When Claws and Swords Collide

by N M Zoltack

  Still, allies gained from securing favors weren't helping Rase any. No, he would have to resort to other means.

  Leanne’s stew was delicious, nice and hot, and he ate heartily and encouraged her to do the same. When her eyes grew heavy, he guided her to bed, and he waited until he was certain that she truly slumbered before he left the house.

  He headed on down to Tranquil Wolf Hotel. Dudley owed him some money, and the blithering dark blond had a hundred excuses, but Rase wasn’t having any of it. With a scowl, Dudley went into the back and returned with a small, filled coin pouch.

  “You sure I can’t pay you in ale?” Dudley grumbled.

  “No,” Rase said cheerfully.

  Ignoring the hotel owner, Rase examined those there and found a table with three men. They all had the looks that men had when they had killed before. All of them were armed, and two of them had visible scars.

  Perfect.

  Rase plopped the coin pouch in the middle of their table. “You can have on one condition.”

  The one with the scar down the side of his face grinned at Rase. "Who do you want us to kill?" he asked with a wide smile that revealed two missing teeth.

  "Funny you should say that." Rase grinned as he took the only available seat at their table. "I do want you to kill someone. A nasty man came around and hurt my sister, and I want him hurt and then killed. That going to be a problem, boys?”

  “We can handle that,” the other man with a scar said. His went across his throat.

  “What’s his name?” the scarless one asked.

  “Olivier Barbeau. I’m not sure where he is, though,” Rase warned.

  “We can track him down. Not an issue. How soon you want it done?”

  Rase nodded to his coin pouch. “You tell me what that offers me.”

  The scarless one lifted the pouch. “A week at the most.”

  “Good.” Rase rubbed his chin. “I don’t do business with men whose names I don’t know.”

  “Yours first,” Face Scar said.

  “Rase.”

  “Tielo Waldron,” Face Scar said.

  “Nuno Balfager,” Throat Scar said.

  “Mac Beatha,” Scarless said.

  “Rase Ainsely,” the street rat said, feeling comfortable enough to say his full name given they all shared theirs. “Hey, Dudley! How about a round of drinks for my friends here on the house?”

  “On the house?” Dudley sputtered.

  Rase winked. “Any ideas on how you want to make our friend Olivier suffer?” he asked as Dudley dejectedly ordered one of the serving girls to bring over ales.

  53

  Queen Sabine Grantham

  Sabine would never quite feel good about being summoned. She hated being dictated what to do. Her mother used to do that, used to control every aspect of Sabine's life from what she wore to what she ate, how she wore her hair, and who she could befriend. Freedom was all Sabine ever wanted, but somewhere along the line, power had entered the equation as well, and freedom and power were now inseparable.

  But she had been summoned, and Sabine trailed behind the guard to a parlor. Already seated were Rosalynne and Tatum.

  Oh, this should be interesting indeed.

  Sabine swept into the room and sat down in a chair situated so she could see both women easily. “Greetings,” she murmured.

  Rosalynne glanced at Tatum. Fascinating. Had Tatum asked for this meeting?

  “Your grimoire,” Sabine said, her gaze falling to the book.

  “Do you have it memorized?” Tatum asked.

  There was no point in feigning ignorance.

  “I do,” Sabine said.

  “Have you attempted a potion?”

  “Yes, and I failed. It worked but had an… unfortunate side effect.”

  “What did you wish to do?” Tatum asked.

  “The truth. I needed the truth to be told from an unwilling participant.”

  “And the side effect?”

  “Death,” Rosalynne cut in. She brushed back her chestnut-colored hair.

  “Yes, they died,” Sabine admitted.

  “Tatum, is there a way to determine how a person died?” Rosalynne asked, her gaze fixed on Sabine.

  The elder queen did not blink. She knew exactly what Rosalynne was hinting at.

  “That depends.”

  “The king,” Rosalynne murmured. “Had he choked, or had he been poisoned?”

  “Oh, he has been dead far too long for anyone to say,” Tatum protested.

  "A pity. You cannot be cleared or absolved of guilt, although murdering via a poisoning is not that different from attempting to murder via a poisoning."

  Tatum glanced between the two queens. “Do you mean to say… But that was not alchemy! Not unless she started to study before I gave her the grimoire… Unless you studied from another?”

  “What is the meaning and purpose of this meeting?” Sabine asked. “If I am to be accused of something, accuse away. Do not drag this out.”

  “You wish to return to your potions?” Rosalynne mocked.

  Sabine ignored her and met Tatum’s steely blue gaze. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “Why did you not tell me that you wanted the grimoire for yourself?” Tatum asked, her tone sharp, which was unusual for her. Not that the alchemist was a timid woman. How could she be, given her profession? But she had always treated Sabine with respect.

  Until now.

  “Would you have given the grimoire to me if I had explained why I wanted it?” Sabine asked evenly.

  “You are the queen,” Tatum said.

  Sabine just stared at her until the alchemist lowered her head.

  “I didn’t think so,” Sabine said coolly. “I sought knowledge. I wanted to be able to help Tenoch. I already told all of this to Rosalynne, but I doubt she believes me.”

  “You could take one of your truth potions,” Rosalynne said, her tone far too sweet.

  “We needed to know what those Vincanans knew,” Sabine said, doing her best to control and conceal her anger. “You cannot deny that we had gotten nowhere with them. You also cannot deny that you did not shed a tear that they ended up dead.”

  “I thought you might have executed them,” Rosalynne muttered.

  “In a fashion, I did.”

  “You cannot use potions—”

  "I also made healing potions," Sabine continued. "If that is all I do with alchemy from here on out, only healing potions, I will never become an alchemist. It will be fine. You trust Tatum, though, do you not?”

  “You are not Tatum,” Rosalynne said firmly.

  Sabine eyed the alchemist again. “Do you trust me if I were to become a female alchemist?”

  “I… It is not for me to say.” Tatum rubbed a hand over her belly.

  “Do not make me repeat the question.”

  “I do not know you well enough,” Tatum murmured.

  “Please,” Rosalynne said. “Sabine is as ambitious as they come. She married the king to become queen. She will use alchemy to increase her power and might, and she will be doomed to fall, yet another victim to the female alchemist curse. Or do you think yourself so high and mighty that you do not think you can be cursed?”

  "Maybe my life has been cursed already," Sabine said evenly, "but then the same could be said about our life. We both are orphans. Our parents are dead, and you have a dead brother. I have had two fathers, as my mother married a second time, and both are dead. The world is a cruel place, and we are at war with not only Vincanans, whose warriors are stronger than our own, but also dragons. Dragons, Rosalynne! And I do believe I heard that there has been a setback with your harpoons. Is that true?"

  Rosalynne did not answer.

  “Seeking to help my kingdom survive is not—”

  “Tenoch is not your kingdom,” Rosalynne countered, “and besides, we are the ruler of Tenoch Proper. Not just Tenoch. That is why we are at war with the Vincanans, or have you forgotten?”

  “I have not for
gotten, but I also have not danced with a dead Vincanan.”

  “For all I know, your mother lied, and she had been the one to kill him!”

  “You cannot blame my executed mother on every last sin!”

  Tatum reached for her grimoire. “Maybe I should destroy it,” she murmured.

  “That is your choice,” Sabine said.

  “It was your father’s, wasn’t it?” Rosalynne asked, her tone now soft and gentle, the antithesis of how it had been toward Sabine.

  “Yes, but alchemy in the wrong hands can be very dangerous.”

  Rosalynne sent a pointed glare Sabine’s way.

  Sabine held up her hands. “Are my hands wrong?”

  “That is not for me to say,” Tatum said.

  “If I were not queen,” Sabine scolded, “what would you say?”

  “If you were not queen, then perhaps you could. Perhaps not. I really cannot say either way, regardless of the crown on your head.”

  Rosalynne smirked.

  “I would like to add that seeing how you sought to use the potions, the ones you make and what you wanted from the new one… That shows promise, I think,” Tatum whispered.

  Sabine’s eyelids fluttered close. She wanted to be queen, but she also wanted to be trusted.

  “And if I sought to make a potion to save our people and our lands from the dragons? Maybe to neutralize their fires? What of that potion?”

  “A potion intended to save lives can hardly be a bad thing,” Tatum said.

  “Why don’t you make it then?” Rosalynne asked Tatum.

  But the alchemist shook her head. “I have too many other potions to make for our army. I do not have the time and energy to devote to the effort of making a new potion. No, another alchemist would have to handle that, and I know of no others.”

  Sabine sat there, quietly, but not another word was spoken. Tatum clutched the grimoire to her chest and fled the room, and a moment later, Rosalynne stood and wordlessly left as well.

  The elder queen sat there a while longer, contemplating and calculating.

  Was she ambitious? Yes. If that meant she would fall and be cursed, so be it. Ambitions themselves were not evil, only the paths taken to achieve them could possibly be but also possibly not.

  54

  Prince Marcellus Gallus

  The village of Rapid Falls was a decent sort of place to live, especially for farming families. The close proximity of the river allowed for the soil to be fertile, and they grew all kinds of crops here, some they also grew in Vincana but many that did not like such weather as they experienced farther south.

  Marcellus, for his part, had his warriors help with the farming while he would speak with Mileva Doubek, the true mayor of the town. Her obese husband, Damir, would blather on about this and that, hemming and hawing about how he had to pay taxes to the crown, which all subjects were subjected to, and how he could hardly sleep at night for fear of the burrows. It took a bit of listening—roughly two hours’ worth—to learn that the burrows were as large as a wolf, a furry, six-legged creature with two hooves that served as shovels. The creatures would burrow under the ground and live in their underground dens until they were hungry. Then, they would burrow out and eat whatever was in sight, be it trees, crops, houses, animals, or even humans.

  Of the dragons, though, Damir had no fear.

  “They aren’t real,” he proclaimed, and that was all Marcellus had to hear for him to ignore the man from that point onward.

  From Mileva, when she wasn’t shepherding the farmers and telling them which crops to grow where or else guiding animals to their pens or keeping little Phillipe out of scrapes, she would inform Marcellus just where he could be of most help.

  “We had a nasty storm a few weeks back,” she said. “With it being time to plant the harvest, every helping hand has been working on toiling the fields. We’ve rooftops that need to be mended. One house collapsed nearly entirely, displacing not one but two families.”

  “Where are they?” Marcellus asked. “I’ll set to making things right.”

  Mileva had eyed him. She was a shrewd woman, one who brokered no nonsense, but she seemed to tolerate him just fine, which suited Marcellus just fine. This arrangement truly could benefit both of them, and once his men were done here, they could leave one or two soldiers behind to keep the village in Vincanans name as they moved onto another town. Slowly, they could consume the land by making it better such that the people wished for the Vincanans to rule over the queens. Jankin had claimed the throne with little bloodshed. Maybe the battlefield was no longer the best avenue for Vincana to gain the crown.

  A week. That was how long the peaceful arrangement lasted. Screams and the scent of smoke stirred Marcellus after a long day of toiling on houses and mending rooftops. He jumped to his feet, calling for his men. Had their enemies discovered their occupation here? Surely they would not set fire to the homes of their own people, would they?

  They would not.

  But a dragon would.

  Muttering a curse at Damir Doubek, feeling as if he had cursed them by his declaration that the dragons were merely the stories of legends, Marcellus rushed forward. He would defend Rapid Falls as best as he could, only he did not precisely know how to do just that.

  He did, however, know that the people here were good and kind souls, hard workers who bothered no one at all. They were precisely the sort of people the dragons should leave be.

  “To arms!” Marcellus called. “If you have bows and arrows, use them! Aim for the wings, the eyes! Archers, up on the rooftops!”

  Marcellus grabbed not only his scabbard but also a quiver and a bow. Then, he scrambled through the town to the house he had been working on just yesterday. The wooden ladder still leaned against the walls, and he scrambled up onto the roof. He lined up a shot and hesitated. There was a slight hole in one of the wings. It made the dragon seem as if he were not truly alive. His coloring was also a tannish color, almost pale, as if he had come up out of clay or sand. Most animals were neutral colors—browns, greens, and the like—but this coloring did not seem natural.

  An arrow flew toward the dragon but did not come near to striking him. The villagers were screaming, rushing about, not knowing where to go that might be safe as some of their homes were already on fire.

  Torn between attacking the dragon and helping the people, Marcellus fired off a single shot, aimed for the dragon’s eye. If the beast could fly with a hole in his wing already, then attacking the wings might not be in their best interest.

  Marcellus scrambled back down the ladder. He wasn't sure where the mayor and his wife were, but he directed the people to head toward the river. At least if any of them were to be set aflame, the water could help to douse the fire.

  “If you can, bring a bucket,” he called as he directed them toward the river. “If you’re willing, bring the water back to help save your homes!”

  The children cried, the woman consoling them, carrying them. The men were more likely to be standing about, staring at everything, haplessly.

  Some of the villagers stayed, waving torches and shouting at the dragon. A few Vincanans threw spears whenever the dragon flew lower to the ground, but the weapons merely bounced off.

  Marcellus raced forward, retrieved one of those spears, and headed toward the open area toward the center of the village. There, he stood and waited, almost daring the dragon to come for him.

  Others shouted for him to move, to get down, to stop being a fool. That last had been Flavius, no doubt, but Marcellus stood his ground, waiting for the right moment.

  But that moment never came. The dragon flew too high above him, and he swore the dragon saw him there, but the dragon did not rise to his bait, and Marcellus watched silently as the dragon flapped his massive wings and flew off.

  Flavius stood beside him. “One might think that the dragon coming could be a sign that we are in the wrong,” the commander murmured so no others could overhear.

  “In t
he wrong about the occupation? In the wrong about the war itself? In the wrong about breathing?” Marcellus snorted. “No, I doubt that very much. The dragons have not, to my knowledge, decimated an entire town, have not killed every last soul. They are sowing panic. Maybe they wish to see how we respond to their acts before they settle back down again.”

  “To your knowledge,” Flavius said darkly. “But your knowledge on their whereabouts since they returned is rather limited. What if they seek carnage, but our presence here surprised them? We frightened him off, clearly, but we did not even injure him. Perhaps he recalls his long death—long sleep?—too vividly, but that will not always be the case. The dragon might return here to Rapid Falls, maybe with one of his brothers. What then, Marcellus? What then?”

  Marcellus had no answer to that.

  55

  Olympia Li

  The day had come. The queens had fallen, and all of Tenoch, and Vincana too, had been overjoyed to learn that a Li lived yet. While Olympia had yet to discover who her twin was yet, she still harbored the hope that one day, they could jointly rule, even if one or both of them should marry.

  Olympia’s gown was lovely, a true homage to her family crest. The bodice was plum-colored, the skirt black with white six-pointed stars lining the hemline and forming a belt around her trim waist as well.

  All in attendance cheered as she strolled along the flowery path that led to the castle. It seemed as if every person alive in all of Dragoona had come to see her coronation.