Part 7

A day passed. Moordryd woke up only to shift and fall asleep again, barely aware of midtown's early morning haze, the glare of midday, and the fade into perpetual neon twilight. Someone nudged him awake long enough to eat again, but he didn't remember anything but their voice, low and mumbled, and their hands pulling the blanket back over him.

When he finally woke up with a clear head, he didn't move at first. His body ached, his chest was sore, and he felt more tired than when he first lay down. But the breath he took was long and deep and didn't catch in his throat.

The antidote had done its job. He sat up, groaning as he pulled strained muscles, and craned his neck to see Decepshun. To his surprise, she was looking back at him.

"You okay, girl?" he asked, patting her flank.

In response, she inhaled so deeply that her side pushed him forward, almost knocking him over. There was no rasp, no rattle in her chest as she breathed out, but as he pet her side, she lay her head down again and curled her tail around until the tip touched her chin.

"You're sore, too, huh?" Moordryd rubbed her snout, drawing a rumble of pleasure. "So am I."

With one last pat, he slowly got to his feet, wincing as his arms and legs throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He picked up his jack stick in the corner and walked into the open space of the stable. The outdoor lamps cast a faint glow around the stables, but the rest of the arena was dark. It seemed late enough that he doubted anyone was awake. After a quick look around, he extended his jack stick and settled into position, arms at his side, legs slightly apart. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then began his first kata.

Sweep out, bring the stick with him and up, following with his arms, moving in a circle that brought the stick back around. He turned with a deliberate step, brought the stick forward, then leaned back. His arms trembled and his legs wobbled so that he checked his balance constantly.

Behind him, Decepshun huffed.

"I know, I know," he said over his shoulder. "But one of us needs to be ready if something happens."

"What did she say?"

Moordryd white-knuckled the jack stick as he froze in surprise. When he could relax again, he glared at Lance, who'd snuck up behind him.

"What are you doing out here?" he snapped. "It's late. Mini-brats should be in bed."

"No one's asleep," Lance said. He held out his own jack stick and mimicked Moordryd's stance. "What kind of kata is that? I've never seen Artha do one like it."

"What do you mean no one's asleep?" Moordryd asked, ignoring his question. "It's late, isn't it?"

"Yeah, almost eleven," Lance nodded. "But everyone's keeping a look out for Armeggadon or your dad, and I'm too excited to sleep."

Excited? Stupid kid. Moordryd rolled his eyes and turned away, raising his stick once more. The sound of Lance's feet scuffling around to his side followed, and when he looked again, Lance was in the same position.

"Look, mini-brat, this isn't a game." Moordryd scowled at him. "I'm not gonna show you how to do these."

"Aww, that's not fair!" Lance said, stomping his foot. "Dad never lets me practice with Artha."

"Because you can get hurt practicing, and I'm not about to tell your dad I taught his kid something dangerous. You wanna do something useful, go scrape your dragon's scales."

Moordryd used his stick to point at Fracshun, who blinked sleepily in his stable and wondered why he was being pointed at. At this angle, the lamp light on his scales showed how cloudy they'd become.

"It's not that bad yet," Moordryd said, "but even from here, you can see they aren't as bright as they should be. If you let grime and dust build up on him, he'll get sick. Or he won't be able to carry you, and you'll weigh him down and you'll both get hurt in a fight."

Giving Lance a rough poke toward the stable with his jack stick, Moordryd forced himself to sound as stern as his father when Word was angry. Being scolded, he knew, carried a lot more force when he felt guilty for disappointing him.

"Your dragon's care comes before your own," Moordryd said. "You're nothing without him."

Hanging his head like a whipped hatchling, Lance still managed to pout.

"You're just saying that 'cause you think dragons are better," he grumbled.

A familiar laugh from the house interrupted Moordryd's reply. When he looked up, he found Artha leaning against the front door, arms crossed as he watched. Realizing he'd given himself away, Artha sighed and walked towards them, giving Lance his own look.

"Doesn't matter why he's saying it," Artha said. "It's still true. Even when I'm dead tired, you know I still give Beau a good scrub and a real scrape when he needs it."

Frowning more, Lance stuck out his tongue and ran back to his dragon's stable, closing the door after him. For all his arguing, there came the sound of water and Fracshun's dismayed groan as he was finally forced to take a bath.

"Thanks," Artha said, glancing at Moordryd. "Me and dad've been trying to get him to pay more attention to Fracshun, but you know kids."

Tempted to say that no, he didn't know kids, especially not little brothers, Moordryd let it slide. He didn't understand laziness, but he understand ignoring good advice when it came from someone he didn't like. Connor Penn had warned him about fighting while angry when he first tried to steal Beau. He was still swallowing that lesson.

"Is it true?" Moordryd asked, changing the subject. "You're keeping watch for Armeggadon?"

"And Word," Artha said. "So far nothing. Oh, Cain came by to say he gave your father your message, but you were asleep at the time. What was the message?"

"Just that I'm all right but I can't go home yet," Moordryd said. He sighed and leaned on his stick, staring at the murky lights above. His father's citadel glimmered in the distance, visible from every level of Dragon City. "I don't think he'll overreact to that. He knows I disappear for days."

"To train?" Artha asked, then frowned when he remembered what else Moordryd liked to do. "Or to steal dragons?"

"Among other things," Moordryd smiled. "I have to replace all the energy whips you keep slicing."

"I wouldn't slice 'em if you didn't use them on me."

Waving the argument aside like an annoying dragonfly, Moordryd brought his stick back up to chest level, about to begin his next kata. The click of another jack stick made him pause. Did Artha want to spar? No, even dumb Artha knew he was in no condition to fight. He glanced sideways at him and tilted his head in mild exasperation.

"Is this a Penn brat thing?" he asked, seeing how Artha was standing. "Caging lessons from strangers?"

"Can't help it," Artha said, not moving. "Lance was kinda right. Dad hasn't taught me this kind of kata, but unless you're taking it slow 'cause you're still healing, it can't be because it's dangerous. What's it for?"

Resigning himself to Artha being at his side, Moordryd didn't hide his irritation as he began his next set. Different from the first, this kata moved just as fluidly but demanded crisp snaps when he wielded the stick.

"Discipline," Moordryd answered as he breathed out. "They force you to breathe..."

He held the stick in a slow thrust, extending his arm fully.

"...to focus on each move..."

He brought the stick back and snapped one end over his shoulder as if attacking someone behind him.

"...so when it comes time, you can fight like second nature."

Artha followed his steps, staying well out of reach. A few seconds behind each move, he copied his swings and ducked once when he thought Moordryd might accidentally hit him. At least he thought it would be accidental. While whirling the stick over his head to gain speed, Moordryd couldn't see behind him, but he knew Artha was there. He didn't think it beyond the other boy to wallop him once.

When they came to a stop, Artha was surprised to find himself breathing a little harder.

"Wow, it didn't seem like a workout," he said. He comforted himself that Moordryd was breathing harder, too, but then he remembered that Moordryd was still recovering. "Wait, I shouldn't be tired, should I?"

"You're not used to it," Moordryd explained.

Twirling his jack stick in his hand, Moordryd hesitated only a moment before coming to a decision. He felt awkward showing this to his enemy, but practicing with the only other dragon booster took a weight off his shoulders. For now, he wasn't alone. Besides, he owed the Penns for saving his life.

He turned so that he faced the same direction as Artha, then held his stick out in his fist, the back of his hand toward the sky.

"Look at the way you hold your jack stick," he said.

Artha did so. His hand was diagonal to it, holding it like he would a wrench. The grip felt natural to him and his father held his own stick the same way, with his fingers slightly angled along the shaft.

"You're not a priest holding a staff," Moordryd said, unknowingly echoing Artha's thought. "You aren't putting your full strength into each hit if you hold it like that. Close your hand around it like you're going to punch me."

Adjusting his grip, Artha found the hold uncomfortable. But when he brought it up for a practice strike, he felt the difference. His wrist was straight, more force traveled down the stick, and he didn't have to adjust his hold for another blow.

"Something so small," Artha said softly. "Who showed you this?"

"My father, back when he still taught me how to fight," Moordryd said, his own voice growing smaller. Years ago, before he had to learn more of the style on his own because Word had grown cruel and suspicious. "But the form has to be perfect, otherwise you could end up with a broken wrist. Fighting the way you do, with your angled hand style, you can absorb a hit easier. It'll slide off your stick."

"Then why risk it?" Artha asked. "Isn't it better to absorb the hit on the stick and pull their defense away from their center? Then you can slam them from the front."

Moordryd shrugged, but inwardly he didn't like admitting the truth, no matter how obvious it was. Artha already knew the answer even if he didn't know it.

"I can't do that as often as you can. You have the dragon of legend backing you up. Decepshun and me, we're built more for speed and stealth." Moordryd shifted to one leg, glancing at his dragon's stable to make sure she was asleep and not hearing him admit her weaknesses. "When I attack, I deflect the strike, then get in close while I'm still moving."

Unable to visualize it, Artha had to hold his stick up, deflect an imaginary attack and then take another step forward. His stick naturally came with him, and he saw that if he'd been in a real fight, he would have been able to slam someone's head or neck. But that meant--

"I can't do that," Artha realized. "Even if I could move fast enough for that to work, that could really hurt someone."

"You'd rather knock them out of their saddle or off the track," Moordryd nodded, knowing all too well from experience. "I'm not strong enough to do that, especially in a real fight."

"'A real fight'," Artha echoed. He looked at the other boy thoughtfully.

Pale and whipcord thin, Moordryd looked less imposing than most of the girls on the race circuit. Many people underestimated him when they raced for the first time, often left smeared on the asphalt from his vicious track combat, but Artha also knew that dragon hide jackets like Moordryd's were good for absorbing hits in return. And Moordryd wore it all the time.

"How often do you get into fights?" Artha asked.

Moordryd shrugged. "Between stealing dragons, fighting off City Security, or riders who try to jump me after a race? More often than you think."

Now that Artha could believe. He had no doubt Moordryd made more enemies than friends. Even if he didn't, Moordryd had access to black market and specialized gear that less scrupulous riders drooled over. Illegal gear that passed for regular, the hidden bonemark Decepshun had absorbed, even little details like a helmet with a spoiler to increase lift spoke volumes to how much effort Moordryd put into his schemes to ride faster and meaner.

But he didn't get to ask anything else. Moordryd was clearly tired of the conversation.

"Ready for another form?" he asked, not caring what his answer was.

Moordryd held his jack stick lengthwise, turning to one side as he stepped forward. At his side, Artha shadowed his movements.

Watching from a darkened window in the house, Connor Penn wished he could hear them. He would ask Artha later, but teenagers were hard to get information from. Although he worried about his son forming any kind of friendship with Moordryd, he felt the glimmer of hope that Artha had spoken of after their battle with Armeggadon.

Connor knew his old friend's mannerisms well, and he saw them reflected in Moordryd. Word's connection to his son suffered because of his paranoia, suspecting betrayal in everything the boy did, and Moordryd learned to distrust his father and everyone around him, including Cain to an extent. Only recently had those suspicions begun to fade with their reconciliation after Cain's mutiny.

Although he disliked thinking in such mercenary terms, Connor hoped that Artha could sway Moordryd from helping start the war. From what Connor could see here, and from what Artha had told him about previous battles, he guessed that Moordryd starved for attention. He was sure Moordryd's ambition for the black draconium gauntlet was borne from his simple desire to please Word, but the boy clearly didn't want bloodshed. If they could take the shadow booster out of the fight, or better yet, bring him to their side--

No. He shook his head. No one could predict the future. But watching the two rivals practice together, he was reminded of how he and Word were once inseparable. If they could become bitter enemies, perhaps their sons could become friends.

TBC...