Redheart (Leland Dragon Series) (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

Go take these mugs to Jaspar. He’s been complaining for a month we’ve got too many leakin’.” Rusic slid a basket of wooden cups into Riza’s arms.

She bumped open the kitchen door with her backside, and carried the basket toward the bar. “Jaspar, I’ve got some new mugs.”

Jaspar startled, and spun to face her. “Thanks. Just put ‘em there.”

She squinched up an eye at the bartender. “What’s that behind your back?”

“This? Oh, I was just testing one of the leaky ones.” He set a mug down hard, and ale sloshed onto his hand. “It seems fine after all.”

“I don’t know about that. Looks like some ale leaked onto your mouth. You’ve got a little foam, just there.” She pointed toward his top lip.

He scowled, and batted his thumb at it. “A man gets thirsty, ye know!”

She grinned. “Well, now that you have new mugs, you ought to stop going through so much more ale than usual. Unless, of course, the keg starts giving you trouble.” She leaned toward the ale keg and poked at the spigot. “Looks sturdy, but you never can tell.”

Jaspar snapped his bar rag at her. She squealed, and hopped back, just missing a sting to her thigh. “Haven’t ye got some potatoes to peel, or something?” he asked, but he was smiling.

“Peeled and boiled,” said Rusic, as he squeezed his girth through the kitchen door. “Soup’s hot. And the whole kitchen’s gleamin’ like I haven’t seen since I bought the place.” He pointed at Riza. “How long ye been workin’ here now?”

“A little over a week,” she said.

“That so?” Rusic scratched his orange-red chin stubble. “Seems I haven’t seen ye leave the place. Not that I’m complaining, mind ye. Ye’ve worked harder ‘n I can afford to pay ye for.”

“I like to stay busy. I don’t mind.”

“Still. If ye don’t get out every now and again, the stale air poisons ye. Look at Jaspar. He used to have all his hair.”

“Ha!” Jaspar scooped up his mug, and waved it toward Rusic’s wide belly. “At least I don’t have to sleep in my boots.”

Rusic laughed, and slapped his hands against his gut. “That’s just good food, and good lovin’. I store up for when famine strikes.”

Jaspar guffawed, splashing ale down his apron. “You been without a female longer than Lam Ferson’s old ram!”

Riza snickered, and inched backward. “I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

“Oh, no, ye don’t.” Rusic caught her by the shoulders and led her around the end of the bar. “Yer goin’ to gather me up some rosemary, and get some fresh air. There’s a whole mess of it near Frog Boulder, past Jemiah Rode’s pig farm.”

“But that’s in the woods.”

“Aye. And yer not goin’ to show up for work tomorrow morning. I can’t pay ye for all yer extra work, but I can give ye a day off. Now scoot.”

She resisted his pushing hands. “Why can’t I get the rosemary tomorrow?”

“Yer missing the point of a day off.”

“But I don’t need a day off. There’ll be more daylight left if I go tomorrow.”

“Ye’ll go now, cause yer boss is tellin’ ye.” Rusic patted her backside. “Off ye go.”

“But—”

“And I don’t want to see ye tomorrow.”

She looked at Jaspar, pleading silently for his help. He shrugged, his blonde-white brows arching. Then she stared out the door into the afternoon. She tried to talk herself out of the apprehension creeping over the backs of her arms. She was a big girl. She could do this. She took a deep breath, and bolted out the door.

* * *

Kallon lay listlessly on the floor of his dusty cave, staring at the crystal in his paw. His chin hung to the ground, and each breath swirled tiny eddies in the powder near his nostrils. He felt empty, utterly alone and miserable.

Staring at the crystal only made things worse. He’d tried all afternoon to conjure a whisper from his mother, but the linking stone only sat on his palm like a withered twig, unmoving and lifeless. Why he’d bothered trying was beyond him. It seemed each time he finally accepted his loneliness, something came along to peel off a layer of scum from his murky heart, and stir up the shadowy depths. Though, this time, he reminded himself, he’d done the peeling all on his own. He’d dared to believe in the stone. He’d dared to try. Now he wallowed in the muddy heartache of disappointment.

Something scuffled outside. He lifted his chin. A limb rustled, and leaves scraped against stone. Someone was dragging vines away from the opening of his cave! His nostrils flared. A warning growl vibrated his muzzle.

“Hello?” A squeaking human voice jarred him to his feet. In all the years since his father’s death, no human but Orman had ever tracked him to his cave. He was too surprised to think. Instinct lunged him toward the opening, and he bellowed. Heat sizzled from his jaws.

The human screamed, and in the dark distance at the back of his brain, he recognized the sound of it. He skidded to a halt.

“Kallon!” cried the voice.

He snapped his mouth shut. He scowled out into the hazy twilight. “Who knows my name?”

“It’s me, Riza!”

He poked out his head to find the human female crouched near the ground, her arms over her head. He snorted, and she lifted her face. “Don’t be angry. I’m sorry to bother you, but please don’t be angry.” She blinked wide eyes at him. Tears welled, and then slipped silently down her cheeks.

Kallon thought suddenly of a delicately ruffled dayblossom shrinking into its stem for the night. He was seized with the impulse to dry the human’s tears with his knuckle, and draw her inside to safety. But he didn’t. He was so shocked by his own thoughts, he couldn’t move. “You smell different.”

“I do?”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I did?”

Kallon nodded. The human drew the back of her hand across her cheek, and a sprig of something dropped to the ground. He realized her lap was full of greenery. “What’s that?”

“Rosemary.” She offered a fistful.

Kallon stretched his nose toward her hand. The rosemary smelled of the forest, only sweeter, and of the rain, only warmer. It was this that masked her scent. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“I was too far from home when it started getting dark.”

“So?”

“I didn’t want to be in the woods at night.”

“Why not?”

“Because…well, because the dark frightens me.”

“Don’t I frighten you?”

She swallowed hard. She nibbled her bottom lip. Then she gave a tiny nod. “Yes. But not as much as the dark.”

“Were you followed?”

“No. I don’t think so. No one knows where I am.”

“Good.” He watched her wrap a sprig of rosemary around her finger. Then he pulled back into the cave. “Should have gone home. You can’t stay.”

“Wait!” Her scuffling feet followed him. “I won’t make a sound. You won’t even know I’m here.”

“I already know you’re here.”

“Well, you’ll forget I’m here, then.”

“Was in the middle of something important.” He was still in a sour mood, and eager to get back to feeling sorry for himself.

“Is it something I can help with?” she asked. “I can help you with what you were doing, and you can help me by letting me stay. Like friends do for each other.”

Kallon swiveled his head, and frowned into her pale face. “I am not your friend.”

She stiffened. Her emerald skirt, tucked up into a makeshift basket, slipped from her fingers, and rosemary sprigs dropped to the floor. She blinked at them, and sniffled. Then she sighed, and knelt to scoop them back up.

Something about her silence made him realize that his words had somehow hurt her. He shouldn’t care about that, and didn’t want to care. But inside his head, a voice nagged at him to apologize. Apologize for what? What had he done, except be honest? He wasn’t her friend, and wouldn’t be her friend, and didn’t want her company!

So why did he feel as though he ought to say something nice? Maybe she was like Orman. Maybe she could read his thoughts and could tug at his feelings. “Stop doing that,” he said, suddenly angry.

She paused in reaching for the last piece of rosemary. She withdrew her hand. “Not that!” he said.

“What, then?” She stared up at him with frightened eyes.

Her expression sent him over the edge. “That!”

He snorted at her. Rosemary fronds shot from her lap as she scuffled backward in the dust like a shiny green beetle. He turned his back to her. “Just leave me alone. I want to be alone.”

“Please, Kallon, I won’t make a sound. I won’t even breathe. Just don’t send me out into the dark.”

“…please.”

The second plea came as a whisper. His scales bristled as he spun around to stare into the human’s face. That second sound was not her voice. It was someone else’s. A voice he recognized. “Why do you do this?”

The human hunched against the wall. “Kallon, you’re scaring me!”

“…scaring me.”

Again came the whisper of a third voice. From the girl’s hand. “Open your fist,” he said, more anxious now than angry.

“What?”

“Open it!” He grasped her tiny hand and forced open her fingers. She held the linking stone. It had whispered, twice, in his mother’s voice. “Wha-? How?” he tried to ask.

The girl stared down at the purple crystal as though seeing it for the first time. “What is that? What did I do?” She looked from his face back to the crystal. “It must have been on the floor. I don’t remember picking it up.”

Kallon suddenly felt too exhausted to hold himself up. He lumbered back a few steps, but the stone held his gaze. He was transfixed.

“Kallon? What is it? What’s happening?” The girl threw the crystal with all the disgust of tossing a squashed bug.

When the crystal hit the floor, Kallon’s mind returned, along with his anger. He glared at her. “You do have magic. You’re trying to make me help you.”

“I don’t know magic. I don’t even know what just happened.”

“Stop lying. You’re using my mother’s stone to trick me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t come here to trick you. I came here because I thought you would help me.” She pushed to her feet, and batted at the dust on her skirt. “I was obviously wrong. Forgive me for thinking you had a kind bone in your body.” She stomped toward the cave opening. And stopped.

“So go,” he said.

She peered at him over her shoulder. Her voice trembled. “I can’t.”

“You can’t walk two steps?”

“Maybe you could go with me.”

“No. I don’t go near the village anymore.”

She turned, her hands twisting against her dress. Her eyes reminded him of the panicked stare of a doe as he swooped down for dinner. He groaned.

“Just until dawn?” she asked.

“First tell me how you made the stone whisper.”

“What stone?”

He narrowed his eyes. Then he pointed to the crystal near her feet.

“But I didn’t hear anything,” she said. “ I didn’t even know I was holding that thing.”

“I think you are tricking me now. Again.”

She walked toward him, and sighed so heavily he could taste her breath. “I only want to borrow a very small portion of the floor so I don’t have to go out into the dark. Don’t you see? If I have to go out there I’m afraid I’ll…”

“Afraid you’ll what?”

“I’m just afraid. Please don’t make me go.”

He wished he could reach inside her mind to find the truth. All he had was her word. And what good was the word of a human?

Then he felt her hand against his chest. Something passed between them. Hesitation. A shared breath. He pulled away, and moved toward the deepest part of the cave. “Not one sound. Not one.”

He didn’t even hear her settle. He strained to hear her breathe, but even that was lost to him. At first, he wondered if she finally did leave, except he sensed her there somewhere. She was a grain of sand stuck in his claw, and the more he shifted to get away from her, the more aware of her he became. Finally, he resigned himself to her presence. He’d suffered through it before; he could do it again, just this once.

* * *

Sometime in the night, he awoke, startled. Had he been dreaming? He could never remember his dreams, if he had them. But something had disturbed him. He sniffed and reached out, patting the ground, searching for the girl. He touched her leg. She made a muffled little breathing sound. Reassured, he settled comfortably again, and closed his eyes.

Chapter Twelve

Fordon Blackclaw stared down from the alcove window of his personal quarters. Life carried on in the valley below. Torches flickered like orange stars. He could even hear the low rumble of dragon feet and the faint murmur of dragon voices from the distant village.

It was the oldest of all dragon communities, established eons ago, before grubby human hands began snatching land. The place had no formal name, all dragons knew of it simply as the “mountain village”, though through the years, humans had come to call it Wing Valley. It had a poetic sound that translated nicely in dragonspeak, and, considering the quality of human learning, the name was more complimentary than insulting.

The insults came later. Dragon history was full of them, beginning with the initial pact between dragon and human creatures to strive toward common goals. What dragon ever had anything in common with humans? How it ever came to pass that dragons allowed themselves into service beneath their puny overseers was mystifying.

He’d never understood how the position of vassal became one of respect. Where was the honor in fighting for humans during their childish conflicts? It only proved how feeble the creatures were, willing to risk life and limb of dragon, but not themselves. Even when humans weren’t fighting, which was rare, highly skilled dragon warriors allowed themselves to become glorified bodyguards to venurs and wizards, and for what? For the ownership of tribal lands that belonged to dragons anyway!

It had only been a matter of time until humans abused the pact, perverting it to serve their own needs. More and more dragons became lost in battles, and fewer and fewer tribes received land payments. Blackclaw had seen it coming, even as a fledgling, though his warnings went unheeded. Recently, those dragons who had received long-overdue deeds had discovered too late they now owned territories emptied of prey and water, stripped of valuable crystals, and reduced to rubble.

Many dragons had been forced to abandon their territories. Tribes were beginning to band together into new, blended lines. So what had all the talk of honor gotten them? What had hundreds of years of loyal service rewarded them? A struggle to survive.

A knock broke through his ponderings. He smelled a fresh kill from the opposite side of the oak door, and knew it was Whitetail. “Enter,” he said, and swung his gaze to the wispy dragon that shuffled in. “It will not be long, now, Whitetail. Dragonkind is finally sharing their anger aloud. Soon, they will come to realize what I have always known.”

“Humans should serve dragons. You are not the first leader to suggest this.”

“I am the first leader, however, who will make it come to pass.”

Whitetail offered out a wooden tray that held a small bear carcass. “Humans will not easily comply.”

Blackclaw snorted in amusement. “And what should this mean to me? Do you suppose this bear worried about the ants crawling across his dinner?” He wrested the tray from his advisor’s grip, tossed the carcass to the stone floor, and pounced. The snap of bear bone echoed against the high granite ceiling.

“Shall I retrieve the circlet while you finish?” asked Whitetail.

Blackclaw grunted his response.

Whitetail shuffled toward the far end of the room. Beside Blackclaw’s feather-stuffed sleeping roll stood a carved wooden table. A small but sturdy trunk squatted on top of the table. Whitetail opened the lid. Inside, golden headwear was drenched by torchlight, and a ruby crystal flashed. The Circlet of Aspira.

Blackclaw shoved away his meal, and lapped at his palms. “Give it to me.”

Whitetail obeyed. Blackclaw delicately held the tiny crown. “If only I had mastered this years ago, Whitetail, all my dreams would already be history.”

“What you lack in magic, you make up for in determination,” said Whitetail.

Blackclaw swept his paw around the opulent chamber. “All things I have now came by my own power; things I have wished for since my earliest memories.” He leaned toward Whitetail. “Have you ever wanted anything so deeply that the smell of your wish tickled your nostrils? Caused a rumble in your gut?”

“Yes, sir. Indeed.”

Blackclaw nodded. “I will lead the dragons into a new era, Whitetail. Magic or no magic, it will come to pass.” He held up the circlet. “Magic, however, would be quicker. I will not give up.”

He pressed his thumb against his razor-sharp incisor. Then he smeared his blood across the face of the red crystal, and closed his eyes. He focused on his smoldering desire for control. He gritted his teeth, letting the wish consume him until he could feel it ignite in his heart. Vivid images welled up like smoke.

In his mind, shadows of angry dragons swept over farmlands, spitting flames and destroying. Humans fled, crying in anguish, begging for mercy. Those who did not submit were forced into chains and led away to suffer. They would die, in the end. All humans would die in the end, if necessary.

The circlet began to vibrate. Stabbing pain shot through his wrists and sliced up into his shoulders. “I will not let go!” he shouted, as he always shouted, and held the circlet to his breast with all his strength. A sudden blast of cold wind slammed into his spine and nearly sent him sprawling. “The circlet will grant my desires!” The wind redoubled, swirling into a tornado that tore his bedding from the floor, ripped scrolls from shelves in the room, and knocked Whitetail off his feet.

“Release the circlet!” cried Whitetail, clambering to brace on a wall torch.

“No! It is close! I can feel it working!” He heard a crack of bellowing thunder. Was it outside, or in the very room? He glanced toward the window. Just then, the circlet was snatched by the howling wind. “No!” He dove for it, but it dipped, bounced against his fist, and clattered to the floor. All went quiet.

He stood panting, and stared at the tiny crown of gold. Then he surged toward the window, eyes scanning the skies for dragon mobs demanding justice. No one. He searched the ground. Only the twinkling torchlight of the dragon village met his gaze. Echoes of dragon laughter found his ears.

Another failure! He roared, and stomped toward the crown, scooping it onto a claw. “Imposter!” He spun to face his trembling advisor. “You have fooled me, Whitetail! This is only an imposter!”

Whitetail pressed his muzzle to the floor. “Forgive me, Your Eminence, but I assure you it is the circlet.”

“Liar!” Blackclaw lobbed the circlet toward Whitetail’s lowered head, and it careened against his bony skull with a crack. “The wizard tricked you. Redheart tricked you! It must be why he put up so little fight. He wanted us to take this one. The false one.”

Suddenly it made sense. He smiled. That tricky Red. Blackclaw could almost admire the ruse. It had worked. He wasn’t easily fooled, but Redheart and the wizard had managed it. “I am almost embarrassed the truth has only come to me now. After all these years.”

“Leader Blackclaw,” said Whitetail, his voice muffled by the cold floor, which now had scrolls and feathers and ash scattered across it. “I must assure you yet again the circlet in your possession is authentic.” He lifted his chin. “It was tested by our own mage, and verified. I have witnessed its power.”

Blackclaw seized Whitetail’s puny horns and yanked him to his feet. “Of course it has power, you idiot. It is an excellent forgery.” Then, with calm grace and majesty, he released the white dragon, bent to retrieve the circlet, and offered it out. “Now. You will find this wizard, extract the information concerning the authentic circlet, and kill him.”

“And if he has no information?”

Blackclaw sighed. Why did he have to do all of the thinking? “If he claims he has no information, he is lying. If you cannot force it from him creatively, consider his fate to be your own. Understand?”

Whitetail nodded. He took the circlet, but did not meet Blackclaw’s eyes. Blackclaw poked him in the nose. “What is it, Whitetail?”

“Suppose the wizard has another vassal who comes to his defense?”

“I’m failing to see your concern.”

“We barely managed to explain Bren Redheart’s demise. How would we explain yet another dragon death?”

Blackclaw shook his head. “You did well in numbers in school, didn’t you, Whitetail? Not too clever with creative thinking, though.” He turned for the door. “The dragon slayer is already on his way here. Use him again. This time, though, do it without the mess.” Then he pointed to the floor. “Speaking of mess, get this place in order. I will sleep across the hall tonight.”

After a pause, Whitetail called from behind him. “The wizard’s name was Thistleby, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Blackclaw replied.

“Forgive me again, Your Eminence, but is this not an extreme measure? We both agree that your plan is working. I do not see how you even need the circlet anymore.”

Blackclaw stopped. He turned to glare. “Whether the wizard leads us to the actual circlet is no longer the point. No one makes a fool of me, Whitetail. The old man will pay for the years of pain I have wasted.”

“Of course,” said Whitetail. “You are right, as always.”

Blackclaw swung open the door of Whitetail’s quarters. “That female you brought me this afternoon was not immaculate, as you claimed. I was going to overlook your deceit, but your constant questioning of my decisions leads me to suspect you are churning something in that little white brain.”

Whitetail gasped, and bowed his face so low to the floor that his breath created two pools of steam on the marble. “An honest mistake, Leader Blackclaw! I assure you I am churning nothing!”

“Yes, well, we will see. Now get up. Watching you grovel makes my back ache. Rouse me when you hear from the dragon hunter, but not a moment sooner.”

He slammed the door.