Chapter 6 - The Warden of the Ridge
The rider collapsed sideways, his boots catching in the stirrups as his lifeless weight spooked the wyvern. The beast hissed in sudden panic, thrashing its barbed tail and snapping blindly before turning tail and bounding through the dense undergrowth, dragging its master’s dead body behind it.
Lyra collapsed onto the wet moss, trembling so hard her teeth clicked together like dice.
From the branches above dropped a figure cloaked in gray linen and scarred leather, landing as silently as a fallen leaf. He was tall, with silver streaks running through a tangled black beard, and one eye covered by a hardened leather patch. In his hand was a recurve bow made of polished horn and dragon-sinew.
He did not look at Lyra. His sole, piercing gray eye was fixed entirely on the bulge in her tunic.
“You have your mother’s stubbornness,” the man said, his voice like grinding millstones. “And your father’s cursed talent for inviting catastrophe.”
“Who are you?” Lyra choked out, scrambling back until her spine pressed into the damp bark of the tree. Zephyr poked his head out, his small nostrils flaring as he sniffed the stranger, remarkably without baring his fangs.
“I am Bran,” the man replied, lowering his bow. “I was Captain of your father’s Vanguard before Ronald poisoned him and turned the dragons into weapons of conquest. I swore an oath to watch the child of Queen Elene, should she ever escape the cage.”
May you like
He stepped forward, extending a calloused, leather-gloved hand. “We must keep moving. The rider’s mount will return to the hunt-pack within the hour. If we are caught in the open when the sun breaks over the ridges, even the trees will not hide us.”
Before Lyra could take his hand, a dull, reverberating tremor rolled beneath the forest floor—a seismic pulse that made the birds abandon the treetops in frantic flocks.
