Dragonlords of Karaton 8

“Come,” Jiron invited, turning from them and nearly vanishing from sight as they lost track of dark tanned skin. “This way. I have sheltered not far from here these last nights.”
Alimus looked at the others, shrugged, and followed her voice. Serokin whispered into his ear, “Now who’s too trusting?” He glared at her but said nothing, and Mal kept close to them, keeping his sword and his eye on their new acquaintance, not wanting to lose her shape in the snow fall again. Olly came last, showing only an indifferent expression.
Jiron’s shelter was a tight cluster of trees with interlacing branches covered in snow, making a fort beneath them as the snow piled up and over the branches. She waved them through a tunnel of packed ice and they found that beneath the branches no snow had fallen, or had been cleared away. Once they were all inside, all eyes were on her, and her uniform which was now a curious shade of silver. Olly nodded to himself, and the others took that to mean magic was somehow involved.
“You will forgive my unfriendly first impression,” she beseeched, sitting down with crossed legs and throwing off her hood. Her hair was platinum blonde with hints of sandy brown, catching them by surprise. It certainly threw off their expectations of her appearance. A dark face with light hair had never before been seen in Hotem or anywhere north of the Tilting Mountains for nearly three ages.
“I am from the Scorpion Desert and therefore am unaccustomed to snow,” Jiron continued, “and the cold, and the wind brought voices to me but I knew not who they belonged. It was only after I moved against you I saw the wizard, guessing your mercenary friend.” She looked at them, hunched over to keep from rustling the boughs overhead. “Please, sit, I have much to explain and it will do no good to travel with a strained neck once our dialogue concludes.”
“I’m not a wizard,” Olly corrected, taking his seat. “I don’t have that power yet.”
Jiron nodded politely with acceptance. “Apologies.” She looked to the others, and after a few exchanged glances among themselves, they sat. The grass was remarkably dry, and they wondered if this, too, was magic. “We have not finished our introductions; again you will excuse my lack of pleasantries in the snow. I find it disquieting. As I greeted you, dragonlord, kin, and company, I am Jiron Windfly.”
“I am Follin the Arrow of Isaile,” Olly introduced. (Off to the side Alimus whispered to his sister with a smile: “He’s a ‘fallen arrow’. Couldn’t even get notched to a bowstring.” Serokin glared at him, giving a single curt shake of her head. Alimus rolled his eyes.) Olly continued, ignoring or ignorant of the comment, “This is Malcor Mirkrose of Kalle, and Alimus and Serokin Woodsworth of Hotem, kin to Thoma Dragonsguard of the Valley.”
“And which is the lord?”
“We’ll keep that knowledge ours,” Olly prevented. “If I seem rude, you will forgive me.”
Jiron nodded politely again. It was well known in her country that those beyond the Tilting Mountains were more of a secretive disposition. “I have come far to meet with you,” she began, “and I have not come alone. My company fashioned this shelter, and knowing my dislike for the cold bade me to remain here and listen. Half have gone to Whitefall in search of you, the others went in search of Sirix Dragonskeep.”
“So no one knows where the dragon is,” Alimus stated.
“Sirix Dragonskeep does,” Jiron countered. “Our journey began in rumors of a dragonlord who had survived the genocide, but we did not know where to look. Then we were given word of you. This we heard from our source: ‘The dragonlord has come of age in Whitefall; the hatching nears.’ We heard this from our source and set forth from Serolise as a company of six to Raindale.”
“Serolise,” Malcor interrupted. “You said that before, I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“Serolise, named for the dragonlord, is the home of the Exiled Dragonlord Council in the Tilting Mountains.”
“Dragonlord Council? But the dragonlords died. All of them,” Serokin insisted.
“Some escaped and sought refuge in the Tilting Mountains, there they remain as a small community waiting for a homecoming that may not come to pass in their lifetimes. It is a sad but determined people who live there, and they want to keep the dragonlord safe.” Jiron looked between them, guessing at their roles but coming to no conclusive decision. “We left Serolise and braved the Crooked Staircase. I have had easier passages through the catacombs of my lands, and that is a perilous place plagued by death’s withering hand. Our company survived, if barely, and we sought to confirm our knowledge in the Ancient Heart, and it was definitive. Our source had not lied to us, the hatching was near.”
“Who is your source?” Alimus wondered.
“It comes far from Serolise, the wizard’s location has never been known to us for he likes his privacy like most of his people, but he is called Cantus.”
Olly visibly cringed, and Mal looked at him concerned. The mercenary waited for some kind of wisdom from the sorcerer but he offered none, his expression far away and worrisome.
Serokin was fascinated. Most of her life had been spent dreaming up battles from the Dark Age, pretending to have magical allies like sorcerers and Kainyn and dragons, and now it seemed all her dreams had found her. It was too sudden to be real—and on such a gigantic scale! From Castle Hotem to Karaton, the entire length of the continent was suddenly before her. The North now was unexpectedly small. She had always looked northwest when thinking of traveling, northwest to the ice shores and the Frozen Forests—the Snow Islands! All her life everything south of the Fire Nest Mountains was fiction; nothing but story and exaggerations.
Just as suddenly, her fascination falter. She didn’t want to go anywhere, she didn’t want to leave Hotem. Stories she heard of the world at large, tales of a world she had never seen and didn’t have to believe in. Now, however, all she thought was fiction and exaggeration could very well be neither. Fear crept into her thoughts, and she said nothing.
“Our leaders have been told Cantus will meet us upon our return with the dragonlord to Raindale,” Jiron continued, “and will help in our ascent of the Hanging Cliffs of the mountains. This is a time of great peril for us all.”
“What do you mean?” Serokin inquired her voice small.
“Rainmark the Day Star was a great wizard of wisdom and prophecy in the Magic Age. He was the first to record the future history of Hec Cyr which is now kept in the Root Vaults of Raindale. There he spoke of dragons, and the end of the Hotemic Age, though he did not name it such.”
Mal was only half listening, focusing his attention on Olly who looked almost sick.
“In his ancient writings he said ‘if the last life of dragon and lord should ever find its blood spilt, the Black Heart of the Ever Star will steal away the Star of Night and no light will return to this land.’ Whatever the Star of Night is, we do not know, and it is an answer longed desired but not necessarily needed. Heartkeeper believes if prevention is possible, the Star of Night will not be lost to darkness. Cantus will help us see to this prevention.”
Olly stood and left, the others falling silent. Mal glanced at them before following. Olly was standing still in the falling snow, looking out into the grey haze of weather. Mal stood at his side for a while, crossing his arm against the cold and watching his breath cloud in the air. “So,” he finally breathed, “what’s up?”
Olly said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge Mal’s voice.
“You know Cantus?” Mal guessed, watching his reaction again. There was none, not this time. The first mention of his name had been unexpected; any one that followed had to be anticipated. “You two have a bad history?”
“No, but I did not appreciate him, nor he me. He is not a man to be trusted. In public he will give gold to the poor and in private he will plot to take back twice as much.” Olly looked at him, his blue eyes bright against the dim background. “Whatever he is planning in the darkness of his heart holds no good for dragonlord and kin, as Jiron calls them.”
“I thought dark wizards weren’t welcome in Raindale.”  
“A black heart can look appealing when painted with gold, and that is the state of his mind. He is not so far gone as the Crimson Witch, and is cunning in his split lifestyle. Do not be deceived by him,” Olly warned, and looked out in the grey veil of snow fall, refusing to say anything more.
The mercenary was silent, trying to guess the sorcerer’s mind. Their breaths ghosted in the air and were swirled away in the gentle wind. “You want to see him dead?”
“No.”
Malcor studied him, realizing his guess had been wrong. There was not anger there, but fear. Fear hid behind his eyes, trying to get lost in the power lurking there. But where it was usually successful, it now failed.
Before Mal had met the sorcerer, he had heard stories of him—the magician who could find anything, no matter how long it had been lost. He was a drifter, a wanderer who did not stay anywhere long. Kings had offered him shelter and payment for his service and were refused. Never before had Mal considered the idea that he wasn’t wandering aimlessly—but running.
“Will you go with them to Raindale?”
“Will you?” he redirected, and Mal was quiet.
Finding his questioning at an impasse, he left the sorcerer in the snow, returning to the discussion going on inside. Jiron fell silent as he entered, and the three looked at him expectantly. “He’s going to keep watch,” the mercenary lied, taking his seat again.
Jiron offered her polite nod, and went back to what she was saying. “We crossed the river two days ago, staying in the Dragonsguard Ruins with a caravan.”
“Are they still there?” Alimus cried.
“They plan to stay there for a few more days to my knowledge. The Steam Pools and Fire Spouts keep the area warm and free of snow. It was more humid than to my liking, but I prefer it much over this snow.” Jiron glared at the wall of snow shielding them from the wind. “We came over the High Pass before much snow could seal it away. Now I fear that only I would be able to cross.”
“Yeah, how do you walk on snow?” Mal asked.
“It is much like sand,” she considered. “Only colder with less terror hiding in the dunes.”
Alimus was adamant, “We go the ruins.”
“That is unwise, the soldiers—”
“No,” he turned down. “I will not leave Hotem without meeting the caravan.”
“Al,” Serokin warned, “just going there would put her in danger.”
“And if she’s already in danger? The entire town knew we meant to be engaged by the end of the year. The army isn’t known for being kind to loved ones, not since the war. They burnt the town, killed Thom because of us,” Alimus insisted, deciding not to mention he thought it was deserved, “and I will not have her be added to that list.”
“Very well,” Jiron allowed, glancing at the entrance as Olly returned. The others followed her gaze, watching Olly retake his seat. He said nothing, and Jiron looked back to the siblings. “We will eat and rest and when night falls we will head for the High Pass. If luck and magic are with us, it will not be so deep as to be impassible.”