Wolf pack, p.6
Wolf Pack, page 6
“Shall we take shifts?” Rom’s voice was all seriousness.
Ferth turned on a booted heel and strode away. Lyko’s chuckle grated at his brain. “Go home,” Ferth ordered. “Get some sleep.”
The wolves peeled away as Ferth marched to the training fields. The area was deserted and dark. He didn’t want light. Titus had returned Ferth’s Dracosteel sword and long dagger.
“A man should fight with his own weapons,” Titus had said.
Ferth pulled his blades free and set his feet.
And then he danced.
He closed his eyes and discovered the way his new body moved and flowed. Satisfaction swelled at the power and precision in his movements. Over and over he struck and moved and sliced and cut.
Nine - Wounded
THIRRO
Thirro edged a fraction closer, still well out of range of the raging chief. In the week since his stabbing, Laconius had healed just enough for his fury to be dangerous.
The bull Draco sat on an enormous pile of pillows in the command tent. Four slaves hovered around him, flitting in and out of range of his grasp as they tended to his whims.
“I will go,” Thirro said. “I will hunt Ferth. I will bring back your son.”
“He is not my son!”
Thirro flinched. He should have known not to use that word.
“And no.” Laconius’s black eyes bulged. He leaned forward in pain as a slave removed the bandages. She cowered for a moment before hurriedly returning to her work. She spread green paste over the wound. He hissed. “That hurts.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice trembled. “You’re healing remarkably well, sir. This will help, sir. I’ll get you whiskey, sir.”
Laconius’s fingers twitched as if to strike her, but instead he focused his attention on the room full of his top leaders and warriors. “Commander Mina.”
The cheetah slunk forward. Thirro raked his gaze over her long torso and thin legs as she bowed. She left her taut belly exposed, wearing only a cropped leather vest over her small breasts. His body stirred.
“You are now captain of Jobu’s half company.” Thirro noted Laconius didn’t say Ferth’s half company, though his son was the last leader. Stricken from history, a fate worse than death. “Serve well and you shall lead a full company into battle.”
Mina’s dark eyes sparkled as she dipped her head. “Yes, my chief.”
A slave walked in front of Laconius, and Laconius shoved the man aside with a quick blow that knocked him hard on his butt. The chief’s gaze never left Mina. “You’ll appoint your unit commanders.”
Mina nodded.
“The rest of my army is still a week out.” They’d been held up by a rockslide in the Danbe Canyon. “But we strike now.”
The room stirred.
“At the heart.” Laconius touched his chest, a fraction to the right of his wound. “And we won’t miss.”
The tent silenced.
“Thirro. You will go hunting, but your prize is not the weak-hearted abomination erased from my bloodline.”
Keal, the Ferth-loving ape, let out a small sigh of relief. Thirro’s lip curled in disgust as he sent Keal a condescending glance.
“No,” Laconius said. “You shall kill the king.”
Thirro’s pulse soared.
“Fly to Mitera and put one of those arrows you’re so fond of through Andras’s heart. Do you accept?”
It wasn’t a question. His voice came out as flint. “With pleasure, Chief.”
“You shall be Skotar’s Arrow.” Laconius smiled, and Thirro swelled. “You may suggest a team.”
Thirro opened his mouth, but a voice from the back of the room cut him off.
“I volunteer.”
Thirro turned to see Jade. Deep purple bruises marred her jaw and cheek—courtesy of his fist.
“Do you accept her help?” Laconius asked.
Thirro frowned. Not ever. “No, sir. She’ll be a hindrance to the mission. I’ll go alone. Fly swiftly and silently and strike from the sky.” She wasn’t going to get credit for his success. And he didn’t want to have to watch his back every second.
Jade’s eyes narrowed into sharp points.
“Permission granted. You leave tonight,” Laconius said.
Thirro dipped his head.
“Return victorious.”
“Yes, Chief.”
The meeting disbanded, and the Dracos left Laconius to his slaves. Thirro had only gone a few feet from the tent when Jade accosted him, glaring up at him from chest height.
“I would not hinder the mission.” Her facial features were still remarkably human. Her childlike eyes and nose bore no resemblance to the killer Thirro knew lurked below the surface. She snarled, showing razor-sharp canines. He stopped.
“I’m not taking an underling with me. You’d wet yourself just flying over the river.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t take the bait and state the obvious—she was most definitely not an underling anymore.
“Besides, you’d slow me down, and I’d have to worry about you getting yourself killed.”
“You’d like that.”
“Yes, I probably would, but not when it would endanger my mission. Why do you want to come anyway? Falling for me?”
The hate and disgust on her face said no to that impossibility. Too bad.
“I don’t want this mission to fail because of your arrogance,” she said. “You could use back-up, and I’m good. I can help. I can get in places. I can stay hidden.”
Possibly all true. “No, thanks. You’re too green. You’re small. And your skill with the bow isn’t close to being trusted.” A lie. He’d seen her practicing yesterday—not as good as he was, but still deadly accurate. “And if I were to take someone, I’d pick a companion I’d at least let warm me at night.”
Her face contorted. She balled her fists and rolled forward on her toes.
His muscles tensed, but he kept his face calm. “So eager for round three? I’m ready whenever you are. This side ...” He motioned at her pale cheek. “… is just begging me for matching color.”
In a heartbeat, her face calmed, and her body relaxed. “Don’t die until after you kill the king.” She smiled.
He lifted his chin and strode past her. He went into his tent. If only it would stop smelling like Ferth.
A slave man threw logs into the fire pit before darting out. Thirro sat on a stool, thinking about the mission. Flying into the heart of Elysium. Alone. He shook off the sudden chill. He was a Draco, afraid of nothing, certainly not weak humans. He rolled his shoulders back, stood, and stretched his wings. Soon. Soon he would fly. Soon he would win power and glory.
The tent flap flew back and Captain Mina slunk in. Her sharp gaze darted over the room. “Yes. This will do nicely.”
His belly dropped. She already had a private tent. “What’s wrong with your tent?”
She shrugged. “I like this one better.” She dropped her weapons belt on the table and stalked over to stand in front of him. She tilted her head, looking him over. “Bold move, claiming it for yourself, soldier.”
“Make me the next commander of unit five.”
“Why?” She ran her fingers down his downy chest. “So soft.”
He shuddered under her touch. “Because I’m good.”
“Keal’s better with a sword. Dara’s better with a knife. What are you good at?”
Thirro reined in his annoyance. “I’m the best archer in camp.” Archery wasn’t an impressive skill to the Draco Sang so he added, “I’m Skotar’s Arrow.”
“Not yet.” Her hands slipped around his narrow waist, skimming the top of his pants.
She was teasing him. He didn’t like to be toyed with.
She chuckled at the look on his face. “I’m going to need some more convincing.” She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. Cat eyes taunted him.
He wrapped an arm around her spotted waist and brought his mouth down on hers. As she drank him in, he thanked the dragon again that his mouth had remained soft and human, unlike so many other beaked flyers. When his body had turned warm all over, she bit down, hard enough to draw blood. He jerked back, tasting copper and salt. Mina licked the drip of red smearing her lip. He recoiled. She laughed, high and staccato.
“I like you, Thirro. I’ll consider it.” She turned away. “Now get out of my tent.”
Thirro slunk to his old tent where Keal greeted him with a punch to his brand, and Dara smirked as she watched. She could laugh all she wanted. He was going to be made commander when he returned.
It was with determination that he took to the skies that night. He flew above the clouds, following the emerging stars south and a little west. He was looking to the lights of Kiptos when a pelican hit him in the face. He raked at the bird, grabbing it by the neck. The bird snapped at him, its sharp beak nipping his jaw.
“Stop.”
The bird only flailed more.
Thirro chucked the dumb animal at the flock of pelicans now surrounding him and squawking. They flapped and honked and pooped in a mad swarm of fright.
“Stupid birds.” He disengaged from the tangle of brainless feathers and beaks. “I’m embarrassed by association.”
But as he moved on into open sky, anticipation made him eager. Flying unhindered with nothing but clear night air to conquer, his hollow bones filled with joy. For hours he lost himself in the freedom, the wind, the thrill. When dawn approached, his wings ached, and exhaustion pulled at his eyes. He dropped below the clouds, searching the semidarkness for a safe place to hide. He plunged toward a rocky outcropping. Wearily he drank from his canteen and pulled a meal from his pack before dropping to sleep.
The next three days repeated the same. The deep ache in his wings lessened as they gained strength and endurance. He flew higher as the populations increased, diving low only to look for landmarks previous scouts had mapped out for him. His anxiety increased as his daytime hideouts became riskier, and he was forced closer to civilization.
The landscape tamed as he moved south. Rocky cliffs and tangled forests gave way to rolling hills and fragrant foliage. The scents of flowers and fertility washed him each night as he flew, whetting his appetite.
This land, tasting of luxury and promising pleasure would soon be his. Thirro flew with a grin on his face.
Ten - Plans
FERTH
Ferth shifted around the side of the command table, hiding his scowl from Shale and Uriah, who sat together. Very close together. He needed to stop looking at her.
“You sure you want to expose your back to that woman?” Lyko said.
“Uriah looks more likely to knife you,” Rom said.
Ferth ignored the wolves, ignored the tingling target he felt on his back and forced his attention to the stacks of maps, reports, and battle plans spread before him. Shale’s hawk, Xandra, had reported this morning that Laconius’s forces had made camp and their swelling numbers matched Ferth’s previous statements, but the confirming report seemed to do nothing in the way of earning Zemira or Uriah’s trust.
Zemira paced next to Captain Titus. Ferth could hardly believe she was the same sorrowing mother he’d met on his arrival. She wore twin blades on her hips, a black leather body suit that was hard not to stare at, and a haunting look in her eyes.
He thought back to his last encounter with Zemira three days ago, when she’d sent her baby to safety. A small party had prepared to go south with news and baby Callie Poe. Ferth had arrived as the group was leaving, intending to send Cal’s letter south with the hundreds of curious letters Captain Titus had prepared. Zemira was there, kissing her baby and fussing over the tiny girl.
Ferth hadn’t dared approach. Zemira tucked her precious bundle in the arms of a wet nurse seated on a horse. A guard held the lead rope as they plodded away. Cal’s words to their mother stayed in Ferth’s pocket.
Zemira had watched her baby disappear over the ridge, and then she’d whirled around, her gaze latching onto Ferth among the dissipating crowd.
She’d stalked up to him, her panther on her heels. Zemira’s words had come down like a whip and they still stung days later. “I cannot feed her. Since you stole my baby, I have no milk. You have shown me I cannot keep her safe. I feel as though she is ripped from me again.” The mother’s pain had lashed across the space between them. Ferth could think of no comfort to give. “It is my greatest hope that I might see her again.” She marched away, her footsteps heavy.
Titus’s voice brought Ferth’s focus back to the command tent. “Twenty-five hundred Draco Sang warriors to our six thousand,” Titus said, more to himself than the others.
Dreadful odds. “How fast can you get more soldiers?” Ferth asked. “A ten to one ratio would be a more even match.”
No one scoffed. They’d seen Draco Sang. They knew. Good.
The scars on Titus’s face crinkled as he frowned, and Ferth wondered if they’d come from a Draco Sang long ago.
“Two companies of two thousand each are being organized and outfitted to join us within the next two months,” Titus said. “I’ve sent requests to Mitera pleading for more, but nothing has been promised or mobilized.”
They wouldn’t get here soon enough anyway. “Laconius will attack as soon as he’s strong enough to wield his axe.”
The river, standing only a foot deep at the deepest part of the delta was no barrier now. Foolish humans.
“Their army is a mix of Dracos from all around Skotar,” said Ferth. “They won’t have had much time training together, but that won’t be necessary. Their only commands will be to attack here or there. My ...” Ferth choked on the word. “… half company, the five hundred wintered here, have trained hard and are a cohesive cohort. Much deadlier than the larger army.” His success would be costly. A chill skittered down Ferth’s spine as he thought about Keal, Thirro, and Dara, each capable of shredding through humans. What did they think of his disappearance? His traitorous defection? They would know about his failure from the scouting reports. He hadn’t tried to keep himself hidden, although he found himself constantly checking the sky for familiar wings and the whistle of an arrow. They would hunt him. And now he found himself on a fool’s errand. Trying to keep these humans alive and protected from the hammer about to fall. A hammer he’d helped forge.
Ferth continued, his voice flat. “That half company is the tip of the spear. Mina might be captain by now or possibly Emil if Mina managed to get on my father’s bad side.” A twinge of longing for his old station flashed through. He cleared his throat. “They’ll attack quickly and move south into Kiptos, establishing a foothold in the valley. Queen Mavras promised reinforcements by end of summer for the march to Mitera. We—they know all the details of this camp. Numbers, provisions, etc. Surprising them would be impossible. Once they arrive it will be a swift destructive march to the capital. That is the goal.”
They would slice through this country like a fresh blade through worms. And now he was on the losing side. “Humans will be slaves.” He couldn’t help it; his eyes flicked over his shoulder to Shale. Her ashen face was tilted down at the floor. No. He would not see her a slave again. She would be free. Free to love that man. “The Draco Sang will be the elite rulers, and the continent will bow to Mavras.” Laconius. For he would kill her before that day.
Ferth flattened the map of the delta over the table. He jabbed a finger at the Draco camp. Commander Asvig had relaxed in a chair, watching and listening without comment, but now he heaved his protruding belly out of the chair and came forward. Zemira, Uriah, and Captain Titus leaned over the map as well. With his fingers, Ferth traced the paths and aid stations the Dracos would use, dredging up minute details from the plans he’d helped create. Heads popped up from their bent-over position when the tent flap pulled back.
A raven perched on her shoulder, Pelussa waltzed into the tent unannounced and unaccompanied. “You’ve done a good job with those guards.” Her milky eyes were unfocused.
Ferth shifted a fraction in surprise at her voice. She’d spent the last week silently stalking the camp with her uncomfortable stare. The guards hadn’t stopped her from entering anywhere.
“It’ll be like your worst nightmare,” Pelussa said. “Soldiers attacking with no pattern, no formation, each with their own individual strengths and forms.”
“Hello, Pelussa. Are we now allowed to acknowledge your presence?” Titus said.
“I have seen much these past days.”
“And?” He didn’t comment on the irony of the blind woman’s statement.
“And the Draco Sang must not cross the river.”
“And when they do?” His face hardened into a rare display of impatience.
Silence.
The raven cawed an eerie, chilling toll.
Not helpful, Ferth thought. Who was this woman?
“You must kill The Dragon.” Her voice was raspy and far away. “Kill Prince Nogard.”
She was a lunatic.
Titus’s stoic mask slipped slightly. He recovered, squaring his shoulders and focusing back on the map.
“Join us, Pelussa.” Titus said, his voice calm. “We’ll gladly welcome your practical advice on how we can break this invasion. You and I can have a conversation about Nogard The Ancient over dinner, shall we?”
Ferth bit his tongue, impressed with Captain Titus’s civility in the face of such idiocy. The Dragon, the father of all the Draco Sang, had died nearly three hundred years ago in the north reaches of Skotar, far from this time and place.
“I think Pelussa is right, though.” Titus smiled at the woman as if she could see his face.
The raven tilted his head.
“We do need to stop them at the river.” He looked down. “The chains will go here.” With his finger, he drew lines on the map across the water at the western points of assault.
Ferth had been impressed and a fraction hopeful when he’d seen the barbed links. Stepping on one of the hooked razors would seriously damage a foot, even through a thick boot or heavy hoof. But it would not be enough. They would not win a head to head battle. They needed more trickery, traps, decoys, and baits.
