by Forthright
“How are you?” Merl’s wideset brown eyes were dark with sadness.
Mikoto shook his head, but said, “Better.”
“May I beg a concession?”
“This once,” he mumbled. Permission to touch.
The colt’s arms enfolded him.
Merl had to be at least eight hundred years old, but when it came to Amaranthine, age had little to do with affection. Mikoto couldn’t remember it clearly, but Father had told the tale often enough. Apparently, Mikoto had been a quiet kid. Always running off to play alone.
Probably to get away from a houseful of sisters.
But little Mikoto had taken a liking to Merl. Pretty soon, running off had turned into running here, to visit the camp’s healer, whom he began referring to as his big brother. Everyone else treated it like a child’s game, but Merl had taken the four-year-old seriously. Treated it as an honor.
Since Mikoto was welcomed, his family encouraged the fixation. He learned how to plant seeds and harvest flowers. About herbs and remedies and the best way to wrap bandages. But soon after he turned seven, Mikoto arrived earlier than usual and inadvertently buckled a barrier, badly startling the colt in the midst of a battle dance.
Everything changed.
After that, Mikoto also learned how to stand and how to fall. About wrestling holds and sticks and staffs and staves. Next came bladed weapons and drawing bows. And the knowledge that disrupting barriers was a useful skill in battler games.
Merl brought in more wardstones, worked with Mikoto’s control, and guided him through the basics of tending. He recommended the best courses to take with each successive camp, then scheduled even better ones. Maybe Merl had been mentoring him, even then. But Mikoto never once felt like an underling. They’d simply been holding onto each other’s secrets.
One a tribute.
One an heir.
The summer Mikoto turned fourteen, he joined a course taught by the head of the Thunderhoof clan. Mounted battle tactics, straight out of the history books. Riders with lances, with spears, with bows. Jumping to and from a moving horse. Standing barefoot on bareback. Keeping your seat on steep slopes. Knowing when to rein in and when to risk a leap.
While the registered campers all rode out on Alpenglow Kith, Mikoto competed as Merl’s rider. As two halves of a greater whole. As equals.
And everything changed again.
The familial bond was there, for they’d begun as brothers. But Mikoto didn’t need Merl the same way he had when he was four or seven. Now, they were sparring partners and comrades-in-arms. That summer, the colt had become something more—his best friend.
“How are your sisters?” asked Merl, already herding him up the walk.
“All home.”
“All,” Merl echoed. “Wren and Lily, too?”
“Yes.”
“That must be a great help at a time like this.”
Mikoto supposed it was. If only because they kept each other occupied.
Wren and Lily were his half-sisters, daughters of Lingering Light, who had been his father’s first wife. That had been many years ago. In fact, those sisters were both in their sixties. Later in life, Gabriel had remarried. Probably at Glint’s urging. Mikoto’s mother, Sora, had come to Wardenclave from Japan. An arranged marriage.
Mikoto’s full-blooded siblings were three older sisters.
Hikari had married and lived nearby with her husband and four daughters. Both Koharu and Hana still lived under the same roof, as did their daughters. Koharu served in the guard. Her three girls had been born under contract. Hana, who was closest in age to Mikoto, also had a little girl. With all the family pulling together, the females had more than tripled their numbers and noise level.
Which left Mikoto. And Yulin.
Mikoto stopped and looked back. “Coming?”
Yulin lingered at the gate.
Merl reinforced the invitation. “Come along. You can help make sure he gets enough to eat.”
The moth clansman’s gaze turned speculative. “How is your appetite, young noble?”
“I do not have one,” he fibbed.
That decided Yulin, but it didn’t get them through the door.
“Here you are!” boomed a voice everyone in Wardenclave knew. Glint Starmark walked toward them, three young Kith cavorting around him. The pups looked for all the world like over-sized golden retrievers, too clutzy and cute for anyone to believe they belonged to the pack known historically as the Demon Dogs of Denholm.
Yulin stepped forward, a polite smile on his face. “Glint, you are on Mikoto’s schedule for tomorrow. If that is still ….”
Glint simply patted his head and walked on by.
“… convenient,” Yulin finished bemusedly. Really, there was no getting in the way of Wardenclave’s top dog.
Leaning down to look Mikoto in the eyes, Glint asked, “How are you, boy?”
Mikoto shrugged uncomfortably. As a kid, he’d adored the founder of the Starmark clan, with his big voice and his big hands and his big dogs. Glint was impressive—strong and manly. Well, male. When he was little, Mikoto had probably done his share of cavorting, just like these pups, eager to gain Glint’s attention. To look into silver eyes, bright as the star that marked his brow.
Somehow, it was less fun to be in Glint’s focus now.
Conversations always seemed to come around to the future. And who would share Mikoto’s.
Glint was the village matchmaker. Pedigrees were his hobby. He had a reputation for bringing together strong bloodlines. In fact, most young reavers who came to Wardenclave hoped to consult with Glint with regards to their prospects. His stamp of approval—a very official-looking copper foil sticker—was highly coveted.
Mikoto didn’t want to go through folios. Didn’t need to.
He’d made his choice a long time ago. When he was nine.
And this summer, he was going to tell her. Somehow.
“… to make sure it was a good match.” Glint touched Mikoto’s arm, radiating concern. “Are you listening, my boy?”
“He wasn’t,” said Merl.
Glint’s hand was warm. His gaze was soft. “In short, then. It is not good to be alone.”
Mikoto wasn’t. Far from it.
“It took me longer than I anticipated, but I think you will be pleased.”
“With what?”
“With whom,” corrected Glint, sounding unaccountably smug.
What had Mikoto missed? For a panicked moment, he thought he’d agreed to something binding. He darted nervous glances at Merl and Yulin. The former simply shook his head in a way that meant, it’s okay. And the latter was covering a smile.
“Hold out your hands,” ordered Glint.
Mikoto slowly obeyed, watching warily as Glint’s big, brown hand dipped into a deep coat pocket. And brought out a puff of white fur.
Setting it carefully in Mikoto’s waiting hands, Glint simply said, “Take care of each other.”
And walked away.
FOUR
To Catch a Dragon
Sinder’s first instruction for Naroo-soh’s rookie ranks was little more than child’s play. “Find me.”
The battlers weren’t impressed. A hand went up. “That’s all?”
At a glance, Sinder could tell that eighty percent felt insulted. Most of the rest seemed to be trying to figure out if he was joking.
“Where’s Naroo-soh?”
“None of your business.” Sinder smiled sweetly.
“We’re meant to have an Elderbough instructor.” Murmurs of assent rippled through the group.
“You think Naroo-soh was going to take a summer away from the hunt to hold your hands?” Sinder gave them a pitying look. “You’ll get your Elderbough. But I’m the one you should be focusing on.”
Another hand. “May we know your name, sir?”
“Also none of your business.”
Glares. The insulted ones now radiated annoyance. If he could chivvy them into active disl
ike, they might actually try.
“You’re Naroo-soh’s picks, yes? His up-and-comers? Oodles of promise, just waiting to be tapped?” Sinder raised a hand. “How many of you believe that you’re the one we’ve all been waiting for? With you on the rogue’s trail, we may finally see results.”
While no one raised a hand, they stood a little straighter in their ranks, pride and confidence in their posture.
Poor kids. This was going to be the worst summer of their lives. But if Sinder did his job well, they’d live to see another.
He wanted to sigh, but he plastered on a smirk. “I admire your courage. You’ll need it.”
When it came to capturing the rogue, all the skills and tactics in the world came to nothing if you couldn’t find him in the first place. No easy task.
A dragon in truest form might seem showy, even garish, out of context. But drop them into nearly any landscape, and those markings allowed them to vanish. Even into a seemingly featureless plain. Sinder was on one such plain now, a wide stretch of tundra that wavered with green-gold grasses. Other than the occasional low bush, only the passing shadows of scudding clouds moved. They briefly washed the terrain in shadow, then cranked up the wattage with the squint-inducing glare of high summer sunlight.
Thirty rookies entered the practice field and waited. They scanned the area with hands over eyes, some with binoculars or spy glasses. A few began crafting sigils, which was the right idea, even though it wouldn’t do them much good. They fanned out, moving with care, but obviously confused.
One of the Starmark guards had entered the zone with them. She stood with feet planted, gaze lowered, expression thoughtful. An observer.
A battler approached her. “Are you sure there’s a dragon out here?”
“Yes. In striking distance.”
Also the right idea. Trust any Amaranthine’s senses over your own.
Another rookie quietly asked, “How can you tell?”
Which wasn’t as stupid a question as it might sound. Knowing a predator is nearby is a good start, but how you know determines your next step.
But their observer wasn’t on the team. She simply said, “There are boundaries, and he promised to stay within them.”
This was too easy, but these battlers really were Naroo-soh’s choices. They’d catch on. They’d learn, and then Sinder would have to try harder. But he’d impress them this once. Because the thing to remember when tracking a dragon, if there was any chance of anyone surviving the encounter, was that your eyes can deceive you.
When you’re scanning your surroundings, and you’re sure there’s no place where any dragon could possibly hide, you’re wrong. He’s there, and he’s still. He’s listening, and he’s laughing. And he’s almost certainly behind you.
Sinder’s jump-scare tactics didn’t gain him any popularity. After three days, the rookies still couldn’t find him in an open field. By the fourth, they were beginning to suspect they never would. Not without help. By the fifth, they were sure of it. Which was as ready as they’d ever be.
“Bring on the Elderbough,” Sinder drawled, by way of introduction.
The ranks fell silent as their instructor stepped out of the woods.
Sinder eyed them critically. Yes, they were surprised. But by now, they should be desperate enough to take what they could get.
When this group was first selected, Boonmar-fen Elderbough was supposed to have handled their training. But things went south, and Boon was off the grid. It had taken a little convincing, but in the end, Naroo-soh had agreed to send another brother.
“My name is Torloo-dex Elderbough.”
The battlers exchanged glances.
Sinder was pleased to see that the prevailing emotions were confusion and … awe. He was willing to bet that none of them had ever met an Amaranthine this young. Torloo looked twelve.
“Naroo-soh is my brother.” With a soft smile, he said, “Here is his promise. If by midsummer your skills exceed mine, he will come here, and he will run with you.”
Quite the incentive.
Sinder wondered how long it would take these rookies to realize that this kid had been running with Elderbough trackers since always. He was good. As in exceptional. Torloo could be ruthless, which might have been scary if he weren’t so damned cordial about it. Adoona-soh’s baby boy had already put Sinder on his back more than once. He was almost as good at it as Juuyu.
“New goal!” Sinder tossed his hair over his shoulder. “Now that you have an Elderbough to advise you, we’ll make the game harder. Find me before I find you.”
FIVE
Night Maneuvers
As soon as Torloo took over, Sinder stopped talking. Well, he stopped contributing useful information. His little asides were bland or barbed. All part of the plan. These battlers needed a tangible enemy to curse, corner, and confine. Because the real rogue was the worst taunt, the biggest affront, and a true monster on two legs or four.
Twelve years gone, and he was still out there—rending lives and raping girls.
Human agencies didn’t understand why it was taking so long to take this guy down. Every other year or so, they’d sling accusations and demand results. But a heart-to-heart with a few members of the Amaranthine Council, always with Lapis in attendance, sufficed to remind them what they were up against.
What these rookies were up against.
What Sinder could do with a few whispered words.
He tried not to look at them, to meet their gazes, to use their names. Otherwise, their hard eyes and muttered oaths might get to him. And this wasn’t about him. This was a dress rehearsal, and they needed to fully embrace their parts.
Sinder wasn’t thrilled to be the villain’s understudy. Neither was he loving Wardenclave’s rugged, rustic vibe. He was more of a climate-controlled penthouse kind of dragon. Communications and computer code. Social media and slipping onto servers. The team usually relied on him for information extraction, yet they’d shunted him to a place that time forgot. He was up a creek without wifi. Come to think of it, this might be the worst summer of his life.
Lost in a daydream in which Juuyu and Hallow were sent to extract him, Sinder nearly missed his cue.
Torloo crisply asked, “Do you understand?”
“We do,” the reavers answered in unison. All eyes swung to Sinder.
He smiled and said, “Blink.” And then he sprang away, knowing it would seem as if he’d vanished. Not because he wanted to impress them. That had been a warning. The only one they’d get.
Their orders were simple. Scatter. Search. They had one hour to find him.
In preparation, Torloo had given them each two bandanas—one green, one red. Every rookie went in with the green one knotted around their forehead and the red one in their pocket.
The next several minutes were more entertaining than most Sinder spent in the woods.
He wasn’t often deployed in this manner. It really wasn’t sporting. Wrapping up early, he returned to Torloo’s side.
“How many did you get?” He slipped his hand into Sinder’s.
“Not all,” he admitted. A few of the rookies had Kith companions. “Most, though.”
Torloo’s big blue eyes never wavered from his face. “Most dislike you.”
Sinder fluted disconsolately. “Can you blame them?”
“I might.” The young wolf’s hand tightened. “You are here to help them.”
“I’ve just humiliated them.” He gently extracted his hand, for the battlers were approaching, reporting back. “Let me goad them on. You be their ally.”
As the battlers regrouped, Torloo split their ranks. Only five retained their green bandanas. Confusion and consternation radiated from the rest.
“Is this some kind of trick?” asked one.
“It was a massacre,” said Torloo. “Everyone wearing red was either compromised or killed.”
“I never saw him!” protested one, then another.
“You do not remember seeing him,�
�� said Torloo. “None of them ever do.”
A hand lifted. “How did he switch them out?”
“He did not,” said Torloo. “You did it yourself.”
“No way.”
Others shook their heads, muttered protests. But the proof was all around them.
“Tell us how it was done,” urged one of the battlers whose green bandana was like a badge of honor. Sinder had noticed him a time or two. Best of the bunch, and not simply because of his feline companion. The patch at his shoulder read Michaelson.
Torloo smiled at him, and his tail lifted. Like he knew the guy. “Your prey is a dragon, and dragons have a way with words. When he told you to switch colors, you thought it was a good idea. When he told you to forget you had met him alone in the woods, you did as you were told.”
“And it works on anyone?” asked Michaelson.
“Amaranthine and humans,” said Torloo. “But not Kith, which is why partnership is an asset.”
“Can we protect ourselves?”
“Yes.” With that, Torloo spun off into an orderly explanation of the next phase of their training. Michaelson’s questions encouraged others to speak up or interject. And if Sinder didn’t miss his guess, that was the guy’s intent. Because he got the impression that Reaver Michaelson already knew the answers.
He’d bear watching, that one.
Now that they had guidance, the rookies improved. Torloo introduced them to the survival tactics they’d need for the chase they’d be joining. Like working in twos and threes, so every reaver had eyes on their back. And learning tracker lingo, a verbal code that allowed them to communicate without tipping off eavesdroppers.
Those with Kith partners had the best survival rate, which hammered through the obvious. And put their futures into new perspective. To succeed, they needed to form alliances. Torloo brought in a group of Dimityblest scribes to guide the battlers through the application process for a Kith partner. Those who excelled over the summer could find themselves in a pairing program this autumn.
