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Book Excerpt
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The Golden Cord
Book One of the Iron Dragon Series
By Paul Genesse
Prologue
Don’t look back.
Drake fought the urge to leave the trail and hide in the tangled undergrowth of the Thornclaw Forest. He knew the predator was behind him, thanks to the second shrill warning call of a surikat. The ferretlike animal’s alarm cry echoed in the forest, leaving no doubt that he was being hunted.
Don't let them see your fear, Drake marched a step closer to his father and the party of eight veteran hunters bound for the mountains. He clung to the faint hope that the early morning darkness would hide them. It was a griffon. It had to be, following this close on their heels. Even though one of the eagle-headed demons could tear him apart in an instant, he kept telling himself it didn’t matter that he was last in line. As the youngest—only fifteen winters old—his people’s customs placed him in the back, where his courage would be tested.
The surikat’s ululating alarm call faded and Drake held his breath as an unnatural silence spread across the forest. All he heard were the hunters’ vrelkskin boots on the moss-covered path.
Another piercing cry erupted behind them. His father, Tyler Bloodstone, whirled and stood motionless. The bushy tail of a surikat vanished into the tangled canopy of thorny branches and serrated leaves. Drake scanned the ironbark trees, but saw nothing. He turned to look into his father’s dark brown eyes, so much like his own, and made a questioning hand-sign. Tyler’s eyebrows scrunched together. “We’re being followed.” Tyler’s confirming whisper made the hair on Drake’s neck needle into his skin.
His father whistled a short and sharp signal. The hunters turned stern faces toward him as he relayed the information with rapid hand-signals. His cousin Rigg, Uncle Sandon, and the other men took Tyler’s cue and walked faster. Their hurried steps on the curdle-moss covered trail released a caustic odor that burned Drake’s nostrils and filled his mouth with the taste of sour milk. His undesirable position at the end of the line guaranteed he would endure the strongest vapors.
Switching his empty crossbow from hand to hand, Drake fought the urge to bend back the thick cord with his iron crank-lever and nock a broadhead bolt. It took all his willpower not to break tradition and cock his weapon. He wanted to ask his father for permission, but Drake shook his head. Such a foolish question wouldn’t be tolerated. He’d be told what to do and when to do it. For reassurance, Drake gripped the handle of his forward curved Kierka knife sheathed on his hip. He glanced backwards, his mind racing as he thought about what kind of creature could have landed to hunt them. Few wingless beasts would pursue ten men. It had to be an aevian; probably a griffin or wyvern. Please not a dragon.
Swallowing the sour taste of fear mixed with curdle-moss, Drake knew if he fell behind the monster would strike. He matched the older men stride for stride, almost bumping into his father when the hunters slowed their fast-march at a wide cleft in the trees. Drake focused on the predawn sky above. It was large enough to prove fatal if an aevian was circling, waiting in ambush. Perhaps they were being herded to the forest window where a flight of cunning griffins waited to pounce.
None of the hunters spoke as they crossed the open space. Ten pairs of eyes searched for the slightest sign of danger. Drake held the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder, aiming his unloaded weapon upwards and wishing it held a sleek broadhead or a stout, steel-tipped war bolt. Empty, it was an ineffective wooden club.
Drake’s father ducked under a branch crossing the trail without turning his eyes from above. The young man tried to imitate his father’s expert movements, but grabbed a tree limb to steady himself. Before he realized his mistake, a long thorn pierced his left palm. Muffling a curse, he pulled away as the pain spread across his hand. It would have been unforgivable for Drake to cry out under the opening, but having a bleeding hand was worse. Griffins loved human flesh and could smell blood on the wind. He might as well have lit a torch and screamed. He sucked on his bleeding palm, tasting the bitter poison, which would burn for at least an hour and leave another tiny scar. Thornclaws always left their mark, and the namesake plant of the dark forest was fond of his flesh.
The trilling song of a staerling as it flew off made his father glance back. Drake concealed his discomfort and hoped his father couldn’t see the blood oozing from his hand. It was only a tiny wound and the curdle-moss would mask his scent from the griffin. He hoped.
Drake stifled a gasp. The griffin will smell my blood on the thornclaw vine! The aevian demon would do anything to eat his flesh once it picked up his trail. It would never stop hunting him. His heart sank into the rising acid pool in his stomach.
Even if he lived through the day, Drake feared this would be the first and last mountain hunt his father would ever take him on. He’d be stuck in Cliffton, trapped in the village. He’d never climb the slopes of the Wind Walker Mountains, visit his cousin Rigg’s home in Armstead, or explore the famed Red Canyon his grandfather had spoken about so often.
A hard glance from his father chilled Drake’s blood. He had opened his mouth to admit his mistake and whisper a warning about the blood on the vine, but his father’s frown struck him silent. Tyler squinted his left eye and tightened his jaw. He’d seen that look a lot, ever since Roan Graywood had been killed by a griffin three months ago. Since that day the Bloodstone household had been a very troubled place.
Drake’s skin bristled with a pulse of warning he couldn’t shake off as he considered his father’s familiar expression. He couldn’t escape the feeling of something creeping up behind him in the darkness—something he desperately didn’t want to face.
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