Reunion? The Nephil Blade? The last time I saw that one was… almost seven hundred years ago, I think.
Some cadet had learned to summon it whenever he needed a weapon.
“Baleirithys never has to deal with this.” Scowling, Szearbhyn shook swamp water out of his boots. “Lazy bastard, tucked away in his pretty castle.”
With a faint huff of amusement, Luccan dried Warbringer on his cloak. “Surely you don’t object to a free meal, Soul-Stealer?” He slid the sword home into its scabbard.
“Surely you’re joking.” Szearbhyn tied his boots together and threw them over one shoulder. “Would you enjoy free food that tastes like dust?”
“Curiously enough, I’ve recently been in that very situation. I like to think I was gracious about it.”
“You probably weren’t,” said Atchi.
Szearbhyn stomped on ahead of them. The gloom lightened toward dawn, and he could finally see the soggy swamp giving way to patchy fenland. Knolls of thick grasses broke above the standing water, and reed mace and iris shoots clustered across the landscape. His heart lifted to see it. No more wading in thick sludge. No more sinking in the mud. No more wet moss slapping against his face.
“I bet it smells better out there,” said Luccan.
Yes, that too.
“Why do you hate Baleirithys?”
Szearbhyn shot a glare at Atchi for asking yet another prying question. “Because he is vain. Because he demands to be the center of attention at all times. Because he thinks he can just take whatever he wants.”
“That’s royalty.” With a careless shrug, Atchi brushed past him. “Surely you must know that. Why does this one in particular bother you?”
“What do you know of him? Heroic prince rebuilding a fallen kingdom?” Szearbhyn kicked at a clump of grass. “Propaganda. Surely you must know that.”
A tremor ran the length of Atchi’s tail. “I know that he pays me, and pays me well, for work I would do anyway.”
“At least you are aware of your bias,” Szearbhyn grumbled. He had no desire to think back to that day three hundred years ago, the day he met Baleirithys. A dragon scarcely in his first stage of adulthood had no right to sneer and steal from his elders.
“You are the least welcoming Lenyr I have ever met.”
The mention of his human family shot through Szearbhyn, first ice, then white-hot. Teeth bared, he rounded on Luccan. “You will not speak of them,” he snarled. In a miasma of fear and rage, he stomped on ahead into the fenland.
It felt less of a relief now than it had first appeared.
Blood soaked through Ragheiyont’s bandages. Van-Dal checked the tourniquet, checked the wet, sticky gauze, and shook his head. The cursed wound bled more heavily when Ragheiyont slept, and that worried both of his companions. Van-Dal flicked a small blade open and began to cut away the sleeve of Ragheiyont’s blue overcoat.
“What are you doing?” Seikhiel hissed. He might as well have shouted, for all it would have done to stir Ragheiyont.
“We need more bandages.” Van-Dal cut across the shoulder seams, then down the other sleeve. He yanked the coat free and settled himself nearby, cutting it into strips.
Seikhiel decided to concentrate on the task of waking Ragheiyont.
He cut his arm open in the same place as before, but this time he used a small cup to collect his blood. Ragheiyont would need more, but he could worry about that in a minute. He held the cup of blood under Ragheiyont’s nose and willed him to awaken. His eyelids fluttered for only a moment before he settled deeper into sleep.
“Wake up, Ragheiyont.”
Nothing.
Seikhiel called his name again, while giving him a brief shake. Ragheiyont sighed loudly, but otherwise gave no sign of stirring. He held the cup to Ragheiyont’s lips. Again, nothing. Swiftly running out of ideas, Seikhiel dipped his fingers in the blood and touched them to Ragheiyont’s lips.
Van-Dal made a soft noise of amused derision. “That’s not better, you know.”
Seikhiel opened his mouth for a retort, but Ragheiyont nibbling at his fingertips stole the words from his throat. Hastily, he snatched his hand away and pressed the cup to Ragheiyont’s lips. Van-Dal’s laughter rang down the dark passageway.
Ragheiyont gulped the blood from the cup, then groped blindly for the wound on Seikhiel’s arm. “You did this to yourself,” Van-Dal pointed out, and Seikhiel made no effort to argue. By the dim glow of Van-Dal’s illumination spell, he watched color seep back into Ragheiyont’s cheeks. Seyzharel demons became anemic so easily, and this one had starved as a child. Perhaps that made his health more fragile yet.
“Enough.” Gently, Seikhiel pushed Ragheiyont away from the wound on his arm. Ragheiyont made a sullen little noise in the back of his nose, then huddled around the empty cup to lick it clean. Seikhiel passed a brief healing spell over his arm. Van-Dal’s eyes flickered in the dark.
“Why?” he said. “What is the value this one life to you?”
The question surprised Seikhiel. Van-Dal had demonstrated ample interest in Ragheiyont’s wellbeing. What could he mean to learn?
Ragheiyont looked up, blinking the last fog of sleep from his eyes, joining them at last. He set the cup aside with a sheepish little grin, which faded when he saw the fabric in Van-Dal’s hands. “My coat!” he wailed.
“We’ll get you a new one,” Seikhiel rushed to assure him. “A prettier one. But first, we have to get you out of this place alive.”
Ragheiyont nodded, but he watched in sullen silence while Van-Dal changed the bandage on his cursed wound. They ate a sparse meal together, packed their provisions away, and resumed walking down the hewn path. Seikhiel fell into step beside Van-Dal.
“I was complicit in the genocide,” he said, not looking at either of his companions. The truth still cut him to the marrow. “I knew something was amiss in the Fourth Sphere, but I followed orders. I failed to intervene.” Ragheiyont butted up against his other side, touching their shoulders together, offering comfort in the shelter of his wing. Seikhiel did not deserve it. He offered Ragheiyont a weak smile. “I’ll have scrubbed a small portion of the stain from my conscience if I can bring you safely home.”
“Home?” Ragheiyont tilted his head, knocking the curve of his horn against Seikhiel’s temple. “Dunno what that is.” He meant the words lightly, but Seikhiel felt shame twisting knots in the pit of his stomach.
“Well,” he said, “I have to try.”
Baaz drummed her claws on the battered old bartop. Her lips pursed, and her eyes squeezed to slits as she contemplated the young dragon before her, contemplated what he asked of her. To his credit, Chaighan did not squirm as he would have done not so many years ago. He kept his chin lifted and his shoulders squared, and his dashing blue uniform would have completed the effect, if not for his lack of horns. Poor thing. Until they grew in, he would always look young and soft.
“Compensation’s fair,” Baaz conceded, grinding her jaw sideways, hedging for more time to consider the offer. The prince himself requested that she come and attend the upbringing of a youngster—details ominously omitted—and in her experience, royals more commanded than requested. Baaz disliked commands. “Belowstairs accommodation’s more’n good enough for me. But…” Her gaze darted around the gloom of the inn, seeking out the flicker of movement she knew she would find. Faithful Gavi. For all her optimistic faults, she deserved better than this rocky frontier life. “My girl comes with me, or I ain’t interested.”
Chaighan gawked at her. His mouth flapped open in silence as he struggled for words. “I… uh, I…”
“Didn’t realize this was a negotiation?” Baaz slanted a grin at him. “Didn’t I raise ya better’n that?”
“Of course.” Chaighan shot an uneasy glance toward Gavi, obviously calculating the risk of bringing an uninvited person back to the castle. He hesitated.
“Take it or leave it,” Baaz pressed, unkindly leaning on the poor young thing’s distress, needling him for a hasty decision. “I got work that needs doin’.”
“Fine,” Chaighan blurted, caving a bit too easily for Baaz to really enjoy it. “Yes, fine. Get your things and let’s go.”
Baaz reached across the bar and patted his slightly flushed cheek. “That’s my boy.”
She sidled out from behind the bar and signaled to Gavi, who delivered two drinks and then scurried to join her. “What’s that about?” The girl said, her eyes following Chaighan as he feigned disinterest in the afternoon crowd, such as it was.
“We’re movin’ up in the world,” Baaz said. “Hurry along and fetch your things before Boss hears. And bring me that bag I have under the bed. I’ll keep an eye on this lot here.”
Gavi scurried away, ever eager, probably assuming that haste now would bring her explanations sooner. Clever girl. Mostly. As Baaz eyed the sparse patrons, three of them slouched up to Chaighan. Looties, the sort Gavi went soft on. Chaighan stiffened at their approach.
“Last time you was here,” drawled a rangy fellow with piggish eyes, “you came lookin’ for Silvermoon. Whatcha done with him, hey?” He spread his hands to either side of his lean frame. “We ain’t seen him ’round here for near a week.”
Some folks, Gavi included, liked to romanticize this lot, overlooking their assorted crimes because they freed slaves. But two wrongs don’t make a right, as Mama always said, two worlds and a lifetime ago. Without their leader to keep a firm hand on their necks, the Looties swiftly reverted to the sort of petty crime that had earned them their name.
“He’s traveling,” Chaighan said, his expression shuttering in a way Baaz had never seen on him. Cagey. Suspicious. “Gone to see an old friend.”
“We’re his friends.” This one had the proportions of a stoat and the disposition of a badger freshly awakened. “You bring him back.”
Apparently their thieving ways turned less profit in the absence of their clever leader.
“It’s curious,” said Chaighan, in a tone that demonstrated that he found nothing at all curious, “how you think I have any influence whatsoever over what Silvermoon does or where he goes.”
Against her better judgment, Baaz pushed between the Looties and the guard. “Y’gonna fight?” she snapped at them, wielding her broad frame as a shield, as she always did. “You know the rules.” She turned to Chaighan, who knew no such matter. “Outside. No brawlin’ indoors.”
Chaighan grinned the sort of grin that reminded people why they disliked dragons. “Of course,” he said, and inclined his head.
If those fools refused to back down, this business would get very messy indeed.
“I don’t like it.” Akieryon inspected the crumbled archway, frowning at the corridor that stretched away into darkness. “These carvings…”
“They’re an early form of Dragonish,” Tharaiyelagh supplied, leaning closer, fascinated. “One step removed from pictographs.”
Tempest made a noise low in his throat. He watched their scholarly interest with growing unease, for the carvings stank of magic, and not any kind he had ever before encountered. It smelled cold and dusty as the stone walls, yet alive, thriving, vibrant as fertile loam. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. “Don’t touch,” he snapped when Akieryon’s fingertips drifted too near the carvings. Akieryon flinched. So did Tharaiyelagh. Irritated at his own twinge of guilt, Tempest heaved a sigh through his nose. “Look,” he said, “read it, translate it, copy it down for future study. Whatever. Just don’t touch it.” The unfamiliar magic ran through the stone like veins in marble, and Tempest would really rather not see one of his two friends unleash a torrent of acid or a swarm of hornets or some worse arcane horror.
“I can’t read it,” Akieryon admitted. He looked to Tharaiyelagh, who had produced a tiny notebook and a stick of compressed charcoal from somewhere on his person. “Can you?”
“Umm…” Tharaiyelagh scribbled furiously. “Some? This—” He pointed. “—is justice. Or vengeance. Or taxes.” He lifted one slim shoulder in an apologetic shrug that caused him to sway precariously. Tempest stepped nearer to the side of his injured leg, offering an arm to lean upon, should he choose to accept it. Caught up in his scholarly analysis, Tharaiyelagh ignored him. “I have no idea what ‘fire of the earth’ is supposed to mean. And this one here could mean a ritual or the hours of the day or…” His words trailing off, he flapped his book in frustration at the inscription. “I need references!”
Tempest felt a scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Can you at least ascertain whether or not we should expect to encounter fire of the earth?”
Tharaiyelagh gave the carvings an anxious glance. “I need a little more time.”
Time, Tempest reflected, and hopefully profound caution.
Tharaiyelagh worked with the precision of a clockmaker, making notes, rearranging syntax, writing and rewriting and rewriting. After perhaps twenty minutes, Akieryon tired of the inscription and fell to pacing. Neither of them said a word, leaving Tempest with only the scratch of Tharaiyelagh’s charcoal on the page and the shuff of Akieryon’s light footfalls to set a rhythm to his thoughts. He touched his fingertips to the wall, and the strange magic buzzed up his arm. He snatched his hand away, but neither of his companions seemed to notice. Tharaiyelagh had lost himself in his work. Either he would come up with an adequate translation, or it may not matter at all whether Tempest kept the two of them safe. As for Akieryon, well… With a sigh, Tempest tracked his movements by the soft glow of the illumination spell. The underground, the darkness, he had no doubt it was all a bit much for Akieryon, though he gave no sign of distress. Save for the infernal. Endless. Pacing.
“I think,” Tharaiyelagh announced, his voice too shrill, shattering the silence, “I’ve got something.”
Nearly an hour had passed. Tempest caught Akieryon by the arm, and together they crowded close, looking where Tharaiyelagh pointed.
“This here, at the top of the arch, I think that’s the beginning of the inscription. It’s written in vertical, thus.” His fingers, still holding the charcoal stick, traced the path of the inscription. “Those two characters at the top there are ‘truth’ and ‘thought’, which I think means—”
“There’s a spell to measure our intent,” Tempest interrupted. He recoiled at the idea of some foreign magic poking around in his mind, but they had no way to go but forward.
“Yes.” Tharaiyelagh’s voice quieted. “And if we’re found—”
“Unworthy?” Tempest guessed.
“Lacking. Ah, whatever that means.”
“Then the fire of the earth?” Akieryon whispered, and Tharaiyelagh nodded.
Nothing to be done for it, really.
Braced for the worst, Tempest stepped beneath the arch.
Pig-Eyes’ jaw snapped like brittle twigs and he crumpled, one hand clutched to his face. Chaighan dropped back into a defensive stance, his wings upraised, his hands still held in the open-palmed fists he had used on the first of the Looties to lunge at him. No claws, just knuckles. Pig-Eyes rolled into a ball on the ground, and his two friends gave Chaighan a wary eye.
One thing was clear: it didn’t take brains to be a Lootie.
The other two edged farther apart, a pointless attempt to flank Chaighan. Did they not see the second uniformed guard lounging against the side of the inn, watching? An unconcerned little smile hovered at the corners of his lips—bad news for the Looties. One dragon would mean trouble enough for them, but two trained soldiers? They never stood a chance.
The inn’s front door slammed open, and the fools mistook the noise for a distraction. They both sprang forward, and Chaighan put them on the ground as effortlessly as he had their comrade. “Wow,” whispered Gavi, coming to stand beside Baaz. “That took him no time at all.”
“‘Course not, girl.” Baaz took her bag out of Gavi’s arms. It contained everything she owned that was worth having. “That’s why y’don’t pick fights with dragons.” Gavi was half dragon herself, but the poor child had yet to learn to embrace it, what with the hard life she’d endured.
Finally, they had opportunity to change that.
Chaighan turned to them and apologized for the violence, and Gavi stared at him in awed silence. Out here on the fringes of civilization, no one ever apologized for coarse behavior, necessary or not. Baaz grinned at him.
“Come along,” she said to Gavi. “No sense standin’ here all day.” No sense waiting for Boss to try to stop them, though even he would make no fit match for two dragons.
“Where are we going?”
Baaz hefted her bag onto her shoulder. “To a better life, child. Step lively, now. The world’s a’waitin’.”