A Knight's Calling Page 3

  Griggory’s own knees turned to liquid at the roaring of the dragør. It was so awesome and so terrifying that his innate survival instinct to hide, to flee too, was the only thing that kept him on his feet. Still, he froze. Where could one hope to run when an enraged beast large and fierce enough to burn a tree to ashes in a single breath was on the loose?

  Hiding, that was his only chance. Whatever had upset the dragør could be anywhere, and the creature’s sense of scent was refined enough that it would find what it was after no matter how fast its prey ran. Griggory could cover his own scent only by staying in one place and burying himself there in the forest’s natural bouquet, not by running and spreading his odor everywhere. He thought of the rider, fearing it was Gwinifeve. Had she made it clear of the forest? If so, would the dragør track her?

  And…was it she who had angered the firebreather in the first place?

  Quickly collecting thick branches with heavy moss and leaves still clinging to them, Griggory erected a temporary roof of sorts to enclose his hollow and cover his scent more. Taking a short jaunt to a stream flowing nearby, he covered his skin with mud and resolved to wait out the day, if not two, in his hideaway. He lowered himself inside and began what he knew would be a dire test of patience.

  Throughout the day, the forest rang as first the initial dragør, then the others who lived in this part of the Howling Weald thundered their wrath. Dragørs were a united species, collaborative even though they lived alone. By his estimate, only fifty to a hundred lived in the Weald on this side of the Morn Mountains, which split the forest between Yor and Ivoryss Provinces. Besides their cries, which intermittently grew closer and farther from his hideaway, nothing stirred in the forest. Even the leaves seemed unwilling to allow the breeze to move them for fear of drawing the great firebreathers’ attention.

  One one occasion, the canopy above Griggory darkened for a few moments. Though there was no sound, he knew a dragør had flown overhead, close enough that it could have heard him breathing if he’d dared to. Only one other time had he been that close to one. In Lœdyrrak’s endless desert of Anzuru, on his final day of searching for them before he had to turn back or risk dying of thirst.

  He’d reached the base of the great barren mountain range that was home to several dragør nests. Nearly as thin as a reed, his lips and skin parched and cracking from the heat and dryness, he was at the end of his supplies and questioned if he’d even have the strength left to retrace his steps back to the last oasis. But he’d worked so hard to reach the range; he couldn’t turn back without seeing at least a single sign of a dragør for all his trouble.

  He’d rested in the shade beneath an overhanging house-sized boulder throughout the hottest part of the day, concluding that when the sun began to descend on the far side of the mountains he’d have to head back to Elezaran, Lœdyrrak’s capital. When the hour finally came, he crawled out from his shelter, stood up tall and stretched his arms overhead, then turned around to take on last look at the craggy cliffs above him.

  And found himself looking into the wide brilliant green eyes of a red-scaled dragør.

  The beast had landed on the jutting boulder sometime during the day, as soundless as a grave at night. He had no idea if it knew he was there and was simply waiting him out, but he did know he was likely enjoying his last breath of air.

  Like in the Howling Weald, he’d frozen. The creature was the mass and weight of ten horses, towering at least three times his considerable height from haunches to horn tips. It sat directly above him, looking down with an expression of keen, predatory interest. Its hooked jaw and great ivory teeth drew most of Griggory’s attention, and he guessed he’d be no more than a two-bite meal for the animal.

  They stared at each other and for less than a heartbeat. Griggory felt as if time had ceased for that last moment of his life, the sensation so arresting he’d found himself wondering for a moment if the creatures could, indeed, control time. What incredible wysticism that would be! Of course, he berated himself, it would be like him to spend his final moments lost in the same fascination of the magnificent creatures he’d been endowed with for most of his life. Fitting.

  When he wasn’t instantly crunched into pieces, he finally caught enough of a breath to stammer a tentative, “Hel-hello, Great Companion of Vaka Aster. I am Griggory Dondrin from the north, and I’ve come…, well, I’ve come here to find you. Your kind, that is.”

  The eyes of the beast did not blink, did not waver. If it knew what he was saying, speaking as he was in Elder Veros, it showed no sign. Also, however, it did not cook and eat him, so he continued.

  “You see, I’ve always found your species marvelous beyond words and have spent every moment I could learning about you. I am most honored by your presence.”

  He closed his mouth then, realizing he was yammering and had little idea of what he was saying. He’d never been so close to his life’s pursuit. Now that he was, he found he’d reached an end to any plans he might have made if he’d been thinking more clearly.

  The beast suddenly leaned forward, bringing its large head and massive teeth just feet from Griggory’s face. He’d squinted, not quite daring to close his eyes and miss this unexepectedly close view—mostly of teeth. The creature had snorted, drenching Griggory in air so hot it left mild burns on his already desert-scoured face. This forced his eyes closed, lest they pop like overheated grapes, and his eyebrows and lashes had so far only grown partly back. A moment later, a rush of air had knocked him to his bum as the dragør flapped its wings and launched into the sky, leaving him, shockingly, in one more or less uncharred piece.

  When he’d opened his eyes again, he’d been in time to see only its silhouette as it soared toward the mountain peak. Admiration, he’d thought, or perhaps flattery seems to deter them from making you into a meal. I’ll have to remember that.

  He’d been insurmountably grateful not to have been eaten, but also unaccountably…not insulted, exactly, but perhaps slightly hurt to have been rejected by the dragør. He’d have sacrificed a turn of his life if it had spoken just one word to him. But then, he was skin and bones, more than two weeks between baths, and hardly an enticing morsel, he’d had to admit. And the dragørs of the southern province had never had to endure people foolish enough to hunt them or steal from them. The people of Lœdyrrak revered the dragørs as Vaka Aster’s first creations and did not have the same history of antagonism with the grand creatures as the younger, less devout provinces. As for speaking to him, what possible use would a dragør have for engaging in the blatherings of a human?

  Now, as he hid in his hollow on the Howling Weald’s floor, feeling more than seeing the firebreather pass overhead, he very much doubted he’d get that lucky a second time if this particular dragør noticed him. Fortunately, its flight took it past him without incident. Hours passed with no further sign of the creatures, and he guessed their search for what had angered them had taken them distant.

  If he was going to get out of the Weald alive, now was the time. Judging it to be dusk, he cautiously emerged from safety and started his hurried trek back toward Umborough. He had to warn them.

  Chapter Seven

  Fear is an excellent motivator, and he covered nearly the entire distance to the lake he’d originally spotted Knight Gwinifeve at by nightfall. Along the way, he’d expected to catch her or the horse’s scent again, but never had. Squashing his instinct to go to ground for the night, he stopped long enough to wash the mud from his face and hands, then continued past the lake and onward. It was sometime near Hallumbrum, when the moon was at its highest, when he felt the path widening and could make out the distant glow of Umborough’s wall braziers on the horizon.

  He encountered no others during the journey. Anyone who’d been willing to move about in the Weald before the dragørs began their hunt had surely done as he’d done and either vacated the forest or remained hidden. And what of Gwinifeve? Had she made it to safety? If it was she who’d encited the dragørs, what
could she possibly have done and why?

  These thoughts weighed on him. The Knights were powerful warriors, protectors of Vaka Aster’s corporeal vessel in Vinnr, ordained by the Verity and nigh unkillable. One did not become a Knight without showing both great wisdom and great courage. And it took no wisdom at all to know better than to anger a dragør.

  By the time he reached the edge of the clearing around the dragørfly tree he’d sat peacefully beneath two days prior, he was stumbling with exhaustion. Yet, before leaving the darkness of the woods, he hesitated, feeling more than seeing that something was not quite right.

  Stealing through the deeper shadows, he quietly crouched and squinted to better view the moonlit clearing. What he saw there stole the hope of sleeping anytime soon utterly away.

  An iron chain with links as thick as his thumb held a dragør hatchling, thin and ill-looking, to the tree.

  At first, Griggory believed he was seeing things. He was tired, of course, but he hadn’t thought he was that tired. Yet rubbing his eyes did not change his view.

  The large moon and nearby embers from a campfire threw just enough light on the glade for him to take everything in. The gangly creature was the same length from snout to tip of tail as Griggory and nearly double his weight, he guessed. Which still was much, much too thin for the hatchling. It lay listlessly on the ground, curled like a cat with its nose to tail. Its great amber-green eyes, glowing with a dragør’s inner spark, were half-lidded. Its wings were still plastered close to its long body, as if they’d not yet been stretched for the first time. The baby was only four or so days old, after all. It should have still been in its nest deep in the Howling Weald being tended by its parent.

  Any questions of the cause for the dragørs’ uproar were wiped cleanly away. But how could they have missed the hatchling’s scent? More immediately important, though, was the question of why in the five realms of the Cosmos the poor creature was here.

  The corpse of a deer lay within reach of the hatchling, but it had not been consumed. The deer’s flesh was raw, and it looked recently killed. A corrosive liquid had been sprayed on one of its haunches, and the flesh there looked mottled and bubbled. Griggory understood exactly what he was seeing.

  From the moment of hatching, baby dragørs produced a venom that would ignite when emitted with air from their lungs. But the archane internal fires that created this combustion would not develop for at least a full turn around Halla. Dragørs would not eat uncharred food, however. Until the hatchling could cook its own meat, it would ordinarily have its food cooked by its parent.

  This poor hatchling had tried to burn the deer for its dinner but wasn’t yet able. It made sense to Griggory now why it seemed so sick and thin. Whoever had taken it had not known this fact. It seemed inhuman to him as he stared at the captive animal that someone could be so cruel, so thoughtless, and so unprepared to properly care for what was merely an infant.

  He was going to help, there was no question about it, before it was beyond help. Stepping out of the shadows, he began pacing the glade’s edge, seeking dry and fallen wood to build a stronger fire. He placed first one armful near the fire, careful to stay far enough away from the sleeping hatchling that if it woke suddenly, it would not strike him with its venom. The venom might not be made of fire, but it would still be deeply painful.

  Adding a last branch to another armload of wood, he heard stirring behind him and turned—just in time to feel the point of a sword blade in the hollow of his throat.

  “Well if it isn’t my dragør-loving friend, Griggory,” Knight Gwinifeve said.

  He found that having a sword at one’s throat had an effective silencing power. Clutching the branches tightly, he crossed his eyes to try to stare down the blade’s shaft.

  “It’s quite a lucky coincidence, actually,” she went on. “I was just looking for you.” She glanced to the side at the hatchling, then back at him. “Was it also me you sought, or were you after that one?”

  He swallowed a couple of times, feeling the sword tip tickle his Adam’s apple, then managed, “Knight Gwinifeve, what in Vaka Aster’s shining eyes…” The question drifted into the night, unfinished. The inconceivability of someone stealing a dragør hatchling was too great to be summed up in a simple question and response.

  “What am I doing with a dragør?” she finished for him, proving that it was a simple question after all. “I think there’s a more immediate question at hand. And that is, can I trust you if I lower this blade?”

  He began to nod out of reflex, but the cold steel, much colder than he’d have expected, stopped that movement short. “Yes.”

  Her dark eyes, more Ivoryssian than Yorish, appraised him for a few more seconds. Then she lowered her arm, though did not, he noted, loosen her grip on the hilt.

  He found he could breathe easier. “You took a dragør hatchling from its nest. I can’t presume to understand why you’d do something so brash or…well, unwise. But the creature is hungry, maybe ill.”

  “Thus the reason I was seeking you in Umborough. Finding you here shouldn’t surprise me so much, I suppose.” She glanced back at the hatchling. “Can you help it?”

  Feeling quite over his head, he thought a moment, then said, “Of course. But Knight Gwinifeve—”

  “Dye. I think we’re beyond Knight Gwinifeve, don’t you?”

  He cleared his throat, finding it surprisingly difficult to speak to her with such familiarity, despite their quite familiar history. “D-Dye, you must know what you’ve done. The dragørs of the Weald have been hunting the poor thing for two days and nights. If they track it to Umborough, they will not simply take their retribution out on you. They could destroy the whole city.”

  “But they won’t. Trust me. Now, why won’t it eat? You’re the only person I can think of in Yor who might know.”

  “They can’t consume it while it’s still uncooked. We need to stoke the fire and prepare the deer.”

  Her golden-red brows caught the moonlight as they quirked for a moment, then smoothed again. “I should have guessed. Let’s get to it, then. I could use a bite myself.”

  Chapter Eight

  Questions filled Griggory’s mind as the two sat at the edge of the glade and gnawed their venison. He pondered them quietly, hoping the answers he found were not as malign as he feared.

  Before they’d begun eating, the hatchling had perked up as the scent of the cooking meat filled the air. Its irridescent eyes landed on Griggory immediately, and it had leaped to its feet and arched its back, preparing to douse him with venom—not in rage, but in fear. Griggory didn’t have time to hurry out of range before Knight Gwinifeve had risen and faced the dragør, speaking in a low, commanding voice. Unaccountably, the hatchling had stilled, only its eyes moving as it laid them on the Knight.

  Then Griggory had spotted the root of the Knight’s wystic control—the missing Fenestros hung from a collar around the hatchling’s neck. Its yellow-blue depths swirled like smoke as the Knight spoke. Whatever her incantation was, it seemed to be controlling the creature. A moment later, it had lain back down, resting its head between its front claws and staring at them docilely.

  Now, as he chewed, he considered this. The dragør was controlled by the Fenestros. It was the only thing he could imagine that held such power. Likewise, as he considered what he was observing, he realized he’d smelled neither Gwinifeve—he’d stop thinking of her in the familiar Dye, by this point, needing to distance himself from her cruel wrongdoing—distinctive perfume nor her horse, the dragør, or even the scents of the glade’s night blooms since he’d arrived. An enchantment of some sort, likely made possible through the Fenestros, that covered all scent? It seemed so, and must have been how Gwinifeve had not only gotten close enough to the parent dragør’s nest to steal the hatchling but had also remained hidden from the mass of dragørs searching the forest.

  The only question remaining was—why?

  He watched her, considering the possible reason for her
actions and behavior. The fact was, what she’d chosen to do was both brazen and cruel. A dragør hatchling was like any child. It needed its family. And the old texts he’d read said the dragørs themselves were caring and doting parents of their brood. Equally troublesome, as he’d already told her, her actions would bring ruin to the thousands who lived in Umborough. He could imagine no reason for her kidnapping of the dragør that would be worth that cost.

  The Knight looked up and caught his eyes. “You’re wondering what I plan to do with it?”

  Clever as they went, this Knight. He merely nodded.

  She looked off into the forest for a moment, her face betraying nothing. When she spoke, her tone gave away something…perhaps sadness? “You’ve heard of the strife between Yor and Lœdyrrak, I assume.”

  Again, he nodded. He’d barely managed to catch a Yorish merchant ship from Lœdyrrak back to Umborough, the last in the harbor of the Lœdyrrak capital of Elezaran. Some days before he’d returned from his encounter with the dragør in the desert, the Domine Ecclesium, leader of the southern province, had commanded the expulsion of all non-Lœdyrrak folk immediately, claiming some kind of political conspiracy was being hatched inside their borders. Griggory hadn’t paid much attention, mostly because he’d been too busy scrambling to raise funds to book passage in a much shorter time period than he’d expected to have, and his slightly desert-baked, slightly dragør-baked Yorish features had made him less than welcome in Elezaran. In the end, he’d had to hire himself out as a deckhand to the merchants, who’d been a little too happy to have a do-it-all conscript. The two-week-long passage back to Yor had found him constantly working or sleeping, too harried and exhausted to spend much time in conversation with the crew and learn more about the unrest between provinces.