Marcus Stoneguard's Arc

Chapter 7 of 10

The dragon's shadow spilled below the wall like spilled ink. It pooled on the bare stone, then climbed. Marcus watched it rise toward Tress's feet. Her stone claws swung down and passed straight through. The shadow did not tear. It only bent and closed again, reaching higher. Marcus struck it himself. His fist met nothing. The dark simply flowed around his knuckles and kept climbing. He could not cut a shadow with stone. He had built an army that could not touch the thing coming for their feet. "You waste your arms." The voice came from above. A small gargoyle dropped onto the parapet, a crown of dull gold on his brow, a red scarf loose at his neck. His eyes burned like the dragon's, but colder. Marcus knew him by the way the eastern sentries went still. Malthor Stonewing. The king who wore the last dragon on his shoulder. Marcus had woken his soldiers without asking. "You strip his shadow with light or you strip it with root," Malthor said. "Not fists." "There's no light strong enough," Marcus said. "And I fed the vines to my gargoyles." Malthor looked down at the bare wall. His jaw set. "You ate the wall's roots." "To wake your soldiers." "My soldiers." Malthor said it flat, then let it drop. Aldric Hornkeeper climbed up beside them, horn in hand. He had been the one to wake the eastern twelve. He studied the pooling shadow and spoke plain. "Sound moved through the seam before. Maybe it moves through this." "A note won't cut smoke," Marcus said. "No," Aldric said. "But the dragon below hears it. Watch." He raised the horn and blew. One long note rolled down the bare stone. Below the wall, the true dragon flinched. Its head jerked toward the sound. And the shadow at Tress's feet thinned. It thinned because the dragon was looking away from it. Marcus understood then. The shadow was not a separate creature. It was the dragon's attention, poured out like a hand. Break the attention and the hand went slack. "Again," Marcus said. "Keep it looking at you." Aldric blew. Malthor spread his wings and dropped off the wall, diving at the dragon's face. The dragon roared and snapped upward. The shadow below let go of the stone entirely and rushed to defend its master. For one breath, the wall's feet were clean. "Now," Malthor called from the air. "While it's blind to you. Take its grip." The gargoyles could not cut shadow. But they could cut claws. Sixteen stone arms came down on the dragon's real fingers where they clutched the bare wall. Mortar cracked. The dragon screamed and fell, tearing loose, dropping back down the hill. Silence. Marcus stood over the empty stone. He had learned the trick at last. But Malthor landed beside him, folded his wings, and stared at the ruined mortar where the vines had been. "You hold my wall," Malthor said. "On roots you already ate. It won't hold twice."