The Fourth Wing

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, a fact any visitor would undoubtedly be surprised to learn as the streets of Vanris overflowed with reminders of their presence. Here was the Blue Dragon tavern, home of the patented firebreath whiskey. There was Marrak’s Goods and Gifts store, where you could purchase a genuine dragon scale for the low price of thirteen shillings. Even the Royal Museum had an entire wing dedicated to dragonology. Indeed, try to tell a visitor that the first dragons had arrived no more than seven years ago and they would likely call you mad. Yet, that was the truth, and even if the citizens had forgotten the time before dragon-mania had swept the city, Laared Osan remembered.

Laared was younger than he appeared, having inherited a receding hairline from his mother and a lifetime of stress from his father that led to perpetual bags under his eyes. Still, being as average as beige wallpaper had its advantages in his line of work, and there was always fashion to bridge the gap of visual appeal.

Today, Laared wore forest green breeches with a matching vest and a chartreuse bicorne of genuine beaver felt as he forced his way through the crowd clogging up mainstreet, cruising through it in the wake of his bodyguard, Mazri. He knew why everyone was here, of course. The First Wing were due to return to Vanris after their successful conquest of Port Muric. Oh, and make no mistake, it was the victory of the First Wing. The thousands of regular soldiers, logistical staff, intelligence officers, military engineers, and nurses certainly played no significant role. No, they weren’t important enough for people to wear scarves and capes embroidered with their heraldry: only the dragon riders mattered.

Progress through the crowd had been teeth-grindingly slow the entire way but now, Laared realised, things had come to a complete halt.

Laared tapped Mazri on the back.

“Hmm?” Mazri turned around, her eyes passing once over Laared’s head before she looked down and saw him standing there. “Ah. Right.”

Mazri was of the Barradani people in the far north. They claimed to be descended from giants, which Laared thought to be improbable for a number of obvious physical reasons, but their impressive statures weren’t to be denied. Mazri stood as an exemplar of her kind, six and half feet tall and a stone over two hundred pounds, a head or more above the rest of the crowd, and nearly a foot taller than Laared himself.

“We’ve stopped,” Laared said.

Mazri squinted, taking a moment before answering. “Oh. You can’t see them.”

“See who?” If there was someone or something for Laared to see, the crowd was making it impossible.

Before Mazri could respond a cheer rippled across the crowd, the already lively jostling of elbows and knees turning into a veritable storm of bodies. She turned away, pointing to something off in the distance. “There!”

“Amazingly, I haven’t become any taller in the last seven seconds.” But it was obvious now from the sound alone what was happening. Loud things, dragons. Their roars echoed across the city, shaking the ground, reverberating in Laared’s chest, and the crowd died down from the sheer power of it. Everywhere people shoved and craned on tippy toes to see past the crowd, and children were raised onto their parent’s shoulders.

Laared removed his hat; he knew what came next.

The first dragon swooped low overhead, its blue scales gleaming in the sun, its belly mere metres above the crowd. Laared recognised the dragon as Kraan, the youngest and smallest dragon of the Wing, only twice the size of a horse. The vortex behind him picked up dust and papers, windows rattled and hats went soaring into the air.

A second later, the crowd explored with applause. Cries of “Kraan! Kraan! Kraan!” Oh yes, who in Vanris hadn’t heard the name Kraan a thousand times over? Certainly not Laared. Kraan the swift, Kraan the bold, his chosen rider Yugrin Marr a marksman of legend.

Two more dragons followed, slightly larger and older, their pace measured so as to avoid inflicting any more property damage. They too were met with cheers, although less ecstatic. Xrinsaw and Akrasaan didn’t have the same brash charisma of Kraan.

At the rear of the wing came its leaders, Ikki of the Seemly White and Wing Commander Minn Ro. Over a hundred feet from nose to tail, Ikki didn’t glide through the air so much as lumber, carving out huge swaths of air with each sweep of her two sets of wings— a feature of only the most ancient of dragons, lost in more recent generations.

The dragons circled above the city square while a cadre of guards rushed forward, corralling the crowd back.

“Aren’t they incredible?” Mazri asked.

Laared glanced up at her. His first instinct was to say something scolding, but her smile was so earnest that to disparage her would have felt like kicking a puppy. He pointed toward the circling dragons. “They could have landed in front of the palace. There’s more space there than here. But just you watch, they’re going to walk all the way up mainstreet.”

“Uh huh.” The implication of Laared’s words were clearly lost on Mazri.

With a suitable space cleared, the dragon riders leapt off their mounts and into the air, dropping down dozens of feet to the stones of the plaza without so much as a broken leg.

Mazri whistled.

Laared shook his head.

“Right,” Laared said as the crowd started to surge back toward the riders. “We best be off. I wanted to talk to Vanna before the council session.”

“Oh. I was… uh… hoping—” Mazri leant down closer to Laared as the cheering of the crowd grew louder “—I was hoping I could maybe… uh… go get an autograph?”

“An… autograph?” Laared glanced at the direction of the riders. Enough of a gap had opened in the crowd that he saw that many of the people closest to Minn were waving papers and notebooks in his face while he quickly scrawled on one after another with a feathered pen.

“Well at the rate they’re going the session won’t be until this afternoon.” Laared bit his tongue. “Oh, fine.”

“Thank you!” Mazri surged forward, grabbing Laared by the wrist before he could protest. Mazri ploughed through the crowd like a wheatfield on her march toward the riders. As they approached, the crowd grew denser. No issue for Mazri, but Laared found an elbow in his ribs and a heeled boot on his toes.

“Wait!” Laared squeaked, inaudible among the cheers and whistles of the crowd. “Slow—”

It was too late. A gaggle of young women were approaching the riders with the force of a cavalry charge and Laared was right in their way. He shielded his head before the women barrelled into him. Their momentum carried him a half dozen paces before the foot of another crowd member interposed itself perfectly in his path. He fell face-first onto the flagstones, his hat sliding away to be promptly crushed by a pair of armoured boots.

Laared closed his eyes and grimaced. His hat! His poor beaver felt hat! And his vest too! Straight into the grim and mud.

“I believe this is yours?” A deep voice asked.

Laared looked up, squinting against the sun. Above him loomed Yugrin Maar, dressed in the scaled armour of the riders, the crimson cloak trailing behind him making his already broad frame even more impressive. He held Laared’s bicorne out and Laared snatched it up.

Yugrin proffered a hand. “You should watch your step, citizen. Easy to get trampled in a crowd like this.”

Citizen?

Ignoring Yugrin’s hand, Laared pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his vest. Fortunately, the damage wasn’t severe. “Oh yes. How clumsy of me.” He popped his bicorne back into shape and jammed it onto his head. “Thank you so, so much. But I think it best I leave now. Very important citizenry things to do.”

Yugrin peered.

Laared sighed. Here it came.

“Lard?” Yugrin asked.

Laared sighed again, deeper.

“Lard! It is you!” Yugrin beamed and slapped Laared on the shoulder. “It’s been so long. How have you been? It’s like you just disappeared. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, I work the odd job. I see you became a dragon rider.”

Against all improbability, Yugrin’s beam widened. “I know! It’s incredible. You know, we should really catch up again. I’m sure Avan and Blair would love to see you.”

“Mhm. Well, I’m sure you have business to attend to. Fans to… fraternise with.” Laared glanced sidelong as he saw Minn approaching, the throng of women at his heels, some clutching at his cape. Minn stopped and regarded Yugrin with a piercing stare.

“What’s this, then?” Minn raised an eyebrow, glancing between Yugrin and Laared. Minn had some Barrandai heritage to him, not full blooded like Mazri, but enough that he was easily the most physically impressive of the riders, and his well-waxed hair and combed moustache added together to create an implacable air.

“Nothing, sir.” Yugrin stiffened his posture. “Just assisting a civilian in distress.”

Minn turned to Laared, raising his eyebrow even higher, and paused a moment before turning back to Yugrin. “This is Laared Osan, the King’s spymaster.”

Laared flashed a weak smile.

“Lard?” Yugrin slapped Laared on the shoulder again, hard enough to make him flinch. “You’re the spymaster? That’s… oh.” He paused, taking his hand away. “My apologies… uh… Sir. I should have known.”

“You should accompany us, Master Osan,” Minn said. “It seems these roads are a dangerous place this morning.” Just a hint of a smile graced his lips.

Laared matched Minn’s half-smile. “Now, I wouldn’t be a very good spymaster if everyone knew what I looked like, would I? You’ve won a great victory. Go, savour the moment.”

Minn nodded.

“Wait!” Mazri shouted, sweeping the women following Minn aside, “Uh… sorry, Sir.” She scratched her hair. “Thought I’d lost you for a moment.” She turned to Minn. “Sorry to bother you. I was hoping that…” She pushed a crumpled piece of paper against Minn’s breastplate.

“Of course.” Minn took the paper with a deep chuckle. “And to whom should it be addressed?”

“Oh. Uh… Mazri.”

“To… Mazri… from Minn… and Ikki. There.” Minn handed the paper back. Mazri took it and squeezed it against her chest, doing her best to hide the blush that had spread across her face by staring at her feet.

Minn stroked his moustache. “You’re of the wyrmsblood, aren’t you?”

Mazri looked up. “How… how did you know?”

“It’s something that can be detected, with the proper training.” Minn paused. “With the success of Port Muric, I wouldn’t be surprised if the King wanted to create a Fourth Wing. I’d consider joining up if I were you.”

“I… I could be a dragon rider?” Mazri’s face jumped from shock to joy to something resembling nausea in a span of seconds.

Minn chuckled. “Well, there’s only four places and always hundreds of candidates. Stiff competition. But think about it.”

“Yes sir.” Mazri gave a dragon rider style salute, tapping her opposite shoulder then flipping her hand out in a fist. Minn matched the salute and with another chuckle, then turned back to address the women following him.

Mazri stared at Minn until Laared grabbed her arm in an effort to pull her away. The effort did not, of course, succeed, but it was enough to get her attention.

“Me, a dragon rider,” Mazri said. “Could you imagine?”

“You’d think such a thing was impossible, yet here we are.”

Laared had assumed Mazri to have wyrmsblood for a long while, although actual confirmation was nice. To have wyrmsblood was to be descended from the ancient dragon riders who lived millennia ago, and it was an absolute necessity to be able to channel a dragon’s magic without dying. Even when not bonded to a dragon, those of the blood were stronger, faster, hardier, and possessed sharper senses than the average human. That’s how Laared had noticed it in Mazri. The Barradani possessed a prodigious strength, but they were still human. In the four years Laared had employed Mazri, he’d witnessed her bend steel swords, stick her hand in a fireplace because ‘it tickled’, snap a man’s ulna by squeezing it with one hand, and even, on a bet, win a tug of war against a draft horse. While he was no expert in strength, that seemed to go a little beyond the territory of strong humans and into the realm of the supernatural.

The crowd thinned as Laared and Mazri started their trek up mainstreet. Most of the citizenry had only come out for the landing and those that hadn’t were all back down the street pestering the riders, save for a few gathered around street vendors.

It took a few minutes of walking to reach the palace, which was a rather modest affair. Vanris’ wealth was as vast as it was new, and things like palaces took time to build. The King had ordered a new one, demolishing the old slum affectionately called the Wicker Basket to clear space. It would sport an indoor jousting list and a heated (heated!) swimming pool, but until its completion, the old Palace of the Tulips would suffice.

As Laared climbed the steps up to the front gate a rush of air caused his hat to fly off. He spun around, seeing the four dragons racing past on their way to the Grand Aviary to the north of the city.

“Bloody lizards,” Laared muttered, jamming his hat back on.

“Maybe you should use a chin strap?” Mazri asked.

Laared glared.

Mazri shrugged.

With a flash of his documents, Laared passed the guards at the main gate and into the forecourt. The palace was old indeed, its architecture dating back centuries, all plastered walls of red and white that no amount of cleaning could return to their old lustre. The eponymous tulip beds ran in a horseshoe shape, behind them was a colonnade that led into the palace proper.

The corridors of the palace overflowed with history. Statues, paintings, frescos, mosaics, reliefs, and tapestries— some were artefacts of Vanris’ own past as a mercantile city state, but most had come to Vanris more recently (and far less willingly).

Laared came to a stop in front of a marble depiction of Eranu, Third Crone of the Moon and Stars, and waited.

“Why do we have to talk to her?” Mazri asked, leaning back against the statue of Eranu in a way Laared hoped desperately wouldn’t cause it to topple over.

“Well, the King sent the Third Wing to help Bannsridge after the floods instead of, oh, any actual diplomatic force. And that comes after another wave of funding being diverted. The diplomatic corps have been neglected just as much as we have and that means Vanna is our ally, for the time being.”

“Mmm.” Mazri paused. “I don’t like her.”

Laared chuckled. “She’s a politician. I don’t think you’re supposed to.”

A door slammed from further down the corridor, followed by the clacking of heeled boots. A woman approached, dressed in a silken robe, the series of stacked hair buns on her head serving only to make her already equine features appear even more elongated.

“Ambassador.” Laared took his hat off and bowed in a single practised motion while gesturing for Mazri to stand to attention, which she did so with a drawn-out huff.

“Master Osan.” The woman, Ambassador Vanna Mallow, gave a curt nod.

Laared affixed his hat. “Have you considered my proposal?”

Vanna’s eyes flicked to Mazri for a moment. “Have you told her?”

Things like ‘proposals’, ‘deals’, and ‘opportunities’ were usually a sign for Mazri to stop paying any attention, but on hearing Vanna mention something that she might be involved in she puffed out her chest and folded her arms. “Tell me what?”

Laared paused in thought, chewing on his thumbnail. “Well, I didn’t want to raise your hopes too high. But—”

“—Master Osan asked me to push for you to be entered into the dragon rider program when the king announces the new Wing later today.”

Mazri blinked once, twice, three times, and then a grin spread across her face. “You… you’d do that?” She turned to Laared. “For me?”

“No, not for you,” Vanna said. “To act as a spy. Master Osan believes—”

Before Vanna could finish, Mazri had jumped on Laared, wrapping him in a hug. “Oh, thank you! Thank you.” She squeezed him with the force of a vice.

“Help.” Laared tapped Mazri’s arm, his face bright red.

“Oh. Right.” Mazri stepped back, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “Sorry.”

Vanna cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Master Osan believes that Commander Ro and the other dragon riders do… mmm… do not have the interests of the kingdom at heart. By placing you in their ranks, he hopes to expose something or another.”

Laared scowled at Vanna. “You say that like you don’t agree with me, Ambassador. The dragon riders are gaining too much power. Too much influence. We need to keep an eye on them so we can stop them before they try anything untoward.”

Vanna ignored Laared and looked Mazri up and down. “This is not a certain thing. I have the ear of the king—for now, at least—so I can… assist in your selection, but the competition remains fierce. You will have to be up to the challenge.”

If Mazri had heard Vanna, she made no indication of it. “I… I need to go tell my friends!”

“You will do no such thing,” Vanna said.

Laared chewed his tongue. “Mazri, perhaps don't mention Vanna’s involvement? Say you were simply told by Commander Ro this morning that you have the wyrmsblood and are going to apply for the new Wing.” Laared paused. “After it’s announced officially.”

Mazri took a moment to process the words. “Uh. Yes, sir.” She gave a short bow. “I’ll… I’ll see you later.”

Laared’s lips twitched. “If only we all could escape council meetings so easily.” He sighed. “I’ll find you afterward. And please, be careful, Mazri.”

“Yes, sir.” With another bow, Mazri turned and powered off. She paused a few steps later to give a squeal of joy before continuing outside.

Vanna watched Mazri leave. “I worry that dog is going to bark to the wrong people.”

Laared glared. “I happen to be rather fond of dogs, Ambassador. They’re quite loyal creatures.”

Vanna huffed.

“Now, did you speak to the Sisters of the Triple Moons?” Laared asked.

“The Supreme Mother isn’t interested.”

“You showed her the proposed plan for the extension to the Grand Avery? It rather defeats the purpose of a moongarden if it doesn’t have a view of the moons, I would think.”

“She’s not interested.”

From elsewhere in the palace a whistle blew out, calling the council to session. Vanna looked Laared up and down with a slight frown then set off toward the audience hall without a word.

“A pleasure as always!” Laared called after her, shaking his head. He waited until Vanna was a fair distance away before starting off himself on a different route— while it wasn’t unreasonable for them to be talking, there was no reason to give anyone any ideas.

Laared had made it halfway to the hall when a furious phlegm-filled coughing made him start. He spun around to see Royal Magus Stormshepard ambling towards him. Laared considered—seriously considered—just continuing in the hope the old magus hadn’t spotted him, but before he could, Stormshepard raised a hand.

“Master Osan.” Stormshepard coughed again. “Master Osan… it has been an age since we spoke last.”

“A shame, truly.”

Stormshepard shuffled onward, using his staff as a walking stick. Laared slowed down to his pace, cursing himself for taking a route that went past the magus’ laboratory.

“What do you think of this business in Port Muric?” Stormshepard asked after the silence had extended just long enough that Laared was growing hopeful he could avoid conversation altogether.

Laared studied Stormshepard’s face and found a pair of cunning eyes looking back at him from under all the wrinkles. He sighed. It was hard to tell sometimes how much of Stormshepherd's persona of senility was just an act. Laared had to consider his response carefully, Stormshepard was no ally to his cause. The old magus held chief responsibility for the creation of the riders, translating the ancient Nurmyddian texts belonging to the first generation of riders over a thousand years ago.

“I think…” Laared started, “I think I am glad to see the kingdom prospering.”

“Do you support the King’s imperial ambitions, then?”

Laared bit his tongue. That was an unexpected response. “I… it is my duty to carry out the wishes of the King, not to question his grand strategies.”

“But is it not your duty to ensure the King’s safety also?”

Laared licked his lips. “That is certainly a part of it.”

“Then how do you act when the King’s wishes conflict with his safety? Which duty comes first?”

“Do you have a point to make, magus?”

Stormshepard started coughing again, almost doubling over for a moment. When he righted himself, he looked Laared dead in the eyes. “My point is only that you should consider your priorities carefully. Power attracts opportunists.”

“I’m doing my best, magus. I live my life in service to the Crown.” The best he could do, Laared thought, given the budget cuts that had forced him to halve his number of operatives. After all, who needed schemes, intelligence, and plots to build power when you had dragons?

“We will see.”

Laared and Stormshepard had—blessedly—reached the audience hall. A large space, two stories, with a mezzanine balcony across the top floor and stained-glass windows arranged like a triptych along the back wall that bathed the floor in coloured light. Several dozen people milled about, talking in shifting circles that split apart and re-joined in a slow dance. Laared took the opportunity to slip out from Stormshepard’s burrowing stare. He spotted Loretta, the Supreme Mother of the Sisters of the Triple Moons, talking to a man he recognised as a bishop of the Lineage of Seven Saints. Now, there was an unlikely alliance. Would such sights become more common as Vanris swallowed up more of its neighbours? So many cultures, so many customs.

Imperial ambitions. Laared had never thought of the King’s actions in that light, but the Royal Magus wasn’t wrong. With Port Muric now under the control of Vanris, half of the Black Coast owed fealty to the King. Larger states were starting to take notice. Vanris could no longer play the part of a hermit city state only good as a trade stopover. The world was waking up to Vanris, and most likely for the worst. Just a tinge of resentment coursed through Laared. How could the be so greedy and short-sighted? But he took a deep breath and restored his composure. It wasn’t his place to question such matters.

A herald dressed in the red and green of Vanris stepped up to the dais and the hum of conversation died down. “Ladies and Gentlemen, distinguished guests, and dignitaries. King Aran Lomnier the Third!”

The denizens of the hall stood aside to form a pathway. From the door a stern man entered, King Aran, middling in age and possessed of flowing black ringlets of hair. He walked past the crowd, head held high, and took his seat at the top of the dais.

“Thank you, all, for attending on such an auspicious occasion.” King Aran’s expression softened. “Ah, what a time it is. A mere two days ago I was informed of the surrender of Prince Amsalon of Port Muric. The students of history among you will, of course, know that three hundred years ago, Port Muric, then the city of Ballderra, sought to clutch in its grasp the entirety of the Black Coast. Well, today we have returned the favour, and now they shall call us lords and their taxes of spice and gold shall profit us all!”

A round of applause and a few cheers.

Aran gestured for the crowd to calm down. “And those we have to thank for this victory are here among us now!” Aran gestured toward Minn Ro, Yugrin Maar, and the other two riders of the First Wing, Massi Ollo and Vander of Yolmyr, who all stood at the front of the crowd. “Let us hear the appreciation for our brave riders!” Aran stood, sweeping a hand over the audience. “Our riders, upon whose wings we will ride to glory!”

A second round of applause swept through the crowd, far louder than the first and accompanied by whooping and the stamping of feet. An unmoving figure among the uproar caught Laared’s eye. Out of armour, Laared almost didn’t recognise the figure as General Pamra. As the cheering continued, her only movement was to scratch the jagged scar under her left eye. She must have noticed Laared’s lack of enthusiasm as well because she turned to him and gave just the slightest raise of an eyebrow.

Pamra had held down the siege of Port Muric for two hundred days, including across winter, until Minn Ro had replaced her in the final weeks. She had beaten back the sorties, kept the camp free of disease, ensured engineers stayed under budget, organised supply lines, conducted raids, dissuaded barbarism, and coordinated the half-dozen different mercenary groups that were working with the King’s army. But people didn’t throw you parades for effectively preventing the spread of dysentery, did they?

The cheering ended.

“Yes, yes,” King Aran said. “With our riders we have now a place upon the stage of the world, where before we were mere audience members to the play of history. Which is why, considering the overwhelming success of Port Muric, and by the power vested in me by the Moons and the Stars, I am declaring the establishment of a Fourth Wing of dragon riders!”

Cheers.

“Four new riders!”

More cheers.

“Four new dragons, ambitious and with a drive for adventure.” King Aran gestured into the air. “True warriors, handpicked by Ikki of the Seemly White.”

The cheering continued.

“And four hundred thousand shillings in additional funding for the entire order of riders! More support! Better equipment! The best trainers from across the world! All this, for our future rides on the backs of dragons!” The King stood again, pumping his hands into the air.

The crowd stamped their feet and cheered and cried. Shouts of “Minn! Minn!” and “King Aran!” and “Glory to Vanris! Glory to its king!”

The King stepped back. No. Not stepped. Stumbled. He stumbled back and fell into his seat.

Laared frowned. Something was wrong.

The King coughed. Once, twice, then it devolved into a dry and raspy fit. The King doubled over, clutching the armrests of his throne with white knuckles.

The cheering died down over a few confused seconds.

The herald, who had been standing behind the throne, leapt forward and took the King by the shoulders, whispering something. Laared started pushing his way to the front of the crowd. Around him, people murmured.

“A doctor!” the herald looked up. “We need a doctor!”

A wave of murmurs.

“Here!” A young man raised his hand, shifting forward through the crowd.

“I’ll handle it!” called Magus Stormshepard. The magus, already near the front of the crowd, shuffled intently toward the King, who had continued coughing and was turning bright red in the face.

“Out of my way, boy.” Stormshepard brushed the herald aside and grabbed the King’s hands, holding them in place around his staff. He closed his eyes, muttered some words, and sparks danced up and down the staff. He opened his eyes and frowned. “Huh.”

The King fell forward. Stormshepard tried to catch him, but the weight was too much and the King fell onto the floor.

The doctor emerged from the crowd and dashed toward the King, pulling several small vials out of a pouch. He knelt next to Stormshepard and, uncorking the vials, tipped them down the King’s throat.

By this time, Laared had reached the front of the crowd and stepped out onto the dais. Stormshepard glanced up at him, his frown deepening.

The doctor put his ear over the King’s mouth and held it there for a long few seconds.

The hall was silent.

The doctor shook his head.

Stormshepard shoved the doctor aside with a snarl and placed his own ear over the King’s mouth. Slowly, Laared turned toward the audience. Dozens of faces stared back at him, a rainbow of shock and disbelief, confusion, and barely contained panic. Vanna scowled at him, arms crossed. General Pamra shook her head in an almost disappointed manner. Minn Ro had his hand on his sword, his gaze fixed out the window, a muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. Supreme Mother Loretta whispered something to one of her attendant priestesses.

Stormshepard stood, supporting himself on cracking knees with his staff. He looked at Laared and shook his head. “The King is dead.” He cleared his throat, turning toward the audience and standing tall. “The King is dead!”