Page 82 of Soul of Fire

“Not yet. They should have checked in this morning, though. Hold on.”

Can you reach out to Tormund and Vidar?I asked Kindra, trying to mollify her with an additional bite of soup.I know you hate being my messenger, but they are overdue to check in.

Kindra rolled her eyes, but did so without complaint.

I sighed, dropping my face into my hands. I fucking hated being in charge. I felt like I had dragons out in every direction, and I kept forgetting where.

Kindra came flapping back into my mind a moment later with a panicked screech.They are gone!

What?

“What is it?” Something must have shown in my face, because Ingmar grabbed my shoulder.

I held up a hand, trying to focus on Kindra.Calm down and tell me.

Their thread is gone, she repeated with a roar. Jorgen and Branka exchanged a look, and I knew Kindra must have told their dragons as well.

Gone like Baldur’s?I asked. What were the chances of the exiles stumbling upon mistletoe in the middle of the Odemark?

Kindra shook her head.I know not.

Check on Asger now!If something had happened, I needed to warn Viggo’s reirhold. They were still three days away.

Safe. Ulla and Serrilda, too. It is just the old ones. They are all gone. None of their dragons come when I call.

“Gods above,” Ingmar sat back in their chair. “They’re dead? We lost a whole reirhold?”

“Not much of a loss if it’s just Tormund’s,” Jorgen muttered, earning a smack in the chest from Branka.

“All drage deaths are to be mourned,” I reminded him sharply. I was far more concerned for Viggo and Geir, who might now be flying into danger. “And we don’t know for sure they’re dead.”

“Call them back,” Ingmar insisted, thumping their flagon of ale on the table in emphasis. “Call all the drage back to Ironholm.”

“We don’t know–”

Ingmar cut me off with a look. “Tormund and Aegir were assholes, but they were seasoned warriors. If they are dead, then there is something coming, and we cannot face it without the full force of all the drage.”

I grit my teeth, indecision clawing at me.

“Call them back.” Ingmar’s eyes flashed a bright orange, and I knew they were right.

I nodded and relayed the order to Kindra.

“You should go back to Ironholm,” I told Ingmar. “Tonight, if you’re able. Help Serrilda keep control.”

They nodded, rising to their feet. “What about the rest of you?”

I looked to Jorgen, who gave me a hard shake of his head. Agreed, then.

“We need to get to Arik and Eisa.” I stood, and Kindra was too agitated even to lament that I hadn’t finished the soup. “Now.”

I had no sooner said the words when the door to the inn crashed open. Conversation in the dining room stopped as two human men appeared at the entrance. The elder was dressed as a warrior, though slightly more finely attired than the usual mercenaries who roamed these parts. The younger appeared to be a farmer, barely older than the boy we’d rescued when we found Eisa.

It was the younger who squeaked out a, “Help!” as both men collapsed to the floor.

Jorgen swore so colorfully, even I felt abashed by it. “Arne!”

“Arne?” I frowned as I helped the farm boy up from under the man’s—Arne’s—deadweight. “As in, Arik’s uncle?”