Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Fenix
Word comes in from the southern scouts before I even reach the eyrie upper entry.
Rocklings. At least a dozen, maybe more, moving with a fae column toward the lake settlements.
The others absorb this as military intelligence. Troop counts. Threat assessment. Tactical response.
I hear the word and I am thirteen years old again.
One hundred years earlier…
“Fenix, lad, take these scraps out to the pigs,” the cook instructs me.
I don’t mind feeding the pigs. It’s better than scrubbing pots or dishing out slop to the prisoners, which is pretty much my lot.
I’m lost in my thoughts as I cross the inner courtyard. The wind is fucking biting, and there is a bit of shelter in the lee of the pigpen.
Which is when the gates open… the ones to the compound… the compound that rests on the other side of the men’s dormitory and where they turn orcs into rocklings.
I have never seen the gate open before. Not once. I mean, I know it must open, or there would not be a gate. I edge into the shadow of the awning, keeping my eyes on the gate as I toss out the scraps. My neck cranes, trying to watch both the opening crack and what I’m doing.
A guard exits the gate and pauses to speak with another who stands inside, blocking the view of the compound.
Then the outer guard walks away, cutting a brisk path across the courtyard. For a brief moment, I have a clear view of what lies beyond.
Rocklings.
Three of them.
Chained and kneeling in mud.
Their bodies are wrong. Too large. Too heavy. Skin pale and stretched over muscles, as if they had been forced into them. Familiar tusks in a jaw that has been wildly misshapen.
The one in the center lifts his head, and eyes as black as Raba swamp tar latch onto me.
I stumble backward, nearly drop the damn bucket, and fumble to grasp it lest it ring against the cobbles.
The beast snorts, nostrils widening.
Maybe he’s the one who asked me for help.
Or the quiet one.
Or the one who demanded answers.
He could be the one who cursed me and my family, or the one the overseer left with no food.
The gate rattles shut, and he is snatched from my view.
I feed the pigs and go back to the kitchen where I scrub pots. Then Overseer Barnes takes me down to the dungeon, where fresh prisoners are to be fed.
That night, when I lie in bed, the moaning begins again.
I think about the orcs. And about what they become: pets of the dark fae lords and generals, who follow their masters’ orders without question or remorse.
I think about General Adharde with his beautiful blue cloak and highly polished boots. And about Molly, destined to be a different kind of pet.
As the moans turn to screams, and the screams turn blood-curdling, I remember my mother curling her body around me, protecting me from the cold.
“Do you know what Fenix means?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“It means you won’t stay here forever.”
Lark
Present day…
The bell is ringing. The moment has a certain déjà vu. Only everything is different now. Rafe is no longer chained in a dungeon, awaiting some unknown fate. He is lying upon the floor, his body rupturing as he undergoes an accelerated change.
The stakes were high before. Now I understand that they are impossibly more.
My paws thud against the loamy forest floor as I race through the trees at the side of the soldiers. Overhead, silent shadows beat above us as griffins fly.
I shove down worry and give my entirety over to the wolf.
Violet is with Rafe. She will watch over him. She has already probably got her little nose buried in a book, searching for hope and answers. But there is danger here, and we must do our part.
An ungodly roar comes from ahead, one that stirs ancient memories and makes the fur along my nape bristle.
We break out of the trees onto the shores of a lake. On the opposite side, a quaint township lies nestled among the trees.
Once quaint but no longer.
A makeshift barricade has been formed out of carts and wagons.
Buildings are already aflame near the barrier, where a desperate battle to protect the community is underway.
For filling the shoreline is an insidious legion of dark fae and great, white creatures with metal collars around their throats.
My snout rises to the air, and I issue a baying howl. I recognize a foe… one my ancestors have battled before.
Dark fae. Worse. They’re captive rocklings.
Brutish. Thick-necked. Brutal. Unfeeling monsters.
The dark fae call them pets, but they are undoubtedly a form of slave.
Twisted and conditioned, they are orcs who have been warped into something even more ungodly.
Something mindless. Something that hungers for blood.
Above, a griffin screeches. I recognize Aldric’s battle cry. And then Darkan. Galeor and the other griffins fold wings for attack speed and dive.
We pick up pace, crashing as one into the back of the enemy lines.
A great boom of light explodes from a dark fae’s hand. It slams into the rider beside me, pitching both man and horse into the air and smashing them into a tree. Another spark of light shoots out, arcing across the ground, and another soldier goes down.
I weave, dive, slam the dark fae into the ground, and tear out his throat. His blood is foul and bitter on my tongue. But I’m already leaping for the next.
Dread sounds fill the air.
Monsters who prey upon the weak.
A griffin swoops. Claws rake. Another flash of light. A scream of pain as an arc of fire lances a griffin’s wing.
I spin and pivot and find myself face-to-face with a rockling.
Rabid black eyes. A brutish snout. Tusks that sit in a jaw distended by the process of making.
He spreads his arms and roars. A giant fist swings for me.
I dodge. Too fast for him to catch. Circle. And sink my teeth into the back of his thigh.
More bitter blood pools in my mouth. His fist swings, slamming into my side, knocking me off.
I roll, shake the stars from my vision, and watch as his leg crumples and he drops to one knee.
Soldiers swarm him. Ropes thrown around his neck. “NOW!” A soldier calls. They pull, toppling the beast.
I lunge, jump, and close my teeth around the side of his thick throat, finding the only small weakness in his hide.
My teeth sink. Powerful jaws working to penetrate skin. And then I tear free a great clump. Blood arcs in its wake.
The beast flails and thrashes, but I jump free and tumble as men rush to finish the job with steel blades.
There is no time to stop and consider. There is only the next target.
But later, when this attack is over, and the fae and their dread pets have fled this battle if not the war, I understand the magnitude of what is to come.