And there, beneath him, was the beast.

  Declan’s newly-made saddle straddled a lithe, reptilian body of gargantuan proportions. Black scales twisted and shifted with every move the creature made, roped muscle beneath them flexing in waves like wind across an open field. It had come to rest along a rocky outcropping, hunched over the edge of the icy cliff on four powerful legs, black-and-grey talons finding easy purchase among the uneven stone. Behind Declan’s knees, leathery wings shivered, folded against the creature’s monstrous sides for the moment, their dark membranes flecked with white scars and red arteries. Behind him, the tail, a three-foot-thick lash of scaled brawn, curled back and forth with anxious steadiness through the gathered snow.

  And before him, suspended on a stout neck as it overlooked the scene below, was the head.

  Large, webbed ears protruded outwards from its skull, rippling slightly in the cold blow of the mountain breeze. A blunt snout crowned a wide mouth lined with pale teeth, each one as long and broad as Declan’s whole hand. Great gusts of vapor formed briefly in the creature’s every exhalation, and he could feel its steady breathing below him as it peered down the ridge, following the movements of a scattered line of soldiers crossing the stone-speckled valley.

  Declan gave a short tug on the reins. At once the plated neck twisted, bringing the beast’s face around. Large, white-gold eyes bore into his own.

  Ready? it asked. No sound issued from its half-open mouth. Instead, Declan heard the voice ringing clearly from within the depths of his own mind.

  “It’s past time,” he acknowledged sadly, those words far gone from anything he would have preferred to utter. The creature nodded, turning to look back down the cliff at the approaching army of men in red and black uniforms. Sheathing his blade temporarily over one shoulder, Declan reached down to grasp a hollowed horn that hung hooked from his belt. Shaking it free of the flecks of snow that clung to its smooth surface, he brought it to his lips and drew a single long, resounding note. It hung in the air for a time, reverberating over the rocky cliffs.

  And then, shaking the very ground beneath their feet, the peaks erupted with the roars and screams of a thousand black forms.

  The beasts plunged off the mountain, diving towards the oncoming forces in graceful, low-sweeping arcs. Declan felt himself squeeze down into the saddle with his knees, and the great wings on either side of him unfolded, each well over twenty feet in length. Replacing the horn on its hook, he took hold of the reins with both hands, checking one final time to ensure he was firmly lashed in place before turning to his mount.

  “To war, my friend.”

  Then they leapt off the cliff, plummeting towards the rocky ground, iron-colored smoke chasing them as white fire bloomed in the dragon’s maw.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Be vigilant, child. You are worth more than this world might think of you. Prepare yourself for that. Steel yourself. This land is often as cruel as it is kind.”

  -Bonner yr’Essel, to his daughter, Esteria

  At first, when Ester came to, the utter darkness she awoke in nearly had her convinced she’d gone blind. For almost a minute she lay still on her stomach, her breath catching in her throat, willing herself not to panic. Trembling, she lifted a hand to her face and waved it in the air beside her. Relief rushed in a hot wash through her limbs when she realized she could just make out the faintest outline of her fingers, barely distinguishable—even to her sensitive eyes—against the limited light slipping under what must have been the jamb of a nearby door. As her vision adjusted further, she realized she was lying in a bed, tucked away in the corner of what appeared to be a small, plain room. The fear returned suddenly, and Ester instinctively scrambled for the knife usually belted at her hip, which she discovered to be missing.

  Missing, along with every other article of the clothes she’d last remembered wearing…

  The thrill of horror that followed this understanding was unlike any fear Ester had ever experienced in her life. Her hands went cold as she slowly moved them up and down her body, feeling what could only be a rough-spun wool shirt and pants in the place of her hunting garb. Her heart thundered in her chest, the pounding blood lancing an aching discomfort with every beat across the back of her head. Pushing this aside, she forced herself to take a calming breath, seeking other pains, other signs that might explain why she wasn’t in her own garments anymore. Feeling nothing, a little of the tension left her, and something like perverse gratitude momentarily flit across her thoughts.

  At the very least, the men who’d caught her in the woods seemed to have some decency about them.

  Still, the fact that they’d stripped her of her gear wasn’t a good sign. For a minute more Ester lay there, warm in the soft bed, struggling to piece together the last events she could recall. She remembered tracking the men, stalking them through the woods, only to have them turn on her like some whisper in the wind had told them she was there. She remembered fighting, remembered struggling with her captors in the rushing flow of what must have been a stream or river, then a blinding pain that had dragged her down into blackness. After that, all she had were brief flashes of consciousness, clouded memories of firelight, of the stench of rot, of the back of a black horse and a strong arm pinning her to a man’s chest. It had been raining, and all she’d been able to make out through the fog of semi-consciousness was the pounding of the hooves and the dim sounds of her kidnapper speaking, seeming only to himself.

  I have to get out of here.

  The thought welled in Ester’s mind, consuming her as the panic of potential violation faded. She didn’t know where she was, much less how precisely she’d gotten there, but that mattered little in the moment. The men she’d been tracking were up to little good—if the local rumors were to be believed—and she couldn’t imagine what sort of trouble she’d managed to get herself into. Making a decision, Ester kicked away the blankets she’d woken up under, rolling over and sitting up with the rapid intent of standing and getting a sense of her surroundings.

  She didn’t even make it completely off the mattress.

  Letting out a barely-stifled cry of pain, Ester fell onto the bed again, clutching at the back of her head. The base of her skull—originally just aching—felt like it had been pressed against a hot brand, any abrupt twist of her neck triggering a searing jolt that left her weak and nauseous. Beneath her fingers she felt a long, fresh scab, wet even to the touch. Ester retched, allowing herself—despite the obvious danger of her situation—to roll onto her side, curling inward. She lay there for a long time, breathing carefully as the agony slowly eased, fading second by second. When it had finally waned to a manageable throb, she pushed herself back up gently onto all fours, then carefully back onto her feet. She waited there for a time, relieved when only a fleeting wave of dizziness returned.

  Given her father’s skills, it had been some time since Ester had suffered pain like that…

  Reaching out, she found the wall nearby, and with careful steps began making her way towards the outline of the door in the far corner. When she reached the end of her bed, she paused, confused, blinking down at the outlines of what could only be her own leathers and clothes dangling over the frame, like they’d been hung to dry.

  “What the…?” she started to say under her breath, reaching out, completely perplexed by the sight of her thought-lost things within easy reach.

  Then Ester froze, hand inches from her pants, her sharp ears catching the soft, rhythmic sounds of breathing in the otherwise silent room.

  There was someone there. There, alone with her in the dark.

  Straightening again slowly, Ester cast carefully about the small chamber, grateful—not for the first time in her life—for her mother’s er’enthyl blood as her eyes worked the faint light of the jamb to her advantage. The first thing she noticed were clothes scattered across the room, hung to air much like her own. Among these, Ester’s heart leapt when she made out the distinct shape of a weapons belt, complete with sheathed sword, knife, and purse, outlined in long shadows by the light of the door.

  Then she found him.

  The man was lying barely clothed on his back on a second bed she hadn't noticed initially, his bare chest rising and falling in the steady pattern of sleep. Ester stood stiff, contemplating this new complication, undecided on what to do. Assuming the man was dangerous, rousing him might be the worst decision she could make.

  Still, she knew she could only be in an unfriendly place, and if her chance of escape were any better with a hostage…

  Ester made her decision with a blink, stealing forward as rapidly as the growing ache in her head would allow. She winced with every step, the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet screaming, but didn’t hesitate when she reached the sword belt. Sadly she had little choice but to leave the longer blade sheathed where it was. She knew well how to handle the weapon—her mother had seen to that long before the Matriarch’s court had called the woman back to the Vyr’en—but, under the circumstances, she was in need of something less unwieldy.

  Drawing the hunting knife with a snick of metal on wood, Ester took a moment to get a feel for its weight before straightening up again and creeping forward.

  Even in the faint light of the closed door, Ester could tell the sleeping figure had a handsome face, his strong, stubbled jaw framed in long brown hair that fell loose just short of his broad shoulders. She would have marked him as a young man, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six at most, except that the scattered pattern of scars that marred his bare skin—marking his chest, arms, and legs alike—looked to have been gathered over a healthy lifetime spent with steel in hand. He even had what looked like a freshly-cleaned wound, stitching tracing up from his left elbow. What was more, there were tattoos, too, emblems she recognized only indirectly, from tavern talk and travelers who’d visited her father in years past.

  A city mercenary, Ester realized, wondering what it was she had gotten herself tangled up in. The man had a swordsman’s body beneath the scars of his trade, lithe and strong, and she ventured a guess that he was over six feet tall judging by the way his bare feet stuck off the end of his bed. She intended to take all of this in critically, gathering what information she could before she did what had to be done, but Ester couldn’t help but find herself wondering what color the stranger’s eyes were…

  Ugh, the more sensible part of her consciousnessgroaned, shaking her out of the momentary distraction.

  Cursing under her breath, Ester did her best to focus through the throbbing in the back of her skull. Carefully she bent over, bringing her stolen blade down lightly.

  The moment the cool metal touched the stubbled skin of his exposed throat, the man’s eyes snapped open, a dark, marine blue that betrayed only the briefest instant of fear before flicking to meet hers. Almost impassively as he lay perfectly motionless, recognizing the situation he was in at once.

  Ester felt her confidence wane upon witnessing this rapid assessment, any hope of taking an oafish coward as prisoner dashed, but she couldn’t falter now.

  “Get up,” she spat, driving every ounce of venom she could into the order. The man complied, taking great care to leave his spread hands in the open where she could see them. As he got steadily to his feet, Ester realized she’d underestimated his size. When he stood to his full height, the man had to have been almost a full foot taller than her. It didn’t bother her. She had the upper hand, and the larger they were, the slower they moved.

  “Who are you?” the stranger asked in a surprisingly calm voice, squinting at her while his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the windowless room.

  “No,” she snarled, pressing the blade upward ever so slightly to make her point. “You don’t get to ask the questions, right now. Answer me. Where am I? Where are your friends? The last I remember there were at least five of you.”

  To her distinct bewilderment, the man’s expression relaxed at her words. “The woman.” He sounded relieved, and he continued to peer into her face, though Ester could tell he still couldn’t see her clearly. “You had us worried, but I’m glad you’re awake. As for the men you’re talking about, I think they’d consider me anything but a ‘friend’, if they still could. They’re dead.” Something like a grim grin played at his lips. “All of them.”

  Ester’s head stabbed angrily, and she did her best to keep the pain from showing on her face. “Dead?” she demanded. “You’re implying you killed them? On your own? Do you take me for an idiot?”

  The stranger shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me,” he said.

  “I don’t.” Another pulsing ache, but this time Ester ignored it. She eyed the man suspiciously. “Next you’ll be telling me you took their ears as trophies, or something equally horrendous.”

  For some reason, she was relieved when the handsome features before her twisted in revulsion.

  “Their ears?” he said with a repulsed laugh. “Do I look like some sort of savage?”

  “Caught practically naked in the same room as a woman you don’t know, scarred and tattooed, all while claiming to have killed five armed men single-handed,” Ester drawled sarcastically. “You tell me.” She would have rolled her eyes, but she was pretty sure that simple movement might have been too much for the headache that was now moving forward, up her skull. “Enough. You’re going to get me out of here. Lead the way, and if any of your friends try to stop us, you’d best tell them I’ll carve you a new smile collar to collar.”

  “I’m happy to show you out,” the man said with a crooked smirk. “Not at knife-point, though. We’re in a tavern. The Woodsman’s Rest. It’s about a half-day’s ride north of where we found you.”

  “‘We’?” Ester repeated with a snap as her fears were confirmed, jerking the knife upward a fraction of an inch more. There were more brigands somewhere beyond the room door. “Who’s ‘we’? How many of you are there?”

  In response to the press of the blade, the stranger’s hands rose a little higher. “Just me and my… uh… horse,” he told her, looking for the first time a little thrown by her question. “Ryn. He’s outside.”

  “A horse?” Ester demanded eagerly, remembering the black mount from her short fits of wakefulness. “Good. I’ll be taking that.” She put a hand on his shoulder and stepped closer, hoping the stranger would be intimidated enough not to notice her leaning on him as she fought not to fall over. Her vision was darkening again. She needed to get out, needed to get as far away as possible before she fainted. “Lead me to the stables.”

  The stranger frowned. “As I said, I’ll be happy to show you out,” he repeated. “But not at the tip of a blade. A blind man could tell you’re still not well. One slip, and you’re liable to slit my throat on the way down.”

  “Well wouldn’t that be a pity?” Ester answered rancorously, wincing and squinting as her view of the mercenary’s face shimmered. “All the same, I think I’ll be keeping the knife where it is, thank you.”

  The man’s face darkened.

  “So I can’t convince you otherwise?” he asked, his voice abruptly harder.

  Ester sneered, starting to pull on him. “No,” she told him firmly, twisting the blade into his neck for emphasis. “You can’t.”

  “Well…” the man grunted, as though in regret. “Then… sorry.”

  Wham.

  She may have been right about his size, but Ester discovered in that moment that that was all she’d been right about. His eyes clearly having adjusted to see enough by, the man’s hands moved faster than she could follow through the limited light, one snatching up and pressing the wrist that held the knife away, the other catching her by the other hand and twisting her around. The snapped turn pulsed agony through her neck and head, and she gasped as the darkness rushed upward. For all of a second she realized she was pinned in the man’s grasp again, pressed against his bare chest with her own arms held harmlessly in a cross over her breasts.

  Then, though, the nausea roiled up, and Ester spasmed forward, her stomach heaving.

  The last thing she saw before falling away into the blackness again was her own vomit splattering against her captor’s bare feet, immediately followed by the man’s muttered curse of “Dammit…”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “That is the foul reality of magic. It destroys as easily as it creates. It hides as simply as it reveals. For every great wonder the arcane provides us, there is an equally vile horror. What other reason needed I for outlawing the practice, upon my rightful reclamation of my father’s crown? Weaving is a magnificent, terrible power that must be wielded with care, lest its master become seduced by the darker marvels spellwork can produce…”

  - Elysia Enus al’Dyor, on the banning of magic in 328p.f.

  “Dammit…” Declan grumbled, feeling the sick spew over his toes and the wooden floor. The woman herself went limp, the knife—his knife—falling from her hand as legs gave way, and he barely caught her weight in time to keep her from falling face-first into the pool of vomit. Bending down, Declan lifted her gently into his arms before moving to lay her on the bed he had just been forced to vacate. She didn’t stir again, even when he shook her gently, and he eventually gave up and took the liberty of wiping the half-elf’s mouth and chin clean with a corner of what had been his blanket. Doing the same to his own feet, he considered that he was going to have to tip Dora very well to make up for the mess the poor tavern maid was going to have to deal with. It almost got a smile out of him.