by Anders, Lou
Lost in thought, Karn didn’t notice the shadow falling over him until the beat of wings kicked up dust clouds and people started screaming and pointing and running away.
Sharp-taloned claws caught him under the armpits. Then, the ground falling away fast, Karn was rising into the sky.
The stone was hard and unforgiving. Desstra’s knees ached. Even so, she shouted the school slogan as loud as any of her classmates.
“Swift as the great wolf.” She yelled at the top of her lungs, but kept her eyes lowered. “Silent as the shadow.”
The students’ combined voices echoed off the vaulted walls and ceiling. The natural rock of the cavern had been carved long ago into an ornate auditorium. Huge columns flanked the stage, with sculptures on the walls depicting important moments in the history of Deep Shadow. It was every dark elf’s dream to see their own deeds recorded in the eternal stone.
“Deadly as the serpent,” chanted the class. “Strong as the rock of our home.”
It was all quite thrilling. For the winners, anyway.
Moments earlier the losing team had been stripped of their student uniforms and dismissed in disgrace. Never again would they be allowed into this hall or any of the Underhand’s private caverns. Desstra had stolen a glance at their retreating backs and bowed heads. The former students would have to seek other professions—mushroom farmers, household guards, leather craftsmen, stonemasons. It didn’t matter. They would console themselves that these were all respectable means of employment necessary for the health of Deep Shadow, and they were. She imagined such jobs could even be fulfilling—to someone who hadn’t set hopes on being one of the Underhand. But these professions weren’t glorious. Glory belonged only to Desstra and her fellows.
One by one, her classmates were called by name—Soren, Ulami, Urven, Velsa, Dindrel. One by one, they rose and approached the stone altar, where an elder presented them with their new gear. New armor, and Underhand cloaks and hoods—all crafted from black leather. Now they were full Underhand agents, ready to give their lives for the city. As each student left, Desstra’s anticipation grew. Finally, only she and one other elf remained. Predictably, it was him.
“Tanthal,” called senior instructor Orysa. Tanthal rose and approached the altar. “You have done well. We are exceedingly pleased.” Desstra heard the rustle of something changing hands, heard Tanthal gasp.
She couldn’t help but glance up. Her classmate held a long leather coat. Rather than the plain black given to the other graduates, Tanthal’s coat was black with yellow patterns. Its leather was made from the mottled skin of the giant fire salamander. The leather was strong and supple and, like the creature from which it came, resistant to flame.
Desstra’s breath caught in her throat. Such skin was only used for an officer’s cloak!
And her own name was still to be called. She ducked her head quickly, but her ears were burning with pride. Tanthal had been called first. Was she to be ranked even higher? The instructors had seen her performance. They knew her class’s victory in the Wyrdwood was due to her ability, whatever treachery Tanthal might have committed at the end.
She heard her untrustworthy classmate’s footsteps retreating as he was led from the hall. And then it was Desstra’s turn. She was alone with the senior instructor. She waited, head bowed, for her name to be called.
And waited.
And waited.
Desstra couldn’t help herself. She looked up.
“I suppose you think that you deserve to be congratulated.”
Senior instructor Orysa was as stern as they came. Eyes hard as obsidian. Face like chiseled granite. Her black hair was shorn away, leaving a pale white skull bald and naked except for a web pattern of tattoos.
“I suppose I do,” quipped Desstra, then bit her tongue when she saw that Orysa’s expression hadn’t changed. “Don’t I?”
“Your performance in the Wyrdwood. How do you rate it?”
“Highly. I mean, we did win,” Desstra stammered, confused by the instructor’s tone.
“Tanthal won,” Orysa corrected. “The rest of you were carried by his victory.”
“But,” Desstra protested, “I set the defensive traps. I retrieved the banner. I—”
“Desstra,” said Orysa, cutting her off. “Your tactical, camouflage, and weapon skills are excellent. No one disputes that. Your potions are potent. Your traps, elegant and efficient. You have quick reflexes, and you exhibit a deadly accuracy with your darts.”
“No argument here,” said Desstra. Despite her bravado, she was starting to get concerned. If they agreed on her skills, where was her uniform? Why was she the only one left if not to be ranked the highest? “But?” she asked tentatively.
“But it is felt that you lack a certain, shall we say, ruthlessness. A willingness to do whatever it takes.”
“Wait a minute. I won…for us. I won.”
Orysa shook her bald head.
“You are soft-hearted. Not stone-hearted. You may be silent as the shadow, but you are hardly strong as the rock of our home. Stand up.”
Desstra rose, dizzy with confusion. How could she be the last to graduate in the class if she was being reprimanded? As she stood, her eyes came to rest upon what was laid atop the stone altar—a most unusual outfit.
A sleeveless leather jerkin. It was patterned like Tanthal’s coat, but rather than being black and yellow, the mottling was of a different color.
“Orange?” said Desstra. Orange-patterned salamanders were few and far between. In a society that stressed conformity, they were generally held to be harbingers of bad luck.
“An aberration,” said Orysa. “A rare specimen that doesn’t fit in with the others. Like you.”
“I don’t understand,” Desstra said. Orysa sighed.
“You present us with a problem, little elf,” said the senior instructor. “Like this reptile skin, you, too, are an aberration. Your skills are too valuable to fail you outright. And yet—yet we don’t feel that you are ready to move on. And so you are going to be given another chance. It has been decided that you will be held back. You will remain at the student level.”
“I’m to be put with another class?” Her head swam. She’d expected to graduate with honors, and instead she wasn’t graduating at all. To start over, with fresh recruits, would be humiliating.
“No,” said Orysa. “You don’t need more training. That is clear. What you need is the urgency of real stakes, real work to harden your spirit. You need to face that which is deadly as the serpent, and overcome it. Danger and the threat of death. You are to be assigned to an officer and sent on assignment into the field.”
Into the field, but not as a graduate. Desstra had never heard of such a thing. She looked down at her strange orange-and-black leather armor. How could she face her classmates when her very clothing marked her as different?
“A few months ago,” Orysa continued, “the Keeper of the Wings reported great agitation among his colony. They heard something, disturbing them in their roost. A sound too shrill for even elfin ears. Agents were sent to the surface world, traveling overland to the northeast of Norrøngard to investigate the sound. They have failed to return. However, our spies elsewhere have confirmed that an object of power lost long ago has resurfaced. It is beyond our reach at present. But more such objects are being sought, and a mission in the south has reported an interesting development. You and an officer will join this mission in progress, and your graduation will be conditional on his favorable assessment of your performance. Desstra, you are being given a second chance. Do you understand? Do not squander this opportunity.”
Desstra nodded, shame and regret burning on her pale cheeks. Her weak heart had cost her graduation. How could she face her family—or anyone—ever again? It was better that she was being sent out of Deep Shadow, where she wouldn’t have to confront their disappointment.
“You are to prepare for your mission immediately. We expect you to obey your superior in all things.�
�
“Yes, senior instructor,” said Desstra. She heard someone approach from behind her.
“Don’t look so glum, my sad apprentice,” said a smug voice. “Things could always be worse.”
That was a lie. Desstra knew the minute the officer spoke that things were as bad as they could ever be. She turned slowly, feeling as if the roof of the cavern were collapsing on her in that moment. If only it would!
The officer who stood before her in his newly donned yellow-and-black leather long coat looking so sickeningly pleased with himself—the officer she was assigned to, the one she must obey, who would decide her fate and determine the course of her life—the officer was Tanthal.
—
Karn dangled in the cold, thin air. The ground was unnervingly far below. Mile after mile raced by beneath his feet. It was frightening to look down, but he had to crane his neck painfully to look up. The creature that carried him was a wyvern, like those he and Thianna had faced last winter. The wyverns had come from a faraway country, carrying olive-skinned warrior women with armor of bronze and lances that spouted flame. They had been seeking Thianna, or rather, the magical horn that she carried. But Karn and Thianna had defeated them, and the horn had been destroyed. Swallowed, in fact.
This wyvern was without a rider. Karn was fairly certain it was the same one that had helped Thianna before. When he’d last seen the creature, it had told the giant girl that it was leaving, flying away from the problems of humans and their struggles. Karn wished he could speak to the wyvern mind to mind as Thianna had done, but that was a gift of the horn and a talent of Thianna’s mother’s culture. It wasn’t something he could do. He had no idea why this wyvern had captured him, and no idea where they were heading.
Curiosity mounting, Karn studied the terrain. They seemed to be heading east and north. They flew over water that would eventually flow to the fjord by his home. But they were miles north of Korlundr’s Farm. They were nearer Dragon’s Dance, where he’d first met Thianna, where his adventure had begun. Karn caught a glimpse of the ancient campsite as it passed underneath. He made a mental calculation, sketching a line in his mind from the town of Bense to Dragon’s Dance and continuing on. When he realized where the line pointed, he began to struggle.
The wyvern snarled and gave him a shake. Karn knew his efforts were pointless. After all, he didn’t want the reptile to drop him—though a fall wasn’t much worse than what might be in store for him when they reached their destination. They were headed to Sardeth, to the Blasted City. The home of the great dragon Orm.
Karn and Thianna had faced the dragon before. They had even come to an understanding with him. Orm had let them go, on the promise that they destroy the Horn of Osius. And Thianna had, orchestrating events so that the dragon had actually swallowed both the horn and the mysterious woman who’d sought it. Karn thought the dragon had been satisfied with that outcome. Had Orm experienced a change of heart? Maybe the enormous linnorm regretted letting them go. Worse, maybe Orm had somehow heard of Karn’s bragging in the city of Bense. Was he angry that a mere boy was claiming to have bested him? Karn wished he had kept his big mouth shut. The admiration of a few Norrønir fishmongers and fur traders was hardly worth becoming a dragon’s dinner.
The ruins of Sardeth appeared directly below them. Karn looked glumly at the scorched trees, the crumbled buildings that had once been a proud outpost of the Gordion Empire. The dilapidated coliseum that was Orm’s den was dead ahead. The wyvern dipped, bringing Karn down to deposit the boy around the midsection of the tiered seating. The coliseum floor had collapsed, exposing the warren of tunnels and rooms that was the underground hypogeum where animals and gladiators had once awaited their turn in the arena. As Karn watched, something moved in the shadows. Then Orm Hinn Langi, the Doom of Sardeth, rose up into the air.
“Greetings, Mouse,” said the dragon with a smile.
Karn’s hand instinctively dropped to the pommel of his sword. Orm’s large eyes followed the motion. The dragon’s pupils narrowed. Karn realized how useless Whitestorm would be against the enormous creature. Orm could roast him alive or swallow him whole before his blade even cleared its sheath. He forced his fingers to relax, staring back at the dragon and waiting to see what would happen next. The dragon’s response was the last thing he’d expected.
Orm laughed.
“Your pardon, Karn Korlundsson,” the great linnorm said, the rumble of his humor echoing off the coliseum walls and setting all the stonework vibrating, “but you should see your face.”
“My face? What?” stammered Karn. His cheeks burned as he realized the dragon was having him on. He felt both relieved and embarrassed. “You mean you’re not—?”
“Hungry?” said Orm with a wicked smile. He laughed again. “No, why would I go through the bother of fetching you all the way from Bense just to eat you? Don’t flatter yourself you’re that appetizing a meal, young Norrønur.”
“I guess I can live with not being tasty,” Karn said. “But why bring me here? What do you want?”
“Why, to talk,” said Orm.
This was another surprise in a day full of surprises. And while Karn was glad not to be on the dinner menu, conversations with dragons weren’t exactly known for being risk free. Still, he was curious. One question presented itself immediately. He gestured to the wyvern where it perched in the coliseum stands, watching them both.
“How did you get that one to catch me? How did you even know where it was?”
“Good, good,” said the dragon, clapping his foreclaws. “Intelligent questions. I expected no less, and I do hate being disappointed. I used the Horn of Osius, of course.”
“You know its name now?” said Karn, who didn’t recall that Orm had ever been told the name of Thianna’s horn. Also, the horn had been destroyed. Thianna said that Orm had taken care of it quite permanently. “But didn’t you—?”
“Swallow it? Yes.” Orm shifted, showing off more of his long, snakelike body. “And I have learned a good deal about the hateful thing since I devoured it. I discovered its name, a bit of its purpose….I have even absorbed a little of its power. What is it that they say? You are what you eat, after all.”
“You can do that?”
Orm just flicked a tongue in response.
“Okay, you can. So you used the horn’s power to call this wyvern. Then you compelled it to go after me.”
Orm smiled.
“Bravo. I knew not roasting you in flame was a good idea.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Karn. “But why? I don’t mean about the roasting. I mean the fetching and talking bit.”
For answer, the dragon ran his great tongue around inside his lips, worrying at something lodged in his enormous teeth.
Orm leaned forward—Karn jumped a little at this; he couldn’t help himself—and thrust his snout close to Karn’s own face. Karn felt the heat and rotten-meat smell of the dragon’s breath. Then Orm curled an upper lip aside and spat something out sideways at the boy’s feet.
Karn looked down at the saliva-drenched mess before him. It looked like clothing, no, armor—black leather armor with yellow patterns. He recognized it.
“That’s Svartálfar armor,” exclaimed Karn. “Dark elves.”
The dark elves—actually they had pale white skin but dark eyes and dark hair—were a subterranean species who dwelled deep under the mountains in southwestern Norrøngard. They were rarely seen on the surface. In the past, open wars had been fought between the humans of Norrøngard and the elves of the Svartálfaheim Mountains. These days there was an uneasy truce, and encounters with the elves were rare.
“The Svartálfar came poking around my coliseum,” explained Orm. “Something they haven’t dared do in centuries.”
“So you ate them?” said Karn, his stomach churning at the thought.
“Naturally,” said the dragon. “Though not before I learned what they were after.”
“The horn?” guessed Karn. “You’re sure? The
y told you?”
The dragon smiled. “Well, as you yourself know from experience, I do so like to play with my food.”
Karn gulped. He did know this was true.
“They must have been disappointed to learn you’d swallowed the only horn.”
“I’m sure they were,” said the dragon. “Though I supposed that in a way they found what they were looking for.” Orm chuckled at his own joke. “But that’s not the important bit,” he continued. “What you should be paying attention to is this: they didn’t believe it was the only one.”
Karn stood straighter at this revelation.
“Not the only one? You mean there’s another Horn of Osius? Oh no!”
“Oh no, indeed.” Orm’s eyes narrowed. The previous horn had allowed Thianna to get inside Orm’s mind. This had made the dragon uncomfortable. But if someone were to really master the horn, they might be able to control Orm the way he compelled the wyvern. The great linnorm had destroyed a city and devoured legions of soldiers in his youth. If the dark elves—or anyone else—got their hands on another horn, they could turn Orm into a weapon of devastating, unstoppable power.
“Before it went down, my food told me that a second group of dark elves have been sent south to search for another horn.”
“Where?”
Orm nosed at the gnawed armor at Karn’s feet. Karn looked again and saw a metal scroll case amid the debris.
“Open it,” said the dragon.
Frowning at the wet, warm spit on its surface, Karn took the scroll case and popped the lid. Reaching in, he withdrew a yellowed parchment.
“Can you read?” Orm asked.
“Yes,” said Karn, irked by the question, even though literacy wasn’t common among the Norrønir.
“Then do so now.”
Karn squinted his eyes at the rune markings. The daylight was fast ending, and the setting sun had dipped past the edge of the high coliseum walls.
