Holt could hardly believe his ears. An Ascendant? A true dragon rider? Him?
Then purest joy thundered through the dragon bond.
“You’re awake!” Ash said. Roaring came from somewhere outside; a roar of triumph, much lighter and less guttural than when Ash was angry. Pyra started roaring herself, which Holt appreciated.
“I can sense you much easier now too,” Ash said. “Come outside!” “Just a moment, boy. I’ve just woken up. I need to catch my breath and
talk with Talia.”
Communicating telepathically to Ash felt a lot easier. He stared at his own hands as though they would provide answers for him. He didn’t feel all that different. Then he realized his previously injured leg no longer ached. He moved it and found to his surprise that he could not only lift it but that he could do so higher and quicker than before, throwing the bed sheets off. He’d never been half so flexible before.
“It’s like watching a kitten taking its first steps into snow,” Talia said, still grinning from the corner of the room. She sat as relaxed as Holt had ever seen her, garbed in fresh clothes. A moss green quilted doublet by the looks of it, over which she wore a chainmail hauberk under a final layer of fine leather armor. Links of the mail were visible at the nape of her neck and at her shoulders. Her trousers matched the moss color of her doublet and dived into knee high leather boots.
“You’ve changed,” he said unnecessarily.
“Nothing gets past you,” she teased. “I don’t know about you but my clothes from the road were not in a good way. I’ve had the same brought for you.” She pointed toward a cabinet at the far wall where a neat folded pile sat topped with shiny new leather boots. To the side stood an armor stand, holding up a pristine chainmail hauberk. A tray of food had been set out as well. Bread, butter, ham and apples. Yet Holt’s gaze landed upon something much better. His satchel lay there too, bloodied and battered but miraculously still with him.
He let out an exasperated laugh and wiggled his leg again. “It’s healed.” “Slow today?” she said, fighting back a laugh. “Your whole body will
be stronger. You’ll never be sick again, not unless you’re pushing yourself to the extremes.”
Holt sat bolt upright and inspected himself. Someone had clothed him in fine white sleeping silks. He pulled the shirt out and stared down at his torso. To his disappointment he did not discover fine cut muscles. In fact, he didn’t see much alteration to his physical appearance; he was as lean and wiry as ever. Still a skinny youngster on the cusp of manhood. And yet he could feel the extra strength in his muscles, latent and ready at a moment’s notice.
“But, there’s a catch, right?” Holt understood how this worked now. “Were you a member of the Order, the drawback is you’d now be
considered fit for combat in the event of an incursion.”
A familiar rush of excitement pulsed in his chest as the news sunk in, yet his heartbeat remained steady. Although he felt as though it should be beating faster, like a phantom trace of the frailer body he had left behind.
He took in his surroundings. The linens on his bed were of high quality – he could feel each thread weaved through the material in a way he never could before – but the bedframe was merely functional. This applied to the room at large. A little extra than the basics but other than the patterned curtains and a solid writing desk there were no luxuries.
Eager to test his new body, he leapt out of bed only to crash against the wall and crumple. In an instant he was back up, balancing on the balls of his feet and ready to jump again if needed. Not even a bit of pain. He smirked, then saw Talia in such a state of suppressed mirth his face felt scalded from embarrassment.
“Oh please, please do that again,” she said. “Maybe my uncle will keep you on as a jester.”
Holt was too thrilled to be annoyed. His memories of their entry to Sidastra were hazy, however.
“You might have warned me that ranking up was that… that—” “Awful?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, normally it’s not quite as bad as that. But you lost a lot of blood from your leg, were weak from lack of food and sleep and broke half the bones in your body when you were thrown from Ash’s back.”
“Rake said to push ourselves.”
“I’m not sure even Rake envisioned that. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, but the point is you made it.”
Holt took a moment to consider how close he must have come to the brink of death. Then again, perhaps it would be better not to dwell on it. Plus, he was starving.
“Have you eaten?” he asked. “I could eat again,” she said.
Holt raced to the food, pulled it all toward him and began applying lashings of butter onto a torn chunk of bread and stuffed the lot into his mouth. As he chewed, he noticed his taste had not enhanced with the rest of his body. That was well. He wouldn’t want this white noble fare tasting any sweeter. He cut a wedge of ham, began eating it before even swallowing the bread and reached for an apple.
“May I take a piece?” Talia asked. “Or am I in danger in having my hand bitten off?”
“Sorry,” Holt said with his mouth full. He ripped the loaf in half and passed it to her. “I forget my manners when I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” she said, tearing unceremoniously into the loaf. “Especially when you don’t need to impress anyone.”
Once the tray had been picked clean, and Holt’s stomach felt satisfied for the first time in weeks, he sat on the edge of the bed and sighed.
“We made it then,” he said. “Barely.”
“That was Silas chasing us near the end, wasn’t it?” “I didn’t see him but Pyra recognized Clesh’s roar.”
There was a nervous silence, as the intensity of their close shave impressed itself upon them.
“I thought he might follow us anyway,” Holt said. “Finish the job.”
“Like I said, he’s powerful but he can hardly take on an army alone. Clesh is strong and can probably take a shot to the thickest parts of his hide but if a ballista bolt ran through his neck, or shredded his wing, he’d go down.”
Outside their two dragons roared in fresh delight.
Talia glanced to the window. Her smile faltered a little and she bit her lip. “We often forget, even in the Order, that dragons are still flesh and bone like us. They’re strong, terrifying at times, but they bleed too. They die if you strike their heart or the blight takes hold – like poor Erdra.”
“I know,” Holt said. “Wasn’t so long ago that I could cradle Ash in my arms. Still, I can’t imagine Clesh being defeated.”
“Lords have fallen in battle before. Many will fall before the scourge finally does.”
“Well, we have a long way to go until we reach Lord.” “That’s optimistic.”
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Holt said. His brush with death and the insanity of that dive through hordes of screeching stingers had bolstered him. Things seemed somehow less bleak when he felt this strong, had food in his belly, and had a friendly army surrounding them as opposed to being lost in the wilderness.
Today, he’d find out what happened to his father too. That was a pang of anticipation, but he had hope now. Much more than he had the day before at any rate.
Thinking on the day before, his mind turned to another benefit of his rank up to Ascendant.
“I’ll have access to a new ability now,” Holt said.
“If there’s time later I’ll try to teach you,” Talia said. “Although there’s so much we need to—”
An audible voice rang from just outside the room. A commanding voice. Guards shifted aside and then the door opened.
In stepped a man Holt had never met and yet he knew him at once. This man captured the concept of broad and made it his own; his leather and mail armor clung as naturally as a second skin. His true skin seemed as weathered and coarse as the armor he was so comfortable in. A handsome man in truth but old before his time, with close cut brown hair mottled with gray. At his waist hung a pair of thick bladed axes and his movements mimicked the brutish straightforward techniques that wielding them
demanded. Strangely his eyes were softer, pale and distant: the thousand- yard stare of a soldier who’d seen his share of horror. Yet when he focused on Holt, his eyes turned piercing – almost threatening.
Holt fell to one knee. Only Commander Denna had inspired such a natural and unquestioning reaction from him. Yes, he must bow to those of higher station, kneel even if they asked, but few people – either rider or noble – had truly earned that response from him.
“Your Majesty,” Holt said to the floor. Osric Agravain’s boots came into view.
“Uncle,” Talia said. Chair legs scraped across stone as Talia rose to greet him. She too stopped just short of the king. Holt imagined her bowing too before stepping in to embrace him. “You came?”
“Of course,” Osric said. “It is good to see you, niece. When word of the Crag reached us, I feared the worst.”
Those words alone set another quiver of excitement through Holt. If word from the Crag had reached the city, then its refugees must have made it.
“You were right to fear,” Talia said. “The worst has happened. We do not fully understand ourselves, but Silas Silverstrike has turned traitor and allied with the scourge.”
“Silverstrike? I assumed my men spoke of scourge sorcery when they mentioned lightning last night.”
“There’s more,” Talia said, “much more, far more. It’s about Leofric. He
—”
“Not here,” Osric said. “And not in front of your manservant, girl. Is
your tongue so loose or is the boy a mute?”
Holt’s face burned. He could feel Osric looking down at the back of his head, judging. It had been the rush to kneel that had given Holt away. Riders knelt for no one.
“And he’s not appropriately dressed besides,” Osric said.
“What?” Talia said. “Oh. Oh no, uncle you are mistaken. Holt is a dragon rider too.”
“A rider?” Osric said with no hint that he believed it. “Look at me, boy.”
Holt lifted his head, straining to look up while still kneeling. He should have stood, looked the war hero in the eye, but something about Osric kept
him rooted there; some aura of Osric’s – almost a magic of his own – that reminded Holt what he had been born as.
“There is a strength in his eyes,” Osric said as though Holt were not there. “Your name, boy?”
Osric would want to know which family he hailed from and whether that family was hostile to the Agravains or allies. The king’s penetrating stare bored into Holt and he found it suffocating. He even struggled to breathe.
“Cook, your majesty. My name is Holt Cook.” “Cook…”
Osric’s piercing eyes flicked to Talia and Holt breathed easier again. He’d never reacted to a superior like this before. Then again, Osric was not heralded as Feorlen’s greatest warrior without reason.
“A Cook?” Osric said again. “Much to tell and more, niece. But not here. A barrack gatehouse on the outer isles is no fit place for two riders.” A painful beat passed in which no one said or did anything. Holt looked to Talia, then back to Osric. Then, with a look part confusion and part irritation, Osric offered his right hand to Holt. “You may rise, Holt Cook.”
Holt’s insides turned to ice. He had hesitated to even stand of his own will. Just as riders shouldn’t kneel, they shouldn’t be offered such a demeaning invitation to stand. Osric would have expected him to get to his feet.
Now the king had offered him a hand. Should he take the hand or dismiss it? Which would save face more?
To excuse himself, Holt pretended to admire the back of Osric’s hand. For there was another famous tale of this man made real. Inked upon his skin was a symbol from the Skarl Empire, three interlocking horns: a sign of their most elite warriors. And they had given it to Osric, a foreigner. An iron band encased his wrist, it too embossed with weaving patterns of that frigid land.
Osric may not be a rider, but he seemed as formidable.
Holt decided he would take the hero’s hand and squeeze it. He did so, perhaps too firmly.
Osric grunted but returned the gesture with a bear like grip of his own. “A rider indeed. I advise you change, Holt Cook, lest you wander through the streets in your small clothes. We shall await you outside.” He swept out
an arm and beckoned Talia to follow him. She did so, and just like that Holt was alone.
Wasting no time, he hurried to the pile of folded clothes and stripped off his bed silks. He found his leg miraculously healed, although a scar remained from the bite. The flesh around it bore the same purple-silver bruising that Celia Smith’s forearm had after lunar power drove the blight from her.
He quickly dressed, pulling on the clothes and armor. Fortunately, none of it required a squire’s assistance to strap into place. Each piece fit him almost perfectly—they must have taken his measurements while he was passed out and provided him with attire similar to Talia’s. His doublet was a different shade, a deep navy like the backdrop of Ash’s core, and it felt heavier than he had anticipated. It was more of an arming doublet, padded to absorb blows and protect his body from his own chainmail. His new woolen trousers matched the navy doublet and tucked snugly into knee-high leather boots. Over the doublet, he donned the mail hauberk, which now felt weightless to him. Finally, he strapped on a burnt-red leather breastplate, trimmed with yellow runic letters in Feorlen’s ancient tongue from the time when the Skarls first ruled the land.
After securing his sword and slinging his bloodstained satchel over his shoulder, Holt paused to glance at himself in the mirror above the cabinet.
He barely recognized the reflection. It was still him—his father’s thick, wild black hair was unmistakable—but there was something new in his eyes. Once plain and boring brown, they had hardened, now resembling aging oak. His thin nose and smooth skin still betrayed his youth, though some of the baby fat had vanished from his cheeks.
Holt lingered for a moment, attempting to strike a menacing pose. It only highlighted his youthfulness, but still, he was sixteen now—old enough for formal apprenticeships and ready to inherit his father’s role if the blight claimed him early. In truth, he was a man grown now. He needed to remember that. And he doubted Osric, Talia, or any rider he met from this point forward would let him forget it.
