Sy-wen watched the healer cautiously approach the thick neck of the beast. He mumbled something under his breath about drawings in old texts. He slipped a long, slender glass tube wrapped in cotton from a pouch at his waist. One of its tapered ends came to a sharp point.
He raised an eye questioningly toward Sy-wen. “Tell him this will hurt a bit.”
Pain?
“He can hear you.”
Ewan laid a hand on the great beast’s neck. The dragon flinched under the girl. She soothed him, both with her hands and with messages of calm.
Searching landmarks on Ragnar’k’s neck, the healer finally positioned his glass lance. “Are you ready?”
Sy-wen probed the dragon and nodded.
He struck fast and sure, deep under a thumb-size scale.
Sy-wen gasped and swatted at her own neck. It felt like the sting of a sea nettle. The dragon did not flinch, though his eyes closed a bit, indicating he felt the prick. Sy-wen rubbed at her neck. So she shared more than just his thoughts.
She watched the bright red blood flow down the glass funnel into the awaiting bowl that Flint held. In a short span, both bowls were brimming full. “That’s enough,” Ewan finally said, withdrawing the glass lance. He pressed his fist against the wound.
Moris and Flint each held a pot of dragon’s blood. “What do we do with this? Smear it on Conch’s wounds?”
“No,” the healer said. He removed his fist from the dragon’s neck, then leaned closer to inspect his handiwork. He nodded in satisfaction and with a final pat on the dragon’s neck turned to face the others. He sighed loudly. “According to old texts on the mer’ai, the other seadragon must drink the blood.”
“Great,” Flint said with a frown.
With a shrug, Moris led the way into the shallows. The boy went with them.
It all went smoothly. Just the scent of blood revived the dying dragon. Conch raised his head as the men approached with the two pots. He slurped hungrily at the thickening blood as the pots were dumped between his sharp fangs. Flint and the boy helped hold Conch’s head up as he drank. Soon both bowls were empty.
“Is that enough?” Sy-wen asked as Conch searched the dregs left in each pot with a long tongue.
My blood is strong, Ragnar’k answered her.
His words proved true. In only a scatter of heartbeats, Conch was able to raise his neck fully from the beach. He even struggled to get his forelegs under him. His injured wings shook and spread, knocking the boy into the water.
“Look at its chest wound,” Ewan exclaimed. “The edges pull together like a summer flower’s petals at night.”
“Is he going to live?” Sy-wen asked with her breath held.
My blood is strong, Ragnar’k repeated, an edge of scorn at her doubts.
Conch piped loudly, trumpeting his returning strength. His nostril flaps opened wide as he drew air deep into his chest. He slid back into the lake until he floated its surface like a dragon-prowed ship.
Flint stared out at him. “He’ll live. He should be able to dive safely now and return to your people’s leviathan.”
“Then we can go?” Sy-wen asked, beginning to slide from her perch.
Flint held up a hand. “Conch can go.” He turned his intense eyes upon her. “But, Sy-wen, you are bonded now, to Ragnar’k. It is time to let Conch return to his own bonded.”
“My mother . . .”
“Yes, Ragnar’k has another path to take. You sense this, don’t you?”
She lowered her head. How she wanted to deny the old man. But Kast’s words echoed in her head: My blood is yours to cast upon the seas. She somehow knew they were not to be parted. She, Kast, and Ragnar’k were bound tighter than the strongest iron chain.
“Where do we go then?” she asked timidly.
Flint scratched the thin gray hair atop his head. “We need a place to rest and collect ourselves. I have a home on the Blisterberry Cliffs south of Port Rawl on the coast. It’s not far from the Blasted Shoals. I chose it for its isolation. It should prove a good place to plan.”
“Plan for what?”
Moris answered her. “For the Battle of A’loa Glen, the opening rally against the darkness that has overtaken Alasea. Prophecy said Ragnar’k would unite your two people—Dre’rendi and mer’ai—and forge a mighty army. It is this legion upon which the fate of both A’loa Glen and all of Alasea will rest.”
Hungry, the dragon sent, interrupting them. Sy-wen felt an echoing gnaw in her own belly.
“We should be going,” Flint said.
Sy-wen prepared to dismount, but again the old seaman held up a hand. “Perhaps it would be best if Kast stayed as Ragnar’k for now. The skiff is small and will fit only a few people. If you rode Ragnar’k . . .”
Hesitating, she chewed her lower lip.
Sea feeds dragon, Ragnar’k argued.
She was outnumbered and reluctantly nodded her agreement.
The dragon did not wait. Scuffling over the pebbled beach, his claws dug deep, and he slid smoothly into the water. She slipped her feet into the folds by his forelimbs. He was so much bigger than Conch that she could barely reach them. But once she was in place, he tightened his folds snugly, holding her firm against his back.
He swam closer to Conch, who waited in the center of the lake. The two dragons eyed each other warily.
Little, very little dragon.
Sy-wen bristled a bit at Ragnar’k’s insult of her friend. “He brought me to you. He almost died saving me.”
I saved him with my blood. Now even.
Sy-wen frowned and let the subject drop. By now, the skiff was rowing toward them. Flint, Moris, and the boy shared the boat. Sy-wen glanced behind her and saw Ewan waving to them from shore.
Flint caught her look. “He wanted to stay. He hopes to help from the inside.” Sy-wen saw the worried look in the old man’s eyes. He waved her on.
Moris was at the oars. He had his robe pulled down to his waist to free his hugely muscled arms and shoulders. He had the skiff skimming behind the two dragons as Flint manned the rudder.
Flint called to her. “Sy-wen, can you let Conch know where we’re going? Would he be able to tell your mother?”
“Yes, I can have him tell my mother the name of the place. But why?”
“For her to send an emissary there to meet with us. It is time for the mer’ai to return to the shores again.”
Sy-wen nodded. She would do as he asked and so signaled Conch closer to her, but she doubted her mother would listen or respond. Her people had drifted so long in the Great Deep that lan’dwellers and the world of rock were no longer a concern to them.
She told Conch the message for her mother as they traveled the sea tunnel. Occasionally the rock walls around them would shake, and the sea would swell with tiny, agitated waves.
But the walls held long enough for them to reach the end of the channel and escape the tunnel.
Bright, Ragnar’k commented on the day’s sun. Sy-wen stared out at the sunken city. A large, leaning sculpture of a woman in a flowing robe greeted her as she glided free of the bay. The statue seemed to be staring at her with sad eyes. It seemed as if days had passed since she had entered the sea tunnel with Kast and Flint.
In silence, they glided past the towers and half-submerged domes of A’loa Glen, winding themselves away from a city that now faced a greater menace than the creeping sea: a corruption that would swallow the island whole. No one dared speak lest the darkness reach out to them.
Once free of the city and into deeper water, Moris ran out the sail with the help of the boy and then led the way. Sy-wen only had a brief moment to say her good-byes to Conch; Ragnar’k would not let him even close enough to nuzzle her extended palm. With slightly wounded eyes, her mother’s dragon swung from her and sank below the waves.
She had been right. By bonding, she had lost a part of her that would never return.
Hunt now. The dragon rolled a huge black eye at her.
Flint must
have heard Ragnar’k, too.
“Let him eat!” he called out to her. “We’ve a long way to go!”
She waved her acknowledgment. Slipping the dragon’s breathing siphon from between the blades of his shoulders, she slipped it to her lips. She patted Ragnar’k three times on the neck, indicating she was ready, then realized this was Conch’s old signal. But Ragnar’k sensed the meaning behind the motion and dove.
Her inner lids blinked up as she leaned closer to his neck. She watched Ragnar’k stretch to his full length and marveled at his size. He had to be over three times as large as Conch. His black wings were rippling shadows to either side.
Ah, good water, good hunting . . .
She found herself drifting into the dragon’s senses. Just as she had felt the jab of Ewan’s glass lance when he drew Ragnar’k’s blood, now she experienced the rush of water over scale, the varied scents mixed in the sea: squid ink, spoor of a school of yellowfin, even the tang of poison from a nest of sea snakes. She heard the echoes of distant whales in the water and, closer still, the noisy chatter of porpoises. She also sensed the strength in his body, his wings, to move with such grace and power. She gloried in the new sensations.
How blind she had been to the sea before!
Then a new scent was shared with her. It smelled like the finest rare perfume her mother wore. What was it?
Ragnar’k answered her: Shark’s blood.
She cringed lower to the dragon’s back. Suddenly Ragnar’k darted to the left. Sy-wen, sharing his mind, knew his move in advance and compensated by shifting her weight. He spun suddenly over a ribbed reef line and, snaking his neck down, jabbed his muzzle into the black shadows. He snapped his head back, a young male rockshark trapped in his fanged jaws.
In a flurry of razored teeth, the shark was shredded into pieces that could be swallowed. Ragnar’k skimmed the area, collecting every morsel. Sy-wen did not urge him otherwise. She savored the kill, the taste of blood in her throat, the satisfaction of a full belly. But mostly, she enjoyed how she and the dragon were united: one heart, one mind, one will.
She wanted to experience more.
The dragon sensed her wish. I will show you more. He, too, enjoyed the union. Come see, come see . . .
Suddenly he sped in a tight, dizzying circle, flaring out his wings, then shot away.
She saw where he intended to go!
Laughter echoed in her head, but she could not tell if it was her own or the dragon’s.
Did it really matter anyway?
JOACH SAT IN the prow of the skiff. The huge dragon and the girl had been gone a while now. Moris had kept the sails slack, waiting as the dragon fed. The sun beat warmly on his face. It seemed like forever since he had enjoyed the warmth of the sun.
Flint spoke behind him near the rudder. “What’s keepin’ the dang girl? We don’t have all day waiting for the dragon to fill its belly. We’ve still a lot of sea to cross to reach port.”
Moris just grunted, winding rope into perfect coils at his feet.
Joach did not care if they took the whole day. He stretched his body across the prow, the darkmage’s staff across his knees, and worshiped the sun. He silently prayed that somewhere, across the many lands of Alasea, Elena was enjoying the same sun. He closed his eyes, dreaming his sister safe.
For now, the sun drained all his worries away.
Suddenly, an explosive eruption blew from the water near the boat. Joach jerked up, a cry of surprise on his lips. The boat rocked back as a huge swell caught the prow. He rolled toward the bow just as the dragon lunged from the water only a few spans from the boat.
It shot its entire length clear of the water, a tower of sinuous dragon displayed against the sun.
With an explosive beat of its huge wings, the black dragon swung in the air. It twisted and banked, revealing the girl on its back. With another beat, it sailed into the air. It winged high above the tiny skiff, a huge black shadow against the sun. From its glossy scales, sparks of brilliance outlined its flight. Its jaws were open, and a huge roar flowed from its throat.
It was not a cry of challenge, but of joy.
It headed west toward the coast.
From the stunned expressions of the two brothers, it seemed something else had been hidden from their prophetic visions.
Ragnar’k was more than just a dragon of the sea.
“I’m getting too old for all these surprises,” Flint mumbled as they all stared at the receding dragon.
Book Five
SWAMP WIT’CH
25
AT DAWN, ELENA stood at the edge of the towering cliff. She stared down at the fog-shrouded landscape far below. It was as if the world ended here at the Landslip. For as far as she could see, roiling mists spread to all the horizons, a dirty white blanket that hid the swamps and bogs of the Drowned Lands. Nearby, a hushed roar echoed in her ears from where the stream they had been following for three days cascaded over the rocky lip. Its waters fell in sprays and torrents to disappear into the blanket of mists.
Mycelle stepped beside her, Fardale at her heels. “Er’ril has the horses ready.”
“Aunt My, you’ve not spoken much about what to expect below.”
The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s difficult to describe. It truly must be seen to be understood. It is a harsh land, but not without its own dark beauty.”
Elena turned her back on the sight and followed Mycelle to where the trio of horses stood saddled, their packs secured. They would not be riding the horses along the narrow trail that led down the cliff face. The grade was too steep and the switchbacks too sharp—a slip of hoof could kill both horse and rider. From here, they would walk the horses.
The trailhead was only a quarter league from the waterfall.
Er’ril finished stamping out their campfire and crossed to join them.
“How’s your arm?” he asked Elena—as he had every morning for the past five days since they had left Shadowbrook.
She sighed in exasperation. “It’s fine. The moss has not spread any farther.”
Mycelle tried to deflect Er’ril’s continuing worry. “Why do you keep asking? As I said before, as long as she doesn’t use her magick, the vines will stay quiet.”
Er’ril grumbled under his breath. “It harms no one to ask.” He gave one final survey of the night’s campsite, then waved them on. “Let’s be off while the light is still early. It’s a good day’s trek down the cliff.”
Mycelle nodded, apparently concurring with his assessment. With her crossed scabbards in place, she led the way with her golden-maned gelding. Elena had learned his name was Grisson, a fierce-hearted horse loyal to Mycelle’s every word.
Elena followed behind with Mist. The small gray mare seemed a pony compared to the two larger mounts, especially Er’ril’s dappled steppe stallion, who guarded their rear.
“C’mon, Horse,” Er’ril urged. He had not bothered naming the beast. He simply called him “Horse.” Still, this seemed to satisfy the stallion, and the mount responded well to his orders. The stallion followed the plainsman without even a tug on the lead.
Such was not the case with Mist. As long as no one was in Mist’s saddle, the horse felt no compulsion to resist grazing. She kept grabbing at stalks and leaves from bushes at the forest’s edge as they marched in file toward the trail head. Elena had to tug repeatedly on the mare’s lead to keep her moving.
Soon they reached the beginning of the cliff trail.
Mycelle glanced back. “The path from here is steep, but there are generally few stones to trick a hoof or a heel. Move with care and keep an eye to the trail.”
Elena nodded.
Fardale, surefooted and quick, took the lead. And so they began the day’s journey down the face of the Landslip. It was a slow trek, but even the plodding pace wore on the nerves. The anxious horses nickered continuously at the drop by the trail’s edge, seeming to sense the long fall that awaited a misstep. As Mycelle had stated, there were f
ew loose stones on the path, but the rock was damp from the mists that rose from the swamps at night, and care had to be taken with each step. Occasionally alcoves in the cliff face offered spots to rest where the horses could back away from the cliff’s edge and the party could sit and rub sore knees and calves.
At one of these small caves, Er’ril ran a hand along the stone wall of the alcove. “This has been dug out,” he said. “Who built these way stations?”
“Swampers,” Mycelle said. “A rangy and hardy lot that thrive at the edges of the Drowned Lands. They trade in wares collected from the swamps: medicinal herbs grown only in the bogs, the scaled skins of the swamp creatures, feathers from exotic birds, a variety of poisons.”
“Poisons?” Elena asked.
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I initially traveled here: to study their art of poison. It was during my first journey here that I sensed the strong elemental force—a sly, fierce wit’ch—lurking deep in the swamps. Swampers tell tales of her: how strange, naked children would be seen moving through desolate areas of the bogs, but when approached, they would simply vanish. Occasionally one of these swamp children would even enter their raft camps, seeking information. Such a child was once caught and caged, but the next morning, only a mound of moss and vines was found in the trap.”
Elena’s face grew worried with the stories. She scratched at her left arm. Mycelle noticed the motion.
“And these caves?” Er’ril persisted.
“Built by the swampers. This is one of their trade routes to the upper lands.”
Er’ril nodded, seemingly content with the explanation. For once, Elena was glad when Er’ril called them to move along. She had had enough talk for one day.
So the day wore on. By noon, the summer sun had dried the stone trail, making it easier to march, but the rays beat mercilessly upon them. Exposed on the barren cliff face, there was no relief, no shade, no cool streams to bathe a face. By late afternoon, they welcomed the swamp mists that eventually enveloped the lower trails. The sun’s intense rays were finally quieted, and the heat’s edge was dampened, but their relief was short-lived. As they worked farther down the trail, the moisture in the air became oppressive. Clothes clung; sweat ran in rivers down their faces. The deeper fog seemed to collect the summer’s heat and trap it down here. Even breathing became oppressive, not only from the moist heat, but also from the rotting smell of the swamps.