Seraph of Sorrow (36 page)

(“You’re disturbed by me. By Hank, and his growth. We threaten you.”)

(“Dawn, that’s ridiculous! Hank has nothing to do with this. It’s just a scratch I gave you. You’ve given me plenty like it over the years.”)

Brow furrowed in confusion and frustration, Hank filtered countless unsatisfactory answers. “I offer anything Your Honor wishes.”

“A trite if acceptable response. Let’s see if we can’t hit higher than a C minus, little Henry? Since you went ahead and opened that muzzle of yours, I’d like to examine your teeth.”

He nodded, unsure if she was looking at him.

“What do you know about being a beaststalker, little Henry?”

“Only what my parents have taught me, Your Honor. I’m sure I have more to learn.”

“Such a speck of modesty. What have you learned so far?”

“Hand-to-hand weapon use. Sword, axe, small blade. My father . . .” He trailed off, conscious of his mother. “My father told me I was almost ready for the Blacktooth Blade.”

“You
are
ready for it,” his mother corrected him.

“Dawn, please, let the boy speak. What else, beyond weapons?”

“Basic military tactics—concentration of effort, economy of force, deception . . .”

“And what of patience, little Henry? Has your mother taught you anything about that? Did your father, before he met with his most unfortunate end?”

It occurred to Hank that somehow Dawn Farrier had gotten Glorianna Seabright to stop talking about how she wouldn’t teach Hank anything, and start talking about things she might.
I can’t blow this,
he told himself.
Mom would be hurt.
The words Hank swallowed were bitter, but he did nonetheless, knowing the stakes. “No, I have not yet learned patience. I hope to.”

“Hmmm.”

Head still down, Hank heard the mayor’s footsteps on the tightly manicured grass. Somewhere a few rows down, some birds were chattering on the graves.

“You mentioned, little Henry, you’ve learned all about economy of force. Define it.”

“Your Honor. Economy of force is the principle of effective application of combat power. Every part of a military force has purpose—primary or secondary. The commander gathers mass at decisive points on the battlefield, and then allocates any additional resources.”

“Excellent. We’ve established you can read a textbook. Now can you tell me, little Henry, what are the decisive points on the battlefield with
our
enemies?”

Mind racing, Hank recalled talk he had overheard between his parents on dragons and arachnids. “To date, decisive points have been those habitats where our enemies live and breed freely. Beaststalkers seek to deprive enemies of those habitats, eliminating their capacity to gather in numbers. Under normal circumstances, it is better to deal with an opposing force that is scattered and rudderless than one consolidated and dug in.”

“Why, little Henry, I do believe you’ve just won your limb back. How terrific for everyone that it wasn’t already detached! Let’s move on. Tell me the difference between reconnaissance and espionage.”

“Reconnaissance is the active gathering of intelligence about an enemy. It differs from espionage in that it generally involves uniformed troops moving ahead of a main force. Espionage involves more covert tactics, undertaken over a longer period of time.”

“Have you been trained in aspects of either?”

“Both, Your Honor.”

“Well, then.” The mayor’s voice was positively ebullient. “I think I have good news for you and your mother after all! I have a mission that requires doing. If your mother is amenable”—there was barely a pause as she acquired this silent assent—“you could do it. You would be helping me achieve . . . an economy of force. In return, you get an opportunity to learn patience.”

“I’m at your disposal.”

“You will be alone. In great danger. For a long time.”

Something deep inside Hank Blacktooth stirred, and he dared to look up at the mayor again. “All I want,” he told her, “is the opportunity to show you what I can do.”

“Then you will get it, little Henry. Have you heard of a town named Eveningstar?”

Hank watched his mother as they left the cemetery. There was a twinkle in her eye.

“Do you really think I can do this, Mom?”

“I think you can do anything, Hank Blacktooth. Certainly, you can do anything that spoiled brat Elizabeth Georges could do. Why the mayor chose her ten years ago, or Wendy Williamson last year, over you . . . well, it makes absolutely no sense at all. I kept trying to tell your father that. He never believed me. He never believed in
you
.” She grabbed her son by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. Finally, in a rare display, her voice betrayed some emotion. The wounded angel inside shone through. That was when Hank loved her the most.

(“It’s just a scratch! You’ve given me plenty like it over the years.”)

(“Is THAT your excuse for trying to hurt me?”)

“You’ll show her, Hank. You’ll show all of us.”

His mother’s unswerving conviction acted like a drug in Hank’s system; he felt her faith fill his veins and straighten his spine.

Still, he had to admit the task before him seemed daunting. No beaststalker had ever entered Eveningstar, the last and most heavily fortified stronghold for dragonkind. The mayor had given him no suggestions as to how to approach this assignment—only basic reconnaissance that suggested no one could get closer than three miles from the town’s border without getting noticed. Land, river, air—all routes were guarded.

“So, Hank.” His mother caressed his neck. “Any idea how you want to begin?”

Eveningstar is paranoid and well guarded,
he told himself.
No one will get in who is not a dragon, or with someone who is. I’m not a dragon, and I don’t know anyone else who is, because we’ve killed them all. Or crippled them.

The answer came to him in a brilliant rush. “Mom, I want to go to Winoka Hospital.”

Less than a week later, on a brilliant summer day, a young newolf patrolling woodlands a few miles north of Pinegrove caught a new scent. She followed it, howling a call for assistance.

She soon tasted blood on the air, and fatigue. Two more newolves were soon racing parallel. They joined together in a chord of B minor:
Proceed with caution.
A dozen more newolves joined them. She knew another dozen would be headed back to Eveningstar, along with any number of snakes, dragonflies, and hornets. Since it was a crescent moon, a trio of dashers would soon be out. More dragons would backfill the patrol routes the newolves had abandoned, in case this was a diversion. The inhabitants of Eveningstar took no chances.

It wasn’t long before the source of the scent was found. He was off the road, but clearly wasn’t trying to hide. In fact, the young man seemed dead. He was lying on his stomach, blood seeping from a wound high on his back and several puncture wounds on his arm. Torn flesh on his face made it impossible to tell which were surface cuts and which were more substantial.

He held a blood-encrusted sword, though not as one who knew how to wield it. His knuckles were fiercely white in their grip around the blade. There was no sheath, and the newolf deduced quickly that it was the boy’s own blood on the blade, and no one else’s.

She tried licking the boy’s face to wake him up. He stirred but did not open his eyes. That inspired a chord of E major from her and the others around her:
Still alive.

The scent of dashers relaxed her. They would come to take this strange boy, give him aid, and solve this puzzle. Before the dragons landed, she was already heading back to her patrol route, hoping to recapture the scent of wildflowers and squirrels.

So the boy who called himself Samuel Blackwing went to Eveningstar. He recovered in the hospital from his wounds, caused by the sword he carried and similar blades like it. He soon told his caretakers the heart-wrenching story of his arrival.

He had been on his way to Eveningstar with his parents, having undertaken his first morph the day before. It was a proud occasion for his family, and they wanted to celebrate by going to Eveningstar. Now that Samuel was old enough to change, maybe they would scout out properties and consider moving here.

Their plans had come to a crashing halt—literally—during the flight south. They had unknowingly ventured too close to Winoka, and a young beaststalker performing his rite of passage shot his mother down from the sky. He and his father followed the body down, and there they found the bowman responsible, along with four other young beaststalkers. Each was hacking away at Samuel’s mother’s body like vultures. A fight ensued, and Samuel’s father killed three of them before an arrow through his throat ended him.

Samuel, unfamiliar with dragon skills beyond flying, could barely generate enough flame to keep the young murderers away. He took flight, hoping to make it to Eveningstar for help. The last two youths pursued him, driving all-terrain vehicles over rolling farmland. One of them would stop and fire a BB gun periodically. Samuel could not fly fast, and every shot that grazed his wings brought him lower. Soon he was flopping along the ground.

They caught up to him and knocked him down with their vehicles. One of them drove a sword into his back. The pain was terrifying, and he felt himself changing. With his last remnants of dragon strength, he reached back, yanked the blade out, and swung it hilt out with all his might. He drew blood and knocked his aggressor unconscious. The sight of this half dragon, half human with deep wounds, miraculously still moving and swinging his friend’s sword, finally unnerved the last youth. He pulled his friend onto his ATV and drove away. From there, Samuel walked until he collapsed, holding the sword that had ruined his life.

By the time Samuel told his hosts this tragic story, their scouts had already reported evidence to support it. The second ATV was sitting less than a mile from where they had found this boy. There were two sets of tracks coming south and only one north (toward Winoka), and someone else’s blood was at the site where he claimed to have smashed his enemy’s jaw. The pieces fit, the boy was obviously a heroic innocent . . . and with no other family to turn to, there was nothing left for the elders of Eveningstar to do but adopt him.

Hank sipped his soup and scribbled notes in his journal. He had learned a lot today.

It had been several months since he first arrived in Eveningstar. The town’s elders had arranged for him to stay with an aging creeper who lived alone in a substantial house. There was an apartment above the garage with a bed, bath, and small stove. At Eveningstar High, Samuel Blackwing was nearly as famous as Hank Blacktooth had been at Winoka High.