Gildore jerked him aside and faced the pyromancer, his face red, his eyes fuming. “So this is how you get what you want, by assaulting the humble? The meek?”
Master Pusrig smirked. “That will depend on you. Are you willing to put them all in danger for one man?”
Gildore pursed his lips. “Get off my grounds. Now. That wasn’t a request. And take your hounds with you.”
Eric gulped as Sirs Farnsworth, Crohn, and Gowran closed in behind David and Charlotte, their hands poised on the hilts of their swords. He reached for his own, only to curse himself for leaving it lying on his bed.
Master Pusrig’s face cracked into a smile. “I think not.” Another flick and two large fireballs hurled from his hands.
The blazing globes encircled the courtyard, unfurling into wide ribbons of fire, shielding what few onlookers remained behind a wall of flames.
Gasps and cries of terror plunged into Eric’s core. Who did this mage think he is?
Swords hissed from their scabbards. Gowran, Crohn, and Farnsworth lunged forward, but their battle cries turned to wails of pain. Their weapons clanged to the ground as fire licked at their flesh.
Eric’s nerves snapped. Enough was enough. He bolted from his spot and stormed forward, drawing back his arm. He released his fist like he would a pebble from a slingshot.
Wham!
His knuckles connected with the mage’s jaw. He may have well crammed his fist into a mountain wall. Bones cracked and sharp pain vibrated through Eric’s hand and up his arms to his shoulders. He hunched over and cradled his wrist with his other hand, the words it’s broken repeating in his mind.
The mage staggered, his eyes swirling an amethyst mist. “Imbecile! Insignificant mortal fool!” A massive fireball appeared on his palm. With a sideways flick, it soared toward Eric.
A separate blast of ice-blue energy hurled into Eric’s chest, knocking him off his feet and onto the flat of his back. Above him surged a raging torrent of water, a river with no visible bed to hold it. It collided with the fire and drowned the flames. The deluge fell in a waterfall, drenching Eric.
He rolled to his hands and knees, and sputtered and coughed as the puddle around him gathered into a spiral and spun around the courtyard, dousing the wall of fire. Out of the corner of his eye, Eric saw a woman approach, her lavender hair sweeping the ground behind her like a veil, her bare feet peeking out beneath the opalescent gown with each step she took.
Slavandria. Queen of the Southern Forest and daughter to the most powerful mage to ever live.
Eric swept an arm across his face, wiping away the moisture. He labored to his feet, his gaze pinned to the sparking threads spooling from the sorceress’s fingertips and coiling around the Duwan guards, encasing them in singular, electrifying cocoons. What it must feel like to have that sort of power. That sort of control. To command such respect.
She faced the pyromancer.
“Hello, Pusrig. Fancy finding you here among the rabble.”
Eric turned to the mage. There was something in his face that wasn’t there before. Unease? Fear?
“Get away from me, witch.”
There was a slight tremble in Pusrig’s voice. Eric heard it. The unmistakable sound of cowardice.
Slavandria smiled. “Oh, I am not going anywhere. You, however, will remove yourself from these grounds while you still have the opportunity to do so.”
Master Pusrig’s lips twitched. Storms of purple fire brewed in his eyes. “How dare you usurp my authority! Stand aside or I shall take my prisoner by force!”
“Touch him in any way and I will terminate your existence where you stand.”
Eric’s heart pounded against his ribs. He wanted to move, to get out of the dueling zone, but he couldn’t unglue his feet from the cobblestones.
Master Pusrig stepped toward Slavandria. “You wouldn’t dare attack me.”
Slavandria dipped her brow. “Are you willing to take that chance?” She circled the mage, her gown swishing as she walked. “You know,” she said, her voice dropping so low Eric had to strain to hear, “I know of the Council’s secret to undermine Sir Trogsdill. I know of the planted letters, the threats made against those that refused to cooperate with yours and Master Camden’s plan.”
Eric’s throat tightened, anger spreading like a poison through his veins as the letters he’d found among Sestian’s things crept up from the depths of his memory. How dare they play with lives in such a way! Bastards!
Master Pusrig’s nostrils flared. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Slavandria stopped circling and locked her gaze with Master Pusrig’s. “Do not lie.” She stepped a bit closer to the mage until their noses almost touched. “And if you know what is best for you, you will drop these allegations and release Sir Trogsdill right now. Otherwise, I fear you will find yourself in an exhausting conversation with my father, trying to explain your blatant interference with the affairs of men, and I think you and I both know how that scenario will play out, do we not?”
Eric gulped. Only a fool would be stupid enough to challenge her.
Master Pusrig’s jaw tensed. The corners of his mouth twitched. “How dare you try to intimidate me! We all know you are equally guilty of fraternizing and interfering with these … humans.”
“I am not the one attacking an assemblage of innocents, am I?” Her eyes remained locked on his.
Silence. Immeasurable silence.
“You’re running out of negotiating time,” she said.
“Ahh!” Master Pusrig scowled. “Release my guards and we will take our leave, but heed my warning. Do not become too complacent for someday you will find yourself in desperate need of your father, and he won’t be there to save you. I, however, will be there to see you grovel for your last breath, and I will rejoice in your passing.”
A smile touched Slavandria’s lips and eyes. “I look forward to it. Now collect your henchmen and leave these castle grounds. And if I see or hear of you stepping foot within the confines of Gyllen again, I will personally see to it you never do so again. Have we an agreement?”
Master Pusrig growled in response. Slavandria snapped her fingers and the spiral of magic holding the Duwan guards faded. Master Pusrig barked a single word and vanished in a puff of purple smoke, taking the guards and the cabal of mages with him. The king and the knights swarmed around Trog.
Eric’s lungs deflated, the sting of Slavandria’s energy still tingling his skin. In no way did he want to be on the receiving end of her anger. Ever.
“Eric Rhain Hamden!” He looked into her eyes, her glare strong enough to shatter glass. “What were you thinking, punching a member of the High Council?”
Oops. Too late. His gaze flicked around the courtyard at the hundreds of eyes upon him, all ogling him as if he were the danger. His stomach churned. Eric took a tight breath and clenched his fingers against his thighs. All he had to do was bite his tongue. Say he was sorry. It would all be over. The humiliation. The desperate need to scurry beneath a rock and stay there.
“I am waiting for an answer.”
There was something in Slavandria’s demanding tone, in her arrogant stance that coiled his gut. It was one thing to berate him in private, but how dare she chastise and humiliate him in front of everyone. He threw his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and met her gaze with an equally irritating glare.
“I did what I thought was right, Your Grace. Considering his actions, I didn’t think a standing ovation was an appropriate response.”
“Do not get saucy with me, young man. Do you realize you not only endangered yourself, but your king and everyone in this courtyard as well? Do you not think before you act?”
“Hey, go easy, Slavandria,” David said, stepping forward. “You’re not being fair. I didn’t see anyone else trying to stop that guy. What was he supposed to do? Nothing? If you ask me, that guy should have been knocked to the ground and flattened like a pancake.
If Eric hadn’t decked him, I would have, and I was this close, too.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together.
Eric turned to David, his brow lifted in surprise. Why was David standing up for him? It’s not like they were friends or for that matter, even liked each other. Whatever the reason, he knew not to turn away welcomed intervention, especially when in an argument with a sorceress. Maybe there was something more to this paladin after all. Only time would tell.
Slavandria’s voice cut through him like a blistering cold wind raging through the Domengart Mountains.
“Deserving or not, you do not leap into a pit of venomous snakes without a clue as to how you will get out.” Slavandria paused for a moment, her fingertips pressed to her forehead. A sigh escaped her lips as she lowered her hand. “I am not always going to be there to rescue you. They,” she pointed to Farnsworth, Gowran, and Crohn, “are not always going to be there to protect you. You have got to learn what battles to fight and which ones to concede. He could have killed you with a single word, do you not understand that?”
Eric’s soul seized beneath her stare, her raw, worried expression grating like sandpaper over his heart. Why was she reprimanding him like a small child? He’d stepped up, done what no one else would do. He defended his king. The people of Hirth. His heart swelled with accomplishment. His gut, however, pinched and tugged with guilt. He wanted to shout at her, tell her she was wrong. Open her eyes to what he’d done. Instead, he kicked at the ground and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I was only trying to help.”
She lifted his chin, and his insides curled and knotted beneath the intensity in her eyes. The love, the fear, the worry … it was almost too much to take in. Why did everyone feel they needed to coddle him? Mother him? He didn’t need mothering. He was past that. Over it. Done.
And yet …
“I don’t want an apology,” Slavandria said. “I want you to be careful.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “You’re not a mere squire anymore, remember?”
Eric nodded, wishing he could forget. It was one thing to discover Trog was his father. It was quite another to learn the man was also the king’s brother, which, in turn, made Eric a prince and future heir to the throne of Hirth. His brain curdled at the thought. Him. A king. Ha. Why the notion was about as preposterous as a herring leading a school of pike.
Slavandria glanced over her shoulder at Trog being escorted by the king and queen into the castle. She then turned back to Eric and took his right hand in hers. Warmth, followed by a freezing tingle, oozed into his flesh and bones. She massaged his palm and coaxed his fingers to their full extension. The healing process took all of five minutes. When done, she said as if nothing had occurred, “See to it the healers look after the wounded including the king’s guard, then join me in the king’s private dining hall.” She glanced over her shoulder. “David, come with me. Much has changed since you fell ill, and there are some things we need to discuss before your journey home. Bring Charlotte with you.”
Eric’s heart flip-flopped like a fish out of water. Home? No. They couldn’t go home. Not now. Not when there was still so much to do. He needed David, the paladin, the savior, to help him defeat the dragon, to save their world and win the war. He couldn’t do it alone. As for Charlotte. Well, she’d sent him into a blithering conniption with one half of him ready to flee to the hills while the other half commanded him to get tangled up in everything about her. If she went away, he’d never know which side would win. He had to make her—them, stay. The not knowing would drive him mad.
He had to figure out how to do it soon.
David
David cupped the back of his neck as the king and queen, escorted by their entourage of knights, filed into the small dining hall off the kitchen. His eyes shifted under the weight of their glances, the heat in his cheeks spreading faster than any flame. Who were they, and why did they look at him like he was a pimple on a donkey’s ass? He drummed his fingers against his thighs. Charlotte’s presence offered some comfort, but not enough to fill the hollowness spreading in his gut.
A look from Slavandria unhinged his thread of security from his side. Charlotte squeezed his hand, and whispered against his neck. “See you inside, Firefox.”
Tingles radiated up his spine, turning to heat as they scattered to his neck. She’d used his nickname. She hadn’t done that since—since they’d kissed in Chalisdawn.
The memory exploded like fireworks. They’d been so close, their clothes the only barrier between them, and even those had begun to fall away. He’d heard, even felt their heartbeats thrumming in time together, so strong, so erratic. Time slipped away. His insides caught fire. The ice prison he’d erected around his feelings had begun to thaw, and for that one moment, that one blink in time, nothing else mattered. The world could have blown up and he wouldn’t have known or cared. All he wanted was to get lost in her. To tell her he loved her. Those elusive three little words formed in his brain. They’d perched on his tongue, waiting, ready to leap.
But they collapsed beneath a cold, steel-plated pile of what the freak am I doing?
He remembered the way she’d stared at him, confused. The tear in the corner of her eye that never fell. Later, through a closed door, she told him she loved him, and his heart shattered. He could picture her face—soft, gentle, understanding, like the way she looked at him now.
He released her hand and stepped back, using the nearest column to steady himself. Distance. He needed distance to keep from scooping her in his arms, kissing her, holding her. After all, he had told her then, friends. Only friends. Yet her smile, her presence continued to torment him. If she only knew how she made his breathing uneven and heavy; how she made him ache everywhere, inside and out. How she glued his soul and skin together to keep him from going everywhere at once.
Maybe she did know. Maybe Trog was right when he said she should be allowed to make up her own mind.
No. This wasn’t her battle. She was in Fallhollow because of him. If she hadn’t tried to protect him, she’d be home where she would be safe from war and death. Dragons.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her expression almost sad, before disappearing through the heavy carved doors. His heart oozed into a puddle. He closed his eyes and pumped his fist against his forehead.
“You still haven’t told her?”
David lifted his chin and met with Trog’s piercing, soul-invading green eyes. Strands of hair, still wet from a quick wash, clung to the knight’s face; the shadowmorth wound well-concealed beneath a doublet of blue and gold brocade. He swallowed hard beneath the glare, his thoughts straying for but a second to a balcony in Gable when Trog gave him some fatherly advice. Advice David chose not to take.
“You know the answer to that,” David said, “so why ask?”
Trog scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “Oh, I don’t know. Just thought after everything the two of you have been through, you might have smartened up a bit, had a change of heart.”
David kicked at the tile as the knight’s gaze ate into his core. “Yeah, well.”
Trog curled a massive hand upon David’s shoulder. “Tell her, David, before it’s too late. You’re not the only boy around here with a charming smile. The last thing you want is to wake up and find your balls have been stolen by someone willing to use them.” The knight nodded to Slavandria, then trudged into the dining hall, the door creaking shut behind him.
David snorted and shook his head.
“He’s quite an enigma, isn’t he?” Slavandria asked, smiling.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” His eyes met hers. “So, what’s up? Why the private pow wow?”
“I made a promise to you and it is time I kept it. I thought after we ate, I would introduce you to your parents, provided that is still what you want.”
Her words split the seams of his existence. “M-my parents? They’re here?”
Breathe. Just breathe.
“No.” He blinked. Ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe. Yes. I don’t know.”
He looked away, his heart mortified, stunned. He’d waited for this moment his entire life. He’d wanted nothing more. A family. A dog. A sense of belonging to something bigger than himself. But now? It took everything he had not to run. Scream. Hide. What if they didn’t like him? What if he didn’t like them? What if reality shattered the dream? He wrung his sweaty palms together. His parents’ faces flitted around in his mind, ethereal as ghosts drifting in and out of a heavy fog. His brain hurt. His insides squeezed. A thought skipped across his mind. What if he no longer needed them? What if he never did? Worse yet—what if they never wanted him?
Slavandria touched his arm, and his skin erupted in a thousand goosebumps. He recoiled at the hint of magic.
“You seem distant, perplexed,” she said, “as if you’ve misplaced something.”
“I have.” He rubbed his arms and walked past her. “My nerve.”
“Understandable. Doubt is the greatest warmonger. Give into it, and it will kill your spirit, your heart, and soul.”
David hung his head. “I think it already has.”
“It hasn’t,” Slavandria continued. “Trust me. I see you, and I see within you a love for your parents and Charlotte that is so pure, so indestructible. It shines a light within your soul, a light that will always guide you through the darkest times.”
“Then why do I feel so afraid? Every inch of me is shivering to the point I feel as if I’m going to explode, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“David, you almost died. You’re now moments away from meeting your parents after almost seventeen years. Either alone would tangle anyone’s nerves. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” She smiled, and it was warm.
David wandered to a window and stared out onto the hillside, his stomach a hollowed-out bucket. “Have you told them … about me?”
Rage of the Dragon King Page 2