Wild Watchtower: Shield & Claw Book One

Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Fort Called Home

Once we updated my siblings on the situation with Mother and Father, I sent Taibh and Ion to arrange for two more couriers to join me in what had been Father's study. I entered the room alone, though, my throat tight with the understanding that my sire would never again walk through the heavy oak door to make his way behind his desk.

The study sat just off the library, still filled with Láidir Túrfaire's most prized books and maps, and all the ledgers needed to keep track of income, outgoings, agreements, and Cuannagealán's legislature. It smelled of leather and parchment, and of him, and I wondered with burgeoning sorrow how long it would take for his scent to disappear entirely. As long as it remained it would be a reminder of what we'd lost, and maybe of what I'd be forced to do.

Please, Mama. Don't make me need to take his head...

I felt out of place as I lowered myself onto the stiff leather of the chair which stood behind his vast oak writing desk. I felt like the young cub I'd once been, a cub who used to sneak into that room, climb onto that chair, and try to imagine what it would be like to be alpha and Warden of the Western Ports. It had daunted me then and it daunted me now.

Would it ever seem less overwhelming? And if I adjusted to the power and the duty, what did that say about me? That I was doing my duty well? Or that I had lost perspective of the weight I had to shoulder, of all the lives I could make better or worse with a simple decree?

I didn't know.

Stroking the spines of the leather-bound tomes on the bookcase, I noted that many were cracked with age or use. Father had been so strong - a fierce hunter, a fearless leader, a dominant male - yet he'd also loved to read and believed in education. I could remember him reading to Mother, and to my siblings, and that made me smile even as my heart broke. I would read to my younger siblings because he couldn't. They deserved that much.

Turning from the books, I tugged open the draw of his desk, pulling out sheets of writing paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink. Then I penned the first of two letters, two copies of it, containing my plea to the dragon riders.

Lady Dewyn Tymestl,

Protectress of the Northern Mountains, First Rider of the Dragon Lords, and Guardian of the Crucible,

It is with a heavy heart and much sorrow that I write to you in our hour of need. The day we have all long feared has come to pass, and I must report that my father, Lord Láidir Túrfaire, has fallen in battle against a fleet of warships sent forth by the shadow elves of Tírcoras. In the wake of his death, I, Lord Cróga Túrfaire, have taken command of the first watchtower, Cuannagealán, and our naval fleet. However, this will not be enough to defend our shores, especially as the north now faces an assault on two fronts.

It has come to my attention that the dwarves of Stanholl slaughtered the Cosantóirí Pack of Calafort Scoite to prevent them lighting their beacon. A stroke of good fortune ensured my sister, Lady Fiáin Túrfaire, reached the beacon and found the scene of the massacre. She chose to light the beacon herself, at great personal risk.

In the days that followed, Fiáin also discovered that one of our couriers, hired previously to relate to you the petition included herein, had been murdered by dwarven patrols now stalking the northern highway. My sister intended to come to you herself to deliver the lost warning and make my request, but she has been waylaid on her journey and may no longer be in the position to do so. Therefore, I have been forced to entrust this missive to the hands of another rider, to issue this plea; I humbly request the assistance of a regiment of dragons and riders to help prevent invasion from the west, and I wish to warn you that you may need to prepare to defend the border south of the Sléibhte Dragan.