Page 46 of A Matter of Dragons

Oh, those fucking bastards. I let out a breath, long and slow, and then began to climb.

They had no idea what kind of a monster was coming for them.

* * * * *

THE SCREAMING STARTED after I’d been climbing in silence for what I guessed was almost an hour. I’d heard rocks shifting above me, caught whispered snatches of a half-dozen conversations, and then the voices had fallen silent and I’d climbed in stony silence. The first scream that shattered that silence had sounded like a battle cry, like His Majesty’s Royal Army rushing the enemy.

Then silence. And then, after I’d pulled myself up another scree field, a different type of screaming. Fear. Rage. Another heavy, thick silence, broken only by my own panting. A burst of flame filled the sky above the spot where I’d crouched, my heart hammering in my throat, against the ragged bark of a bristlecone pine.

And then a roar. The sound was so loud I felt it in the very marrow of my bones, a cry of fear and anger that forced tears from my eyes. I’d never heard a monster scream before. I hadn’t expected it to feel like much of anything, let alone like rage and grief.

I climbed higher, not bothering to hide the sounds of my passage as the cries and roars of battle shattered the night all around me. The monster’s screams poured down the mountain like an avalanche. The sound made my eyes sting and my arms shake. I could block out the men’s cries easily enough; I’d heard battle before, and besides, I’d wanted to make those men scream myself.

But I couldn’t ignore the dragon. She roared her agony and betrayal to the night sky, and it made my own heart bleed in response. By all the blessed kings, I had no idea the cry of a monster could convey so much pain.

I pulled myself up the mountain until the scent of smoke and blood swirled around me, and Doshir invaded my thoughts. I tried to focus on the massive golden dragon I’d seen in the shadow and flame of the pine grove, the enormous claws, the scales that glinted a dull bronze in the firelight. The fangs he’d revealed when he’d opened his mouth and spoken human words in a draconic voice.

But my mind resisted, and instead, I found myself pulled back to last night, to the conversation and frost wine and kisses that now felt like they’d been part of another world. To those full lips against mine and the hard length of his body between my legs. The sound of his laughter.

I dragged my body up the granite face of the mountain, and my memories of Doshir bled into memories of other lovers, other men who’d betrayed me. Anslo, who hadn’t even bothered to tell me he’d married someone else until I saw the two of them shopping in the market, her piling ribbons and lace into the basket in his arms. Nyte, who’d asked me to keep my shirt on so he wouldn’t have to see my arm, and the stupidly handsome man in the pub who’d ripped my top off in a brawl and then drunkenly declared that at least not all of me was all fucked up. I’d blackened both his eyes and split his gorgeous lip, but that voice had never left me.

Memories surged forward, dredged from all the dark, secret places within me by the flood of flames and screams washing down the mountainside, and the miserable, humiliating moments of my life interwove with the dragon’s bellows until it felt like she was giving voice to all my anger and sadness, to the horrible realization that I’d been lied to yet again by yet another lover, that I’d been followed and abused by men wearing King Donovan’s Royal Crest, that I’d seen my mission crumble and my friend’s blood stain the dirt. I climbed, and I cried, and the monster screamed for both of us.

Until staggering, scratched, and bruised in a thousand places, I pulled myself onto a wide, open ledge. A blackened human hand lay sprawled across the rocks before me. I recoiled, grabbing a scrubby brush oak for support. The hand was attached to a body that had been burned so badly it took me a moment to determine it was lying face-down. I crept away from the brush and scanned the ledge.

Those odd, blackened lumps scattered around the open ledge were not rocks. Something hot and bitter rose in my throat. My stomach rolled. I forced myself to breathe; the air smelled of smoke and blood, burnt flesh, and hot metal. How many? I wondered. A dozen men had ambushed us in the pine grove. How many were left? I blinked at the ledge before me, at the scattered, smoking remains that were not rocks. My eyes felt raw and angry.

“Come on, Rayne,” I whispered under my breath. “How many?”

I ducked back into the shelter of the brush oak, narrowed my eyes, and forced myself to trace the perimeter of the ledge. A huge, black gash on the side of the mountain was outlined with rocks that were glowing a dull orange. The scent of blood and smoke was thickest there; when I held my breath, a labored, rasping sound emanated from the darkness inside that gash.

My chest ached. Some wild, insane part of me wanted to walk toward that dark cleft, toward the rasping breath and the scent of blood. Something inside me recognized suffering and wanted to offer aid.

I bit down on my lip. Hard. The jolt of pain brought me back to myself. I dragged my eyes back to the perimeter of the ledge. Breathing slowly, I forced myself to count the misshapen human bodies littering the mountainside. Five on the far side of the cave’s mouth. I counted again, then shifted on the mountainside. Four on the near side, including the one sprawled at my feet. There was another... something... huddled near the cave’s entrance, but it was too small to be a corpse. Or at least, it was too small to be an entire corpse.

Another wave of nausea washed over me. I closed my eyes, ground my teeth together, and willed it to pass. That was nine, then. Nine out of a dozen men died on this mountain.

By all the blessed kings of Valgros, Eadberh had been right. This dragon would have slaughtered the two of us. The plan had always been for us to die. My gut seized, and I bent forward. I wasn’t going to puke; I wasn’t going to—

Rocks slid in the brush oaks behind me. I froze. I’d examined the ledge but ignored the pathetic little stand of brush oak I’d chosen as my shelter. I dropped to my knees and turned as quietly as I could.

My night vision was damn good, better than any of those sons of bitches in the Royal Army. There was a chance that whatever was in the oaks above me hadn’t seen me yet. I pushed a handful of leaves out of the way and looked up the mountainside, into the only available cover.

Armor winked back at me. The Royal Crest of Valgros, only partially obscured by a dark cloak. And above that, looking pale in the thin moonlight, was the arrogant face and greasy hair of Captain Niglan Olovan. I held my breath. Niglan’s head was nodding, almost as though he were counting. Silence stretched out between us, broken only by the labored, rasping breaths coming from the cave’s entrance and the crackle of the forest fire below.

Niglan shifted forward. He took two steps in near-silence before slipping. Rock ground against rock as he slid forward. His hand shot out and grabbed a branch so close to me I could have spat on him. The branch held; Niglan panted heavily. Beads of sweat gleamed on his pasty brow. He shook his head, then started nodding again.

I realized what he was doing in a wash of revulsion. He was trying to mask the sound of his descent, to make the falling rocks and snapping limbs sound random.

He was sneaking away like an absolute waste of a sword. He was sneaking away from his own royal mission, or from the royal mission he’d stolen from us. He’d seen his men slaughtered before him, and now this right son of a bitch wanted to get away? To survive?

Eadberh’s motionless body and horrifyingly gray visage burned through my mind, and anger flared inside of me like Niglan’s torch touching the dried needles in the pine grove. No, I thought. No, this bastard doesn’t get to survive.

I leaned forward and drew my sword. The blade rasped against its sheath, drowning out the labored breaths coming from the cave. Niglan’s head jerked up. Our gaze met in the dancing shadows of the brush oak. His eyes widened. And then I brought my sword down.

Not on his head; the angle was bad, and I didn’t want to lose my footing. No, I severed the branch he’d grabbed to arrest his fall. As the dry wood snapped beneath my blade, I raised my foot and brought my boot down square in the center of his chest.

His mouth opened as he reeled backward, but whatever words Captain Niglan Olovan might have said were lost in a scramble of rocks cascading down the mountainside. His arms pinwheeled in space as the Royal Captain went over on his back.