Turim raised a salute towards Thunderclap as he passed the field outside the enormous dragon stables of Grendelock Keep. The stable boys were already tending him in his stall, but the blue dragon gave a nod in honor as he left. He had a temper at times, but the two of them had formed a bond that most considered peculiar.
Turim saw that his Wing—one head fewer than usual—had made their way toward the mess halls to eat. As much as his hunger protested, he didn’t follow.
His muscles ached and his brown locks of hair and whiskers had already dried with sweat from the day’s activities. Along the dirt pathway leading north to the officers’ quarters, he turned toward the cluster of buildings where Grandmaster Strongthorn resided. He hadn’t seen him much all week. He missed the old man.
Behind him, several mounted Knights of the Hawk rode their horses across the road; their heavier grade of armor clanked. He turned and gave a solemn nod to their lead—Captain Leadsword, who drew an invisible moustache on his own lip, chuckling. Since Turim had turned ten and nine years old, he’d worn it. For some reason, Captain Leadsword seemed to think it was funny. Turim wondered if anyone ever thought his fathers’ was funny.
With several short waves to the other men he knew, Turim continued on.
#
The two guards at the threshold to the Grandmaster’s office saluted as Turim approached. They were clad in steely blue armor like Turim’s, and leaned against their spears.
“Wing Commander Gliderlance,” said the guard on the left. “What brings you to the Grandmaster’s quarters tonight?”
Turim noted that his voice was pleasant—perhaps overly so. He whipped a salute up and began to answer, but the other guard cut him off.
“And what’s more,” said the guard on the right, “why is your business so urgent you can’t speak with Company Commander Wrengaze?”
While not unexpected, Turim wasn’t in the mood. Still, he remained civil. “There’s been a breach of skywatch. I have to report this to the Grandmaster immediately.”
The guard on the left nodded and leaned his spear aside to let him pass.
The one on the right, however, wasn’t satisfied. “It’s always the same with you, Commander. Forever an adventure outside your door, as they say? You always have some wild exploit to report. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all some ploy to see the Grandmaster.”
Discomfort passed between the three of them, but Turim’s voice remained steady. “It might seem that way, but I assure you it won’t be long before everyone hears of it. So please, let me by. Grandmaster Strongthorn won’t be happy if the news is delayed.”
At last, the guard on the right conceded his position, leaning his spear aside as well. He scowled as Turim passed.
Entering from the dirt road, Turim’s steps echoed on the stone floor of the hall. He was undaunted by his exchange with the guards, but he felt even wearier now, if that was possible.
Most of them knew Turim was allowed to report directly to Grandmaster Strongthorn rather than his own Company Commander. They’d been given orders not to give him trouble when he came. But some of them seemed to hold a kind of contempt for that fact. It was rare for a Wing Commander to speak with the Grandmaster without first giving an account to his commanding officer. But Grandmaster Strongthorn had granted him the privilege because, after all, he was practically Turim’s guardian. The Grandmaster had taken charge of Turim, acting as his father after his own had passed, though neither of them wanted that spread throughout the keep. They wanted to avoid any thoughts of favoritism. Still, he knew that’s exactly what he was getting in this case, and while he felt a hint of guilt over it, it made things far more efficient for the two of them.
When he passed through the finely crafted doors into the Grandmaster’s office, Turim found the old man sitting in his ornate chair. He was hidden behind a desk made of solid ash, its darkly stained top, sanded and polished flat for writing. The chamber’s stone walls were decorated with various paintings and tapestries. On them, in golden thread, the hawk insignia proudly flew atop blue fields.
Grandmaster Strongthorn's advisors, Dustorn and Percin, stood to either side of him—more for formal show than anything. The Grandmaster was one of the most brilliant tacticians in Cornerius. His use for the advisors was more so to ensure he wasn’t doing what they typically advised, and that his own course was sound.
Grandmaster Strongthorn hailed from a lengthy line of great knights and had joined the Knights of the Hawk at a very young age. He was the descendant of Edrimar Strongthorn, a legend who’d been key in the development of the network of knights. They spanned far across Cornerius and beyond, to lands far overseas. Edrimar also set up the system of rank within the various keeps. A few realms strayed from the normal method, but overall, the system was well accepted.
Grandmaster Strongthorn motioned to his advisors. They nodded, walking toward the door.
Turim saluted as they left the room and both men returned a simple, yet regal nod. Then he turned his attention back to the old man. “Grandmaster, I’m back from my patrol.”
Grandmaster Strongthorn wrinkled his brow and glanced toward the dim light of the window. “Just now? It’s late. I thought you were on morning skywatch?”
“We were. My men pursued a Wing of Dark Knights to the coast. Their armor indicated they were members of the Black Division.”
“I’m sorry, Black Division? To the coast?” Grandmaster Strongthorn’s face twisted even more, leaning forward in his seat. “Why would you have a need to stray so far from…?” He paused. Turim watched as his mind slowly put the pieces together. “They were here? Spying closely about the keep?” He spoke as though he already knew the answer.
Turim nodded, tugging his moustache. “Yes. I think that was their purpose. They were far inside the patrol circle. We caught them as they retreated eastward through Pebak’ Din. We slew them all, so we’re safe for now, but it’s only a matter of time, sir.” He stopped, considering the whole situation. “What do you think it means?”
The Grandmaster scratched his fingers through his white beard, his eyes tight. “Some foul thing is afoot. It festers and will soon erupt. It’s been years since the Black Divison has been seen.” He sighed. His voice had grown quiet, but now it grew in power again. “I’ll send new patrol orders for each Wing. But altering the patrols won’t buy us more than a few months at best. The Dragon Army will send more Wings to study the new arrangement and arrive at a new strategy—just as they’ve probably been doing.
On top of that, our scouts continue to spot signs of dragonite activity along the eastern borders. We’ve yet to come upon them though—let alone confront them.”
The thought of the lizard men made Turim almost shiver.
“We’re being watched, Turim. We’re being watched very closely. Before long, we’re going to make a mistake, or some misfortune beset us, and they’ll come at us like winged carrion. I can only hope they haven’t had time to gather a force large enough to stand against us. Fear spoils my hope though. A bitter, cold fear I can’t seem to shrug.”
“From all reports I’ve heard, the Dragon Army forces were weakened after the conquering of Daropel, but not by much.” Turim bowed his head after the Grandmaster’s nod—it was time for his next bit of bad news. Even as he began, grief stirred again in his chest. He looked into Grandmaster Strongthorn’s eyes. “I lost another rider today.”
Grandmaster Strongthorn stood from his chair, smoothing out the folds of his long, royal blue overcoat. His eyes were concentrated on something as he walked toward the window, but Turim knew it was on something unseen. He’d witnessed the look in the old man’s eyes many times—eyes that bore a deep and mighty wisdom. Turim liked to think his father had a similar look.
Grandmaster Strongthorn folded his arms behind his back, clutching his blue cloak gracefully with one hand. “Who was it?” he asked softly.
Turim’s eyes traced the short path the Grandmaster had taken across the room. “Warran Silvercard, but ten and nine years of age. Most of his life was spent under the shadow of the Dragon Army.” He knew the Grandmaster was thinking the same—so short a life, and so much of it spent in the service of his country. “He’ll be missed. He fought bravely until his untimely end.”
Grandmaster Strongthorn sighed. “I am sorry. He’ll be replaced soon. I’ll send word to his family.”
Turim straightened himself to his full stature. “No sir. You have to let me deliver the message. It’s my duty. He was under my charge; it’s my responsibility.”
“Turim, I’ve called you a son for a long time—ever since your mother made me promise. I see fatigue. Maybe not in your stature, but in your eyes. Trust me boy, now is not the time. In fact, that’s not your job, it’s Company Commander Wrengaze’s. I know you haven’t led your Wing for more than a few years. It’s difficult to sort out what’s your responsibility and what’s not. But let’s not focus on the delivery of that message for now. It would take you in the opposite direction. There’s something else I need you to do.”
Turim couldn’t shrug it off that easily. Getting his head around all these Commander’s responsibilities was daunting. Father would’ve done it all, he thought. Still, he was curious about the Grandmaster’s request.
The old man stepped toward him, putting his hand on his shoulder. “I’m serious, my boy. You’ve passed up your mandatory leave many times, allowing other officers to take their turn while you stay on duty. It’s commendable. I thank you. But now I must bid you take your leave for at least a week. I’m sending you to Dwellinghearth, the cabin on the island of Ys.”
The cabin had once been a small outpost for watching the Cornerian Isles, which lay just offshore from the coast of Pebak’ Din. That was, until it had been almost entirely destroyed during an attack by a rampaging Chromaback dragon, years before the Gewurmarchs took up their standards and formed the Dragon Army. Back when dragoons and dragon slayers were roaming the world, trying to kill the growing dragon problem. The need for the outpost dwindled afterwards, and so had its regular occupants. And though it had grown again, the Knights of the Badger on the north shore of Ys had resisted all attempts at establishing a permanent residence there—they felt strongly that it was their island to protect. So, what remained of the post was truly just that, a cabin—a wooden structure with no defending walls or weapon stores, nor anything beyond simple living comforts.
“That’s the task, sir? You want me to take some sojourn, a vacation, when there’s so much to do here. Are you serious? Daynard, I don’t mean to be subordinate or unruly, but I don’t—”
“Enough!” Turim knew when he was overstepping his bounds with the man. He’d heard that tone in his voice many times since his childhood. He stood up, silent and straight. “You will go,” said Grandmaster Strongthorn. “That’s an order. I need you in peak condition, and you’ve a good need of rest.”
“Then I’d rather go home to visit my mother,” argued Turim again. “Why am I being sent to Ys?”
“Aside from the mandatory leave laws you’ve been ignoring, the Council of Races has given my advisors specific instructions for it. Believe me, I can’t fathom why they keep up this ridiculous mandate during times of war. Still, it’s the people’s wish, and thus it’s come to be. ‘The Council acts on behalf of those it serves.’” The Grandmaster made a flourish with his hand as though repeating words he’d heard before. It was not quite a mocking gesture, but not quite kindly either.
Turim broke a smile.
“However, I’ll not make the loss of one of my best Wing Commanders go without purpose. I’m giving you something to look after while you’re there.” Grandmaster Strongthorn’s voice grew quiet. “This task I entrust to you alone. No words of it should be spoken amongst the rest of our order—not even to Sand. Watch the island. Keep your eyes open and take in everything you see, be it suspicious or not. I don’t know what you might find there, but news has reached me that gives me pause. I can tell you little more except that mists have grown on Ys—dark and unnatural mists. No reports have come from the seas surrounding it for some time. Something is amiss. I just don’t know what. But please, Turim, rest while you’re there. You can’t come back as worn as you are right now. I don’t give you this task so you can spend each moment you have hunting danger and peril.” Warmth returned to his face as he concluded the clandestine portion of his talk. “In your absence, Lieutenant Rocketblade can lead your Wing. What do you think of that?”
“He’s capable. He can take them on patrol and run their exercises,” answered Turim truthfully. Sand had watched over the Wing before, but he never seemed to take it very seriously.
Grandmaster Strongthorn chuckled. “Very good. I suppose that means you’ve had a better influence on him than he on you. He’ll accompany you to Ys tomorrow. You can brief him along the way.” The Grandmaster’s voice was stern but caring, yet Turim had no doubt that this wasn’t an offer he could choose to accept or reject.
“Yes sir. I trust Thunderclap will be staying with me?” Turim hoped for the company and protection.
“No, in fact, he cannot,” replied Grandmaster Strongthorn. “The skies over Ys are under constant watch these days. Though I don’t know where these enemy wings are coming from, they’re certainly close. Your report confirms that, at least. No, Thunderclap must hurry back with Sand. I have need of your men here. They’re one of our best, if not the best, in the Knights of the Hawk’s Wings. They’re looked on fondly by the rest—a goal of something they one day hope to be.”
One day hope to be? thought Turim. I’m younger than a good deal of these brave countrymen, and I’m still trying to figure all this out.
After saluting, Grandmaster Strongthorn’s eyes shifted and he relaxed his stature. “You’re dismissed. Gather your things. The morning will come quick as wings.” He smiled kindly and turned back to face the window. “Please take care, my boy.”
“Yes sir.” Turim returned a salute, then left.