by C. Greenwood
Eydis broke into a nervous sweat. She couldn’t turn her head, could only follow the enemy with her eyes. His expression was victorious. But she didn’t focus on his face. Instead, her attention was drawn by a faint blue glow emanating from one of the many rings on his hand. The source of the magic holding her in place?
She dismissed the irrelevant question. She was powerless and about to be killed. Yet even now her thoughts groped for possibilities of escape. Better that than giving in to the gnawing panic threatening to overwhelm her. If she let the fear take control, it would be truly over.
Suddenly something brushed against the back of her foot. She would have jumped, had she been free to move. The hooded snake she had brought to life must have found its way down from the table and onto the floor. As if she wasn’t in enough trouble already.
Despite her fear, she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. Perhaps if unprovoked, the creature would continue hiding quietly beneath the shadow of the table.
The wizard was enjoying his moment of triumph. “I know what you are thinking now, mistress of masks. If only your friends would appear at the last possible moment to save you. But of course that cannot be. Your precious oracle and the dryad are busy in the rangelands, mustering their puny forces to fight Rathnakar’s army. I have seen as much through my gazing ball. And your barbarian catalyst is too busy saving his own skin to worry about yours. It is not without cause he has the cowardly reputation he does even if he was never literally a betrayer of blood.”
“What do you mean by that?” Eydis asked. She was relieved he had at least left her facial muscles free to move. The longer she kept him talking, the longer she lived.
Seemingly taking pleasure in having all the answers, he said, “I speak of the famous betrayal of Endguard. The popular version of that story may not be quite how the actual events played out.”
“And you would know this because?”
“I was there.”
Something in his expression told her the truth. “You were the traitor,” she realized. She didn’t know how that could be. But as soon as she spoke the words, she knew in her bones they were true.
He didn’t deny it. “I anticipated the awakening of Rathnakar and the return on his power. All the signs were there, for those with the power to read them. It was early yet, but I began to prepare.”
“Another bid for the Raven King’s favor,” she observed.
“I am nothing if not farsighted. How I accomplished it is unimportant. Let us just say the Lostland creatures can be motivated to work together, with the right encouragement. But I didn’t want an endless stream of vengeful Lythnian and Kroadian bounty hunters tracking me to my tower afterward. I had to ensure there would be at least one other Endguard survivor to be blamed.”
Eydis’s gaze dropped to the ring still glowing on his finger. A plan was forming in her mind. But he was still half a dozen paces away. She needed to make him move closer.
“How does it feel to be a cowardly traitor, responsible for the deaths of so many?” she asked.
His lips twitched into a smile. “If you wish to provoke my anger, catalyst, you will have to try a little harder.”
But he did step nearer. Very near.
His foot came down on a black coil that blended naturally with the dark floor. Instantly the snake rose up and sank its fangs into the wizard’s ankle. Distracted, the wizard loosened his hold on Eydis for just a second.
That was all the time she needed. As soon as she felt his power falter, felt the slackening of her invisible bonds, she strained against the grip of his magic and broke free. She leaped forward and plunged her dagger into his chest.
Her enemy reeled backward, a crimson stain blossoming over his heart. But Eydis had no time to stare. There was still an angry snake writhing on the floor. Quickly, before it could rear back its hooded head again, she trampled the creature, crushing its head beneath her boot.
Only then could she turn her attention to the wizard, who had fallen to the floor. He lay in a motionless heap, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the ceiling. It was a strange irony to see him cut down by a dagger through the heart in just the same way Server Parthenia had been killed by his hired blade.
She knelt beside his crumpled form and withdrew her knife, wiping the bloody blade clean on the wizard’s robe. Then she picked up his still-warm hand. Now that the ring on his finger no longer glowed blue, it looked like all his other rings. She felt a little like a thief but reminded herself this was no ordinary bit of jewelry. It was a piece that could potentially be very useful to her cause.
She wriggled the band off his finger. His hands were bigger than hers, so she had to slide the ring over the knuckle of her thumb, where it fit loosely. Later she would experiment with its powers, but this was not the time.
Returning to her feet, she looked around the chamber. Whatever magic her enemy had used to close all the exits hadn’t dissolved with his death. The walls still formed an unbroken circle with no way in or out of the room. Eydis ran her hands carefully over the cold stone, hoping to find her imprisonment was only an illusion. But her hands arrived at the same conclusion as her eyes. She was truly trapped within the granite tower—and the only person with the power to let her out was now dead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Geveral
Geveral first glimpsed the Drejian stronghold indistinctly through a thick fog that blanketed the mountain peaks. What he could see from this height, as he and Keir soared nearer on the back of Kalandhia, wasn’t reassuring. The home of Keir’s strange ancestors seemed an unwelcoming place, carved out of jagged stone near the summit of one of the Arxus Mountains. Its natural surroundings would have made it difficult to approach on foot, so they were lucky to have the dragon carrying them and speeding their journey from the rangelands.
As Kalandhia circled low, Geveral braced himself. The young dragon’s landings were usually clumsy.
The rocky ground grew nearer and, for a moment, it looked like Kalandhia might crash directly into a craggy bluff. But the dragon veered off at the last moment, steadied its balance, and touched the ground. Geveral clenched his jaw and held tight as their mount stumbled to a rough halt.
Dizzy from the sudden drop in altitude and the abrupt stop, it took him a moment to get his breath.
“We’ve got to find a smoother way to travel,” he said.
“It’s not Kalandhia’s fault,” Keir defended. “He’s just a youngling and not used to carrying passengers.”
Geveral didn’t answer. He was too busy climbing down the side of the dragon. It was a relief when he felt firm ground beneath his feet again, even the crunchy gravel-strewn ground of the mountaintop.
The dragon barely waited for both passengers to dismount before beating its broad wings and lifting up into the sky again. Geveral knew Kalandhia wouldn’t go far. The beast might need to hunt for a meal, but it would return when they needed it.
Now that he and Keir stood alone, Geveral took in their surroundings. They were in a semi-enclosed area with high rock walls on three sides and a hill of shale and boulders on the fourth. One of those towering rock walls was a pair of wide gates, the entrance to the Drejian stronghold in the side of the mountain. On either side of those intimidating and seemingly immovable gates, was a pair of soaring statues carved into likenesses of winged men.
Geveral’s courage faltered a little as he wondered if the actual Drejian people were even half as large and fierce as those statues looked.
“So this is where you come from?” he asked Keir.
“Yes, but I remember nothing of it. Pure instinct helped me guide us here.”
Geveral nodded. He knew that Keir had been found as a small stray child wandering the snowy mountains between here and the dwarven city of Runehaven on the opposite face of the mountain. The dwarves had taken in and raised the orphaned child, but he had never really belonged among them. Neither had he belonged at the Asincourt seclusionary, where his adopted dwarf family had sent him to
be educated by Lythnian adherents. It must feel strange to the youngling to be here now, seeing his true home for the first time. Sadly, he wouldn’t fit in at this place either. Not in the half-formed state in which he currently existed.
The ground rumbled unexpectedly. Geveral looked around in alarm before realizing the reverberations were coming from the high gates of the stronghold. They were moving slowly, swinging inward.
“I think our arrival has been noticed,” said Geveral. “How do you think we’ll be welcomed?”
“Probably not warmly,” Keir answered. “The Drejian make themselves hard to reach for a reason. They won’t look kindly on trespassers.”
He was right. The several dozen winged people coming through the opening gates didn’t look friendly. They were at least two feet taller than ordinary folk and their muscular frames twice as broad. Leathery wings similar to Keir’s rose above bare shoulders and were tipped with bone. Their necks and limbs were long, their faces lean, and cheekbones sharp. Faint scaling patterned their skin in places, and they had eyes that glowed fierce and golden. It was easy to see why they were called dragonkin, with the resemblance they bore to the great beasts.
Despite their frightening appearance and the spears they carried, the approaching Drejian warriors seemed more curious than angry. They scarcely looked at Geveral, but Keir had their full attention as they formed a loose circle around the trespassers. Geveral couldn’t blame them for staring. In his only partially visible state, Keir was a strange and uncomfortable sight. But the parts of him that could be seen, one eye, a high cheekbone, and part of a wing, weren’t very different from the features of these people. They could hardly fail to recognize him as one of their own.
Just the same, Geveral made sure to look as unthreatening as possible. He tossed the wooden staff he carried onto the ground, lest it be mistaken as a weapon. The sword he had reluctantly brought with him was also dropped.
“Hello,” he peacefully greeted the leathery-skinned newcomers. “My name is Geveral, and I bring you a gift from the Lythnian oracle of Silverwood Grove.”
It was hard to tell if they understood what he said, for they remained silent.
But when Geveral reached toward his belt pouch, spears were instantly raised. He felt the poke of more than one sharp tip against his flesh.
“It’s all right,” he said, holding up his hands to show he didn’t mean to fight. “I was only reaching for the gift.”
The warriors hesitated, then one of them who stood nearest Geveral nodded to the others. Nobody lowered their weapons, but at least those sharp points weren’t pressed against Geveral anymore.
Again he reached slowly for his pouch, and this time they let him remove it from his belt. He turned the small bag upside down and let them see the gold coins that fell out into his palm.
Immediately the biggest Drejian stepped up to snatch the pouch and gold from Geveral’s hands. He let them take it.
“There is more where that came from,” he told the dragonkin. “Our oracle wishes to hire your people to help us fight a battle.”
The Drejian holding the gold frowned and turned his gaze to Keir.
“This is my friend Keir,” Geveral introduced. “As you can see, he is one of your own. Or he was until misfortune befell him.”
Geveral didn’t know how to describe exactly how Keir had come to be in the state he was in, so he didn’t try. He was growing uneasy in the face of the prolonged silence.
“Can’t these people understand me?” he murmured to the half-formed shadow creature hovering beside him. “Maybe they don’t speak our language. Do you know how to interpret?”
Before Keir could respond, the Drejian holding the gold seemed to come to an abrupt decision. He nodded sharply to his fellow warriors. They seized Geveral by both arms and dragged him toward the yawning doors of the fortress.
“Wait! I’m not your enemy,” he said.
Keir made a sound of protest too, but nobody listened.
As he was propelled forward, Geveral twisted to look back and see what was happening to Keir. Nobody attempted to lay a hand on the dragonkin youth. Although spears were pointed at the youngling, the warriors seemed reluctant to touch him. But with a little prodding, he too was driven toward the open gates.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Entering the shadowed interior, Geveral had a sinking feeling he might never see the outdoors again. The gray foggy world he was leaving behind suddenly seemed warm and bright, compared to this new darkness. With a groan, the thick gates slowly drew closed. They were trapped, he and Keir, inside this strange unwelcoming place.
It was cold inside the mountain. The surrounding rock walls glistened with drops of moisture. Columns of rough stone soared toward a ceiling hidden in shadow. Despite the open space, it was hard for Geveral not to feel the weight of all that rock pressing down on them.
The prisoners were led through vast, empty caverns that seemed to stretch an endless distance. They passed through a long corridor. At its end, they found an unstable wooden platform suspended by chains disappearing into the blackness of open air above and below. Their captors prodded them onto this. It was a small platform, just wide enough to hold a half dozen people. This forced the majority of the party to stay behind, only four guards remaining with Geveral and Keir.
The rusty chains holding their weight screeched in protest at the grinding of pulleys. Then the platform began to descend into the unknown. Geveral fought his rising fears as they sank into the lower levels of the cave. At least he had the slight comfort of a wooden floor beneath his feet. Since he was the only one here lacking wings to fly wherever he needed, his captors must be using the moving platform for his benefit. That they took the trouble meant they had something more than immediate death in mind for their visitors.
After some minutes of descending at a speed that made Geveral’s stomach queasy, they slowed. They were approaching a new and well-lit level. After encountering no illumination since they had entered the mountain but occasional torches flickering along the walls, it was reassuring to see a brighter light source. This new light came from glow stones embedded in the rock walls of the cave.
When their conveyance jerked to a halt, a vast cavern spread before them. Geveral guessed it served as an audience chamber or something similar, belonging to a person of importance. There were towering columns carved with runes and the likenesses of winged men. They weren’t skillfully detailed, but judging by the little he had seen of rough Drejian standards, these might be considered ornate. Across the room was a set of stone steps leading to a dais, which held several throne-like chairs. Geveral assumed the largest of these belonged to whatever king or leader ruled these Drejians.
The prisoners were hustled into the chamber. They crossed half the room before being stopped in the center by their guards. Their captors indicated in a harsh guttural language that they should wait here, unmoving. Although the Drejians’ wishes were clear, Geveral couldn’t understand their wording. If they spoke his tongue, they gave no sign of it. He glanced sideways at Keir, who gave a slight shake of his head. Apparently, he didn’t know the dragonkin tongue either. Geveral could only hope an interpreter would be provided.
Looking down, he realized several large triangular shapes were etched into the stone beneath his feet. The triangles intersected to form a many-pointed star, surrounded by a wide circle. At the center of the star was a heavy metal ring attached to a chain.
He supposed this was where unwelcome guests were sometimes chained to the floor during their interviews. He could only be grateful no one made any move to bind him. Maybe they found his appearance unthreatening because he lacked the muscular build of a warrior, and without his walking stick, his limp was pronounced. Alternatively, maybe his offer of gold had placed him a rung above the usual sort of prisoner.
He could only hope the latter was the case.
Continuing his examination of his surroundings, he found he had been mistaken in his first impression that he
, Keir, and their escort were the room’s only inhabitants. He now realized there were other Drejian posted around the room in shadowed corners. These silent figures might have been servants, judging by the way their appearances differed from that of the guards. They lacked the shaven heads of the warriors, they held no weapons, and they wore simple sleeveless tunics that trailed down to their ankles. There was one especially striking feature of these servants. They lacked wings. If they had ever had any, they must have been removed. Geveral wondered why. To indicate their low status?
His observations were interrupted by a soft grating sound that drew his attention to the back of the room, where a pair of wide doors was being swung open. A dozen Drejian entered through those doors.
It was easy to separate which of them was the Drejian ruler and which others were likely to be lesser nobles or advisors. The leader walked with confidence, flanked by his companions. His garments were scarlet, and he gripped a glittering staff in one hand. He wore a circlet atop his shaven head, its long strands of beads descending over his shoulders and down his back.
None of the newcomers paid any attention to the prisoners until they had climbed the steps of the dais and taken their seats. Only then did the golden gaze of the Drejian ruler sweep over Geveral.
At an impatient gesture from the ruler, one of Geveral and Keir’s guards launched into a brief speech in Drejian. Even lacking knowledge of the language he spoke, it wasn’t difficult to tell that he was explaining to his master how the trespassers had come to be brought here. The guard also showed the pouch of gold he had taken from Geveral.
All the while the guard was speaking, Geveral couldn’t help noticing the attention of the Drejian ruler and his advisors seemed fixed on Keir. Geveral was as guilty of intruding on their territory as Keir, was but he couldn’t blame them for their open fascination with the dragonkin youth. He did make a startling picture, hovering there in his semivisible form.
