Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  “Oh, that kind of dancing is for the stuffy nobles! We here like to have fun.” She couldn’t help but agree. It may not have been as proper, or as formal, but it was far more enjoyable.

  She, Desaree, and Sarah made their way to the side of the room for dessert. Just as they did so, the dancing came to an unexpected halt. Silence fell. Everyone turned their attention to the doorway. There stood Reyr, elaborately dressed, with a long golden cloak the same color as his scales. It fell in elegant ripples to the floor. Whispers echoed down the dance line as he entered. It was evident that the servants weren’t used to seeing a noble at Verekblot.

  “May I join you?” he asked. His warm gaze circled the room until it fell upon her.

  Honored by his company, the already drunken crowd merely cheered at his arrival. The music resumed. Reyr made his way over. At the same time, Desaree and Sarah disappeared from her side.

  “I hope you are not bothered by my intrusion,” he said, taking up a vantage point beside her. “I could hardly foster the idea of you having so much fun without me.” There was a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  “It isn’t a bother,” she assured him, a sudden thought coming to mind. “Did the king send you here to keep an eye on me?”

  “Now what makes you think that?” Reyr was his typical self, hiding any irritation her words might cause. She also noticed he failed to answer the question.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the strange visit I received on my way here, thanks to your telling him about my headaches.” She crossed her arms and frowned at him.

  “Ah yes. Funny you should mention that. You certainly had an effect on him, Claire. He came to me a short while ago with his feathers ruffled, perturbed by how you acted, still angry with me for not telling him sooner.” He reached behind her for a little dainty cake and popped it into his mouth. “Mmmm. Delicious,” he added as he swallowed. “Anyway, it is not as if I had anything to do with how you spoke to him. What in the name of Asjaa did you say?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing impolite.” It took a lot of effort to hide her evil grin. “Besides, I’m sure his upset feelings were merely meant to make you feel bad for not telling him sooner.”

  “I see.” Reyr didn’t buy it.

  “And since when does the king care about my ailments anyway?”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Reyr’s regard followed a couple that swept past them as he spoke. “Your surprise is as great as mine on that front. Once I did tell him about your headaches, he insisted on paying you a visit immediately.”

  “Ugh. Thanks for that. I certainly enjoyed seeing him.”

  “I do sincerely apologize for the sudden surprise of it. It was never my intention for that to happen.”

  She shrugged. “I just can’t understand why he would care in the first place. Why bother after everything?” She shook her head.

  “Perhaps he feels guilty for his actions.”

  “Ha!” She laughed out loud. “Him? Guilt? He was literally about to kill me in the torture chambers before you stopped him.”

  “He was not.”

  “Um.” Did she miss something? She grabbed a fistful of fabric on the arm of his tunic and marched him out of the dining room. The music was too loud for a conversation like this. He didn’t protest. “Maybe I’m mistaken, Reyr. But you saw the knife he held to my throat when you found us.”

  “I saw it Claire. But know this, he never intended to kill you, only to scare you. He told me so himself.”

  “To—to scare me?” She was astonished. “You’re joking right? That’s worse! What kind of a monster resorts to that?” she hissed.

  Reyr sighed. “I do not like the idea any more than you. Nor would I condone that kind of behavior.”

  “Yeah? Well then maybe you should be king and not him.”

  “Claire!” his face changed. Instant fury manifested there. It was the angriest she’d ever seen him. “Your words are treasonous. You forget that I am his Shield.” He took several heavy breaths before continuing. “I could never do half as well as he has. You have no idea what you are saying, none at all, no idea the feats King Talon has accomplished during his reign, no idea of the struggles he has faced.” He shook his head in shock, affronted on the deepest level.

  Regardless of how much she hated Talon, Reyr was the one she hurt. Upsetting him was the last thing she wanted. “I—I’m sorry, Reyr. That was thoughtless of me to say.”

  “Thoughtless indeed. That tongue of yours will get you in serious trouble someday. See here, I understand your contempt for King Talon. He treated you ill, behaving in ways no king should. But never would I so much as suggest such an insulting idea. Guard your thoughts more wisely next time.”

  She nodded, blinking back tears of shame and anger. Reyr’s scolding hurt. She deserved it, but that didn’t make her feel any less crummy.

  He sighed and leaned his shoulder up against the stone wall of the corridor, watching her until she felt awkward. “I’m sorry, Reyr,” she repeated. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “We are his brothers, Claire, his guards, his family. We support him in all things, no matter how good or bad. We swore an oath. We have given him our lives. Any insult to our king is an insult to us. Do you understand?”

  “I—yes. I understand. I’m sorry,” she mumbled again.

  “Good. Now that I have thoroughly ruined your night, which mind you, was not my intention, I do hope it is not too late to ask you for a dance.”

  Her heart thudded several times, not because of any feelings for him she might have, he was just a friend after all, but because she hoped this meant she was forgiven. “You aren’t too mad to dance with me?”

  “No. Not when your gown suits you so well. Not when your hair looks so grand.”

  Was he flirting? She was momentarily stunned. Perhaps she read too much into his compliments. “You are too kind, Reyr.”

  He bowed his head. “I hope that by dancing with you, I might salvage what is left of this night I have ruined.”

  She eagerly nodded, happy to leave their argument in the past, so he took her hand, placing it about the crook of his arm, and guided her back into the dining room just as the next boisterous tune began to play.

  Reyr danced far better than she did. It was almost embarrassing to have a partner who outdid her so well, but his quick-footedness did keep her on her toes (literally). They danced every song together until the end of the evening. By then, she hoped their argument was forgotten.

  Exhausted, she said goodnight to all her new friends, and Reyr escorted her back to her room. “I do hope you can forgive me for being so harsh with you earlier. I took no joy in it.”

  She wished he wouldn’t bring it up. “I forgive you. Just as you said, dancing was an adequate way to salvage my evening. It is all but forgotten. Though, I have learned a valuable lesson, and I will try to be better about my rotten tongue.”

  The side of his mouth twitched into a small smile. “I do enjoy your witty cynicisms, Claire, your smart remarks, and your honesty. But yes, where the king is concerned, that rotten tongue of yours may get you into trouble. Guard it wisely.”

  They stopped before her door. She turned to him. “You never answered my question earlier. Did the king send you?”

  “If I say that he did, does it diminish our night together?”

  She shrugged. “I would have rather you come simply to spend time with me.” As she said it, she hoped her words did not give him the wrong impression about her feelings, especially after his surprising compliments.

  “Well then, I am pleased to tell you that the king did suggest I go to Verekblot, if only to make sure you were well enough to dance. But the choice was mine. I was happy to take the opportunity.”

  The look he gave her, soft and gentle as it was, left her worried. Was he developing feelings for her? No, surely not. Still she had better end the night quickly. “Very well. Good night, Reyr. Thank you for your company.”

  “Good night, Claire.” He lif
ted her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles a little longer than he should have, leaving her to wonder further about his regard. Then he disappeared down the corridor humming the last tune they had danced to. She was left to watch his retreat down the corridor until he disappeared into the darkness.

  48

  Somewhere in Dragonwall’s Wilderness

  Kane watched sets of jagged peaks slide by beneath him, so sharp they would skewer any man unlucky enough to topple upon them. The air was thin, the kind that requires deep breathing but never really fills you. He stretched his lungs wide. Wrath’s wings labored beneath his weight, flapping powerfully before extending his pinions to catch the wind. The dragon was unused to baggage and told him so very scornfully.

  They flew to a set of caves carefully chosen from his prized map. Today, his dark blue Dragon Stone was going to a new home, a safe home. He reached beneath his cloak to stroke its glassy surface. It responded to his touch, radiating scalding heat, feeding from his energy, swallowing up all that he gave it: his greed, his desires, his malice.

  “See it there?” He pointed as he spoke to Wrath, even though the dragon could not see his outstretched hand. “The cave’s opening is ahead. Set me at the mouth.” Wrath begrudgingly agreed. Like the Sprites, the Asarlaí possessed a unique ability, well, they possessed many unique abilities, but this one allowed them to communicate with dragons if they wanted. Of course the dragons had to be equally compliant, for it was a reciprocal situation. One could not hear a dragon’s thoughts if the dragon did not intend for it.

  Wrath landed. He slid down the dragon’s scaly hide and set out to explore the depths of the mountain. It was a dark place in many ways, with bats that liked eating man-flesh, and red blood spiders larger than his hand. On his way out, he would ensnare a few for his experiments.

  Moving carefully, he made his way to the lowest part of the cavern. There was a lake, perfect for concealing a small stone like the one he carried. He set about the magical wards that would deter curious eyes from coming near the body of water. Thrice he walked the lake’s perimeter muttering incantations. He walked until he felt the invisible strands of his magic take form. Wards were useful forms of magic: Unless a person knew the Stone was there (only he knew it was there) and was intent on finding it, the wards would send explorers away, tricking their mind and rewriting their curiosity until they suddenly found themselves very far from where they had originally intended.

  He did the same to the Stone. Fish in dark places were often hungry enough to eat stones. He put wards around himself too, because getting eaten would not be pleasant. Then he swam out into the lake, diving deep, deep, deeper, until he reached the bottom. There he placed the Stone upon a rocky surface. With his mind, he commanded it to stay put, and it would, for magical objects listened to him when he commanded them.

  The flight back to Shadowkeep was longer than he wished. Wrath was heavier now, carrying cages he had conjured to house some of the unique beasties from the cave. The spiders would give him potent venom for poisons, but it was the bats that most excited him. Oh yes, they would come in handy. He could allow them to multiply and grow with magic until they were giant winged creatures. They would make great weapons in the war to come. How sweet it would be to see one gobble up the king’s men whole. He bared his teeth in a strained smile—if you could call it that.

  Since King Talon’s interference with his Nasks, his mood was foul at best, and today was no exception. Even though one Stone was successfully hidden, even though he carried dangerous critters that would be ever so fun to use against his enemies, even though he should have been happy for the destruction to come, his mind writhed with hatred and anger.

  When he began his efforts, the idea of ruling ensnared him. How powerful, how formidable he could be. With control of the kingdom, he would send humans of non-magical blood through the gates and fulfill the destiny his forefathers intended. The desire imprinted itself upon his heart, rooting deep within. But now, something sounded remarkably more alluring: punishment, revenge, and pain.

  Had it been any other king, he might have let the matter rest, he might have carried out his initial plans with no deviation. But this was not any king: This was King Talon. He hated King Talon—hated him fiercely—why was that?

  Was it because Talon had interfered? No, any king would have done the same—any king would punish traitors. He looked down at the spires below, now flying by at great haste. Why King Talon? Why was he repulsed merely thinking about him?

  King Talon was not especially liked by his subjects, not the way some kings were. Yet neither was he disliked. Dreaded, certainly. His subjects whispered monstrous stories about his scarred face that twisted into their own horrors. Talon was respected, to be sure, by those old and wise enough to know some of his deeds.

  So why, then? He dug deep into his being before dragging forth the true reason. The blackened monster that was his soul loathed to relinquish the thought. The true reason he hated Talon, the true reason he wanted to see him suffer, was fear. He feared Talon. This king, unlike many kings before him, was capable of much more than he imagined; that scared him, it angered him, it even mortified him. How dare any, be it the highest Mage or the lowest serf, be greater than he?

  Shadowkeep loomed into view, placating some of his worry. How foreboding this fortress was! Wrath’s dragons flitted and fluttered around the mountainous hold. He watched them as he approached. The dragons were almost beautiful. Almost. It was no wonder the Five were eager to create them; if only they had taken the time to read their futures. If only…

  The sun was sinking towards the horizon when he made his way to the dark caverns beneath Shadowkeep. Along the way he deposited his prizes, placing the spiders in their cages within his room of horrors. This room was the antechamber to a more harrowing one, stocked with bottles of strange liquids and vials of dangerous contents. Strychnine, hemlock, curare, arsenic, and nightshade were mild compared to some of his own creations. Yet they were all there, a bit of every poison within Dragonwall, housed within Agony’s Library, innocently posed upon their shelves waiting to inflict screams. Yes, this was his most prized achievement, a lifetime of work capable of inflicting the worst migraines, the ugliest coughs, the hottest fevers, and the most painful deaths. He shut the door, bidding the spiders goodnight.

  The bats he took elsewhere, to a cavernous room overtaken by stalactites and stalagmites. At the opening he placed a magical barrier to keep his little creatures contained. They would like it here, so long as there was enough human flesh to feed them.

  They took to the ceiling, wrapping their leathery wings about their bodies to hang. “Are you hungry, my sweets?” Several useless humans were procured from the fortress’s cells, which he sent unknowingly into the room. “Your freedom awaits within,” he coaxed, watching the hope flare up upon their gaunt faces. They went eagerly at first, until the bats scented them. One after another, they sniffed deeply, until the little creatures launched themselves from the roof.

  He stayed to watch, for he enjoyed witnessing the misfortunes of others. He stood just beyond the opening’s magical barrier. When the pathetic life forms realized what was happening, they began shrieking, desperately running for the opening only to be thrown backwards into the bat’s clutches. The excitement was over in minutes, but their anguished screams would keep him entertained for hours. Happily fed, his little bat children returned to their positions.

  Enough play. He had work to do. Tonight he would travel into Dragonwall.

  Standing before his magical waterfall, he called forth a place he frequented, located in the small town of Sutton, just outside the Vallahurst Forest. The Filthy Pigeon swam into view. The tavern was already packed with guests, their attention turned to the front of the room. They did not notice him lurking behind the watery barrier.

  An orator stood upon a trestle table, passionately speaking to his audience. “If the Drengr don’t act, we must be takin’ matters into our own hands. I say we ma
rch to Fort Squall and demand protection.”

  “Aye!” Several people slammed their mugs of ale upon the table-tops.

  “Rumors of dragons be one thing. But the dead? My cousin saw them claw their way from the grave, saw them plain as day.” Whispers and speculation coursed through the room. Everyone wanted attention—everyone wanted to hear themselves speak even if it meant weaving lies.

  One man claimed his daughter found a dead corpse standing over her bed. It tried to strangle her in her sleep. A woman swore she saw a group of them sneak into her barn and eat her youngest grazer. “By morning,” she cried, “there was nothin’ left but a dead carcass of bones.”

  He smiled. Yes, things were going very well. When he started the rumors, he encouraged the stories, nurturing them into fully developed tales. He’d done much the same in many populous places around the North. Soon the developing unrest would create a great deal of problems for the Drengr. With people flocking into Fort Squall and Fort Edge, his plan would play out exactly as he intended it to.

  Taking a vial from his pocket, he filled it with the icy water from the fall. Then he stepped through the cold sheet. No one noticed his entry into the Filthy Pigeon. The watery sheet, now behind him, vanished.

  The orator was speaking again. “We ain’t safe here anymore.”

  “But whot we supposed to do?” someone shrieked.

  This was his chance. He kept his voice steady, lowering it to avoid frightening the audience. “I say we pack up everyone we can and march for the fort. Demand their protection. It be written in the laws. ‘Cording to the charters, we be considered refugees if the land be under attack from outside forces. That includes the dead.”

  “Here, here,” several voices called out. No one bothered looking towards the source, but if they had, they would have seen a cloaked man whose face was shadowed beneath a hood. And that was a good thing, lest they mistake him for a fabled corpse.