World's End

By Becca Lusher

Aquila lies broken, but the Rift Riders are victorious. They have their home back and the kaz-naghkt have been almost wiped out. But not quite. Yullik ses-Khennik has escaped, and he did not go alone. Not only are there a handful of kaz-naghkt left to threaten the Overworld, but Lady Mhysra Kilpapan has been taken. And her friends will do anything to get her back.

With Cumulo and Lyrai in the lead, a small band of Rift Riders will journey into the west for the final showdown bringing Riders, dragons and Yullik together one last time. World’s End is waiting and the fate of the Overworld hangs in the balance. Who will win and who will die?

The final Wingborn adventure has begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becca Lusher
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781310641855

Becca Lusher

Having an overactive imagination hasn’t always been a good thing: I spent much of my childhood scared of the dark and terrified by the stories my older sister told me (mostly to stop her being the only one afraid of the dark). These days I find it useful. I love stories, I love fantasy, I love things with wings, stars and the world around me, and I have great fun combining them all into my stories.Born in the UK, I live in the wild south-west where I run around with my dogs and get bossed about by cats, while taking photos of gorgeous landscapes, reading lots of books and climbing rocks.I’ve also been known to write stories.

Book preview

WORLD’S END

The WINGBORN series Book 6

BECCA LUSHER

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Becca Lusher 2020

Cover design and images Copyright © Becca Lusher

Except: Wing Vector Copyright © Silverrose111/Fotolia

Smashwords Edition

1st Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Or at least leave a review on your favourite retailer or reviewing website.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

WORLD’S END

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Character List

Overworld Terms

Aftermath

Misfits of Aquila

Dragonlands Series

About the Author

~ ~ ~

For you all.

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

Fly fast, fly high, fly free.

~ ~ ~

Prologue

Restenfell

14th Sun Month, 788 Cloud Era

THERE WAS SO much blood. Yullik stepped over the shattered remains of the door, feet crunching over charcoal, claws raking through ash. He had no words. He was hollow inside as he stared at the wreckage of what had once been his home.

Black blood covered the walls. Bodies littered the floor. Smoke still hung in the air.

His kaz-naghkt had been slaughtered.

For two hundred years he’d lived in these mountains, hiding, grieving, plotting and planning, brooding on his fate and nursing his hatred. For two hundred years he had been safe. No one had known where he was. No one had dared to look for him. He had been feared and reviled, and he’d liked it. His kaz-naghkt had terrorised the Overworld, made enemies of the mighty Rift Riders and finally brought them low.

Now this.

Yullik walked through the ruins of his mountain fortress, carved straight from the rock, buried beneath tonnes of ice, snow and stone. No one had known it was here. No one except him. No human had ever found it. No human had even tried.

Bones cracked under his feet as he turned in a slow circle, taking in the death and destruction, the unmistakable signs of fire and magic.

For two hundred years he’d fought against the Overworld. For two hundred years he’d punished them for his existence. And he’d been wrong.

It wasn’t humans who deserved his hatred –it was dragons.

Clenching his fists until his claws dug into his palms and made them bleed, Yullik closed his eyes and breathed in deep, feeling the fire of his power rise within him, filling the hollow spaces, making him burn. The old rage ignited, but this time it was the dragons who would pay.

Claws clicked as his escort landed outside. He opened his eyes to a world washed in gold and stared at the unconscious Rider lying limp in his kaz-naghkt’s arms.

Yullik smiled and lifted the woman into his own. Come, little Wingborn, he crooned. We have work to do.

One

Defiance

Restenfell

4th Fledgling

MHYSRA STOOD ON the edge of the world. The land sheered off directly before her feet, plunging hundreds of feet into the white blanket below. The Cloud Sea stretched endlessly before her; the Curse that had formed the Overworld.

It wasn’t an unusual view. There were places in every land where you could stand somewhere high and look out over an expanse of clouds that seemed to stretch forever. The Overworld was like that, made up of mountainous islands adrift in a white, white sea.

Yet this felt different; higher, colder, lonelier. The edge before her didn’t just fall away, it sliced, as if some long-ago god had chopped the land off with an axe, leaving behind a clean, perfect edge. One that was black and glistening, still sharp despite centuries of dampening weather. Rivers of red ran through the black, like the veins of a slumbering stone dragon.

It made her shiver. Mhysra rubbed her arms and glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no comfort there. More black rock shot through with red, just as sharp and gleaming, but jagged too. Vicious spires clawed at the sky, ripping fresh clouds above to mirror the ones below. Somewhere far away the sun must have been rising, because the clouds overhead were blood red, as if the sky itself was bleeding.

Mhysra stood in shadow and shivered again, turning her eyes away from the disturbing images. She looked over the Cloud Sea and wondered what was out there. Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. It was hard to know, because even though such a view was common across the Overworld, Mhysra had no doubt where she was.

World’s End.

These mountains were infamous, and though she’d never set foot upon them, she couldn’t mistake them now.

"Have you ever wondered what else is out there?" a voice mused from her left.

Surprised to hear her thoughts echoed aloud, Mhysra tilted her head. The man was the same height as she was, his skin a shade darker and more bronze than her own earthy brown, his hair as black as hers but without any hint of curl. His features were sharp, his smile warm and his eyes… his eyes were gold.

"Beneath the clouds, I mean, he continued. Have you ever wondered what lies in the world below?"

Fear washed over her. Her heart sped up and sweat broke out across her forehead. Ice filled her chest until it became hard to breathe. She looked into those eyes and every muscle in her body locked with terror.

"No? he asked mildly, turning away. I guess not. You’re too tied to this world. To the skies, the clouds and the flying winds."

Mhysra pulled heaving breaths into her lungs as though she had just run up the mountainside. The air was as cold and sharp as the rocks she stood on, but she welcomed the bite of pain inside her chest. It helped to break through her fear and clear her mind.

"Yullik," she whispered, remembering the name of the man beside her, who he was, what he was. What he had done. Yullik.

He smiled. Is there something you want to ask me, Lady Mhysra? Any requests you wish to make?

She shook her head, words building up inside her, gathering into a roar, a scream. Because there was nothing she wanted from him – except his death. Her chest heaved with the effort of holding it all back.

"No? He watched her, smiling. A pity. I had hoped we might become friends, you and I. One Wingborn to another."

Wingborn. The mystical bond formed between a human and a miryhl eagle when one was born as the other hatched. Twins in different forms. The word sent a flash of panic through her.

Cumulo. Where was Cumulo? What had he done with her Wingborn?

A warm hand rested against her back and Yullik chuckled smugly. Do you have a question for me now?

She spun to face him, hand rising, ready to strike. Don’t touch me!

Yullik tilted his head and clucked his tongue in disappointment. Well, if you won’t ask, perhaps you can answer mine? he murmured, taking a step towards her.

Mhysra stepped back, desperate to keep a safe distance between them.

Or not so safe, she realised, arms wheeling as her foot slipped off the edge of the cliff. Momentum carried her backwards and she teetered on the precipice, stretching her arms out to her enemy, pleading for salvation.

Yullik reached towards her, then stopped and smiled. You told me not to touch you.

He stepped back and she fell.

"Send my regards to the world below!"

MHYSRA WOKE WITH a gasp, heart thumping painfully in her chest. For a moment she listened to her panicked breaths pulling in and out through her gaping mouth, feeling as if she was still falling through so much nothing, waiting to hit something, to stop, to die.

There was no death. There was only pain. It swept in to replace her panic and left her weeping alone in the dark.

Aquila

NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. I forbid it, Myran, and that’s my final word on the matter. General Keipen leant on the desk and glared at the gathered officers to further reinforce his order. Under no circumstances will you send any of your Riders west on some fool’s errand to rescue a girl likely already dead. Or to destroy the pitiful remains of the kaz-naghkt. Which, may I remind you, is entirely the dragons’ problem. Let them deal with that, since they claim this Yullik person is why they are still here.

When the general looked at Lyrai to underline his point, Lyrai stared straight ahead, letting nothing of his thoughts show on his face. Showing the general exactly what he was thinking at that moment would not improve the situation. Especially as this display was aimed mostly at him.

You will stay here, gentlemen, – Keipen turned to where Myran was sitting behind the desk, with the newly-promoted Captain Imaino standing behind his shoulder – "and rebuild Aquila. Countess Kilpapan has sent word that three skyships are on their way from Nimbys, bringing builders and materials, with more to come from South Imercian, the Lowlands and even Sutherall.

The Wing Marshall is doing all he can to secure funds and assistance the Overworld over. It is your duty to oversee the work and get this citadel back into useable shape as swiftly as possible. Take care of the wounded and repair our home, Myran, nothing more. So few kaz-naghkt managed to escape the last battle that I doubt we will be troubled overmuch by them in the future. They are no longer your concern. Rebuild the bridge, shore up the towers and raise Aquila from her ruins. There is no worthier task that any Rider could perform.

Tapping his knuckles twice on the desk to seal his rousing words, the general nodded at the two captains, swept his eyes over the six lieutenants and stormed out of the room. The tramp of marching feet filled the corridor beyond as Keipen’s Riders fell in around him. Outside, their miryhls would be waiting to take them to the Sunchaser. Within the next bell, the skyship would depart for Nimbys, carrying the general, Captain Huro and their Rift Riders far away. All that would then remain at Aquila would be a raggedy collection of wounded and tired Riders and students, who barely formed a complete flight beneath Captain Myran’s command.

No, not captain anymore, dean. The walls of Aquila might still be broken, but the citadel had a dean again. One who would resurrect it to its former glory. Because no matter what happened, life went on, miryhls still flew and Riders needed to be trained. There was no better place on the Overworld for that than Aquila, so the sooner the citadel was running again, the better.

Lyrai had no arguments with that as he stared at the opposite wall, waiting for the tramp of Keipen’s entourage to fade away. He wanted to see the glory of Aquila restored as much as any Rider. He was willing to put his back into the effort, to haul stones and hammer nails wherever needed. Just not yet.

Not while Mhysra was missing and Yullik still lived. They had unfinished business in the west and he couldn’t rest until something was done about it.

Does he really believe it’s as easy as that? a deep voice rumbled as Archivist Reglian kin Thunderwing Clan Skystorm stepped in through the open door. Big and imposing even in his human form, it was easy to see why the general assumed the remaining kaz-naghkt was something the dragons could handle with ease. Especially when one realised Reglian was only the second-most powerful of their three large friends. That the surviving kaz-naghkt will simply return to their mountains and die? That they won’t breed and return just as strong and vicious as ever?

Lyrai blinked at the dragon’s words. Propped up against the wall beside him, Stirla gave an amused snort, while Imaino smiled behind the desk.

Myran rubbed a hand over his face, fingers tracing the new scar that had permanently altered the bridge of his nose, and sighed. When it comes to guessing the general’s thoughts, dragon, who can say? But he is right. I will not be sending any Riders west. I have few enough here as it is. I cannot spare so much as a flurry when I don’t even have a full flight. His orders, for once, will be easy to obey.

Lyrai’s shoulders slumped. He knew the truth of his former captain’s words, but couldn’t deny his disappointment. He’d planned to sneak away at the first opportunity anyway, but it would have been nice if he hadn’t been forced to. A nudge in the ribs from Stirla had him looking up again. Myran was staring at them.

Do you understand, lieutenants? the new dean said carefully, holding each of them in turn with his eyes. I will not send anyone west.

Lyrai’s head was still recovering from the hard knock it had taken two moons ago and thinking wasn’t as easy as it used to be. He frowned, wondering why Myran was repeating the obvious.

Stirla snapped to attention beside him. Aye, sir. We understand.

Lyrai’s head throbbed and he frowned, letting the words sink in.

Lyrai? Myran focused solely on him. Do you understand?

Rubbing his aching head, Lyrai nodded sullenly. Aye, sir. Even though he wasn’t sure he did. Myran wasn’t going to send him or anyone west. Disappointing but irrelevant since Lyrai was going whether he was sent or – Oh.

He blinked and raised his head, shoulders pulling back to full attention. I understand, sir.

Myran gave the faintest smile. Good.

And it was good. Very good. Myran hardly needed to be ordered not to send anyone west when he barely had any Riders at all. So few, in fact, that should a young lieutenant or two happen to slip away in the night with a handful of trusted Riders, he wouldn’t have anyone to spare to bring them back again.

Content that his youngest lieutenants finally understood the situation, Dean Myran turned to the dragon glowering in the doorway. Keipen made another good point. Yullik is yours to deal with. Can we trust you to take care of him?

Reglian’s golden eyes gleamed as he glanced between Lyrai, Stirla and their former captain. I believe so, he rumbled.

As much as you could ever trust a dragon anyway, Lyrai thought. After all, they’d let Yullik go once – no, twice – before already. Who was to say they would ever really deal with him? Which was yet another reason why Lyrai had to go west. Finding Mhysra was at the top of his list, but confronting Yullik and ensuring he was dealt with was also pretty high.

Good, Myran said again, looking around the room at the men gathered in front of him.

Imaino stood behind his left shoulder, sturdy and steadfast, recently promoted in recognition of his bravery in leading the survivors on the mountain throughout Aquila’s occupation. Myran’s other senior lieutenant, Fleik, was now Imaino’s along with Honra, recently a sergeant but proving himself eminently capable in his new position. Yordice, formerly under the deceased Captain Hylan’s command, had been shifted to join them, as had Hlen, a captain-in-training like Lyrai and Stirla, whose original captain had died during the siege.

They’d been through a lot, together and apart, having all been present for both the fall and the recapture of Aquila, and it showed. They were a ragged, wounded, bedraggled bunch who had aged far more than the single year it had been since they’d first fled this place. Yet they were stronger for it too and even more determined to rebuild what had been broken.

Of all the officers that had been present when the pirates first besieged Aquila, they were the only survivors. Dean Marshall, two captains, five lieutenants and hundreds of Riders, students and miryhls were gone. The losses were unimaginable this time last year, but they had survived. Lyrai looked at the men standing in the room with him, unable not to think of those that were missing, and felt a strong sense of kinship with them all.

Then he met Reglian’s glinting golden eyes and knew that no matter how much he wanted to stay and rebuild his home, he had unfinished business to clean up first.

A bell tolled in the valley, the solemn sound drifting on the clear summer air.

Dean Myran smiled faintly. Lieutenants, he nodded at Stirla and Lyrai, you have an appointment with the healers, I believe. Archivist Reglian, was there anything else I might help you with?

As Reglian gave a polite demurral and backed out of the room, Lyrai looked at his friend beside him and raised his eyebrows. As with all the walking wounded – which was pretty much everyone not strapped to a bed inside the infirmary – he had regular check-ups with Mouse and the other healers to monitor the progression of his headaches, but there was no set time. Stirla too made regular visits as his broken leg continued to mend. Once again, though, it was his friend who picked up on their former captain’s meaning first.

Aye, sir, I believe we do, Stirla said, pushing away from the wall to salute the dean before resting a hand on Lyrai’s shoulder and steering him from the room.

As the realisation that he and Stirla were being dismissed with Reglian for company finally filtered through the ache in Lyrai’s brain, he managed to throw out a hasty salute. Sir.

Myran’s lips twitched with amusement. Perhaps it’s time for Healer Morri to take another look at your head, lieutenant?

Lyrai gave a wry salute, needing no time to process that one. Aye, sir, he agreed, while the other men snickered. I’ll see that he does.

Lieutenants? Myran called just as Stirla nudged Lyrai through the doorway. They paused and looked back at the man who had done so much to craft them into the Riders and men they were today. Keep up the good work.

It was praise and permission all in one. Lyrai caught Stirla’s eye again and they both saluted. Aye, sir, they agreed, and left the officers of Aquila to get on with rebuilding the citadel.

DERRAIN TRIED NOT to grimace as he walked slowly along the aisle between the beds of the infirmary. It was a gods-given miracle that he could walk at all, he reminded himself, trying not to limp or wince as the muscles in his back pulled, screaming at him to slow down, to stop, to lie down, to give up.

He wouldn’t give up. When the tower had come crashing down, he’d thrown himself over Corin without a second thought. Even when he’d landed flat on his back and heard the awful crack that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, he still wouldn’t do anything differently.

Except, perhaps, if he hadn’t been so quick to save Corin from injury, she might still be with them today. If they’d both been hurt in the fall – him a little less, and her just enough to make standing difficult – perhaps she wouldn’t have been able to confront Yullik. She wouldn’t have tried to fight. She wouldn’t have died.

Gods, of all the things that happened that day, that was the one Derrain would change if given the chance. Corin, reckless, loyal and brave. Along with the crack of his spine breaking, his nightmares would forever be filled with the sound of her fighting the monster and losing. Derrain hadn’t seen it, had been unable to move in order to watch or help, but he’d heard it. Every last ring of the blade, every last step, her final gasp of breath.

Shaking with exertion and painful memories, he rested his hands on the windowsill and bowed his head. The day beyond the glass was gloriously sunny, with blue skies reflected in the lake pooled across the Lawn below, but Derrain barely spared it a glance.

It should be raining. The skies should be grey. There should be storms. Didn’t the weather understand what had been lost?

Taking deep breaths, Derrain wiped the sweat off his brow and focused on staying on his feet. His knees were weak and his back was locked tight, but he would not surrender. Corin hadn’t; she never would. She’d fought when the rest of them couldn’t, and he would fight on in her memory. To do that, he had to walk.

Even though he wanted to fall to his knees, rest his forehead on the windowsill and never get up again, Derrain forced his trembling arms straight and stood upright. Then he turned, searching for his bed amongst the wounded, more than ready to return to it.

A slender man blocked his way, green eyes bright with compassion, which narrowed in assessment as they ran over Derrain from head to toe and back again.

Mou-Morri, he corrected himself. It was tricky remembering that his old friend had changed his name. Not that the man before him was anything like the nervy, over-enthusiastic boy Derrain had first met in Nimbys, when they’d taken their first steps to becoming Riders. Mouse had been a fitting name for that boy. It didn’t suit this man. This quiet, competent, strong man whose patience was almost as great a gift as the one he had for healing. This man was no mouse.

You’re getting stronger. Morri smiled, flashing up a hint of the old Mouse, and held out an arm. But you shouldn’t overdo it. Come on.

Remembering a time when it had been Mouse who’d needed such support – and refused every last offer of it – Derrain opted for wisdom and gripped the wiry wrist. Thanks, he muttered gruffly.

It was less of a walk, more of a shuffle. Once Derrain might have been embarrassed about how long it took him to cross the room and how sweaty he was when Morri helped him back onto the bed. But that was before he’d cracked his back in several places and had to lie helpless and gasping, unable to feel his legs, while tingling sensations came and went in his fingers and arms. In those moments, as he lay there and listened to Corin fight and die, Derrain had thought he would soon follow her, and if he didn’t, then he would never walk again. He hadn’t been sure if he would ever move his arms again either.

The future had spread before him bleak and painful. He had never realised how much he’d taken for granted his entire life, not until he lay paralysed and fighting for every painful breath, while one friend died and another was stolen away.

Derrain wasn’t embarrassed by how slowly he walked; he was grateful he could walk at all.

On your front, Morri told him softly, helping Derrain ease onto his side and shift into the centre of the bed. Now relax. Warm hands settled on his back, unlocking the tension and pain inside his knotted muscles. The ache in his spine gradually unravelled and flowed away. Derrain rested his forehead on his folded arms and sighed.

He didn’t know everything that had happened to Morri after the fall of Aquila, but there was no denying he had changed. A lot. They all had, but Morri was so different as to be another person entirely. He had magic, for one thing.

Most people didn’t seem to have noticed, because Morri was very good with medicines, potions, lotions and massages. Derrain couldn’t help but notice whenever Morri put his hands on him. He’d been healed by a dragon, and although Elder Goryal’s power was stronger, cooler and brighter, there was no denying the similar sensations that Morri’s touch evoked. Dragon magic. Derrain didn’t have to visit the Cleansed Lands like his friends to recognise it, not when it was the miraculous thing that had put his shattered spine back together and returned his ability to walk.

There, Morri murmured, lifting his hands and pulling the blanket over Derrain’s back. Rest a bit more and have something to eat. You’re doing well, Derry. Really well.

Derrain smiled sleepily. Thanks, Mouse, he yawned.

Morri squeezed his shoulder. You’re welcome, he said, not bothering to correct the slip. They were old friends, after all, and no matter how much the healer changed, some part of him would always be Mouse. Sleep.

Yawning again, Derrain snuggled his head on his arms and sighed, welcoming the momentary respite from pain, his eyes closing. Sleep was another thing he couldn’t take for granted these days, not when pain and nightmares so often chased him away from it. He closed his eyes, sank into the warmth of his bed and surrendered. He needed all the rest he could get. It was the best way to grow stronger, because he wasn’t planning on staying in this bed forever. The west was calling and when the others went, as he was certain they would, he would go with them.

For Corin, he whispered, and dropped into sleep.

MORRI WALKED CALMLY between the beds, eyes flicking over his patients, checking all was well. When nothing stood out as needing his immediate attention, he nodded to Haelle to keep watch and slipped into Nehtl’s office. His office now, he reminded himself as he carefully shut the door and stepped over to the basin to wash his hands.

Only then did he allow the shakes to come. Only then did he let his shoulders slump and the trembling to overtake him. He collapsed into the chair beside the basin and blotted his hands on the towel.

Prickles of heat raced up and down his arms, little dots and dabs of energy that were only a fading memory of how they’d been when he’d touched Derrain’s back.

Nightriver, he whispered to the strange dragon who had become such a strong part of him, the damp patches on his skin shimmering with green light. Nightriver might not be as old or powerful as the Clan dragons who had so recently arrived, but that didn’t mean he was without magic. Morri flicked his glowing hands sharply and felt an answering chuckle deep inside his mind.

"Yes, my Morri?" his Dragongift rumbled from far away, where he was deep under the mountain, recovering bodies and keeping out of the way of nervous humans. Yet no matter how far away he was, Morri always felt Nightriver with him. Their Dragongift bond was strange and still forming, but every bit as powerful as the Wingborn of Rider legend.

What have you done to me? Morri asked, soft and shaken. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt a prickling sensation when he’d touched someone’s wounds, but this time it had been more. The prickles had burned until that burn had been sucked out of his hands and into Derrain’s back.

He’d healed that way once before, when Imaino’s chest had been ripped open and the lieutenant lay dying on the steps of the citadel. Nightriver had been with him then, and they’d all been desperate, fighting the last fight to win back their home, willing to risk anything and everything to succeed.

"Nothing,"