Page 53 of Daghel

“Come on,” Anya shouts to the other female and I inwardly recoil in distaste as a dull flush climbs Linahna’s face.

To her credit, the princess shakes her head as she backs away. “Impossible,” she calls up. “Drisk will never allow me to mount. Besides… you know what happens to those who do. There is a reason that no one but the mated and bonded mount a wyvern.”

Anya pauses and curses vehemently, recalling the reason at the exact moment that my strands penetrate her, anchoring her to me—her mind to my mind.

“Right,” she pants and shakes her head to clear it before casting a worried glance toward the other female. “What will you do then?”

Linahna smirks as she backs away from my side. “Go back to my bedchambers, of course, and then perform being very shocked when guards come rushing in to search for you. I cannot leave,” she says, her fingers going to a gleaming pendant at her breast.

“You are going to stay?” My little female asks, so aghast at the idea that I want to cackle with amusement. What a time this is turning out to be for her.

“What do you imagine that they will do to me?” Linahna laughs. “Oh! Do not forget to tell the gathol that their females are safe. When they failed to return, I kept an eye on their mates to make sure neither Vorn nor their men tried anything. They are not happy or comfortable, but they are alive and whole, and waiting for their mates. Now get the fuck out of here, both of you,” she shouts as she runs out of the cavern.

My mate stares after her in aghast, her concern rolling through me, but I do not let it slow me down. Running on all fours, I begin to spread my anterior fingers as I race for the exit, allowing my wings to spread just enough that they ripple in preparation to catch the air. The night opens up to us, embraces us as we burst from the cavern as my powerful legs spring into the air and wings snap wide. We sail from the cavern amid a frenzy of shouts and alarm from below, and the village valley spreads out beneath us as fires spring up, spreading the alert of our escape before rapidly shrinking as my wings carry us higher and higher into the air.

“We need to get to the gathols!” Anya shouts over the wind and I wince as the volume of her mental voice hits me. I glance back at her reproachfully and she gives me a small, embarrassed grin. “Sorry about that. But Daghel said?—”

“The gathols, yes, I know,”I rumble with amusement.“As it happens, I know a shortcut to get us there even quicker.”

I turn, spreading my wings wide to bank the force of my spin before diving toward a crevice that runs through the center of the mountain. My mate’s heart pounds anxiously as we speed in a long glide through the heart of the mountain, its confining walls closing in increasingly around us little by little until she is forced to flatten herself against my back. The claustrophobic whip of air is a shrill shriek as we skim the stones above and below us until we shoot out into the open air at the other end. I roll in the air until we come back upright, my mate’s laughter ringing in my ears as I flap my wings and carry us forward over the ice and snow.

Valleys that most of the Cold Fang Clan have never seen, as they have never been on this side of the Fang Peaks’ border mountain, Gathanaral, open below us in rivers of blue and white ice and heavy drifts of snow. We fly far longer than I like, especially since my mate is without even a cloak, but she seems to be handling the icy weather far better than ever, her skin retaining a blush of warmth as we glide toward our destination.

At last, a rugged double peak mountain rises and an encampment comes into view within a valley tucked deeply between its peaks. A burst of blue ice-flame leaves me as the orcs spill out of their tents and the wyverns gathered on the cliffs begin to croon and take to the skies. And my clever Anya chooses that moment to withdraw Daghel’s sword so that its fire burns high, banishing any doubts within the minds of the witnessing gathols of just who is calling to them, rallying them to battle.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

ANYA

The gathols greet our arrival and the news of their mates with an impressive rush of activity. As segments of their numbers work tirelessly to prepare for the flight over the mountains—because they certainly aren’t going to chance Drisk’s route, which I quickly come to learn after the fact is considered suicidal by most of the gathols—the wing leaders sat in conference with me as we go over the situation in the palace peak. They listen grimly and their eyes occasionally stray to Drisk, who reclines lazily behind me since he refuses to be parted from my side.

No one can really blame him, but I am fascinated with the amount of reverence they seem to hold for him as they frequently watch the light cast a blue blush onto his black scales. Because of this, he is also a bit of a distraction and I’m glad when business finally concludes, and the wing leaders leave us in peace outside of sending a pair of males back with a basin of hot water so that I might wash and a set of clothes.

Although the basin is nowhere near big enough for me to sit in, I sigh with pleasure as I scrub every inch of my body withthe wet cloth, especially the dried mess between my legs. Kicking away my soiled clothes, I dress gratefully in the clean surc and tunic provided before lying down at Drisk’s side on a pallet made of straw. Its warm scent surrounds me as Drisk croons, lulling me swiftly to a dreamless sleep.

No nightmares haunt me. It is as if there is a light kindled deep within me that drives them away, burning them up before they can even touch me. I sleep deeply and wake just before dawn to pull Drisk’s saddle and harness around him and tighten it in place as the gathols assemble around us, orcs mounting on their bonded wyverns, their gazes fastened upon me expectantly. A hum starts up from the wyverns as I climb up into his saddle and I feel it prickle over me as I slide into place and sigh with the invasion of his strands sliding inside and around me, securing me tightly in place. Every eye is on me as I shiver with pleasure, but what do I care? I merely cling to the curved handgrip of the saddle and give Drisk the command he has been waiting for.

“Let’s go burn shit down.”

His cackle echoes through the valley, but it is his dark delight that fills me as he launches from the ground with a burst of blue ice-fire and a powerful beat of his wings. I soar aloft over the snowy peaks, everything settling into a stillness within me as, for the first time, I truly take in my surroundings. Not with the grim patience of the daily sweeps that I endured at Daghel’s side, nor with the frantic escape from the palace peak. It is with a calm mind that I survey my surroundings and feel the echo of its ancient power filling me. The quiet stretches on with a peace that seems to unite all wings as we rush over ice and snow of the peaks drifting below and around us until finally the palace peak breaks into view, the iced black stone catching the weak winter sun as the deep, resonate sound of a massive horn bellows a warning into the air.

It is a primal call that dances over my skin even as it is echoed by the gathols who rise from the rookeries ahead of us, their wings beating like a drum of war as they take to the air, heading directly for us. I grit my teeth, my jaw tightening as I prepare for the confrontation. They do not know who we are from this distance. They are only rising in response to the rising alarm that calls on them to protect the palace and upper village. The gathols are like a shadow looming ahead of us, flying for us with deadly intent. I see the fire spew from some of the wyverns’ mouths, preparing to attack.

“Fuck this,” I growl. “Let’s see if this trick works more than once, Drisk. Nothing catches the eye quite like ice-fire.”

Although it feels heavier than my muscles remember, I draw Daghel’s sword from the scabbard, enjoying the way it comes alive with blue flames as I free it and lift it to the sky. Drisk flames with a roar and I feel the intense cold wash of his fire running over with a sigh of pleasure. It is an exquisite sensation, but more than that, it does exactly what I intend. The fires of the approaching gathols snuff out and as one, the wings of wyverns drop, passing below us as we fly unobstructed over them. I turn in my seat, a laugh of wonder breaking from me as a roar of triumph breaks among the wings following me, fists jabbing triumphantly into the air, as I see the younger gathols rise at the rear, the sunlight catching along the scales and wyvern wings as they twist in the air and fall into formation behind us.

“The gathols have all been rallied,”Drisk observes with pleasure and his wings catch the air, snapping us forward with greater strength so that we sail ahead straight for the palace.

My heart swells as if it is being carried on wings, but the triumphant filling is short-lived and my smile falters and is chased away by the sight of the panicked villagers fleeing beneath us. Shouts fill the air from below and weapons are hurtled at us as males cover the females who busily assist theyoung and the elderly inside. I stare at them in confusion as Drisk dodges one particularly well-aimed arrow. Don’t they see that we are trying to help them?

The wing formations break and scatter in the air as the gathols work hard to avoid the projectiles aimed at them, slowly following our single-minded trajectory for the palace. As none wish to harm an innocent villager, the gathols keep control over their ranks with not a single wyvern fire flaming in attack or even a threat.

I growl in frustration as we are forced to side-dive away from another projectile. Collectively, we are no longer moving forward as we roll and dive through the air to avoid being hit. Fucking Vorn. I know he is at the heart of this. Or more likely, Ajek. Someone has stirred the villagers into a panic so that they are reactively trying to attack us before we can even get to the palace defenses.

“Just one stream of fire is all it would take to send them all scurrying to safety,”Drisk complains, but I shake my head.

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