The Dragon Maker Read online

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  Rovann rode into the clearing and yanked the reins, pulling his horse to a halt in a spray of mud. The acrid odor of charred wood lingered on the air, strong enough to make his horse snort and stamp, unwilling to go closer.

  Rovann studied the scene. A once-magnificent building lay in ruins in the center of the clearing. The walls and roof had collapsed, leaving a heap of rubble. Blackened beams stuck out from the pile like the fingers of a corpse.

  The surrounding forest lay quiet and peaceful, giving no clues to what happened here. In an oak nearby a squirrel chirped angrily at Rovann's intrusion. A blackbird alighted on a holly branch, stared at Rovann with one beady eye, and then took off into the trees.

  The saddle creaked as Rovann swung his leg over the horse's back and jumped to the ground. Drawing his short-sword, he padded silently toward the ruins. Crouching at the base of a wall, he placed his palm on the blackened stone and closed his eyes. Nothing. No resonance remained within the granite. The fire must be at least a week old.

  Rovann straightened and re-sheathed his short-sword. There were no clues here. Lord Cedric Hounsey, on whose land the temple lay, claimed the blaze had been an accident. But Rovann suspected otherwise. Yet, without survivors to dispute the lord's story, there was little he could do about it. Rovann kicked the ground in frustration, sending up a shower of ash that blew back at him, covering him in a fine gray cloak.

  His horse, Glynn, snorted and gazed at his master with ears pricked. Rovann trotted back to his mount and noticed a piece of parchment pinned to the trunk of a large sycamore. He strode over and ripped it down. He scanned the crude black letters, his breath quickening. There was still a chance. But he had to get to Mallyn. And fast.

  Swinging into the saddle, he kicked Glynn into motion, leaving behind the woods and coming down onto the paved Kingsroad. Glynn's hooves made a loud 'clip-clop' on the hard stones. The sun was just poking above the tree-line. Lazy streamers of mist rose from the fields. Farm workers dotted the road, pulling carts or carrying tools. They stared at Rovann with wide, fearful eyes, wary of strangers.

  Rovann chewed his lip. If he didn't reach Mallyn by midday? Shaking his head, he choked the thought. He would not fail. Could not. He had a duty to his king, to his people. Rovann smiled crookedly. Duty. That word again. Istra always hated how he was torn in two.

  Duty? she would say. Must it come before everything? Before us?

  Ahead, the Kingsroad forked. Rovann cursed, pulled Glynn to a stop and threw his hands up in frustration. The roads were identical with no way-markers to aid the travel-weary stranger.

  "What do you think, Glynn?" he asked his horse.

  The chestnut gelding flicked his ears idly.

  Rovann closed his eyes and slowed his breathing to a deep, steady rhythm. He felt the life around him: the thump of Glynn's heart, the rustle of rodents in the undergrowth, the movement of worms in the soil. Thousands of tiny life forces shimmered, connected by the all-encompassing tapestry of the Eorthe. Rovann pushed his senses further out and found it: a mass of iridescent life energy so strong it could only indicate a town full of people. It lay to the south-west, many miles distant.

  He opened his eyes and sank forward, fatigue flooding his limbs. Pressing his head into Glynn's mane, he breathed in the musty smell of the horse and impressed the image of their destination on the beast's mind. Clinging on, he pressed Glynn into a gallop down the south-western road.