Three guards fall quickly, their collapse easier than I’d hoped. But the fourth, the man who attacked Gertha, is a fighter. He’s joined by the other two who still live, and they push me to my limits. I’m barely avoiding the swipes of their swords and jabs of their blades. Twice, I don’t, my skin flaying open as I let them get too close. Close enough to kill me.
I’ll be gods-damned before I let these drudges best me. On my worst day, I’m better than them.
Swinging, I take the head from one of them, barely noticing as it drops a few feet away and rolls toward Astarot. The others pause a moment, aware for the first time they’re in trouble. I can see the fear in their eyes as they glance at their headless comrade and then back at me.
They don’t delay long. This attack seems coordinated, and I realize they’ve fought together before. They’re both too fucking good to be stuck with dragon guarding duty. But it’s Astarot. The Dróttning doesn’t want to chance losing him again.
This fight lasts longer than it should, and they manage to cut me open three more times. They’re little slashes, nothing life-threatening, but they’re annoying as fuck. One’s on my sword hand and it makes it gods-damned hard to hold on to the blade that’s getting slicker and slicker with each pulse of my blood.
Finally, the man who attacked Gertha falters, his foot slipping on the gunk we’re splashing through. His sword arm lifts a bit as he tries to find his balance, and I shove my blade into him. I watch as his eyes grow wide and then all the light leaves them. I must have struck his heart. Good. Fucker.
The final soldier doesn’t give up, but he’s got no hope. Maybe he had a shot with the help of the others. Not now. It only takes a few seconds to disarm him and take his head from his neck.
Sucking in a deep breath, I look down at myself. I’m fucking filthy. I need to clean myself off before I even consider riding Astarot. I won’t sully Sifa’s dragon with the blood of these worthless creatures. That is, if he’s strong enough to carry a rider.
And then I look up at the dragon I’ve saved. Again. His eyes are solemn as he watches me. We’ll be able to communicate a bit—his bond with Tindera gives us a shallow connection—but he hasn’t chosen to speak with me yet. Maybe he’s as angry as Sifa. I wouldn’t blame him if he were.
Mate? he says at last. I’m not sure whose mate he’s asking about. Whether he knows Sifa is mine as well as his.
“Your draikana?” I ask, holding my position for now. I’ll release him soon. First, I want to make sure we understand each other. That he won’t turn on me for what I did to Sifa.
Yours, he tells me. He knows, which means …
“Did you tell Sifa that she’s my mate?”
No. He must have heard it from Tindera and, for whatever reason, hadn’t yet shared it with Sifa.
Smart dragon.
“Sifa’s okay,” I assure him. “The Dróttning doesn’t plan to torture her right away.”
Astarot’s eyes narrow as a puff of flame bursts from his nostrils.Liar.
“I know we can’t trust the Dróttning,” I concede, “but I think she told the truth about this. It made sense, what she planned.”
Liar, Astarot insists, the fire erupting from his mouth this time too.
My stomach plummets to the ground as I watch Sifa’s dragon. “She started?” My mind fills with memories of Sifa’s pain from years ago. Of the torture I’ve seen—and inflicted—in those caves. Astarot’s word settles into my gut, a chunk of ice ready to shatter and take me with it. “But she told me she wouldn’t.” My words come out as a hoarse whisper as guilt starts to consume me.
Liar, Astarot repeats, this time with disdain.
He’s angry at me for believing her. And he’s gods-damned right to be.
What the fuck have I done?A chill creeps up my spine, stretching through me to drag a numbness all the way to my fingers and toes. I was so eager to accept the Dróttning’s assurances, so anxious to believe Sifa wouldn’t be harmed, I took her word at face value. But I should fucking know better.
“Is she okay?” My voice nearly breaks on the last word.
Pain. Astarot’s bond to Sifa is strong enough to feel her pain, even this far away. He’s experienced everything she did.
“Is she still on the rack?” I don’t know if I want to hear his answer.
No.
My chin drops as my thoughts skitter through the options. The idea of exposing Sifa to more torment kills me. It’s all I can do to keep myself from freeing Astarot and then mounting Sigurd to race back to the Nest. Which would do no fucking good. I can’t help her alone. I know that.
I realize now what Astarot was asking. Not whether Sifa’s okay. He knows better than me what she’s going through—what the Dróttning did to her and will do again. Astarot needs to know what the fuck I’m gonna do about it. How I’m going to free his rider.
First things first. “I have a plan for Sifa,” I assure him, taking a step forward. “Right now, though, I’m going to release you. Okay?”
