Of Steel and Scale (The Drakkon Kin Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

1

I heard her well before I saw her.

She was a roar of wind, a caress of power, of wonder.

Excitement pulsed through me. I might have discovered the hunting places of the drakkons more than fifteen years ago, but being in their presence never grew old.

While drakkons weren’t scarce here in Arleeon, they no longer soared over highly populated areas. That wasn’t surprising, given the old ballistas still existed in both Esan and Zephrine—the two mighty fortresses that guarded the east and west gateways into Arleeon. It might have been well over a century since the large, crossbow-like devices had been deployed against the drakkons, but they’d nevertheless killed large numbers of the magnificent beasts. Drakkons weren’t stupid, no matter what some thought, and they’d learned to remain in the wilder sections of our continent.

Which didn’t mean they were any safer. I’d seen the evidence of that myself.

The Black Glass Mountains—the rugged sweep of mountains that lined the far reaches of East Arleeon, and whose foothills were a three-hour ride from Esan—was one of those sections.

I kept close to the shadows haunting the mountain’s face and hurried along the narrow ledge. Up ahead, dawn had broken through the cover of night, and her golden fingers were bright against the starless sky. The stiffening breeze was icy and filled with the scent of the sea and the oncoming storm, though I was far enough away from the coast that I couldn’t hear the crash of waves.

The path went sharply right. I slipped a hand into the hold I’d scored out of the black rock long ago and gripped tight as I edged around the corner. The wind hit hard, throwing me back a step as it snatched at my plaited hair and cloak and streamed both behind me. I caught my balance, then moved on, slipping my hand from one hold to the next. The ledge along this portion of the mountain was very narrow, and the drop to the grasslands far below sheer. If I slipped, I was dead.

Which might not be such a bad fate, given what I faced tomorrow. While I had nothing against marriage, I did object to the whole “marry a man who was basically a stranger” plan.

Unfortunately, my father was not only the Esan garrison’s commander, but also the king of East Arleeon. I was his only child—and a woman at that —and while he was more liberal-minded than most, he would not— could not—ignore traditions and treaties. The confirmation of trading and military ties via a marriage that bonded the two great houses every one hundred years was a necessity born out of a long-ago war that had almost torn our lands apart. “It’s a ritual as necessary now as it was then” was my father’s standard response every time I’d asked why.

Having finally met Zephrine’s king and witnessed his arrogant “Zephrine does everything better” attitude, I understood the necessity of the treaty. That didn’t make the fact I’d be living under that bastard’s roof for the rest of my life any easier to accept, however.

The creak of leathery wings got stronger; she was close. So very close.

The path swept around to the left and then widened out, finally allowing more speed. A shadow swept past, and my pulse jumped. She’d swooped so low that the claw on her wing’s tip scored the boulder half blocking the path ahead, sending a spray of black stone chips into the air. She flicked her long, barbed tail back and forth inches above my head, then her head snaked around to look at me. Her dark eyes were bright with intelligence and playfulness. I couldn’t help but grin in delight. This wasn’t the first time she’d acknowledged my presence, but it was the first time she’d flown so close that my sword could have sliced her wing or tail apart had I wanted to.

I didn’t, and she was well aware of that.

She continued down into the valley, her burnished golden scales fiery in the rising glow of the day. It was such a glorious sight that my breath caught in my throat. She was at least eighty feet long, with a wingspan more than double that. The four main phalanges on each wing shimmered like flame, the leather membrane in-between glowing embers. Few drakkons ever got this big, but she wasn’t any old drakkon. She was a queen. A mother.

She also wasn’t one of our drakkons, but rather part of a grace that lived high atop the Red Ochre Mountains—the range that divided East and West Arleeon. Red Ochre graces—the name given to a community of at least twenty drakkons—tended to be this burnished color rather than the straight red of Esan’s drakkons or the gold of Zephrine’s drakkons.

The capras asleep in the grasslands far below showed little awareness of her approach—and wouldn’t, I knew from past experience, until she was in their midst, scooping them up in her claws. The longhaired ruminants weren’t the brightest of animals, and because the drakkons never consumed their kill in the valley, the capras had no lasting reminder of the predator that soared high above.

I slipped past the rock she’d scored, then swung my pack around, pulled out the rope, and quickly tied myself onto the heavy metal ring I’d rammed into the stone a few years back after a slip had almost cost my life.

Once secured, I moved onto the flat boulder that projected out over the valley and sat cross-legged near the edge to watch. She wasn’t the only show; her drakklings would be here soon.

They appeared a few seconds later, and another happy smile escaped. The larger of the two—a female—was the same color as her mother, but the smaller male was red. They were less than a third of the queen’s size and were obviously still learning flight skills, as they held none of her grace and were amusingly wobbly in the air.

I rested my chin on my hands and watched the three of them swoop toward the capras. The queen swung around near the valley’s end, then dropped low and bugled. It was a deep, haunting sound in the stillness of the rising dawn.

The capras started to their feet and raced away from her—straight into the path of the drakklings. The female swept up several capras that were far too large for her to carry, and dropped one back to the ground. It didn’t run off. It couldn’t. One of her claws had pierced its body, ripping its insides apart. The smaller male missed his first grab, but not the second. Bugling in anticipation and hunger, the drakklings rose, their wings pumping hard to gain height while carrying the additional weight. As the rest of the herd fled for the forest at the far end of the valley, the queen swooped into their midst, scooping three into her murderously large claws before rising to follow her drakklings. They might have no enemy in these mountains beyond man, but they always retreated to the peaks to eat.

As the queen disappeared over the ice-capped mountaintop, I sighed and pushed to my feet. If I didn’t get a move on, my father would send out the troops to retrieve me. While he’d long ago accepted my driving need to learn all I could about the drakkons, I was supposed to be spending the day getting ready for tomorrow’s commitment ceremony. But I might never see these magnificent beasts again, and I simply had to come out one more time.

Zephrine—a fortress built deep into the volcanic rock of the Balkain Mountains—was the traditional range of the golden drakkons, but I had no idea where the aeries were in relation to that city. No idea whether they were within walking or even riding distance. No idea, in fact, how Zephrine or indeed my husband-to-be viewed drakkons.

For all I knew, an eradication order might remain in place. Just because I’d seen no mention of it in the missives we’d gotten from Zephrine’s king and commander didn’t mean it wasn’t happening.

But I hoped it wasn’t. I wasn’t sure what I would do or how I would cope if it were.

I moved back to the scored boulder, undid the rope, and tucked it into my backpack.

It was then I noticed the smoke.

I straightened sharply. It wasn’t just a thin stream, either, but a thick, black forest of the stuff. Something burned, and if the source location was anything to go by, that something was Eastmead.

But why would anyone want to burn that settlement? It was little more than an out-of-the-way fishing port on the very edge of my father’s kingdom. It was also the only safe harbor between the treacherous but plentiful seas around the base of the Throat of Huskain—the nigh on impassable mountain that dominated the northeastern edge of Arleeon—and the larger market ports of Hopetown and Redding. Why would anyone want anyone to attack it?

The only people who logically might have were the Mareritt—a warrior race who lived in the vast subarctic wilderness beyond the Blue Steel Mountains, the long range that unevenly divided our shared continent. Mareritten itself was a land so harsh that for nine months of the year its people lived in expansive underground cities that drew on volcanic heat to survive their long winters.

I had no idea what the majority of the Mareritt did during their three months of summer, but their warrior elite certainly used the time to attack either Esan or Zephrine. Or, at least, they had. So far this year there’d been only minor skirmishes, and that worryingly suggested they might be building up to something big. Of course, there were some who believed they’d finally accepted that neither Esan nor Zephrine could be broken. I personally thought the sky would bleed fire and fury before that ever happened.

Whatever the reason for the low number of assaults over recent months, that smoke couldn’t be the first indication of a renewed strategy. The only way for them to have reached Eastmead from Mareritten was by sea, and if there was one truth about the Mareritt we were absolutely certain of, it was their all-abiding fear of the ocean.

I frowned and glanced uncertainly at the sky. Night still clung on hard, despite the ever-growing fingers of light. The smell of rain rode the air, and the clouds were heavy and ominous. If I were still on this mountain when that storm hit, I’d regret it.

But I’d regret not investigating that smoke more.

This was my land, even if I was leaving it. I might not be Esan’s heir thanks to my sex, but I was a captain of the guard. I was honor-bound to investigate.

A somewhat ironic smile touched my lips. As excuses went, it wasn’t one my mother would buy, even if she was the one who’d insisted on me being trained with sword and bow from a very young age.

I swung the pack over my shoulder and continued on. I’d taken this path down to the valley many times in the past, and it had been a time-consuming and somewhat treacherous journey. Hopefully, the recent foul weather and subsequent rockslides hadn’t made it any worse.

Luck was with me on that account, but even so, by the time I reached the valley floor, I was hot, sweaty, and tired. There was a very good reason the agile capras were the only animal to roam the volcanic edges of the Black Glass Mountains—they were the only damn things that could easily traverse the mountain passes.

I grabbed the flask out of the backpack and took a long drink. It had to be close to midday now, and while Eastmead still burned, the dark stain of its smoke was almost indistinguishable against the ponderous clouds. The storm would hit well before I ever reached the fishing port.

Which meant I’d better send a message to my parents. If they wanted me back in time for the ceremony tomorrow, they had best send a boat—though in truth, I’d never been a fan of the sea, and the oncoming storm would make things even more unpleasant.

To which my mother would undoubtedly say, “Serves you right, Bryn.”

Another smile tugged at my lips. I stoppered the flask and scanned the sky again, this time looking for a familiar speck. It took me a few minutes to spot her—she soared in wide circles above the capras, no doubt dreaming of eating prey she was far too small to ever capture.

I put two fingers to my lips and whistled her in. She spiraled down, her gray feathers silvered in the few gloomy rays of sunshine. Gray hawks were native to the continent, but they were far more prevalent here in this eastern portion of Esan. We’d used them for centuries to carry messages back and forth, and while the recent development of scribe quills—which used magic to pair one quill with another, meaning what one wrote the other copied—had made the hawks less of a necessity, they were still handy in situations involving much longer distances. They also made excellent pets, especially for someone like me. While earth and air witches were relatively scarce here in Arleeon—at least when compared to the lands of our trading partners—those with personal magic such as healing and spell casting were not, and both were revered to varying extents.

But I was the other kind—a strega, which was the rather derogative term for witches gifted with abilities of the mind, even if most did have an element of magic involved. It was a term that umbrellaed abilities such as the creation or manipulation of fire, the movement of objects, and mind reading. Oddly enough, when it came to the ability to mind touch, the term was only directed at those of us who could understand the thoughts of animals and control their actions. Human-to-human mind reading was considered a valuable asset.

While my mother also had the gift of animal control and, to a much smaller degree, seeress abilities, it was something of a puzzle as to how I’d inherited the ability to call forth fire. It was also an ability that had been the source of many whispers and much fear over the years, even if no one ever said anything directly to my parents or me. The latter was understandable, given our station, but the volatility of the skill during the early years of puberty had definitely fueled those whispers. It was a situation not helped by the red mote in my right eye—something all fire witches possessed—bleeding during those more explosive outbursts. It was a manifestation that scared some even today, even though my control over fire and the awareness of my own limitations meant it very rarely happened.

I raised an arm, and Veri landed lightly, her claws digging into the leather gauntlet but not cutting skin. She tilted her head to look at me, her golden eyes aglow and her mind awash with excitement. She knew a message meant food. I grinned and scratched her head, but she squawked impatiently and nipped at my fingers.

With a soft chuckle, I opened the small pouch at my waist and dug out a piece of meat. She accepted it daintily and swallowed it whole, then waited patiently as I undid the small message clasp on her right leg. Once free, she flew up to a branch and watched with interest as I unrolled the small, blank piece of specially treated paper. Kneeling on one knee and using the other as a makeshift writing surface, I grabbed the stylus out of my pack and carefully scratched out my message, not only telling my father about the attack but also asking for someone to be sent to retrieve Desta, my mount. Once the message was safely tucked back into the clasp, I called Veri down and reattached it.

“Straight home now.” I handed her another piece of meat and impressed the order onto her mind. “No dillydallying above the poultry farms hoping to catch a juicy rodent.”

She squawked—an offended sound if ever I’d heard one—then lifted off. Once she’d disappeared, I unwrapped the small parcel of dried meats and fruits I’d packed for breakfast and ate them as I continued on. It took me the better part of the day to traverse the valley and clamber up the ridge that divided it from the sweeping coastline on which Eastmead was situated.

What I saw from the top was not just a fire but utter destruction.

For several minutes, I simply stared, unable to believe what I was seeing.

There were no whole buildings, no pier, and certainly no boats anchored within the sheltered cove. All that remained were the blackened, broken remnants of boundary walls, homes, and workplaces that had once stood here. I had no idea what had happened to the hundred or so families who’d lived in this forsaken place—I couldn’t see any bodies from where I was hunkered, but I couldn’t see any sign of life, either. Maybe they’d evacuated, but where to? My gaze swept the wind-torn shoreline, but there was absolutely nowhere to hide. No caves or trees or any other kind of shelter. It was possible they’d managed to launch some boats and sail to safety, of course, but several mast tops sticking out of the water had doubts rising.

What had happened here? Who’d done this?

There was no immediate indication. No sign of foreign boats or any sort of invading force. It was as if the raiders had come out of nowhere, destroyed everything and everyone in their path, and then disappeared back into their nothingness.

Magic?

It was possible. The Mareritt were certainly capable of great magic. Maybe they’d gotten over their fear of the sea, or maybe they’d found another means into Arleeon—they surely couldn’t have gone over the Blue Steel Mountains. Not only were they treacherous in the extreme, but both Esan and Zephrine had outposts dotted along their entire length. If they had attempted such an assault path, we would have been warned.

But if it wasn’t the Mareritt, who could it have been? Arleeon had few other enemies, although I guess that didn’t mean anything in the scheme of things. Sometimes it only took the replacement of a benevolent ruler on a neighboring continent for treaties and alliances to be torn apart.

History had certainly taught us that .

I frowned down at the smoking ruins for several more minutes, torn between the need to know what had happened and the knowledge that I might well be walking into trouble.

But it wasn’t like I couldn’t defend myself.

I flexed my fingers; sparks danced across their tips, and I couldn’t help smiling. A sword and a knife were all well and good, but nothing beat flame when it came to attack or defense.

As a number of Mareritt patrols we’d come across over the years had discovered.

I scanned the ridge and found what looked to be a capra track heading down through the boulders and scrub. I followed it as fast as was practical while keeping half an eye on the settlement. Nothing changed.

Nothing except the weather.

The storm hit just as I reached the rocky shoreline. I wrapped my cloak around my body, then pulled on the hood, tugging at the strings to draw it around my face. The wind was fierce and icy, and every step forward became a battle. With the rain sheeting down so hard, it was almost impossible to see where I was going. I slowed, wary of walking into a trap in such conditions. Just because I hadn’t seen any movement from above didn’t mean there wasn’t anything—or anyone—waiting here.

It seemed to take forever to reach the broken outskirts of the small settlement. I stopped behind what had once been a net repairer’s to catch my breath, enjoying the speck of warmth radiating from the still-smoldering remnants of the partially collapsed building. While I could have easily used my inner fire to warm up, I preferred to save its force for any threat that might yet linger.

Despite the rain and the wind, the scent of smoke and ash hung heavily in the air. What I couldn’t immediately smell was death, and that was puzzling. How could so many people utterly disappear? Even if most had managed to escape via their boats, surely some would have died. No attack, even those successfully repelled, went without casualties.

I drew my sword and moved on cautiously. In the waning light of late afternoon, the glass blade and intricately carved grip glowed like blue ice. This sword, like the knife strapped to my left leg, had come from the mages of Ithica, one of our major trading partners. Both blades had been fashioned in the arcane fires of Ithica’s high temples and could only be destroyed in those fires.

While not all of Esan’s soldiers had access to them, those of us whose task it was to scout Mareritten for any sign of activity or armed buildup certainly did.

But my father had personally commissioned this set and had given it to me when I’d finally made captain.

I suspected now it had been meant as a peace offering, because the pips had barely hit my shoulders when, on my thirtieth birthday, he’d informed me the commitment agreement had finally been signed.

I sucked in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the destruction rather than the life-changing events of tomorrow.

Eastmead’s layout was pretty basic, consisting of only three streets—one followed the cove’s shoreline while another circled the central marketplace. The third shot off toward the south, eventually leading to the port of Hopetown. Not many folks used it—as roads went, it was long and hazardous, especially in bullock-drawn carts. Few here could have afforded a courser; aside from the fact fishermen had little use for swift mounts, the shoreline didn’t provide much in the way of suitable grazing anyway. They could have held them in the valley to graze, of course, but that would have only made them targets for the larger drakkons who hunted there. Even stabling would have been difficult, as that would have meant importing feed. In fact, the few times I’d accompanied my father here on one of his inspection tours, the only stock I’d seen were poultry and a few domesticated capras—none of which were currently visible.

I cautiously padded on. This end of Eastmead had been devoted to all the different industries that a fishing village—large or small—needed. Aside from the net repairer, there’d been boat builders, blacksmiths, rope and barrel makers, fish scalers, and ice stores. While all the buildings here had been destroyed, there was little sign of the inventory or tools that each trade would have used. Even if much of it had burned, the fire wouldn’t have been hot enough to destroy the blacksmith’s tools and anvil. And yet, only the remnants of his forge remained.

It very much looked like the invaders had scooped up absolutely everything they could before they’d left... Which raised another possibility—had they also scooped up the people?

Slavery wasn’t much of a problem these days. It was certainly banned here in Arleeon, and most of our trade partners had also either banned it outright or had never ventured there in the first place. But most wasn’t all, and there’d been whispers of slave trading gaining traction on shores far distant from those of our trading partners. If that were true, we’d have to start stationing small garrisons around our outlying settlements. Or, at the very least, provide arms and training.

I paused again at the edge of the rutted and muddy ring road, looking left then right. Many of the buildings that had once lined both sides of this road still burned, though the flames were little more than flickers creeping along the edges of the blackened, broken walls. Despite the destruction, the central marketplace wasn’t visible from where I stood. The beautiful old clock tower that had stood so proudly in the heart of the village for eons was , though it was now little more than a stark, skeletal structure—one whose still-smoldering support struts looked for all the world like blackened fingers reaching for the skies, pleading for help.

But there was no helping Eastmead. Not now.

I continued on warily. Tin rattled in the strengthening wind, briefly drawing my gaze left. Through a crack between one building wall and another, I spotted the smoldering mound that ringed the base of the tower. I had no idea what it was, but it certainly wasn’t the collapsed remnants of the tower—the mound was simply too big. Too neat.

Intuition stirred, as did unease, but I didn’t examine either too hard. Until I got closer, I really didn’t want to speculate.

I kept following the road, my boots sticking in the mud, making every step that much harder. I checked each house I passed, but there remained no sign of life—or even death—in any of them. Nor was there any evidence of the usual household clutter; the fire that had consumed Eastmead had obviously burned white hot, so it was not surprising that all the furniture was ashed. But where was all the kitchenware? At the very least, there should have been clumps of metal that had once been eating utensils or pots. But there was nothing—not even broken remnants of plates and cups. The flickering sense of unease grew ever stronger.

I finally reached an entry point into the marketplace and paused to study the road ahead. It was tempting to continue down to the docks—or what was left of them, at any rate—rather than go left and confirm what suspicion and intuition were telling me about that mound.

But there was no guarantee I wouldn’t find worse by the sea.

I drew in a deep breath and then resolutely turned left. The strong wind pushed at my back, as if eager to move me on, to make me see. My grip on my sword reflexively tightened as I moved from the mud of the road to the wide slabs of stone that marked the beginning of the central market area.

The closer I got to that mound, the more certain I became of what it was, and the angrier I grew.

Damn it, why ? The refrain pounded through my brain, but the rain and the wind provided no answer.

I was ten feet away when my steps finally faltered. All I could do was stare at the horror that lay before me.

When I’d been standing on top of the ridge, I’d wondered where all the villagers were.

I now had my answer.

They were here. Butchered. Blackened. Broken.

Every damn one of them.