He slams his wings wide in time to pluck Líri from the air, her responding screech more disgruntled than anything. Her wings fold like a captured sowmoth as Rygun pounds his, lifting from the chasm in pulsing heaves that gust the village and blast the trees bare of snow. Only once he nears the peaks does he loosen his grip.
Líri drops for a beat, then flicks out her wings and catches the air, holding. She appears to look back at Rygun, then tucks her body and dives—perfectly streamlined. Like a silky spear tossed at me.
Again.
I groan, throwing out my hands.“Really?”
Rygun huffs a smoky breath, then plummets much faster than her smaller body, scooping out to cut her off. Cutting my vision of her, too—though I hear her honk.
Snarl.
Growl.
She finally moves into view, ascending toward the clouds in thrashing motions that make me picture someone stomping. Rygun herds her in deep, arching maneuvers, coaxing her toward the burrows, each beat of his wings a violent thrum. Akin to seven or eight of her own frantic flutters as she continues to dip and swoop, like she’s hunting for weak spots in his defense.
Or just arguing with him.
He snaps at her heels. She snarls back, throwing a plume of blue flame at his face, though it evaporates before it has a chance to strike.
Just.
He growls with the ferocity of two worlds grinding against each other, a sound that vibrates through the air and shakes the ground beneath me.
Even Clode seems to squirm.
Líri doesn’t so much as flinch, but she does throw him a beratinghonkthat goes on and on before pitching into a burrow—gone.
My heart continues to pound like a drum as Rygun patrols the sky in deep, sweeping arcs, casting his mighty shadow across the village that’s no longer slumbering … the paths now packed with folk ankle-deep in snow. Cloaks pulled taut around their shoulders, they stare up at the commotion through sleep-addled eyes, many looking at me, pointing, talking between themselves.
Or perhaps they’re pointing at the busted bridge.
I shove up, dusting the snow and debris from my cloak while I scansaidbridge I’d been standing on prior to Líri’s advance, now in jagged chunks strewn through the river, mostly sunken beneath its heaving might. Like she brewed her most destructive flame and threw it with intent.
At me.
An uncomfortable tightness bands around my chest, making me feel jittery.
Restless.
I may have won Líri’s trust in Dhomm—enough for her to welcome my presence when she was at her most vulnerable—but it would appear she’d now quite like to obliterate me. Suggesting I’ve absolutely, one hundred percent, fucked up.
Aconstant churn of snow clots the air as I hurry up the steep mountain path, past numerous burrows that look like gaping throats to oblivion—most haunted by the rumbling echo of a roosting Moltenmaw. I feel their eyes on me every time I shoot out onto a ledge, dashing toward the next incline of stairs zigzagging up the cliffside.
Perhaps, given the heady reek of dead things wafting from the burrows, I’d be concerned about being ripped to shreds by one of the young dragons … especially since most of them are recently fledged, still learning to find their own food, discovering the hunting thrill. But Moltenmaws don’t typically leave their nests or burrows during slumbertime.
Thankfully.
I step off the stairs onto the deep shelf Rygun herded Líri toward. Immediately backstep, flattening against the mossy cliff as the three broad riders who ushered her across the plains collapse free of the burrow’s entrance, chased by a plume of azure flame licking at their heels.
The shorter male swears—his arm clutched close to his chest, his leather jacket torn to reveal a gory slash near his elbow. Like he got clipped by a claw.
“Fuck it,” the taller of the trio grinds out, dashing loose brown hair back off his angular face as he cuts a glance at his injured companion. “If she wants it off, she can Creators-damnchewit off.”
The others give grunting responses and move to retrieve their saddlepacks from where they’re piled together, dusted in a fresh layer of snow. I notice the matching blue beads threaded through their beards, their gaunt complexions, and the way they roll their jaws. Like they’re aching. Sure signs they’ve been wielding long and hard to get Líri here unscathed.
An honorable feat.
They make for the path, their dark cloaks fluttering in the wind.
