[Beastborne: Voracious] (Book 5) Chapter 21

Noth reached out, her heart breaking at the anguish in Hal’s voice.

“Look, Noth,” Mira said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Look!”

Blinking away tears, Nothricient looked with her eyes instead of her heart. It took her a moment to see through the pillar of golden-white flame that rose to the heavens around Hal.

No man should have been able to survive the onslaught, but somehow… Hal was. The silhouette inside was brought to its knees, the trio of High Draconic roars rang out from the bowl-shaped valley between the embracing arms of Frostmorn, the mountain that once held the two dragons.

But that wasn’t what Mira had pointed out. Hal surviving something impossible was not precisely new.

What was new, however, was how Hal seemed to glow brighter than the eye-straining brilliance of the dragons’ fire. Somehow, his brilliance dimmed the awesome light of their fiery breath until it looked like Hal was kneeling with purpose in the midst of shadow instead of bathed in blinding flames.

Noth struggled to understand what she was seeing.

Something within that shining brilliance lowered itself onto Hal’s head as if he was being crowned. Even through the spectacular light show, Noth could see the crown as clear as day. It looked like stars strung upon a golden thread.

Mira and Noth watched as the crown was laid upon his brow.

Looking at the dragons, their utmost might on display, Noth could see that they bore witness to the same event that Noth and Mira were. And they were just as surprised, but they had a task to perform and they did not falter for a second.

It took a great deal to impress or surprise dragons, and whatever was going on had done both to the father and daughter.

***

A pillar of light stretched to the heavens, obliterating the clouds of the Shiverglades and pressing them out into a clear circle of blue sky. For countless miles around the small fledgling settlement of Brightsong, the clouds were chased away.

In distant cities, the rain suddenly stopped, replaced by a shimmering light that revealed blue skies.

Across the Shiverglades the High Draconic roars of three dragons rolled out like a physical force, flattening grass and bending weak trees. Animals fled and trembled at the wall of sound.

The denizens of the Shiverglades looked to the sky, falling to their knees at the portend that washed over them.

Aleya Starsong, Warleader of the Ebon Star tribe, dropped her axe to the frost-encrusted grass and stared at the sky in awe.

She feared for her sister. “Oh, Elaise,” she whispered to the heavens, “what have you gotten yourself into?”

All across the Shiverglades, the twelve tribes of the Shiverglades witnessed the birth of a prophecy that many prayed they would see in their lifetime.

***

In a small, dank and chilly cave, the young Poisonheart guide heard the Trinic Call of the dragons and rose to his feet. The people he guided, outsiders one and all, called to him as he left the cave and climbed to the highest point he could reach to watch the sky wash away the clouds and replace it with empty blue.

The sound filled young Fenrir’s heart with joy and hope.

“It has begun,” he whispered as he fell to his knees and raised his hands palm-up in supplication.

Among all the tribes of the Shiverglades, the Poisonhearts clung to the Old Ways most of all. They remembered the Betrayal, the death of the thirteenth tribe that was forbidden to speak of.

The other tribes feared the Trinic Call, but not the Poisonhearts.

All would soon know the Brightking.

All ties would be broken, and young Fenrir, more intent than his elders to see his duty through, cast down his amulets of protection and picked himself up from the ground.

No Shadesblight could harm him while he followed the Brightking. And Fenrir intended to do nothing but that.

He stood, ignoring the shouting and calls behind him, and disappeared into the Shiverglades.

I will be the first to lay my life at the feet of the Brightking, he promised himself.

Forgiveness or damnation would be his.

Fenrir did not fear the beasts that would normally throng the frigid swamp, making even the most careful traveler fight for every mile they walked. Now they scurried to their holes and hollows, cowering from the prophecy made manifest.

Fenrir walked, defenseless, toward the pillar of light.

***

“Where the hell is he going?!” Hirash screamed. “Get back here! You have a duty. I know your people are bound by duties you agreed to!”

Even hidden as they were, Tristal had felt the dragons’ roar shiver through the very stones of the world. Such power.

Tuned into magic as she was, Tristal could feel it spread out far and wide. She would have felt magic on this scale back at her tower. Whatever was going on would attract all eyes to this backwater hellhole. A place that hadn’t been thought of by any important figures in living memory.

She didn’t know if it was Hal or not, but based on the dreamy, almost fearful expressions of both Kinslayers, Tristal guessed that this at least had something to do with the young Founder.

Why can nothing with this blasted boy be easy?

Tristal eased herself away from the Kinslayer. The woman’s face looked much more relaxed than she had been before her ministrations. She wasn’t lying about her meager healing abilities.

She had some capacity to heal, but the damage done to the Kinslayer was far beyond anything that she could do. All Tristal managed was to make her as comfortable as possible and tend to her more minor wounds so her exceptional powers could focus on the life-threatening ones.

Though it wasn’t obvious if her progress was from that powerful burst of magic that would likely be felt across the world. She hoped it didn’t have anything to do with Hal, but even as she thought it, she knew she was wrong.

Just what are you? she found herself thinking.

All eyes would be on the Shiverglades after a display of power like that. The Council would demand to know what was going on in Rinbast’s backyard. They might even demand to see firsthand to set their minds at ease.

It was far too early for such attention on the young Founder, and yet… here they were.

“We don’t have much time to act,” Tristal told the Kinslayers.

“Her Beast is slain,” the large Kinslayer rumbled only when Hirash had exited the cave, chasing after their guide and shouting. At least he hadn’t been stupid enough to cast magic at the man. That would bring all sorts of beasts down on them.

“That is bad, I’m guessing.”

“It is… unheard of,” the Kinslayer told her. “They do not die easily. Perhaps it will be reformed. Perhaps not. No matter what, she is weakened considerably. She should return to Fallwreath.”

“No,” said the young woman lying on her back. She struggled to lift herself up to her elbows. “You said you needed our help. If my… affliction makes you doubt my prowess, don’t. I am still strong enough to kill everybody here, even without my Beast.”

Tristal raised her hands in a calming motion. She pitched her voice low and kept an eye on the entrance to the cave. “Then I suggest we go. Now. While Hirash is preoccupied. Whatever that just was will bring the focus of every powerful leader in the world to this place. We need to get there first, or Hal is going to be crushed into a fine paste.”

She looked at the silent form of the big hulking lamora accompanying the Kinslayers, then back at the other two. “Are you sure you want to do this? Once we flee, there will be no going back. Hirash will know of your betrayal and that means—”

The large Kinslayer put a large powerful hand on her shoulder. It was disquieting how it swallowed her entire joint without effort. “Yes,” he rumbled, “we know it means Rinbast will learn of our treachery. But it will take time. This event will cause chaos. We can use it to our advantage.”

Tristal snorted a laugh. “I’ve never heard you speak so much in one go. You have a nice voice.”

Her compliment had a surprising effect. Instead of grimacing as she would have expected, the Kinslayer blushed and ducked his head, taking his hand from her shoulder.

“Up you get then,” Tristal said, sending a thrum of power through to the woman Kinslayer. It was a temporary measure, an illusion of sorts that would allow her to use all of her faculties, but only for a short while.

It was not a heal, but an illusion of sorts. Making her forget the pain and injuries. Overused, it could kill a person without them ever realizing. It was a risk Tristal was willing to take. While the Kinslayer talked a big game, she didn’t believe her one bit. They would need every advantage to get through this damnable swamp without a guide.

Not that I’d tell her that, she added to herself.

With a quick look outside of the cave to check that the coast was clear, Tristal led the two Kinslayers and their silent lamoran bodyguard out into the frigid green wastes.

It was time to confront the young Founder.

They could hear Hirash in the distance. He’d try to track them down, but a simple use of her [Silver Kol’thil] made it easy to disguise their passage. Even Hirash’s magic wouldn’t be able to pierce that veil for days, and by then the ever-present monsters of the Shiverglades would likely disguise their passage for them.

Tristal would have liked things to go a little more smoothly than the way they were, but her mama had always told her to roll with the punches.

She just wished they’d stop for a moment to let her breathe.

***

Far to the north in the legendary Anvil, the dwarf king, Dothar Windless was deeply unsettled. He’d just received word from his spies to the south that a gathering of exiles had been spotted leaving Murkmire en masse. Many still lived in the disgusting human Sanctum, but not any of its leaders.

Of that traitorous brat, Durvin, there had been no sign for weeks. They had been so close to capturing him and his whole bloody band of shale-spined cowards!

Nobody knew where they had gone exactly, but there was one word on everybody’s lips: Shiverglades.

That was too far out of his grasp for his liking. The exiles should have been put to the sword, but they had managed to narrowly escape that fate.

Did somebody tip them off? It was too much of a coincidence. Best to put all agents in Murkmire to the Question of Stone. Best to be safe than sorry.

There were too many stories of dwarven kings returning from exile with greater support from others who had been wronged by the new ruler to reclaim their birthright. Dothar would not have it. The Windless were the rulers of the Anvil and therefore all of dwarfdom.

But his day was about to get much worse.

A Trinic Call rattled his throne across the silvered floor of the throne room. Dwarfs, typically quiet and somber, yelled and roared with fear and rage commingling as they recognized the terrifying sound for what it was.

Many races throughout the history of Aldim had prophecies and sayings about the coming of the Trinic Call, the singular cry of three dragons in perfect unison, and none of them were good.

Dragons were natural enemies of the dwarves. They both coveted gold and jewels after all, and there was only ever room for one greedy and gluttonous race on Aldim.

Worse, there was no mistaking the direction of the Call. It had come through the throne room like a visible tide of sound from the south.

“The Shiverglades,” Dothar said into his black beard brimming with golden jewels. He slammed a fist onto the stone throne so hard that it made a disconcerting crack. He looked for his advisor.

The old dwarf, who at first seemed weak and frail, was by his side in a twinkling. You didn’t survive at advisor to the throne through three bloody succession wars without being good at your job.

Dothar didn’t trust him. He trusted nothing from the previous rulers, but neither was he stupid. And to not use an asset before you was the height of idiocy.

“Yer Majesty?” his advisor spoke softly as the Anvil rumbled with the resonance of the Trinic Call.

“Blow the bloody forge,” Dothar cursed. “By Mornhammer, I want those… those exiles found and brought back. Do you understand?”

The old dwarf scratched his impressive snow-white beard. “Are ye sure that is wise, yer Majesty? The Anvil still be unrestful. And they are exiles, as yer well aware. Punishment enough for any good Anvil dwarf.”

“I do not care,” Dothar said sharply. He had long ago hammered out any hint of dwarven accent from his voice and he did his best to bring in city dwarves who had lost theirs naturally. How it grated that his advisor still spoke so thickly and stupidly! This was why the Anvil had lost its luster, and why the humans were replacing them!

He wouldn’t have it.

Kazadu Forgecaller had been an advisor for long enough to understand the moods of his sire. He nodded and scurried from the halls as fast as his 700-year-old bones would allow.

And, because he was a dwarf, that was quite fast.

Dust and soot shook free from the walls and ceilings of the Anvil, dwarves running every which way, Kazadu slipped away from the royal hall and made his way through the warrens of back rooms and tunnels until he reached a room hidden so carefully that you’d never know it was there if you hadn’t seen it built yer damn self.

Checking to make sure not a soul was watching, he placed a hand on the unremarkable length of smoothed stone. The name he used as a password to unlock and reveal the door was forbidden to speak in the Anvil, but every time he spoke it, Kazadu felt like music had returned to these ancient halls.

“Durvin Steelheart.” The rightful heir to the Anvil.

A thin crack appeared and traced its way into a rectangle as the door appeared with a thin wash of light from the runes branded upon its face. The slab of stone swung inward without a sound and swung back as soon as he stepped through.

The room was sparse but filled with things he could not—would not—destroy. The coat-of-arms for the Steelhearts, various weapons and gifts that the king and prince had given him. These were Kazadu’s most prized possessions.

But there was one, above all, that Kazadu swore to Durvin’s father that he would not use unless there was no other option. Kazadu knew Dothar’s mind. He would call for the Rusthounds to be sent after Durvin and the remnants of his clan still loyal to him, whatever name they might now be using.

They were in more danger than ever before, and the Trinic Call only made the situation that much worse. This might be just what Dothar was looking for, an excuse to completely wipe the Steelhearts from the memory of the Anvil.

“Over me dead body,” he muttered as he picked up the massive diamond that glittered and shone with its own light. Kazadu spoke softly into the diamond, committing the highest treason with a smile on his weathered features.