Dragons Realm (4 page)

He stepped for­ward, ap­proach­ing the ob­stin­ate pris­oner first, the one who had spat at his feet; and the crowd gasped as he tore Wylan P. Jo­nas free from the post and crushed the heavy iron man­acles
ef­fort­lessly
be­neath his power­ful hands.

The iron crumbled into dust.

Wisps of smoke rose from the prince’s palms.

And Dante kicked the pris­oner to the ground with a booted foot and snarled, “You are an in­solent fool, war­lock, but at least you are brave. The mer­ci­ful death will be yours.” He grasped the hilt of his sword in its scab­bard, bran­dished the blade in an aud­ible chime of steel, and swiftly brought it down along the pris­oner’s neck, re­mov­ing his head in one clean blow. Bra­cing him­self against the spat­ter­ing gore, he licked his lips, felt his fangs be­gin to elong­ate, and slowly re-sheathed the blade. “As for you, Sir Henry Wood­son, you shall re­turn to the pit of hell as noth­ing more than a pile of ash, so that even those who in­habit the un­der­world will know: A dragon’s fury is migh­tier than a war­lock’s pride.”

He took two large strides back and began to call his beast.

Or­ange and red fire began to cir­cu­late around his body, ra­di­at­ing like a macabre halo, even as pulsat­ing tendrils, like mini­ature bolts of light­ning, shot forth from his fin­gers. His fangs ex­ten­ded even fur­ther, grow­ing per­il­ously sharp and long, and a prim­or­dial growl rose in the back of his throat, shak­ing the ground be­neath them. As his face began to harden with the emer­gence of prim­or­dial scales, and a pair of leath­ery wings punched through his back, he drew back his shoulders, bent both arms at his sides, and strained to arch his spine.

And then he par­ted his lips and threw back his head, re­leas­ing a deaf­en­ing roar, as an un­broken stream of mys­tical flames shot forth from his mouth and scorched the second pris­oner, without mercy.

The male cried out in agony.

He yanked against his chains and thrashed against the post.

He jerked in pain, writhed in misery, and spat curses, tinged in bloody, blackened mu­cous.

And yet, the tor­ture per­sisted.

Which was Dante’s in­ten­tion.

He con­tin­ued to chan­nel the dragon’s fire, the in­fernal, never-end­ing blaze, un­til the screams of the war­lock were fi­nally si­lenced by melt­ing flesh and cal­ci­fy­ing bones. Un­til the crowd turned away in hor­ror and hid their re­vol­ted faces from the ghoul­ish spec­tacle be­fore them.

Un­til the gathered War­lo­chi­ans cried out for mercy on be­half of the pris­oner, again and again…

And again.

Un­til, fi­nally, Dante re­len­ted.

The flame turned white and the fire began to cool, un­til at last, there was noth­ing left but a charred stump and steam­ing ash where the post and the traitor had just been. Call­ing his dragon to heel, Dante fought to re­gain his cen­ter, to re­con­nect with his civ­il­ized core, and to ex­tin­guish the flame once and for all.

Hav­ing fol­lowed Dante into the square, Damian stepped for­ward, be­side him, and waited, his sav­age ex­pres­sion dar­ing any­one in the crowd to speak, to even pre­sume to meet their eyes; while Drake took a stance on Dante’s other side, pro­ject­ing un­con­di­tional solid­ar­ity and con­vic­tion with his pres­ence. He may have been a lo­gical thinker, a calm­ing in­flu­ence—he may have stood in the eye of the storm—but he was still a Dragona at heart. And, to­gether, they wiel­ded enorm­ous power and in­flu­ence.

When, at last, Dante’s wrath had cooled—his fangs and his wings had re­trac­ted—he searched the crowd for the sher­iff. The male was hov­er­ing be­hind the aged stone well at the back of the square, his face a mask of ter­ror, and the mo­ment their gazes met, the sher­iff quickly shuffled to the front of the crowd. He stood be­fore Dante and waited, his head dropped low in a deep, sub­ser­vi­ent bow.

“We will take drinks and re­fresh­ments at the tav­ern while you tend to our horses,” Dante said. “And then we will be on our way.”

Be­fore the sher­iff could an­swer, a young girl, per­haps ten or el­even years old, shot through the hor­ri­fied crowd. She ducked be­neath the war­lock’s legs and ran to­ward Dante, al­most as if she were fear­less. “Mi­lord!” she cried out. “Mi­lord! Please—
please—
hear my pe­ti­tion.”

Dante looked down at the eager child and drew back in sur­prise.
Great Winter Spir­its, she was hu­man!
He could tell by the con­tour of her eyes. What was she do­ing here among the War­lo­chi­ans? “What is the mean­ing of this?” he asked the sher­iff, choos­ing to ig­nore the child.

The sher­iff looked per­plexed.

He shook his head back and forth; his eyes dar­ted this way and that; and he fi­nally shrugged his shoulders. “My prince, I…I do not know. Please—”

“
Raylea!
Raylea, come back!” An­other hu­man, a beau­ti­ful, middle-aged wo­man, dar­ted through the crowd, com­ing to an ab­rupt halt in front of the dragons. She grabbed the child by the arm, snatched her frantic­ally away from Dante, and tried to tuck her be­hind her back. “For­give me, mi­lord. She is just a child. She doesn’t know what she is do­ing.” The wo­man gathered her skirts and tried to curtsy—it was poorly, at best—her wide eyes brim­ming with fear. She looked down at the child and frowned, her face grow­ing ashen. “Raylea, what have you done? Apo­lo­gize to the prince at once!”

The girl stepped out from her mother’s side, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and boldly shook her head
no
, al­though she was clearly shak­ing in her stock­ings.

The wo­man gasped. “Raylea!” She turned her plead­ing eyes to Dante and waited, pre­sum­ably for his wrath.

Dante con­sidered the girl and then the wo­man, each one in turn, be­fore firmly purs­ing his lips to­gether in thought. Fi­nally, he said, “I as­sume this is your daugh­ter?”

The wo­man trembled. “Yes, mi­lord.”

“And you did not think to raise her bet­ter than this?” Damian cut in, his voice re­ver­ber­at­ing with ire.

The wo­man fell to her knees in the dirt. “I have tried, my prince.” She prac­tic­ally groveled on the ground, even as she tucked the child tight against her bosom in a ges­ture of pro­tec­tion. “I beg your par­don. For­give her…or hold me re­spons­ible in her stead.”

Drake took a meas­ured step for­ward. He held up his hand to si­lence his broth­ers. “Your love for the child is ap­par­ent, but it still does not ex­plain why she would dare to ap­proach a dragon prince. The
com­mon­lands
will soon be my jur­is­dic­tion, which makes you my im­min­ent sub­ject. Ex­plain your­self: Why are you here amongst the War­lo­chi­ans? And why has the child ap­proached the Dragon Prince?” When the wo­man hes­it­ated, as if she were search­ing for just the right words, Drake nar­rowed his gaze with im­pa­tience. “Speak quickly, wo­man. No one has time for these antics.”

Dante waited in si­lence, curi­ous to hear her reply.

The wo­man cleared her throat. “If it please you, mi­lord…” She stared straight at Drake, plead­ing with her eyes. “This is my daugh­ter, Raylea. She ran away from home sev­eral days ago, after she heard that the fu­ture prince of War­lo­chia would be trav­el­ing to this province for—”

“No! No, Mommy!” the girl cried, tug­ging on her arm. “You have to ask him about Mina.”

The wo­man gasped and shoved her hand over her daugh­ter’s mouth. “Be quiet, child! Be­fore it’s too late for me to save you.”

Damian with­drew a sharp, curved stiletto from his belt and held it out in front of the girl. He turned it slowly back and forth, ro­tat­ing the shiny blade in the fad­ing sun­light so that the re­flec­tion flashed in her eyes, and then he placed the curved edge against the child’s throat. “If your daugh­ter speaks out of turn one more time, I will re­move her tongue.”

The wo­man turned a ghastly shade of white, as hideous as one of the nearby gar­goyles, and she pressed her hand even harder against the child’s mouth. “Please, mi­lord.” Her eyes said everything she couldn’t say:
I’m beg­ging you not to hurt my baby
.

Drake placed a steady­ing hand on Damian’s arm, in­dic­at­ing that he wanted him to wait for his dir­ec­tion, yet he was also wise enough to play his cards
just so
. He cast a side­long glance at the angry prince. “Per­haps the child should tell the tale, Prince Damian, since she is clearly so…
eager
…to speak. Per­haps we should hear her pe­ti­tion be­fore we cut out her tongue.”

Dante waited for Damian’s re­ac­tion, ap­pre­ci­at­ing Drake’s tac­tic: It ap­pealed to Damian’s pride without chal­len­ging his au­thor­ity, and it was cer­tainly bet­ter than mu­til­at­ing a little girl in front of a vil­lage of gawk­ing spec­tat­ors,
for the gods’ sake
. “But first, she must apo­lo­gize for her in­solence,” Drake ad­ded, us­ing his eyes to is­sue a clear warn­ing to the child’s mother:
The situ­ation could quickly get out of hand, and none of the princes would stop it
.

The mother whispered hast­ily in the child’s ear, and the girl stood tall. “For­give me, mi­lords.” She curt­sied like a proper lady, and then she knelt be­side her mother.

“Speak,” Drake ushered, nod­ding his ac­cept­ance of her apo­logy.

Raylea raised her head and smiled, her dark, lu­min­ous eyes bright­en­ing be­neath a veil of thick, curly lashes, her brows rising in ar­dent an­ti­cip­a­tion. She was noth­ing more than an in­no­cent child, a bit im­ma­ture and un­ruly, yet harm­less. “It’s just…it’s just…I heard that there was go­ing to be an ex­e­cu­tion…
for treason
…in War­lo­chia, and I knew that the princes would be here.” She in­haled sharply, try­ing to mod­u­late her breath. “So I ran away from home.”

Drake frowned. “Why would you do such a thing?” He ges­tured at the vil­lage square. “An ex­e­cu­tion is no place for a child, and War­lo­chia is no place for a hu­man.”

She nod­ded quickly. “Yes, yes, I know, but I just had to see you. All of you. One of you. I had to ask about my sis­ter, Mina.”

“Who?” Damian asked ir­rit­ably.

Drake held up two fin­gers. “Go on.”

“My sis­ter; her name is Mina Louvet,” the girl answered sweetly. “She was taken to the Keep six years ago to be trained as an Ahavi, and then we heard that she had been chosen as a Sk­la­vos and taken to Castle Dragon.” She reached into a tattered sack and with­drew a homely, patch­work doll. “I made this for her with my own two hands. I just wanted”—she eyed all three of them war­ily—“I wanted one of you to give it to her…
for
me
.”

Damian scoffed in dis­be­lief, and Drake slowly shook his head, squat­ting down so he could ad­dress the child at eye level. “The Sk­la­vos Ahavi be­long to the Realm, little one, not to their fam­il­ies. They are not per­mit­ted to main­tain con­tact with their kin, at least not un­til after the Au­tumn Mat­ing; and even then, it is at their lord’s dis­cre­tion. Do you un­der­stand?”

The girl swal­lowed, and her eyes filled with press­ing tears. “I know.
I do
. But…but it’s just…
I made it
…with my own two hands.” She held the doll out to Drake, ro­tat­ing it ninety de­grees so that it stood up­right, and the little but­ton eyes stared back at him.

Damian stalked away to­ward the tav­ern, lest he do some­thing rash—
thank the Spirit Keep­ers
—and Dante held his tongue, try­ing not to chuckle, wait­ing to see what his wise, be­ne­vol­ent brother would do next: Would he ad­dress his youth­ful sub­ject with kind­ness, or would he ad­dress the doll, in­stead?

He looked on as the prince took the toy from the child, pat­ted the ob­ject brusquely on the back, and then turned it this way and that in mock ap­pre­ci­ation. “And what a fine work of crafts­man­ship it is. It is very well made.” He looked back at Dante for sup­port, and when none was forth­com­ing, he sighed. “What is her name?”

Raylea shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought…maybe…Mina could name her.”

Drake smiled then. He handed the doll back to the child, pat­ted her on the head, and rose to his full five foot el­even inches. “You hold onto this, Raylea, and per­haps after the Au­tumn Mat­ing, you will have a chance to give it to your sis­ter your­self.”

“But I haven’t seen her in six years,” the girl said, a fresh tear rolling down her cheek.

Her mother rose to her feet then and clasped the child by both shoulders. She shoved her be­hind her back once more; only, this time, she gripped her arm so tight she could have cut off her cir­cu­la­tion. “Thank you, mi­lord. You are far too kind.” She aver­ted her eyes and bowed her head. “I apo­lo­gize for my daugh­ter’s im­petu­ous­ness, and I as­sure you, it will not hap­pen again. We pray that Mina will bring honor to the Realm”—her voice caught on a sob be­fore she quickly re­gained her com­pos­ure—“and we hope to see her after the Au­tumn Mat­ing, should her mas­ter al­low a visit.” The fear and an­guish in her voice were un­mis­tak­able, des­pite her best at­tempt at cour­age and de­corum.

Drake pre­ten­ded not to no­tice. “Very well, Mis­tress Louvet.” He spoke quietly yet sternly. “Your daugh­ter’s im­petu­ous­ness is for­given.
How­ever
…” He leaned in and grasped her chin, for­cing her eyes to meet his. “Keep a closer watch on her. War­lo­chia is no place for a child or a hu­man wo­man. You are no match for these ma­gical be­ings.” His warn­ing could not have been any clearer: Hu­mans were af­forded ba­sic pro­tec­tions in the
com­mon­lands
, where hu­man de­crees and law en­force­ment were in play, but once they left that province, once they ven­tured into Um­bras or War­lo­chia, all bets were off.

“Yes, mi­lord.” The wo­man spoke quietly. She curt­sied once again, first to Drake and then to Dante. “And thank you for your com­pas­sion as well, my prince.”

Dante nod­ded, but he said noth­ing.

As he watched her walk away, ush­er­ing the child hur­riedly in front of her, he turned to­ward a nearby war­lock, an old man with a long white beard and a cane, and ges­tured him for­ward.

The man shuffled as quickly as his aged feet would al­low. “Yes, lord? How may I serve you?”