched in his hand and made the young man stare.
“I require a task of you, Bralig. Lure away the night guard from the Rookery this evening. He sits on Dragon Watch hill atop his dragon with a lantern.”
“Why? What do you plan to do?” Bralig’s eyes continued to stare as if caught in the grip of a hex.
“Never mind the reason, just heed my words.”
Bralig’s frown deepened. “It sounds dangerous.”
Cyrus waved a hand. “It is.” His lips curled in a trace of irritation. He was losing the young guard. “Think of the rewards.” He opened his palms and the ruddy shine of the runestones caught the young man’s attention once again. Bralig’s eyes gleamed in response.
“Remember your enemy, Bralig—the mage boy who rides the silver dragon. Remember how he humiliated you at the sailing races long ago.”
Bralig gave a slow nod. “I remember.” His teeth clenched. “I’ll do as you say.” His face clouded in a vindictive grin.
“Very good.” Cyrus threw him the runestone. “Now go.”
Bralig turned to leave but hesitated. “How will I lure the guard?”
Cyrus’s eyes flashed. “Use your imagination.” He clawed at his brow but his cowl slipped.
Bralig gaped, peering at the scorched face. “What’s wrong with your face?”
Cyrus pulled the cowl back over his cheeks. “At midnight I expect Dragon Watch to be clear.”
Bralig gave a nod and shambled off. Cyrus shook his head—the young guard may fail him; he may need a backup plan.
* * *
Darek was dreaming of flying… the wind whipped through his hair and the spray of the water cooled his skin. Silver Eye carried him far and wide across the Serpents’ Deep. The water below boiled with dozens of serpents. Kraton! Had they been breeding unchecked? Vile serpents spread across the ocean, bobbing, hissing, tongues flicking from wedge-shaped heads like nightmare ghouls.
A monster dragon, half serpent, all blue green and fiery scales, presided over the army of sea worms. The beast flew with wings spread, never moving. On its back perched a black-robed grinning figure, harboring a skull face, piking magic staff held high in the air. The figure lifted a pair of red stones in a bony hand that shone with a putrid gleam.
The swimming serpents fled from the piercing light, bowing in obedience, moving as one writhing mass to overrun the coasts of the free islands to the west. Darek tried to fight, to fly down and strike the black-robed figure, but the mysterious rider lifted his white fingers and projected a green ray that struck Silver Eye between the eyes and killed her. With a groan of anguish, he toppled into the sea toward the horde of serpents below.
As he fell, he strove to unleash his magic to scorch the waiting fiends below, but his power failed him. Just as the grotesque fangs, dripping with slime, snapped at his flesh, he awoke in a cold sw
eat…
Darek jerked upright, his fingers clenched. He cried out, a choked gasp sticking in his throat. The nightmares had gotten worse. Something was wrong… and yet, these nightmares ranked amongst the least of his problems. All the dragons but Silver Eye had grown unrulier and harder to control by the day. Just yesterday, one of the juveniles had snapped at its young rider, nearly taking off his arm. Then Winguard, whom he thought he had tamed back on Valkryie Island, bucked a veteran rider causing a broken rib and sprained wrist. Thankfully they had been flying low and no more damage had been done.
The entire Rookery grumbled about the dragons’ disobedience. Bree always seemed to have a sarcastic remark for him, and he found himself suddenly impatient with her sulking. Meira’s temper had reached an all-time high and Jace shook his head at the many mistakes Darek had made during his training maneuvers.
He could make no more progress with the dragon amulets. The bad dreams had shattered his concentration and the proportions of ingredients always seemed to be wrong. The dragons guarded their eggs with a vengeance and obtaining the egg white needed for the amulets’ magic became a dangerous chore. Somewhere he felt Cyrus’s hand in this. If only he could locate Cyrus and deal with him once and for all!
On an impulse he raced to the common area to seek out Briad and see what details the young rider could remember regarding the location of the mage’s hideaway. Unfortunately, he could only give him conflicting reports. Was it east, or west? Briad shook his head, unable to remember much. Darek threw up his hands in exasperation.
That day he flew the obstacle course, his turns sloppy in his full armor as his mind wandered. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to agree to the race. The wind whistled in his ears as a dozen dragons flapped behind him, vying for position. He was just veering around the last floating balloon, his ten-foot spear clutched in hand, when a hidden rider came jolting out of nowhere, striking Silver Eye hard in the flanks. The sudden impact sent him spinning away and he grunted, realizing that the tough leather of the harness was the only thing that had saved him from falling.
A nearby flash of light blinded his eye. He gasped, remembering only a red-hot fire singeing his back, then Silver Eye howling as both nearly erupted in flames. Her back arched and Darek roared in pain. Palms held up, he sent a cooling shield around his own body then an icy cloud of energy over his dragon’s back. Blue smoke rose from her scales.
As the smoke cleared, he looked back over his shoulder. The other rider was gone—incinerated on the spot. A cold lump formed in Darek’s throat. The explosion had ripped several other dragons out of the air. Scraps of the large balloon rained down, ablaze with fire. Riders came from all corners of the Rookery to help the injured dragons and their riders.
Silver Eye flew in erratic circles, dazed and in shock, not quite knowing what to do. Darek guided her down to a grinding halt in the yard, breathing in hoarse gasps. He slid to the ground, feeling the stinging pain in his back starting to lessen. They’d been lucky. If the other racer hadn’t knocked them clear, they’d have been killed. It had all been a blur. What exactly had happened?
Darek’s mind worked with unusual clarity. Other balloons crackled with flame but didn’t explode. Agrippa would never have used combustible gas around fire breathing dragons. Two trainees were badly singed and a third had been incinerated on spot. This didn’t seem like an accident, they’d been targeted. Cyrus!
Who else could it be? His stinging eyes roved about the grounds. The mage was nowhere in sight. The louse could be hiding anywhere, disguised as some beggar, or maybe turned himself into a bird or something—Darek still didn’t know the depth of the mage’s power.
He and the others grieved the loss of Frun, the young rider who had been roasted alive. Many of his own wounds he’d managed to heal with his mage power, but Silver Eye’d been badly burned. As he passed hands over her blackened scales, they turned a softer shade of silver and her low whimpers faded. The techniques Agrippa had taught him regarding visualization and applying healing touch had made a difference. Meira took the poor creature to the medicus and Jace ordered the Rookery to high alert.
The events of the day gave Darek an idea. He closeted himself in an unused wing, still under construction. For a day and half he set to his task with grim purpose. The details of his dark dream remained fresh in memory. With him he brought only some cold bread, a jug of water, and Agrippa’s spellbook, the Nemestomis. Away from Jace, Bree and the others, he could concentrate. His eyes rested on a particular stanza, The Spell of Unbinding. Spellbound, he read but not without some fear. As his eyes traveled further down the page, his guts tightened, recalling the warnings of Agrippa on the temptation of dark spells.
Several hours later, he emerged with a new understanding of Agrippa’s need for seclusion and his dire warnings. Being a mage was not what it was cut out to be; it required difficult choices and mental labor that tore apart the spirit. He still knew too little. With a grim exhalation, he announced he would be returning to Valkyrie for further study.
Bree came to his room not long after. She clicked her tongue and muttered. “Don’t you think you’re of more use here, Darek? What if we’re under attack?”
Darek shook his head. “The fire was meant for me. The best thing I can do is to lure the threat away. I might find what I need studying Agrippa’s spells,” he said with a downcast sigh. It was only half truth, but somewhere he knew Bree was not ready to hear about Livis. She turned on her heel and strode off while he finished packing up his gear. A short time later, he flew north on his dragon, hoping to draw Cyrus away from his friends and family.
Chapter 14.
Deadman’s Hold
Serpent Isle was a mysterious place, even more so at night. The sinuous coves that wove along the shore gave it a shape like the body of a snake. By day, the brooding, crow-haunted cliffs frowned down over the pounding surf. It was one of oldest Black Claw islands, at least from what Livis knew. The local clans still shunned the cliffs, ghostly now in the moonshine, and wore their black blood stripes on their arms to show their lineage and creed.
“Who will join Skarlee and me?” Livis asked.
“I will.” Numestis stabbed his dagger in the deck rail.
“Can’t do it without me,” grunted Farnoss. Maquia, of course, would be Livis’s shadow.
Krag and Drass elected to stay back should things go sour and defend their escape by sea. While their schooners lay at anchor at a safe distance, Livis and the others shipped four rowboats and took up oars in silent determination toward the beach.
The prison, looming on the bluff above, was a grey cinderblock, whose rough stone was studded with twin turrets at either end. Two gates stood connected by a high wall. A dusty trail wound up to the jailhouse, nothing more than a goat path. A torch flickered on the mantle over the scarred and weather-beaten door.
The boats ground ashore and Livis and Numestis and their respective parties beached them out of sight behind a rounded outcropping of boulders. Farnoss lifted a hand. “There. See the north end on the bluff. That’s where the side entrance lies.”
“Still think we should have brought in the dragons as backup,” muttered Numestis.
Skarlee slapped the captain’s shoulder and hissed for silence. “We’ve been through this before, Numy. We need to get in and out quietly without any guards raising the alarm.”
Up the thistle-shrubbed slope the group snuck like thieves: Livis, Farnoss, Skarlee, Maquia and four others. All were seasoned fighters, with weapons and cutlasses gripped in hand. Their booted feet made with no more noise than the pads of ferrets.
At the gate stood a lone guard, his chin drooping, a yawn heavy on his lips. Livis gave a sharp gesture for silence. Maquia darted forward and snapped the man’s neck. Fishing out the man’s keys, he and Skarlee put shoulder to the prison door. Two horn-helmed men looked up in surprise from their game of dice. Maquia and Skarlee’s swords arched a path of crimson ruin. The sentries died hunched over their ricket
y table, the dice still clutched in their hands.
A third man in the hallway reached for a dangling rope to sound the alarm bell—but Skarlee surged forward, hurling his knife to take the man in the neck.
A burly guard with a beard emerged from an inner room, steel sliding from his scabbard, Hesurprise and terror in his eyes. Skarlee knocked the man sideways and the sword clattered to the stone. Maquia pounced on him with his longsword, leaving the man writhing in a pool of his own blood.
Livis gave a curt grimace. “Stay together, we need to find our way to the cells fast.”
Farnoss fiddled with the dead man’s cloak and pulled out a heavy key on an iron ring. He fitted it in the locked door at the end of the guardhouse. They continued down a flight of steps to the main cells.
They moved through the torch lit passages on swift feet, avoiding any patrols. Reaching the main floor of the prison, Livis discerned a dozen separate cells, with a large one in the center. Her crew spread out, silencing any guards they encountered. Livis put her hand on the iron bars of the center cell. Nearly twenty figures stretched in the moldy hay. Each wallowed in reeking, tattered garments, with long ragged hair and defiant faces covered in dirt.
“What a foul reek,” Farnoss cried, plugging his nose.
Livis put her finger to her lips, urging silence.
Skarlee motioned the prisoners to stand with his sword. Unlocking the gate, he turned to Livis to whisper. “Are you sure this rag-eared lot can fight?”
“A few square meals will set them right,” Livis said.
A rough-bearded convict stepped forward, clearly their leader. “I’m called Strut. What be the price of freedom?”
Maquia flourished his blade. “This is your lucky day, Strut. All we require are your worthless lives.”
“You have a ship?” crowed the man.
“Aye, and you’re going to sail in it,” rasped Maquia with a grin.
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