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And there’s a moment of silence before we feel it. A moment of peace. An energy thrumming through the earth. A rumbling like from a galloping herd of buffalo. But more than that, it’s the energy of a firestorm rage that crackles through the air.
And it’s not coming from the man in the cage.
A monster roars in dark fury outside of the cave, scorching the tavern with vehemence, like the devil emerging straight from hell to annihilate us all.
DaiSzek gallops from the blackened shadows of the forest like a murderous devourer of worlds. And his eyes glow crimson red.
I laugh through my tears, gasping at how his entrance has paralyzed my entire body in divine awe. The beautiful, terrifying beast charges for us, feral energy pulsing through every man and woman around us. They scatter like rats in a sewer pipe.
DaiSzek leaps in front of Dessin’s cage, or whoever is in there now, guarding his friend. And I run to them. The arms have dropped from my waist. I’m sprinting like a madwoman to the cage, to the unfaltering protection of DaiSzek’s ferocious stance.
When he sees that I am safely behind him, his snarl pulls back, showing off the deathly fangs that could rip a tree in half. A warning that whoever crosses him will lose their flesh, their organs, their souls.
And the crowd obeys. Staring in shock, in horror, in soul-shattering disbelief at the beast. The legends of which myths were written.
Our friend. Our protector.
8. Legendary
The whispers are frightened and cautious.
DaiSzek does not stand down. He’s waiting for an order from us. A command to eliminate the threats. His stance is wide and daring, head low, neck out, a predatory sign before an attack.
I’m shaking. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s the shock of being in the presence of something great. Something almighty. I can hardly breathe as I gaze at him in this new light. He’s an unconquerable force to them. An iconic legend that is simply superior.
“Is that a…?”
“A RottWeilen,” the man in the cage announces. His straight posture. Confident eyes scanning the crowd for weakness. His gaze shifts to me, asking with one look if I’m alright.
Dessin.
I nod my head, still unable to catch my breath.
The crowd breaks out in frantic whispers, flinching as DaiSzek continues to lurch forward, snarling an awful sound deep within his throat.
“They’re extinct…” someone says from the back. “They’re supposed to be extinct!”
I lean into DaiSzek’s side, afraid they might want to kill him. My hand reaches over his sleek black fur until my hand disappears.
At some point during the chaos, Runa was knocked over. She’s up now, dusting herself off. “Do you believe me now?” She strides around DaiSzek, holding her hands up to show him she’s not a threat, she wants to open his cage.
But DaiSzek isn’t having it. He springs forward, teeth snapping a breath away from her face, sending her white hair to blow back over her shoulders. She falls to the ground again, gawking up at the beast that could crush her with one bite.
“Skylenna will have to free me,” Dessin tells her, satisfaction seeping through his words like a towel soaking up a spill. “He’ll decapitate anyone else this close.” He grins down at her. I suspect he’s holding back a laugh.
I walk around DaiSzek, stopping in front of his large snout to admire him for a moment. But he isn’t having that either, he uses that big head to nudge me over to the cage, to hurry me along because he doesn’t like me exposed to the threats.
Dessin smirks at me from behind the bars. “I had that handled, you know. I didn’t need him to come save the day.”
I snort. “All that blood part of the plan?” I nod my head at his arms, still being stabbed with the long metal thorns of the cage. I unlatch a few metal plates and bolts.
“Just a scratch.” He tries to shrug but forgets he’s nailed in place. He hisses.
I shake my head, removing the last rod that’s keeping the cage from opening. I try to jerk open the cylindrical doors, but he grunts.
“Slowly.”
I cringe. Whoops. The doors are attached to the spikes puncturing his arms. I have to open them inch by inch, watching the pointed tips slipping from his wounds.
