His heart wanted nothing more than to see Nadala again, but his mind was wracked with doubt. He was too late. If they'd already made it to the island, there would be fresh guards preventing his entrance. His earlier stunt of invading the island was one he doubted he could duplicate. He'd caught the guards unaware, and surprised them with his speed. Now that they knew how fast and agile he was, they would take no chances, and simply overwhelm him with numbers.
His lungs burned. His shoulders felt as if the muscles were riddled with fish hooks, tearing deeper with each flap of his wings. The day was now long gone, and he found it difficult to judge his distance above the earth in the dark. Several times he'd been forced to pull upward as he discovered himself only a few feet above the treetops.
Ahead, he could see the glow of the foundries, still some miles distant. The air carried the faint trace of burning coal, which mingled with the more woodsy smoke of the hundreds of campfires dotting the landscape beneath him. Graxen grew curious. He knew that human gleaners lived near Dragon Forge, but were they truly so numerous? The campfires below spread across the hilly landscape for the better part of a mile. Was this some human festival he was unaware of?
Curiosity combined with his exhaustion finally drove Graxen to find a place to land. His keen eyes located the main road beneath him. His wings wobbled as he attempted to hold them steady. The ground came up faster than he'd anticipated and his hind-talons buckled as they slammed against the hard-packed earth. He tumbled tail over snout, skidding to a halt on ground worn bare by generations of travelers. He landed on his back, his wings spread limply to his sides.
Dragons didn't normally lie upon their backs, but Graxen found the position unexpectedly comfortable. He stared up into the stars, which twinkled softly behind the haze of smoke. Rocks polished by countless footsteps pressed into his shoulders and hips, but this discomfort was outweighed by the relief of absolute surrender to gravity after a long day in the air. He felt as if it would be a welcome sensation simply to sink deeper into the earth.
He closed his eyes, feeling lost and alone. What was he doing out here in the darkness, pushing himself beyond all safety and sanity on such a hopeless mission?
"Nadala," he whispered. "Where are you?"
He listened to the night, as if expecting a reply.
There was a crunching sound from the nearby brush. Someone was moving. Several someones. Humans? They sounded like human males as they spoke in soft hisses. Graxen could only catch ever other word: Dead? Fell. Spy? Kill?
Realizing there was the very real possibility that he was the subject of their conversation, Graxen opened his eyes. Why would gleaners be worried about anyone spying on them? Was there some especially valuable chunk of rust left unclaimed this close to Dragon Forge?
Graxen rolled over, his body stiff and protesting. He tried to rise, and found sudden motivation as the nearby whispers turned to shouts.
"Get him!" a man commanded. Footsteps slapped against the ground all around him. In the darkness, Graxen counted two-three-four-five shadows rushing toward him.
Graxen instinctively whipped his tail toward the men. The gambit worked, tripping the man who led the charging quintet. The second human stumbled over the first, dropping a jagged sword as he fell. The third man leapt over his brothers, looking quite athletic and heroic as he sailed though the air, brandishing a pitchfork overhead, preparing to drive the sharp prongs into Graxen's brain.
Graxen jumped forward, leaning toward the man, allowing the pitchfork to pass over his head. The prongs scraped along the scales of his back as he sank his teeth into the man's stomach. The man gave a gurgling howl as Graxen pushed him aside in time to see his fourth assailant swinging a club in a swift arc toward his snout. Graxen jerked backward, the wind from the blow filling his nostrils. He jumped up and flapped his wings, kicking out with his hind-claws, tearing a long and messy strip of flesh from the clubber's rib cage.
The fifth man never reached him, wheeling in the space of a single step to dart back toward the woods shouting, "Spy! A blue one! We need bows!"
The two humans he had tripped were almost back on their feet, though one was still unarmed. Graxen skipped backwards, getting clear, before tilting his head up and jumping toward the stars. He wanted to be well out of range before the archers were ready. The adrenaline that surged through him from the brief stint of combat proved a perfect remedy for his exhaustion.
A blue one? thought Graxen, climbing higher. In the dark, all sky-dragons must look alike. He took a deep breath, the oxygen clearing his mind and renewing his spirit. He decided on a new destination. He would no longer try to reach the Nest. But he would find the abandoned tower and rest for the night. When morning came, he would write Nadala her letter.
The night turned crisp and cold by the time he located the tower. The structure wasn't terribly imposing: four vine-draped walls of ancient red brick, perhaps forty feet high. Back at the palace there were single rooms in which this "tower" could have fit. The walls looked as if a hard wind could topple them. Graxen picked the most solid-looking point on the walls and glided to a landing. His muscles had stopped burning-they'd stopped feeling anything at all. He was numb with weariness.
The tower was built on a square floor plan, about half as wide as it was tall. The roof of the structure had long since caved in. Peering down, he could see in the tangled darkness faint hints of what had once been stairs and wooden floors long succumbed to rot. Dim light seeped through windows lined with jagged shards of glass. Graxen guessed the tower was the handiwork of humans, but what purpose the building had served he couldn't deduce. The landscape surrounding the structure was nothing but wilderness. It was as if the building had wandered off from a more developed setting and gone feral.
As Nadala had described, at the southwestern corner of the building a single stone gargoyle was perched, staring down at the weeds below. Its jaws were opened to reveal lichen-covered fangs, with just enough of a gap between them to allow a folded note to be tucked into the mouth where it would be protected from the elements.
The gargoyle looked like large cat with a mane, with wings sprouting from its back in a way that made no sense to Graxen. Did this sculpture depict an actual animal? Sky-dragons usually engaged in representational art, depicting creatures and events found in reality. It seemed unsettling to think that someone had deliberately carved an animal that so obviously had no place in the physical world. What kind of mind would be moved to construct such an impractical hybrid?
However, the longer he studied the sculpture, the more he felt a sense that it wasn't so alien after all. This thing should not have existed; it was the product of unknown creators that had long since abandoned it to a world that cared nothing of its existence. Graxen placed a fore-talon on the creature's stony mane, suddenly feeling a sense of kinship.
He reached into his satchel and produced a small bound book. Like most biologians, he never traveled without a notebook. He opened it, seeking a sheet of fresh parchment. He produced a jar of ink and a quill made from one of his own feather scales and used the gargoyle's back to form an impromptu desk.
He uncapped the ink, releasing the pleasing aroma of walnut and vinegar. He dipped the quill into the jar, and then placed the tip against the parchment.
He stood there without moving a muscle, the seconds passing into minutes, the minutes building into what must surely have been an hour, unable to scribble the first letter. His mind became a maze that not even the simplest thought could navigate.