Dragonhold (Book 2)

by Brian Rathbone

  After a deep breath and a fair amount of cursing, Kenward slipped into the semidarkness. "Wait for me."

  "I thought you might guard the dragon," Sinjin said with a malicious grin.

  "You're just a little bit evil. Do you know that?"

  "I wonder where I get it," Sinjin said, and Kenward couldn't help but laugh. "Looks like this cave goes back for quite a distance and there's plenty of room in here for more than one dragon."

  "You're really thinking about moving in here?"

  "We need a much more defensible position with better protection from weather and other natural threats," Sinjin said.

  "And I thought being landbound was bad enough. Now you have to live in a hole in the ground. What has this world come to?"

  "We'll get you back in the air soon enough, I hope," Sinjin said. "And I'm not saying the place couldn't use a little . . . freshening up."

  The detritus of ages littered the cave floor, but the walls and ceiling were rounded and smooth. As they moved deeper, the entranceway opened into a much larger chamber honeycombed with what could be sleeping nooks for dragons larger than regals.

  "I knew it!" Sinjin said. "I knew this had to be where the ancient dragon riders lived."

  "I see evidence of dragons," Kenward said. "I see nothing to indicate riders . . ."

  The silence was all that told of Sinjin's thoughts. Looking as if he would move deeper into the cave, he held the herald globe high. There were carvings in the stone above, but the lines were wide and deep, as if dragon claws had made them. Kenward had never wondered if animals and other creatures might be artistic, and the thought bothered him more than he would have expected. If dragons created art, then what separated them save their physical forms? The question rang in Kenward's consciousness, and as with all things, the more he tried not to think about it, the more it persisted.

  The cavern's acoustics made even small sounds echo loudly. Kenward tried to imagine what it would be like with dragons and people living in there but failed. A chill ran down his body when a distant roar cascaded through the hall. Neither had to say a word. Both moved back toward the entrance and Valterius.

  Knowing more than a few tales of Valterius's behavior, Kenward prayed the dragon was still there and wouldn't leave them stranded. Sinjin moved with renewed urgency. Kenward did his best to keep up; failure meant being left in the dark, and he wanted nothing to do with that. The place gave him the crawls.

  Smaller rocks tumbled down as Sinjin climbed, and he waited impatiently for the way to be clear. Then, feeling the specter of darkness at his back, he scrambled up with exaggerated urgency.

  "Are you hurt?" Sinjin asked. "Your hand is bleeding."

  "I'll be fine." Kenward sucked his thumb. To his relief, Valterius waited for them, still hovering in an apparent state of bliss.

  "We need to go," Sinjin said. Valterius ignored him. "Didn't you hear that? We need to go!"

  As if to remind Sinjin of his place, the dragon took a few moments more before opening his hooded eyes and winging over to where they stood. Knees trembling, Kenward waited for Sinjin to mount. He dreaded the ride back but certainly didn't want to be left behind. When the dragon turned his level gaze on them, he tried to think of anything else. Never anger the dragon you are about to ride became one of Kenward's life rules.

  The journey out of the valley was shockingly easy. Valterius turned a tight circle over the shattered keystone. The hot air and whatever other forces were in effect pushed them higher and higher until Valterius simply turned on a wingtip and soared back toward Windhold. Shouts and cries cut across the distance, and even Valterius showed some sense of urgency.

  Triple-checking his straps, Kenward quailed, hearing another deep roar. Most times, Valterius and the other dragons approached Windhold at a moderate speed. This was not one of those times. Knuckles and knees clenched, Kenward screamed as Valterius plummeted toward Windhold's main flight deck. "You're going to get us killed!" He could almost see Sinjin's grin. The tables had turned.

  One instant they raced toward the hold; the next, they were screaming through it with Kyrien roaring at them. Speeding past the last of the regent dragons was among the most terrifying things Kenward had ever experienced, with the noted exception of their high-speed landing. It left him with the taste of blood in his mouth, and he teetered in his seat.

  Before Kenward could regain his senses, Sinjin dismounted and ran to Kyrien. Kenward was less enthusiastic. He did smile a moment later when Sinjin returned, Durin on his heels, scolding him about not caring for Valterius before dashing off to visit.

  "It's good to have you back, my friend," Sinjin said. "Strom and Osbourne too!" The older men waved from across the wind channel.

  "I bet," Durin said. His bravado was still there, Kenward noted, but the younger man kept shifting his weight as if in pain. "You probably had no one to unsaddle your ungrateful dragon. In fact, I think you might want to get Valterius out of here before Strom decides to come this way. Leaving us atop the Black Spike was a poor way to foster good relations." He said the words while staring down the dragon, who just gave a great woof and stepped on his toes. "Some things never change."

  When Strom did approach, he did not appear angry. "The dragon tells me you need help building a ship," he said to Kenward. "What happened to the last one?"

  Not many would dare ask the captain such a question, but Kenward just grinned. "Someone parked a ship on top of her, and then someone else used her for kindling. My ships do have a bad habit of coming in handy."

  "It'll be an honor to get you back in the air, or water, or whatever it is you choose."

  "You said the dragon told you?" Kenward said.

  "Kyrien and I had a lot of time to talk. He said you were working on a new airship and you might need help making some pretty strange things. He even sent me pictures in my mind, but I still haven't made sense of them. What exactly are you building?"

  Unsure he should answer, Kenward had to wonder if the dragons weren't manipulating all of them. How had Kyrien known his plans? Were they really his plans? After thinking about it, he realized he couldn't spend the rest of his life wondering if he was being manipulated. In this case, if the dragons wanted him to have the greatest airship ever constructed, he agreed.

  "I'm building the future," Kenward said. "Thanks for being willing to help. Building the future is harder than it sounds."

  * * *

  Days later, Kenward Trell ducked beneath his new ship, narrowly avoiding the massive carved tree that formed both keel and masthead. It dangled beneath Kyrien and was subject to the wind. The larger dragon's aid had been critical in getting the wood they needed and moving the completed pieces from the staging area to the dry dock.

  Fasha watched from nearby and shook her head. "What kind of ship are you building, my brother?"

  Kenward just grinned. "You'll see."

  "I've heard that before."

  "And have I failed to impress?" Kenward asked.

  "No, you have not. But I'd be lying if I told you I'm not a little concerned. I've seen some of the parts people are working on, and I can't make sense of it. What kind of madness is this?"

  "We're at the beginning of a brave new age," Kenward said with a wink. "The ancients possessed knowledge we've long since forgotten, and I've seen some of those things. Now I'm going to build my own version of what the manuscripts describe and see if my ideas truly fly."

  "And if they don't?"

  Kenward shrugged. "There are risks. Look out!"

  A sudden wind gust caused the masthead to swing directly toward where Fasha stood, but she hadn't lived as long as she had without being quick on her feet. Once the keel was set, Fasha inspected the rectangular framing. "It looks like a brick. Except for the carving of Valterius; that's nice."

  "A flying brick," Kenward said. "It doesn't have to be pretty. It just has to fly. But I agree the masthead is a work of art. Your husband just couldn't have me sailing around with a poor imitation."
>
  At that Fasha laughed. "I'd tell you Mother wouldn't approve, but that never stopped you from doing anything."

  "Mother taught me to follow my gut," Kenward said. "Unfortunately, after that, my gut never agreed with anything else she said. A pity, really."

  "Somehow you'll be the death of us all, and somehow you'll make us all laugh with our last breath. I expect nothing less, you know, so don't disappoint me."

  Kenward took a bow and looked back at his ship. He used hardwood sparingly in his design, but having it would provide the stability the Serpent had always lacked. This ship would be heavier and more tightly built. Sinjin probably hadn't realized what he'd agree to until he saw how much canvas needed sewing. Kenward did what he could to reduce the workload, maintain efficiency in their build process, and train the people so they could work as proficiently as possible, but there was only one of him. He was grateful for his friends. If not for everyone around him, none of this would be happening.

  "Now that this is in place, I need to check in with Strom and the hardwood workers."

  "You've got this entire island swarming like a kicked anthill. You know that, don't you?"

  "Yeah, I know," Kenward said with a grin. "But you only live once, Sis; might as well live big!"

  The two climbed and continued to pick on one another, but both knew the way they really felt underneath. The jokes had always helped them cope with difficult situations and were a part of their relationship. It drove their mother to distraction, but that had never stopped either of them.

  "I need more heat," Strom said when they reached the impromptu smithy. The facility was sorely lacking. "And I need ore . . . and bricks . . . and I still need to make an anvil. Have you ever made an anvil? Do you have any idea how much heat and work it takes to make an anvil? Of course not. But I'm just supposed to pull one out of my shirt pocket."

  Kenward had heard the complaints before; at least the list was shorter this time. Progress had been made. "The mud bricks are almost dry," Kenward said.

  Strom scoffed.

  "Have you asked Benjin if there's any more metal on the Dragon's Wing?"

  "Grubb told me anyone who comes near his stove or his last cook pot will be the next meal," Strom said.

  Kenward sighed. "I guess we'll have to make the tank walls a little thinner, then."

  "Easy for you to say," Strom said, his sweaty, soot-covered arms crossed over his chest. "You're not the one who'll have to hammer it all thin."

  "Trust me," Kenward said. "I'd rather have the walls thick. I just don't know where to get any more metal. Do the best you can, my friend. I thank you."

  The smith just grunted and returned to his work. Trying to do things on the Firstland the smith had been perfectly set up for within Dragonhold had to be frustrating. In Windhold, he had few of the tools he needed to do things right. When everything was a workaround, everything took longer and produced a lower-quality product. Kenward was just glad the man was willing to continue.

  Walking toward where sails were being sewn into windsocks, Kenward was about to ask how things were going when a strong wind gust tore through the hold and sent an expansive section of sail into the air. Kenward's breath caught in his throat, but the Dragon Clan and Drakon were crafty. Within moments, they had retrieved the massive canvas and had it laid out, workers sewing once again. Entire sections of canvas had been reduced to threads just to facilitate the stitching of what might be the largest windsocks Godsland had ever known--five of them in all. Kenward couldn't wait to see the vision in his head made a reality, and it kept pushing him forward in spite of so many obstacles.

  When they reached the area where the more experimental and complex parts were being assembled, Fasha raised an eyebrow in unspoken question.

  "You'll see," Kenward said, unable to verbalize his full vision. The best he could do was explain each piece to the person making it. Once it was all put together, he'd let them judge for themselves. When he was honest, he wasn't certain any of it would work. He tried not to think of how all these people and dragons would react if he failed. In the end, he was trying to change the world for the better, and sometimes that meant taking risks.

  His mother definitely would not approve.

  Chapter 13

  If you were insane, would you know?

  --Ain Giest, sleepless one

  * * *

  Walking amid the chaos within Windhold, Brother Vaughn's trepidation grew. His life had forever changed, and he knew not exactly how to tell people what they really faced. Would it make any difference? he asked himself. Would knowing the extent of the danger change their actions? He suspected not. Nonetheless, his conscience would not allow continued silence.

  Part of him wished he'd stayed behind with Catrin and Pelivor. They would understand this situation better and might actually be able to do something about it. Still, he couldn't just leave them all ignorant. Even Kenward might change his ambitions if he knew. They might not even believe him. It was a thought that had troubled him throughout his life. He'd learned important things about the return of Istra, things he now knew to be true. For exploring ideas outside the accepted doctrine, the Cathurans had shunned and ridiculed him. This was different, though. People here had seen Mael for themselves. How could they deny it?

  Walking to where Sinjin, Kenward, and Strom huddled over rough drawings on coarse papyrus, Brother Vaughn sighed. Nothing in this place was quite what it should be, and he acknowledged how much of his lifestyle he'd taken for granted; many of civilization's accomplishments had seemed as if they'd always been there. Now he came to see just how magical those comforts really were. In a place such as this, without the materials or craftsmen to shape them, many things that had been a basic part of life on the Godfist were impossible to produce here.

  Reading Kenward's plans gave a glimpse into the man's twisted genius. His ideas were radical, but when one looked more closely, his designs addressed real problems they all faced. Perhaps discouraging the good captain was not the best thing to do. Brother Vaughn had rarely been so torn. Honor had been the driving force for most of his life, and he wasn't about to change that now. "I need a word with you all."

  His statement and tone brought those gathered to attention. "Just us?" Sinjin asked with concern on his face.

  "I've a tale to tell you that you're not going to like, but it may change all of our lives."

  "Durin," Sinjin said. "Please blow the gathering horn."

  Durin retrieved a polished horn of wood and bone. Those around him pretended not to notice how slowly he stood from bending down. His face spoke of pain and embarrassment, which clearly shamed Sinjin. Brother Vaughn empathized with each of them.

  "Could you blow this for me?" Durin asked Strom, who took it without a word. "I'm having a bit of trouble catching my breath." The words upset the young man, but life had been unkind to him. First he'd taken an assassin's bolt meant for Sinjin, and now his wounds from the breaking of the keystones were only beginning to mend.

  "Healing requires more patience than most possess," Brother Vaughn said, "but your strength will return."

  The younger man made no response, and Strom blew a long note on the gathering horn, sparing him the need. Doing so wasn't actually as easy as it looked, and the early part of the note came out sounding like a wounded duck. After a moment, he found the proper technique.

  Strom's taking the task from Durin didn't save Durin's breath as he'd hoped since he choked from laughter. Strom gave him a disapproving look, but then even he laughed and patted the gasping Durin on the back. When the Drakon and Dragon Clan gathered along the wind channel, he was still red in the face.

  "Brother Vaughn has information that is important to all of us," Sinjin said. "I gathered you all to allow him to tell his tale once. But first I want to thank you for your commitment to everything you do. The work you've all done to help our friend Kenward makes me proud. Thank you."

  Those gathered returned a muted cheer, somehow knowing not all of wha
t they heard would be praise or good news. Brother Vaughn's hands trembled. "What I'm about to tell you is a story I learned during my childhood within Ohmahold. It was not part of my formal studies but a tale told beside the evening fire. If I'm honest, I must admit I never believed . . . until recently."

  His words caused many of those gathered to shift uncomfortably.

  "Had any of you ever heard the name Mael prior to the discovery of his prison?"

  No one answered.

  "I had," Brother Vaughn continued. "The only time I ever heard the name was in an old tale that tells of three sorcerers who achieved the pinnacle of their abilities during the last Istran phase. Their names were Mael, Aggrezjhon, and Murden. Individually these people were dangerous, but when they allied themselves, they threatened the entire world."

  "Why have we never heard of these men?" Kenward asked.

  "I believe it is because their names were intentionally forgotten and left out of the histories as a way to punish them for the evil they conspired to do. And they were not all men. Aggrezjhon made Murden his bride before their imprisonment."

  "How did the ancients imprison the most powerful sorcerers of their day?" Sinjin asked.

  "In a way not so different from what Trinda Hollis did to your mother," Brother Vaughn said. "The less powerful sorcerers were no match for them individually, but they did outnumber the triumvirate, so they built traps. Obviously just any trap would not do. The ancients built the most elaborate and expensive prisons ever conceived. One you all now know well: Dragonhold."

  Those gathered knew the truth of his words, and Brother Vaughn could feel the collective anxiety building.