Page 34 of The Dragonrider and the Void
Quinthara launched skyward, the last of the water washing back down into the ground. Arrows followed them up, but her dragon scales deflected the few that found their mark.
They burst through the smokey layer into the heart of the storm. Raindrops danced around them, gathering as the Giving Rain approached. The water within the storm cloud was comforting somehow. Now that the powers of the storm had manifested through the veil into Yogos, he and Quinthara didn’t feel the energy building in the bond.
“Head west,” Hardin gasped, fighting to comprehend what they’d just done.
He held an armful of Yogo Sapphires. Half were now clear, their power absent and only useful in their monetary value. But the rest were plump with magical essence. Energy that they had used to control their gift for the first time.
Hardin ran through the list of gods and how the Hyalites they sent through manifested in dragonriders. Quinthara’s query prompted him to say it aloud.
“Water,” he laughed. “The mist we created outside the camp. The ice we formed in the sky. The groundwater we pulled up through the earth. The Hyalite that Lark had with her all that time was given by Eva, the goddess of water. When we master our ability, we’ll be able to shape storms, summon rivers, wield ice. Eva’s power is equal to the other two top-tier gods, only trumped by one god, Aether.”
Pride swelled through them, only darkened by the question, why couldn’t they control it without tapping the magical essence from a Yogo?
They broke through the far side of the storm and behind them, horns blared through the thunder as the Keeps’ forces clashed. They would be sending magi and dragonriders after him when the news spread of what he’d done, but for now,Hardin reveled in the experience. He hunkered down in the saddle, now able to enjoy the flight toward his home in Doran.
10
CARBELLA
The winds caught beneath Quinthara’s wings, carrying them past Dagger’s Landing and closer to the rocky peaks of the Ram’s Head Range. Hardin leaned forward against her scaled neck, his breath catching as the familiar valley of his hometown emerged, Carbella.
The town should have shown signs of life, smoke rising from chimneys as the miners prepared for their descent into the caves. Instead, an unnatural mist clung to the stone streets like a burial shroud.
“Something feels off,” Hardin said, his words immediately torn away by the wind. He signaled for Quinthara to descend.
Hardin’s grip tightened on the saddle as they spiraled lower. Through gaps in the mist, he could make out figures shuffling through the streets with mechanical precision. A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air settled in his stomach as he recognized his mother’s greying black hair among them. She moved with a haunting rigidity, carrying water from the town well as if she were being pulled by invisible strings.
“Mother,” he breathed.
Quinthara banked sharply toward the town square, her shadow cutting through the unnatural fog.
An eerie silence hung over Carbella as Quinthara’s claws scraped against the cobblestones of the town square. No children ran to marvel at the dragon. No shouts of warning or welcome echoed between the buildings. Only the rhythmic shuffling of feet and the creak of the well’s pulley disturbed the quiet.
Hardin slid from the saddle, his boots hitting the ground with a sound that seemed too loud in the unnatural stillness. His mother continued her mechanical path from the well, unseeing, even as he stepped directly into her path.
“Kaya,” he said again, this time loud enough to carry. “Mother, it’s Hardin. I’m home.”
Kaya paused, the water bucket swaying slightly in her grip. For a moment, recognition flickered across her brown eyes. She was clearly fighting whatever had intensified the curse over the town. Her lips parted, trembled, then pressed together in a tight line as she attempted to step around him.
“Hardin?” A weak voice came from behind him.
He turned to find his sister Marra standing in the doorway of their family house. Her once-short, dark brown hair had grown long past her shoulders. Though she was only in her early twenties, just three years older her than him , the dark rings around her brown eyes, swollen lips, and sunken features made her look much older. Unlike the others, she moved with deliberate effort, each step a battle against invisible bonds.
“You shouldn’t, be here. You should not have come back.” Her words came out strained, as if speaking required immense concentration. “Thorgan, The Warlock King, he’s changed things.”
Quinthara’s low growl resonated through the square as more townspeople emerged from the buildings. Their movementswere synchronized, like pieces of a grotesque clockwork. Hardin recognized every face. Mason Cole with his burn-scarred hands, old Widow Thenna who’d watched him on market days, young Pell who’d dreamed of becoming a shaman. All of them trapped in this magical puppetry. However, Hardin didn’t see any of them wearing the cursed amulets that had controlled Sasja and Venrick.
Governor Rodjex had one before I left. But something’s changed here. They couldn’t leave, but now, it’s like they’re under some kind of mind control.
Quinthara rumbled a throaty groan of concern. She sent him a warning , sensing a form of evil that put all dragons on edge. Not from her experience but from the collective pool that she shared with her ancestors, a history passed on to her.
Marra stumbled forward another step, fighting against the force that tried to pull her back into line with the others. “The Governor draws power from us. He feeds it into whatever it was Thorgan found in the caves.” Her eyes darted to their mother, who had resumed her seemingly endless trek to and from the well. “I’ve tried to break free. But I can only resist…”
Hardin caught his sister as her knees buckled, the effort of speaking nearly too much. As he held her, his gaze swept across the town square, taking in the runes he hadn’t noticed before. Public carvings had not been evident in their town when he left to find help. Subtle markings had been carved into the cobblestones, a script unfamiliar to him and his dragon.
As he helped Marra to a seated position on their townhouse steps, he noticed mud splashed on her skin just above her shirt collar. Then blinked, it wasn’t mud. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to the brown stains on her neck.
Marra’s expression scrunched as if she were smelling something rotten.
