by David Estes
Gareth grimaced. It was true. They’d managed to capture one of the dragons, the one Raven Sandes herself had ridden into battle. The same winged creature that had killed his brother while he’d watched helplessly.
“The dragon is a valuable prisoner.”
“It’s a monster.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“What will you do with it?”
“I don’t know yet. Anyway, I thought you wanted peace with the west. It’s what Roan would’ve wanted.” Dropping Roan’s name was unfair, and Gareth instantly regretted it.
“I do want peace, you fool.” Only Gwen was bold enough to call the king a fool. Secretly, Gareth preferred such honesty. Pedestals were for statues of the dead, not the flesh and blood of the living. “And don’t pretend like Roan is yours alone. I care for him too.” There was silence for a brief moment. It felt like something was breaking, slowly cracking into two pieces. Then Gwen said, “I won’t ride with you against the Phanecians.”
It was a truth Gareth had known even as he’d penned the treaty contract with Rhea Loren and the west. This truth was what had made streaming the letter so difficult. “I know.”
She nodded, but said nothing more.
“What will you do?” Gareth asked.
“Do you truly want to know?”
Gareth shook his head, debating whether to tell her the other news. Truth, he thought. It is the only way forward. “Viper Sandes has claimed the Calypsian throne.”
“What?” As if by instinct, Gwen’s hand curled over her shoulder, resting on her bow. “She has no claim on the throne, not unless Whisper and Raven are dead. Last I heard, Viper was in Kesh, managing the fighting pits.”
Gareth nodded. “That’s what everyone thought. But something has changed.”
“A coup?”
“I don’t know yet. The stream arrived not an hour ago. She requested a negotiation.”
Gwen’s grip on her bow tightened, until her knuckles were fully white. “A negotiation for what?”
“Peace,” Gareth said, the word sounding unfamiliar, as if spoken in a foreign tongue.
“Have you responded?”
He shook his head slowly.
“What will you say?” The question felt like an arrow zipping for his head.
“I haven’t decided yet. But I am leaning toward agreeing, if the Calypsians are willing to make restitutions for the damage caused during the Dragon Defense.”
“And if you return their dragon,” Gwen spat. Not a question. “They murdered your people.”
“It was a battle. Soldiers will always die in a battle.”
“They attacked our capital.”
“Viper Sandes had nothing to do with that.”
“Raven did. And you let her escape. Anyway, they are all the same. The Sandes are snakes, all of them. Watch yourself, lest they bite you, their poison is deadly.”
With that, she turned and left.
Gareth wished it didn’t hurt so much to see her go.
Nine
The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria
Gwendolyn Storm
Though Gwendolyn Storm had accused the Sandes of being snakes, she could feel her own serpent uncoiling in her stomach, breathing fire through her body.
Anger made people dumb. She breathed slowly, tempering her rage. But it was still there, hot coals releasing dark smoke. Forgiveness had never come easy to her, especially when it involved the Calypsians.
And I won’t forgive now. Someone must hold them accountable.
As she approached the large, circular iron structure, a lifetime of memories was unspooled.
Fire. Ash. Screams rending the air, a cacophony of fear and pain, drowned out by the roar of dragons, the beating of leather wings, and the clanks of steel on steel.
Running, outpacing the wind itself, challenging the speed of the rays of sunlight spilling through the trees. Firing arrow after arrow into the enemy ranks, sometimes two at a time. Sometimes three. Never missing her mark.
Watching the love of her life die, his perfect words the only thing left of him, etched into her heart like another failed mark of power.
Moving forward in time…
Her father’s lifeless body strapped to a tree, slowly covered by ore channeled by his people, until he was gone, becoming one with the forest he loved, Ironwood. His home. His final resting place. Another casualty in the war with Calypso.
Another brick in her pillar of revenge.
Moving forward once more…
Countless battles. Countless dead. Finally, finally, killing that enormous gray dragon, slicing it open from belly to throat, spilling its fire and life before her. Defeating its cold-eyed master as easily as stepping on a worm after a spring rain.
Victory was hers. Revenge too. They’d won. The dragons, save one, were dead. The Sandes fighting amongst themselves.
A roar snapped her back to the present, her final thought vanishing like rising smoke:
Then why am I not satisfied? Why am I not happy?
The guards stepped aside as she strode inside the structure.
Another roar shook the walls.
The red-backed dragon was royally pissed off.
Its head swung from side to side, smashing into the iron walls. With each ram, it sent a blast of flames into the sides of the prison. The heat was enough to melt the ore, but its tethers—long, heavy chains attached to each foot, each claw, and its neck—were sufficient to prevent it from breaking through the stone wall sandwiched between two thick layers of iron. Dragonproof, the original Orian designer had called it, all those years ago when the structure had originally been built. For decades it had stood empty, used occasionally for large gatherings. Eventually the woman responsible for its creation passed on, following Gwen’s father into the Great Forest of Orion.
Gwen stood on a viewing platform, high above the upper limits of the dragon’s reach. There were dozens of other Orians and humans, pointing and gawking at the display of raw aggression far below.
By dragon standards, Gwen figured the massive beast was slight, perhaps the smallest of all those that had attacked the iron keep not a fortnight ago. The black monster she had slain might’ve been twice the size. Yet, this was the one that survived, she thought, observing it more carefully.
Watching the powerful beast maneuver from side to side, back to front, swinging its spiked tail at the walls of its prison, Gwen wondered whether there truly was such a thing as dragonproof.
It’s testing the walls, she thought, noticing how it never struck the same point twice. Its seemingly random tantrum has logic, purpose. It can think.
Somehow the thought unsettled her. Gwen preferred thinking of dragons as senseless killing machines.
In between its assault on the walls, the dragon shot thin gouts of flame at its chains, melting the links to free up one portion of its body. Then it would swivel toward another chain, attempting to melt it before the prior chain could be reformed by the dozens of Orian channelers positioned out of reach on other platforms. They worked in shifts, night and day, an entire squad of them for just this one dragon.
Each time, the dragon failed. Each time, it also seemed to get a hair faster, as if learning from its previous mistakes.
Wading through the crowd, Gwen reached the end of the platform, placing her palms on the edge of the waist-high iron wall. Abruptly, the dragon froze. Next to the cacophony of a moment earlier, the silence felt absolute. Collectively, the spectators seemed to hold their breaths, as if afraid to shatter the quiet.
The dragon sniffed the air, steam wafting from its black nostrils.
It looked up and its eyes met Gwen’s.
Siri
Deathpainhatefireashbloodfearrage!
Dragonkiller.
It was the last that stopped Siri in her tracks. Rare were two-leggers who had slain a dragon. Rarer still were those left unchanged by the experience. Siri could smell both on this woman, the death, the ash, the dragonblood. And yet her l
ifeline was unchanged, a consistent path of emotion that was as steady over the last decade as the sun’s daily jaunt from horizon to horizon.
Before that, there was chaos. Fear. Pain. Deaths of those she loved.
Sadness, as complete as the times when the moons blocked the light of the sun. An eclipse, Siri thought, remembering the two-legger term for it.
And hate. So much hate that it seemed to roil from her in waves. This two-legger wished her dead. Would kill her herself if she had the opportunity.
You do not understand, she thought. You will.
And then she launched herself at the platform.
Gwendolyn
The attack was so swift that for a moment no one reacted, watching as the dragon bent its knees and then exploded upward, simultaneously twisting its neck from side to side to melt the chains securing its ankles before the channelers could so much as blink.
Leathery wings that had been tucked against the dragon’s spiky red back burst outward, churning the stale air into a frenzy. Streams of flame shot for the platform, which was supposedly out of the range of dragonfire, but which now seemed so close as the beast extended its reach…
Gwen leapt into action, spinning and shoving the other spectators back while shouting “RUN!” A mad scramble ensued, bodies tumbling over bodies, arms tangling with legs, people trying to leap over the fallen in their haste to escape, others crawling on elbows and knees, diving through the entrance—
Red, orange, yellow—flames all around, licking over the sides of the platform, which should’ve been made of stone—Why isn’t it made of stone?
Gwen could feel the heat through the steel soles of her boots as the floor began to melt away. She sprang to the side without thinking, the X-shaped heromark on her cheek blooming with a fire of its own, sending strength to her muscles, speed to her arms and legs.
Even as she flew through the air, she thought, There are still people on the platform, and threw her hands back over her head while simultaneously clamping her knees over the side wall, which, mercifully, was untouched by the flames and still attached to the structure.
She grabbed two different hands, one with each of her own, watching with horror as two other people she couldn’t reach fell, their eyes wide, their mouths open in silent screams.
Gwen couldn’t think about them now, had to focus on swinging, once, twice, gaining momentum, and throwing the two she held through the arched doorway.
The wall melted, hot liquid ore burning through her iron gloves even as she refortified them by channeling ore from other parts of her armor. Her backswing had launched her away from the melting platform, and now, she reached for the structure’s wall, channeling the ore into a handhold the moment her fingers brushed it.
She hung precariously for a second, adding footholds to secure her new position.
When she looked back, the dragon was there, hovering before her, its wings undulating slowly, broad graceful strokes, its eyes fathomless black pits filled with golden stars.
It eyed her with something between mild interest and vague hunger.
What she saw in its eyes surprised her. No, she thought. Not it. Her. This dragon is a female.
And what she saw was grudging respect.
Siri
One blast of fire and she could destroy this two-legger, this forest dweller—the enemy.
They keep you in chains, they take away your flight, they hate you, they despise your kind.
She killed dragon-Cronus; I can smell his stink, his treason. This two-legger killed the traitor who killed dragon-Heiron—kind, gentle Heiron. Cronus attacked his own kind, murdered Heiron and dragonmaster Rider, who rubbed your belly and fed you and helped make you more than you would’ve been…
And this two-legger saved two of her own, risking her own life while others fled.
Strangely, this two-legger reminded Siri of another two-legger, her two-legger: Raven. The thought seemed to shred her chest and pull fiery breath from her lungs. Whereisshewhereisshe? Isshesafeisshewellisshehurtisshecomingforme? Cantlethercomeformemustprotecther…
The bite of chains reattaching to her legs snapped her back from her thoughts even as she was yanked backwards by a force stronger than that of her wings. She crashed to the ground, the momentum of her sudden fall dragging her back, toppling her. She rolled over, hating this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of imprisonment, the sky like an impossible place unreachable if she had eons to achieve it.
The woman, still clinging to the wall, was watching her, a frown creasing her face. It was confusion. It was calculating.
Her smell changed. Dragonkiller, yes, but something else too.
Her lifeline wobbled just the tiniest bit before resuming its consistent path across time.
Find her. Find my soul, Siri thought.
Gwendolyn
The entire experience had unnerved her.
Though it had been only a few seconds, the way the dragon’s eyes had bored into her had left a mark. Why didn’t she strike? Gwen knew the dragon had had ample time to slash a claw at her, or breathe flames, or do something other than stare at her. And yet…she hadn’t.
Why?
The question seemed to pull at her mind, making it impossible to sleep. No, she thought, it was something else driving her insomnia.
She felt cold. Not from the temperature, which was mild, but inside, like her guts had been packed with snow. The feeling was such a contrast to the typical fire inside her at the thought of anything related to the Calypsians or their oreforsaken dragons that sleep continued to elude her.
She knew she should hate the dragon for killing another two of her people—the two spectators that had fallen to their deaths—but she couldn’t. Even knowing it was this dragon who had killed Gareth’s brother, Grian, didn’t stoke the coals of her vengeance.
Instead, she felt nothing but sorrow for the dragon, confined to a prison, her wings useless, her powerful legs controlled by iron manacles.
What is wrong with me? Gwen thought, sitting up in her hammock, high in the iron tree she called home. The movement caused her to swing gently from side to side.
“This is wrong,” she muttered. The alliance with the west, the planned attack on Phanes, everything. It wasn’t the dragon causing her inner strife, but Gareth Ironclad’s deal with Rhea Loren. Yes. That has to be it. Gwen was simply getting her own mind confused.
She knew she wouldn’t sleep well until someone had been punished for the attack on Ferria.
And that someone was Raven Sandes.
Find her. Find my soul. She remembered the way the dragon’s thoughts had appeared in her own mind.
I will find your soul, she thought. And I will kill her.
Ten
The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill
Zelda Gäric
Something was happening
Zelda rolled over and placed her ear against the hard stone floor. Vibrations rumbled through the surface. Sometimes closer, sometimes farther, but consistent.
It’s time, she thought.
Lending credence to her thoughts, shouts echoed down the stairwell.
It had only been two days since she’d gained access to the mamoothen herd, but she’d already more than convinced the Brotherhood that she’d trained the beasts to follow their orders. What they didn’t know was that the training was temporary, and could be superseded by her own command.
She grinned in the darkness, waiting. Maybe I am mad, she thought.
The shouts got louder. Footsteps followed them. Then light, as a small posse of Brotherhood members turned the corner from the stairwell into the corridor. At their head was Severon, grim-faced but not frightened. Confident-looking.
All the better for my plan, Zelda thought. Let his arrogance be his downfall.
She sat up as he approached, but didn’t move to stand. “She’s here,” she said. “I told you she would come.”
“Your niece will die on this night,” Severon said. “And you will watch.”
Zelda flinched. It was all an act. “And me?”
“If your beasts perform as promised, your life will be spared.”
“The mamoothen will march into battle.” But not for you.
“Good. Then the outcome is all but determined.”
Arrogance. Foolishness. It is almost too easy.
The thought gave Zelda pause as she studied Severon’s face, which was lined but not with concern. Only his scars marred his expression.
“You will not win,” she said, remembering to play her part. “The Armored Knight will mount your head on a spike.”
The sellsword leader laughed. “Perhaps. But I don’t think so.”
He turned on his heel and departed, his men falling into ranks behind him.
Zelda watched the lights bob away, before disappearing entirely.
She listened to the night. The sounds of preparation, horses whinnying, men shouting out orders, steel clanking on steel. Though loud, this was the calm before the coming storm.
Finally, drowning out all other noise, she heard thunder. Not real thunder, but the heavy footfalls of dozens of mamoothen marching into battle.
Zelda placed two fingers between her lips, waiting a beat longer, one eyebrow cocked.
And then she whistled a single command, long and clear. Unmistakable.
Annise
“Frozen hell,” Annise muttered. “They have mamoothen.” They were still a fair distance from the castle walls—I can’t believe I’m in this situation again, having to retake my own castle once more—and couldn’t see much, but she could hear that familiar sound. Heavy. Rumbling across the uneven terrain, like thunder beneath the surface. The entire herd of tusked beasts, moving as one.
Beside her, Tarin gripped his Morningstar, the chain coiled around the handle, the spiked ball dangling in front of him. “They are trained to defend the castle?” His white armor shone as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
