Oaths (Dragon Blood, Book 8)

by Lindsay Buroker

  With her sharp eyes, Cas noticed a large boxy steam wagon rolling out from behind the castle on the far side. The man driving it didn’t wear a uniform that would have identified him as one of the king’s men, nor was the royal emblem on the side of the vehicle.

  “If that were coming in instead of going out, I would deem it suspicious,” Cas said.

  Tolemek turned to look. Before he could answer, Therrik strode up to them and squinted at the vehicle. The driver didn’t look at anyone, simply maneuvered the wagon carefully past people as he headed for the gate.

  Therrik lifted Kasandral enough to display a faint green glow coming from its blade.

  “That’s for that wagon, sir?” Cas asked him.

  “I think so. I’m getting the urge to go over and smash it.”

  “Quash it,” Tolemek said and pointedly turned his back to the wagon. “I believe the king may be taking our advice and moving the dragon blood.”

  “Right now?” Cas followed his example and turned her back, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention to it with their interest, especially if Tolemek was right. “When all these people are here?”

  “Better now than after the shaman arrives,” Tolemek said.

  “I suppose. I wonder where the king is having it taken.”

  “Some bank indistinguishable from another, I imagine.”

  Therrik stared at the wagon for a few seconds longer, but finally grunted and turned around. He muttered something under his breath. The command words ordering the sword to stand down?

  “I’m surprised Kasandral sensed it,” Tolemek said. “I can’t say that I did. The vials must be in iron boxes.”

  “It’s a sensitive sword.” Therrik’s head whipped in another direction.

  Cas looked in time to spot a side door in the castle opening and closing. Servers had been bringing food and drinks out through it, but she didn’t see anyone near it now.

  “I think the sword felt something else.” Therrik strode in that direction, mowing over a few guests in his way.

  “Are we going to help?” Tolemek asked.

  Cas doubted Colonel Therrik would want their help, but she worried that self-opening door signified someone magical sneaking into the castle. She couldn’t stay and munch snacks and watch juggling if the king was in danger.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  Cas jogged back to retrieve her pistol. She wished she had her sniper rifle. It seemed a far more fitting weapon to unleash on a shaman.

  The guard protested the weapon pickup, but one of his peers had joined him at the stand and gripped his arm.

  “That’s Raptor from Wolf Squadron. If she wants a firearm, let her have one.”

  “But—”

  Cas didn’t hear the rest. She took a few steps toward the gate, as if she’d only been collecting her pistol because she was leaving, then holstered it, joined Tolemek, and headed for the door. Therrik already stood there, a hand on the knob and the other gripping Kasandral. He squinted suspiciously at the low hedges lining the castle wall on either side of the door, then strode inside.

  Cas hurried to catch up with him. She had no delusions about finding a shaman who didn’t want to be found without the help of magic.

  In the servants’ corridor inside, Therrik almost knocked over a woman heading out with a tray. She tottered, bumping her shoulder on the wall as he passed. Her tray wobbled.

  Therrik barked an apology but didn’t slow down. Cas paused to make sure the woman didn’t drop the tray, then ran to catch up. Up ahead, Therrik veered into one of the kitchens.

  “Is he stopping for a snack?” Tolemek muttered.

  “Probably not.”

  “Is the shaman stopping for a snack?”

  “You know him better than I do.”

  Tolemek grunted in vague agreement.

  “Maybe we can grab some flour to throw at him if he’s invisible,” Cas said as they ran toward the kitchen. She imagined the castle’s entire guard regiment leaping on a man invisible but outlined in white flour.

  “I don’t think that’s how it works. It’s less that the person is actually invisible and more that he’s fiddling with the minds of observers so they don’t realize they see him. I have vials of my smoke-grenade formulas with me in case invisibility is the problem.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll grab something else to throw at him.”

  “Usually, you throw bullets.”

  “Shooting up the castle may be frowned upon.”

  A clatter and a shriek came from the kitchen.

  “Did that ape knock more people over?” Tolemek asked, picking up speed and pushing through the door first.

  Plumes of black smoke wafted out.

  “Fire!” someone cried.

  Cas groaned. She doubted Therrik had started a fire.

  High priestess, are you awake?

  Sardelle grimaced. She believed she’d annihilated the dangerous microscopic fungal infection that had spread through all the tiny airways of Fern’s lungs, but she had wanted to do another thorough check of the woman before pulling out of her healing trance. Or being pulled out by a dragon.

  I’m healing Fern, she responded. What is it?

  He’s back on the rooftop, Jaxi informed her. Maybe he wants to complain that pigs don’t make good followers.

  As this time of night, I’d think all the pigs would be asleep.

  Sardelle opened her eyes and focused on the dark window near the door. She had lost track of time but suspected she had been working for at least an hour. Fern slept on the couch, breathing easily, the fever that had gripped her gone. Sardelle sensed that her lungs, though still raw and tired, were doing much better.

  There are fires in the city, Bhrava Saruth said. By the docks and in the castle. I believe there are enemy saboteurs afoot. If they molest my temple site, I shall char them into ashes.

  Fires? Sardelle lurched to her feet. Jaxi, do you sense that?

  Not from way out here. I might be able to if someone’s gargantuan dragon aura wasn’t dampening my range.

  Can you fly us back there, Bhrava Saruth? Sardelle grabbed the tea cups and hurried to take them into the kitchen. She thought about leaving a note for Fern, but if that Dakrovian shaman or someone else was causing trouble in the city, she couldn’t tarry.

  Of course, high priestess. Shall I bless your mate’s mother before we go? I would very much like her to become one of my worshippers. She has good hands.

  Uh, Jaxi thought. I don’t want to know what that’s in reference to.

  I think she’s petted him in ferret form. Bhrava Saruth, I’m sure a blessing would be useful, and I would appreciate it even if she’s sleeping and won’t realize what happened.

  As she finished the words and stepped back into the living room, a golden glow swept slowly over Fern from head to toe.

  Perhaps we can tell her that I blessed her, Bhrava Saruth said. Otherwise, she may not fully realize the perks of following me.

  He’s not into doing anonymous good deeds, is he? Jaxi asked.

  The glow faded, and Sardelle did one more check to make sure Fern was doing well before she headed for the door. Fern radiated vitality and slept comfortably. Good.

  Anonymity doesn’t get you offerings of tarts. Sardelle snatched Jaxi’s scabbard and headed outside, closing the door softly.

  That would be tragic.

  Bhrava Saruth alighted on the walkway in front of Sardelle, lifting her with his magic so that she settled on his back again.

  There aren’t any other dragons attacking the city, are there? Sardelle asked. That would explain fires burning.

  Not unless they are cleverly hiding their auras from me. This is very unlikely. Few of the dragons left in the world are clever.

  I wonder if he’s including Phelistoth in that statement, Jaxi said as Bhrava Saruth sprang into the air.

  Sardelle didn’t answer her. Instead, reminded of Phelistoth, she asked, Bhrava Saruth, is
Phelistoth within your range? Can you ask him to bring Tylie to the city in case we need help?

  She would like to think that they could handle a single shaman without the help of multiple dragons, but just because Tolemek had only spoken to one man capable of wielding magic did not mean there weren’t more. And just because Bhrava Saruth didn’t sense an enemy dragon didn’t mean there couldn’t be one in the city, shape-shifted and up to no good.

  Phelistoth! We do not need him. He is a Cofah dragon.

  He’s been helpful to Iskandia thus far. Just round him up if you can, please. If you do, I’ll ask Fern to bake something just for you.

  Very well.

  As the dark countryside passed below them, and the wind tugged at her hair, Sardelle hoped Angulus was all right. A fire at the castle. Somehow, that seemed more ominous than one in the harbor. Either way, she feared Ridge would be in the middle of the trouble. She hoped he and all their friends were also all right.

  16

  Ridge tried the door again, frowning when it didn’t budge. From what he had learned of magic, whatever the shaman out there was doing to keep them locked in should only work as long as he was concentrating on it. Unless he had applied some magical artifact or tool to the doors and windows—or potion, Ridge added, thinking of Tolemek’s concoctions. But how would the shaman have gotten close enough to do so with all the guards in the hall? And what kind of weird alchemical formula could have made all the glass in all the windows—Angulus had tried applying the heavy tape dispenser to the rest of them, as well—too strong to break?

  A muffled scream reached Ridge’s ears. It sounded like it came from downstairs. He thought he detected a hint of smoke in the air and worried the castle might be burning down around them.

  He jogged to the window and peered out. He could just make out the stage, and the jugglers still seemed to be performing. Whatever was happening inside must not have become common knowledge outside yet.

  “Zirkander.” Angulus strode into the office from the sitting room. “Make yourself useful.”

  He carried a rusty pickaxe that looked like it had been removed from a wall mounting and an axe made from…

  “Er, is that bronze, sir?” Ridge caught the axe when Angulus tossed it to him.

  “One of my ancestors used it to slay a sea monster, or so the plaque says.”

  “Sea monster?” Ridge mouthed. Some dragon hybrid from ages past?

  Angulus strode to the door to the hallway. “The pickaxe was a gift from miners after they found a lucrative diamond at the newly opened Masonwood Gems on my great-great-great grandfather’s land. I’m not sure about the integrity of the wood haft after all these years, but both tools looked more promising than the tape dispenser. Or the centuries-old flintlock above the fireplace.”

  “I have my pistol, if we think shooting things would be useful.” Ridge had contemplated firing at one of the windows earlier, but he doubted a bullet would have any more luck piercing a shaman’s magical protection than a tape dispenser. He’d seen too many bullets bounce off Sardelle’s magical shields. Besides, he didn’t want to go down in history as the person responsible for killing a king if the bullet took a bad bounce.

  “Doubtful.”

  With a mighty swing, Angulus slammed the pickaxe into the door. Ridge expected to see and hear wood splinter, but the tool bounced off without leaving a dent.

  Angulus growled, then took a couple of steps to the side. He tapped at the wall in a few places with the flat end of the pickaxe, found a spot he liked, then stepped back and took another mammoth swing. The pick smashed into the plaster coating, and lath underneath it snapped.

  “Hah,” Angulus said, tugging the tool out. “No magic protecting the walls.”

  “I guess the shaman assumed a king wouldn’t destroy his own office to escape.”

  “Then he doesn’t know me very well.” Angulus slammed the pickaxe into the wall again.

  “Perhaps more royal visits to Dakrovia would be in order.” Ridge walked over to help, careful not to get in Angulus’s swing path.

  Angulus shot him a dirty look, then pointed to the small hole he’d created. “This is going to have to be a lot bigger for us to get out. Alternate with me.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Ridge did his best to be useful, but the axe was duller than the head of the sea monster it had slain thousands of years ago. The tape dispenser might have been a better tool. But he and Angulus did make progress, however ugly, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Unfortunately, someone must have decided the interior castle walls should be extra thick, perhaps so the king wouldn’t be subjected to hearing the voices of people walking past in the hallway. They found another layer of lath and plaster behind the first.

  “I can’t believe nobody is hearing this and coming to check on you,” Ridge said as they toiled.

  Another scream drifted up from the level below. It belonged to a woman.

  “I hope it’s because they’re down there, helping out with that.” Angulus gritted his teeth and swung with more ferocity, though by now, they were both breathing heavily.

  A bead of sweat ran down the side of Ridge’s face. As determined as Angulus was, he had to pause to take a break, dropping the head of the pickaxe and leaning on the end of the handle. The plaster-covered tip of that pick didn’t look any sharper than Ridge’s bronze-age tool.

  He used the axe to clear away shards of plaster. He saw with some satisfaction that they had broken all the way through in a couple of places. The studs in the wall would be problematic, but at least they were making progress. Ridge decided not to point out that Angulus would likely be much safer if he stayed in the office, that this shaman didn’t seem to want to kill people. Maybe, once he realized the blood was gone, he would leave the castle.

  Or was it gone? Had Angulus actually gotten it off the grounds or just loaded it into a wagon somewhere?

  Angulus waved for him to back up so he could resume swinging the pickaxe.

  “Tell me something, Zirkander,” he said between swings.

  “Yes, Sire?”

  “Why haven’t I gotten my wedding invitation yet? Sardelle says she signed one.”

  That wasn’t the question Ridge had expected. He kicked some of the plaster on the floor out of the way.

  “Because I actually wanted to ask you…” Ridge groped for eloquent words, which was hard to do when he was dripping sweat and cutting a hole in the wall.

  “I’m not mad at you anymore about the sorceress.” Angulus glanced at him between swings. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I have wondered about that. I certainly feel guilty. Logically, I know I couldn’t have stopped her—I tried to crash my flier into the ocean and kill us both rather than bring her into the castle. But it’s like Ahn and Kasandral, I suppose. Knowing you couldn’t stop it doesn’t mean you didn’t still do it. And people died because of it.”

  Angulus stopped, leaning on the pickaxe to catch his breath again. “Logically, I know a lot of things too. But humans fail at being logical a lot.”

  “They do indeed,” Ridge murmured quietly, studying the hole instead of meeting Angulus’s eyes.

  “I didn’t realize you’d tried to crash.”

  “They read my every thought. Eversong and what was, at the time, her soulblade. They wouldn’t let me do anything except their wishes. I was just the puppet.”

  “I can’t imagine what it would have been like, ruling a thousand years ago when dragons and powerful sorceresses were prevalent and even the norm. Those rulers must have often felt like puppets themselves.”

  “Likely so.”

  Angulus hefted the pickaxe again. “So, I’m invited to the wedding?”

  “Yes, Sire. You always were. I’ve just been trying to get up the courage to ask you to be one of my kin watchers.”

  Angulus paused mid-swing and stared at him for a moment. Which was somewhat alarming, since the pickaxe was raised over his shoulder. But A
ngulus soon recovered from whatever surprise he felt.

  “Of course I will.”

  “Good. Thank you.” A ridiculously intense wave of relief flooded through Ridge. He told himself this wasn’t something he should be thinking about right now, but after having tried to figure out a way to ask him for weeks, he couldn’t help but be glad he had finally done it. And Angulus had said yes. Ridge truly hadn’t been certain he would.

  “I’m a bit surprised though,” Angulus said as he returned to swinging. “You’re Lord Popularity with the common soldier. Don’t you have a lot of colleagues that you’re good friends with that you’d rather have at your side?”

  “Most of my good friends that I came up through the ranks with are dead.”

  Angulus squinted at him, as if he thought it might be a joke. Ridge wished it were. But Angulus saw the reports. He had to realize how deadly the job was, how few people retired from Wolf Squadron. Or any of the squadrons. If they were lucky, they were only injured and medically retired.

  Angulus seemed to realize it wasn’t a joke. He frowned and swung the pickaxe again.

  “Not that I wouldn’t have punted them to the side for you, Sire,” Ridge said, figuring Angulus knew how to handle his levity more than his seriousness. “Mox, Digger, and Antar would have understood.”

  “I appreciate what you and your people do for the country, Zir—Ridge,” Angulus said. “I probably don’t say it often enough. I know the medals stop meaning much after a while. Or so I assume. Nobody ever gave me a medal. Sometimes, I’m envious of you for that. For a lot of things.”

  “Oh?” Ridge didn’t know what to say to Angulus’s seriousness any more than Angulus knew what to say to his. “If you come to the wedding, I’m sure I can find one to give you.”

  “Very generous, but I think I’ll survive without you donating one of your medals to me.”

  “How about a piece of cake?”

  “That I’ll take.”

  Angulus grunted, lowered the pickaxe, and shoved at the broken plaster on the far side of their hole. His fist went through to the other side. He pulled back bloody knuckles, but he barely seemed to notice the injury. He stuck his entire arm through and patted around, trying to reach the doorknob.