The Dragonslayer Series: Books 1-4: The Dragonslayer Series Box Set
Page 61
None of this mattered to Drageen, Astrid's brother. Darkness surrounded him, the result of having been consumed into the rock where the dragon Wendill had been trapped for decades.
There is no justice! Drageen thought for the thousandth time.
Had it been possible, he would have ground his teeth or pounded a fist into an open hand or stamped his foot hard on the ground to express his frustration. But he felt no ground beneath his feet. In fact, he couldn't feel his feet or his hands or his teeth.
He wasn't entirely convinced his body still existed. He couldn't see or hear or speak or feel.
Oddly enough, his sense of smell and taste seemed to be intact. Although sometimes he wondered if it might be nothing more than his memory of smells.
At the moment, he smelled mostly the rich, dank scent of earth and stone, with a slightly chalky aftertaste. Sometimes he thought he tasted sunlight, which had a gentle and pleasant tang. Sometimes he felt convinced he tasted the salt of seawater crashing in waves on Dragon’s Head or the fresh taste of rain from the heavens above.
He wished he could experience it all himself instead of trying to remember what the world was like.
Mostly, he hated the absence of time. He had no inkling how long he'd been trapped inside Dragon’s Head. Had it been days or weeks or months? Resigned, he suspected the most accurate answer must be years.
I should have known better. But who would have thought she'd align herself with dragons? How could I have guessed they'd come to her aid? What were they thinking?
Drageen relived the events in his thoughts once more, looking for a way he could have prevented such a horrific outcome. He had instructed his alchemist to poison the girl Mauri, capture her spirit, and use it to track down Astrid, because he needed her bloodstones to protect himself and the Scalding territories.
But the dragons had interfered, bringing them to Dragon’s Head. He’d fought Astrid, who could never have defeated him without the help she received from the dragons and spirit girl.
And if that hadn't been bad enough, he’d forgotten the ancient curse placed upon Dragon’s Head by dragons and his family. Even with that knowledge, how could he have anticipated that he'd be the one to be absorbed into Dragon’s Head?
If he could have felt his head (which he suspected no longer existed), he would have shook it in woe. No matter how many times he examined the details, he couldn't find a way in which he could have captured Astrid and the bloodstones ready to emerge from her body. All his well-designed plans had fallen apart, and the worst possible outcome had come to pass. His responsibility had been to lead the Scalding family and protect their land and people. He had failed in the worst possible way, and he blamed Astrid.
He hated her with the core of his being.
Normally, at this point, Drageen imagined fire coursing through his veins and the iron-like smell of blood.
For the first time since he'd become trapped inside Dragon’s Head, Drageen lost heart. He didn't have the will or the drive to put so much energy into hating his sister. He felt too tired.
Had it been possible, Drageen would have heaved a long and heavy sigh.
A flash of memory came back to him, something he hadn't thought about in a very long time. He remembered telling Astrid about her responsibility to the family and her duty.
She had said something about not being asked. Of course, it was true but also necessary. If he'd asked Astrid for help, it would have been impossible to put her into the state of chaos needed to purge the bloodstones from her body.
Drageen realized no one had ever asked him if he'd be willing to sink into the depths of Dragon’s Head and live a life of nothingness. The curse demanded a Scalding to replace the dragon should it be set free, and Drageen had not volunteered. He'd had no desire to set the dragon loose, anyway. He resented having had no choice in the matter, especially when he was the one to pay the price.
Astrid paid a price, too. A very high price.
That thought shook Drageen free of the doldrums. If he could have sensed blood running through his veins, he felt certain it would be boiling.
Why does Astrid matter?
What about the impending invasion?
If I am not there, who will protect the Northlands?
CHAPTER 34
After departing the abandoned village, Astrid and the Iron Maidens rode through the gently sloping hills of the central Midlands. The day remained bright and warm. The evergreen scent of the forest drifted through the air, intermingling with the heaviness of freshly turned earth in the fields. A few times they passed fields dotted with seed sowers, throwing in wide arcs as they walked slowly and methodically among the freshly turned rows.
Late that afternoon, the women rode into a small village, where they made arrangements to sleep in a farmer's barn that night.
While the maidens took charge of the horses and bargained for food, Astrid followed the comforting metallic ring to the local smithery. She found a solidly-built man drenched in sweat. She watched him pull the iron head of a hoe from his smithing fire, put its glowing orange edge on his anvil, and hammer several well-placed blows until the color began to fade. He reminded her of Temple, the man who bought her when she was a child and trained her as his apprentice.
Astrid smiled with a sudden wistfulness. She missed the constant heat and smoke of a smithery, as well as the feel of a perfectly balanced hammer in her hand. She missed reading the malleability of the iron by its color and how quickly she could shape it into something useful. For a moment, envy washed through her.
Without looking up, the blacksmith picked the hoe head up with a pair of tongs and plunged it into a nearby bucket of water to quench it. “What do you need?”
Astrid hesitated to ask a question that could stir trouble. “I'm wondering if there's an alchemist nearby.”
Now the blacksmith looked up, and his eyebrows scrunched when he took in her appearance.
Astrid braced herself, so accustomed to her way of life as a dragonslayer that she had to remind herself that a woman wearing men's clothes and a sheathed sword startled most people.
Not wanting to interrupt the rhythm of his work, Astrid pointed at the quenching bucket.
Shaking himself back to the task at hand, the blacksmith swirled the hoe head in the water for a moment and then withdrew it, taking several moments to study the results.
Astrid couldn't help but peer at it, too. “That's good work,” she said. “Nice and solid and sharp.”
He placed the finished hoe head on a bench and crossed his arms when he faced Astrid. “I've heard stories of a blacksmith who became a dragonslayer. A girl, they say.”
Astrid nodded. “That would be me.” She showed him her hands, which were relatively clean in comparison to his sooty and grimy skin. “But it's been much too long since I've smited metal.”
“And why would a dragonslayer who was once a blacksmith be looking for an alchemist?”
Astrid wondered if she'd made a mistake. If this man decided she meant trouble or could bring it to this village, she could be driven out before nightfall along with the Iron Maidens.
But the stone of darkness hidden in her pouch haunted her day and night. What if it held the kind of power that could help them keep the Krystr soldiers out of the Northlands? After seeing Mandulane's camp and encountering the men he commanded, Astrid worried about protecting her home of Guell, her friends, and all of the Northlands. She needed all the help she could find, even if it meant taking risks like this.
“I oppose the Krystr invasion,” she said. “And I seek like-minded people who can help me.”
The blacksmith considered her for a long moment. “Take my advice. Never say those words again. Especially not in Krystr territory.”
Astrid became aware of the tools he had at hand that he could use as weapons. She didn't want to draw her sword and hoped he wouldn't make it necessary.
Casting a quick glance beyond Astrid, the blacksmith said, “Follow me.”
Walking past the anvil and through the small smithery yard, Astrid followed the blacksmith into a cottage. At first, it reminded her of her own cottage back in Guell, simple and sparse. But then she noticed a faint odor of unusual herbs and spices. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the cottage, she noticed several boxes tucked underneath the benches lining the walls around the central hearth.
The blacksmith faced her with crossed arms, keeping an eye on the open doorway behind her. “I learned smithing from my father and alchemy from my mother. What do you need?”
Recognizing his risk in confiding in her, Astrid reached into the pouch hanging from her belt, found the stone, and pulled it out for him to see. “What can you tell me about this?”
For a moment, the blacksmith seemed to be made of rock, staring at Astrid and the stone without moving a muscle. Finally, he took the stone from her as gently as if it were made of eggshell and held it up to the light. “What happened to you?”
Startled, Astrid said, “What?”
The blacksmith turned the stone in his hand, examining every angle of its rough shape. “What sorrow have you suffered? Who has died before your eyes?”
Astrid's heart sank. Temple died many years ago, leaving her as the only blacksmith in Guell. DiStephan died two years ago, but she hadn't seen it happen. She'd witnessed far too many other deaths, from those in Guell to Mauri.
But the worst of all had been Margreet, because Margreet had come so close to defending herself and creating a new life. More than anything else, Astrid blamed the Krystr followers for Margreet's death, and a growing rage made her hate them for it. Barely able to speak around the lump in her throat, Astrid said, “I've seen far too many deaths.”
“Important ones? Important to you?”
Astrid nodded. “Yes.”
The blacksmith looked away from the stone of darkness as if breaking free from a trance. He shoved it back at Astrid, gesturing for her to put it away. “Heed my advice. Destroy this thing and forget it ever existed.”
CHAPTER 35
Dunlop leaned against the covered well, lost in thought while he watched his men scour the abandoned village. One moment he found himself standing in sunlight, the next in shade. Looking up, he saw a dark cloud had passed in front of the sun, casting a shadow on them all. Feeling an unexpected chill, Dunlop shivered.
It's a sign. Something bad is going to happen.
Then he nearly bit his tongue, relieved he hadn't been foolish enough to speak those words out loud. Portents were the beliefs of the old ways and the old gods. Krystr had no use for signs or omens of any kind.
But old habits were hard to break.
Dunlop felt as if he noticed his surroundings for the first time, even though he'd been looking at all of it since they'd arrived.
He became aware of the disrepair of the thatched rooftops of the wattle-and-daub cottages. He gazed upon the overgrown and weedy gardens that now grew wild. But the sight of the bloodied clothes on the laundry line strung between two cottages disturbed him the most.
Simple dresses hung on the line, as well as tunics and pants attached together at the waist. The colors had faded, and the line sagged so that dirt soiled the hems of the dresses and pants. Every time a breeze kicked up, the clothes billowed as if ghosts wore them.
“They slept here,” one of the men called out from the open doorway to a cottage.
Dunlop hurried over to enter the cottage, anxious to get out of the sight of the billowing clothes.
His man pointed at the hearth in the center of the cottage. “That's from a recent fire.”
Dunlop walked briskly to the hearth and knelt in front of it. The ashes looked fresh enough. “Did you find anything here?”
The man shook his head. “Nothing.”
Dunlop frowned. The simple map the woman had stuffed into his mouth had led him here. The landmarks on the map were clear and accurate. This had to be the right place, and the ashes confirmed someone had been here as recently as last night. But now what?
“Sir?” The man hesitated in the doorway, waiting for instruction.
“Look everywhere,” Dunlop said, striving to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Search every home and the grounds around it. Check the well. Look at the clothes on the line. She must have left some clue behind.”
Nodding his understanding, the man darted away, calling out directions to the others.
Dunlop sighed. They'd ridden through most of the night, pausing only long enough to catch a few hours of sleep. He felt certain they'd gained ground and could catch up with the barbarian women soon, if only he could discover the direction they'd taken.
He sat on the ground, staring at the ashes in the hearth. Maybe there had been no discussion. Maybe they had left with the intention of making their decision as they traveled.
Dunlop gazed at the walls and the benches lining them. The cottage stood empty, except for a few cooking utensils and vessels and straw mats for sleeping. Inspired, he jumped to his feet and raised each mat, looking beneath it. Nothing.
Taking a slow walk around the room, he examined each bench, looking to see if she had scratched a message into a wooden plank.
Again, nothing.
When he reached the wall on the opposite side of the hearth, a loud noise outside made him look up sharply. Through the doorway, he saw one man drop to one knee and rub his foot as if he’d stubbed his toe.
When his vision shifted from the doorway back to the interior of the cottage, Dunlop froze. Here, on the opposite side of the hearth, flat stones had been wedged into the ground vertically to contain the hearth fire. Images drawn with fresh ash covered the largest stone, and now he could see it because he'd walked behind the hearth and now looked at it from the back. He crept forward slowly, as if any sudden movement might destroy the delicate-looking map. Studying it, he felt the relief of instant recognition. He needed no more than a few minutes to decipher and memorize what he saw.
Dunlop smiled. If his estimation was correct, he and his men could catch up with the barbarian women tomorrow.
CHAPTER 36
The next morning, Thorda drew Astrid aside while the Iron Maidens arose and prepared themselves and the horses for another day's journey. Although they were now on the verge of summer, the air had chilled sharply overnight, and their breath hung visibly in the air. New clumps of yellow-green grass, now covered in frost, crunched beneath their feet when they walked away from the simple barn where they'd slept in piles of scratchy hay the night before. Its earthy scent still clung to their skin and clothes.
“We come to the Upper Midlands tomorrow,” Thorda said. “Maybe a day after.”
“Do you know men who will fight against the Krystr soldiers?” Astrid said, rubbing her hands together before they grew numb from the unexpected cold. Glancing up, she saw no clouds in the sky as dawn spread pale light across the horizon. With any luck, the sun would bake into their skin soon. “Or do many of them side with Mandulane?”
Thorda grimaced. “No one likes Mandulane in Upper Midlands. Men join and fight with us.”
“Good. As soon as we've recruited enough, I'll cross the sea to the Northlands and—”
“No!” Thorda's forehead creased in distress. “We need you. You fight with us.”
“But the Northlanders know little about Mandulane. They don't know he plans to invade and take over the Northlands. Someone has to warn them. Once they know, I'm sure they'll unite to defeat Mandulane.”
Thorda looked more worried by the moment, now wringing her hands like a fishwife. “We need all people with weapons to fight. Mandulane has many men.”
“And Vinchi trained you well. I've traveled through parts of the Upper Midlands. It seems to me there are ma
ny men who look like they can fight well.”
Thorda shrugged.
Astrid wondered for a moment if she was simply scared of Mandulane and his men. She'd never been able to shake the memory of the blue-tattooed women in Mandulane's tent and the emptiness in their eyes. Astrid had been on the verge of becoming one of those women had the Iron Maidens not created a diversion allowing her to escape. Didn't she owe them more than running off to the Northlands and leaving them to fend for themselves against the Krystr soldiers?
But then Astrid thought of Guell and everyone who waited for her to return. She longed to see her friends again. And the thought of Mandulane setting a single foot on Northland soil made her ill.
“I'll stay with you until we're sure you have numbers large enough to stand up against Mandulane,” Astrid said. “I won't leave for the Northlands until that happens.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, Thorda nodded her appreciation.
* * *
Hours later, the small road they traveled wound into a forested area. With open fields behind them and a canopy woven by towering trees in front of them, Astrid signaled the other women to halt their horses.
Astrid inhaled deeply but detected nothing more than the heavy scent of pine and earth after a fresh rainstorm. Still, something gave her pause, and she wished she knew why.
Dismounting, she held onto her horse's reins while she examined the landscape surrounding them. Fields and meadows stretched toward mountains in every direction behind and beside them. They hadn't encountered another road for hours, and retracing their steps could lead them directly into the arms of the Krystr soldiers.
If we travel through fields or meadows, the footing is likely to be unsure, and one or more of the horses could pull up lame. Even if we navigate the terrain successfully, we'd end up facing a hike through the mountains and would have to abandon the horses. How far could we travel safely without them on the other side?