Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

G rabon circled high in the air, studying the Western Isles far below. In some ways they reminded him of the planet of his birth - a number of small islands clustered together in an open sea. Fortunately, since those were not happy memories, the differences were equally apparent. The islands of his home planet were harsh and craggy, more rock than vegetation, and set in a grey and often turbulent sea. The Western Isles were softer, lush with flowering plants and surrounded by the warm, lavender seas of Farlain.

He banked and turned, his wings beating in a slow, powerful rhythm. The scent of flowers reached him as he dropped lower and he breathed in deeply, letting the cool, crisp air fill his lungs.

From up here, all seemed peaceful and serene. The islands were primarily inhabited by the Elvar, a small child-like race native to the Western Isles, and they were going about their daily business, oblivious to his watchful gaze. Fishing boats dotted the sea, and the sound of laughter and music drifted up as well.

As he flew over a small village, he spotted a group of children playing on the beach, their laughter and shouts carried away by the wind. For a moment, a pang of longing flickered through him but he quickly pushed it away. He'd given up on ever finding a mate, dedicating himself to his duty instead, and at the moment his duty meant investigating Lord Dekell, the Farlain lord in charge of the islands.

He pulled a small, holographic map from his utility belt, the device springing to life with a soft hum and projecting a three-dimensional image of the Western Isles. He frowned as he pinpointed the location of the Farlain noble's stronghold. They had received a brief, garbled distress call not long after Cronan, the new king of Farlain, had taken the throne. There had been no further communication since then, but that was not unusual - the composition of the islands tended to interfere with the primitive communication devices that were all the previous king had permitted.

A ship was on its way to render aid if necessary, but the journey would take at least a week and he'd promised Cronan that he would fly ahead and investigate. He would render aid if necessary, but Dekell's loyalties were uncertain and he intended to gather information first, without arousing Dekell's suspicions.

His wings beat steadily, carrying him closer to his destination. The stronghold loomed in the distance, a formidable structure of stone and steel perched atop a cliff overlooking the sea. The structure reminded him even more of his home planet and the fortified stone castles of his childhood.

He'd left Dhalgroll at seventeen. The ache of that departure still lingered, a dull pain he'd learned to ignore. He'd had no choice in the matter and he'd sought for something, anything, to fill the void it left within him. His path led him first to the gladiator pits, where he'd honed his combat skills and learned the true meaning of survival.

Once he'd bought his freedom, he'd joined Athtar, one of his fellow gladiators, on the ship Athtar had purchased with his winnings. It was during those years he'd discovered his aptitude for medicine. The juxtaposition of healing and harming fascinated him, and the ability to render aid soothed a part of him he'd thought long lost.

He'd found a home and a family of sorts on that ship. He'd been content enough - until Athtar had found his mate and the longing he'd buried for all those years clawed its way back to the surface. He'd suddenly realized how much he also longed for a mate. For a home and a family. When Athtar had decided to settle down, Grabon moved on, taking a series of short term security jobs while he searched - fruitlessly - for his mate.

One of those jobs had led him to Farlain. The previous king's guards had tried to attack him when he left the ship. They'd failed, but their brutality had driven him to investigate further and he'd discovered a society in the grip of a ruthless tyrant. He'd seen firsthand the devastation wrought by unchecked power, and it awakened something in him. When Cronan, Ullmat's illegitimate son, tried to restrain his father's excesses, his attempt had turned into a full scale rebellion and Grabon had been happy to fight at his side. For the first time, he found a cause worth fighting for beyond mere survival.

His loyalty to Cronan and his belief in the new king's vision had given him a new sense of purpose. But in quiet moments like this, soaring above an alien landscape that echoed his distant home, he couldn't ignore his underlying loneliness. The desire for a place to truly belong, for a mate to share his life with, gnawed at him, but he pushed it away again, concentrating on the fortress below.

As he descended, the stronghold below grew larger, its stone walls and towers a testament to the Farlain noble's wealth and power. He disregarded the architecture, focusing instead on the guards patrolling the perimeter. Too many guards , he thought, automatically tallying the numbers. Peaceful tropical islands didn't warrant such heavy security.

His jaw clenched, his tusks pressing against his lower lip. This wasn't right. There was no sign of any immediate danger, but Dekell was indeed gearing up for something. Additional armed personnel scurried about like disturbed insects, their movements were purposeful, urgent. It reeked of preparation and rebellion against the new king seemed the most likely explanation.

His wings beat silently, holding him steady as he surveyed the stronghold. The layout was straightforward, designed for functionality rather than aesthetics. He automatically picked out weak points in the defenses, possible entry points, and escape routes. He mapped the route of the patrols, noting the frequency and timing of their passes.

A direct confrontation would be reckless, even for a warrior of his skill. He needed stealth, a way to slip in undetected and gather concrete evidence of the noble's treachery.

His gaze fell on a secluded cove to the east of the stronghold. Dense foliage provided cover right up to the water's edge. It was a start, but getting from there to the fortress undetected would be a challenge. A sudden, fierce grin split his face - he'd always loved a challenge.

His wings flexed as he banked away from the stronghold, not wanting to draw attention. He'd need to approach under cover of darkness. The thought of sneaking around didn't sit well with him – he preferred direct confrontation – but this was not the time for recklessness.

His wings folded tightly against his back as he touched down silently in the secluded cove, the dense foliage swallowing him whole. His grayish-blue skin blended seamlessly with the shadows, making him nearly invisible. He crouched low, his muscles tense and ready as he surveyed the area.

The soft lapping of waves against the shore would have masked any sound of his arrival. The air was heavy with the perfume from the flowering vines woven through the trees, underlaid by the scent of damp earth and saltwater. He inhaled deeply but found no indication that this area was patrolled by Farlain guards. Good.

He proceeded cautiously, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt. The familiar weight of the blade reassured him, a comforting presence as he moved deeper into the jungle, each step calculated and silent. His senses were on high alert, ears pricked for any sound out of place, eyes watching for any hint of movement.

The trees grew closer together here, the canopy overhead a thick, impenetrable ceiling, but his night vision was exceptionally good and his eyes adapted easily to the dim light as he made his way through the dense underbrush. The air was warm and damp, and his skin prickled with anticipation as he considered his options.

The Western Isles were relatively isolated, but if Dekell did decide to stage a rebellion against Cronan, it could spark a much larger conflict. Many of the nobles were unhappy with the change in the regime, especially those who had enjoyed Ulmat's favor. He had allowed them access to offworld luxuries and technology that were denied to everyone else. So far even those nobles were willing to give at least the appearance of compliance, but the wrong move could trigger an open conflict that might destroy the newly forged peace.

He frowned as he continued along the narrow trail. A pair of small, blue-furred creatures paused in their meal as he passed them, watching with small beady eyes before returning to their feast. What looked like a pile of rotting vegetation steamed slightly, indicating that something had recently died and become prey for the scavengers. The faint smell of decay reached his nostrils and he grimaced. The Western Isles might look peaceful and beautiful, but they held dangers as well.

Cronan had authorized him to do whatever was necessary to stop Dekell, including killing the traitor if required. The idea of assassination sat heavily on him though, a dark stain on his soul. But Cronan was counting on him, and Grabon never failed a mission.

The foliage thinned as he neared the edge of the woods and he paused to assess the terrain ahead. The path to the stronghold was exposed, the vegetation too low to conceal someone of his size. His jaw clenched. He'd faced worse odds before, but caution was the key to success. His goal was within reach, but he knew better than to rush. Patience had saved his life more times than he could count.

Deciding to wait until nightfall, he retreated back into the woods. He was halfway back to the cove when a heavy weight slammed down on him from above. His wings crumpled painfully against his back, tangled in the thick cords of a net that appeared out of nowhere. He hit the ground with a muffled thud, leaves and twigs crunching beneath his massive frame.

For a split second, his mind went blank with shock. How had he not sensed the ambush? His eyes darted around, searching for his attackers, but the dense foliage revealed nothing and he still couldn't detect any scents other than the natural scents of the forest. When he struggled, he net constricted around him, biting into his skin and pinning his arms to his sides.

His training kicked in, and he forced himself to remain still, to breathe slowly and silently. Panic would only make things worse. He flexed his muscles, testing the strength of the net. It appeared to be made from vines, but it was expertly woven and it held firm, the fibers digging deeper into his flesh with each movement. The forest seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as he strained his ears, listening for any sign of his captors. Nothing but the soft rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a bird reached him.

Anger bubbled up inside him, threatening to overwhelm his carefully cultivated discipline. He'd been careless, overconfident, and now he was trapped. The realization stung worse than the ropes cutting into his skin.

He'd failed Cronan, failed himself. Years of experience, of honing his skills to razor-sharp perfection, and he'd been taken down by a simple net.