Getting a dire warning from Jarl Jorg tokeep our noses down, and fly straightin our hunt.
I know the Jarl’s words are wise, as Bjorn, Ström, and I make ready to fly this morning. We’ve got supplies, food, clothing for various purposes, and motorcycle leathers stashed in our silver silk fly-bags. Not only that, but we’ve got a magical lockbox full of all our arcane items and scrolls from the altar, as we may need to have Mikkel and Lærke Thorsen take a direct look at them once we find them.
We’ve also got a few more nice Ducati motorcycles from the Old Palace that we’ll need when we get to Denmark. Copenhagen is a flying-controlled city; no one gets permission to shift and fly over their airspace without addressing the Jarl of Copenhagen.
That Jarl is not exactly friendly with Ström’s family, Bjorn’s, or even my uncle, the King. We won’t be in enemy territory, but Danish Blood Dragons are unpredictable in the extreme and like to make grisly shows of things whenever possible.
Danish Blood Dragons are ruthless, cagey, and wicked in battle. They don’t like us Swedes on principle, citing us as far too thoughtful and level-headed, and less prone to go Berserk in a fight, though we do that plenty.
The Danes aren’t big, strong dragons, but they make up for it with the nasty tricks they engage during a fight, and the piles of wealth they like to hoard. They’re showy, flashy, vicious, and two-faced.
Very much like Mikkel himself, I think now as Bjorn, Ström, and I finish shucking the last of our clothing in our bags, standing naked in the sunshine atop the flying plaza.
We shift up, and my dragon’s mind takes over, just enjoying the beautiful sunny day. Still, I’m contemplative as we fly; I can feel Bjorn and Ström churning also, as we wing and dive upon the steady wind as our dragons, heading down the coast towards Uppsala.
None of us have been back to Riksfold since our family members werekilled in that infamous battle against the Ice Dragons over sixty years ago. The Ice Dragons wanted to make a run on Stockholm to oust my uncle, King Huttr Erdhelm, from his throne, before he even knew what was happening.
Riksfold is a nothing town near Uppsala, but it was the chosen landing spot for the Ice Dragons when they tried to seize Uppsala and make it their stronghold to annex Stockholm. It was a bitter battle; the rolling hills and fields with their dotted pine forests were soaked in blood from the thousands that perished there, on both sides.
King Huttr’s swift action turned back the Ice Dragon invasion, barely. But it started a new war with them, the most recent Blood-Ice War—that would last until just seven years ago, when my uncle finally negotiated a truce with their new king.
We fly down the coast now, playing in the stiff wind as we roll and dive to clear our thoughts. The ocean air is fresh as we glorify in being alive; at last, we angle inland towards our destination.
It takes no time at all to reach Uppsala, with how fast Blood Dragons can fly. As we see many Blood Dragons winging and diving around the ancient city, glorious with its modern cathedrals and ancient Viking buildings gleaming in the sun, we know it’s just a regular day for them. For us, however, it’s time to face the saddest part of our past, as we head east of the city and wing down.
To land in a wide meadow that has forgotten the blood of battle.
The vast fields of Riksfold are beautiful, burgeoning with spring flowers and blue flax as we touch down. It’s lovely, the birds singing and the sunshine bright. I could almost forget such a vicious, brutal battle once happened here, except that something dark lingers in this place.
Like an energy that was never cleansed after such vast death, no one has ever resettled the small village. Riksfold is a forgotten town now, standing nearby with only overgrown stone foundations to mark its passage, everything else destroyed in battle.
It’s impossible to tell what was once what, as Ström, Bjorn, and I makeour way over to those foundations now. Maybe a house, perhaps a barn or a smithy, the tumbled stones and foundations and the occasional chimney with an intact fireplace tell only the loss of the place that was once a bustling town.
Poorly defended, a hunting and crop-growing area near Uppsala, it was the perfect spot for the Ice Dragons to land their army, close enough to take Uppsala and eventually make it their stronghold. But King Huttr got word of the decimation that was done here to the villagers when the Ice Dragon horde arrived.
He knew a bigger plan was coming—and threw everything we had at it to stop it in its tracks.
All the clans sent their best warriors to Riksfold. It was a huge battle; I look around now, still seeing dragon bones poking up through the flowers, peat moss, and dirt, though most of the dead were reclaimed by their families and sent out to proper burials at sea.
It’s mostly Ice Dragon bones that lay here now; massive trenches were dug for the dead, and piles of them were set alight to burn, the bones scattered afterwards. It’s an abattoir now, the feeling of death laying heavy in this place, despite the bright sunshine, the dappled spring flowers, and birdsong.
I feel it in my bones as I ache, cold to my marrow. I know with my deepest instinct there’s Bone Magic here—as the black dragon inside me wakes, lifting its ferocious mantle to get a good whiff.
“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” Ström asks me as we share a glance.
“Bone Magic,” I say, knowing exactly what he’s means. “This place feels like a mound for the dead, but what I’m picking up here goes deeper than that. This place feels likeUnhaemmerten: a site of the dead that seethes with ancient Bone Magic.”
“Trublut said Maryse picked up on some massive blast of Bone Magic that opened the battle, decimating the town,” Bjorn says now as he watches me and Ström. “Is that what you’re both feeling?”
“It’s likely.” Ström scuffs his boot through the dirt now and it snags on a bone poking up through the tall grass. As he inhales, I feel him spread his Bone Magic wide, a dark violet blood-aura simmering through the air with flashes of green and red.
“I feel Bone Magic all over the place here.” Ström evaluates this spot. He narrows his eyes on the foundations of the town nearby. “I don’t even want to go in there, the signature of it is so strong. Like a bomb. Probably what Maryse felt, as well.”
As I narrow my eyes on the town, opening my own Bone Magic more, I see the ancient remnants of violet-black and crimson sigils all over those foundations. I whistle and Ström nods, as if seeing it all with me.
“What are you seeing?” Bjorn asks me now, not opening our connections to get the information from our minds, though I feel how much he’s tempted.
“Remnants of extensive Bone Magic cursing.” I watch those ancient Bloodrunes shimmer like ghosts in the sun. “It’s not exactly like those we saw from the Black Dragon, but close to it. It was probably the same group of Bone Mages who blasted that thing out of its resting place who opened this battle. The cursing here looks damn similar to a few of the Bloodrunes we saw on that Outer Island. Probably the ones from our enemy Bones Mages, which broke the Black Dragon out of its hole.”
