The Dragondain Read online

  “You brought Lily here,” said Jasper to Nimlinn as he paced along a wall, his fingertips skimming over a mural depicting the destruction of an enormous tree. “What did she take?”

  “She took a riding cloak and helmet, some of those plates to protect the lower parts of her front and back legs, a pair of boots”—here Jasper laughed—“a small wooden ball, and a single slim ring.”

  “Little light on the weaponry there, sis,” he said dryly.

  “I had to make her take the cloak and boots.”

  “Boots? Lily? She must not have seen them. There’s so much stuff in here.”

  Jasper skidded to a halt in front a mural depicting an immense pitched battle taking place at the foot of the tower Fangdelve.

  “Whoa, what’s this?”

  In the painting, the valley floor all around the tower was covered by a pall of dust. Fighting in this dust were the shapes of Rinn and giant beetles the size of small cars. Squinting, Jasper could just make out the human riders on many of the Rinn’s backs. A sizable army of men present, holding pikes, swords, and shields—Dragondain shields. The sky above was thick with fire-breathing dragonflies and winged dragons.

  Jasper ran his finger over the black smoke billowing from the top of Fangdelve. “So how many times has”—Jasper paused to get the pronunciation just right—“Rengtiscura taken Fangdelve?”

  “To my knowledge, twice.”

  “Was it common for Dragondain to fight beside Rinn?”

  “As I’ve told you, other than myths and your uncle’s tales, we have no real proof of Dragondain ever fighting alongside Rinn.

  Jasper spread his arms wide and gestured at the stone slabs. “But Your Majesty, these are fallen Dragondain . . . and lunamancers. Obviously, they fought and died here on Barreth. And in a battle of great distinction, earning them this tomb. This mural is the only one showing Dragondain. This must be their tale.”

  Nimlinn nodded. “A reasonable assumption, young cub. But how do you know for certain that these are your fabled Dragondain?”

  Jasper picked up a shield and held it up for Nimlinn to see. “A winged dragon being ridden by a man or woman, this is the emblem of the Dragondain. But there’s more.” Jasper dashed back to the painting and pointed to a small banner flying above the battle. “They’re fighting . . . beside Rinnjinn.”

  Nimlinn’s eyes narrowed. Snerliff dropped the bag of fur he was stuffing and padded over to the painting until his nose and whiskers were nearly touching the paint, then wheeled around to face Nimlinn.

  “It’s Rinnjinn’s standard!”

  “Jasper,” began Nimlinn, “Rinnjinn was not a real Rinn.”

  “That’s right. He was more than Rinn. He was . . .”

  “The one who made us,” finished Nimlinn.

  And with that, Jasper finally confirmed the answer to a question Ebb had always managed to avoid answering. Jasper had guessed right, and he smiled victoriously.

  Nimlinn sensed she’d given something away. But it wasn’t like she’d told him anything he couldn’t have discovered during a day’s study at the scrolls in the Royal Library. Or even, for that matter, from a well-versed Rinn bard at any tavern in Sea Denn. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d need to keep on her pads around this young cub, lest something truly important slip.

  “Enough talk of paintings and Dragondain and Rinnjinn—what will you take from this room?”

  Jasper quickly finished his tour of the tomb, taking in everything, cataloging his choices. He was surprised at how many of the armaments he knew by name. Jasper was tall for his age and strongly built. Even so, all of the armor here was too large or made for a woman.

  After a time, Nimlinn snorted. “Don’t tell me you can’t find anything either.”

  “Quite the contrary,” murmured Jasper. In the theater of his mind played movie scene after movie scene of the good guys suiting up to take on the bad guys. But what to take? Travel light? Travel heavy? Just how much of this stuff could he get away with?

  Something familiar drew Jasper’s eye to a bit of detailed metalwork on the hilt of a sword. Two moons—one full, the other crescent—graced the tips of the cross-guard. He grasped the scabbard in one hand, the grip in the other, and gave a good yank. The moons on the hilt seemed to grow brighter, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Runes ran down the length of the blade.

  “Are you a master swordsman, young cub?” asked Nimlinn.

  Jasper held up the sword. It felt wonderfully, impossibly light. He gave it a quick flourish and smacked the blade into the corner of a lamp, shearing off a small chunk of the metalwork.

  “Not last I checked,” said Jasper.

  “Then that sword will remain here.”

  Jasper looked up, surprised. “Why?” He wondered, nervously, what else Nimlinn might rule out. His dream of outfitting himself like the ultimate warrior knight suddenly began to fade.

  “While I don’t know the history of much that lies within this room, I do know that that is a moon sword—one of the nine. They are highly sought-after objects. And so, unless you believe you could keep that from someone who has lived his whole life pursuing one, I believe you would do well to leave it here. Should you some day prove yourself, I will happily allow you to take it. I believe it would be in your best interests for now to keep a lower profile. These fallen were not placed here because they were ordinary. I suspect that many of the items they possessed are every bit as special as they were. You may take whatever you wish, so long as it isn’t too . . . flashy.”

  Jasper hadn’t given much thought to actually wielding these weapons against someone who had spent his whole life training with a blade. Instantly, he saw the wisdom of Nimlinn’s suggestion.

  He sheathed the moon sword and carefully returned it, then bent down to pick up the piece of metalwork he’d sheared off. Holding it close to the lamp it had belonged to, he turned it end over end in the pale light. It had a curling ocean wave motif, whereas the cut of the sword was smooth as glass.

  “I understand,” he said, quietly pocketing the bit of metal. And suddenly Jasper knew exactly what he wanted. Dashing over to one of the swordswomen, he selected a pair of bronze-colored vambraces, quickly strapping them to his forearms. Next, he grabbed a matching pair of greaves and strapped them over his jeans, just below the knees. Light would be the order of the day.

  Jasper ran over to the place where Lily had found her cloak and boots. Her purple high-tops stood out like . . . well, a pair of purple high-tops in a medieval tomb full of period clothes and armament. Jasper grinned as he lifted them just enough to retrieve the studded leather vest they rested on. The vest was a little tight but had buckles on the sides. Moving to yet another slab, he wasted no time belting a short sword to his waist before finally racing back to the figure of the second swordswoman for a hooded riding cloak.

  “Perhaps you should take one of those round things,” said Nimlinn. “Nearly all of them have one.”

  Jasper placed his tennis shoes on the slab where, a moment before, there had been a knee-high pair of riding boots. He eyed a few of the shields; some were quite small, others very large and heavy looking.

  “I think not,” said Jasper, weaving back through the slabs toward the narrow nooks carved beside the doors. In each nook rested a pair of iron-tipped wooden staffs. The tips were engraved with an odd script, which flowed down them one character at a time, nine in all.

  “You’re not thinking of taking one of those, are you?” said Nimlinn incredulously.

  “Yes, and why not?” answered Jasper.

  “Jasper,” began Nimlinn delicately, “I think those are meant for propping the doors open.”

  Jasper fought back a smile. “These, Your Majesty, are quarterstaffs,” he said admiringly.

  “Call them what you will, I stil
l think—”

  No sooner had Jasper’s hand touched one of the staffs than a horrible wave of dread flowed through him. He broke into a cold sweat, and a series of painful jolts lanced through his forearm. Every time he tried to let go, his grip tightened painfully, as though he were being electrocuted. A scream rose in his throat, bursting out in strangled gasps. He closed his eyes and a dark ill suffused his body. He felt his head go light. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to see both hands firmly gripping the shaft. The pain crept past his elbows, and dim voices echoed in the corners of his mind, but the growing pain drowned them out. With every passing second, the staff became heavier—either that, or he was growing weaker.

  The next thing Jasper knew, he was sitting on the ground, the pain clearing from his head and arms. The quarterstaff was no longer in his grip, and Nimlinn’s face was close, her thick paw raised as though she had just struck something out of his hands. He remembered a clattering sound, an iron tip rolling across stone, Nimlinn roaring.

  “Leave it!” said Nimlinn to Twizbang, who had raced over to the staff and was about to pick it up.

  Jasper’s vision cleared. Nimlinn lowered her paw and gave him a tentative sniff.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  Still feeling a little dazed, Jasper looked down at his crooked fingers. They were stiff, and he had to press them against themselves and his chest to make them flex. The feeling of dread had passed, but in its place remained an unpleasant sickness, as though he had just thrown up. He looked into Nimlinn’s enormous eyes.

  “I d- d- don’t think I’ll be needing one of those after all,” he said in a quaking voice.

  “Good,” she answered briskly. “Then if you require nothing else, I believe we are finished here.”

  Snerliff and Twizbang helped Jasper to his feet. He was a little wobbly at first, and his knotted forearms could have used a good massage.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “You can let go.” Jasper looked up to Nimlinn. “If it’s all right with you, Your Majesty, I’ll be departing from here.”

  “It is not all right!” snapped Nimlinn.

  Jasper looked confused. “What?”

  “If you were to be separated from that coin, and someone else were to use it, someone dangerous, to return to—”

  “They would appear in this room!” blurted Jasper, recognition dawning on his face.

  “That is correct.”

  “Of course, how stupid of me. From where, then?”

  “Someplace safe to both of us. I will take you.”

  Nimlinn sped Jasper up the long stairwell, through the Palace Keep, and onto the lower ramparts, stopping just outside the Ridgegate.

  “There is always a watch here. I will instruct the guards to be on the lookout for you or Lily and to conduct you safely to the Palace on your return.”

  “And if someone else should come into possession of the coin?”

  “Then they will be ready for that, too. Delivering a single soul, even a powerful one, to our very doorstep is a risk I’m willing to take to guard your safety.”

  Jasper unbuttoned his new vest and drew out the pendant, palmed it, and flipped the fob that restrained the pincers. The little ring of gold moons shimmered a silvery white.

  “Do you have a plan, Jasper?” asked Nimlinn.

  “I need to follow in Lily’s footsteps, to see what she’s seen. Finding our uncle is priority one. He alone has all the answers.”

  “You could be heading into danger. Dain is a dangerous moon.”

  “Lily would have warned me if she thought I might be in danger.”

  “Things change.”

  “It hasn’t been very long. Besides, I can’t let worry make my decisions for me. I’ll be on my guard.”

  Nimlinn smiled. “May your shadows be few, and your pads be silent.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty, for all your help.”

  Nimlinn tipped her head ever so slightly. “You may call me Nimlinn, little Dain cub.”

  Jasper spun the moons, aiming the pointer at Dain, and snapped the fob shut. His last thoughts on Barreth were about his parents, and how he could never explain being so late. But he had to know what Lily knew, because the more he learned about the Moon Realm, the less he liked the idea of handing the moon coin over to his father.

  Chapter Three

  Children of Dain

  Tumbling in the darkness, Jasper fought to regain his sense of balance, but the harder he struggled, the more he lost control. Eventually he landed, crumpled in a heap on what was surely a very thin rug covering a very hard floor. Painfully, he rolled upright into a sitting position, his eyesight blurred. Vague shapes danced before him, and he could hear sounds. The first he identified was that of a sword being drawn.

  A voice shouted something in a foreign tongue. The moon coin pulsed, and in his head, Jasper heard: “Hold fast!” The trembling voice sounded young and scared.

  Jasper threw up his arms protectively. Through the fuzziness, he could just make out the shape of someone pointing what must be a sword at him.

  “Are you Lily?” said the nervous voice.

  Several children giggled from somewhere behind. Jasper kept his hands up in the air, far away from the grip of his sword, and turned to face the sound of the giggling children. His vision was clearing, enough that he could make out three little girls sitting upright in a bed.

  “That’s not a Lily!” the one in the middle laughed. “That’s a boy, silly!” And then all three laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  Jasper turned back to the boy holding the sword. He looked about ten or eleven. His sandy blond locks kept falling into his eyes as he nervously seesawed his weight from one foot to the other, the tip of his blade uncomfortably close to Jasper’s nose.

  “I’m her brother,” said Jasper, as calmly as he could muster. The words came out a bit strangled, as the muscles in his throat fought to make different sounds than he’d intended.

  “Whose?” said the boy, brandishing his weapon.

  “Lily’s!” Jasper gasped.

  “Oh, right,” he said, lowering his sword point. “Look, don’t go anywhere. All right? Just stay there. I’ll be right back.” Sheathing his sword, he scurried from the small room.

  Jasper turned back to the girls and watched them leap down from the bed with a creepy catlike agility. They took a few timid steps in his direction. The leader wore a look of awe on her face, holding her open hand before her, as though reaching out for the moon coin. The others clung to her, one at each shoulder. They couldn’t have been much older than three.

  “They’ve come,” the little one in the middle said, forming a fist with all her fingers save one. “The unbound are among us.” Her voice sounded nothing like any three-year-old’s Jasper had ever heard.

  Jasper covered the pendant with his hand, his eyes scanning the room wildly, hoping he wasn’t alone with them. But he was.

  “‘Unbound?’” he finally managed to spit out.

  The little girl closed her eyes, brow furrowing in deep contemplation—a foreign look on a face so young. The other two, still firmly clinging to her shoulders, mirrored her intent expression.

  “Is it the one who lives?” whispered the one clinging to her right shoulder.

  “Or the one who dies?” whispered the other.

  Jasper felt the hair rise on his neck and arms.

  “Excuse me?” he stammered. “What did you say?”

  The little girl’s open hand began to quiver, as though she were expending some great unseen force. Her chin twitched, and her tight golden curls jiggled.

  Suddenly, the girl clinging to her left opened her eyes and straightened up, staring off with an oddly focused look, like she was tracking something with her ey
es.

  “Meeri,” she said, “Teague is coming back. Darce and Mama are with him.”

  Jasper glanced to where the little girl was looking, but there were no windows—just a solid stone wall. And yet her little head continued to move as though tracking some swiftly moving object just out of sight beyond the wall of the house.

  “They’re at the door,” she whispered. A second later, Jasper heard the sound of a door opening.

  “How are you doing that?” asked Jasper.

  Meeri, the girl in the center, opened her eyes and pursed her lips, a look on her face as though she had been foiled.

  “Quickly,” she said, and in the blink of an eye their adult countenances faded. In a single catlike bound, they leapt backward and fell into the bed.

  The boy, Teague, burst into the room. Close on his heels followed a teenage girl, not much older than Jasper himself. Last came a woman who looked old enough to be their mother, though she bore them no resemblance. Teague stopped dead at the edge of the rug.

  “Get out of my way, Teague,” said the girl, and she checked him like a hockey player going after a puck just outside of the other team’s goal. As the two scuffled, the woman stepped forward. She was wearing a plain gray work dress, patched neatly. Her dark hair was loosely gathered behind her head, kept in place by a faded woven band. On getting her first good look at Jasper, her face fell, as though he wasn’t quite what she’d been expecting.