Bloodline Awakened: Rise Of The Nameless Knight

The Caged Voice

"Another dragon," Sylwen repeated.

"Young, frightened. North of here." Ryn paced the narrow room, still wearing yesterday's dust. "I can't explain how I know. I just do."

"You do not need to explain." Her face had gone pale as birch bark. "The Council believes the last hatchling died in the Sundering. If you are right, you have just overturned a thousand years of grief."

"Then help me find it."

"The Elders will want to debate this for a week."

"A week is too long." Ryn stopped. "Sylwen, it sounded like it was crying."

She studied him. Then she slung her bow across her shoulder. "I have spent nine hundred years being told to wait for permission. I find I am tired of it. Come, we ride before the Elders wake."

*Careful,* Vaelthor murmured. *A frightened young dragon is not gentle. Let it come to you.*

"I will."

*You say that like a man who has never been bitten.*

They rode north through mountain passes while the sun climbed. The voice grew louder with every mile, a thin, trembling thread of sound that wound through Ryn's skull. *...cold... the iron is cold... please...*

"Iron," Ryn muttered. "They have it in chains."

"Who?" Sylwen asked.

He didn't answer. Ahead, in a ravine between two cliffs, a column of wagons crawled along a rutted track. Black-robed riders flanked them, and each robe bore the silver sigil of the Spire.

Sylwen dropped flat behind a boulder. "Spire mages. A full escort. Twelve of them, perhaps fifteen."

"What are they carrying?"

"Look at the center wagon."

It was iron-barred and draped in heavy canvas, but as the wind caught a corner, Ryn saw a flash of scales the color of storm clouds. A pale, slitted eye rolled toward the sky, glassy with terror.

His stomach turned to ice.

"They told every child in Aldermere that dragons were dead," he whispered. "The Spire told us for years."

"They lied." Sylwen's voice was flat with rage. "They have been hunting the survivors."

*Little spark,* Vaelthor said, very softly. *Do not let the fire rule you. Not yet.*

"I'm not angry," Ryn said.

*Your hands are glowing.*

He looked down. They were.

"Plan," Sylwen whispered. "Fifteen mages. Six elves in the cliffs, myself included. You are one boy with a secret."

"I'll draw them off."

"You will be seen."

"I'll be a farm boy with a stolen sword who got lost." Ryn managed a crooked smile. "Nobody remembers the face of a Null."

She almost laughed. "That is the saddest tactical advantage I have ever heard."

"It's all I've got."

He rode down alone, slowly, hands visible, and the lead mage reined in with a frown. He was a stout man with a trimmed gray beard and the cold eyes of someone who had never been told no.

"State your business, boy."

"Lost, ser." Ryn ducked his head. "Frontier recruit from Greywatch. My horse bolted, and I've been wandering since dawn."

"Greywatch is forty miles south."

"Yes, ser. I'm a very bad scout."

A few mages snickered. The leader's eyes narrowed anyway. "A bad scout who walks into a Spire convoy by chance?"

"Is it a secret convoy, ser?"

Silence. Behind the canvas, the dragon whimpered.

"Kill him," the leader said coldly. "Quietly."

"That is not what I was hoping you'd say," Ryn muttered, and a volley of arrows hissed from the cliffs.

Three mages dropped before the rest could scream. Sylwen's elves poured down the rocks like silver water, and the ravine erupted in light and steel and shouting. Ryn dove from his saddle, rolled under a mana-bolt, and came up beside the iron wagon with his hand already on the lock.

"Hold on," he whispered through the bars. "I'm here. I'm here."

A great yellow eye fixed on him. Up close, the young dragon was no hatchling, but a half-grown thing the size of a draft horse, with ribs showing under dull scales and fresh burns where the iron had touched her.

*...you... you hear me...*

"I hear you. What's your name?"

*...Tarn...*

"Tarn." Ryn's voice cracked. "I'm Ryn. I'm going to get you out."

The lock was warded, humming with Spire sigils. He pressed his palm to it, and gold ran through the iron like water through sand. The ward burned away with a hiss, and the door swung open.

"Behind you!" Sylwen screamed.

Ryn spun. The stout mage stood ten paces away, hands glowing white, and he wasn't looking at the elves anymore. He was looking at Ryn's hand, still burning gold, and his face had gone slack with horror.

"No," the man breathed. "That's not possible. Archmage Draeven said the line was extinct."

"Draeven," Ryn said slowly. "He knows about this."

"He ordered it. The captured young are to be bled for their power. It's the only reason the Spire's magic hasn't failed entirely." The mage's voice rose, shrill and desperate. "Without them, mana dies! Do you understand? Without them we are nothing!"

Ryn went very quiet.

*So that is the secret,* Vaelthor whispered. *They feed on us.*

"You've been draining them," Ryn said. "Keeping the nobles strong with stolen dragon blood. And the ones who couldn't be fed. The Nulls. The ones like me. You threw us away, because we proved the system was rotting."

"We did what we had to!"

"No." Ryn stepped forward, and the gold rose in him like a tide. "You did what was *easy.*"

The mage hurled a bolt of white fire. Ryn raised one hand and the flame struck, hung, and bent around him like wind around a stone. He closed his fist, and the light vanished. The mage stumbled back, mouth working soundlessly.

"Get out of my sight," Ryn said, low and cold. "Tell Draeven the dragons are not for sale. Tell him whatever comes next, he has earned."

The man fled. The surviving mages fled with him, scattering across the cliffs, and as the dust settled, Sylwen and her scouts came slowly down to the wreckage.

"We should have killed them," one elf muttered.

"No," Ryn said quietly. "Let the message travel. The more afraid they are, the more careless they'll become."

Sylwen studied him with new respect. "You are colder than I expected."

"I'm angry," Ryn said. "That's different."

Behind him, something large shifted. He turned, and Tarn had stepped down from the cage on trembling legs. The young dragon lowered her great head until it hung inches from his chest, shaking like a leaf.

*...thank you...*

Ryn's eyes burned. He put his hand against her snout, where the scales were warm and rough and smelled of rain, and for a long moment nobody spoke.

"You're safe now," he said. "I promise."

*Will you leave?*

"No." The word came out before he could think. "Not unless you want me to."

*...stay...*

"Then I'll stay."

The gold on his arm flared, and for one dizzy breath Ryn felt a second heartbeat settle against his own, small and bright, tethering itself to his chest.

*Well,* Vaelthor said, with deep and unmistakable satisfaction. *That is two.*