Holt remained kneeling on the dirt and damp of the forest floor. He’d felt weak enough even before the exertions of the battle. Now he fought to stay conscious. Thankfully, a faint beat let him know the bond had not frayed. But if they got into another fight now, and he drew on any more magic, it would fray for sure. Then he’d be useless. Still, the bond had burned hot during the skirmish, meaning its strength must have developed due to the battle. Time would tell.
“Is anybody hurt?” Brode called.
Groaning, Holt struggled to his feet. “I’m okay…” he trailed off as he took in the aftermath of their battle for the first time. Bodies. Men and women. Torn cloaks. And blood. Everywhere blood. He’d had the fortune to pass out at Midbell. At the Crag they’d been burning or covered in ash.
Holt had killed some of these people.
He retched. Bile coated his mouth and he coughed, and spat, desperate to be rid of the taste. Bent double, he gasped only to suck in the sticky air of the Withering Woods.
Brode was by his side then. “You’re all right,” he said, heaving Holt upright and pulling him into a rare embrace. “You’re all right.”
Holt sobbed. Tears rolled before he could stop himself, and he pressed his face hard into Brode’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
“You’re all right,” Brode said again, patting Holt’s back. “You did well.
Very well.”
Holt gulped, trying to control himself.
“They wanted to kill you,” Brode said. “They weren’t nice people. They wanted to kill you and skin Ash. You’re all right.”
Holt’s heart began to subside. His breathing settled.
After what seemed a long time, he righted himself and pulled back from Brode.
“Ash got hit,” he said, still half-dazed.
He searched for the dragon and quickly found him closer to Pyra and Talia. By the time they caught up, Pyra’s legs finally gave up supporting her weight. She sunk to the ground with a heavy thud.
“There are so many,” Talia said as she yanked out another bolt lodged in Pyra. She inspected the arrowhead then tilted it to show Brode. “Looks specially hardened.”
Brode picked up one of the crossbows. “Heavier poundage than I’ve seen before. Mechanical crank. Superior to a standard military issue.”
Pyra groaned and slowly blinked her big amber eyes. “Is it poison?” Holt asked.
“A numbing agent,” said Brode. “A potent one and extremely difficult to acquire. A lot of time and money is spent by these zealots preparing for just one attack.”
“Only they couldn’t have been preparing for us specifically,” Holt said. “No… not for us,” Brode said. Whatever he was brooding on, he
seemed to push it to one side for now. “I’ll take the bolts out of Ash.” “He’s my dragon,” Holt said. “I’ll do it.”
“That poison can affect a dragon the size of Pyra,” Brode said. “Do you want to find out what it will do to your unenhanced body if you accidentally cut yourself?”
Holt’s next words died in his throat. He’d rather not find out. Plus, Talia seemed to be heaving with a great effort with a bolt stuck fast in Pyra’s haunch. If they were hard to remove, Holt certainly didn’t have the strength. He knew when to back down.
“Fine,” he said but he stood by Ash’s side anyway. “For moral support.” Brode knelt to inspect the two wounds on the dragon. “This will hurt.”
He grasped the first bolt and pulled hard. Ash yowled and dug his talons into the earth.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Brode said. Holt blinked in confusion then realized Ash must be speaking to him privately. “We made it through… don’t worry… you’ll get better with practice.”
On his last words, Brode pulled the second bolt free. Ash growled and his neck drooped from relief. Nearby, Pyra stifled a cry of pain. Talia had removed the final shaft.
“Everyone catch their breath,” Brode said, “while I decide what to do.
Keep those ears peeled Ash.”
As Brode moved off to inspect the body of the red cloaked cultist, Holt rubbed Ash’s neck. The dragon stretched out his limbs as though waking from a deep sleep.
“Is that better?”
“So much better.”
“What was that between you and Brode?”
“I wanted to say sorry for missing my first shot.”
Holt was taken aback. “Why apologize for that?”
Ash groaned, a deep rumble in his gullet. “I want to say sorry to you too.”
“For what?” The answer sprung to him; the moment in the fight when he’d been flat on his back, the cultist poised to stab him – Ash had missed with his lunar beams. “Don’t worry about that.”
“You nearly died.”
“But I didn’t.”
He pulled Ash in for a one-armed hug, but the dragon shrugged him off.
“And if I’d managed to hit Brode’s target, Pyra’s fire would have killed the one with the screechy voice.”
“I fumbled gathering my own Shock. I wasn’t much help either.” Ash was not placated.
“I didn’t hit anything I meant to.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re bli—” Holt didn’t know why he cut himself off. Admitting it felt somewhat harsh, even if it was the truth. Admitting it always felt like a stone dropping through his gut.
“A dragon should overcome challenges,” Ash said, more fiercely than usual. “To fail is shameful.”
Holt grabbed Ash’s head and pulled him down to look him directly in the eye. Those milky-ice-blue eyes. Perhaps he was wrong to try and avoid the subject. If he tiptoed around the issue then Ash might too, and whatever inherited memories he had were making him feel bad enough already. Holt decided not to dance around it anymore, to face it head on, both the good and the bad. For there was definite good in it as well.
“Ash, we’d likely have all been caught off guard and killed if you hadn’t heard them coming. You saved us.”
Ash growled but the sound was lighter than before.
“And like Brode said, you can practice hitting a target. You’ll get better.
But you could never have trained to have hearing like yours.”
Ash’s growl turned to a hearty rumble. He gently pressed his snout forward toward Holt’s face, just like they’d done when he was a new hatchling. Holt pressed his forehead against Ash’s snout, feeling the vibrations rumble from his throat. Warmth, joy and an unspoken thanks passed through the bond.
“I will think on your words.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Brode called, “but I think we should move on.”
Holt parted from Ash to find Brode squatting by a blue cloaked halberdier. He’d pulled the cloak aside to reveal the man wore plate armor. That was even more unusual than wearing chain mail. Only distinguished soldiers had access to plate armor: specialized shock troops trained from birth, heavy cavalry, high born commanders, knights or the riders themselves.
“Are these cultists noblemen?” Holt asked.
“Some of them may be,” Brode said. “A fanatic can come from anywhere. But they all have it, the front-line fighters I mean.”
“I didn’t realize Wyrm Cloaks were so well equipped,” Talia said. She was still close to Pyra, her arm wrapped over the base of the dragon’s neck.
“Aside from their cloaks, they rarely are,” Brode said.
Holt went to the closest dead halberdier and bent to inspect the cloak. The name Talia and Brode used for the cultists strongly suggested what they were made of, but he wanted to confirm it for himself. He ran a hand over the cloak and found it rough as stone, as rough in fact as Ash’s scales.
“Dragon hide,” Holt said. Whatever the cultists did to make these cloaks, it made the hide about as light as leather without losing its toughness. He reached inside and found a couple of vials he’d seen the cultists take out during the fight. Taking one out, he found its contents to be a red so dark it was almost black.
“That’s dragon blood,” Talia said, sounding as disgusted as Holt felt. “And they drink this?” Holt asked.
“It’s how they can keep up with us,” Brode said. “For a time.”
Holt dropped the vial, though holding it had left a bad taste in his mouth. “I don’t understand. You said they worshipped dragons? Why would they kill them and skin them and—” Just the thought of drinking that blood made him want to vomit again.
“They call themselves the Shroud,” Brode said. “But we call them Wyrm Cloaks – keeps their crimes clear. You saw firsthand what effective protection their cloaks grant.”
“Even against magic,” Holt said.
“Dragon hide repels magic well enough,” Brode said, “but it almost entirely negates magic of its own type.”
“That’s why those with the red cloaks came for me,” Talia said. “Too well coordinated by half.”
Holt was disgusted. “So, they go around killing dragons for their scales?”
“What they want, Holt, is for dragons to rule over humans.” “But – What? – Why?”
Brode shrugged. “Broadly there is a feeling that this would end all human suffering – squabbles between kingdoms would end because there would be no kingdoms. Humanity would be united under dragon rulership. The scourge would be destroyed by the might of the flights.”
“But dragon riders fight the scourge,” Holt said. “If they worship dragons why kill them too? It makes no sense.”
“I didn’t say their logic was sound,” said Brode. “In their eyes, we weak humans don’t revere dragons enough and that’s why the wild flights keep to themselves. They hope that in destroying the Order, the wild flights will emerge and take their rightful place as our overlords.”
“They’re insane,” Talia said.
Holt bit his lip. The cultists – the Wyrm Cloaks – probably were insane but they seemed to be a real threat. Given the fact they all had dragon hide cloaks, it must mean they had killed plenty of dragons.
“So why were they here if they are all about hunting riders?”
“That’s what I’d like to find out,” Brode said. “A group this size, this well-equipped, deep inside a decaying forest in a small kingdom at the edge of the world where riders aren’t likely to come by—”
“We shouldn’t get distracted,” Talia said. “We have a mission already.”
Brode nodded in the direction the cultists came from. “Their camp must be close. They arrived quickly after Holt’s display with the trees.”
“What if there are reinforcements?” Talia asked.
“Their leader ran east,” Brode said. “They came from the north. If there was hope of help back there for him, I think he’d have retreated that way instead.”
“South east is where we should be going,” Talia said. “To Sidastra. To deal with Harroway, if we must and save my uncle… the kingdom, I mean.” “Good catch,” Brode said. “But you just said it. Harroway.” He picked
up one of the halberds and made a show of examining it. “These are fine weapons, not of a standard make either. At the level of craftsmanship of the Feorlen military, wouldn’t you say?”
Talia picked one up too and tested it. She nodded.
“And how easy would it be for anyone other than a soldier to acquire such weaponry?” Brode asked rhetorically. “Harder than it was for Master Cook here to take even a dragon egg I’d wager.”
Holt frowned but he sensed where this was going. Even if the cultists – whoever they were – had the funds to buy such weapons and armor from a smith, they would draw the immediate attention of the local authorities. A baker, a weaver, a wick, a brewer; all would raise suspicion. The smiths would likely be too suspicious to sell them anything in the first place, unless the cultists could imitate a knight.
“They could have stolen them,” Talia suggested.
“So many at once? Without raising a single alarm from Sidastra to the Crag?”
“They might have their own smiths,” she said.
“One or two of their chapters may have a smith,” Brode said. “But generally, they pillage materials. Their equipment is often patchy at best.”
Talia opened her mouth again then closed it. Brode’s theory was too neat to be easily dismissed. As Master of War, Lord Harroway would have been able to supply the Wyrm Cloaks. Yet direct evidence for his involvement, if any, surely would not be so easy to uncover.
Talia apparently thought the same. “Harroway is a careful man.” “That doesn’t mean all his underlings are as vigilant,” said Brode.
“He was only recently made Master of War,” Talia said. “You know I’d be the last person to defend him, Master Brode, but it seems too quick.”
“Perhaps these Wyrm Cloaks came from outside of Feorlen?” Holt said. “It’s possible,” Brode said. “Even more reason to know what they were doing here. If we don’t find the camp soon, we’ll carry on. But I feel this
could lead us to a link between Silas, the cultists, Harroway and his cabal and everything else that’s gone wrong. Plus, a well-supplied camp means food.”
Ash predictably perked up at that.
Holt still felt like there was some intrigue raised by the cultists he wanted to ask about; something the leader had said to Pyra. It was on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach of his tired mind.
Before he could recall it, Talia nodded her ascent to Brode’s plan, and the old rider strode past them.
“Leave the dead as they are,” Brode said. “We can’t afford the smoke.”
