Daughter of Darkness by Terry Brooks

Author:Terry Brooks [Brooks, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Worlds
Published: 2022-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

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In less than half an hour we are in the air, winging our way out of the mountain valley the Dragons call home and east across the jagged peaks of the Skyscrape toward the broad shimmering surface of Roughlin Wake. Our pathway requires that we use an aero-wormhole: a kind of cloud break that skims through heavily fogged-over snatches of sky at extra-quick speed, just as the earthbound wormholes do on ground—shortening our flight and getting us more quickly to where we wish to go. I had no idea such shortcuts existed in the broad expanses overhead, and I don’t pretend even now to understand how this is possible or how you find such loopholes in flight. But they do exist, and I am more than happy to be using one on this occasion, because our flight is smooth and untroubled by winds, and Antrim’s body sways slowly and easily as his great wings sweep the air. Riva and I are positioned well forward of those wings, astride the Dragon’s neck, legs clamped tightly and gloved hands gripping leathery hide beneath scales that can be elevated at the juncture of neck and body. The girth of the Dragon’s body is immense, but the scales help secure us and give me a welcome sense of ease.

It feels odd at first, but after a while I grow comfortable with it. The trick seems to be not to panic and lose your grip. Even so, Riva sits behind me and keeps one hand fastened tightly about my waist, holding me in place. The minutes pass, and then the cloud break ends and we are out over the Roughlin.

The sun has set while we were in the wormhole and it is almost fully dark now. I watch the mostly shadowed and heavily forested land unfurl beneath us under the light of the waxing moon, then that, too, sets and the darkness is more complete. At regular intervals, Riva asks if I am all right, and I assure her I am. We have found a calm and quiet night on which to fly, and my reservations have vanished. I look down at the waters below, and ahead to where the distant lights along the shores of the wastelands—sporadic and dim—twinkle softly. It turns out that flying makes me feel euphoric—enough that I almost forget my fear over Harrow. But only almost.

We fly for what seems like hours, and then the lights of Harbor’s End come into view.

“Can you find a place to land north of the city?” I call out to Antrim.

A nod of his head, and he swings slightly in that direction. I judge that we will be there in only minutes.

Until the airplanes fly into view—three of them coming in formation, Ministry jets with distinctive swept-back wings that immediately identify them. Radar, I think, remembering the Ministry technology that all such airplanes carry, and I am instantly gripped by fear. Nothing can avoid radar detection, and Antrim is a very large flying object indeed.

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