by Jess E. Owen
“Where are you going?” Caj growled after him. “Sire, you have my respect, but you must listen to me—”
“You listen to me!” Kjorn whirled, wings flaring, bashing the rock walls of the tunnel. He didn’t bother to wince. The sharp sting only made him angrier, and his pride flared hot at Caj questioning him. “I’ll have nothing to do with him. I cannot forgive him the way you have. The way the Vanir have, I suppose? I can’t, Caj. I won’t. I rule the Aesir now. Thyra and I will return to rule the Dawn Spire without him. I don’t need him. Do you know what Shard learned about Kajar and the dragons?”
“No,” Caj said warily. “I haven’t seen him yet. No one’s told me anything about the dragons.”
Kjorn let his gaze travel along the eerie, glowing wall. “We are not cursed, Caj, but blessed with dragon’s blood. With the blessing, the dragons told Shard that everything we are will be more so. Apparently my father is a coward, a liar, and a killer. And the dragon’s blood made him more so.”
“Kjorn.” The old warrior looked as if Kjorn had physically struck him. “You’re angry now, and hurt, and rightfully so, but you must try—”
Commotion, shouting, and scuffling feathers and talons cut him off, then someone came shouting down the tunnel.
“My lord! Kjorn!”
A young Aesir as orange as dragon fire barreled at them from the nearest tunnel, ears flat to his skull.
Caj blocked him from crashing into Kjorn. “Vald? What—”
He was gasping, panting as if he’d run for leagues. “Oh, Caj. The monsters. They found the tunnel. Found a scent. At least six of them. Digging.”
“Digging?” Kjorn breathed, and thought of Shard’s dark words when Asvander had joked about the wyrms digging.
I believe they do.
“They’ll be on the wider tunnels within a sunmark,” Vald panted. “They’ll find—”
“They won’t,” Kjorn growled. The heady promise of battle spun the whirling anger in his heart to talon-tip focus. He flicked his tail, drawing a long breath. “They fled the Winderost, and chose the battleground here instead.”
All he heard was Shard’s voice, warning him not to do anything foolish. Kjorn forced back a flare of misgiving at taking action without consulting the ruler of the Silver Isles. But Shard was not there in the tunnels, with a mate and unborn kit in danger of dying at the claws of tunneling wyrms. There was no time to find Shard, much less consult him.
He had to act.
“Kjorn,” Caj said, his voice gravelly and low. Every cobalt feather stood high. “We’ll move deeper. We’ll get the pregnant—”
“No, Caj.” He turned to his old mentor and could think only of Kajar and the dragons, then Per and his own cowardly father, who’d fled his homeland and cast Kjorn’s birthright into the winds. “No. Some gryfesses are already beginning their birthing. I cannot ask them to move. We will not run again. This is where we end it, and now.”
Kjorn folded his wings, and strode past Caj, saying, “Vald, find Asvander for me. Find Brynja. Gather all the able-bodied warriors who flew with us from the Winderost, and lead them to largest cavern.”
Vald glanced at Caj, who only ducked his head. The orange gryfon lifted his wings. “Yes, my lord.”
Turning down a separate tunnel that led to the largest, main cavern, Kjorn realized with grim dismay that he would have his battle after all.
Gryfon bodies packed the stone cavern that had once seemed huge. Tunnels branched off into the dark, stuffed with gryfon warriors of all ages—Winderost Aesir, Lakelanders, Vanhar, Vanir of the Silver Isles, and half-bloods born of the Conquering. He thought he smelled wolf as well, but it might have been leftover scent.
Kjorn did not see Sverin. But then, he hadn’t expected to.
Feathers rustled in the strange, dim gloom of the cavern. In some places around the perimeter, the stone wall sloped down so low that gryfons were forced to sit, crouch, or lie on their bellies. Dark murmuring and thick tension gave the air a moist, stinging scent. Kjorn intended to have them out as soon as possible.
Vald squeezed through the mass to Kjorn, who stood at the center in a small open space. “All who can fit and are able are here, my lord.”
“Very good.” Without preamble, Kjorn raised his voice. “Prides of the Silver Isles and the Winderost, our enemy is upon us!”
Those nearest him had to flatten their ears against the volume of his shout, but he wanted to make sure all gryfons crammed in the cavern and in the tunnels could hear.
“Even now, the wyrms have scented us, and discovered the entrance to the caverns. We must drive them out, for they’ll dig and be on these caverns by the evening mark.”
“How?” demanded a Vanir who crouched at the far wall. “We won’t fit enough gryfons in the tunnel where they dig to frighten them! They’ll kill us one by one!”
“What of Rashard?” called another, Istra. Kjorn sought her out and met her gaze between the ears of other warriors. “He should know.” She swiveled to address the other Vanir. “We should not fight unless he wishes it!”
“We have no choice,” Brynja argued, shoulder forward through the mass of feathered bodies.
Grateful, Kjorn watched her step into his small circle. “Vanir of the Silver Isles, exiles returned home, know that I am Brynja, daughter-of-Mar. Shard and I have chosen each other to mate at the next Daynight, and I will serve with all my heart as your queen, for I love your prince. We have no time to reach him now, and we’re under deadly threat. We cannot ask the pregnant gryfesses to move when even now they’ve begun whelping. We must fight. Even Shard would know that we must fight.”
To Kjorn’s surprise, Ketil stepped forward, in silence, and stood beside Brynja. She looked at Ketil gratefully, then turned her gaze in challenge to the rest.
“How?” came the cry again. A half-blood, from within the crowd. “They nearly slaughtered us before.”
Kjorn was secretly pleased to see that though there was surprise and muttering at Brynja’s announcement, there was no hostility. Down the tunnels echoed a sudden, heart-stopping sound of rock and earth crumbling, following by horrid growls and shrieks. The wyrms.
“We have ten times the number of warriors now,” Kjorn declared. “Mighty warriors from my homeland, prepared to stand and fight with you. And we have something else.” He slipped his talons through the leather thong about his neck and brandished the leather pouch over his head. “Dragon fire stones from the distant Sunland. My friends, we will fight the enemy with talons and with fire.”
Amazed faces exchanged glances, and the tension rippled into something more familiar—the surge of energy before a fight.
A muttering rumbled through the throng and gryfons parted to allow someone through. Kjorn looked to see the gold wolf, Tocho.
“Prince Kjorn, what if you also sent warriors outside? You should send a few warriors out and harry the wyrms from the air while others prepare fire and drive them from underground.”
“How?” Kjorn asked.
“There’s no other tunnels out,” Vald said, eyes narrowing. “And it would take us all day to crawl and emerge on another island.”
Tocho opened his muzzle in a mischievous pant. He reminded Kjorn of the painted wolf, Mayka, for a moment. “There is one other opening that we know of on the Sun Isle. But only very lean and small gryfons will fit.”
Silence clotted the cave. All had heard. Only smaller gryfons.
Only Vanir.
Drawing in a breath and hopefully some strength, Kjorn dipped his head to Tocho in thanks, and lifted his gaze the gathered gryfons again. They had so very little time.
“Vanir of the Silver Isles. Even now, Rashard your prince, my wingbrother, is trying to communicate with the she-wyrm who leads the horde. But until he succeeds, we must hold them off. You can help us. You can follow Tocho, and harry them. I cannot command you, but I can ask you, for the sake of your pride, to do this thing. Fight beside us. Fight for your home.”
No one an
swered. He’d failed to stir them at all. They looked untrusting of him, of his warriors, of the whole idea of war. They were unmoved even by the sight of Ketil, one of their own, standing at Brynja’s side.
Then, gryfons shuffled, exclaiming, parting. In the eerie light of the cave came Ragna, pale and quiet.
“My pride.” Her green eyes traveled sadly over the gathering. She didn’t look afraid, Kjorn thought, but resigned to the battle ahead. “I will not command you either, but I for one will stand between these beasts and my home until my last breath.”
With a glance at Kjorn, she raised her voice. “I will stand, as I hope you will, as one pride. We must not live in fear. It is then that we lose ourselves, our very names. Remember that we are not mere creatures of blood and bone, but daughters and sons of bright Tyr and Tor. I will fly with the Aesir who have come to us. I will distract the wyrms, even I have to do it alone. I will fight.”
For a moment, all held perfectly still. Massive Aesir warriors gazed at the middle-aged, wiry, short gryfess with a mix of awe, and fear for her.
“I will go,” Ketil said quietly, but no others stepped forward.
For three heartbeats, Kjorn was terrified that those two would be going by themselves.
“My queen!”
Kjorn’s heart clutched to see the elder Vanir, Frar, shoving forward through the throng. “You two will not fly alone.”
Kjorn could scarcely believe that the old gryfon who’d flown in that very morning, on the last of his strength, on the verge of collapse, would volunteer. It appeared none of the other Vanir could believe it either, and they looked ashamed. His courage broke the dam of fear, and others followed him, thin, short, wiry, strong Vanir clambering to their queen. Big, seasoned Aesir squeezed aside and shifted and pressed to each other to allow the Vanir to flow forward.
“Never alone,” said Istra, followed by a gryfon who looked to be her brother.
“We will stand with you,” said Keta, coming forward.
“My queen,” said Maja. Toskil, Vidar, and the rest of the Vanir pushed through the crowd to the queen.
Ragna’s eyes shone. She dipped her head to them, then looked at Tocho. “Show us the way.”
~45~
The Darkest Dream
SHARD MARVELED AT THE SILENCE of the woods. It was almost spring—the forest should have been overwhelmed with birdsong. It was as if the isles held their breaths in fear of the wyrms, or in anticipation. He hadn’t heard any more roaring, and took that as a good sign.
He walked through dense corridors of pine until the afternoon, breathing in the familiar scents of earth, salt water, and the wispy smell of wolf on the breeze. His heart drew him, almost instinctively, along through the forest toward the great rowan tree at its center. The wolves made their dens in stones beneath the gnarled roots, but if Catori said they wouldn’t mind his coming, then he believed her.
The silence infused him, filled him, relaxed him. It felt good to walk and to rest his flight muscles. When sun touched the tops of the trees, pale light filtering at a sharp angle through naked branches, Shard stopped, and realized he’d reached his destination.
A series of moss-adorned rocks thrust up from the forest floor in a short cliff, and on it perched the rowan tree. Its branches spanned as far as Shard could see, black and spindly against the blue sky, its immense trunk dipping down into gnarled roots that formed entryways into the wolf den. Shard saw no wolves, and wondered if some of them remained underground in the network of caves, out of the weather, away from the wyrms.
Stepping forward, Shard breathed in the ancient scent of the tree, and with it, memories.
Stigr, telling him the history of it. They say its roots touch the heart of the world . . .
Helaku, the wolf king, acknowledging him as Baldr’s heir.
Catori, howling, calling him the Summer King, the Star King.
Tocho, Ahanu, and Catori standing atop the short cliff and saying they would not fight his family, when the rest of the wolf pack attacked the nesting cliffs.
He walked forward, weaving through thrusting roots and mud, until he found a hollow between two vast roots, lined by a cluster of dead leaves that were relatively dry. There he curled up gratefully, feeling the ancient rowan embrace him in its roots and the soil that had borne it through all the Ages, cool under his body.
As the long flight over the sea, the trials, the Winderost, and his own fears sloughed from him, Shard plunged into sleep.
At first, murky, exhausted dream-things swamped him. Fears and worries. He saw distorted gryfons and wolves swirling through tunnels in terror, he saw the wyrms, mining through stone and earth.
A thick sense of terror clasped his throat, and he shoved it away, thinking it was only from his tired mind.
The cold earth beneath him kept him anchored, aware of who and where he was. He beheld a vision of the Silver Isles in an odd, still, half-lit day, as if the sun and moon stood evenly in the sky.
Soon it will be Halflight.
He couldn’t place the voice. It sounded like the memory of his father.
The seasons will turn toward spring, toward summer. Now it reminded him of Catori, or like the albatross he’d once met over the sea, Windwalker.
A year ago, Ragna named you the Summer King.
The memory of Ume drifted to him, the chronicler of the Sunland.
Then, a raven voice, but not Munin.
“He is borne aloft by the Silver Wind
He alone flies the highest peak.
When they hear his song at battle’s end
The Nameless shall know themselves
And the Voiceless will once again speak.”
Hugin, who called himself the keeper of time, winged by through the strange light of the dream. Munin tried to follow his brother, and Shard flung him away like a water droplet, pleased and surprised that it was so easy to do. Groa had taught him dream weaving, he had practiced, and there, snug in the roots of a familiar tree, his talons dug into the earth of his home, Shard felt more grounded and powerful than ever before.
He felt the dream net in the spiral of ferns around him, in the twisting branches that fractured off from the trunk of the rowan. He felt the spiral of Midragur, and all the dreams in the islands.
Rhydda.
Rhydda.
In his dream, he flew to Pebble’s Throw, following the heat of her anger.
He found the wyrm dreams. Blood, gold, and gryfons. She was pleased, pleased with something, and when Shard nudged curiously, she turned her thoughts away, as if hiding something from him.
Blood and gold.
I know your story now. He tried a new tack, not wanting her to shut him out. He wove the wind and rock and lava into the story for her. Afternoon deepened around them, and the sea glowed blue, and the lava glowed bloody red. He layered his words in images so that she would understand.
A dragon has come, Rhydda. A dragon has come to make amends. They will speak to you once more if you relent, they’ll name your brood. I speak for them. Rhydda, I understand now.
Hot, heavy anger swirled around him. Great jaws opened, gnashing, a spade tail lashed.
I understand. Believe me, I do.
For her he spun a dream of his life in the Silver Isles. He showed her that he was forbidden to fly at night, forbidden to swim in the sea, fish, or believe in the goddess, Tor. Sverin appeared in his dream. Her own fantasy flashed back at him with relish—Sverin, dead and bleeding on the ground.
With surprise, Shard realized she was truly communicating with him, showing him what she wanted. Shard swept his talons, showing the red gryfon flying through the sky, alive.
No. No. You cannot kill him. He is the son of the son of the gryfon they wanted you to hunt.
He tried to explain the generations, he showed gryfons growing up, showed Kajar, Per, then Sverin. Maybe his own remnants of anger remained, for she seemed unconvinced. Her dream burned through his mind in molten fire. A red gryfon. A gryfon, dead on the ground
.
I know. I understand what they told you, but it’s wrong.
Her rage slunk into his heart. He did understand. All the fury, the hatred, the anger. She had been a slave. Her children were Nameless and brutish and wild.
Rhydda, I know. You must listen . . .
Blood and stone. She blocked him. As she always did, she turned from him, even in the dream. She was waking. Something stirred and distracted her.
Desperate at the thought of failing again, Shard loosed an eagle cry and dove, dove hard, and fast, toward her horned head. She reared back, enormous wings flaring wide, and opened her jaws. Shard dove, dove, knowing it was a dream, and let his fear fall behind him. He plunged into her gaping maw, past the razor fangs, down to her heart. There, he spread his wings wide, trying to open her heart to him, then spun and roared.
She remembered everything.
Shard crashed through her memories, all as Hikaru had said, the mining, the dragons forcing her to fly only at night.
Her children, Nameless, scrabbling for scraps of food in the Winderost.
The scent of gryfon was on the wind, and always that scent made her remember the great, bright masters who had once given them beautiful jewels, honor, and Names.
Now it was all gone. It was gone, until the red gryfon died.
No, Rhydda. Shard tried to wrap his wings around her heart, to fill her with his own sense of justice and peace. He thought of Sverin, and small bitterness flickered that the king who had wronged his pride was now among those he sought to protect.
Rhydda’s thoughts snared on Shard’s bitterness.
Too late, he felt her seething satisfaction. He saw her fantasy again, of Sverin dead.
NO. Shard scoured for an idea, for anything to impart the idea of wrongness and loss.
Then, he remembered battling wyrms in the Winderost.
Your brood? Are they all your sons and daughters?
Rhydda.
He lashed together a memory as he circled in her waking dream. He rebuilt the memory of a huge, muscled, shrieking wyrm, dull of hide and jaws gaping. The wyrm had chased Shard at the Dawn Spire during the first, awful battle when Rhydda had cut Stigr down.
