Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Mourfall lay nestled in a sweeping hollow of an even older dragon cemetery. The curved spines and bones surrounded their homes like solemn guards. They preferred living in simple dwellings, nothing shiny, no beautiful collections, just stone-built houses with timbered roofs. As if they lost their hoard-fire when their firebrand died. Only their gardens filled with the greenery of vegetables, herbs and berries softened the starkness. Beyond their farm plots stretched a wide, flat rock slab base, worn smooth by centuries of dragon claws–their launchpad into the open sky.
The warriors clocked our approach before we arrived, and waited in battle formation, claws bared and flared. As soon as they noted my identity, they stood down.
Discordant cries of “Her Majesty” rang out. Heads bowed before the leader stepped closer.
“Welcome,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A berserker going through the motions of living life without his firebrand beside him. His body was a picture of despair: loose at the joints, with his arms hanging heavy at his sides. “How may I serve you, Queen Olyssa?” His gaze slipped to Taron, and he frowned. “And your guest. I am the Staffholder, Alaric Vogler.”
“We seek a lament stone.”
Confusion and regret lined his tired face. “I’m sorry, majesty, but none remain. They were destroyed months ago, along with a handful of wild voxhounds. We informed our councilmember of this.”
“Who is your representative?” I asked, though I already knew. I just needed the confirmation. To make this real.
“Roland Hoffmann.”
Tension gripped me, stiffness vice-locking my muscles. The councilman had mentioned nothing of it. Why keep this from me? And more importantly, what else had he failed to report? The man was quick to point a finger at me for the growing danger in our realm but kept silent about the threat festering in his own district.
He and I would be having a chat as soon as I returned.
“Who or what is responsible for the destruction?” And how were Taron and I supposed to break the bond now?
“We do not know. A plague swept through the voxhounds, and the stones slowly disintegrated. Follow me and I’ll show you.” Staffholder Vogler led us forward, through the narrow streets surfaced not in cobbled pavers, but of packed earth and gravel. Lanterns dangled from wrought-iron hooks, devoid of beauty, with no gold filigree or jewels. Not a sign of murals or pretty cloth banners. All the bright treasures dragons loved. Villagers paused to bow their heads as I passed.
To his credit, Taron remained on guard behind me, without setting off any alarm bells in the warriors.
We stopped at an enclosed pen, where a single voxhound lay in the dirt. “Only she still lives,” Vogler said, motioning to the poor animal.
Like all voxhounds, she was the size of a large dog, with a mix of porcupine quills and fur, and the body shape of a gorilla, the bulk of her strength in her meaty fists. But patches of quills and fur were missing, and her muscle mass had withered. My heart contracted. Poor dear.
“The others wasted away, as she is doing,” he added. “Nothing we’ve tried has helped. We’ve considered putting her out of her misery but have hoped against hope another voxhound would show up.” These were pack beasts by nature, and like dragons, mated for life.
Voxhounds were also savage when roused. Like little berserkers with fangs. Yet they served as the wild’s uneasy magistrates, keeping other predators in fearful check. This one peered at me with dull, crimson pools that held something more than animal cunning: loss, as if grief lived inside her, an old, festering wound.
I sympathized. Compassion rose so fiercely it almost hurt.
“Why is she locked up?” I asked. The wild resented cages, with good reason.
“She sought our protection, unable to protect herself,” Vogler said, his voice was a soft rumble. “Urged us to send a message to you and request a meeting.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t you send it?”
Vogler’s brows knitted. “I did. Our runner spoke with Councilman Hoffmann. He said he would tell you personally.”
I bit my tongue against the bite of a rising temper. “He didn’t.” Hoffmann would answer for that omission too. “I’m going in.” I moved to the pen.
Taron stiffened at my side, every inch the warrior. The set of his jaw warned me that if I tried to go alone, I’d lose the argument. To my surprise, a flicker of reassurance took hold.
“Give us space,” I said, the command absolute.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before turning and leaving.
Though I preferred to be alone, maybe. Probably. Still, I entered the pen with Taron behind me, his presence steady. He didn’t speak; he didn’t have to.
I sensed his attention shift with mine, tracking the poor animal’s breathing and the tension in her quills. Slowing together, we approached the once-fierce creature. The world narrowed to the voxhound’s slow blink.