Talon the Black (Dragonwall Series # 1)

Chapter 44 - Rumors in the North

Fort Squall

Davi wiped sweat from his brow. Squall's End was blistering hot, today more so than usual, as if the Gods were punishing them for the rising turmoil. And the humidity! How he longed for the blasted season to end. The air suffocated everything, leaving him to envy those further up north. Give him cold. Give him snow. Let it chill him to the bone.

Fortunately the sun was nearing the horizon. That was one small mercy. With its speedy departure the land would cool. He gazed out of his window to regard the waning light as it cast long shadows upon the world. It fled with the utmost haste.

He too was in a hurry. Returning his attention to a stack of letters, he flipped through the next few. Fear of the dead in Kelnia, corpses rising from their graves, corpses who dreaded only fire. Rumors of a Goag stalking the city of Arkland, he shuddered. A Goag was a mythical creature from Undirfold, twice as tall as any human, with giant curving horns and a gaunt skeletal body. He tossed that one away, shaking his head. Impossible. Nonetheless, he took note of the complaint on his list before turning to the next. Vodar wraiths spotted in Brambleton far north. This one held merit. The next claimed glowing green monsters floated across the marshes near Mistport, dead and undead simultaneously. Each letter was much the same, warning of strange but impossible occurrences. The trend was unsettling.

Finishing the last few lines of summarization, he quickly composed a message and folded it into a pocket sized square. Then he dropped hot wax onto the parchment and pressed his seal to it. When he pulled it away, the wax proudly displayed a coat of arms unique to his ancient clan, with a dragon wielding a sword atop a mountain of iron. The motto beneath the image was minuscule. It read, Jarnin eflai verus sterk. In the common tongue it translated to, "Iron makes us stronger." He and Reyr were some of the last traceable descendants from the great Iron Clan of old. Many died in the Ice Battles to the north, died defending their king and queen.

"Tomahs," he called. His page burst into the room, a young Drengr not yet fledged. "Deliver this to Marek. You know Marek?"

"I—I think so, my lord."

"Good. He is expecting it. Remind him to make haste. This letter must reach Northedge quickly. He leaves tonight. Hurry, catch him before he goes." The boy rushed forward, taking the letter and exiting his study. Leaning back in his chair, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. His mind was hungry for a moment of peace.

A wave of reassurance surged into him, calming his muscles and easing his tension. "These are frightful occurrences. You have done well, my love. Averaen is wise." Emmy's voice in his mind was welcome and soothing.

He sighed. "I hope he will have answers, my sweet. With the king busy to the south, and Reyr's visit uncertain, I must resort to my own devices."

He felt Emmy smile as if it were his own. "That is why you are our leader..." The thought was sent as a whisper, a confirmation, a testament to his abilities. His appreciation was immense. If there was one true blessing in this world, it was his mate.

Opening a desk drawer, he removed Reyr's letter, looking it over once more. The message merely confirmed much of what Reyr had told him during his short visit. Wild Dragons were indeed responsible for the burning of Belnesse. Worse still, they were under the command of an Asarlaí sorcerer by the name of Kane. Could this sorcerer be responsible for the strange, otherworldly occurrences? It was a possibility. He went through the list of measures each fort was expected to take, considering the undertakings in earnest.

Frustrated, he shook his head. The commands were not stringent enough, not nearly enough. Drengr on Drengr combat drills? Doubled patrols? Increased weaponry? None of these addressed the real issue, that of killing a wild dragon.