“Only question is why the volcano would be erupting now,” Bartal said. “It can’t be a coincidence. Something to do with the enemy, I’d think.”
“Aye,” Andras agreed. “When we were passing through the village, the exploding mountain meant more demons.”
“Must be a lot of ’em,” Ruven said. The boy sounded more curious than alarmed. “It wasn’t blowing up like that before. Right, Da?”
Andras thought of the demons they’d spotted on the road, fighting. One demon would eat another and turn into a sort of hybrid of the two, bigger and stronger and meaner.
“Maybe just different demons, this time,” he said. “Bigger demons. Nastier.”
Bartal eyed him again. “You might be right. Wish we could see more than just ash.”
That ash was drifting down on them already, together with little stones that struck the ground and interrupted the grazing animals. Bartal went off to herd them up against an overhanging ledge, where they’d find shelter until the worst had passed. The warm breeze pushing up the canyon had grown hot, like a wind blowing off the desert, but tasting of sulfur instead of sage. There was a flash of light at the volcano, followed by another billowing cloud of ejected debris.
“Not so sure this was a good idea,” he told his son after staring at it a few seconds. “Maybe we should—”
Before he could finish, the aftershock of the eruption split the air with a boom, powerful enough that he felt it in his chest. The dogs erupted with a series of barks and howls. Bartal came running back from looking after the goats, a worried expression on his face.
“This was a bad idea,” Andras said. “I’m taking my boy and the dogs back down to the temple.”
Bartal licked his lips, glancing once again at the volcano and then back to his own animals, now huddled beneath the ledge. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Wait for me to get the goats, and we’ll go down together.”
“Look, Da,” Ruven said.
The rumbling had stopped, and to Andras’s surprise, the ash cloud was quickly dissipating, almost as if by magic. The top of the volcano had completely blown apart in the last eruption. A thin trickle of smoke was all that remained in the sky as the ash began to blow in the opposite direction, toward the plains.
In fact, the hot wind had died altogether. Instead, there was a stillness in the air, all the more strange for how windy it had been these past few weeks, first with cold pouring down from the mountains, and then warm again once the dragons had been driven back to their mountain lakes. The dogs stopped their barking and whining and stood panting, the only sound Andras could hear.
Could it possibly be over? Had Narina and the rest defeated the demons once and for all? Could the world return to normal?
“Oh, no,” Bartal said in a stricken tone.
The frater had turned to look into the range above them. Only the highest of the mountains still had snow on them, and even that had been melting rapidly these last few days. A cloud was forming to the southwest, above the tallest peaks.
“What is it?” Andras asked.
He pulled Ruven in. The dogs huddled closer, shivering. There seemed to be another change in the air, this time a cold that wasn’t coming down from the heights carried by the wind, but that seemed to be the heat dissolving as if with the coming of night, though it was still full daylight.
“See the mountains with the white crowns?” Bartal said. “That’s the highest part of the range—that’s why there’s still ice up there.”
“Yes, I get that,” Andras said impatiently. “But what’s happening? Do the clouds mean dragons, is that it? Did they wake up again? Would it be the blue one, the white one?”
“Neither.” Bartal’s voice was hollow. “Those two live farther to the north. It can only be the biggest of them all. The Great Drake.”
A breeze stirred the air, cooling the remaining sweat on Andras’s brow, and within moments it became a stiff wind knifing down from the peaks, throwing back their hair and whipping their sleeves. None of them had set out with anything more than thin cotton shirts, given the heat, and the chill was startling in its intensity and the speed of its arrival. The clouds above the peaks were growing rapidly and taking on a dark, ominous air.
Skinny Lad ran up to Andras, whining anxiously and leaning into his master for comfort. The rest of the pack surrounded him or nuzzled Ruven. This wasn’t the time to give in to the dogs’ need for reassurance. He whistled and pointed at the goats. Bartal was rushing off to gather them in again, as they’d started to scatter in fear. The frater glanced back in surprise as the dogs bounded after him.
Andras and Ruven followed the pack. “They’re not herding dogs,” Andras said, “but they’ll go where you need them. Where is it you want them?”
Bartal took hold of Brutus’s horn in an attempt to yank the big goat around and use him to block the others, who looked ready to run off for parts unknown. Unlike sheep, the goats didn’t seem inclined to huddle together, and each of the eight animals had a different idea of where it needed to go.
“Block the upper path,” the frater said. “I don’t want any of them bolting for the high meadows.”
Andras put his fingers to his lips and whistled another command, supplemented with hand gestures. Notch took the lead, seeming to understand exactly what he intended. When one of the goats lowered its head as if to butt the little terrier out of the way, she stood her ground, bristling and growling until the goat backed away again, unsure of itself. Stretch gave it a nip on the leg before dancing out of the way of a flailing hoof. Ruven waved his arms when another goat made to charge through, and Andras got in front of the animal before it could trample the boy, managing to turn it aside.
Bartal soon had the goats rounded up and moving back across the meadow. The animals were still skittish, and they let the frater know by tossing their heads and braying angrily at him and each other. The ratters and the dogs followed behind to dissuade any last-minute attempts to break free before they regained the path.
A clap of thunder split the air. Another followed a split second later, followed by a third rumble. Andras looked behind him to see a huge mass of clouds rolling down from the mountains, twisting and turning like some living thing. With horror he realized that impression wasn’t so far off the truth; there almost certainly was something alive in those clouds, a dragon flying toward them at a terrific speed. They weren’t going to make the temple shrine. They weren’t even going to make the far side of the meadow.
“Come to me!” Bartal cried over the wind. “Now!”
Andras grabbed the scruff of a pair of terriers and hoisted them into the air as he broke into a sprint. Ruven grabbed another. They hurried toward the frater and the goats. Andras trusted the other dogs to follow.
Bartal pushed into the center of the goats, who were braying and jostling in fear, trying to get as close together as possible. He ducked his head and something rippled around him, shimmering in the air and making the hairs stand up on Andras’s neck. It was sowen, he knew, a lesser amount of the power wielded by the sohns and elders of the temple, but still their best chance to survive whatever was barreling down on them.
He got in among Bartal and the goats, together with the dogs, and was just turning back to pull his son close, when he heard Ruven’s cry. The boy lagged some distance behind. He held one of the remaining terriers in his arms and was trying, but failing, to hold another of the dogs. Skinny Lad was with the boy, pulling on his sleeve, trying to drag him forward, but only adding to the confusion.
Andras ran back for his son and the dogs, ignoring Bartal’s cries, and had almost reached the boy’s side when a roar overhead made him look up. An enormous shape flapped its wings in the clouds. It looked like it was made of a dark green crystal, almost like an emerald turning black. He caught a glimpse of jaws that opened wide as the monster flew overhead. There was a splitting sound like a sheet of glass shattering.
Ruven had stopped to gape upward at the clouds with terror on
his face, and Andras didn’t quite reach his side before the bombardment started. Snow and hail thundered down on them, together with what felt like broken icicles, stinging and painful. He covered his son and the two terriers the boy had been wrestling with, and together they curled into a ball with Ruven crying and the dogs trembling as the snow and ice kept falling and falling.
When it finally stopped and the thunder rolled past them, Andras was buried. He could scarcely breathe, and Ruven was sobbing beneath him. He tried to push out, but there was too much snow, and he was immobilized. He couldn’t say a word to his son without choking on snow, so he squeezed the boy on the arm in an attempt to communicate.
Hold on. Wait for help.
Seconds passed; the need to escape grew desperate. He was starting to lose hope when he heard digging above him. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked. Still holding onto his son, Andras clawed his way through the last of the snow to find Bartal gasping above him as he pulled and tugged. Together, they dragged out Ruven, who took a huge, sobbing breath of air, and then all three dug out the last two dogs.
The landscape had been transformed. Several feet of snow buried the meadow, with a lighter patch centered where Bartal had taken refuge with the goats and some of the dogs. It was a rough, uneven sort of snowfall, not like a calm winter storm, with chunks of harder ice and piles of hail, as well as a strange sort of green ice sticking out here and there, glittering across the surface like scattered shards of green glass.
The temple grounds below had also been struck by the heavy, but localized snowstorm. It cut a white pathway across the temple and the surrounding forest, almost like a road laid down over the pine trees as it traveled down the canyon and vanished out of sight. Bits of green shimmered across the surface—more shards of the strange ice.
Andras let go of his son, who’d begun to sob in fear, and picked up one of these shards, drawn by an insatiable curiosity. It was so cold that it burned his fingers, and he dropped it with a curse and put his fingers to his mouth.
“Blast it,” he said, still rubbing his fingers. “What is that?”
Bartal bent to look, but didn’t touch. “Dragon feathers. Like what hit Miklos and gave him the curse that started all this. I think that was the point—the demigod was trying to call me back to the fight. It must have realized it has lost its champions.” He glanced down at the temple grounds, where figures were starting to move about across the snow. “I hope none of the warriors were caught unprepared.”
“What would happen if it hit a normal person?” Andras asked, checking himself over.
Bartal frowned. “It didn’t, did it?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m just wondering.” He glanced back at Ruven, who wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. “It wouldn’t have cursed me, would it?”
“No point in that,” the frater said. “You wouldn’t be much use as a sword saint. I’m sure it would kill you, though. Probably send cold into your heart and freeze it.”
“Da,” Ruven said in a thin voice. He looked pale and frightened.
Enough of this. Andras had to get his son down from here and out of the wet clothes or he’d catch sick. He reached for the boy, who was shivering violently, and that’s when Ruven lifted up his arm. A green scale was embedded in the underside of his upper arm, about an inch from his armpit. He must have been struck when he lifted his arms to protect himself from the icy bombardment.
Andras’s heart flipped over in his chest, but he carefully kept his face free of worry or concern. “Hold still, I’ll get it out.”
He grasped Ruven’s wrist, clenched his teeth against the boy’s frightened cry, and pinched the green scale, ignoring the cold that lanced into his fingers. He gave it a jerk, expecting that it would come right out. The scale pulled at his skin, and a bit of blood trickled out, but it refused to give way, almost as if it had fused to the muscle.
Ruven screamed in pain. “Da!”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Andras let go of the scale and embraced his boy, who felt like a block of ice. He turned desperately to Bartal, hoping to see confidence on the young man’s face, only to discover his brows knit together in worry. “Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know,” Bartal said. “It’s in him now. It might be too late.”
Chapter Fifteen
Narina stumbled up the post road, exhausted, healing her wounds and shoring up her surviving companions, and she didn’t notice the attack until it was on top of them. One moment a welcome breeze turned into a cold, knifing wind from the heights, and the next, thunder rolled through a black cloud racing across the sky. Without warning, snow and ice blasted them.
She had only a moment to throw out the remnants of her battered sowen, and together with Miklos, Katalinka, and Kozmer, she defended against the attack until it had moved on down the road. They were nearly buried to their waists in snow and ice by the time it was over.
Narina stared at the departing cloud, still howling its way down the canyon in the direction from which they’d come. It seemed to be rushing toward what remained of the caldera of Manet Tuzzia. Fresh despair filled her belly as she realized what it meant.
Miklos stared along with her, cursing in a low voice. He sounded more frustrated than angry or bitter.
“I thought the blasted dragons were wounded,” Katalinka said.
She brushed herself clear. When she turned to Narina, ice coated her eyebrows and lashes. A burn, raised and blistering, crossed her neck and touched her cheek where a demon lash had struck her. Her tunic was badly scorched, and no doubt she had more burns beneath it to heal.
“How could they have recovered so quickly?” Katalinka continued. “Is it just because the demons are gone, or what?”
Kozmer pulled his right hand inside the sleeve of his cloak and used the cloth to pluck up something green and glittering from the snow, which he showed to the others. “This is our answer. It wasn’t the lesser dragons. It was the Great Drake.” He dropped it with a wince and put his fingers to his mouth. “Damn, that’s cold.”
“Look, there’s more of them,” Katalinka said.
“Leave them alone,” Narina said.
“Everyone check yourselves,” Miklos said suddenly, his voice tense. He kept his injured arm tucked into a sling, which they’d made for him after the battle. “Has anyone been hit?”
They spent a few moments looking themselves over, but nobody had been struck.
“What does it mean?” Katalinka asked.
“The dragon was calling us back to the fight,” the warbrand explained. “Somehow it knew we’d freed ourselves of the curse. But it still wants a champion.”
“Curious,” Kozmer said. “And by curious, I mean unsettling.” The elder used his staff to clear the snow from around his feet. “If the demons have been defeated, why would the dragons need a champion?”
“Maybe the demons aren’t finished yet,” Miklos said.
“I killed their king,” Narina said. “It was wearing a crown and everything. The monster dissolved to ash—there’s nothing left of it. Since then, the volcano has gone quiet and we haven’t seen a single crow. This isn’t about demons.”
“Then what?” the warbrand pressed. “What other explanation is there?”
“The dragons want a champion to protect themselves from us,” she said. They looked at her, and she continued. “Look at us. All three of us were cursed. . .all three sohns, that is,” she added with a glance at Kozmer. “Every other sohn is dead, both the cursed or uncursed alike. We were called as sword saints, and we refused. We freed ourselves.”
“We were freed through no actions of our own,” Katalinka said firmly. She pushed ahead through the opening in the snow Kozmer had made with his staff, her sowen easing the way, and the others followed. “We should be clear about that. Every one of us would have fought to the death if we hadn’t been stopped. Those who died were no worse than we were, they just never had that chance.”
“You’re right,�
� Narina said. “This isn’t anyone’s fault, and I certainly didn’t mean to criticize the dead.”
The most recent of those dead was Sarika, torn apart by the demon king, her head and torso swallowed and her legs thrown to one side. Her last cry of pain would haunt Narina, together with the other deaths she’d either witnessed or caused these past few months. But Sarika’s death was especially damaging, given what it meant to the woman’s temple.
Miklos must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “She was the last firewalker sohn. All of them are gone now. How will the temple carry on?”
“Maybe one of their elders can finish training their students,” Katalinka said. “Would Drazul be capable of that?” She directed this last part to Kozmer, but he appeared deep in thought and didn’t answer her question.
“The dragons think you’re a threat,” the old man said at last. “Maybe just Narina. Maybe all three of you. You attacked the demons and stopped them. Maybe you intend to stop the dragons as well.”
“Stop them from what?” Narina said. “Covering the world in ice? How could we manage that?”
Defeating the demons had seemed the only possible solution. If she hadn’t attacked them, their new volcano might already be spewing ash and burying the canyon with lava as the creatures pushed relentlessly into the highest peaks. But it was a gut blow to know that doing so had only strengthened the other side in this conflict.
She couldn’t beat a dragon demigod. It was impossible. Even armed with a pair of demon blades, she would surely die, her sowen shredded, her body pulverized by a single stomp of its feet, her companions frozen or eaten or crushed alongside if they tried to fight.
It had taken armies of demons, spread across multiple battles, to wound the blue and white dragons and force them back to their mountain lakes. Only intense fire, heated in the molten depths, had been enough.
What remained wasn’t one of the two lesser demigods, either, but the Great Drake. She wasn’t sure she could stand in front of it without collapsing in terror, let alone swing her puny little swords at its armored hide.
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