“Hurry, child! Into the cellar!” Esa shoved the child toward the rough stone stairs. Her old, cumbersome body was slow, and once more, she cursed Mab under her breath as she was nearly trampled by the scores of people running toward the caverns beneath the castle. It was the only place that was safe anymore. As she heard the cries of the children, Esa’s guilt consumed her. She was disgusted by her own weakness.
Dragons were supposed to be the stuff of legend. Their kind had been driven out of Osghast thousands of years ago. The only fire drakes that remained were in the outer regions of the continent—barren places surrounded by craggy mountain ranges and few settlements. But Queen Mab’s treachery and her own weakness had brought down this plague upon them.
First there was the fire over the mountains. Then the lightning that streaked across the sky until it was torn and black. The beating of its wings was the rumbling of thunder that you could feel deep in your chest. Like the crushing of leaves beneath your feet only multiplied indefinitely. For weeks, it flew over the countryside, burning crops and fields and forest. Then it came to the villages, then the towns and into the square, making its way across Osghast. Anyone who couldn’t run was doomed. The people in the market town of Isling fled into their homes and the tunnels beneath the street. Even into the crypts, praying that the bones of their ancestors might protect them from the fire and razor-sharp talons. The town fathers told everyone to hide and stay calm, that the dragon would tire of them and move on. Then they enlisted The Council to cast some spell of protection against it. When that didn’t work, they began to offer a reward for the hide. Scores of men ventured into the deepest caverns of Gwynfir, the entrance to the mountain kingdoms. Almost none returned. Only a few of the strongest ones, laid low by the beast and babbling about hellfire and ash and gold, would return to tell their tales. And then worse than the beast itself were the dragonslayers. Wild men from the north who came to Isling in their shiny armor made of dragon scales. They broke the treasury with their deceit and still offered no relief. There was nothing left to be done. And so it had been for the last twenty years.
Esa ran, gathering as many of the children as she could and urging them into the tunnels. It was fast. The children of Isling had learned from birth about the stench of brimstone and the shriek of the dragon as it emerged above the highest peaks surrounding the tiny village. They knew what to do, falling in line behind the old woman and letting her shuffle them to the safe havens. They didn’t even fear the darkness of the caverns anymore. They had learned to love it. To see it as their salvation. “Stay close together! Don’t look back!” The townspeople climbed over one another, desperately trying to get as far into the tunnel as possible. Large chambers had been carved into the stone walls where more of them could pile inside to wait out the storm.
Finally, Esa heard the scraping of stone against stone as the gate was closed. Darkness fell as the room was sealed, blotting out every bit of light save for the tiny peepholes at the level of the street. From here the sentries could see what was happening. They would know when it was safe. If it would ever be safe again. And then there was silence. For endless minutes they sat, waiting and praying. Wondering if this hiding place would become their tomb.
“Nan Esa, are we going to die?” one of the children asked, her lip trembling as she clutched her kerchief close. “Is the dragon going to eat us?”
“No, child,” Esa replied. “Why, you’re hardly a mouthful for a beast such as that. You stay here close to me. You’ll be safe.” She offered the little girl a smile and gathered her to her rather considerable breast. Esa was the most trusted midwife in the village, but she did not feel so trustworthy this day. Though she promised that the child would be safe, she wasn’t sure how much longer they would be able to run. She had seen up close the sort of damage that the dragon was capable of. She had been there on the day of its birth. Esa knew that the dragon would not be satisfied until the town was razed to dust, never to be rebuilt. Either the king of Osghast would help them, or they would all perish in the fires of the beast.
The roar of the dragon broke the silence. The children screamed, putting their hands over their ears to block out the painful rumble that rattled their bones. Then a liquid hissing as it exhaled fire. Suddenly the air was too close, and Esa could feel the stones heating up. It knew they were there, could smell them. It could hear their cries. “Hush!” Esa commanded, and the room was silent save for the whimpers of the children. The ground shook as the dragon landed just above their heads. Esa could hear its breath, sniffing them out. Suddenly a single eye, golden with flecks of red flame, appeared in the peephole. The roaring was replaced by the screams of the children at seeing the eye of the dragon peering down at them through the bars.
“I see you.” The dragon’s voice was as clear in Esa’s mind as the sound of the crying child at her feet. “I told you to stay away from the towns today.” Loose cobblestone dust fell from the ceiling as the dragon trudged down the narrow lane above them, dragging the massive tail behind him. His wings scraped past the humble buildings and homes, tearing them down with a minor flinch of muscle. “Tell them to run, Mother… back to their holes. Run for their lives.” The serpentine voice in her head filled it to bursting, and she closed her eyes. “Live to run again.”
“We have to get out of here,” Esa whispered. “Through the tunnels.”
“But the dragon,” the sentry hissed. “It’s still there. We’ll never get past him.”
“It’s not us it wants,” Esa said. “If we stay, it will matter not to the dragon. If we move quickly, he will let us go.” She locked eyes with the sentry, pleading with him to listen. She had always warned them before. The people of Isling had only survived because of the seemingly all-seeing eye of the midwife. Some said she was a witch; others said she was a servant of the Fae that could speak to the dragon. Whatever she was, her help was the only thing keeping them alive, and the sentry knew it.
“To the tunnels! Lock arms and stay together!” They obeyed the sentry, allowing Esa to lead them through the labyrinthine network of tunnels beneath the street that would eventually lead them to the forest just outside of town.
“Run,” the dragon’s voice hissed. “Run, little rats. Back to your hovels!” Esa screamed, covering her ears as he roared, their connection still raw. Looking back over her shoulder, the last she saw of the village was red flame leaping toward the blackened sky.
Chapter Three
“The entire village, razed to the ground, sire. Isling was not the first and will most certainly not be the last. We’re running out of options.” The minister from Isling looked near frantic as King Christophe paced. “Please, sire. We need help!”
“It seems to me that your problem is solved, Grafton. If the dragon has razed the city, there seems to be little reason for the dragon to return.”
“Sire!” the red-faced little man exclaimed. “The dragon will return! If not to Isling, then to any of the market towns surrounding the kingdom! It seems bound and determined to destroy your kingdom around you. How long do you think it will be until he enters the gates of Thane itself?”
Christophe rounded on the minister, his anger ignited by the implication that he was impotent to do anything. “No creature of man nor beast is that bold, Grafton! And you might want to remember to whom you speak.”
“I did not mean to suggest…”
“Did you not?” the king snarled, nose to nose with Grafton. Christophe had always hated this merchant who had managed to buy his way into lordship over the market district. He was not of Osghast. A singh, a gypsy of the Borderlands. Filthy tinkers and circus performers, they were. When none of the surrounding rulers had been able to infiltrate Osghast, the singh had come in with a far more sinister plan: killing off the Osghastian market towns with their cheap goods. Isling had been overrun with them since Grafton came to power, and now Christophe could only hope that the dragon might cleanse his kingdom of their kind for good. “Perhaps the singh have aligne
d with this beast!”
“Sire! I have ever been loyal to Your Majesty, as have the people under my lordship. However, if you continue to turn a blind eye, you may have very little kingdom to rule!”
“Do you dare to tell me how to run my own kingdom, Grafton? I have executed men for lesser offenses!”
“Sire, I would not presume to tell you how to run your kingdom, but your options are dwindling. This dragon is a product of evil intent, and mark me, if you don’t destroy it first, then it will surely destroy you.”
The king stared at Grafton, searching for some threatening words that would quash the argument, but sadly he could find none. “I shall take your words under advisement, but for now, leave me be!”
“But, sire...”
“Get out!” Christophe shouted, taking a step toward the grimy little coward.
Grafton gasped, stumbling over the end of the rug at his feet. “Your people are losing faith, my lord. I pray you will not think on it too long.” With that Grafton gave a short and obviously reluctant bow before taking his leave. Christophe watched as the man shambled from the room. How he hated him, but he was right. Something would have to be done.
The door of the study slammed behind Grafton, reverberating off the walls and then silence. Christophe sighed and held his head in his hands. Had his kingdom come down to this? Petty arguing with fools? He remembered his childhood clearly and never had his father bore such troubles. It was peaceful then as it had been for a thousand years before. As he stared out of the window looking down on the cliffs below, the rushing ocean crashing upon the rocks seemed to echo his mood.
The royal castle at Thane had stood on this spot for a thousand years, a fortress of stone and iron that served as a testament to the unfaltering strength of the Laurenz line. It was purposefully set on a high cliff at the farthest corner of the continent as a show of power to anyone coming to the great kingdom of Osghast by sea. At high tide the rough Cryspyn Sea sent sprays of foam over the rocky crags, making it appear that smoke rose all around it. The grounds of the castle were surrounded by a dark forest that many men were afraid to venture too far into for fear they might stumble through the gates of Faerie, never to return and forced into servitude at Queen Mab’s court. The avenue ran parallel to the river through the forest and into the city of Thane. A healthy market thrived here with goods brought from all over the continent and across the sea. For centuries, the prosperity and peace his line had brought to Osghast had spread from the capital like a vast web over rolling hills and green fields where farmers grew everything from the finest grains to the sweetest of apples. At each corner of the realm were the other market towns of Isling and Gylbreth. The smaller, lesser kingdoms of Kronin, Tarkin, and Ezrebare bordered the country along the rushing River Kell. Osghast had been the crown jewel of the continent for as long as anyone could remember, the greatest power in the known world since his ancient ancestor had defeated the Dragon Lords. But now it seemed the Dragon Lords would have their revenge. The world was bearing down on Osghast from every side. The lesser kingdoms that had always cowered before them now boldly threatened war. Barbarian tribes from the north raided his borderlands. And the dragon... the cursed dragon. Soon the great kingdom he had inherited from his ancestors would be nothing more than a burned-out ruin. A monument to his failures. Perhaps he deserved as much.
“Father? Is everything all right?” Prince Tristan peeked into the parlor before entering, closing the doors behind him. “I heard shouting.”
Christophe smiled wanly at his son. His beautiful son, so like his dead mother. Looking into his face, he could almost see Katrin’s changeable green eyes staring back at him. If only he didn’t see that glimmer of greed lurking there. Tristan’s birth was cursed. Christophe had always felt it. From the moment Mab had given him that onion, he’d known that naught but evil could be born of such magic. In the darkest corners of his mind, Christophe knew that this was why he’d always kept Tristan at arm’s length. Never loving him as a father should. “It’s just Grafton.”
“I know. I saw him leave. He looked upset.”
“Well, that’s hardly surprising. It seems that the Gypsy King always has some kind of bee in his bonnet. If only he would spend more of his energy collecting merchant taxes from his people.” The king made no secret of his dislike for the Minister of Isling. Their heated debates were a common occurrence.
“Father…” Tristan began. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You know that ordinarily I would never speak out against you. And I’m not now. That’s why I wanted to speak to you in private, but… I’m afraid that Grafton has a point.”
“Oh?” Christophe could already feel the muscles in his jaw aching as he gritted his teeth, lest he lose patience with Tristan. “And what point would that be?”
“The dragon of Gwynfir has begun to be more of a problem than we ever anticipated. We simply cannot ignore this threat. Isling is not the first of our holdings to be attacked. Over the last several months, the dragon has burned out several market towns and outposts. The people are crying out to us for help! Some have even resorted to bringing dragonslayers from the north…”
Christophe pinched the bridge of his nose, pacing back and forth before the fire. “What would you have me do, son? The days of legions are over. And that’s what it would take to slay the dragon. You all seem to believe that I’m just sitting here in my study, ignorant of the world around me! Messengers from Gylbreth, Ezrebare—all over the continent have come with reports of this beast. They say he breathes walls of flame that can destroy an entire village in seconds. That his roar shakes the earth, rocking the very foundations of the strongholds. He’ll carry off women and children and make swift meals of any man who might try to defy him. Not even with a hundred thousand knights could you defeat this foe!”
“So you’re willing to just scuttle behind your castle walls and watch your people—my people—burn?”
“When last I checked, Christophe was king of Osghast. Not Tristan!” Christophe spat. “I will keep my own counsel on how to protect her!”
Tristan watched as his father stormed from the study. He did not have the strength in his gait that he once had. He was weary with age and worry. It pained his father to see his people suffering, but pretending there wasn’t a problem was his only defense. He wanted to shout in frustration, but he knew it would not matter. If only his father would step aside, retire to the country, and make way for him. There was unrest all over the kingdom, not just in Isling, but in the other market towns and outposts. Traders were avoiding their country as news of the fire serpent traveled across land and sea. Ambitious kings had their eyes fixed on Osghast. Centrally located on the Cryspyn Sea, it was ideally placed for commerce and travel. The king of Osghast ruled most of the continent, not by force but by default control. It was an enormous power much desired by the lesser kings in the borderlands. The dragon would kill Osghast not by destroying its people, but by cutting out its heart. And his father was apparently going to stand by and let it happen.
“Begging your pardon, Highness.” Tristan turned to see Grafton cowering in that loathsome way of the nobility. Politicians. With their serpentine smiles and loose tongues, they would lick a man’s boots while they stabbed him in the back with their daggers. Tristan hated them.
“Rise, Minister.”
“I did not know anyone was here. I’m afraid I left my cloak.” Grafton gestured toward the chair where his gilded cloak lay draped. “Do you mind if I get it?”
“Please,” Tristan replied, stepping aside. He watched as the little man pulled the fur-lined garment around his shoulders. The cold weather did not suit the gypsy king. His dark complexion was a remnant of his ancestry. The singh were a desert people, slowly driven across the continent by their treachery. “Is what you say true, Grafton?”
“About what, Highness?”
“The dragon of Gwynfir. Did it raze Isling to the ground?”
“The markets and most of the homes in town. W
e will rebuild, but it will be some time before the town is back on its feet. Assuming that the dragon will leave us be.” He gave another short bow and started out again.
“Grafton!”
“Yes, Highness?” The old man turned. He was proud and unflinching. Grafton was very brave and very irreverent. This made him extremely dangerous. “What service might I perform for the Crown Prince?”
“You can stop kissing the back of my trousers, Grafton. I know if given half the chance you’d feed me and my father to the beast yourself.”
Grafton feigned an innocent expression of shock. “But Your Highness, surely you don’t think—”
“But you’re also a businessman. Which we both know is why you’re really here. Not some over-inflated sense of civic duty.”
“I care about the people of Isling!” Grafton exclaimed. “You haven’t seen the destruction that the dragon has wreaked upon my people! Homes destroyed! Women and children wandering the streets hungry! The dead and dying lying in the road! Those who fled to the shelters nearly died because they were buried underground for days! Don’t tell me that I don’t care about the people of Isling!”
“You care about using them to line your pockets! And who can blame you? You’re their protection, Grafton! Why shouldn’t you reap the benefit of their blind faith?” Tristan paced, his thumb poised gently between his teeth. “Of course, for once, we have a common goal, Minister. A common enemy, if you like.”
“I assume you mean the dragon.”
“Of course.” He paused, peering at Grafton. Almost studying him. He was trying to decide if he could trust him. Or rather, how long he might trust him. “Help me then, Grafton. Help me slay the beast. A show of strength is just what we need. Our kingdom will prosper again if we can cut out this poison.”
“But how, Highness? Isling is defunct. Osghast is significantly weakened by your father’s poor management of his power.”
Huntress: A Paranormal Romance Page 4
