Page 26

Chapter

Twenty-Five

DAGHEL

I do not look at the gathered gathol as I lead my female out to the assembly, the spot where all coordinated flights take off from the various rookeries along the peaks. There is a thrum of excitement among the wyverns as the gathols look to me expectantly. Several are mated with a female, and I feel a burst of pride at the sight of them standing between their mates. Among the females there are many more orcs than there are humans, but I am saddened to see that their total number together still only belong to a third of the regiment.

“Vorn is interfering with the ability of the gathols to mate,” Drisk informs me along our connection, catching the direction of where my thoughts rest. “Some wyverns have informed me that he keeps them far from the villages and only transporting warriors such as we were assigned to do, allowing only the briefest contact with females and only in well-guarded company. They see our wyva and they yearn.”

My mouth tightens grimly. This situation is unthinkable. Gathols have been among our prized and cherished, lauded for what they sacrifice for the clans. All I ever wanted to be in my youth was part of a gathol and yet now our kind is being forced to the precipice of extinction by Vorn’s selfish whims. He and his supporters do not consider what they will do when the last of us are gone. And while they can sacrifice young males to the duties and seek to constrain him with their laws and regulations, without mating, the wyverns will eventually disappear from our clans. The chances of another like Drisk coming from the depths of the mountains is so rare that his presence is looked to by the clan with a certain amount of respect and pride despite their considerable fear of him.

My gaze skims over the males and females that I will be flying with, and their gazes meet mine with trepidatious respect. Drisk hums behind me and the other wyverns take up the hum, their throats expanding as an energy flows through all of us, connecting us. Ajek stands at my other side, his expression tight with obvious distaste.

“All right, knock it off,” he barks as is strides forward into the gathol circle, cutting a sharp look at Drisk. The wyvern shows his teeth and the general’s gaze whips away to scowl furiously at the others. “This is not a social gathering. Over the next weeks, days, months, or years, you will be on daily maneuvers, scouring every inch of Fang Peaks. Because Vorn is not without kindness, there will be a rotation of four days on and one day off. We are charged with locating any encampments of any rebellious factions that would attempt to destroy the fabric of the Cold Fang Clan.”

“What about Gehl?” a grizzled orc demands, gently brushing off the small hands of his human mate as she urgently grabs at his arm in an attempt to silence him. “Gathols have always had the days of Gehl free with the rest of the villagers, to spend days of merriment with our families.”

“Fuck Gehl,” Ajek barks.

The gathol exchange glances and an unhappy grumble goes up among them. A young wyvern barks, throwing up a small ball of fire harmlessly into the air at his bonded’s displeasure. Ajek whirls toward him and launches his javelin at the male. It spins with a deadly speed, impacting the young wyvern with a chilling thud as it burrows into the sensitive spot between the thick muscles of his chest and neck. The male collapses and the sound of anguish coming from his bonded—a lone orc barely twenty summers old—as he drops to his knees to drag the wyvern’s head into his lap pierces me with pain. It does so with such violence that my right hand curls furiously into a tight fist at my side. Damned Ajek and his cruelty. The wyvern’s body heaves and flops in its death throes, vomiting and spilling blood even as his bonded clings to his head in an attempt to hold him to him and calm him while the spark of fire slowly fades and dies within the wyvern’s eyes.

A hush falls over the gathol, and Ajek straightens with a hard smile as he glances among them. “Any more dissenters who wish to betray Vorn’s kindness? As merciful as our prince is, his retribution is swift.”

Several of the gathol shake their heads in response, but they glower heavily as their mates frown at their sides. Unanimous agreement. None will contest. None wish for an outright war against their clan and families.

It would only take the smallest push from the right person at the right moment. Ajek’s actions will ripple through the clan as word spreads—and it will spread—and eventually it will be the spark of the fire that I need to bring Palace Peak down on Vorn’s head.

“You could do it now,” a hiss of a whisper plays on the wind, the deadly coldness of it prickling my skin.

I cautiously glance around so as to not draw attention, wariness tightening my muscles. Although it has never spoken to me, the sinuous creep of ice in the air pulses with an altogether far too familiar and unwelcome presence.

“Break his neck. It would take little effort, especially with my power flowing through you. I make you stronger, do I not?” it murmurs as if in afterthought. “With my strength, you can keep your mate happy and safe. Do you think Vorn will allow you to continue to live thusly? He will use you and then destroy everything that you love in front of you to utilize the last bit of you in your grief. You must not allow it. Destroy them all. With me you can.”

I shudder at the temptation within those words. Whatever evil the darkness may or may not be, it is not wrong in this, which makes its offer difficult to resist. From the corner of my left eye, I see it moving in a sinuous fashion as it creeps over the stonework of the assembly. It is like a predator prowling along the stones, preparing to pounce, the abyssal void of its eyes drifting over Ajek and the gathol before turning toward me to burn me with their ice-fire.

I close my eyes tightly, refusing to meet its gaze, refusing its access to me as I focus on my mate’s hand on my arm. Her grip has remained light, however, so I am certain that she does not see it. I hear its soft chuckle on the wind as there is a sense of it withdrawing and moving away.

“Next time perhaps,” it whispers in parting, and I shudder in response.

“Mount up!” Ajek orders, and my eyes snap open as his growl rises loudly over the assembly. His hard gaze turns to two gathol, and he gestures dismissively to the fallen wyvern. “You—remove that and incinerate its remains, then return and join us.”

The grieving male looks up from his dead bonded wyvern, hate darkening his eyes. “Xarv never did anything wrong and yet you not only slaughter him but deny him the funerary rites allotted to all the clan, orc and wyvern alike?”

Ajek gives the boy a hard smile and prowls toward him, drawing a blade from his side. I know what he intends, but I have had enough. I would have never allowed the wyvern’s death at all if I had foreseen his intention then, as I do now. Gently pulling my arm from my wyva’s hold, I rush forward, drawing my blade and bringing it up at the exact moment Ajek’s sword descends. The violent strike of metal echoes over the assembly, ringing loudly enough that renders all else silent. I stand there between Ajek and the youth, my lips drawing slowly back from my teeth as he snarls at me with undisguised hate.

“Daghel! What do you think you are doing?” he growls, spittle flying from his lips. “You forget yourself. Vorn will hear of this.”

“Report me if you will,” I reply coldly as I shove him away to lower my sword. “But my instructions do not include permitting murder of a gathol, half of which you have already accomplished. We are at Vorn’s command, but we are not yours to sacrifice. Or do you wish to incur the fury of the entire clan? Perhaps I should report that to Vorn so that he sees where the true faction spies are.”

Ajek takes a menacing step forward, his nostrils flaring. “You would dare?”

“Do you wish to test me? Then just try to spill gathol blood,” I growl.

“But I’m already dead.” My head whips around as the young male stands, the wind catching his hair as his head bows to hide the grief stamped across his face. “There is no Krish without Xarv,” he whispers and in one swift movement, he draws his blade and slashes it across his throat.

I stare in horror as his body, still lean with youth and once full of promise of the warrior he would become, spins slightly with the force of his motion before falling over Xarv. He stares into the wyvern’s dead eyes with a faint smile as he chokes, gurgling on his own blood. A sob of shocked grief comes from the assembly and my eyes lift to find my mate’s teary gaze over the fist clenched hard against her mouth in an attempt to remain silent.

“What a waste,” Ajek grumbles, sheathing his sword. His brow lowers into a scowl as he turns toward the remaining gathol. “Are you deaf? Mount up, I said. We depart immediately unless anyone else would like to share their fate.”

Tension coils in the air, but the gathols reluctantly obey as male orcs mount their bonded wyverns and those with mates draw their females up in front of them. I notice then that strands weave securely around the female’s legs and torso, keeping them firmly seated, and for a moment I am surprised. Was this something that I failed to notice before when flying with Anya?

Giving Ajek one last hard look, I leave the circle and stalk over to Drisk. The wyvern lowers his head to give me a knowing look, but I merely rest my hand for a moment on his brow in a silent sharing of sorrow before walking over to side and pulling myself into the saddle. Anya reaches for me and I bend down, my hand wrapping around her forearm to pull her into the saddle in front of me.

“That boy—” she whispers brokenly, and I hug her tightly to me.

“Do not think of it now,” I murmur and brush my lips against the top of her head. I hate asking this of her when she never complains, not about these new demands or even the hours that are demanded of us to stand attentively as Vorn hosts his nightly assemblies. “There will be all the time you need when we return to our rookery.”

She sniffles but nods her head in agreement, my brave wyva. She pulls up her fitted facemask at the same time I secure mine into place, her hand tightening on the saddle loop as Drisk’s tendrils penetrate us. For once, the pleasure that usually accompanies Drisk’s connection is muted. Anya barely shivers in reaction and all I feel cold and detached from it, the sensation more of a distant observation.

“And then vengeance will come,” Drisk growls to us, his mental voice filling my mind as he springs into the air with a vicious flap of his wings, communicating his fury as the gathols follow behind us.

We rise together into the sky, the frigid leaving the white platform plateau with its hundreds of icicles dripping from its sides shrinking below us. Ajek’s presence is a stain on the snow as the male turns and heads back toward the hidden cavern entrance leading back to the palace. My eyes narrow on him as we continue to ascend.

His time will come soon. And then… Vorn.