Page 89 of Wings of Frost and Fury
Ashvelon was fucking glorious when he defended us from the fenwolves on the night of the poisoning, and he is glorious now, as he avenges the dishonor done to the fallen members of his clan.
I don’t beg him to stop or to spare the humans. When I spot two Vohrainians he missed, I shout, “There, on the tower to the right,” and he swerves to enact justice on them as well. A vicious part of me adores this ruthless side of him—the one that asks for no forgiveness and shows no mercy. Fleetingly I wonder if that vicious darkness in my heart comes from my father.
More Vohrainians emerge from the stronghold of Guilhorn, but there aren’t as many as I feared there would be. I suppose Rahzien’s force is primarily concentrated in the capital city and along the borders, or in the spots where the people might still be resisting his rule. In addition to cementing his hold on Elekstan, he must protect his own country as well. It makes sense that his resources might be spread thin.
“The group at the gate,” I call to Ashvelon.
“I see them.” He dives, his huge body thrumming with power as he sends a gush of searing, freezing magic at the reinforcements.
Some of the soldiers split off from the main group, running to either side, then halting to aim hand-cannons and crossbows at us. The bullets and bolts rebound harmlessly off my protection spell, which mercifully is still intact
Ashvelon lunges, spins, and swerves, taking out the surviving soldiers one by one. By the time he’s done, I’m feeling queasy, and when he finally lands, I slide off his back with a strangled “Fuck” and vomit into the grass.
“My apologies for making you sick,” he says.
“Nonsense.” I spit and wipe my mouth on a handful of clean grass. “It had to be done.”
He’s breathing hard, teeth bared. “When I saw what they did to them—to our warriors—”
“I know.” I return to his side and spread both hands against his broad, scaly cheek. “Your work here was a thing of beauty and an honor to the dead. I have never loved you more.”
Ashvelon chuffs softly, sorrow and affection in the great pools of his blue eyes. Then he lifts his head, his nostrils flaring. “There are more bones in that direction, past that line of trees. I can smell them. Dragon bones and humans, too.”
“A burial pit,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
We head for the area he mentioned and discover that it is, in fact, worse than a burial pit. It’s a giant trench filled with waste, refuse, and rotting corpses, as well as dragon bones.
Ashvelon and I work together, using his sense of smell, his claws, and small bursts of my magic to dislodge the more portable dragon bones from the pile. I brought a second bag with me, an empty canvas one that I folded up and stuffed into my satchel. We fill it with smaller dragon teeth, jaw spikes, toe bones, and claws.
The bag becomes overstuffed faster than I anticipated, so Ashvelon and I fly over the wall into the city and take a couple of empty rain barrels from the street to fill with bones. While he’s inspecting one of the barrels, I spot a flask sitting on a windowsill nearby, perhaps abandoned in a hurry by its owner when we arrived. I remove the top and sniff the contents. Strong liquor, and judging by the ornate nature of the flask, it’s likely of good quality. It would be a crime to waste it. I whisper a quick cleansing spell over the flask, then tuck it into my pocket.
In addition to the rain barrels, we tear down a Vohrainian flag in which we place more dragon teeth and claws. I help Ashvelon tie rope around the resulting bundle.
It’s difficult work for both of us. At one point, another half-dozen soldiers creep cautiously out of a side gate and shoot arrows in our direction. I turn one of them away before it strikes me, and Ashvelon incinerates the rest. After that, no one dares approach us—but I notice some of the city’s residents gathering along the top of the wall, observing silently while we work.
After hours of scavenging, during which Ashvelon pauses several times to take account of our progress, we have finally collected a bone from every single female dragon who perished at Guilhorn, except Mordessa and a dragon called Nyreza. Ashvelon can’t find Nyreza’s skeleton anywhere, though he says there is a trace of her scent in the air.
“It doesn’t smell like the others,” he says, his eyes narrowed with concentration. “It’s almost as if her scent is... alive.”
“That’s not possible, is it?”
He blows out a breath. “It shouldn’t be, but Nyreza was always a little unusual, particularly with her magic.”
A faint thrill passes through my chest. “Do you think she could have survived my father’s spell somehow?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. If she’s alive, though, she would have been through her first mating season along with therest of us, and I should be able to sense her, like I would sense any other mature female dragon.”
“Not necessarily. The spell I cast may have interfered with that. Unless she’s immune to magic, or specific kinds of magic. There’s no way to know unless we can find her. If she is alive, and if my spell affected her, she would be a shifter now, partly human. Your sense of her might not work the same way.”
Ashvelon wanders the area, sniffing, trying to identify a direction in which to track Nyreza, but he keeps losing her scent.
“We will come back and search for her another time. I will speak to Saevel about it when I see him.” Ashvelon shakes himself, then bounds toward a tower of the stronghold and begins climbing up it. Some of the stones break away beneath his claws, but he keeps going, clambering higher while I watch from below.
About three-quarters of the way up, he reaches his goal—a dragon skull mounted by chains to the stonework.
I tip my head back, peering upward as Ashvelon presses his nose to the skull. Clinging with three legs, he uses the sharp claws of his forepaw to wrench a few teeth from the jaws of the skull. One by one, each tooth lands on the grass near me with a muffledthud.
