The elven woman stopped and looked up. She had sensed it too. The constant drone of conversation had fallen off. Replaced by a pall of anticipation.
Aramyss yelped when hundreds of dragon voices shrieked, the deafening noise reverberating off the tower walls to add to the chaos. Holding his hands over his ears, he couldn’t hear himself think. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the fear of the unknown made him forget about his aches.
The sound abruptly ceased—echoing until it faded away—leaving Aramyss and Tamra to consider the meaning of the eerie silence.
“They offer homage to their queen.” Scarletclaws’ voice startled Aramyss further.
Aramyss searched the doorways, thinking to spot Queen Askara but all he saw were attentive dragon faces staring straight up, focused on a point near the apex of the tallest tower—its summit obscured by drifting clouds.
A lone dragon shrieked and Aramyss yelped again.
“All hail Queen Askara!” Though unseen, Lightburn’s rumbling voice was unmistakable.
Aramyss didn’t know what he expected, but when Lightburn dropped from the clouds, crunching heavily into the stone between him and Tamra, it was all he could do not to pull his battle-axe free.
Tamra, on the other hand, held no such qualms. She faced the behemoth with axes by her thighs.
“You’re brave for such an insignificant creature, Tamra Stoneheart, I’ll give you that. Do you really think your weapons will do you any good in the heart of Draak Home?”
Tamra didn’t respond. She sidestepped her way toward Silence, the nearest of her companions.
“Fear not, Maiden of the Wood.”
Tamra’s eyes widened.
“Yes. I know you now. My queen mentions you with high praise—a tribute unbeknownst a human.”
“I’ve never met Queen Askara.”
“Ouderling Wys has,” Lightburn said as if that were enough. “Now, if you’ll climb aboard, I’ll take you to her.”
Tamra’s eyes found Aramyss. “Not without him.”
Lightburn’s eyes narrowed, annoyance written on his golden features. “That’s not an option. Nor am I asking.”
Tamra’s fingers adjusted their grip on her axe handles. “Then I refuse.”
A deep rumble preceded the dark smoke escaping Lightburn’s mouth.
Aramyss’ battle-axe appeared in his hands. Ignoring the pain, he limped around Lightburn’s bulk and stood shoulder to hip with Tamra. “What do ya have to say to that, golden beastie? We’re here to help ya. Perhaps it’s time to show a wee bit of common courtesy toward yer guests.”
Lightburn’s chest heaved. Great plumes of smoke shot through his nostrils.
Aramyss stepped in front of Tamra.
“You’re either tougher than you appear or have been knocked in the head one too many times, dwarf,” Lightburn snarled. Lowering his huge head, his black lips came to within a hair’s breadth from Aramyss. “Very well. If Queen Askara disapproves of your presence, your flight back down will be a quick one.”
Aramyss swallowed. A snap of the beast’s mouth was all it would take to kill him and Tamra and there was nothing they could do about it. And yet, Lightburn’s attitude pushed him beyond reason. “Ye ain’t the first one to threaten me with such a fate and I’m still here.”
Puffs of smoke shot overhead. “One does not become the guardian of the dragon queen by chance, dwarf. I follow through with my threats.”
Aramyss bristled. He pushed at the dragon’s mouth, the heat of Lightburn’s skin painfully hot to the touch. “I shan’t be fallin’ alone.”
“Enough! While you two engage in your petty pissing match, the high king’s army marches on. Take us to Queen Askara and let’s get on with averting an impending tragedy.”
Lightburn pulled his head back to better see Tamra.
Aramyss looked over his shoulder. “Aye lass. Yer the voice of reason.” He glared at Lightburn. “Ye heard the Maiden of the Wood.”
Lightburn stared long and hard, blinking once.
“Well? If we could fly unto yer shoulders, we’d just fly up there ourselves, wouldn’t we?”
“Easy, Stretch. You’ve made your point.” Tamra patted him on top of his helm, her axes already stored across her back “Lightburn, if you lower yourself to the ground, I give you my word as an elf that neither I nor Aramyss Chizel will make you regret your decision.”
Aramyss turned his axe head in his hands. Giving Tamra a dark glare, he secured it across his back with practised ease.
Lightburn searched out the location of the two blue dragons and the green. If he spoke to them, Aramyss wasn’t privy to their conversation. The great golden dragon slowly dropped to the ground.
Aramyss dared breathe again. He thought for sure he had made his last stand.
Tamra bounded up Lightburn’s thick front leg and reached down to give him a hand up.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t think of taking assistance, especially that of an elf, but his injured hip wouldn’t allow him to mount the dragon gracefully. Instead of making a fool of himself, he accepted her hand. At least no one else was around to witness it.
Tamra clasped him by the wrist and yanked him through the air before he had a chance to help. He landed in a flutter of flailing limbs.
Giving her a dirty look, he straightened his gear and took a moment to gather himself as he surveyed the height of Lightburn’s shoulder. There was no way he was getting up there. “Hey!”
Tamra grabbed him from behind, digging her hands into his armpits, and chucked him onto Lightburn’s back.
Scrabbling, he caught the edge of a scale and pulled hard, and then another, and another, until he lay over the ridge of Lightburn’s spine.
Tamra joined him, scaling the dragon’s back with the agility of a cat, and straddled the dragon’s backbone. “Okay, we’re ready.”
Aramyss lifted his head in shock. “What? No. Wait…!” His last word was long and drawn. Lightburn jumped into the air—the sudden momentum driving the wind from Aramyss’ lungs.
The ascent to the pinnacle of the highest tower happened so fast that Aramyss couldn’t lift his head until a strong reverse wing-flap lifted him from Lightburn’s spine—jostling him against Tamra’s midsection. Even the self-assured elf struggled to keep seated, her hands busy preventing him from falling thousands of feet to his death.
Lightburn’s heavy claws rattled on a ledge that protruded beneath the tower’s rooftop as his bulk settled.
The abrupt stop drove the wind from Aramyss. He feared his spine had cracked upon the dragon’s bony ridge.
“Want help down?” Tamra bent over him, whispering, her hair dangling against the side of his face.
“Bah!” He waved a shooing hand at her.
“Suit yourself.”
Tamra’s comforting presence dropped away, leaving him sprawled ungraciously over the base of Lightburn’s neck.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t embrace me like a mate.”
“Huh?” Fighting to regain his breath, Aramyss scrambled to right himself. He stared indignantly at the back of the guardian’s head for but a moment before slipping from Lightburn’s back. The dragon’s scaled foreleg offered him little cushion as he bounced off of it and onto the ledge at the feet of a white dragon.
Tamra bowed deeply. “Queen Askara. I present to you, Aramyss Chizel. Royal blacksmith and loyal servant of High Wizard Devius Misenthorpe.”
Aramyss swallowed, looking up from his stomach into the glacier blue eyes of the most beautiful dragon he had ever seen. Standing nearly as tall as Lightburn, Queen Askara’s scales were the purest white; her spinal ridge and wing membranes tinged the same colour as her eyes.
Tamra regarded Aramyss with her typical nonchalance, motioning with a jerk of her head for him to stand up.
In a chaotic flurry of clanking armour and laboured grunts, he rose to his feet, trying hard to ignore the stabbing pain radiating down his thigh. Though he’d never admit it, he was t
hankful for the inconspicuous hand that hung onto the leather brace across his back. Certain he would’ve fallen without Tamra’s aid, the strength in her arm was incredible.
He dipped his head and shoulders, grateful for Tamra as she pulled him straight again. “Yer Highness. Please forgive me lack of grace. I sustained a recent injury. I mean no disrespect.”
The way Queen Askara watched him, he wasn’t sure whether she felt sympathy or was about to eat him.
A voice similar to Tamra’s sounded in his head. Words spoken with such melodious rhythm that it was like the queen sang to him. “Fear not, Aramyss Chizel of Sarsen Rest. I know of your exploits well. As an appointed man of High Wizard Devius Misenthorpe, your attendance is welcome, though, I must say, most unusual. Accept my apologies for not requesting your presence along with your esteemed colleague. Given the centuries of unrest between humankind and dragonkind I’m surprised to see either one of you at Draak Home.”
Aramyss dipped his head in respect. “No apology necessary, me queen. Were it not for the rise of the Windwalker, I dare say I’d be back at Sea Keep witnessing a most unfortunate tragedy unfold.”
“Yes. Yes. The Windwalker. We’ll come back to that in a moment.” She turned her attention on Tamra. “And you, Tamra Stoneheart. It is with great pleasure that I welcome Ouderling’s emissary into our colony. How fares our ancient friend?”
Tamra bowed deeply. “Thank you, my queen. Ouderling is indeed ancient. She was alive and well the last time I saw her, but that was over a decade ago.”
“A decade to an elf is akin to but a year in a human’s life. I pray she still serves her people. When her time comes, her passing will be felt as strongly as Grimclaw’s. Ouderling Wys is a true friend to dragonkind. Thus, your easy passage into our valley.”
Aramyss cleared his throat. If the queen thought their passage to Draakvuur had been easy, he hated to think what a hard entry entailed.
“Your presence in my domain is no coincidence. Crystalclaw,” the queen directed them to where another white dragon sat quietly beside a black dragon, “the new leader of what is left of the Draakval Colony, has spoken of the young woman known as Reecah Windwalker. Have you two had any dealings with her?”
Tamra dipped her head. “Yes, my queen. That’s what brings us here. Reecah has gone off in search of the high wizard. She hopes he can assist her with a newfound talisman. It’s our hope she’ll join us soon.”
“Then she is fully adept in the use of dragon magic? Taught to her by Grimclaw, I assume.”
“That’s the rub, my queen. Her magic was hidden from her from a time before she can remember. Devius unlocked the binding placed upon her gift but I don’t believe she has any concept of its use.”
“Then we are doomed.”
Aramyss cleared his throat louder, drawing the attention of everyone on the platform.
“You may speak, Aramyss Chizel.”
“The dragon’s plight may not be as dire as ye think. Duke Ryonin prepares to march to yer aid.”
Queen Askara seemed taken aback. “The dragon duke? We haven’t heard from the house of Svelte in a long time. I feared Ryonin’s great-grandsire had thrown his lot in with the crown at the end of the Wizard Wars. Perhaps we have done his house a disservice.”
“Aye, me queen. When we left Carillon a few days ago, a small army was forming around the city. Awaiting the arrival of the duke’s southern and western banners.”
“That’s good news indeed in this dark hour. We have struck what we hope is a crippling blow, but many of us were injured or lost in the attack. We can only hope that the minor leaders of Zephyr honour the pledge of their forefathers and rally to his banner. If not, the duke’s ambitions may amount to naught.”
“Aye, me queen.”
Tamra swatted at the helm on his head.
Cheeks reddening, he pulled it free and tucked it under his arm—his unruly hair sticking out all over the place. “Me apologies, me queen.”
Queen Askara lifted her head high, proclaiming for all to hear, “Though the future of dragonkind is grim in this once great land, may you find solace in what I’m about to say. Today marks the coming together of the races. Something that hasn’t happened in over two hundred years. Pray the sun will shine on our wings for years to come. May the gods grant us deliverance from the darkness that mankind has brought into our world.”
March of Sufferance
Draakhorn had sustained significant damage in the dragon attack, but its stone roof had deflected the worst of the assault.
The climb up the long stairwell filled J’kwaad with dread. Not because of the physical exertion that was required, but for the scene he knew he would find at the top.
Reaching the last few steps confirmed this fear. The solid wooden door that usually marked the end of the onerous climb sat askew on a solitary hinge. Oak panels hung like burnt wafers sandwiched between twisted iron straps—the bottom half of the door a pile of charred timber on the flagstone floor.
The worst of the damage, however, lay inside. Standing on the threshold took his breath away. He hadn’t cried since a day long ago when his father had beat him mercilessly for spilling a flagon of wine as a child during a feast celebrating some foreign dignitary. He felt like doing so now.
Surveying the utter destruction, he could only imagine the fiery maelstrom that had swept through it, engulfing priceless tomes and irreplaceable scrolls. His entire life’s work had been undone in a single night. The fact that he would have died had he been here provided little comfort.
Shards of ancient pottery lay scattered across the ash-covered floor, victims of wooden tables burning up from underneath them. Even the wooden chest he kept locked behind what was left of his armchair had perished in the fire—the gems contained within, embedded in congealed pools of melted copper, silver, and gold. Dragon fire burned hotter than a regular flame.
Calor waited patiently on the steps, burdened with the only thing of value remaining to the prince. The scrying bowl.
J’kwaad pushed the skeletal door out of his way. A panel slipped free of the strapping and dropped to the floor, kicking up a spray of ash. He walked with slumped shoulders to the balcony exit—its door a mangled heap that had blown off its hinges and rested against the marble pedestal in the centre of the chamber—and looked out over the blackened rooftops.
Draakhall’s exterior appeared relatively unscathed. Long scorch marks were visible on the castle’s stone. The dragons hadn’t been successful in penetrating its thick shell, but everything surrounding Draakhall had either fallen or was in dire need of repair.
Slowly scanning everything visible beneath the clear night sky, nothing had escaped the dragon scourge. Large holes in several stone rooftops bore evidence of where a dragon had fallen to its death.
Weary and sore, his body demanded sleep, but there was no way his mind would rest. His father demanded he lead the army south at first light on a perilous trek through the Wilds. Judging by the moon’s position, that time fast approached.
Looking back into the chamber, his stare caught Calor’s—his apprentice smart enough to remain quiet as he absorbed the extent of the calamity. He barely heard himself say, “Throw it on the pedestal and get some sleep.”
Calor navigated his way through the scattered debris. Clearing the top of the marble stand with a forearm, he pulled the scrying bowl from the satchel and set it down, careful to align the directions on the eight-sided vessel. Without a word, he slipped through the gaping doorway and descended Draakhorn; his footfalls echoing for some time.
Left alone, J’kwaad grabbed one of the few unbroken urns and hurled it against the far wall, screaming his outrage.
Glaringly striking amongst all of the destruction, it was as if Devius’ scrying bowl mocked him—its glittering surface catching the moonlight filtering through the gaping balcony doorway. The irony of the high wizard’s talisman wasn’t lost on him. Sitting on the pedestal, the octagonal vessel promised him the kingdom, but
the invaluable reference materials he required to unlock its magic lay in piles of charred paper strewn around the chamber. He didn’t doubt that much of the priceless parchment had blown clear of the chamber and lay scattered around the castle grounds and throughout the ruined city beyond.
Reining in his mounting anger at the unfairness of it all, he thought of the person ultimately responsible for his misery. The Windwalker! He admonished himself for not killing her at Headwater. How dare she steal the Dragon’s Eye right out from under his nose at the Dragon Temple? If not for her unforeseen arrival at South Fort, his father would likely have waited until spring to order the Draakval campaign. The sacking of Draakval had roused the dragon queen, he was sure of it. As a result of Askara’s revenge, everything he had worked toward had been undone.
He grabbed the mangled door and shoved it away from the pedestal; its passage stirring up a flurry of shriveled paper and ash.
As it sat, the scrying bowl was nothing more to him than just that. Something to see by. And even that wasn’t possible until he found the ingredients required to prepare the special water.
He pondered his next move. There were only two places he knew of that might assist him in regaining his lost lore. Headwater Sanctum and the Wizard’s Spike.
Knowing Devius, the high wizard wouldn’t have left anything of consequence behind. How the old man would carry all of his magical possessions, J’kwaad didn’t know, but he was sure that the contents left in the chamber of Headwater Sanctum would prove useless.
He sighed. There were, of course, the eight windowpanes. Perhaps when this dragon business was over, he would devise a way to transport them here.
That left the Wizard’s Spike.
Getting into Thunor Carmichael’s magical tower would be no easy task. Even a prince of the realm had limitations. Thunor had been trained by the most talented wizard in the land—his father. Imrynn Carmichael, the high wizard of the magic guild at Arcanium, had no equal.
Legends of the Lurker Box Set Page 84
