Page 64 of Wings of Frost and Fury
“Shall I fetch you some wine?”
To my surprise, she grimaces. “I don’t think I can stomach anything but a little cold water.”
“Then you shall have it.”
I take the water jug to a nearby spring and clumsily manage to refill it, despite the size of my forepaws and claws. When I carry it back to her, she drinks, but she collapses onto the blankets immediately afterward, as if her head is too heavy to hold up.
My concern for her rises to a new height. I don’t know much about the ailments of humans, but I know how devastating sickness can be. Not long ago, a virulent plague wiped out the prey on many of the neighboring islands. Could this be the same plague? We never considered whether the contagion might still be in the air of Ouroskelle, and how it might affect humans. What if we have brought them here only to cause their death?
Reluctant though I am to leave Thelise alone, my dragon form is famished, and I must hunt. I locate a boar snuffling through the hollows of the valley and devour it there, rather than bringing the carcass back to my cave. As I tear off chunks and strips of flesh, I ponder what options I might have if Thelise’s condition worsens.
I could tell the other dragons that she isn’t well. Of course, some of them couldn’t care less about her wellbeing and mightprefer to see her dead. But maybe I can find out if any of the captives are suffering from a similar illness. Maybe some of the women could suggest ways for me to help her. Failing that, I might have to take her back to the mainland and find a physician or a healer.
Concern weighs on my body and my wings as I climb out of the valley and take to the sky again. I wheel around, intending to head back to my cave, but a dark mass on the horizon catches my eye.
It’s a long bank of clouds, deep gray in color, flickering with intermittent lighting that’s visible to my dragon eyes even at this distance. Faraway as it is, I can tell that the sheer height of that cloud wall is staggering, capable of swallowing not only Ouroskelle, but the entire archipelago.
What I’m seeing is the Mordvorren, a monstrous, sentient, magical storm that wanders the world, choosing locations to ravage with its cyclonic winds, torrential rain, and vicious lightning. It is said that a bolt from the Mordvorren can pierce the scales of a dragon. The storm has not come within range of Ouroskelle in years, and yet here it is, headed our way.
Of all the terrible timing, this is the worst. My clan has suffered the effects of the plague, the carnage of war, and the catastrophe of losing our females. Must we now endure this, too?
I am not the only one who has noticed the oncoming storm. Several other dragons hover in the sky, watching the Mordvorren crawl closer. I spot Varex and Kyreagan flying together from cave to cave, probably notifying the rest of the clan of the storm’s approach.
When the Mordvorren decides to strike a particular area, it lingers for days, sometimes a week or longer. The dangers we face go beyond lightning strikes, collapsing caves, or flooded caverns. If the storm stays too long, we could perish from hunger.
I regret sharing so much of the food and supplies we brought from the mainland. I want Thelise to have everything she needs, even if others suffer. That is wrong of me, and yet it’s the truth.
The other dragons will soon realize the same thing that has occurred to me. They’ll begin hunting and gathering, accumulating as much food as possible for themselves and their women. It might be difficult for them to gauge what is needed, especially since we have dual forms now, and few of us truly understand the dietary needs of humans.
I, too, could forage and hunt, gathering food from Ouroskelle or a neighboring island. But I can’t shake the memory of Thelise’s cottage and the town of Devil’s Kiss, both plentifully stocked with food. If I leave right now and fly as fast as possible, I could make it there and back again before the storm hits. However, I will have no time to return to Thelise and tell her my plans. I won’t be available to protect or help her for several hours. She might think I abandoned her. And if something delays my return, I might be caught at sea when the Mordvorren arrives.
What would Thelise do if she were in my place?
The answer is easy. She would speed toward the mainland and fetch all the delicacies and amusements that might tempt her appetite and her attention during a long, dull week of forced refuge in a cave.
I whirl and bank upward, catching a fast wind current, probably an offshoot of the oncoming storm. With all my power and the full ferocity of my love for the enchantress, I streak toward the mainland.
15
Something is very wrong with me, and it’s not because of the spell I worked for the dragons. I lie in the nest, struggling with the fog in my brain and the nausea in my stomach.
Ashvelon doesn’t return for hours. At last I crawl to the edge of the nest and pull myself upright on trembling legs. Bracing myself against the cave wall, I work my way toward the entrance. I don’t dare get too close to the brink of the ledge, but I need to see if I can spot my dragon.
Ashvelon’s cave overlooks a valley and the slopes of the opposite mountains. From its mouth, a handful of the other dragons’ caves are visible. There’s a good deal of activity going on, with dragons flying back and forth, rising from the valley floor, ducking into their caves, then emerging to soar away again.
The weather has changed, too. High winds scour the mountainside, and the sunlight looks different—grayer, maybe. Weaker, like I am.
Something is happening, and no one has informed me about it. I despise being left out and uninformed.
Seating myself cross-legged on the stone ledge, I reach cautiously for my magic, determined to get someone’s attention and obtain some news.
Other than the limited ability to move things with mental energy, the purple lightning I can summon to my fingers is the easiest, most natural ability I possess. But when I attempt to call it forth, instead of lightning, my fingers produce a few halfhearted sizzles, which dissolve into a kind of liquid light that runs in sparkling purple rivulets between my fingers, onto the stone. It keeps leaking out of me, pooling and sliding toward the edge of the cliff until it pours over like a waterfall of melted magic.
I close my fists, trying to stop the outflow. I can feel my heartbeat kicking into a frantic rhythm, panic setting in as my sluggish brain tries to understand what this means.
Never in my life has my magic acted this way. I have no idea what could cause such a thing, and it’s frankly terrifying.
My heart races faster, and my skin heats until I’m sweating through my dress, although chills keep racing over my body every few seconds. I retch, but nothing comes out.
