Book 5

What ever happened to the strong, silent type?

One hundred years before the events of The Tale of Eaglefriend, there was a prince of Eaglemasters known for being a bit … loud. Such recklessness can get even a royal heir devoured, when the realm of eagle-riding knights swarms with ferotaurs that stand a full head taller than men (not including the horns).

The Eaglemasters recount little about this prince who would become King, father of Veleseus the Bold, except that, His face of stone sufficed alone to evoke fear in the enemy and obedience from his subjects, and so to hear his voice at all was both wondrous and terrifying. Nottleforf the ancient wizard describes him as, “A man of few words, though still our conversations could be rich.”

Fly through this adventure with a hero who learns not to boast about it. Climb with Valdroth up the highest peaks in his quest to claim one of the giant mountain eagles. Crawl with him when he fights beside the Eaglemasters in an epic battle through the ferotaur hive beneath their kingdom. See with the sight he gains through the eyes of creatures that soar miles away from his body. Fall with him for a lady warrior who has forgotten more about the darkest depths than he could ever discover.

Discover, as he does, that a prince who flies above danger and sees in every direction is still never safe … when his true enemy can always hide within arm’s reach.

Enjoy the first two chapters below:

Chapter One – Bloodred

“What force in this land can silence us, my countrymen?” Prince Valdroth shouted to hundreds of his fellow trainees as the day’s sparring ended. “We Eaglemasters who have bled together in the footsteps of our first king, Veldeam the Wise! Footsteps that abruptly vanish into the sky, which we and our flock have ruled for nine centuries! There is nothing that can drown us out. Nothing that can prevent our voices from reaching any ear. The skulls of our foes decorate our city walls, with mouths agape that wail unheard. Their long horns adorn our spears. Their blood is too thin to stain our capes that unfurl the deepest bloodred. Who could cut short your fiercest cheers, and who would dare to stifle mine?”

Val’s talkative nature had earned him frequent reprimands throughout these years of Eaglemaster training, but as he recollected today’s celebratory outburst, he found this punishment excessive. It wasn’t so much his airborne brothers hoisting him away like a hero only to strand him atop this natural pillar. Neither was it the ferotaur horde that slowly climbed rocky spikes and footholds to devour him. The real insult was that, here, he could speak his mind more freely than anywhere else. His superiors had understood this with broad smiles when they dropped him and soared out of earshot, leaving a pair of severed goats’ heads to be his audience.

Vekren and Ovris, he named the remains of both animals that stared blankly with tongues hanging limp. He was glad to honor the two elder princes who’d provided them in lieu of any weapons for him—the youngest heir to their father’s throne. He could almost see their slackened jaws waggle up and down, mocking his predicament. “We Eaglemasters! Our spears! Our capes!” Vekren, the eldest, guffawed. “You’ve always said your skills and determination warrant a higher station, Little Brother. Can’t get much higher than this when an eagle won’t have you.”

“I’ve overheard Nottleforf the wizard mention to our father some fanciful notion about leaping out from a high rock,” Ovris continued. “I’d advise against that here. A true Eaglemaster expects no net, and the one below will slowly squeeze you out. Here’s your chance to prove you’re as indigestible as the rest of us.”

“If I were one of you,” Val replied, “I’d retaliate at our first meeting after my task here is done. I wouldn’t be able to restrain myself. Instead, I think I’ll have you look at my smile and wonder what’s really underneath. Year after year, I’ll smile, and you’ll come to forget what makes you so uneasy about it … until finally I make you remember.”

His two brothers’ bright grins reflected the downy white heads of the great eagles they rode, flashed the confidence knights of the realm gained after donning the traditional red cape that he had not yet earned. Blades of blond hair poked at the feathery mail around his neck, while rusty iron had already broken through theirs and left scars as proof. The weathered princes absorbed his grim promise with the icy wind that washed them and their carriers, until it cut open a smooth transition to laughter. “Has anyone told you that your attitude sours far too many sweet, jubilant affairs?” asked Vekren. “Perhaps, if you remain sour enough, our hungry friends will be drawn instead to something more appetizing.”

Val revisited the image of them flying off without him, hearing their amused farewells echo, “Valdroth the Verbose! Valdroth the Voluble!”

Blood trickled out from both detached goat heads, nearing the stony perimeter that barely contained his feet. The ascending rabble shook his lonely tower of rock, so narrow and tall that he wondered whether it might topple over like a tree. If so, many ears would hear the sound of his fall, but he would allow no satisfying note of any scream.

He reflected on years of attaining lethal precision with sword and spear, aspiring to rise on wings with his red-caped brothers at the age of sixteen. Was it all to culminate in this isolated appraisal of a realm that might taste his scattered entrails in minutes? A realm that could be perfectly outlined by the meandering Silver River, if they could only sequester their foes to the far side of those waters. Deadlier on the ground than in the sky. The Eaglemasters had spent centuries earning that reputation, delivering such doom from above that friends and foes alike dared not test them face to face. But what about underground, where there was no sunlight to guide their movements, where the ferotaurs surged through tunnels too narrow for spears to swing?

Here, abundant sunlight made him shine in silver armor like a trophy for his assailants, many of which had already surpassed three quarters of the height that elevated him above certain death. To their clouded eyes that focused only on the most alluring reward, he was a radiant jewel affixed to a royal scepter. Hundreds of elongated limbs and sharply horned heads sped upward to pluck such a prize, and he could neither leap nor stand his ground.

He became the Crystal Spear of his kingly fathers, and knew this luminous display was the closest he would get to poising such a weapon against his enemies. The heirloom itself, passed down from Veldeam the Wise, would never be his to brandish, let alone touch. Vanity could tempt him to bathe in the gleam that brought short-lived recognition, until it consumed him and left no trace. Strength could drive him to cast aside those cravings, feeding neither himself nor his enemies, but the realm.

No eagles were in sight, nor any masters who would whisk him to safety. If jumping did not liquify him, these ravenous brutes surely would when he landed. But, if he patiently labored toward a more delayed outcome, forgoing the need for swift deliverance, he might look down triumphantly at all other paths that led to destruction. If he moved gracefully lower, he could reach heights he’d never before seen. Here, marooned on a berg while predators circled below, he must sink to rise.

He removed his glittering helm first, glad to breathe the cool air deeply until it grew rank with the stench of his foes. No longer looking out through protective slits, he took in the droves of curved horns that could impale him on engorged, humanoid skulls, which snapped their drooling jaws at the sight of him. His broadened periphery revealed the total absence of allies as well. He was no mere trainee in an exercise of steadfast balance with a cushion of instructors; he was cocooned on an anthill, its occupants swarming to slice him a thousand ways before he could fly.

Hurling his helm downward, he took little pleasure in its metallic crash against the leader’s bared teeth or the creature’s plummet to a dusty grave, for this did nothing to deter the others. His discarded breastplate and gauntlets made similarly meager dents in the hostile host, as did his greaves and steel-toed boots, until soon he stood shivering in only woolen undergarments. Half expecting his brothers to dart in from behind the clouds, hollering at his embarrassment, he was not fortunate enough to suffer such a juvenile prank.

Blood from the goats’ heads trickled over the pillar’s western side first, and from there he heard cries of delight that elicited jealous moans all around. Sour. His brother’s unasked advice rang in his ears. Remain sour.

He swiveled both dripping throats out over the stony edge, painting all but a sliver of this circle a glistening red. Then, hearing a chorus of appetized growls erupt exactly where he’d spread his bait, he inched toward the minuscule section that remained dry, and knew the route he must take.

A narrow vertical path invited him to begin a perilous descent, so he crouched and surrendered bare heels to the air, gripping the rock with his toes while knees and fingers followed. He flowed slowly like thick, bitter tree sap between columns of insects, desperate to avoid contact that would encase him and his foes in amber—fossilized and forgotten. Just as he’d hoped, they were drawn to something sweeter, and his modest attire helped camouflage him against this stone.

But their senses, made keen by nine hundred years of insatiable hunger, were not dulled to his presence entirely. They grunted and snorted as he tentatively passed, peppering him with dirt and spittle, and he had to muster a warrior’s discipline just to stifle a sneeze. He developed newfound gratitude for the tedious obstacle tracks that had dominated the first year of every aspiring Eaglemaster’s lessons. Crawling through mud under barbed steel, with dogs lunging at his favorite body parts, served a purpose he’d never appreciated. After emerging from those trials mostly unscathed, his skin was thick enough to cling to this towering phallus while he dangled his loins to be the first course at a morbid feast. He’d spent so much of his early youth whining alongside his comrades for a chance to engage the ferotaurs up close. Now, it seemed, that naïve starvation would be overindulged—a nauseating baptism to either anoint or drown him.

Suddenly, his left foot dislodged a cluster of pebbles that tapped an ominous tune against the armored ferotaur beneath him, and he did not have to wait long for those bloodshot eyes and flared nostrils to find their target. Nevertheless, he refused to be an easy, trembling target, and when the beast swung a sharpened scythe for his ankles, he lifted both feet just clear enough to let the blade crash and stick in the rock. Then, he stood upon the embedded weapon and sprang off to catch himself on the ferotaur’s opposite side. With numb fingers, he pulled a dagger sheathed at the creature’s hip and drove it through a ribcage that was twice the size of his own.

The ferotaur’s guttural bellow shook the pillar from ground to sky, and it flailed in a dive that thumped a final drumbeat far below, halting the climb of every enemy. As though awoken from a trance, hundreds of heads turned and froze him in place with vengeful glares, making him wonder if he could simply meld into the rock. But the tribute of blood and viscera presented on the high, round altar was so close within horns’ reach that the ferotaurs succumbed to carnivorous hypnosis again. With most of the horde continuing to push above him, he felt his shallow breath return, until a foolish downward glance forced him to gauge the masses that still separated him from safety.

To make matters worse, it had started to rain, and he knew the erosion of slick grips and footholds could condemn him to a sheer drop. At first, it appeared red clay seeped through this rock to streak like tears, until he realized the fluid was deep red before it even touched any surface.

The first wave of ferotaurs had reached the summit where his brothers left him, and they tore through what remained of those ill-fated goats like a parched man consuming apple and core. Blood from their frenzy sprayed and streamed all around, spilling in globs and sheets. He paid less attention to the foes at his feet so he could dodge the pungent substance that would mark him as their prey, and still the copious volleys proved inescapable.

Looking up to see a single droplet about to burst between his eyes, he pushed off with his right side and clung with his left to swivel away, until he slammed his back into the pillar he’d been facing. This brought him nose to nose with a ferotaur whose foamy lips would not be repelled by any agile maneuver, so he knocked his skull into its forehead, stunning it just enough that he wriggled down beyond its grasp.

The nearest ghoul opened bulging arms for a wide embrace to end his descent, but he kicked off with skinned heels and wrapped callused fingers around its horns, swinging to cling like a cloak on the creature’s back. Its rage against such a burrowing parasite drew the ire of many beside them. When the one at their right slashed a rusty sword for Val’s wrists, he dug both feet into his host and jerked its head back, until the crude blade missed his flesh and removed the two horns he gripped.

With his anchor severed, he tumbled backward—arms over head—and flipped repeatedly in dizzying freefall, but managed to thrust out and pierce a ferotaur’s exposed thigh with one of the horns he clasped. His weight tore a dreadful gash that extracted shrill screams of agony, and as he sank to a halt, suspended by the beast’s shredded ribbons of muscle, its blood saturated his hands, head, and woolen garb.

A pendulum swinging left to right, Val desperately evaded new swipes from both directions, building enough momentum that finally he plucked his spike from the ferotaur and flew smoothly left and down. He caught his new target quite unawares with both horns stabbing through the rolls of its abdomen, and its clumsy companions impaled it through the spine in failed attempts to pierce him.

Like a mountaineer conquering a vertical cliff face that lashed out with tongues, tendrils, teeth, he hammered his deadly instruments of bone through flesh and rock. Soon, the ascending rabble sped upward not in hunger for the bounty above, but in fear of the unseen predator that spiraled among them. He needed not make a sound to impress allies or intimidate enemies—his reputation preceded him in the silence of every soul that felt the gravity of his presence.

Breaking through the very bottom ring of a herd that posed no threat to him anymore, Valdroth withdrew the two horns from one last yelping victim and rolled backward to land firmly on his feet. The hundreds of ferotaurs that had climbed this stony tower to strip his bones clean now clung to it, shivering from his gaze.

There was no taunt he wished to yell, no adulation he desired from audiences he’d once held captive. His baptism in blood did not drown him, but imparted more value to every breath he would draw henceforth, a wealth he would not squander. He disregarded his scattered armor that he’d thrown to cast down a few enemies—the dead could keep it, along with his boyish fear. The man who stood here, nearly naked but not vulnerable, would walk into the mountains that rose above his father’s throne and claim an eagle as his ancestors had done.

As though in response to his readiness, a spear darted diagonally from above to crack the ground, a flagpole flying a fresh red cape that the wind opened for him alone to take. Its thrower revealed himself between a pair of mighty wings, at the head of a flock whose masters recognized him not as a subordinate who spoke out of turn, but an equal.

Vekren, his eldest brother and heir apparent to the throne, descended beside Ovris, followed by the commanders and captains who had witnessed his trial.

“We’ll have new armor forged to fit you better,” said Vekren. “That set was looking a bit small anyway. You’ll need to move as fluidly as possible when you accompany us on our next campaign. The ferotaur hive’s tunnels extend for so many miles in every direction, our grown sons may need to join in before the realm is clean.”

Chapter Two – First Bite

Val was unbothered sitting mounted behind Vekren on their flight north to the capital. He would acquire his own eagle soon enough, and every man present knew it. In fact, he took it as an honor that the crown prince would share his seat rather than make him fly with a less renowned figure, even their middle brother. Perhaps this signified that the line of succession was not so linear after all, determined more by character than order of birth. Or, perhaps it embraced the prospect that unforeseen gaps could be broken in that line, given the daunting battles ahead.

His new red cape whipped and flowed over his modest clothing, a banner for the Eaglemasters to follow through the moonlight. His long spear extended ready at his right side, its razor-edged tip glinting a salutation to any ferotaurs that looked up at their formation. Its blunt wooden base would soon brandish both curved horns he’d claimed, and he stored them in a leather pack for the smiths who would forge his armor.

Normally, such close proximity to his more accomplished, celebrated brother brought a cold tension, from which he insulated himself with rehearsed remarks that justified his presence. Tonight, despite the chill gusts and his exposure to the elements, in their shared silence he remained quite warm.

It was their brother, Ovris, unaccustomed to being marginalized, who eventually interrupted this welcome quiet. “Imagine our realm completely purged of the enemy, the Wildlands beyond the Silver River the only region where a ferotaur can breathe freely. Even there they’d tremble at any movement in the sky. And what will we do with all those halls they’ve chiseled beneath our feet, once every stench is burned away? Host banquets, I suppose.”

“Let the soldiers of Korindelf sleep there,” Vekren replied with a grin, “on the rare occasion they aid us with forces large enough to need special accommodations, to reciprocate for the Eaglemasters who have protected their lands.”

“They repay us with swords when they can,” said Ovris. “I wonder how they repay those others who’ve defended them all these ages, who need nothing behind those mists.”

Val recalled legends of warriors composed of little more than shadows and tricks of light, with the strength and speed of twenty men. Strangers with faces hidden under hooded cloaks, coming and going as they pleased through the Forbidden Isle’s bright mists, which turned to stone for any mortal who attempted to pass.

“How long can we be split along two fronts?” he asked, speaking for the first time since his isolation atop the high pillar. “One finger flicking the ferotaurs away from our home, another poking the shriekers back from Korindelf, until we find ourselves gnawed down to the knuckles. We should be one fist in one realm, with no openings to exploit.”

“A lucky thing you were born last of us,” replied Ovris, second at the head of their formation as he was second in line for the throne. His rebuke rang out more loudly than was necessary to be heard over the wind. “Apparently we just hand out red capes to anyone who can outsmart a few droolers. A king understands that oaths matter, alliances matter. You can let them become dead weight, or breathe just enough life into them to collect debts and dividends that outlast your grandchildren.”

“Had you been born first,” Vekren shot back, “Father would have told you oaths and alliances are more than transactional, and thus, deficits can be tolerated. Come to your allies as a tax collector, and they will treat you as such with the bare minimum. Make your allies remember the friendship and bravery that forged your bond centuries ago, and they’ll remember why it is worth strengthening for centuries more.”

The broader scope Val had attained in his rare flights enabled him to perceive the slights against him as he did scattered boulders on the plains—few and far between, not worth his sweat. When those barbs came at him from family who shared this elevated vantage, though, the prospect of them crawling together through the lowest foulness drew sweat even in a frigid breeze. He eyed their brother in his periphery for one more breath, and then focused forward at the constellation of silver glints flying toward them from the capital.

“Eaglemasters dispatched for battle,” said Ovris. “I heard no horns of distress from the cities, though our attention was on the young prince so long, an army could have passed under our noses at sunset.”

“No herd escaped us,” answered Vekren from out in front. “None that the cities can’t deal with on their own.”

“Korindelf, then,” Ovris replied. “Happy to promise future compensation for our services. You’ll have to wait for that new armor, Val. I’d wager my own we’re about to turn around for your first real battle. Unless you’d prefer we drop you off someplace safe.”

Val smiled, just as he’d promised he would. “But where would I be safer than at your side, Middle Brother?”

The airborne legion approaching them numbered roughly five hundred, and Commander Harnal hailed the crown prince with no acknowledgement of anyone else. “The shriekers have surged north from the Dead Plains. Korindelf’s men hold their ground, but your father ordered us to reinforce. Do you wish to accompany?”

“Why not?” Ovris interjected. “Fresh air will soon be so scarce for us, we’ll begin to miss the way Korindelf and the shriekers mingle their odors.”

Val was momentarily glad that his own speaking out of turn might soon be forgotten, but he found no relief in his eldest brother’s glare that held daggers for Ovris. “We will accompany,” Vekren answered, his firm brevity scrubbing most of the long smear that Ovris had left.

With that, Val held tightly—trying to conceal the effort—when his brother whipped them around to assume a position that led the entire force. Each commander readily fell in line behind him, and Val knew it could only be years of bold action, not boastful words, that compelled such respect.

They passed over the realm’s eastern forest, under which lay the dreaded ferotaur hive of countless intersecting passages. A potentially peaceful wood where their people could hunt and congregate festively was instead a haunted shadow along the border. Few who were hungry enough, brave enough to venture there ever returned. Those who did spoke of holes opening in the ground with long horns rising from the depths, the sound of hooves stamping after them until they dropped whatever kill they had secured for their family’s table. Even if the Eaglemasters managed to cleanse such a place, its wicked residue would cling to the old and young.

Adjacent to this, the Speaking River roared down from the north, dividing their lands from some that were centers of commerce, and others insufficiently explored. Old legends were all they possessed to map out certain territories, from the whispers of one or two survivors who had set out in parties of fifty.

Speckles of flame eventually marked the battle frontier toward which they sped, where Korindelf’s army blockade launched an arsenal of combustibles at waves of foes that charged them. Unlike the ferotaurs, whose frenetic divergence toward the nearest bait disregarded effective combat lines, these ghouls were surprisingly disciplined and orderly.

The red-caped knights did not have to hurl a single projectile to reveal themselves. Far from striking range, they received a ringing welcome that made Val’s most unmentionable hairs stand on end. High-pitched screams slowed the mighty wings of their flock, though this greeting was nothing new to most that were present. Bursts of flame silhouetted thousands of tall, skeletal forms that reared oversized bald heads and bared long fangs at the sky. To fly above them made a hardened warrior silently beg that if he fell from his mount, the impact would kill him.

No leader walked among the shriekers, nor were they ranked by height or breadth. Their synchronized motions and unified advance suggested an unseen kennel master gripped each one on a leash, manipulating them like marionettes on strings. Still, if one dug its claws into flesh and bone, it was likely to indulge its basest desires without restraint. All greater in stature than men, but so emaciated they appeared hardly alive, they were nearly identical, hairless and slick down to grotesquely stretched feet.

“I’ve heard we’re deadlier on the ground,” Vekren bellowed, in his best effort to sound like a future king over such wretched howls. Then, the more familiar voice of Val’s brother came through when Vekren drew his bow, “but let’s keep this in the sky as long as we can.” He loosed the first arrow, and when it impaled a shrieker’s chest, the hundreds flying behind him followed with a volley that flattened the front wave near Korindelf’s blockade.

“One arrow, one kill!” Ovris ordered. “Not all of their organs are bigger than mine, but you can be certain their lungs are.” He punctuated his remark with a single shot that felled his prey, leaving no room for doubt.

Hundreds of quivers were soon emptied, however, in exchange for only a few dozen dead. The shriekers pressed on with arrows protruding from their limbs, faces, and throats like bears with beestings. Any archer who still had ammunition hesitated to expend it, afraid that a nonlethal shot would only fill a beast’s nostrils with his scent. That was a sure way for the hunter to lower himself into close combat as a vengefully pursued meal.

Eaglemasters with torches and clay pots of oil flowed through their ranks next, igniting the cloth wicks of explosives that they quickly flung in destructive volleys. There was no need for surgical precision; each volatile vessel erupted to spray twenty enemies at a time with molten sludge.

The engulfed creatures stamped footprints of charred, peeling skin as they sprinted more fiercely toward Korindelf’s infantry. Streaks of orange and blue trailed after them, threatening whatever flammable stores the blockade reserved for future attacks. Just as the Eaglemasters prepared to descend for a ground fight, the conflagration below illuminated the Forbidden Isle’s nearby mists as though they were a towering fortification of pearl. Onto this bright, far-reaching wall, the fires projected shadows they expected to see—gaunt maneaters that sprinted heedless of any peril … until the true peril presented itself. Two tall figures, hooded and cloaked, were painted on this same canvas with brush strokes that could not keep up with their movements. Fragmented impressions illustrated the story of their swords blurring across this broad tapestry, contrasted against a starkly outlined horde that drowned and dissolved beneath such tumultuous currents.

Seeing the fate to which these two unknown judges had condemned them, the earth-shaking stampede slowed and ultimately reversed course, retreating into the Dead Plains. And, as quickly, seamlessly as they’d arrived, the shadows of both hooded visitors faded the farther they strode from the battle’s fires, until they disappeared through the vaporous barrier from which they’d emerged.

The Eaglemasters and their flock circled in awe of this spectacle. Seasoned veterans found that their memories of similar confrontations, spread out over decades, paled in comparison, and fresher troops realized their most outrageous embellishments could not do it justice. They had been treated to a wonder that needed no added color, each moment full of rich flavor that could not be translated—like the treasures rumored to be held within the Isle itself.

Val focused on the radiant, misty slate wiped clean of every shape the fires had cast. Reflecting on the pieces of images he’d been fortunate enough to see, he found the fullest beauty in their incompleteness, in the way they implied a vastness to be discovered between what was expressed. Perhaps a man with true wisdom could state just as little, and astound many with a vision of possibilities beyond words.

Vekren was the first to land with his carrier that bore them both, and Ovris rushed to do the same, almost urgent for his feet to touch this dangerous ground before his brothers’ did. The crown prince paid his hasty display little attention, and Korindelf’s soldiers gave even less. Their gratitude was for the future king of Eaglemasters, and none had any confusion about who that would be.

“Your father never leaves the men of Korindelf uneasy about whether our alliance remains strong,” the blockade’s leader said with relief and an extended arm to Vekren, who took it.

“Nor will I,” Vekren replied, with a sideways glance at Ovris. “We were actually searching for a banquet hall that could accommodate us after an especially trying day—perhaps you could point us in the right direction.”

The blockade’s front ranks responded merrily, some thrusting swords down into fallen shriekers that convulsed in their vicinity. Clapping his callused hands, the leader seemed glad that no toll was demanded beyond traditional revelry. “Korindelf’s hospitality is always open to the Eaglemasters, even without a single arrow fired or spear thrown. Tonight, our inns are yours, and tomorrow we’ll feast. And years from now, when a few more of our young citizens travel to your halls claiming to be royal heirs, we ask only that you give them a fair hearing.”

“I always do,” replied Ovris, remounting his eagle. “Proper beds are scarce in the city. I’ll need to be well rested before I present myself tomorrow at the king’s table.”

The middle prince stirred up far more dust and ash than necessary, leaving those below him to sputter and swat at the pollution in his wake. Val was used to the bitter taste Ovris frequently left; a few added spoonfuls of rot blended perfectly into the dishes he served.

Forced to embrace decay for the moment, he pivoted south to gaze deep into the Dead Plains, where it was said a dark castle rose impregnable. It housed the bloodline that had once led the shriekers to conquer Korindelf, enemies banished by Veldeam the Wise and his very first Eaglemasters. That fortress was thought to be the beating heart of the shriekers’ power, but, looming over all this in the distance, the Dark Mountains silently grinned, inviting every onlooker closer to hear the cackling of the One imprisoned within. He Who Lurks In The Shadows had His far-reaching tentacles on every shrieker, every ferotaur, plus ample strings ready to coil around new puppets, if they found His whisper in their ear too sweet to resist.

“See something you like?” Commander Harnal’s question suddenly jolted him back, and the man’s eyes were playful when he continued, “Or hear something, perhaps?” Val had little experience with this soldier who had intercepted them on their flight home, asking if they would join the battle. With a disarming tone, Harnal looked into him almost as though reading his thoughts.

To answer at all would legitimize a question that was out of bounds, intrusive, making him more this commander’s subordinate than he truly was. Val merely nodded goodbye as he mounted behind Vekren again. The commander’s scrutiny lingered on him while he returned it with raised brows, and Vekren prepared to ascend.

“Rivals, adversaries, mingled so closely among friends and brothers,” Vekren muttered quietly so only Val could hear. “After a while, bared fangs and bright smiles appear far too similar. Looking repeatedly over one’s shoulders makes a man hungry. You wouldn’t have any surprises for me, would you?” He rotated to look Val in the eye with a friendly smirk, unabashed to reveal his vulnerability to his youngest brother. Perhaps Vekren didn’t consider him so young anymore.

Val asked, “Would it surprise you that I was ready to charge into the fray tonight, but in that moment I knew as little as I did on my first day of training?”

“Droves of shriekers have that effect when we initially confront them,” Vekren replied. “I’m just glad you remembered your latrine training.”

“That won’t count for much in the ferotaur hive.”

“Who needs a latrine when you can crawl with your friends through a sewer?” said Vekren. “And that is where you discover who your true friends have always been—those who stay beside you at your lowest. Beware those who don’t grimace through that torment, who instead grin as though they’ll cherish the memory forever.”

*

Korindelf’s great hall lacked the splendor of the Eaglemasters’ ornate silver and marble, but it sufficiently hosted the red-caped knights and high-ranking defenders of its homeland at first light. Val sat between his two brothers at the high table of King Folmok, whose long black beard garnished his plate in a way that called into question what else he could let slip under his nose. At the king’s left, the leader of Korindelf’s blockade smoothly brushed the beard away and sat the old man up straighter, hoping no one would notice. Commander Harnal sat at the king’s right, facing Ovris across the table, and Val tried to avoid interaction with both.

A frazzled serving girl, who appeared to have rushed to her post in the kitchens without time to bathe first, brought the Eaglemaster princes dishes of quail and carrots in thick brown gravy. When she returned with cups of wine for each of them, her cheeks reddened and she couldn’t hold back a grin at Ovris, as though layers of clothing couldn’t hide her body from his penetrating sight.

“Remember what I said about collecting debts and dividends,” Ovris said with a lean toward Val’s ear, not bothering to lower his voice. “Allies can show appreciation in so many ways.”

The girl snickered on her way to rejoin the scullions behind this banquet. Val didn’t ask Ovris her name, just as he wouldn’t ask him what meal he’d enjoyed two nights ago.

He stopped his fork an inch shy of the blackened carrot he was about to extract with gravy, finding Vekren’s utensil had already beaten him to his own plate. “Not this again,” Val protested with a sigh. “I’d hoped my earning the cape might break your arrogant overreach.”

“First bite goes to the eldest,” Vekren replied. “That’s been the special custom between just you and me, strengthening our affectionate bond ever since Ovris grew too quick to let me have my tribute. Not to mention, his numerous affectionate bonds make me hesitate to touch anything he might drool on.”

“You think slowness permitted your trespasses all these years?” Val asked. “It was pity. But now I have less room for that in my heart after the recent battles I’ve faced.”

Ovris interjected to Vekren, “Don’t let all your talk about the sanctity of tradition be for naught. He was still a boy just yesterday—take what you will.”

“Let the lad eat with dignity,” Commander Harnal cut in. “You embarrass your entire house with this conduct at the king’s table. If your father should hear about it …”

“You know my father chiseled this table out of granite, to match the throne,” said King Folmok, running his forefinger along the grain of what was clearly an oaken tabletop, stained with several spills of wine over the years.

Vekren suddenly dropped his fork before it could steal any food, disturbed by something large that rubbed against his leg. When the hungry dog nudged Val with a whimper next, the solution to this prolonged annoyance became clear. Val snatched his dish away, not a single bite taken, and set it on the ground where the animal proceeded to eat its fill. “I’d sooner have a mongrel clean my plate than indulge your childish ritual,” he declared, rising to leave. “Yesterday, I claimed what’s mine, and let no man forget it from this day on.”

He turned and swiftly exited the hall, his brothers falling quiet. The only voice he heard was the king’s drunken squawk that trailed after him. “I once claimed the Forbidden Isle as a territory of Korindelf. I walked right up to it, slapped my open palm against its mists that felt like polished stone, and proclaimed it mine. To this day, I still feel the hand that reached back out and slapped my face in return … made me think twice about claiming other treasures around here!”

*

Hours later, at midday, the three princes and fellow knights returned to their own realm. They practiced with spear and bow, sprinted, climbed, and sparred. Engaging in activities that could bring any man illness or injury without foul play suspected, they were all quite fortunate.

In Korindelf, however, from which they’d departed, one was not so lucky. The flea-ridden dog that had cleaned such generous helpings from Prince Valdroth’s plate meandered dizzily under the afternoon sun. Eventually, its blurred, failing vision brought it to a vacant alley, where at least it could enjoy some small comfort in the shade.

The dog curled up, twitching with a scorched stomach and throat that no amount of purging could relieve. Thick, bubbly foam in its mouth and nose permitted only shallow, labored panting, until finally every airway sealed shut.

One last bubble expanded and deflated at its foamy snout, and then its convulsing body fell lifeless.