Forest of Ruin (21 page)

M
oria heard Gavril shout her name, and then the cavern went dark, every torch extinguishing at once. She yanked out her daggers and pushed her sister against the wall, guarding her as Ashyn whispered, “Moria?”

“Sorcery,” Moria said. That was all she said. All she dared say. She would not speak his name, as if to do so would—were she wrong—somehow bring him, manifested like a spirit. Yet she had no doubt who the cowled man was. That voice was branded on her brain.

Alvar Kitsune.

She had asked Gavril what his father had planned next. Gavril had said he didn't know, but feared it was sorcery. Now they had their answer. More than sorcery. Alvar had planned to murder Ashyn to raise dragons.

Ronan knew the plan to raise dragons meant sacrificing Ashyn, which is why they'd raced here as quickly as they could. The fact that his captors had stopped at Alvar's camp suggested Gavril's father was involved in the scheme, but it was only now, seeing him here, that they knew those fears had been well-founded.

When darkness fell, chaos exploded. Shouts erupted from Tyrus and Dalain. Daigo growled. Metal clanked. Moria stayed poised, not daring to take a step, lest she leave Ashyn exposed. She had to trust the young warriors.

Trust them to do what? Fight in the dark? Somehow not butcher one another?

“Gavril!” she shouted, but even as she did, she saw light, Gavril raising his glowing left hand. He brandished his sword in his right, but the long blade could not be wielded single-handedly. He pulled out his short sword instead and swung it awkwardly when a dagger-armed woman lunged at him.

Daigo and Dalain advanced on the still-cowled warrior. Ronan had Edwyn against the wall, his sword at the old man's throat. Sabre guarded a second woman, her slingshot in hand, ready to send a stone flying where needed.

From beyond the cave, Moria heard more sounds of fighting. They'd had to battle their way through, the Okami warriors at their side. They'd left them out there, fighting Edwyn's men, who were apparently Alvar's men. When she glanced toward the entranceway, drawn by the sounds of that distant fighting, a figure appeared. Another warrior—and not dressed in the Okami colors. A second followed him.

“Gavril!” Moria shouted.

He was still trying to use the short sword, but when she shouted, he pulled his long sword instead, gripping it in both hands . . . and his light went out. Blades clanged. Someone gasped. An
oomph
. A thud. Then Tyrus's voice: “Gavril!”

“Busy!”

Another thud. This one followed by the wet sound of a blade slicing through flesh. A howl of pain and Moria froze. Then Tyrus again: “Gavril!”

A grunt. A clang. “What?”

Tyrus didn't answer for a moment. When he did, it sounded like he'd moved closer to Gavril. “Light! Now!”

Another
oomph
. Another thud. Then light, and Moria could see Tyrus fighting the two newcomers. Gavril stood at his shoulder, his blade in one hand, light in the other, his gaze fixed on the fighters, his body tense.

“I need the light more than I need help,” Tyrus grunted between blows.

The warrior Tyrus had been fighting earlier lay dead a few paces away. Ashyn darted from behind Moria. Moria let out a grunt and grabbed for her sister, but Ashyn snatched the warrior's blade, ran back to Moria, and said, “Trade?” then took one of Moria's daggers and handed her the sword.

“I know you're better with the daggers, but you can use that,” Ashyn said. “And I don't need to be shielded in a corner, Rya.”

Moria murmured an apology, and they surveyed the battlefield together, hunting for the best target. Seeing how they could help without getting in the way, given the poor lighting.

Ronan still had Edwyn pinned. Dalain and Daigo had backed the cowled man into a corner. Their opponent had sheathed his weapon, his hands raised in surrender.

Surrender? Does that mean it is not Alvar?

No, that voice . . . She'd known it and so had Tyrus and Gavril, but both boys seemed to have forgotten him in the heat of the battle. Or perhaps they'd realized they were mistaken, and—

She yanked her gaze away as another warrior barreled through the entrance. With Ashyn at her side, she began rushing toward him. Then Gavril's light went out. The last image Moria saw was Gavril looking up at his hand in surprise, meaning he had not extinguished—

Hands grabbed her. It happened so fast that she didn't have time to respond. Hands wrenched her away from Ashyn. Ashyn screamed. Moria slashed with her dagger but blindly, feeling it slice through air and then—

Her feet slid out, her face crushed against something bitter cold. Then light returned and she was staring at dragon scales, someone pinning her against the beast.

Moria fought wildly. She heard Ashyn call out, trying to find her, then Tyrus's roar of rage, Gavril's shout of “No!” and then there was a flash of light, blindingly bright, and the hold on her neck eased just enough for her to twist as the dagger plunged toward her.

T
he blade sliced into her side. She slammed down her own dagger, hitting a bare arm, seeing blood arc, seeing dark skin and the nine-tailed fox splitting as her blade cut through it. She looked up to see Alvar Kitsune's face. She stabbed again and so did he. His blade into her side, hers into his shoulder. Ashyn leaped at Alvar, dagger raised, but Alvar snarled something, some sorcery, and she flew back into the wall.

Ronan twisted toward Ashyn, letting out a curse, and Edwyn tried to fling himself free, but Ronan spun on him, blade flashing, blood spraying. Tyrus grabbed Alvar hard enough to throw him off balance. He went to catch Moria before she toppled, but Gavril pulled her away, and Tyrus wheeled on him, shock in his eyes, his face then contorting into a snarl, his blade rising.

“I can help her,” Gavril said. “Heal her. I can't . . .”

He glanced toward his father, and they knew what he meant.
I cannot fight him.
Gavril's gaze dropped, as if in shame, but Tyrus was already bearing down on Alvar as the older man got to his feet. Edwyn lay on the floor, dead, Ronan's blade bloodied. Ronan was helping Ashyn up, but she pushed him off, then grabbed a torch from one of the fallen women and ran to Gavril, letting him light it as he held Moria. She glanced at her sister, her face dark with panic.

Moria mouthed a weak,
I'm fine,
and motioned for Ashyn to stand where she could light the cave for the others.

“Tyrus,” Alvar said. “I would barely have recognized you without that ink on your arms. No longer a skinny boy tagging after my son like a lost puppy.”

“Unsheathe your sword,” Tyrus said. “You are not raising dragons this day.”

“I have no intention of raising them.”

“Do not lie. You collaborated with this Northern sorcerer to trick Ashyn and raise dragons against my father. Dragons to fight a Tatsu, proving even the goddess favored you. Which she clearly does not, as you see.”

“I deny none of that, except the part about the goddess. She does favor me, as you will see. I meant only that I will not raise these dragons. That is what these girls are for.”

“Unsheathe your sword!” Tyrus snarled. “Now!”

“And there it is: proof that you are both the boy I remember and the true son of Jiro Tatsu. An honor-bound fool. You could have killed me. Cut off my head while I attacked the young Keeper. Even now, you could try. Swing before I can pull my sword.”

“Gavril?” Tyrus said, still advancing.

That was all he said, but it snapped Gavril out of his trance, and he lowered Moria onto the sleeping dragon.

“I have her,” Gavril called back. “She'll be fine.”

“Oh my,” Alvar said. “You take orders from Jiro's bastard now, Gavril? You are even weaker than I feared. And what do you take orders to do? See to the girl, because young Tyrus cannot fully devote himself to this fight if he thinks she is dying. That is not mere piety, is it, Tyrus? You do not simply worry about her because she is a Keeper.”

“Unsheathe your sword,” Tyrus said.

“She's his lover, Gavril,” Alvar said. “Are you too naive to have figured that out? Or is this what it's come to? I offer you an empire, and you choose to serve the emperor's bastard and his whore.”

Gavril just kept lowering her to rest against the dragon. When she touched the cold scales and jumped, he murmured, “I have you,” and she looked up at him and said, “I know.”

Sabre and Dalain held the remaining two women and surviving warrior at bay. Ronan guarded Ashyn. Tyrus had Daigo, prowling back and forth at his heels.

“My father will not fight,” Gavril whispered to Moria.

“Like you outside Lord Okami's compound.”

Gavril shook his head. “I would not risk hurting Tyrus. My father will not risk
being
hurt. He has seen Tyrus's skill.” He shifted her to rest more comfortably. “Now look at me.”

When she didn't, he said, “Keeper? Look at me. I need you to relax so I may examine your wounds, and you cannot relax if you are tensed to leap to his rescue. If I hear any sign
of trouble, I am at his side.” He paused, then said, “Tyrus's, I mean.”

She looked up at him and said again, “I know.”

He nodded and peeled back her blood-soaked tunic. The sodden cloth seemed to have been holding the wound closed, and blood gushed. Gavril cursed. Ashyn gasped. Tyrus started to turn, pulled by Ashyn's gasp, and Alvar reached under his cloak—

“Tyrus!” Moria shouted.

The young warrior spun, his blade spinning with him, swinging for Alvar. Ashyn's torch flashed out. The sound of a blade hitting flesh. A hiss of pain. Moria yelled, “Tyrus!” pushing herself up to standing, and then light appeared again from Gavril's fingers as he ran, sword raised.

But Tyrus stood there alone, his bloodied blade held aloft. There was no sign of Alvar. They caught the sound of feet echoing through the passage. Dalain's blade struck the remaining warrior, putting him down fast. Dalain ran for the doorway, through which someone was already leaving. He said, “Sabre!” before following the girl. Tyrus lunged after them, telling Dalain to come back, telling them both not to follow—

“Blast it!” Tyrus said. He swung his sword in frustration, blood flicking from the blade.

“Go,” Moria said. Then she stumbled, her knees giving way as blood flowed between her fingers, and she fell back onto the dragon.

Ronan took off, saying, “You stay here. I've got this, and I'll find Tova,” as he ran for the exit. Ashyn let out a gasp and a “No!” but he was already disappearing through the doorway.

“Daigo, please,” Moria said as Gavril dropped beside her.

The wildcat didn't hesitate. He tore off after Ronan.

“Ashyn,” Moria whispered, the pain in her side making her struggle for breath. “Stay. Please.”

Ashyn didn't hesitate either. She ran over, discarding her cloak and dropping beside Gavril, and the two worked to staunch the bleeding while Tyrus hovered, blade in hand. Edwyn's two women had left, scrambling out when they got the chance.

Moria lay wedged between the mother dragon and one of the whelps.
A dragon throne
, she thought, and chuckled, and the sound had all three of the others looking over in alarm. She felt oddly disengaged from her body, as if she was already half spirit, fluttering there by a tether.

“I'll stay tethered,” she murmured, and they all froze, eyes wide with encroaching panic.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, her words coming thick. “I only mean I'll not go.”

Which was not, she reflected, the right thing to say, as panic grew in three pairs of eyes and Ashyn and Gavril worked harder, Gavril whispering magical words, healing words, his voice trembling as much as Ashyn's fingers.

I ought not to speak. I ought to simply focus on staying. That is the important thing. Staying.

She thought the words with a truly unnerving calm, as if she was deciding simply to remain for breakfast. Perhaps the fact that it was a question at all ought to worry her, that floating sensation saying she was, indeed, treading the boundary of the second world.

No matter. I'll not cross it. I'll stay on my throne of dragons. A trio of—

Scales moved under her outstretched hand. She pressed her fingers against the dragon whelp's flank as it seemed to twitch.

That would be odd, wouldn't it? If I woke a dragon in spite of everything.

She tried not to giggle at the thought. That's what she wanted to do—giggle as she'd not done since she'd last drunk too much honey wine. That was how she felt, floating there.

Of course, she was simply hallucinating the movement. The dragon was still cold.

Cold . . .

Dragons . . . snakes . . . lizards. What did they have in common? Beasts whose blood ran cool. Lizards lay in the sun to warm themselves because they were not naturally warm-blooded.

Interesting . . .

She rolled her head to the side. Her eyes closed, as if the effort of keeping them open took too much strength. Ashyn cried out. Hands flew to Moria's throat—not Ashyn's soft fingers, but rough ones, pressing hard. Then other hands, on her shoulders, trying to rouse her even as Gavril growled to stop shaking her.

She opened her eyes to see the face of a dragon. And Tyrus's above it, watching her anxiously, exhaling in relief when her eyes opened.

“The dragon . . .” she whispered. “It moves.”

“She's in shock,” Gavril said. “Tyrus, I know you're worried, but get
back
.”

“No.” Moria fumbled for Tyrus's hand and pressed it to the dragon's side. “Do you feel that?”

When she looked into his eyes, she swore his warm brown irises turned to amber, the round pupils to slits.

“Your dragon,” she whispered.

“She's hallucinating,” Gavril said. “Tyrus, get back.”

“I'm not in your way,” Tyrus snapped. Then he turned to her. “Tell me about the dragon, Moria. Keep talking. Focus on me.”

“She does not have the strength—” Gavril began.

“He's keeping her calm.” The snap in Ashyn's voice startled Moria. It also shut Gavril up.

“Tell me about the dragon, Moria,” Tyrus said.

She smiled up at him and watched his eyes shift from human to dragon and back again. She saw images, like memories, real and solid, and when she spoke, it was as if she heard words not her own.

“I see dragons and I see empires,” she said. “I see you and I see your dragon and I see your empire. I see blood and I see fire and I see peace. I see you on the imperial throne and I see a dragon at your gate, a huge and beautiful snow dragon.”

“And you?”

When she didn't answer, he bent forward, blocking her view of the dragon, his eyes right above hers, still flickering from human to dragon, both forms dark with worry.

“Moria, tell me that you see yourself. That you are there. With me.”

She smiled. “Of course. I'll always be there for you. You will have an empire, and you will have dragons.”

“And I will have you.”

Before she could reply, she went still, pressing Tyrus's hand against the dragon whelp. His eyes widened, and she smiled. “I'm not hallucinating, am I?”

“The dragon,” Tyrus breathed. “Moria's blood.”

Hands together, they pressed the dragon whelp's side as it heaved with slow heartbeats and slower breaths. One foreleg twitched. Then the clawed foot clenched and unclenched.

“It wakes!” Gavril said. “Tyrus, get back now!”

The whelp opened one eye. Tyrus turned, and that was the first thing the dragon saw: his face.

As it should be.

Moria smiled, that floating feeling washing through her now, liquid warmth that made her head swim. She saw Tyrus, and she saw the dragon, and she saw them reflected in each other's gaze.

“Tyrus, move away
now
.” Gavril's voice was low with warning. Tension and fear clouded his face, and he held his sword raised. Seeing that made a little of the euphoria fall away as the world became brighter, clearer.

Moria blinked. The dragon caught the movement and looked at her, and she met its gaze and looked into its eyes. For a moment, she fell back into those strange visions, those images. Blood and fire and then victory and peace.

Not now
, a voice seemed to whisper in her ear.
That is not now.

Of course it was not, because the Tyrus she saw in the images was no boy, nor the dragon a whelp.

And where was she in that vision? That's what Tyrus had
asked, and the truth was that she did not see her place. She knew only that she was there. For him. Always.

“Tyrus,” Gavril said. “I'm going to ask you again. Back up. Moria? Move slowly toward me. If that beast so much as opens its jaws, I will—”

“No, you will not,” she said. “It will not, and so you will not.”

Gavril's mouth worked, but something in her eyes made him lower his gaze. His sword stayed up, though.

“I'm going to ask you, Keeper, please . . .”

“He's right,” Ashyn said. “The dragon is small, but the dragon is not tiny. Let's all just back up and watch. No sudden moves.” She glanced at Gavril. “That goes for you, too. Lower the sword, please.”

“If they back away, I will lower it.”

They did. The dragon only watched them, looking from Tyrus to Moria, seeming sleepy and confused. The beast made an odd little noise, almost like a mewl. Then it moved. A sudden move that had Gavril jumping, but it was only the dragon trying to get to its feet and instead falling forward. Moria dove to catch it. Tyrus let out a cry, but the whelp had stumbled into Moria's arms and come to rest there, shaking against her, still mewling.

The whelp was as big as Tova. Its scales seemed white at first, but when Moria looked closer, she could see they were iridescent. It had a thick, serpentine body, tapering to a long tail that ended in what would someday be spikes, but were for now, only bone nubs. Likewise, the nubs on its head would grow to curving horns, with more spikes radiating out around
its face and down its spine. Its wings ended in single claws, like a bat, but it had both forelegs and hind legs, each pair already thickly clawed.

Moria rubbed its cold sides, feeling them warm under her touch. The dragon nuzzled against her.

“It needs heat,” Moria said. “And food. Is there—?”

“There's a goat,” Tyrus said. “I'll cut off some if Gavril can start a fire.”