Dragon's Fire

by Gwynn White

  “Just one of my many charms.”

  He edged her toward the top of the spiral staircase. It was already choked with people pushing and shoving to enter the narrow opening. Still, two monarchs had started the slow climb down. Leaving his alliance partners to worry about that, he looked around for Magridal. She and Heron were funneling people toward the crowd.

  “The film,” he called to her. “Get it running for Lukan.”

  She looked aghast that he would think of such details at a time like this. Axel smirked. It was attention to details that made him Axel Avanov. Still, she pulled out her informa and flicked through the screens.

  If Lukan watched, as he undoubtedly did, he would see a party in the streets of Oldfort.

  A rumble made him look up.

  It had to be the drone.

  Would he even see the gas that killed them? Or would it be colorless, tasteless, odorless death that claimed them all?

  Axel’s pulse spiked, and his breath caught. It could not be over. Not when he wasn’t ready to stop fighting. Not when he’d just gotten Lynx back. Not when he was days away from freeing Nicholas.

  Lynx caught his eye. She’d heard it, too. But she was too far away, separated by too many frightened monarchs for him to reach her without causing panic.

  He mouthed, “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

  She blew him a kiss and mouthed back, “Forever and always.”

  Then he shouted at the top of his lungs. “The people on the stairs . . . move.”

  His words opened a sluice gate. Monarchs pushed and shoved each other. Many more fell hand over fist to clamber over the banister, just to cling to the side of the steps—it was too far down to jump.

  Infinitesimally slowly, they tried to swing themselves down the spiral. One of Beric’s many allies punched the king of Essem, standing in front of him. The Essemite king returned the punch. More kings joined in with angry fists flying.

  Perhaps these fools were using the melee to settle old scores. While the bulls fought, still more people clamored to enter the spiral. At this rate, those bringing up the rear would not make it.

  Axel closed his eyes to get his ragged breathing under control before weighing in to separate the fighters. When he opened them, Thorn and Chad had already broken up the scuffle.

  Did he imagine it, or had the crowd at the stairs thinned? There was still a mass of people waiting to descend, but now more crushed each other on the slow crawl down the steps.

  Axel looked around to see who was left in the orb.

  Liatl and Xipal. Magridal and Heron. None of them had yet started to the stairs.

  He was about to shout to them to move when something flew at him, almost knocking him off his feet.

  Lynx.

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him, the way he wished she had when he’d first rescued her from the forest. When he’d time and space to savor it.

  He had to get her and everyone else to safety. Until every single person in this orb had at least made it onto the stairs, giving them a chance, no matter how slim, of reaching the burrow, he could not even think about his own safety.

  He snatched a kiss from her open mouth and pushed her away. “Go. Get in line for the stairs. Liatl. Xipal. All of you. Go.”

  Lynx’s strong fingers gripped his uniform. “And leave you here? Never.”

  The drone circled a second time.

  Had something gone wrong?

  It didn’t matter. Not when it bought him time.

  He spoke in his sharpest voice. “Magridal. Heron. Escort our guests downstairs.” His commanders sprang forward toward Liatl and Xipal, only to jerk to a halt.

  Liatl held a blade in his hand.

  Chapter 57

  Lukan’s stomach churned. The Dragon’s Fire cruised above Oldfort.

  Faces like stone, everyone in Stefan’s office waited for him to give the command to break the seal on the canister in its belly. Like mist, the gas would settle on the town. He wondered if it would sparkle in the crisp spring-solstice moonlight. Would the people he watched on the informa—Axel included—even see it as they danced, drank, and feasted? Would they smell it? Or would they die before they knew what had hit them?

  He swallowed.

  Would terror assail the children throwing gold coins in the street for the poor to collect in the morning? Poor who would never appear to gather the prize.

  It would be left to the crows to pick over the carcasses in Oldfort. And what a bounty it would be for them.

  Walking around his bunker, the Burning had seemed so . . . academic. An experiment in a laboratory. Now, confronted with the thought of killing three thousand people—

  He rubbed his side, where the trigger to a thousand airships loaded with gas nestled. Then he muttered a quiet prayer to the Dragon he didn’t believe in that the children’s death would be quick, painless.

  Not just the children.

  The only people he really wanted to suffer were Axel, Chad, and Jerawin.

  Cider bottles in hand, the three of them led the parade through the town. Lukan’s stomach burned at the sight of Axel after so many years. No scars marred his cousin’s mocking face. The traitor slapped Chad on the back, and the two of them threw their heads back, laughing. Axel took a swig of cider and draped his arm around Jerawin’s shoulder. Laughing and joking, the two of them staggered up the road together.

  Lukan wished now that he could hear what they were saying, but the cameras Felix had installed recorded no sound. Lukan hadn’t had the stomach to listen to the sounds of the town dying when the gas came. The screaming would be more than he could stomach.

  He glanced back at Felix, Zarot, and Meka.

  Apart from appearing paler than normal, Felix seemed untouched by the horror of the Burning.

  Lukan shook his head. How could the man be so devoid of feeling? It was his son down there, after all. Lukan shrugged. Maybe he and Felix weren’t that much different. He felt nothing for his son, either.

  His Lord of the Conquest stood ready to release the gas on Lukan’s command. If being responsible for mass murder worried Zarot, he showed no signs of it.

  Eyes focused on a spot above Lukan’s head, the young prince stood ramrod straight next to Zarot.

  Lukan deigned to smile at Meka. “Only a few more minutes, and then you will see how the empire deals with its enemies.”

  The boy nodded.

  Lukan canted his head. Just how much had Meka changed? “Perhaps you would like to flip the switch that releases the gas.”

  For a split-second, Meka’s eyes betrayed something—horror, perhaps?—and then it was gone.

  That pleased Lukan. The boy needed to understand the sanctity of human life if he was to be judicious in taking it. The last thing he wanted was a sociopath in his bosom.

  “Of course, sire. If that is what you wish me to do.”

  Lukan nudged Zarot. “Hand him the controller.”

  Zarot parted with the switch without comment. Lukan couldn’t resist glancing at Felix. His uncle’s lips pouted in disapproval.

  “You have an objection, Felix?”

  “With all due respect, sire, the prince is young. Surely you do not want him to start out life with genocide on his hands?”

  Lukan snorted. “That never held you back.”

  Felix had been in his late teens when he’d assumed the mantle of Lord of the Household. The number of recorded—and unrecorded—deaths had soared with him in office.

  “That is, perhaps, why I want better things for the prince, sire.”

  Lukan turned to Meka. “Any objections to doing what I ask?”

  Meka swallowed. “It’s not about what I want, sire. You are the emperor.” His eyes drifted to Lukan’s side. “You have all the power in your hands.”

  So his heir knew about the trigger?

  Lukan’s scar flared with anger. Who had told him? His eyes narrowed. “How right you are. Never underestimate my power. I want you to release the Dragon’s
Fire.”

  Meka bowed. “All I ask in return is that you allow me to come to Oldfort with you in the morning. This Burning is an historic event, and I would love to see the results with my own eyes.”

  A shiver trilled down Lukan’s back. Meka was indeed an Avanov. The whole idea of going to Oldfort in the morning filled him with nausea. If he didn’t have an overwhelming imperative to ensure Axel well and truly dead, he wouldn’t put a foot in that place. He sensed everyone watching him, waiting for his answer to Meka’s request.

  Did they suspect he didn’t have the stomach for visiting Oldfort, while a teenage boy did?

  The idea was untenable.

  “There will be a seat for you on the airship.” He turned back to the informa, ostensibly to watch the visuals beamed in from Oldfort. In reality, his mind churned. It wouldn’t harm to keep an eye on this new Meka. It was a pity he’d had to leave Morass in Cian, but someone had to keep watch over Nicholas. Perhaps it would be wise to have Zarot add to the thirty guardsmen accompanying them to Oldfort in the morning.

  A buzzer sounded, alerting Lukan that they were over the drop zone.

  Meka shuffled, but didn’t hit the trigger.

  Lukan’s scar pulsed. He clasped his silver buttons as the drone turned in its programmed circle. The revelers on the ground in Oldfort looked up in surprise. The cameras on the ground didn’t capture the airship, but Axel’s face registered shock. He had seen the craft. The shock morphed to action. Even now, his bastard cousin wouldn’t reward him by betraying fear or panic.

  “We did it, sire,” Felix murmured. “Got an airship into Oldfort right under Axel’s early warning system.” He didn’t sound as proud as Lukan expected.

  Almost transfixed, Lukan watched Axel shouting and waving at the people near him. Probably telling them to seek cover. What good it would do against poison—

  He scowled, refusing to allow fear to rob him of the sense of achievement that came in this aerial victory.

  A strident buzz cut the air. The airship had completed a second circle of the town.

  Not a word—or movement—from his heir. Lukan should command him to obey. To release the Dragon’s Fire. At once. Still Lukan hesitated.

  What to look at? The confusion that must be on the streets now that the drone had done nothing but circle? Or at the criticism he was sure blazed on Felix’s face at his failure to act? Lukan looked at neither, focusing instead on Meka’s boots.

  They were polished for the first time . . . ever.

  His eyes roved up Meka’s body. When had his heir filled out, fitting his silk and velvet clothes like a man and not a boy? He was handsome, too. Almost identical to Tao before his marriage to Kestrel. But unlike his gentle brother, Meka looked every inch the man ready to gas three thousand people without a qualm. Was he merely waiting for Lukan’s final command?

  Lukan could never have been so callous at Meka’s age. Neither could Tao. Axel could have, without batting an eye. And that was why Mott had hated both Lukan and Tao. It was why his father had plotted their deaths, using Axel as his blade.

  A thousand voices clamored in Lukan’s head, all of them sounding like Mott shouting that Lukan was worthless. A waste of a skin. A boy with no future. A boy with no guts . . . a boy not worthy to wear the Avanov name.

  The buzzer sounded again.

  Lukan looked Meka right in the eye. “Hit the switch.”

  Meka hesitated! Was his bravado all for show? Too late now, because Lukan had given a direct command. To back down would be too lose face with Felix, with Zarot, even with his heir. The possible humiliation made Lukan tremble.

  A clear warning, Lukan let his hand trail to his side.

  Meka closed his eyes and pressed the button.

  A warning blared, signaling that the gas was dispersing.

  Vomit threatening, Lukan stumbled out of the room, unable to face the death he’d unleashed. Burning the world was fine in theory, but in practice?

  When would he stop allowing to the memory of his dead father to goad him into doing things he didn’t want to do?

  Chapter 58

  “You might have fooled everyone else here with your talk of deadly gas, Avanov, but you haven’t fooled me. I know it is just a ploy to frighten us into giving you more money,” Liatl seethed.

  Lynx looked from Liatl to Axel and then to the stairs. The crowd at the top had threaded into the spiral, but like honey on a cold morning, the line barely creeped forward.

  Meanwhile, above their heads, that drone circled. It had already passed by twice before.

  What Lukan waited for, she couldn’t imagine. But not even the Winds could help them if they didn’t grab the opportunities thrust at them.

  She pursed her lips at Liatl’s blade. The Tarachians were renowned for their knife-fighting skills. She didn’t doubt that their king was one of the best. She wasn’t too shabby with a knife, either. At any other time, she would have tried to take that knife out of the desert king’s hand.

  But not now, not when, if they stayed here, they would all die. Even breathing was a challenge when, with every breath, she expected to burn her nose and throat with gas.

  She grabbed Axel’s hand. “We must take our chances on the stairs.” To Heron, she said, “You and Magridal, too.”

  “Not while my warlord and my empress need me.” Heron nudged Magridal. “Go. The leadership will probably welcome your help in calming everyone down.”

  Magridal looked to Axel for confirmation. He nodded at her. Expression distraught, Magridal snatched a kiss from Heron and raced to the stairs. Instead of joining the throng on the treads, she vaulted over the banister and scampered down the outside of the wrought-iron frame.

  That was exactly how Lynx intended to get to the bottom.

  She tugged Axel’s hand again, but he dug his feet into the ground.

  “Heron, Lynx, as much as this man irks me, I cannot leave him and his son here to die.” Axel touched Xipal’s arm. “Please, get down those confounded stairs and into the burrow.”

  Eyes wild, the man looked first at Axel and then at his father. He said something in Tarachian that Lynx didn’t understand, but from the tone, he pleaded with his father to move.

  Liatl shoved Xipal with the hilt of his knife. He spoke in Chenayan. “If you don’t have the stomach for this fight, then be gone.”

  Xipal countered with Tarachian. Lynx tried to read his expression, but although he frowned, red-faced, that could have been due to the circumstance, and not his exchange with his father. And then Xipal was gone, skidding across the glass floor to those hated stairs.

  Liatl waved his dagger at Lynx and Heron. “Be gone, you two. This is now between the warlord and me—and the Blades I’m recruiting.”

  Not a chance.

  Fighting to keep her fear under control, Lynx folded her arms and moved in next to Axel. Heron took Axel’s left flank.

  Axel sighed. “Liatl. I get that you’re angry, but please, let’s take this discussion downstairs.”

  Liatl angled his blade to catch the light. He must have been very confident in his knife skills. “Avanov, you robbed me. But now I will have my revenge.”

  Heron threw himself at Liatl. A mash of blond braids and crimson cloak, the two of them crashed to the floor. Heron grabbed Liatl’s knife arm and tried to wrestle it out of his hand. But he and the desert king were equally matched in strength.

  Lynx—and Axel—moved forward to help Heron when Lynx caught a whiff of sulfur. She clamped her hand over her mouth and nose to stop from breathing. Moisture, soft as spring rain, settled on her skin—and scorched like fire.

  Dragon’s Fire.

  Heron and Liatl fell apart, coughing. Heron crawled to his knees, gasping for air, writhing in pain as each of those breaths burned their way into his lungs. Face blistering before Lynx’s eyes, Liatl collapsed on his back. His dagger rolled out of his hand and clattered to the floor. A final gasp, and his once-powerful body slumped into itself.

  Lynx kn
ew he was dead.

  She wanted to run to safety, to leap down those stairs, but not without Axel. Or Heron.

  Shirt pulled over his nose and mouth, Axel sprinted to help Heron. Heron clawed at his own face. He turned to Axel, reddened eyes wide, blood trickling from the side of his mouth, and shook his head.

  Axel shook his head equally as hard and crouched to lift his friend.

  Heron’s boot hit Axel’s calf with a dull thud. “Go,” he rasped. “Save Lynx. Nicholas. Tell Magridal I—l love her.”

  Fiery tears coursed down Lynx’s cheeks, scorching a trail across her burning skin. She wanted to argue, to fight for Heron, but in her heart, she knew Heron was dying—sacrificing himself for Axel, for her, for Nicholas. For everything the alliance stood for. Pain grew in the back of her throat.

  Axel moaned, a primal sound Lynx associated with a mortally wounded animal.

  She held her breath and grabbed his hand.

  He let her pull him away from Heron. Together, they scrambled down the stairs, devoid of monarchs now. Her chest burned with a combination of suppressed tears and suffocation. She longed to suck in a breath to relieve her aching lungs, but that would lead only to death.

  She half-ran, half-stumbled with Axel to the door at the bottom of the orb, forcing her leaden legs to move despite leaving Heron behind.

  Axel fumbled for the switch on the wall.

  The door slid open.

  Lynx tumbled through it, with Axel seconds behind her. No breathing. Not yet. Not until the airtight doors closed behind her and the air they had traipsed in had been sucked clean by the scrubbers.

  Her chest tightened with agony, imploding, crushing itself without the air it needed. Light-headed, seeing spots before her eyes, she struggled to stand. And then the all clear sounded.

  She took her first deep breath of clean air. It burned all the way down her throat into her starved lungs. She gulped more and more until she had to lean back against the wall for support.

  A flood burst down upon her and Axel from nozzles in the ceiling. She stripped off her fatigues, letting the cool water soothe her blistered skin. The bare skin the gas had touched was red with welts.