Talia jumped onto Pyra’s back and the pair took flight, soaring over the walls of Fort Kennet before descending below the lip of the defenses and out of sight.
A part of Holt couldn’t help but look on in excitement. One day he might be able to do that with Ash, if the dragon’s blindness didn’t impede him. Currently, Ash had his nose pressed close to the ground, sniffing some smell or other.
Brode stretched, arching his back and pushing his arms high into the air. “Well, then Master Cook, let’s try and find your father.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful,” Holt said. He fell in line beside Brode, and Ash trailed behind them. They made an odd trio, heading back down the mound toward the camps.
“I try not to lean on hope,” Brode said, “nor give room to despair. Take each event as it comes.”
“That sounds both hard and joyless.”
“I had hoped that I was past the days of being asked constant and irritating questions,” Brode said, though not unkindly. “Alas, here I am.”
They reached the border of the first camp without incident. An unclean smell mixed with smoke in the heavy air. Now Holt was closer to the campfires, he saw many only had a simple spit setup, yet with nothing cooking on them. What few black pots there were showed signs of rust; not the thicker, high quality metal Holt was used to working with in the Order Hall kitchens.
“All of this has happened in just a week or two?” Holt asked aloud.
“Things unravel quickly in chaos,” Brode said. “I take it you see no sign of your father?”
“Not yet.”
As they picked their way across the sprawling campsite, Holt felt like they were being watched. Many of the men had grim expressions and watched them pass in an uncomfortable silence.
“Stick close, Holt.”
“I sense great fear from them,” Ash said. “Fear and anger.” He drew closer to Holt in turn.
“Don’t worry,” Holt said. “They won’t hurt you.”
“I do not fear for me. I’m keeping you safe.” Ash bared a few teeth, his head low to the ground like a hound.
As Holt tightened his grip on his stick, he thought Ash had a point. The looks they were receiving were unsettling. He still had his dagger if he needed it, and his fingers fidgeted at its hilt. But that was worrying needlessly. No one would dare attack riders.
Brode seemed to sense his anxiety. “It will be fine.” Yet there was an edge to his voice all the same. Brode still had a measure of his old rider strength and agility, but that was all. Without a dragon and magic, he was little better than a man and could hardly take on a whole crowd alone.
As they came upon a fresh section of the camp, Holt started to pick out the odd face from the crowd. He said as much to Brode.
“I’m starting to recognize a few myself,” Brode said. “There’s Felix Hunter with his bow – I wonder if the garrison asked him to stay to help with the defense. And there’s old Annie Weaver, and Master Tailor—”
“And Mr. Smith,” Holt said. A bald head made the blacksmith easy to spot. In his surprise, Holt had spoken loudly.
This drew the attention of the Crag onlookers, especially Edgar Smith. He spoke softly to a small girl by his side, then got to his feet and rolled back his great shoulders. His dark eyes, blackened further with tiredness, homed in on Holt; before flitting first to Brode, then to Ash, then back to Brode. The blacksmith narrowed his eyes but moved to meet the trio all the same. A few others gathered in.
“Edgar,” Brode began, “it’s a relief to see so many of you alive.”
The blacksmith hawked spit onto the ground between them. Given Mr. Smith’s views about dragon riders, Holt reckoned it wasn’t solely to clear his throat.
“Lord Brode,” Edgar said, as though it pained him. “Did the riders see the scourge off? Can we go home?”
Brode eyed the spittle in the mud before giving the blacksmith a level look. “I’m afraid not. The Crag is a flaming ruin, as is much of the town. The swarm is still at large. It will be some time before it’s over.”
Those gathered behind the blacksmith gasped, sighed and wept in equal measure. Most of them looked to Edgar. It seemed he was providing leadership.
“So where are the riders?” Edgar asked. “It’s your job to deal with these monsters.”
“All riders from the Crag perished in the attack,” Brode said. “Lord Mirk was with us on the road.”
“I’m afraid he too is dead.”
The blacksmith spat onto the ground again. “All those years and high talk of what the riders can do… for nothing.”
“It’s not their fault,” Holt said. “Silas Silverstrike betrayed them. They had no way of preparing for that.”
Brode clasped a hand on Holt’s shoulder and squeezed. “Everyone is strained and weary. I’m sure such words are not meant,” he added pointedly.
Edgar gritted his teeth but managed to control himself.
“Now,” Brode continued, “what happened to the rest of the townsfolk?” “The Knight Captain implored those of us with skills useful to his troops to stay,” Edgar said. “Half the soldiers with us joined the garrison
here and the rest continued with those moving on.” “Where’s my father?” Holt asked.
“Heading to Sidastra with the others,” Edgar said. “They were long gone even before the swarm attacked the fort.” He eyed Holt then. “Your father was in some state. He thinks you’re dead. Inconsolable he was. Why weren’t you with him?”
Guilt – the now all too familiar guilt – crashed into Holt again.
He couldn’t have left Ash but hearing that his father was in pain because of it turned his throat dry. Holt sniffed and wiped his nose on his ruinously dirty shirt. In truth, His appearance was little better than those in the camps.
Ash licked at his hand. “We shall find him. It is our task.”
The blacksmith looked to Ash in astonishment. Likely he’d assumed the dragon belonged to Brode. Before he could say anything, however, a young girl pushed her way between the crowd and wrapped her arms around Mr. Smith’s waist.
“Go back beside the fire,” Mr. Smith said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I’m cold, Daddy,” she said in a sad little voice. “And my tummy hurts.”
Holt was sure her name was Ceilia. She was maybe four years old at best, and despite her claim of being cold, the sweat on her brow and at the nape of her neck spoke of the opposite. If that wasn’t enough, her pallor alone would confirm it. She was very ill.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” said Mr. Smith. “I’ll try to get some more food for you.” He looked to Brode again, this time imploringly. “Some of the soldiers in the garrison will sell us food out of their rations, if we’d been able to bring any money with us. Don’t suppose you could speak with the knights and get supplies sent down to us?”
Brode’s expression could have been carved from stone. “I’m afraid food won’t help. Look at her arm.”
Holt only noticed it now. There was a puffy streak of skin on the girl’s forearm, which had a feint green tinge to it.
“It’s some rash,” the blacksmith said. “It’s the blight,” said Brode.
In that moment, all resentment Holt felt for the blacksmith vanished. Mr. Smith’s own skin turned deathly white. “No,” he said weakly.
“Step away from her,” Brode said, clearly fighting to keep his voice steady. His hand edged to the hilt of his sword. “I’m so sorry—”
“No!” Mr. Smith flung himself between Brode and his daughter. “You can’t. She can’t – it only affects the dead. That’s what everyone says.”
“It only raises the dead, yes,” said Brode. “But the disease can sometimes latch onto the very old, the weak or the young, and help them on their way.”
Holt swore he saw Brode’s eyes water, but the old rider didn’t blink once. Was he afraid that tears would fall? Did he care about presenting a strong front so badly?
“Please,” Edgar wailed, “there must be something you can do?” “Daddy?” Ceilia pulled on her father’s arm, his sudden terror upsetting
her.
Brode drew his sword. “Nothing can be done. To turn fully would be worse than death.”
Just then – quite unexpectedly and without a word to Holt – Ash padded out past Brode, heading toward the blacksmith and his daughter.
“Keep that thing back,” Mr. Smith said, waving his hands at Ash in the hopes of fending off the perceived attack.
“Ash, what are you doing?” Brode asked.
“She has the same evil in her I sensed back at our nest,” Ash told Holt.
“And last night on the bodies we found. But it’s weaker. Far weaker.”
“Ash, do what Brode says,” Holt said, worried that the crowd might mob Ash in an effort to keep him away from the girl.
“I can help.”
“What?” Holt said, completely at a loss. “What’s he saying?” Brode asked.
“He says he can help her.” “Impossible,” said Brode. “The rot is weak. I can help.”
“He seems sure,” Holt said. “Mr. Smith, please. I know you’re scared
—”
“Keep it away!” Mr. Smith grabbed his daughter and pulled her tightly
to him, placing his arms protectively in front of her.
“Ash would never hurt her,” Holt said. “He says he can help. Let him try.” Holt looked to Brode for approval. The old rider was clearly apprehensive but gave a single nod. Holt nodded back and then said, “Go on Ash.”
“I must connect with her.”
“Ceilia,” Holt said. “Ceilia?” She was crying now, her illness and the fear of the adults around her too much to handle. She watched Ash approach like an injured lamb might watch a wolf. “He won’t hurt you; I swear. But he’s blind, so you have to hold out your hand for him.”
Ceilia looked at Ash in a new light. “Like,” she began thickly, “like I do for Mrs. Baker’s cat?”
“Exactly like that,” Holt said. “Ash likes a scratch on his head too.”
That seemed to help, and despite Ash being considerably bigger than her, she held out her hand for him.
Ash took a final step forward and pressed his snout into her open palm. Every onlooker held their breath.
The blacksmith’s eyes bulged.
“I can hear the magic of the scourge in her,” Ash said. “It is dim, weak, but scratchy and painful.”
Holt wasn’t certain what to make of this. He’d ask Ash on it more later, but it sounded like the magic of the scourge had a distorted song of its own.
“I need your help,” Ash said.
“My help?” Holt asked. He looked to Brode for advice, but the old rider looked as perplexed by the situation as anyone.
“Younger dragons sometimes find it harder to tap into their own core,” Brode said. “Focus on your bond. If you can draw on the power yourself, it may open the flow for Ash.”
Holt took a deep breath and then strode forward to Ash’s side. Surely proximity would only help. He placed his hand onto the top of Ash’s snout and let his fingers fall to connect with Ceilia’s.
Focus on the bond, he thought. How?
“Try the meditation techniques we discussed,” Brode said.
Wishing his first attempt wasn’t a matter of life and death, Holt closed his eyes. He breathed slowly, trying to think only on the bond and nothing else. Everything was a distraction – people coughing, the tap of rain, Ceilia’s sniveling. With every ounce of might he possessed he pushed everything else aside. Soon not only did the world vanish but so did the feeling of the breeze against his cheek, the crackle of fires, the smell of damp earth and smoke. The beating of the bond thrummed, louder and louder as he focused onto it; louder still until it was almost deafening.
Silence. And then, Holt saw it. Ash’s core.
It appeared in his mind’s eye: a small, pulsing ball of light, dim as a guttering candle against a navy sky but very much there. The beat of the bond sent a strand of light his way. Holt breathed in, and the light seemed to fill him.
This time, rather than feel his muscles growing taut with strength, the magic seemed to flow down his arm to the hand helping Ash. His legs became weak, but the feeling was distant, as though he were only an observer of his own body.
A flare of heat shot throughout him. Through his closed eyes he thought there was a flash of purple-white light. Then a scream, gasping voices and he knew he had to wrench himself back to reality.
Holt opened his eyes and found he’d fallen to his knees. Mud squelched as he scrambled to his feet, although he wobbled, and fell again. He was so tired. Everything ached.
Ash backpedaled away from Ceilia. She cried and the blacksmith’s face turned beet red with anger. Brode stepped in front of Ash to shield him.
“Let me see her,” Brode said. He dropped to one knee and rolled up Ceilia’s sleeve.
“That beast burned her,” said Mr. Smith. “Edgar—”
“As if it wasn’t bad enough—”
“Edgar,” Brode said, “the blight is gone. Look.”
Holt summoned some reserve of strength and picked himself up to see. Sure enough, the skin on Ceilia’s arm was no longer tinged a sickly green. There was, however, a peculiar burn where the blight had been before. Rather than bright red, the burn was a deeper purple, marbled with silver streaks as though the veins beneath had turned to precious metal.
“She’s… she’s cured?” Mr. Smith choked out.
“It’s not possible,” Brode said. “But yet… she is. Ash, do you sense any blight remaining?”
Ash yapped lightly twice.
“Tell the elder one no.”
“He says it’s gone,” Holt relayed.
“Thank goodness,” Edgar wailed. He collapsed to his knees, holding his daughter close as though afraid she might fly away if he let go.
“It hurts,” Ceilia sobbed.
“I imagine it will,” Brode said. He placed a hand on her forehead. “But your fever has already broken. Do you feel better?”
She nodded.
“I think you’ll be fine,” Brode said. “In fact, with Ash’s magic, I think you’ll live a long and healthy life.”
This pleased her. She wiped her eyes and smiled. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Honored Rider,” her father corrected her. The blacksmith of the Crag blinked back his own tears then thanked each of them in turn. “I was wrong to doubt you. Thank you.”
Holt felt dizzy now. He swayed and only remained on his feet because Ash helped to steady him.
Brode joined them and helped prop Holt up as they walked.
“I have no idea how you did that Ash,” Brode said. “But it is very promising. And clearly your magic is manifesting. With any luck we can find new meats here at the fort and test the remaining schools.”
Ash yapped happily again.
“I don’t feel so good,” Holt said.
A sudden pain split his chest and the dragon bond seared as it had done back at the Crag. It was brief, but it was enough to push at its boundaries again. Through the strengthened bond, Holt heard the dragon song. It had changed. The tinny drumbeat was joined now by a lighter melodic layer, and the rhythm picked up as though the song had grown a new verse. As quickly as it came, it echoed off into nothingness.
Brode looked at him expectantly.
“I think… I think our bond just improved,” Holt said.
“That’s not surprising,” Brode said. “Quite the experience I’m sure, curing the blight and saving a young girl’s life.”
“I thought it only improved in combat?”
“That’s usually the way after the initial easy gains, but not the only one.”
“I don’t think I want to advance if I feel this badly each time.”
“You’ll get used to it, pot boy.” He slapped Holt on the back. “Come on.
We’ll make a rider of you yet.”
Though in pain, Holt held his head high as they made their way up the hill to Fort Kennet.
