Skyfire

by Jess E. Owen

  The big gryfon flapped in next to him, his expression hard. “What’s the problem?”

  “They understand,” Shard said, and Asvander eyed the herd as it continued shifting, pressing toward the far line of gryfons to avoid being driven to the king and others.

  “What do we do?”

  Shard curled his talons, gaze searching the herd, the gryfons, and others. Before he could answer, a young male greatbeast stopped, forcing others to flood around him. A gryfon warrior stooped low to goad him on. Shard tried to shout a warning but the greatbeast lunged up, horns thrashing. He caught the gryfon’s wing, knocking him off balance. Before the gryfon could correct flight, another beast ramped up, flailing hooves and horns to knock the gryfon from the air.

  One quick eagle cry cut the air, then all they heard was hooves.

  The line of En broke in surprise and the herd shifted, the lead male bellowing triumph.

  “Shard,” Asvander breathed. “This has never happened…”

  “I’ll fly ahead,” Shard said. “I’m fastest. I’ll tell the king we need all his warriors.”

  “And me?” Asvander asked.

  “Tell Stigr. Tell Brynja.” Shard worked against the air to rise. “Try to turn the leader!”

  “Yes brother!” Asvander laughed. “This will be a day for songs, Shard!”

  Brother, Shard thought, feeling slightly crazy. Here I fly with the Aesir, hunting among them…but he had no time to dwell. He spiraled high, turned and soared with all his speed to find the king.

  33

  The Sons of Lapu

  Kjorn dragged down through cold, black stone. Wolf scent clouded his nose. At first his anger had driven him to pursue Ahanu down. Then the passage narrowed and he slowed to a scraping crawl. His body blocked the scant daylight. He rounded a bend and faced blackness.

  Fool, stupid fool, letting that beast anger you…Kjorn forced a steady breath and tried backing out. His haunches squeezed against the rock walls and no matter how he pushed, he couldn’t force himself backward.

  There would be no turning, and the rock wall scraped and broke feathers when he tried. A lump hardened in his throat. Stupid. Stupid. He lifted his ears, holding his breath to hear. A wolf howled, mocking him. The passage had to widen ahead. Either he’d have his chance to face Ahanu, or be able to turn around and return to his father.

  He berated himself for panicking like a kit off its nest. I am prince of the Silver Isles.

  So he crawled through the dark, crouched, ears pricked forward. As he stalked forward, the tunnel opened a little, stretched by deep tree roots. All around him lay smooth, pocked rock that might have been carved by water or, in the First Age, molten earthfire. Now it was black, silent, cold. Wolf scent ran fresh through the tunnels.

  Kjorn paused when the scent wafted like a wall in front of him. He had room to turn. He should turn, go back to his father, settle with Thyra for the Long Night. Still, he hesitated. No wolf had attacked him yet. Indeed, Ahanu hadn’t even attacked or defended himself in the woods. He’d only run.

  And he’d said he had a message from Shard. He’d said that Shard was alive. The things Shard had tried to tell him descended on him in the damp, cold tunnel. The wolves had been there first. There could be balance, there could be peace.

  And Shard might be alive. There was only one way to know for sure.

  After a moment of indecision and thinking of light, Kjorn realized he could see, however faintly.

  He took a step forward, heart thrusting up in his chest. It wasn’t fire, nor was it an enemy, or chance sunlight peeking through. After another moment of sniffing and staring, Kjorn figured out the source. Lichens grew thick on the tunnel walls, the roof, and the edges of the floor, and cast a soft, muddy glow.

  Even in the darkness of the earth, Tyr brings me light. Kjorn wondered how long Shard had known of this place and kept it from him.

  Any amount of time was too long.

  Kjorn crawled forward, trying to maintain his bearing underground. He could find this Ahanu, or the sister he’d spoken of, and learn the truth about Shard. If they lied, he would kill them and bring a wolf pelt to his father. One wolf pelt, to appease his father, to prove they weren’t ghosts, that there were tunnels that led to the island and that the wolves hadn’t flown to the Sun Isle by dark, secret magic. They were only flesh and blood. One wolf pelt, Kjorn was certain, would restore his father’s sanity and show the pride that Sverin was not leaping at shadows.

  One wolf, a softer thought echoed, could tell me if Shard is really alive.

  And then what, Kjorn couldn’t say. He couldn’t think that far ahead, there in the gloom.

  “Show yourselves!” Kjorn barked into the gloom. His voice bounced lightly a leap or two and fell dead. He ruffed his feathers, shook off dripping water, and crawled forward, hoping the way opened enough for him to walk soon.

  If he met wolves in the cramped space, he would barely have room to fight.

  “I don’t fear you!” Kjorn stalked forward, then stopped. The cave widened enough for him to stand a little taller, but then it branched into different tunnels.

  Appalled, Kjorn loosed a hoarse laugh. He didn’t deserve these tests. He realized now that he had imagined a neat, single tunnel leading from one island to the next in a convenient trail. If it branched much more, he could easily get lost.

  He paused to peer back over his shoulder, then lifted talons to claw hard against the rock, leaving long scratches to mark the way he’d come. He did this every several steps, checking back to make sure that his trail looked clear and obvious for as far as he could see.

  Three tunnels branched in front of him and he almost took the largest out of relief, then paused. He took time to scent the air, to examine the stone for wear, to think. He wasn’t a mindless beast, he was Kjorn son-of-Sverin the king, a prince, a hunter, a warrior.

  As it was, the largest tunnel turned out to have the freshest scents.

  He trotted down into the dark, hesitating only when the glowing lichens dimmed and thinned. Ahead, the way brightened again and so he renewed his pace, still pausing to scratch the walls. Even though it was a single tunnel now, he had a feeling he would want to see the reassuring mark of his own talons on the way back.

  It felt like hours.

  It was hours of nothing but dim, greenish dark, dripping water and the scent of moss and far off, stagnant water. He wasn’t sure he was even going the right direction. Ahanu did not laugh or call again. But there might be others. He followed wolf scent, however stale, though it was weak on the stone.

  “I am Kjorn son-of-Sverin!” he declared into the dark, and his own voice comforted him in the dead, cold silence. “And I fear no creature born on this island.” He paused, tail lashing. “Show yourselves!”

  Surely the caves didn’t really extend under every single island. If so, the wolves could be leagues and leagues away, happily unable to hear or smell him, and have no idea Kjorn was even underground. Or they could be all around him, silently laughing.

  A scuff drew his ear.

  Kjorn stood rigid, ears straining forward. Another soft scuff on the stone, far ahead. He paused to claw the wall, and trotted forward. That time, he didn’t shout. More sounds were definitely paws falling on stone. Kjorn fell into a quick crawl as the cave narrowed again, stifling a snarl that built in his chest.

  Finally.

  Faint movement ahead. Light caught on fur, a wolf tail rounding the bend.

  A mix of excitement and anger tightened Kjorn’s chest. At last. He would have his answers or he would have blood.

  Kjorn paused once or twice to mark his way, but it cost him precious time and the flitting phantom of a wolf ahead of him was too quick. After a time he only glanced back, sure he would remember that twist, the strange curve of rock, and the little trickling stream.

  At last the way opened enough for him to run. The air felt drier, fresher. A whisper of pine floated to him.

  I’m still under the Star Isle
! He paused, then caught movement in the dark and plunged forward, wings folded tight to make it through the narrowing passage. Stone gave way to frozen, pungent earth. Tree roots tangled his passage and Kjorn realized he had lost his quarry as quickly as he had found it. Somehow, whether through sheer speed or some quick turn Kjorn had missed, the wolf was gone, and all was silent. Dim, pale light filtered from somewhere.

  The cave entrance.

  Kjorn wriggled through ancient tree roots, covered in mud and flakes of glowing lichen. He must look like some sad, mudding, rockbound thing of the earth. No matter, he could preen later, for ahead was sunlight and fresh air, and the desire to be free of the caves cast all else from his mind.

  What would it be like to be lost down here? And to think he almost hadn’t marked his trail.

  As he reached the top of the tunnel where it broke into a cave somewhere on the Star Isle, a heavy, sour scent drenched the air. Kjorn lurched to a stop, gagging, every feather on end. He knew that scent. He had smelled it once before.

  Boar.

  The cave led to a tunnel that became a boar’s den.

  Caution froze him. It had taken an entire hunting party and the teamwork of Shard and himself to bring down a single boar last spring. It felt like an endless time ago, and now he was alone.

  The scent nearly blinded him, but he forced himself to remain still, breathe and think. There was no movement. No sound. Just the scent. He crept forward. The den must lie under ancient trees, roots gnarled the way. In one spot, they were bent and broken. A massive boar had slept there.

  If I can get to the entrance, I can fly. Then I will lead a hunting party into the caves. I shouldn’t have come alone.

  Kjorn thrust one foreleg out of the den, clawed at the tree roots, and hauled himself forward.

  The curve of his wing joint caught in a tree root. He flexed, trying to force his wing around the root, but it held and crunched his feathers and muscle.

  “Mudding, windblown…” He wriggled, only able to strain forward enough to thrust his face into the light and fresh air.

  A quick glance around showed him a dense thicket of pine and nettle brush. Beyond the thick trees, sunlight on snow dazzled his eyes. Pine filled the air and he never thought it would smell so sweet.

  If he could untangle and escape from the hole, he would have to crawl through the woods to the field before he could fly.

  Underneath the pine a heavy scent clouded the cold breeze. Kjorn’s heart jolted and he lifted his ears, slowly turning his head. Three leaps away in the shadows of the ancient pines, stood a red-eyed beast. Kjorn knew the bristled back, the stone-hard skin, the tusks, the hooves like jagged ice. He curled his talons against the roots, half pinned in the earth.

  The boar lowered his head and shook its curved tusks. Kjorn could have sworn he heard a squealing voice.

  “Your wingbrother called my father Brother, and knew him as a prince of this isle.”

  Kjorn shook his head, hard, straining one last time against the tree root. When he realized the voice belonged to the boar, he broke into mad laughter. The first time he’d known a hoofed creature to speak, and it insulted and lied.

  “Your father—that boar we killed, a prince?”

  The wet, baleful red eyes fixed on Kjorn’s face, alight with hatred. Alight with intelligence. “You will rue the day your forefather set talon to this isle.”

  He pawed the snow, challenging. Snorted, stamped and bellowed. The raw, split note sound raked Kjorn’s ears and shook his bones.

  The boar stamped again, and lowered his head to charge.

  34

  Shard’s Victory

  Shard found the line of the king’s kin and folded his wings, diving fast. He swept in front of the line, calling the warning as startled gryfons ramped and shuffled back.

  “Orn—your Highness!” He spied the king and landed hard in front of him. Orn sidled back, eyes narrowed, but he listened as Shard explained breathlessly. “The herd rebels, we can’t make them turn. You must come to us or we’ll lose control of them.”

  Orn angled his head, studying Shard. “It is tradition,” he said slowly, “that each clan has its part to play. And my family have the honored task of the slaughter. The others are failing. It isn’t our fault.”

  Shard met his gaze evenly—he’d expected argument. “Then the hunt will fail. Forget bloodline, Sire, you are a pride. If you want to succeed you have to trust me, and fly now. We need reinforcement.”

  Orn glanced down the line of gryfons, all fresh, hungry, read for the fight. One heartbeat, another, another, and Shard thought he might remain stubborn.

  Then, backing away from Shard he called, “Hunters! The forward lines need our help. Fly! Follow Shard!”

  Shard dipped his head and turned to lope away and push back into the sky.

  They soared high. Shard glanced behind him only once to see the giant wedge of nearly a hundred gryfons flying behind him. A rush of confidence and power lifted him more strongly than any wind. He angled up, taking the highest point, ready to lead the Aesir to the final battle with the greatbeasts. A cloud of dust on the horizon showed him their target.

  Shard’s gaze lifted past for a moment and he saw something else.

  Far on the rim of the world he saw it. A low range of mountains on the horizon. One peak thrust above the rest, a black fang against the sky. It was black, there was no snow, but Shard knew it as the mountain from his dream. For a breath he faltered, every instinct urging him to turn, to abandon the Aesir and turn to follow his quest.

  The time isn’t right, he argued himself, catching a slow breath. There is no snow on the mountain peak. Every time he’d seen the vision, the mountain was white with snow. He could not ignore that sign.

  “Shard!”

  Orn’s voice brought him back. He had to finish what he’d set out to do. He had to win his place among the pride of the Dawn Spire, to earn a place and a voice and the right to wander freely in the Winderost. Far below, he caught the unmistakable form of Brynja, darting around the herd and trying to re-form their hunters into an effective, herding wedge. He had to win his place—and possibly one thing more.

  With a sense of purpose, the mass of gryfons at his back and Orn’s trust, a new, strange confidence welled in his breast.

  For the first time, for a moment that burned like starfire, Shard felt like the son of a king.

  “Down!” he called to Orn, pointing his talons at the points with where line of greatbeasts frayed into confusion. “We must turn the leaders!”

  Orn repeated the order for the line and they soared down. Like a rhythm in the wind, Shard felt the panic of the herd, the disorder of the gryfons who tried to run them back into a line. Having seen the disorder from above, he knew where they needed to drive pressure, where they needed to give the herd its head. He glided fast above the hulking greatbeast herd, shouting instructions to the gryfons on either side of the line. Orn’s hunters divided to either side, repeating Shard’s orders, joining those driving the herd.

  Three of Orn’s own kin fell in behind him, repeating, pulling the gryfon hunters back into order. It didn’t matter that the greatbeasts understood Shard’s instructions—those who even listened—if they wanted to avoid talons and beaks, they fell into line. Slowly the herd reformed into an orderly channel of giant, galloping bodies.

  As soon as order restored, Orn’s kin pulled away, flying ahead to try to reform their own line and wait for the honored task of the kill and slaughter.

  Indignant at their sudden departure, Shard wheeled and flew hard back to the front of the line to find Brynja and the others.

  Asvander reached him first, laughing. “Well done, Shard! I never thought anyone would pull old Orn from the final line.”

  “I don’t think we’re done,” Shard said, eyeing the front of the herd. A disruption broke out again. The lead greatbeast fought against gryfons and other members of his own herd to try and break away, to try to turn the herd again.


  “We have to stop him,” Shard said.

  “That’s an honor for the king—”

  “No time!” Shard called, turning to whip ahead of Asvander. If Orn wanted to slay the greatbeast leader, he should have done it sooner. If they couldn’t stop the leader, the herd would break again. Shard saw Orn and tried to summon him to the front, but the king shook his head and flew high, calling his kin back and away.

  Asvander called to Shard. “He still means to have the final kill! It’s an honor for the high families.”

  Now Orn was out of ear shot, letting his own kin rest while the other clans of gryfons tired the herd. Shard stared— “Can’t he see the herd is angry? If they break again, we’ll tire before the herd does!”

  Asvander looked from the king’s kin, flying fast ahead of the herd to ready for the final kill, then back to the tiring lines of gryfons still pushing them on. He saw what Shard did, that the beasts meant to break again.

  He curled his talons and met Shard’s gaze. “Then let’s make sure they don’t.”

  “With me!” Shard shouted. “We have to stop the leader.”

  Asvander whooped and Shard dove in close to him. They curved their wings and raced the herd, straining to outpace the leader again. When Kjorn and Shard had killed the boar it had only taken the two of them to get the beast off its feet. The greatbeast outsized the boar many times.

  Shard winged higher now so they were out of earshot. “I’ll get his attention!”

  Asvander nodded and caught Shard’s gaze. Shard realized, with a jolt, that the young First Sentinel was ready to help however he could. Shard laughed and they split, flying fast.

  Shard sped over the heads of the greatbeast herd, calling warnings and snarls. They galloped hard, ignoring him, bellowing rage and fear. He targeted in on the leading male, angled sharply and swooped in his face with a half-mad shriek.

  The beast’s long, thundering bellow shook the ground and he swung his massive head, threatening with curving black horns. He didn’t slow a step. Shard veered hard before two charging female beasts could rear up and catch him.