A bead of sweat ran from Holt’s temple into his eye. He blinked, then rubbed it away. Another pale, sickly hand touched his own. Light flashed from his palm, and he gasped as the dragon bond gave its first tremble.
A sea of the infected had pressed into the street. All sense of cohesion had long been abandoned. And Holt’s strength waned. Even Ash staggered away from his latest patient.
Holt took stock. They hadn’t yet managed to cure all those from the Crag that they could, never mind the countless others in sight. Ash’s core had dimmed in his inner vision. It would make better sense to leave, rest, eat, Cleanse and Forge and return later. He’d keep at it, night and day, until they were all cured if he had to. Get as many as he could out into the main city before the swarm arrived.
“Ash and I must go now,” he called out. “We’ll return, I promise—” But he broke off as a clamor of protest arose. It was no use trying to make himself heard now.
Those capable of walking rushed or shambled toward him, bearing resemblance to the ghouls they might become if not cured.
Ash backed up, and through the bond he felt the dragon’s sensory assault and confusion.
Holt gritted his teeth. Even coming back fresh wouldn’t help with the greatest problem, the sheer volume of people. Curing them one by one was too slow.
What he needed was a way to spread the lunar magic out. What he needed was to learn his new ability that the rank of Ascendant allowed. Yet
Talia had her own battles to attend to.
He could try to do it himself.
Brode’s voice reasserted itself. You think with your heart over your mind.
Trying out new magic on his own was not wise, but the situation was desperate. And he had to try. Had to.
His father’s voice replaced Brode’s. Help the others.
Whether wise or not, those words drove him now. If he did not follow them, then all he’d done would be for nothing. His father’s death would be for nothing. Besides, Talia had helpfully forced him to torture himself in order to set up the mote channels to one leg already.
Ash roared and the crowd took a cautious step or two back. “Let me try something,” he said to Ash.
Then he drew upon the dragon core and guided the magic down to his leg, through the wider channel he had carved out. Now he tried this, he understood at least in part why this ability worked through the legs. Just as more blood flowed to those larger limbs, so too was this mote channel larger. He could push more magic down to his lower body than through his arms. The bond grew taut as he drew on Ash’s light, a sign he was pushing himself.
He only had the technique used to form a Lunar Shock to base this on, so he began gathering lunar power loosely at his heel and sole. He struggled to maintain it, felt the heat begin to rise to uncomfortable levels as the power threatened to burst out of him.
No, he thought in alarm. Not like that.
Letting the magic rush out in force would cause damage. Charged Lunar Shocks had blown the Wyrm Cloaks clean off their feet. His magic wasn’t gentle enough to heal unless he made it so. But with so much magic rushing down to his leg he had a much harder time controlling it.
It took everything he had not to let it blast out. His leg began to shake, and he had a sudden horrifying image of blasting scores of innocent people high into the air.
Folk at the front of the crowd started to sense something was wrong. They tried to back away but couldn’t get far while those behind were still keen to push forward.
“Ash, I can’t hold it!”
Ash maneuvered himself in front of Holt, shielding the people. Lunar magic boiled in his leg, eager to break free. At last, he had an idea. When Talia had sent out her Flamewave against the blighted hounds she had stamped her foot, which likely aided in blasting the power outward. He couldn’t control the power well enough to make it gentle and healing, but he could at least direct it. What if he pushed it into the ground instead? Or as much of it as he could. That’s how it worked from his hand, not a blast but a push. That might blunt its effect and spare the people from his foolishness.
He could not hold on a second longer. Holt pressed his foot hard into the cobblestones, and kept pressing, hard enough to crack a piece with his newfound strength.
The magic left him, exiting down at his behest instead of blasting outward. Holt gasped, both from letting the magic go and thinking he’d averted a crisis. But that wasn’t the end of it. He stared bug-eyed at the ground as jagged white lines criss-crossed over the street, radiating out from his foot. They sped out, creating a shining web underfoot until they stretched for ten feet in all directions.
Ash took up a great deal of space in front of him, but his botched magic slithered under the feet of refugees to his left, right and behind.
People cried, yelped as though burned. Holt’s heart stopped, then skipped a beat. He couldn’t breathe. What had he done?
“Am… am cured! Cured me he has!”
Holt twisted around so quickly in search of the voice that his neck cricked.
“Same,” squealed a woman. “Oh same, Honored Rider.” “The blight’s gone from my arm.”
“Mine too!”
Stunned, hardly able to take it in, Holt found his breath again as every person standing on the lunar infused stone claimed the blight had been lifted. They all tried to show him their healed skin.
Beneath their feet, the white web of lines still glowed. “Move off,” Holt called. “Let others take your place.”
There was a great deal of shoving and jostling, but he picked an infected old man out from the crowd to watch and study the effect. The man stumbled in his haste and fell onto the street. As his hands touched the shining stone, white-purple wisps of flame – they weren’t quite flames, but
it was the best he could conceive of them – licked up, and within seconds the green scaled skin on the old man’s cheek healed.
Just as Holt started to feel excited, the lunar magic in the ground winked out. The temporary power of the magic vanished, yet the stones retained a white scarring.
Holt checked on his bond. It had taken a hit from that ability – Talia had been quite right that these wider area techniques put far more strain upon the bond. As a fresh Ascendant his bond strength would be on the lower end to boot. Still, he ought to push it. Not quite to the point of fraying but this would mean hundreds more lives could be saved.
Ash got himself out of the way, continuing to help individuals while Holt gathered magic and pressed his foot into the street for a second time. As before, the same white light scratched its way over the cobbles, curing the blight as it went.
The ground must blunt the power enough to allow it to heal, Holt thought.
The refugees shuffled again, and he performed the magic for a third time.
“I’ll need a name for this,” he said to Ash. “How about Lunar Quake?” “I don’t like it.”
“How come?”
“It sounds… uninspired.”
“You were fine with Lunar Shock.” “That has a ring to it.”
Holt frowned. “How about Lunar Web?” “That’s even worse!”
“Fine. I’ll think on it,” Holt said.
Despite himself, despite his failure of hours ago, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Seeing dozens of people cured did not banish the pain of his father’s death, but it did help to numb it.
He was just about to repeat the process when Ash growled. The dragon faced back down the street in the direction he and Holt had come. His ears pricked.
“Men in steel cages are coming,” Ash said. “They are calling for you.”
Holt broke off and faced down the street himself. He couldn’t see anything over the sea of people, but a ripple of unease wound its way
through the crowd, silencing them, until those at the back began to part. A coarse voice could then be heard.
“Master Cook! Present yourself.”
Holt did not like the tone of the summons but couldn’t see what harm there would be. Likely the envoys had been sent to track him down and drag him back for some war counsel, as though he had any idea of battle preparations.
Ash stood beside him, his head low to the ground. “I don’t like the smell of them.”
As the crowd parted, the group came into clearer view. They were largely regular guards although there were a lot of them. About twenty men in all and leading them was a duo in stronger plate mail. Over their plate they wore charcoal gray tabards emblazoned with a blue falcon.
“Rider!” one of the duo called.
“There’s his dragon,” the other cried, pointing to Ash.
Holt moved to meet them. Ash followed by his side, planting his front claws hard into the ground. They stopped twenty paces from each other, the refugees giving them all a wide berth.
Holt looked the leading men up and down. He could see little of them for bandannas covered their nose and mouths to ward off infection. Both had the same dirty blonde hair; one in a lush mane the other short and wild.
The rest of the guards wore bandannas too. They carried crossbows and spears, like the Wyrm Cloaks had, only less specialized.
Holt’s hand twitched for his sword. He couldn’t imagine them wanting to pick a fight with a rider but why else bring the crossbows?
“Here I am,” Holt said.
The duo both cocked their heads.
“By order of his majesty, Osric Agravain—” the first began. “—you are under arrest,” finished the second.
Holt looked between them, then to the guards. The duo didn’t blink; the guards were less assured but seemed resolved to follow their orders.
“I think there has been some mistake.” “Your true name is known,” one said. “Your rank too, commoner,” said the other. “And I do not know yours,” Holt said.
“I am Eadwulf,” said the first. “My brother is Eadwald.” “The Twinblades of House Harroway,” they said together.
“Harroway…” Holt muttered. Now their aggression made more sense.
Holt considered his options. If he went quietly perhaps this would all be sorted out at the palace, and if they tried to ambush him on the way, well, they’d regret it.
“Am I to know the reason for my arrest?” “Thievery, fraud, and breach of rank.”
Holt clenched his jaw. “I’m a dragon rider.” “You are not,” Eadwulf said.
“You’ve sworn no oath,” said Eadwald.
“An outlaw,” Eadwulf carried on. “Let it be known,” he raised his voice for the crowd, “this boy is a commoner of the westerlands, who stole a dragon. He is to be brought before the king’s justice.”
“The regent you mean,” a brave voice said from the crowd. “No true king would leave us here to starve!”
“This boy’s been helping us,” called another. Still others were not as friendly.
“He refused to cure me but did for others!”
“If the blight is too strong there is nothing I can do,” Holt called out, hoping they would hear him.
“Cures my daughter but not me,” a woman shrieked. “How is she to live on her own?”
A cold feeling sunk through Holt’s stomach. How was the girl indeed?
He hadn’t known but he’d only been trying to help. “Chaos bringer!” someone shouted. Others joined in.
Holt’s heart picked up. He heard his father’s last rasping breath again and again in his mind.
“Deceiver!”
The crowd had split into two sections now. Those in favor of Holt and those not.
Ash growled and bared his teeth.
“How can they hate you when you’ve tried to save them?” Ash asked.
“Because it’s all they know.”
Talia said Harroway disliked the Order. Yet here were his men ardently defending its honor. Brode had been right yet again. Nobles like Harroway feared those more powerful, but what they feared above all was people below them gaining it.
“Your name,” Eadwulf demanded.
Holt stepped forward. “Cook,” he said defiantly. “Holt Cook.” The Twinblades stepped forward as one.
“You admit to your crimes?” Eadwulf asked. “If saving a life is a crime, then yes.”
Ash braced himself and thunked his tail threateningly upon the street. The guards with crossbows raised their weapons.
“You don’t want to fight,” Holt said. Although a part of him sought it. A part that wanted to break the world for robbing him of his father. Cleansing techniques helped in more ways than one, and Holt steadied his breath, remaining as calm as he could be. “I may not legally be a rider, but I have the powers of one.”
As though Holt’s words had fallen on deaf ears the second brother, Eadwald, said, “Surrender your sword, Cook. One of your rank does not have permission to carry arms in public.”
Several people from the Crag ran out in front of Holt then. People he had cured. Mr. Monger, Mrs. Baker, Miss. Furrier, Master Tanner, two kitchenhands and even old Mr. Cobbler stepped forward to shield him.
Eadwulf and Eadwuld both drew throwing knives from their belts. “Part,” said Eadwulf.
“To shield the outlaw is to be guilty yourselves,” said Eadwald. “We ain’t going nowhere,” Mr. Monger said bravely.
“Don’t,” Holt pleaded, “I’ll go to the palace if I must. But not with you,” he added to the Twinblades.
“You will come with us, Master Cook.” “Or we shall punish them for your crimes.”
Holt found it harder to maintain his cool. “If you hurt him, hurt any of them I’ll—”
“Surrender your sword,” the Twinblades said as one.
Holt checked on the bond. It wasn’t in a good state but good enough to take this lot.
“Ready when you are,” Ash said.
Holt very nearly attacked. Then he sighed and unstrapped his sword belt. He and Ash may well win, but how would killing a score of guards look? And it would only take one thrown knife, one stray bolt and innocents would be dead. Enough people had suffered for his actions already.
Holt stepped between the people of the Crag, nodding to let them know it was okay, and threw his belt and scabbard at the feet of the Twinblades.
The Twinblades looked to each other, nodded, and once again stepped closer until they were only an arm’s length from Holt. Their eyes flashed in triumph. Eadwulf picked up Holt’s sword while Eadwald spoke.
“Kneel, criminal.” “I won’t.”
“Kneel, or have others pay your price.” “Holt…” Mr. Monger said weakly.
“It’s okay,” Holt said, getting down on his knees. “Keep my father safe for me. Talia will set things right.” He looked up to the Twinblades. “You’re making a mistake.”
Eadwulf rose, Holt’s belt and scabbard in one hand. “Say your name.” “Holt.”
“Your role?” Eadwald asked. “Dragon rider.”
Eadwulf struck Holt’s face with a backhanded blow. Holt rolled with the strike, finding it didn’t hurt much. “Your name,” Eadwulf demanded.
“Holt Cook,” he said louder. “Your role?” Eadwald asked.
“Dragon rider,” Holt said, louder still. Another back handed blow from Eadwulf.
“Do that again and I’ll break your hand,” Holt said. The Twinblades laughed.
“The pup barks,” Eadwulf said. “Do we believe him?”
“Nay, brother.”
“Your name?” Eadwulf asked.
“Holt—” Eadwulf struck before Holt finished. The Twinblade raised his fist again. “Your name?”
“Holt Cook!” Holt bellowed. This time he caught Eadwulf’s fist inches from his face.
He held the man at bay with ease, able to squeeze, pull and twist hard if he wished. But he wouldn’t risk more lives. The Twinblades had the measure of him. He was about to let go when he noticed Eadwald pull out a small vial of dark red liquid and drain it.
Before Holt could react, Eadwald’s fist met the side of his head. He imagined this was what being hit by a frying pan must feel like. Colors
flashed, and his vision swam as he collapsed.
Ash roared, scraped his talons off the stone and Holt felt the bond pick up its beat. He had just enough wit left to communicate to the dragon,
“Don’t do anything, boy. We must keep the others safe.” “Holt…”
“It’s okay—” But his thought was broken by a blow to his stomach. All his breath rushed out of him; his ribs and head ached. Pain exploded in his back next and the offending foot drove in for a second time. Holt rolled over, taking more blows. He spat blood.
Through the pain, he turned all his focus to the bond and to Ash. As long as Ash was there, he could weather any storm.
When the Twinblades were finished, they heaved him upright. “Take that bag off him.”
His satchel with the recipe book was wrested from him and dropped onto the cobblestones. The final insult made, they began dragging him through the streets.
