Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

His dragon sense expanded as he neared the inn where he would find Anborn. For a distance of five leagues in every direction, all aspects of information washed over him like an ocean wave, indiscriminate: the fluctuations in the heartbeat of his galloping mount, the varying weights of snow on each evergreen branch in the wide forest, the soot on the feathers of the snowwren that circled above him on a chilly updraft. Ashe swallowed and honed his concentration, willing the dragon in his blood to focus on what he sought.

He felt it instantly. A small inn, made from the rotting timber of the forest, slathered between post and beam with dried mud and mortar, a story and a half, joined by a staircase of questionable sturdiness. Thatched roof, and floor of matted thresh. Paint peeled from the sign in front of the establishment, which had once borne a fair depiction of a crowing rooster and nothing more. Eight firebrands—two recently lit, five half-spent, one on the verge of snuffing out—lighted the path in front of the inn; Ashe could tell the length of time they had been burning by the amount of melted snow he could sense pooled around their unburned bases.

Shrike groaned unconsciously as Ashe spurred the gelding onward. Four riders were approaching them, all from the northwest. He knew Anborn was aware of his presence as well, though doubtless did not know who he was; his hood was up, and the mist cloak shielded him still. He began shouting as soon as his dragon sense told him their ears could hear him, timing his call to coincide with the fading whine of the wind.

“Help! Help me! I have wounded!”

The riders, hearing his words above the howl, turned eastward in his direction and began to gallop as fast as the muddy forest path would allow. Ashe slowed his mount, wishing to be stationary when Anborn’s men arrived.

It seemed an eternity before they did, a mismatched group of soldiers clad in various types of armor, bearing the standard of no royal house. Ashe recognized three of the men, Knapp, Garth, and Solarrs; they had been Anborn’s compatriots for all the time Ashe had known his uncle. The Patriarch’s Ring of Wisdom that he wore on his right hand told him that, like Shrike, both Knapp and Solarrs were Cymrians of the First Generation. The fourth man he did not recognize.

“Hie, in the name of Anborn ap Gwylliam!” he called. The riders slowed their mounts. Each carried a heavy crossbow that was trained on him. “I have Shrike! He is wounded!”

Three riders reined their mounts to a halt, while Solarrs, Anborn’s head scout, rode forward cautiously. He lowered his crossbow; the others remained pointed at Ashe.

“Shrike?” Solarrs shouted.

“He’s dying,” Ashe shouted back into the wind. “Take me to Anborn if you value his life.”

“You’d best not be responsible for his injuries, if you value yours,” Solarrs replied. He turned and signaled to the others. Knapp and the man Ashe didn’t recognize waited while he and Solarrs passed, joined as they did by Garth. The other two brought up the rear, and the group made with all due haste toward the inn, whose glowing brands could now be seen by human eyes in the distance, blotted occasionally by the falling snow.

When the five horsemen arrived at the inn, Ashe reined to a halt and waited for the others to come and collect Shrike. Anborn’s men dismounted hastily; Solarrs and Knapp rushed to him, easing the dying Cymrian from his lap and carrying him gingerly toward the inn.

At their arrival the inn door slammed open, and the flickering light of a roaring fire spilled into the snowy darkness. Several more shadows ran into the frigid night, each sliding an arm or a hand under one of Shrike’s limbs or his torso, easing his transport.

The light from the doorway was snuffed a moment later as a shadow filled it, blocking the fire’s illumination. Ashe inhaled deeply.

Anborn.

The ancient warrior cast a back glance toward Ashe, his face lighted by the firebrand nearest the door. Anborn signaled brusquely for him to come into the inn, then turned his attention to Shrike as the soldiers carried the wounded man over the threshold.

Ashe dismounted and tossed the reins over the horse’s back, patting it gratefully on the flank. He looked up for a moment into the blackening sky; a storm was coming, though it would pass before dawn. He took a deep breath, allowing the clear air to fill his lungs, stinging his nose and throat with the burning cinders. When the noise of the soldiers had abated, he walked up the short path made of trodden snow and came into the inn.

The innkeeper looked nervously at him as he closed the door. They were alone in the inn’s common room; Anborn and the soldiers were nowhere to be seen. The man gestured anxiously toward the rickety staircase, above which two doors were visible, and Ashe nodded. He took off his sodden gloves and draped them over the fire iron to dry.

Finally the innkeeper cleared his throat. “Canna get ye some ale, sir?”

Ashe nodded, kicking the snow from his boots against the hearth as the steam from his mist cloak surrounded him. “Thank you.”

The innkeeper scurried away behind the staircase, returning a moment later with a battered tankard filled with a thin brew. Ashe accepted the mug and returned to the fire, where he drained it. He turned to hand it back to the innkeeper, but the man had vanished.

In his stead stood the Cymrian general, the Lord Marshal of Gwylliam’s ignominious army. Anborn’s face was blank, and he did not look directly at Ashe. Ashe bowed slightly.

“Lord Marshal.”

“I am such no longer.” Anborn crossed his arms. “What befell Shrike?” He sat down at a table near the staircase. A moment later three men came down the shuddering stairs; Anborn looked up questioningly, and one of them nodded. The man went back up the stairs while the other two joined Anborn at the table where tankards and a pitcher waited.

In the light of the hearth Ashe took a moment to look his uncle over with his eyes; it was always interesting to note the things his dragon sense had missed, or could not discern.

Anborn’s face had not changed noticeably since the last time Ashe had seen him, twenty or more years before. It was the face of a middle-aged man, though his muscular body was more suited to a man of late youth. His hair and beard, black as night, bore a few more silver streaks than Ashe remembered. He wore the same black mail shirt he always had, its dark rings interlaced with bands of gleaming silver, and beautifully crafted steel epaulets from which a heavy black cloak once hung. Ashe knew that the cloak was now upstairs, wrapped securely around Shrike’s body, giving him warmth. The general’s azure eyes gleamed ferociously in an otherwise nonchalant expression. He was staring at the fire.

“I found him at the edge of the Krevensfield Plain, dying,” Ashe said. He approached the table where the men sat and set the empty mug down. “He had been ambushed, along with his retinue, by soldiers of Sorbold.”

The men looked up, startled, at his words, and exchanged a glance, but Anborn merely nodded, his attention still on the fire.

“Why didn’t you take him to Sepulvarta or Bethe Corbair to be healed?” one of Anborn’s men asked. “You risked his life further traveling with him so far in such grave condition.”

“He asked to be brought to you. He was most insistent.”

Anborn nodded again. “You have my gratitude. If you know anything of me you know that’s a valuable thing to have.”

“Indeed.”

“If you need to call in the favor, remind any of my men of your rescue of Shrike, and they will seek to aid you.” The warrior rose from the chair, but Ashe did not move. After a few moments of silently standing still, impatience darkened Anborn’s countenance.