The Ascending

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  Dervit glanced at the window set to the left of Jahrra’s bed. His pointed ears twitched, and he took another breath. As quietly as he could, he crept off the couch and climbed up onto the bedside table, all the while using his fox senses and agility to remain completely silent. He reached up and pulled open the window, breathing a sigh of relief when the hinges worked smoothly without so much as a tiny squeak. When he glanced out into the darkness, his breath caught in his throat. A massive shape blocked half the window. Jaax. The dragon’s habit of wrapping himself around the small building would be an inconvenient obstacle.

  Clenching his teeth, the limbit was ready to admit defeat and return to his couch, though he was certain sleep would evade him for the rest of the night. As he made to leap off the table, however, a strong desire to get outside overwhelmed him, making him sway where he stood. For some reason or another, he had to leave the cabin. Turning back around, he contemplated his options. He could try to jump over Jaax’s tail, but he would have to leap up and out, and even then he might not clear the dragon. Waking Jaax could not happen. That would mean almost certain death. Fighting back his frustration, Dervit stuck his head out the window and swiveled it from side to side. It was very dark, but he could see well enough. The limbit placed his hand on the window frame, the cold, rough stone nipping at his fingertips.

  With one last glance at Jahrra’s sleeping form, Dervit climbed onto the window sill. The outside ledge was just wide enough for him to stand on without teetering. With the utmost care, he pulled the window shut behind him, wincing when the latch clicked into place. With a great show of patience on his part, he moved sideways across the wall, feeling for foot and hand holds between the logs and freezing anytime the dragon below him took a deep breath. Finally, after what felt like hours, Dervit reached the point where he could jump free of Jaax’s tail.

  He waited for several breaths before taking the leap, landing in a small patch of snow that helped slow his forward momentum. To his horror, the great dragon chose that moment to grumble in his sleep, and although his head was resting by the door around the curve of the wall, Dervit bolted. He did not want to be anywhere near the building if Jaax should wake up.

  The limbit sprinted toward the snow-covered field and patch of trees at the end of the road, staying close to the other cabins so he’d remain hidden from spying eyes. It felt wonderful to be out in the frosty night air, and the exhilaration seemed to ease his worried thoughts. Perhaps this was all he needed. A nice jog in the fresh mountain air to banish his fears.

  He’d forgotten his jacket in the cabin, but fortunately, Dervit’s thick fox fur kept him warm. Well, at least his lower half and his arms. He had no idea where he was headed, but as the road came to an end, he turned toward another copse of trees, their thick needles laden with days old snowfall. The limbit slowed his pace to a walk, his feet crunching lightly against the old snow. The dark trees spread out about a quarter mile ahead of him, creating a forest of deep shadows beneath the equally black night. To his left, more cabins and buildings huddled together, some of them leaking light. Clearly, he wasn’t the only soul in Cahrdyarein unable to sleep.

  On his right, the land gently sloped downward, and he knew that a mile or so away sat the great wall, the black fence of stone keeping their enemies out. Dervit stopped and glared off into the distance. Or was it? He couldn’t see the wall from here, but he could feel its presence, almost as much as he could feel the evil intent pressing on his soul. Could a small handful of the Crimson King’s men sneak in if even a single traitor from within showed them the way? Surely Pendric’s highly trained soldiers would notice something.

  Dervit pushed those thoughts away. He didn’t have the answers, and continually thinking about them would only make his head spin and his fear intensify. He was about to start walking again when a cold dread suddenly poured over his body, like a pocket of winter air descending upon a warm summer day. All the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his tail swished back and forth in agitation. He didn’t have to look down at it to know it was as full as a bottle brush.

  A shadow moved across the white snow several feet ahead, not making a sound. Whoever it was had come from the direction of the wall, and was headed straight for the houses and buildings on the other side of the woods.

  The limbit dove behind the nearest tree and pressed himself against the rough, damp bark. This shadow could be just another restless soul out for a midnight stroll, but that icy dread forcing all his senses on high alert told him otherwise. It was the same feeling he’d experienced when trying to talk Jahrra out of meeting Keiron at the Round.

  A slight noise, the soft crunch of boots in the deep snow, forced his ears to flick forward. The shadow was drawing nearer. A feral snarl began in the depths of Dervit’s throat, but he fought it back. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. Instead, he risked a glance and relaxed when the cloaked stranger continued on his path toward the city’s edge.

  Dervit let out a quiet sigh of relief, ready to head back to the cabin where he would be safe, but something stopped him. His eyes were still fastened on the nighttime traveler and something about the way he moved, his gait or how he held himself, sparked a hint of familiarity. Again, that dread pooled in his stomach, but instead of telling him to run, it encouraged him to follow.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, and despite the heart-pounding fear flooding his veins, Dervit peeled away from the tree and using his animal senses, trailed after the hooded figure, staying as far behind him as possible.

  The man stuck to the shadows, creeping along as if he, too, wished not to be seen. Dervit took this to heart and fell back even farther, staying low to the ground and keeping his steps light.

  The cloaked stranger didn’t travel too far before he came upon a three story building crammed between a few shops and houses. Raucous laughter flowed from the place, as well as the pungent scent of ale and sweat. A tavern.

  As Dervit watched from the edge of the woods behind the row of buildings, the man opened a door in the rear of the tavern. Before stepping inside, he whipped his head around, checking, Dervit assumed, for anyone who might have followed him. The limbit remained still, knowing he was entirely hidden in shadow.

  His quarry slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. A heartbeat later, a dull light flickered to life in one of the rooms of the third story. Dervit glanced up, taking a few moments to study the building. A gutter ran down one side and cut over across the top of the roof. Decorative wood molding gave the building a rustic appearance, and a ledge of sorts ran beneath the window where the light spilled forth.

  Dervit was by no means a spy, and his sensible side told him this whole situation reeked of trouble. Had the man entered from the front of the tavern, and not snuck in through the back, searching for followers, then he would have dismissed the whole thing and returned to Jahrra’s cabin. But something wasn’t right, and although spying on this cloaked figure meant courting danger, Dervit was going to do it.

  “Perhaps this is why that awful feeling of foreboding has been haunting me the past few days. Maybe, if I see what this person is up to, it will leave me be.”

  Taking one more long breath, and drawing deep for a little courage, Dervit crossed the small street separating him from the back of the building. He didn’t head for the door the man had used. Instead, he turned to the left and, as quickly and quietly as he could, climbed the rain pipe. Once he reached the third floor, he carefully stepped onto the ledge, using the gaps between the wooden shingles and the decorative molding to pull himself closer and closer to the window. He crossed beneath it, bringing himself to the corner of the building where the angle was better for peering inside without being seen. Pressing his ears flat against his head, Dervit peeked up over the window ledge and studied the scene inside.

  A smoky room greeted his eyes, barely illuminated by a single lamp. Several figures, all wearing cloaks with hoods hiding their faces, lingered arou
nd the space, their long shadows dancing against the walls due to the trembling candle flame. Some stood, others sat in rickety old chairs around a table. A few leaned against the wall. They appeared relaxed, but Dervit knew below their skin they were just as jumpy as he was. He began to count them: Four, seven … ten. He swallowed as his dread blossomed into full-out panic. Ten hooded figures. Waiting in a room in a tavern on the edge of the city.

  Before he could drop from the window and run back to the cabin, a sharp knock rapped against the single door leading into the room. The man closest to the door pulled it open carefully and let in another cloaked figure. Dervit was certain this was the man he had followed. The sound of the door clicking shut and the swish of fabric leaked through the cracked window. The stench of menace and fear swirled throughout the room, and once again, the limbit yearned to flee. But just like before, that unnamed force kept him glued to the windowsill, waiting and wondering what would happen next.

  -Chapter Sixteen-

  Treacherous Allies

  Boriahs stood in the hazy room with his companions, all of them well concealed by their dark, hooded cloaks. Four of them were his own soldiers, highly trained and very deadly. The other five were traitors to the regent of Cahrdyarein, all pledging loyalty to the one who’d organized this meeting to begin with, someone known only to them as the Source. A few days after chasing the girl and her dragon behind the walls of the great city, the Source had walked into their camp and demanded to speak with the commander. Although he had kept his head covered, Boriahs had known he was one of those Resai elves from the municipality at the top of the mountain. He had been ready to throw the vermin to his soldiers for sport, but the elf came with an offer Boriahs couldn’t refuse. He told the high commander that he would capture the girl and hand her over, without her dragon guardian in tow.

  When Boriahs had asked what the elf had wanted in return, his eyes had gleamed beneath the shadow of his hood.

  “Only the chance to show that pathetic excuse of a regent he cannot hide from the power of the great king in the east.”

  If the high commander of the Crimson King’s most elite had not been blood bonded to the most feared being in all of Ethoes, the malice in the Resai elf’s voice might have given him pause. If he wanted to injure the regent, then grabbing the girl out from under his nose in the most fortified city in the Hrunahn Mountains, besides Nimbronia of course, would definitely do the job.

  A fresh wave of laughter and shouting from the Resai men and women bantering below drifted up the stairwell, making Boriahs twitch with restlessness. Where was the accursed Source? He was supposed to meet them thirty minutes ago. Raw, angry dread coursed through the high commander. Could he have betrayed them? Was this whole set up a trap for them instead of the girl and the regent? He slapped the thoughts away and growled. The events of earlier that week had put him in a foul mood. He’d given that Resai filth full control over the planning and carrying out of the campaign regarding the human girl, and it had been a disaster. He should have insisted on including a few of his own men in the ambush party.

  Boriahs’ part had been to sit back and wait until the girl was delivered to the caves, where he and fifty of his most trustworthy soldiers waited. They had managed to remove most of the rubble from the landslide farther down the mountain, and with the help of their skurmages, had hidden the evidence of their progress. The dragon that flew over their masses every day only ever saw a heap of rock rubble blocking the road and the helpless army on the other side of it. He would think they were going nowhere for a very long time.

  Boriahs had wanted to bring the entire army and just storm the city as they had planned, but the Source had convinced him otherwise. At the time, his argument had been valid. If he’d moved his troops forward, Cahrdyarein would have known their plans and would have had time to fortify the wall. Better to sneak in a smaller group and grab the girl out from under the regent’s, and the dragon’s, noses. Still, Boriahs had only agreed to this tactic because, despite his misgivings about trusting someone who had not even given his name, this method would mean less labor and loss of life if it worked. Not that the commander cared overmuch about the rabble he led, but if he could avoid fighting the dragon, he would.

  The high commander made a sour face, still remembering his encounter with the dragon Raejaaxorix those handful of years ago in Oescienne. He knew from experience that the Tanaan beast would be even harder to defeat, now that he was primed for battle.

  The door leading into the spacious second story room creaked open, and another black cloaked figure entered, as silent and insubstantial as a shadow. Boriahs straightened. The Source had finally arrived. He paused and faced his six mercenaries standing at different locations in the room. He spoke a few words in one of the old elvin tongues, his tone harsh and clipped. The men did not answer. Instead, in one fluid motion, they removed their hoods, their white-blond hair like candle wicks against the shadows, their icy blue eyes narrowed with caution. Boriahs was not surprised. The Resai elves of Cahrdyarein all descended from the same tribe of mountain elves who’d inhabited this part of Felldreim a thousand years or more ago. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were full-blooded elf.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Boriahs caught a glimpse of movement from one of his men. It wasn’t significant enough to draw anyone else’s attention, but the commander lifted one finger from the hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. Patience. Let us see what the Source does before we speak. The soldier resumed his position of blending with the shadows in the opposite corner of the room.

  As Boriahs watched, the newcomer strode soundlessly across the floor, raised his arm and struck the tallest elf across the face with the back of his hand. The blow was so fierce, it tore open a recent gash on the other’s jaw. Boriahs wondered, with dry amusement, if the cut had been a gift from the human girl.

  The injured mercenary held his hand up to his face, grimacing at the blood he found there. It would have to be re-stitched, but he said nothing and did nothing in retaliation. So, Boriahs mused to himself, this little upstart whelp holds more power than you previously thought. He narrowed his eyes. Who are you really?

  The Source threw back his hood, revealing the handsome face of a young Resai elf. “Incompetent fool!” he hissed, his own pale blue eyes flashing. “I had her practically eating out of my hand! Led her directly to you, far away from that dragon and that pathetic excuse of an elf, into a clearing blocked on three sides!”

  “Lord Keiron, she wasn’t entirely alone–” one of the other elves began.

  The Source shot him a glance that was sharper than any verbal rebuke could be.

  “A horse,” he gritted out, “are you telling me, Corsen, that ten of my father’s best trained guards were outwitted by a cursed horse?”

  Boriahs’ eyebrows lifted infinitesimally. The regent’s son. His Source, the one who had offered up the human girl on a silver platter, was Morivan Fairlein’s own son? What sort of monster must the regent, or more likely, his son, be in order to orchestrate such treachery? The very thought made Boriahs grin with delicious malice. A young, spoiled boy wanting to overthrow his father? Oh yes, the Tyrant Lord would love to play with this one.

  “No, I mean yes,” Corsen fumbled the words in his mouth like rocks churning in a riverbed, cutting into the commander’s thoughts. “It was a semequin, my lord. Not a mere, dimwitted horse.”

  “And she fought back,” the one with the split cheek added.

  Keiron clenched his fists, fighting hard to control his rage. His arms began to shake, and the elves standing around him shifted and discretely moved farther away. After several moments, the young elf seemed to get the worst of it under control.

  “I’ll fix this,” the soldier with the bleeding wound insisted. “The girl’s been confined to her bed since the attack. It wouldn’t take much to sneak into that cabin and slit her throat.”

  Keiron pinched the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. “Ilian, are
you naturally stupid, or do you have to work at it?”

  Ilian blinked, his face growing red with anger, or embarrassment.

  “That dragon has wrapped himself around her quarters and has tasked the elf to watch her like a hawk when he makes his aerial checks of the city and the road. If he even detects so much as a sneeze in the girl’s direction, the one issuing it will be dead before they can wipe their nose.”

  Boriahs decided it was time for him to join the conversation.

  “The girl was promised to me, if you have not forgotten, young lord.”

  The rasp in his voice caused the delicate Resai elves some discomfort. They grew more alert, their somewhat easy stances turning rigid and primed for a fight. It was as if they had completely forgotten Boriahs and his own warriors were in the room with them. The Crimson King’s commander grinned as he stepped forward, his men closing in as well like dark, formless shadows.

  The regent’s son, however, did not seem to notice the cloud of menace brewing in the room. Instead, he turned and lifted a haughty brow at Boriahs, as if answering to the Crimson King’s commander was beneath him.

  “And I would have delivered her to you if my incompetent subordinates hadn’t fumbled over their own feet trying to grab her.”

  His ‘incompetent subordinates’ stiffened at that remark.

  Boriahs stepped closer to the young Resai elf, the high commander of the Red Flange standing an entire head taller than him. His hand shot out with the quickness of a viper, and his fingers closed tightly around the Source’s throat. Instantly, the other Resai came to life, drawing hidden steel and moving to defend their lord. The commander’s men, however, were faster. With little effort, the five turncoat soldiers of Cahrdyarein were disarmed and driven back.

  “I do not accept excuses,” Boriahs snarled, his voice low and his eyes narrowed.