Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  “Very well. Believe what you must.” Jovari gave her a smirk that looked more like a reluctant smile before turning his gaze forward. It was the first nice gesture he had made towards her, and somehow, it improved her mood just a little. Moments later, the sign for the Flying Pig came into view, just in time for her growling tummy to greet it.

  Sounds from happy patrons floated towards them through its open door. Her mouth watered instantly when she smelled roasting meat wafting into the street. Jovari and Koldis came to a halt as they surveyed the entrance.

  At last Koldis shrugged. “Looks reputable enough to me.”

  “Aye. Shall I buy the first round?”

  “Only if I might buy the second,” said Koldis.

  “Together we will drown our sorrows and woes properly.”

  “Indeed!” The hope of a hot meal, mead, and a comfortable bed seemed to lighten all their moods. Turning to her, Koldis motioned with his arm. “Shall we?”

  Taking that as a hint, she moved forward, stepping across the threshold. Her nose was immediately struck by the dank scent of pipes and stale alcohol. This, mixed with the lingering stench of dirty men, quickly stifled her appetite.

  The torch-lit room was much darker than outside, and after her eyes adjusted, she noticed that many tables were scattered around. Most were full. The room went quiet as they entered.

  “Welcome surs,” came a friendly voice. They turned toward the source. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” said the bar man as he recognized her as a woman. Then his gaze studied her companions a little more closely. “Kiaya’s harvest! I ain’t never ever be havin’ lords in my tavern before. Welcome, milords. Welcome! What can I be helpin’ ya with?” As he spoke, his eyes finally noticed Koldis’s burden. They widened briefly at the sight of the well-disguised body. However, he pretended to ignore what he’d seen. The Sprites had done an admirable job with Cyrus, binding him in better cloth than Claire had provided, and masking the stench of his now decaying body using magic. She quickly looked back at the bar man, eager to look anywhere other than Cyrus.

  Jovari took a step forward. “We require three beds, if you have them, sir. And mead. I hear you have the finest honey mead in the village.” It was an admirable subject change, and the man quickly forgot what his gaze had fixated on. Instead, his face lit up from the praise.

  “That I do, milords! That I do!” he said out of nervousness. “Come!” Eagerly, he led them up the stairs to his vacant accommodations. These she considered mediocre at best. “You’ll be finding all your needs accounted for here,” he assured them. “The chamber pots be under the beds. My maid will see to those in the mornin’. Once you’ve washed up, come on down for a spot o’ supper.”

  “Many thanks,” Jovari said. He removed his coin pouch. The bar man looked greedily at the gold that tumbled onto Jovari’s palm, but his honor must have gotten the better of him. “No need for payment, milords. I’ll not have it said that I charged the king’s men.” His expression was genuine as he battled between propriety and his clear desire for payment.

  “Nonsense,” Jovari insisted. “We will pay for what you provide, and we will pay well.”

  The man smiled wide; she noticed that he was missing several teeth; the rest were blackened and rotting. Aside from perhaps the Drengr, who probably had nice teeth simply because of magic, some people in Dragonwall hadn’t heard of toothpaste, or a toothbrush for that matter. In fact, she doubted they even bathed.

  “Very well then, milords,” said the bar man. “Very well, indeed. I shan’t be refusin’ payment if you insist. Bless you. Verek will surely favor thee well for such generosity.”

  She supposed that Verek was another of their many gods, but she didn’t bother asking. Taking Jovari’s money, the man shuffled away. She watched his retreat before Koldis spoke, “Well. You both heard the man. Let us stow our burdens, clean ourselves up, and have some supper.” With that, he entered his room and shut the door. Jovari did the same, leaving her alone on the landing. At last, she followed suit.

  Supper that evening was unexpectedly eventful. A fiddler graced them with his presence, perhaps hearing of the Drengr’s visit, and many drunken men performed their own versions of a jig, having lost all dignity. She couldn’t help but laugh as they tripped over their own toes.

  Things got especially exciting when a fight broke out on the other side of the room. Many gathered around the spectacle, eager for the entertainment. She had had her fair share of bar fights as a bartender, but for once she was happy to watch without the responsibility of putting a stop to it. Funnily enough, it seemed that the bar man hadn’t a care in the world. Maybe the thrill brought him better business, because he didn’t bother interfering. It was only when the shorter of the two men was knocked unconscious that the crowd roared and applauded, and the fighting stopped. Satisfied, the larger man moved away and continued his evening as if nothing had happened.

  Claire quickly learned that the bar man’s maid was an excellent cook. She eagerly scarfed down two bowls of stewed, meaty broth. When the woman emerged from her kitchen and spotted her, she made it a point to come by the table and introduce herself. Friendly as she was, Claire didn’t miss the maid’s curious eyes as they roved over her appearance.

  She was almost relieved when the woman finally went back to the kitchen. “You had better get used to it,” Koldis whispered, butting her shoulder with his. He was clearly in a good mood from the mead. She did her best to keep up with his drinking and Jovari’s too, but these were Drengr, and after her second tankard, she could already feel her drunkenness kicking in. Alcohol seemed stronger here.

  Many people stopped by their table to pay their respects, trading stories and gossip. Much to her surprise, she found her two companions very amiable when they were liquored up. They avoided any mention of their true business. It was evident that they were smooth talkers. In fact, much to her relief, it seemed that they held her in higher regard the drunker they got, perhaps forgetting to blame her for what had happened to their beloved friend.

  Yet, for all the fun they appeared to be having, she could see in their eyes that they were hurting. In those moments, it hit her hard. She wasn’t the only one who lost Cyrus. He had been their brother in all but blood. She couldn’t begin to imagine how much it must have pained them to lose him.

  “How will we go on without him,” Koldis quietly asked at one point during the evening. It was clear that behind the façade he often displayed, he was heartbroken. That made things harder for her, especially because she wanted so badly to continue hating them for the way they had treated her.

  That night she lay in her feather bed, tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep despite the loud sounds coming from the bar below. And there in the darkness, she finally admitted something to herself that left her surprised. She did want to help Dragonwall. Not simply because of her promise, but because she was growing fond of her companions, even if they didn’t feel the same way. Jovari and Koldis weren’t her enemy, despite the way they regarded her. The king wasn’t her enemy either, even if he did think she was a murderous witch. The real enemy was Kane. No matter how much her companions distrusted her, mistreated her, and frustrated her, at the end of the day, they were all on the same team. That had to count for something, didn’t it? She only hoped that the king would see things the way she did.

  30

  Shadowkeep

  Kane descended the lower stairs of Shadowkeep in a flourish, circling around and around, deeper and farther underground. Down he went into the bowels of the fortress, into the darkness of the mountain. Along the way, he heard anguished cries, wails of despair from the cells within the rocky depths of his stronghold. Tools were useful until they weren’t, and his magic required vast resources.

  Somewhere beyond, a bat cried out. Its screech echoed down the tunnel, warning other beasties of his approach. The creatures beneath Shadowkeep dwelt in darkness their whole lives, but they did not mind. They were drawn to the magic of the pl
ace, to the evil that oozed from the walls, just as he was.

  Before him, torchlight sent a mischief of rats scurrying and squeaking as they hurried to flee from his quick step. Behind him, failure nipped at his heels. There were too many to count. Five hundred years of meticulous planning, and for what?!

  Gone were the days of old when the Asarlaí ruled. Ruined were their plans to remove all those of non-magic descent. The Five had seen to that by creating dragons. Dragonwall belonged to his people, not the humans, not the Drengr, and certainly not the dragons, beasts forged from rock and stone out of pure stupidity.

  He alone could restore the great destiny intended for his world. Everything rested upon a fragile point, as if battling for balance at the pentacle of Shadowkeep’s tallest turret. It seemed that now his plans tilted in the wrong direction. It simply would not do!

  The face of the golden-haired woman swam into his mind’s eye. Who was she? How much did she know? What might her knowledge cost him? These questions gobbled him up the way the creatures beneath Shadowkeep devoured a dead carcass.

  He had seen her, oh yes, he knew her face. He scried her in his Dragon’s Eye. Mind you, the basin wasn’t truly the eye from a dragon. It was the bowl-portion of a dragon’s skull, the place where its brain once rested, hollowed out and upturned. Dragon skulls were rare in these times, difficult to find, harder still to transport. They were immensely important, as they were useful for a number of magical spells and potions.

  His Dragon’s Eye was filled with the magical water that allowed him to view anyone, provided he had some of that person to call upon. Fortunately for him, he had obtained what he needed from the woman named Claire. His Vodar wraiths wounded her during their fight. Initially he was furious that his assassins had failed again—he was still quite angry—but he soon realized how to turn the situation to good use.

  After Claire and her companions made their way south, he visited the place of the fight. Once there, he found bits of dried blood—Claire’s blood. He scooped it up, dirt and all, every bit that he could find. What a prize! Claire’s blood was his only consolation now that she had slipped through his fingers. He could no longer count on his wraiths. With three of the king’s own protecting her, and the Gable Forest at her back, it was too risky. Fortunately he had other contingency plans, one of which he was about to implement.

  Coming to a halt deep within the lowest cavern of the mountain, he stood before a waterfall. This was not merely any waterfall. It was special—he had made it so. Now it would serve him well, as did the many slaves it cost him to build it.

  Icy water cascaded down from a rock ledge far above, disappearing into a narrow slit in the floor. He watched the water for several moments before sending his consciousness outward. He felt his mind stretch across the mountains, forcing it to push past the planes in the North and well around the Gable Forest as it moved southward. Only when his awareness reached its target in the capital did he allow it to settle. Two minds he penetrated, and two minds he led, until they were alone and positioned where he desired them to be. Then he withdrew.

  They were ready. Concentrating on what he needed to see, he waved a hand before the sheet of falling water. Its surface rippled, beginning from the middle and moving outward, like a stone tossed upon the flat surface of a pond. Lights emerged. The scene before him materialized. Two men stood within a dimly lit room inside the Great Keep of Kastali Dun. They faced the transparent portal he had created.

  Upon seeing him through the rippling surface, they bowed. “Greetings, my lord.” His Nasks had answered his summons. “What does our lord command?”

  “Many things,” he replied. “But first tell me, have you succeeded in your venture? Have you convinced the king to kill this woman—this outsider?”

  The man on the left answered, “We have planted mistrust, my lord.”

  The man on the right also spoke, “The king has not agreed to kill her yet. A vote will be taken. It is likely there will be a trial.”

  He considered their words. A trial would not guarantee the outcome he desired. “My orders to you were simple—the woman must be eliminated.”

  “Of course, my lord, of course. We have, and will continue to poison the king’s mind against her. The remainder of the Council is already in agreement, she is a threat to our kingdom and guilty of a great crime.”

  “Very well. There is still time to convince the king of this. He must believe that she killed his guard.” He did not wish to send his Vodar into the capital just yet, so for now he relied on his Nasks. “I hope you understand what must be done, should the king spare her life.” His narrowed eyes made them nervously twitch.

  “We do, my lord. The woman will be eliminated if the king should fail.”

  “I certainly hope so. Now, I have another task for you.” This one was nearly as important.

  “Anything, my lord.”

  A new threat had emerged. This one was long on his mind, growing more meddlesome as the years passed. “The king’s Seer—eliminate her.” He could no longer risk his plans to this young Mage. He knew of her visions, and with each report, he grew angrier. She was beginning to anticipate his every move.

  “The Lady Saffra, my lord?”

  “Yes, you imbecile, the Lady Saffra, unless you know of another Seer who requires death?”

  “No, my lord, but she is a powerful Mage. We—”

  “I know what you are.” Their argument was predictable. He did not tolerate defiance. “Do you expect me to come down there and perform the task myself?”

  “Of—of course not, my lord.”

  “If you fail me in this, I will walk through this sheet and kill you myself, do you understand?” It was an empty threat. He could not risk placing himself in Kastali Dun.

  “Yes. Yes, my lord. We will not fail.”

  He did not care how they did it, so long as the job was done. But these men were stupid. That was partly why he had chosen them. Smarter minds were harder to control. “There is a poison maker in the city. He goes by the name of William Collier. He is an unregistered Mage, and a servant to my cause. Find him.”

  Their eyes were wide—perhaps they did not know of this poison maker. If they did not, he knew someone very close to them who did, and this someone had utilized the poison maker’s services eagerly to bring herself to power. How unsurprising that the daughter should be so much like the father.

  “We will do as you bid, my lord.”

  “Good. Then go, both of you.” Both men looked relieved to be dismissed, and he was happy to be rid of them. Waving his hand once more, the scene before him disappeared, and the portal became nothing more than a sheet of water.

  31

  Fort Squall

  Reyr flew aggressively against the eastern wind. It sang in his ears, whistling past him. He battled it with each downward sweep of his golden wings. He flew so hard that his breath came in short gasps, searing his chest as if his own fire burned through him. His shoulder muscles screamed in pain, begging him to slow his pace, but he did not listen. He disciplined himself unfairly, pushing harder than ever before, because he could feel nothing but the wrenching cries of his own heart—the sadness he felt from losing Cyrus, the failure he felt from disappointing his king, the fear he felt for what was to come.

  Beneath him the ground sailed past, yet he hardly noticed. His mind was too consumed with King Talon’s disapproval. He blamed himself for everything. Before departing Kastali Dun in search of Cyrus, it was he who tried to dissuade Cyrus from going north. No one else had bothered, not the king, not any of his fellow Shields, only he, because he knew then that something was wrong, even if the others failed to sense it.

  In the days following Cyrus’s death, he often wondered, what if things had gone differently? Many alternatives crossed his mind, and each scenario resulted in a better outcome than the one he now faced.

  This pattern of thinking was familiar to him. He did the same thing when Gemma died. He asked similar questions: What if
they never flew north to fight in the battle? What if he ignored the summons for the war? What if they left Dragonwall together, abandoned their honor, left duty behind, and lived only for themselves? She would still be with him. They would still be together. He would still be happy…

  It was dangerous to dwell, and though he tried to free his mind of its burdens, it was impossible during the long flight to Fort Squall. What worried him most were his thoughts about Claire. His mind strayed to her as reprieve. Even in his dragon form he could not control himself, and although he was reluctant to admit it—he hated himself for it—he missed her presence upon his back. It reminded him of better times, happy times, when he would fly with his beloved Gemma. He should have loathed the woman for it, for renewing the pain he locked away after his mate’s death, but he found it impossible.

  He was relieved when far off in the distance, he beheld a fiery glow upon the horizon. The sun was dropping into the Dragonfire Sea, lighting her waters with hues of orange and red. And there was Fort Squall, sitting at the edge of Stormy Bay. Still miniature, perhaps as large as his tiniest claw, its battlements stood tall like a proud warrior. Courage blazed up within his heart upon seeing the familiar sight.

  Slowing his pace just a bit, he breathed a heavy sigh, causing his smoky breath to exit in plumes. This felt like coming home. He knew every silhouette, every distinct feature, every tall tower rising up beside the city. Kastali Dun was his home now, but Squall’s End and Fort Squall would always be his true home. The fort was in his blood. His fathers and forefathers held it for thousands of years, passing it from father to son. It could have been his, and would have been, had Gemma lived.

  Dusk was upon him when his wings brought him close to the glittering city. And to his delight, joyous bugles rent the silent sky. The welcoming heralds of dragons surrounded him as the fort’s Drengr swooped in to greet him.