Verath the Red (Dragonwall Series #3)

Chapter 9 - The Depths of Shadowkeep

Northern Barrier Range

Mikkin crawled over the ridge that separated him from the dragons and Ice Lake. He was careful to watch where he placed his hands and feet, careful not to make a sound. The day had dawned especially cold. He clutched his cloak tightly around him, shivering against it. A light snow had fallen the night before, making it harder to go unnoticed. He would need to wipe his tracks when he retreated back to the camp he and Jamie shared in a nearby cave.

His outlook was a small hideout disguised by a dense pile of brush. He made himself comfortable and began to observe. His routine had been the same for nearly two weeks. In this time, he had learned many of the patterns these dragons were prone to. When they fed and slept. When they came and went. He had even witnessed a few little spats. Though often harmless, they occasionally grew into deeper acts of violence towards each other. A deep sense of restlessness had settled over the beasts. That's when he had learned the most.

Today they appeared especially restless—more so than usual. "Something is different," he muttered. A new frown pulled at his lips.

Eyes narrowed, he watched their behavior.

There was no flittering and flying about today. The dragons had assembled on the far side of the lake, clinging to the rocky crests near their lair. Their sharp talons, sharp enough to slice through flesh and sinew, made deep gouges in the cliff ridges. Their wings were held open, kept in constant motion to maintain balance. Some threw their heads about, snapping at air with their jaws.

A bone-rattling roar split the air. He shuddered, watching as the clan of dragons moved as one. They jumped, massive bodies vaulting into the air. A flash of blood-red scales snapped his head to the left. The clan's leader. Beasts formed up around it.

His grip tightened on his bow. Instinct had him moving, loading an arrow, pulling. He paused, shaking his head, releasing the tension. There was no way he'd hit a single dragon at this distance. It would only betray his location. Growling, he sank back to the ground, hiding himself again. Helpless.

He watched the creature responsible for murdering his family—for taking Mardra from him. Watched it depart, moving farther and farther away from him. A new hollow formed in his chest. Growing. Engulfing his heart as the dragons disappeared over the ridge.

And then they were gone.

Silence pushed in around him. Gods, he was foolish! What had he expected, coming here? That he might have vengeance from a poorly crafted plan? A plan with no chance of success? He stood and kicked the nearest tree, howling as pain shot up his cold toes and into his leg.

The dragons had departed, and who could say when they would next return? Scrambling away, he raced through the forest, caring little for the noise he made. Not bothering to wipe his tracks. The dragons were gone, weren't they? So they wouldn't see his trail.

He all but crashed into the cave he and Jamie shared.

Jamie gave a little shout, jumping to his feet, Gobelin sword at the ready. He'd been sharpening it near the small fire. "Gods above!" Jamie breathed, eyes wide. "Be quiet! Or someone will find us."

He stared at the lad, his chest heaving. "The dragons. They've all gone."

Jamie's sword arm fell. "You...you're sure? But if they've left, that would mean..."

"Yes, exactly."

He shook his head and began pacing. His innards squirmed, as if filled with worms. He had done nothing in his time here—no good whatsoever—to help future victims who might suffer the clan's wrath.