Chapter Fifteen
At the Border of the Wastes
Halithe froze in terror, staring, as the writhing mass of wyverns swooped toward her. All she could think was that they were so much smaller than she’d—
Bright Fang hit her hard, took her tunic in his teeth, and bore her down to the ground, knocking the breath out of her.
“No,” Aramal screamed. In a blur of movement, he tackled Ritathan, who went down with an “oof” next to Halithe.
The noise was incredible, overwhelming, the flapping of leathery wings and the high-pitched screeches of the creatures. A wave of stink washed over her, of rotting flesh and dung. Halithe threw her hands up in front of her face, even as Bright Fang covered her body with his.
Aramal covered Ritathan, sheltering his head underneath his arms as the wyvern swarm blotted out the light.
Halithe flinched—
Nothing happened.
She peeked through her fingers at the wyverns, seeing them hissing and spitting, lashing out with their stingers, and hitting…a barrier? They hovered a foot or two above her, their beady eyes filled with hate and frustration.
She looked toward Ritathan, where he was pinned under Aramal.
Ritathan waggled his eyebrows at her.
Halithe gaped, even as Aramal shoved himself up, staring at Ritathan.
Ritathan widened his eyes. “What exactly did you think you were protecting me from?” he asked over the screeching.
Aramal rolled off of him, cursing. “You arrogant son-of-a—”
“Now, now,” Ritathan said. “Language.” His tone was mild but drenched with arrogant attitude.
Halithe laughed, relief washing over her.
Bright Fang growled.
The barrier covered them completely, leaving the wyverns to beat against it. Halithe stared, fascinated. They were black as night, their wings had claws at the joints, and their clawed feet looked wicked sharp. But they weren’t much larger than a small lap dog.
“They’re so small,” Halithe raised a hand toward the barrier.
“Careful,” Ritathan said. “I am holding them out, not us in.”
“All the images and stories said they were as large as barns.”
“They were, before the Mage Wars,” Ritathan said. “But the Wastes forced animals to change or die.”
“They can still do a lot of damage with those claws and beaks,” Aramal pointed out. “And their stingers are poisonous.” He lifted his chin towards some ichor on the barrier. “They don’t seem to be losing interest, either. Maybe we can crawl to the edge, and—”
“Please,” Ritathan snorted.
Flames erupted outside the barrier, engulfing the wyverns. The flare blinded Halithe, who blinked watering eyes against the light. She watched in horrified fascination as waves of fire burned above them, leathery wings turning crisp in the inferno.
Excitement rose in her chest; a want so large it filled her entire being. To wield such glory, such power, such destruction. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
A few wyvern struggled to flee. Ritathan was having none of it. He didn’t move, didn’t gesture, but she saw the narrowing of his eyes. Flame lashed out. The creatures burst into small balls of burning cinders that drifted to the ground.
Finally, all that remained was a dusting of ash on the barrier, being whipped away in the wind.
Bright Fang’s ruff twitched in disapproval as he glared at Ritathan.
“We’re not in Athelbryght,” Ritathan reminded him cheerily.
Aramal was trying to slow his breathing, glaring at Ritathan.
Halithe laughed giddily. It wasn’t just the release of tension. In all her lessons, everything Ritathan had showed her had been small, controlled magics. But this, this was raw, unbridled…glorious.
Ritathan shook his head at her, as if he could read her thoughts. But he said nothing, just released the barrier and got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothes. Halithe scrambled up as well.
The air was filled with gritty ash and the scent of burnt meat. A breeze blew in their faces, dry and dusty but dispersing the smell.
Aramal sat cross-legged on the ground, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’d heard tales,” he said. “But I never thought them true.” Bright Fang sat next to him. Aramal buried his hand in that thick fur, as if seeking solace. “There might be more,” he warned.
Rithathan nodded. “Trust me, I have no intention of getting any closer to the edge.” He just looked out toward the horizon. “But all the answers lie out there, somewhere. In the Wastes.”
Aramal got to his feet. “Where only fools and marcusi venture.”
“Why?” Halithe demanded. “We could go—” but both Aramal and Ritathan shook their heads and Bright Fang whined.
“That land does not forgive or forget,” Ritathan said, nodding toward the edge. “Magic as we know it doesn’t function there. Worse, attempts to impose our will attracts attention.”
“There are more practical issues as well.” Aramal said. “Food is scarce and water is scarcer. The Wastes offer no welcome.”
“You talk as if it’s alive,” Halithe said.
“In its own way, it is.” Ritathan said.
Bright Fang moved then, just a few steps forward. Aramal translated. “There’s nothing here, no sign of Dust.” Halithe watched as Bright Fang drooped, his ears flat. “They must have perished, gone over the edge.”
“You don’t know that,” Ritathan’s voice was soft, with more sympathy than Halithe had given him credit for. “If she traveled with a marcus, she may be well.
“At any rate, there is no more to learn here and we shouldn’t linger.”
“Agreed,” Ritathan nodded.
The trip down went faster due in large part to the fact that the “borders of Athelbryght” got stretched a tad. But no one raised the issue, even Bright Fang. There was a weight to the knowledge they carried.
Halithe felt especially for Bright Fang. The joy was gone from him. Every move reflected grief. She made it a point to lie close to him at night, offering what warmth she could, unsure of how else to offer comfort.
Their arrival drew attention. Halithe noted heads turning as they passed, runners being sent.
By the time they arrived at the Great Hall, Latarie was seated in the Chosen’s chair, surrounded by the Packmoot.
Aramal and Bright Fang did the talking. Ritathan stood silent and still.
Halithe, dirty and tired, did the same and watched as the weight of their news pressed down on those gathered, vore and human alike.
Latarie was resigned as she spoke. “Our thanks, Aramal, Bright Fang, for your service. Please seek out your rest and return to your duties tomorrow.”
Aramal gave a nod, glanced at Ritathan, then disappeared into the crowd without a word, Bright Fang beside him.
“We thank you for your service as well,” Latarie said, focused on Ritathan. “We will shelter you for this night and then set you on your path. We will see you safely to the border.”
Fog turned his head slightly to look at Halithe.
She squared her shoulders. She knew they’d try again to convince her to stay, to live in Athelbryght. But the image of the flames rose again in her mind’s eye and she felt their warmth and wonder. And her want.
In the morning, she stood at Ritathan’s shoulder as their escort prepared to depart, seeing to horse and packs.
Aramal approached, Bright Fang at his side.
“Bright Fang wants to say good-bye,” Aramal said. “He wishes you well in your journey.”
Bright Fang nudged Halithe’s hand and on impulse, she knelt and hugged the huge vore.
“And you?” Ritathan asked, his tone brittle. “You’re wishing us well, I trust.”
“No,” Aramal said, and as Halithe rose she realized he was once again dressed for travel. “I am coming with you,” he said, looking oddly defiant and nervous. “I let you walk out of my life once before. Not again.”
“Oh.” Ritathan just stared at him.
Bright Fang barked what had to be a laugh and trotted off, tail high.
“Besides,” Aramal said, taking up the reins of his horse as a groom brought it forward, “you have the trail sense of a blind chicken. Have you ever really cooked over a fire, or cared for a horse on the road? Idiot. You already told me you can’t portal.
There isn’t an inn every mile, you know.
Someone has to make sure you don’t collapse on the road and die of sheer stupidity. ”
Halithe stifled a giggle.
“Well, I—” Ritathan cleared his throat. “If you insist.”
“Mount up.” Aramal bid them. “We’ve a long ride before you can ‘ignite’ a campfire.”