The attack came from behind, though she sensed it well before it arrived, diving to the side, feeling the whoosh of a blade rush past. Her foe landed deftly on his feet, pivoted, and then came at her again. Due to the vigor with which he attacked, she knew this was the dragon rider. It was said the riders and dragons were connected by some mystical tether, bound to each other by something stronger than blood.
And this man was supremely pissed she had killed his dragon.
But that wouldn’t save him.
He fought valiantly, but, as she always did, Gwendolyn Storm emerged alive.
Shanolin, however, dragon master and traitor, did not.
One-Hundred-and-Eight
The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria
Gareth Ironclad
He awoke to the lingering warmth of lips on his cheek.
“Roan,” he whispered, willing it to not have been a dream. Willing him to still be there, by his side.
The throne room was empty, a large crack running down its center, the iron throne itself decimated, half of it missing. Above, the ceiling and roof were torn in two, the darkening evening sky beginning to fill with stars, some of which streaked across Orion’s Great Forest. Smoke hung like fog in the air.
Everything was strangely silent. Too silent for the battle that had been raging earlier.
Gareth stood, and noticed something was lighting the room. He searched for the source, only then realizing the light was all around him, moving as he moved. Like a full-body shield. Even as he stared at it in awe, it slowly disappeared.
“Roan,” he said again, feeling the emptiness caused by the departure of a loved one. Wondering whether it could ever be filled.
A croaky voice broke the silence. He craned his ear, trying to determine the source. It sounded close. He stepped outside, his mouth falling open, his eyes widening.
For he’d come face to face with a dragon, its fierce red eyes boring into him. Its body jerked as it tried to move, to lunge at him, but was held firmly by dozens of ore chains attached to various parts of the castle.
Ah, he thought. The final Ferrian defense against dragons worked. Beyond the dragon, fires burned here and there, but all in all, the castle seemed to be intact. We’ve won. Or, at least, survived.
And they’d captured a dragon in the process. He was pretty sure he knew whose dragon it was, in fact, though he didn’t yet know how to feel about that.
The croaky voice came again, and this time it was even closer, and he was able to make out the word. His name. “Gareth?”
He peered into the gathering darkness, a chill running through him when he realized who had spoken.
Grian, lying awkwardly against the metal steps, pinned by the dragon’s powerful foot. One of its claws vanished between his shoulder blades. It was obvious to Gareth what had happened. After fleeing the throne room, Grian had changed his mind. He’d returned, perhaps hoping to find Gareth.
His twin said his name again. “Gareth.”
“I’m here, brother,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of there.”
“No,” Grian rasped. “You’ll only get yourself killed.”
“Then I’ll get help.”
“We both know it’s too late for that. It’s also too late for this, but I want to say”—he swallowed a cry of pain as the dragon shifted its foot slightly—“I want to say I’m sorry.”
“Grian, none of that mat—”
“It does matter. I was a fool, blinded by my own”—another wave of pain—“ambition and loss.”
Loss. That word, now more than ever, seemed to echo through the night like the beating of a great heart.
Grian took one final breath, shuddering, and his body went still.
One-Hundred-and-Nine
Off the coast of the Eastern Kingdom
Goggin
Men like Goggin were not supposed to swim. It was a simple matter of bone density, muscle mass, and his inability to move his arms and legs in a manner graceful enough to keep his enormous bulk afloat.
And yet, after ripping off his weapons belt and letting his knives and scimitars sink to the bottom of the ocean, he clung to the wooden door with all his strength, long after the cries of his fellow guanero had ceased, the dragon shrieks and beating wings fading away, the smoke from the burning ship dissipating, joining the clouds.
The clouds, Goggin thought, as he stared up at the sky. He’d never really looked at them before. Sure, he’d seen them, perhaps even commented on their shape or the effortless way in which they blocked the harsh southern sunlight. But he hadn’t seen them the way he saw them now.
For they were each a one-of-a-kind creation, beautiful in the manner in which they moved, changed, adapted to the ever-shifting winds. He saw one that looked like a dragon, and it almost made him chuckle.
Then came the stars, as infinite and innumerable as the individual grains of sand in the Scarra. How they twinkled like winking gold coins. How they exploded, green bursts of color. How they soared across the night sky, crimson comets of light and beauty.
The full moons rose from opposite ends of the sky. The red god, Ruahi. The green goddess, Luahi. Their paths, on nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine nights out of a thousand, were destined to miss, their hands outstretched and reaching, but passing, their loving touch unfulfilled.
It felt like a metaphor for Goggin’s own life, which suddenly felt small and meaningless. How many times had he thought he found love, only to have it blow up in his face? How many times had he drunken the pain away, laughed it away, japed it into oblivion?
I have never known true love, he realized, and the thought brought a tear to his eye, the first in years, perhaps decades. His vision blurred and the moons wobbled. He blinked and breathed and listened to the beat of his own heart, watching them as they climbed, higher and higher, pulling themselves up by, it seemed, sheer strength of will and desire.
Love raised them up.
And then, his breath catching in his lungs, they kissed. A peck at first, and then something deeper, more passionate. Goggin looked away, feeling like an intruder.
Clinging to his floating wooden door, he drifted away.
When he awoke, squinting, the moons and stars were gone, fading into a day as bright as it was hot. Too hot to be the east, he thought, which meant the currents had pulled him south.
But how far?
Truth be told, he was surprised to be alive.
I am, he thought, clinging to that thought the same way he’d clung to his wooden door as dragonfire had rained down upon them.
His shirt had already dried in the sun, and now he tugged his sleeves down to cover his hands, pulled his collar up to block as much of his face as possible. This was a sun that would eat a man alive if he wasn’t careful.
He remembered seeing the signal from Rider to change course, to return home. Grudgingly, he’d given the order to his ship’s captain, though he longed for a fight, for a chance to avenge his fallen guanero.
Then the unthinkable had happened—they’d been attacked by the rest of the dragonia. Now all his guanero were gone.
Bastards! he thought angrily. He suspected Shanolin, but it could’ve been any of the dragon masters, really. Any of them except Rider, of course. She was as loyal as they came. Now she was probably dead.
He wondered if Raven had survived her dragon riders’ mutiny. She was a good empress, less cold then her mother and more patient than Fire. Strong but kind. Beautiful but humble. Capable but aware of her own weaknesses.
The level of his own admiration for her took him by surprise. How long had he felt this way? With an unexpected reddening of his cheeks, he felt embarrassed at the many foolish acts he’d committed in her presence. The drunken singing, the half-naked japing, the gorging and swilling and dancing and carrying on with other women…
Why do I act like that? he wondered.
He laughed at his own pointless thoughts. Evidently it took being shipwrecked and floating aimlessly in a vast ocean to get him
to reflect on his past.
Still, his thoughts of Raven kept him from falling into despair. He searched the horizon in all directions, trying to get his bearings. Nothing. No sign of land or life.
I need food. I need water. Water more than food.
Another laugh burst from his throat. “The irony,” he muttered, his voice coming out a croak. Being thirsty and surrounded by water but unable to drink any of it.
With nothing better to do, he closed his eyes and slept.
He awoke to darkness. For a moment, he thought he was underwater and he held his breath, thrashing about to try to force himself to the surface. Pain shot through his knuckles and elbows as they smashed against his makeshift wooden craft.
Slowly, his breathing returned to normal, his eyes settling on the comforting sea of stars above. The moons were nearly at their peak, but tonight, like most others, they wouldn’t kiss, the previous night’s passion already a fading memory.
So sad, Goggin thought, to live one’s life in sight of love but rarely able to act on it.
He snorted. I am no poet, he thought. I should stick to hitting and stabbing things.
Too bad all his weapons were resting at the bottom of the ocean.
Though hunger twisted his stomach in knots, the thirst was far worse, a fire raging in his throat, turning his mouth to scorched desert sand. Water lapped against the sides of his boat, and he was sorely tempted to cup his hands and drink. He stayed his hands, however, knowing all too well that the saltwater would only dehydrate him faster, hastening his death.
Maybe I’ll sleep some more, he thought. So he did.
When he awakened, a white-feathered, yellow-beaked seabird was sitting on his chest, pecking at his arm.
Hello, little bird, he tried to say, but all that came out was “Unghhhh.” The bird flew away.
Sleep claimed him once more.
Mmmm. Water, he thought. It might’ve been simpre, as good as it tasted. It even burned on the way down, though in a good way.
Choking drowning dying can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t—
He spluttered and gagged, sitting up sharply and vomiting all over his own lap.
“Slowly, my friend,” a voice said. A hand patted his back gently.
I’m dreaming, Goggin realized, blinking, looking around. A sparkling silver ocean lapped against a sandy shore. Squat, barrel-like trees with broad white leaves lined the beach. A gray-skinned man, his forehead broad and flat, his chin square, looked at him with concern.
“Where am I?” Goggin asked.
The man said, “Welcome to the Dreadnoughts. You are lucky to be alive.”
Alive, yes, Goggin thought. Lucky, not so much.
He accepted another drink from the man’s cup. This time he sipped it.
It was a small step for a large man. Then again, it was probably the largest step he’d ever taken in his life. He vowed it wouldn’t be the last.
He would find a way to return to Calyp.
And he would have his revenge on the traitors that took everything from him and his empress.
One-Hundred-and-Ten
The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria
Gareth Ironclad
One week after the Dragon Defense
An eventful week had passed, and Gareth had yet to encounter Gwen, so eventually he decided to go looking for her. As king, he’d been busy organizing the rechanneling of several castle walls that had been melted down by the dragons. The dragon carcasses also had to be removed, as well as the corpses of their enemies. The lot of them had been buried in an enormous pit dug on the plains, well away from the edge of the forest.
The eastern dead had also been buried, but within the wood. It was a time of celebration, of victory, but also a time of mourning and sorrow for those they’d lost.
Gareth didn’t mind staying busy; it kept him from thinking too much about Roan.
And, of course, there was the captured dragon to deal with. For now, he’d repositioned his hundred Orian channelers around an enormous iron hovel they’d created to imprison the beast. Empress Sandes’ dragon, he thought now, as he approached the gate to Gwen’s forest dwelling. He shook his head. Never in a million years did he think his first prisoner as king would be a leather-winged, fire-breathing monster.
He halted at the gate, turning back to the dozen guards that had been following him. “Stay here,” he said.
They obeyed, and he marveled at how everything had changed the moment his brother had died. Even those who viewed Gareth as a failed Shield couldn’t deny the fact that his claim on the throne was complete.
As expected, he found Gwen enjoying the comforts of her own home, a beautiful ore-sheathed tree in the midst of Ironwood. She looked so content leaning back with her eyes closed, her back supported by an enormous iron leaf that seemed to form to fit her body, that Gareth almost turned around and left, so as not to disturb her much-deserved rest.
“Don’t you think we’ve spent enough time together?” she said, just as he was contemplating leaving. Her eyes remained closed. It was a jape, although there was some truth to it.
“I heard you killed a dragon,” Gareth said.
She shrugged.
“A big one.”
She opened her eyes lazily. Looked at him pointedly. “They’re all big.”
“From the inside.”
At that, she laughed. “Just because I’m an old woman by human standards doesn’t mean I can’t learn a few new tricks.”
Gareth grinned. “Thank you.”
“For the dragon? It was my pleasure.”
“Not just for that. For everything. For believing in me. For not giving up on me.”
“You’re welcome, but I did it for Roan, not you.”
“Really?”
“No. Not really.”
“Speaking of Roan…”
“He was here, in Ferria—I know.”
He tried to hide his surprise, failing miserably. “Did you talk to him?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t find the time. Too many dragons flying about.”
“He saved me, you know. Again. But it wasn’t just him.”
Gwen’s interest seemed to perk up. She shifted on her perch. “Oh? Don’t tell me your brother finally manned up and did the right thing.”
Gareth laughed, despite the mention of his brother. Did she not know he was dead? “Grian? It’s not in his blood. And he was knocked out. I may or may not have had something to do with that. Believe it or not, when Bane and Roan were doing their whole my-darkness-is bigger-than-your-light thing, Empress Raven Sandes showed up out of nowhere and tackled Bane. He was choking the life out of me at the time. She saved my life.”
Gwen’s yellow eyes met his, narrowed, cat-like, but then rolled away. “I suppose we should invite her over for tea then.”
He shook his head. “I’m not saying it’s the beginning of some kind of an alliance, that would be impossible considering they just attacked us with a horde of dragons.”
“A brood.”
“What?”
“They call it a brood of dragons.”
“Yes, well, I’m certain our good citizens would frown upon an alliance with the Calypsians.”
Gwen’s fingers danced over the branch, making ore flowers grow and then disappear. “I don’t care much for the Calypsians, but I despise the Sandes.”
“I know.”
There was silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, and then Gwen asked, “Why do you think Raven Sandes would save your life? It makes no sense to attack your castle and then protect you from Bane.”
Gareth considered the question. It was one he had been pondering ever since Roan left. “I don’t think she was completely in charge of what happened. It was almost as if she had doubts about the attack but was powerless to stop it.”
“You’re defending her?”
“All I’m saying is there are some strange circumstances.”
“Such as…”
&nb
sp; “A dragon corpse washed up onshore. It was a big one, even bigger than the one you killed. No dragons were killed over the water by us, at least none that we know of.”
Gwen frowned, but didn’t say anything.
Gareth continued: “And now evidence of a shipwreck has been appearing. Planks, barrels, torn sails.”
“Those could’ve drifted in from anywhere.”
“They are charred. Burnt. The damage looks to be from dragonfire. And the remnants of the Calypsian sigil are on the sails—the dragon.”
Gwen chewed on that for a minute. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. Even with our new defenses, we were lucky to survive the attack. We were even more fortunate the dragons ignored the village. They probably thought they could do what they wanted later, after the castle had fallen. The first thing I’m going to do, however, is cease all military actions on our borders. For now, we defend only.”
“Do you think Grian will go for that?”
It was a mistake coming here, he thought. My problems are not hers.
“You don’t know? Grian is dead.”
With that, Gareth stalked off. He was tired of talking.
One-Hundred-and-Eleven
The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria
Gwendolyn Storm
She probably should’ve gone after him immediately, but it was pretty clear he needed some alone time of his own. So she waited a day. Thinking. Catching up on sleep. Gwendolyn felt bad about how she’d handled the aftermath of the battle that was being called the Dragon Defense. She should’ve gone to Gareth, offered her help. Then she would’ve known Grian was dead. She could’ve helped him through that, too. Instead she’d slipped through the dead and living, until she spotted Gareth, looking no worse for wear. Once she was certain has was not seriously injured, she snuck away.