Burn (Dragon Souls)

by Fletcher, Penelope

  “Ah, my sister-Queen.” The Chosen stood, dusted off her hands then clasped Marina’s forearm to pull her onto her feet. “Let us see who stands after this so called thrashing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  High off the jungle floor, Marina raced along a tree branch heedless of the killer drop should she falter. Her knees kicked high and her arms pumped furiously.

  Abraded hands batted aside broad leaves, taking damage as spiny branches tore at her face, her hair, ripped gaping holes in her tunic, and left smears of pungent, whitish sap on her leathers.

  She vaguely heard the delicate thump, thump, thump, of feet hitting bark coming from the trees beside her. The sounds of pursuit grew more obvious. The snap of twigs and whispery rustle of foliage told her one of the Chosen gained on her – fast.

  The opening quest had been a rescue impeded by enemy guards, the second a demonstration of the ability to safely escort a vulnerable asset through hostile territory.

  This quest was a footrace through hell.

  Thousands of years ago, the original Queen received an urgent message the Emperor fought off an ambush and needed his mate. She’d left her army in the dust running to him. The ancient story ended well for the Dragons, not so well for the Mages, who were burnt to death in sight of their home, the Westlands, which the Dragons called the Wastelands. It was a message that basically communicated, “We are not fucking around.” A message that was reiterated when the families of the Battle Mages were given leave to cross the border and collect the crispy shells of their once loved ones.

  A lot of bitterness there, Marina thought idly as her lower stomach cramped.

  The Chosen placed first at the end of the third quest got to choose her placement in the arena for the concluding quest.

  She’d made Jakob stop talking when he coolly spoke of saber-toothed tigers captured from the jungle – the very one she ran in – and wrestling the other Chosen in a mud slick.

  Apparently the ancient Virgin Queens had been aspiring porn stars as well as mate to the Dragon King.

  Chest heaving as she reached the end of the knobby tree limb, she extended her stride into a leaping bound. Both boots landed solid. She crouched, leg muscles bunching.

  The otherness tensed with anticipation, coiling Marina’s sensory expectations higher.

  The world tunnelled into an olive-hued blur as she launched herself head first into the air.

  Her reaching fingers curled around the crooked length of a liana, snapped closed, and her body jarred as she was wrenched into a horizontal arc. Dangling legs pulled closed as she locked her muscles into a straight arrow. She hurtled through the moist, insect-laden air. Wind blown hair flat against her scalp, her scream of exhilaration was a ghoulish echo the birds mimicked in ear splitting trills.

  As it turns out, the third time you swung across a sixty-foot chasm holding onto nothing but a noodle-like-plant was just as heart stopping as the first.

  A tree trunk loomed.

  Tiers of branches stuck out of the leviathan-sized plant.

  Marina released the vine, plunging in a ten-foot free fall before adroitly latching onto a limb sturdy enough to bear her weight.

  Well, she less ‘latched-on’ than ‘fell-flat-on-her-stomach’ onto it. The collision knocked the air and good sense out of her. She scrambled for a hold when it seemed she’d slip off the rounded branch, digging her fingers into the rough bark. Her legs hung in nothing but air, but she didn’t kick, conserving energy.

  A line of fiery ants swarming the bloated carcass of a lizard marched past her nose. She frantically blew on the thumbnail-sized beastie that broke rank to investigate her face with its segmented antenna. So focused on the ant was she, the hairy tarantula that crawled past her straining fingers escaped notice.

  Marina relied on the strength of her upper body to pull her dead weight high enough to get a leg over.

  Red in the face, she humped the tree limb until she straddled it.

  Jumping onto her feet, she hesitated to move, drunkenly swaying at the stomach-roiling feel of vertigo as her sense of balance realigned.

  A flash of red and gold caught her eye.

  Jaw dropping, she snarled at the vision of Anastasia sailing elegantly through the air. She summersaulted from her vine and affected a perfect ten-point landing on a flat, bevelled branch.

  The Chosen flicked the sexily tousled fall of her hair back, spared Marina a friendly wave of acknowledgement, and then plunged back into the jungle.

  “Bitch.”

  Marina knew she had to switch tactics when the thorny bramble below cleared to something remotely traversable, and the tree trunks spaced too far apart to vine-jump.

  Anastasia remained in sight. She steadily climbed down into humid understory.

  Marina hawked, spat on her hands then grabbed a length of liana. She cackled as she whooshed down the vine in mere seconds.

  Sure, she got friction burn towards the end, but it was worth it.

  Rivulets of sweat drenched her face and soaked the weave of her tunic. She used the bend of her arm in impatient upward thrust to wipe the salty perspiration.

  She checked her positioning using the sun as an anchor then broke out into a ground-eating lope. Her eyes whipped to scan the ground at her feet to check for spoor then up to scan the tangled thicket. Venomous snakes were a serious threat at throat level, scorpions at ground level, and large, territorial predators were a hazard pretty much everywhere else.

  It was a crush, the flora a magnificent but deadly thing. Who knew pretty pink flowers could eat birds? She supposed there were a lot of them. The tropical paradise could spare a few noisy flits of movement. Their vivid feather plumes were dramatic splashes of colour against the lush backdrop of rich green.

  Long limbed monkeys puckered their lips and brayed from above. They tossed rotting firefruit, screamed laughter, and scuttled along the branches beating their chests and the bark.

  Marina really didn’t appreciate their larking about. It was hot, and the sticky-sweet pulp attracted flies. The juices dried in crinkly layers that made her skin feel tight.

  The tropical rain forest darkened.

  Itching a bite on her neck, she paused to take a sip from her canteen. Her legs protested the break, knees wobbling, thighs throbbing.

  Something heavy slithered over her boot, a yellow centipede with hundreds of legs. She ignored it and again orientated herself.

  Up ahead she could see the base of the volcano, a red stretch as far as she could see in either direction, casting a monstrous shadow over the jungle.

  Reaching the rocky mountain, she began the arduous climb up its steep flank, trying to disregard the ominous way the ground quaked beneath her hands and boots.

  There were volcanic eruptions all the time in the Fire Kingdom and lava ran freely around most of the Citadel.

  As far as she could tell the behemoth had yet to clear its throat for the day, meaning when it did, it was going to be one hell of an explosion.

  She wasn’t actually going to see the vent, simply skirt around a parasitic cone Jakob had steered her towards. It would take her longer, but it was immeasurably safer.

  The higher she climbed the hotter it grew. Not only did it smell awful, like rotting eggs, breathing in was like trying to suck up soup through her nose. Her mouth was bone dry, tongue rasping against her teeth like sandpaper, and each time she swallowed, it was as if the reflex stalled to lock her airways closed. She determinedly saved her water for the final decent. The steepness of the trek infused a deep burn in her butt, her lower back, and, strangely, her neck.

  The otherness was restless. The near she drew to the apex the more agitated it became. She became so distracted trying to calm it down she stumbled. Her ankle twisted, and she sliced her palm on the sharp jut of a boulder she grabbed for balance.

  Thankfully, her aching ankle didn’t hurt too much under her full weight. Licking away the blood on her hand, humming throatily over the metallic taste, she kept go
ing, conscious Anastasia was right behind her and – she assumed – Galina behind her.

  Reaching the jagged crater of the nodule, a contained volcano in itself, Marina was astounded to hear a hoarse cry for help.

  The otherness went still.

  That absolute stillness snagged Marina’s attention because she’d grown accustomed to it always moving.

  At first, she was tempted to just keep going. But her conscience wouldn’t let it go. It’s not like there was anyone else around to offer help.

  Breathing stunted, she stalked closer to disturbance. She narrowed her eyes in disbelief when she saw a flash of brilliant copper hair.

  How the hell did she get up here before me?

  Heat lines rose from the barren rock, and thin layers of vapour made it difficult to see.

  She peered past the steam and smoke billowing from the bubbling pits and glowing fissures.

  Galina flapped her arm trying to gain attention. One of her feet disappeared into a crevice, clearly stuck. The reason for her windmilling arms was probably the fact the crater was vomiting a scalding brook of goo.

  A luminous gush of orange lava meandered down the slope towards the trapped Chosen.

  Spotting Marina, Galina shrieked and yelled for help.

  “This is not your problem.” Panting, hair dark with sweat, Anastasia came up beside her with a disapproving expression. “She was foolish enough to try and climb up and see inside the magma chamber. I have heard from Dragon Lords it is a once-in-a-lifetime splendour for the non two-natured.”

  Marina made a noise of frustration. “We can’t leave her.”

  “Yes, we can.” The woman sauntered away. “Watch me as I do it.”

  “Benevolence is queenly,” she called desperately to the woman’s shrinking back, keeping an eye on the spreading puddle of liquid rock. It seemed to possess a malevolent sentience as it crept closer. “And if we say we’re the Dragon Land’s Queens that make her our vassal. She’s our responsibility.”

  Without looking back, Anastasia held up a closed fist.

  The glory of first place disappeared with the blonde as she turned a corner to begin her descent.

  Just walk away. She’s right this is not your problem. Marina shut her eyes, pissed off at her own decision. What if it’s a trap? But what if this moment defined her as a person? “Shit.”

  Rushing up the gravelly slope, Marina slid to a pebble-strewn stop next to Galina then dropped to her knees.

  “It is stuck,” the woman cried. Tears were in her voice and streamed down her sun-pinkened face. “My foot has swollen.”

  Conscious the lava moved much more swiftly than it appeared to from afar, Marina hurriedly wrapped her arms around Galina’s calf and heaved.

  “It hurts.”

  “Suck it up.”

  Marina looked at the boot from a new angle.

  Sure, it was twisted awkward, and the crevice narrow, really wedging the foot in there, but a good shimmy should get it free.

  Using her fingertips to feel what she couldn’t see, a horrible kind of fear pinged. No, she thought. No one could be that evil. This was too dangerous a place to kill a rival. Too much could go wrong, and even if it had meant to be a trap, she was too focused to be caught off guard.

  Surely Galina was smarter and subtler than that?

  Regardless of everything, Marina refused to become the kind of person who’d choose to ignore the suffering of another just in case it put her in harm’s way. She shoved aside thoughts of assassinations, determined to get the other Chosen out alive, even if she’d done it on purpose as a lure.

  “Jerk your knee up as hard as you can when I pull,” she instructed. “Okay, on three. One–”

  The otherness rose, a swirling vortex of rage and violence.

  A roar warning of danger blew out her eardrums.

  Icy sensation slicked across her skin. She jolted, and she splintered. The sheer vehemence of power ripping through her in a tsunami of mystical energy robbed her of speech.

  Scales popped through her skin in sharp slices of agony.

  She released Galina’s leg to slap at the silver-blue flames racing up her legs, spreading to her arms and torso, and charring the edges of her clothing to black curls.

  Someone screamed her name.

  Hands landed on her back.

  Shoved.

  The grey landscape tilted into a flaming red hell.

  A burst of hot air scalded her face. She was falling, screaming, convulsing. A greedy hiss as flesh hit lava.

  Nerve-blistering pain.

  The otherness exploded from its cage to crack her wide open. Pulsing light. Ecstasy thundering through her veins, shredding her into billions of pieces.

  And fire. Fire consumed her.

  The watching throng fell silent.

  The day turned unseasonably cold and stormy. It was as if the weather itself warned of impending doom.

  The black pennant of House Zar snapped taut in the chill wind that rushed the base of the fortress. It ripped from its mooring and fluttered into a strong gale that swept it higher until it disappeared from sight.

  An ill omen, thought Koen Raad.

  “It has been too long.” He stared fixedly at the dirt path leading from the last narrow pathway off the volcano. “They should be here.”

  “Finally.” Jakob rasped, standing from where he crouched. “You say what we are thinking.” Beads of anxious sweat gathered on his brow. He shot a worried look at the mountain pass. “I will petition the Regent for leave to go to her.”

  “Hold.” Giving Jakob a severe look of warning to be silent, Daniil squeezed Koen’s shoulder. “There is time. She may be running late but so are the others.”

  Something was wrong. Koen felt it in his gut. It was stupid to stand there and do nothing. “Then why is there fear in your voice?”

  The Courts watched. He felt the crushing weight of their critical gazes – eagerly waiting for him to break tradition so they had another stick to beat him with.

  News of how he forced the Dragon Council to accelerate the tournament proceedings had not gone over well. Stripping away the indulgent feasting and week long festivities had the Courts in frenzy.

  He didn’t – couldn’t – care.

  They could imbibe rivers of wine, gorge on mountains of food, gossip themselves into a senseless stupor after his Treasure and offspring were safe.

  “I have overreacted in the past,” he said. “I admit it. This time I know she needs me. I must go to her.”

  “You were wrong before.” Daniil calmly pointed out. “You were certain she would perish in the black lagoon. See how she triumphed.” He turned to Nikolai, seeking another source of reassurance that had proven helpful in the past. “Is that not so?”

  The younger Raad stared at the volcano with singular alertness. His features were pulled tight, eyes narrowed and piercing. “Something is not right.”

  Mikhail pushed forward. “I feel it too.”

  It was all Koen needed to hear.

  He shoved Daniil’s hand off, and felt Jakob come up behind him.

  “Look,” Nikolai breathed. “Galina.”

  Daniil rushed forward, eyes narrowing. “Anastasia is behind her.” Anxiously rubbing his jaw, his tone filled with relief. “Marina will be behind them.”

  Koen didn’t relax. He began to sweat, and feel an even greater urgency to find his Treasure. He waited for her to round the corner. And waited. And waited, growing more anxious the longer that passed and the closer the other Chosen drew without seeing evidence of her following.

  “I hear Anastasia has always been fierce. I have seen her angry from afar, but....” Nikolai inhaled sharply. “Does she always look like that?”

  Daniil audibly swallowed. He took a step back, physically distancing himself from his fears. “Something is wrong.”

  At his admission the males moved forward as one.

  A line of Dragon Men and the Regent blocked their path. “The quest is not o
ver until the last Chosen crosses from the pass onto this flat of land.” He glared at them. “You may go no further, and you may not interfere.” He gave Koen a scathing look. “In this you will not force my hand.”

  Their eyes turned to the approaching females.

  Koen noticed Galina was less running for the finish, and more trying to reach the safety of her kinsmen.

  Anastasia gained on her with a violent kind of intensity promising death. She hurled herself into the air and landed on the other Chosen’s back.

  They went down hard.

  Pushing onto her hands and knees Galina crawled.

  Anastasia brought her elbow down on the back of her neck then grabbed her face and smashed it into the ground.

  “Vor has gone mad,” Lord Tyr shouted.

  Silent as death, Aleksandr’s sudden movement startled the older Lord, who abruptly found himself blocked by two hundred pounds of battle-scarred male.

  Gasping, Galina flailed a hand, managing to drag her nails over her assailant’s cheek.

  The two females rolled, switched positions in flurried blurs, fighting for tactile advantage.

  Anastasia used her greater mass to halt the wild movement.

  She straddled Galina, gripped her tunic in a white-knuckled fist then punched her in the nose. Crunch. A scream and crimson blood spurt. Anastasia became abnormally tranquil as her fist delivered blow after crushing blow.

  Galina’s face was battered. Her head lolled lifelessly.

  United in a suspended phase of disbelief the gathering watched the staggeringly violent beating in a haze of confusion.

  “Stop,” Tyr bellowed. “Stop this.”

  This time Aleksandr didn’t block his advance. He watched as Lord Tyr futility attempted to breach the impregnable wall of the Regent’s Dragon Men, then turned a faintly perplexed gaze onto his seemingly homicidal sister.

  “Ana,” Daniil roared sickened by the irrational display of brutality. “Ana, stop.”

  Him she heard.

  Staggering onto her feet, Anastasia roughly swiped away a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. Soot marred her heart-shaped face. Her left eye was swelling, a trio of slashes stark on her tanned cheek, but compared to the female choking and spluttering at her feet, her wounds were trifling.