Dragons Reign: A Novel of Dragons Realm (Dragons Realm Saga Book 2)

by Tessa Dawn

  They didn’t have time for details.

  And they couldn’t afford any witnesses.

  Eliaz’s silver-blue eyes finally alighted with understanding, and his thin, cruel mouth curved up in a smile. “Great Lord of Vengeance, if I didn’t know better, I would swear my father was guiding my path. This is too good to be true.”

  At that, Kristof shoved Eliaz toward the door. “And it won’t be true if you dally any longer. Go, boy! And ride like the wind.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  2:00 A.M.

  When Eliaz Griswold returned to the Wild Witches Tavern, Kristof already had Prince Dario’s body laid prone on the table, and there was an empty gourd lying next to the dragon’s head, awaiting the prince’s soul.

  “Do you have it?” Kristof growled impatiently.

  Eliaz nodded. He surveyed the tavern, making note of the fact that it was still empty, Kristof had lit several more lanterns, and the server, Godfrey, was lying in a bloody heap on the floor—the warlock had eliminated the only witness. “Indeed, I do,” he replied in a surly tone. He had no sympathy for so-called innocent bystanders. All were guilty of something in the Realm.

  “Bring it here,” Kristof commanded, ushering Eliaz forward with his hand. “I don’t know how much time we have. He has stirred a couple of times, but not enough to regain consciousness. We must act swiftly. First, you must inhale Prince Dario’s soul, then place it in the empty gourd and seal it shut. Then you must swallow the contents of that stoneware jug—and by all that is unholy, ingest it, but do not absorb it—before placing it in Prince Dario’s body. I will cast the necessary spell while you insert each and every vital particle into Dario, and I will ensure that he does not die in the process, that his heart keeps beating. There is no room for error, my shadowed friend, and I would suggest that we both kneel immediately, as soon as the deed is done. Prince Damian Dragona is not a dragon to toy with, and he may be extremely angry when he comes back to life.”

  Eliaz gulped.

  He understood that he was taking an enormous risk…

  That Prince Damian Dragona’s first act of sentience might be to slay everyone in his path.

  The revenge would be worth it if he did.

  Nonetheless, Eliaz was banking on the fact that the depraved and devious prince would see the value of having allies in a strange, new world—in a strange, new body. Prince Damian would understand that he had missed thirty-one-years of information—of life—and he would prefer to keep Eliaz and Kristof in his employ.

  Well, at least at the prince’s beck and call…

  Alive.

  If Eliaz had the chance, he would plead for the same.

  “I understand what needs to be done, Kristof,” he said bluntly. “I am not a babe in the woods. You just see to it that your spell is strong and sure, and I will see to the souls.”

  Kristof nodded, even as he stepped back from the table and began to conjure his spell. His eyes glowed as if emblazoned by the fires of the Forgotten Realm, his body began to tremble, and his feet rose off the ground several inches. His hair whipped behind him, as if stirred by an unseen wind, and his robe began to undulate about his shoulders in waves.

  Eliaz looked away.

  He did not have time to stare at the rare, impressive spectacle of a supremely powerful mage casting an archaic spell; he had to concentrate fully on his own pivotal task. He pried Prince Dario’s mouth open with his left hand, then placed his right palm on the dragon’s forehead. He made a wide, tight seal over the prince’s mouth and began to inhale in earnest. As a shadow-walker, Eliaz had been inhaling souls since childhood. As a shadowmancer, he could taste every variation and nuance on his tongue. He swallowed the spirit slowly, feeling for the swirl of its energy within his belly, breathing it, in and out of his diaphragm, so that his body would not absorb it.

  And Great Nuri, Lord of Fire, Dario Dragona had a powerful essence, unlike anything Eliaz had ever tasted. For a moment, the desire to take it—and keep it—was almost overwhelming, but Eliaz couldn’t take that risk. Without question, Prince Dario possessed an indomitable will, which included the ability to overpower a mere mortal shadow-walker. Eliaz Griswold could never keep Dario Dragona contained—and subdued—in such an inferior, flesh-and-blood vessel. Eventually, the serpent would usurp the shadowmancer.

  No, Eliaz would follow Kristof’s instructions to the letter.

  He would not deviate to the left…or the right.

  He quickly exhaled every ounce of sentience into the waiting gourd before sealing it shut; glanced absently at Kristof Nocturne to indicate It is done; and then he almost took off running…

  The warlock looked nine parts possessed and only one part human. His lips were curled back like an angry jackal’s; saliva oozed over his teeth and gums in a viscous foam; and his skin was mottled and pitted in gray, black, and green ruts, as if he had conjured Death itself. Son of a fiend, warlocks were creepy, to say nothing of this particular spine-chilling mage.

  Eliaz turned his attention to the stoneware jug, kissed the lid with reverence, then quickly removed the closure, forming a seal about the top with his lips. He breathed normally two or three times before slowly inhaling—drawing, claiming, and tasting—the greatest malevolence he had ever encountered in his forty-two years of living. The force of the soul shook his body, and he had to tighten his grip on the jar.

  At last, when all the contents were retracted, he returned to Prince Dario’s body, which was rapidly growing pale without a soul, and exhaled the contents forcefully. Blowing one more time for good measure, he stepped back, fell to his knees beside Kristof, and bowed his head in submission.

  And then he held his breath…

  Waiting…

  The true dark prince of Umbras came awake with a start, his malicious soul overpowering the body’s inebriation.

  He sat upright on the table.

  He threw back his head.

  And he roared like an angry lion.

  And then he slowly rose to his feet, tested his new body with the palms of his hands—felt his chest, his arms, and his thighs—before clenching and unclenching his fists.

  He regarded his weapons.

  He regarded the tavern.

  And then he cocked his feral head to the side, as if regarding the night.

  “Who are you!” he hissed like the serpent he was.

  Without glancing up, Eliaz shrank beneath the heat of the dragon’s demonic stare, his own shadowed heart beating a fevered cadence in his quivering chest: Blessed Nuri, he was kneeling before Prince Damian Dragona, the lineal son of King Demitri, risen from the dead.

  Kristof displayed more confidence, or at least he faked it well. He met Prince Damian’s searing gaze head-on before pressing his forehead to the floor. “I am Kristof Nocturne, a member of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, and I am ever your humble servant.”

  Eliaz quickly followed suit. “Eliaz Griswold, son of Elzeron; I am the shadow-walker who has protected your soul for all these years. My life is yours to do with as you wish, my prince.”

  Damian grunted. “Of course it is, you piteous sycophant. How many years!”

  Eliaz’s teeth began to chatter. “I…um…what do you—”

  “How many years was I in that jar!”

  Eliaz felt both faint and queasy, and he prayed to any deity who would listen: Please do not let me pass out! “Thirty-one, my lord,” he stuttered.

  Damian gasped, and then he snarled: long, loud, and savage. “Where is my brother Dante?”

  Eliaz shuddered. “I believe he is home at Castle Warlochia.”

  Damian tilted his ear toward his shoulder as if listening to something only he could hear. “Yes…of course.” He was eerily quiet for a moment, and then he spoke in a lethal whisper, his voice a savage purr.

  “Dante is planning to usurp my father, and unlike me, he is able to confront King Demitri as a fully animated dragon. He wishes to make Mina Louvet his queen. He
has three children now: Ari, Azor, and Asher. And he has taken over my alliance with the new king of Lycania…” He fisted his hands in Prince Dario’s hair. “I don’t even know who to slay first. Shall I stroll into Castle Warlochia, embrace my pathetic ‘father,’ and tell him all is well, right before I carve out his heart? Or should I visit my half-brother and my nephews in Umbras, shred Mina, the slut, into ribbons, or devour my nephews first? And then there’s the matter of Aguilon…” His voice trailed off, and Eliaz knew he was simply thinking aloud—the dragon had all his own memories, and all of Prince Dario’s as well.

  However, the facts he’d just uttered were news to the shadow and the warlock, and Kristof immediately sat up. “It is true: Your eldest brother, Prince Dante, has the counsel and loyalty of the new high mage of Warlochia, Aguilon Jomei. He also has the ear of the king’s new witch, Willow. But second only to the pair, I am the most powerful warlock in the Realm; if you will allow it, I will serve you in whatever way you see fit. I will help you carry out each and every glorious act of vengeance.”

  Eliaz snickered inside.

  So, the mage was already bartering for his life…and more power.

  Prince Damian squatted down before Kristof, released a set of wicked-sharp claws, and dug them into the warlock’s cheeks, forcing his head upward to meet his steely gaze. “You are one of six other warlocks on the council, all equally powerful, behind Willow and Aguilon. Speak falsely to me again, and I will breathe fire down your throat and burn you…slowly…from the inside out. Do we understand each other?”

  Kristof grew as pale as the moon. “Apologies, my prince. I did not mean to misspeak.”

  Prince Damian turned his full attention on Eliaz, and if the shadow had possessed a stiletto, he would have slit his own wrists to escape the potency of that glare. “Your father assisted my brother in taking my soul, in reanimating a half-wit, bastard sibling in my place.”

  Eliaz regurgitated in his mouth.

  “Give me the gourd,” Prince Damian commanded as he stood to his full, imposing height.

  Eliaz stumbled to his feet, reached for Prince Dario’s soul, and thrust the container toward Prince Damian, who held out his left arm and snarled.

  “Place the gourd in the satchel first, you idiot!”

  Shaking, Eliaz retrieved his father’s old satchel, stuffed the oversized gourd into the pouch—with no little effort to make it fit—and funneled the strap over Prince Damian’s outstretched arm. He slid it carefully onto the prince’s shoulder, and then his knees gave way, he collapsed on the floor, and he began to weep for his life.

  Prince Damian paid him no heed.

  He paced around the tavern like a restless beast, while the two toadies awaited news of their fate. “Does anyone else know of your treachery?” he asked, addressing neither male directly. “Eliaz, does anyone else know about the contents you kept in that stoneware jug?” Before either male could answer, the prince fisted his groin and rubbed it angrily. “And for the sake of all that’s carnal, is there a whore anywhere near this tavern? I haven’t screwed a wench in thirty-one years!”

  At least semi-confident that he would be allowed to live, Kristof stood up first. “No one knows of our treachery, my prince. And there were no whores at the tavern this night. However, there is a brothel just a few miles away which employs witches of every age, and there is a village only a few miles south—you could have your pick of the females.”

  Eliaz swayed as he crawled to his knees, then slowly pushed up to his feet. “I told no one about the satchel or the stoneware jug,” he answered, finally finding his voice. “And Kristof is the only warlock I approached. I, too, would gladly support any plan you choose.”

  Damian regarded him from head to toe. “Turn around in a circle.”

  Eliaz gulped, but he complied.

  “Now, you,” Prince Damian ushered, rotating his finger in the air as he glared at Kristof.

  The warlock frowned, but he slowly rotated in a loop.

  And just like that, the reanimated dragon flew through the air, grasped Kristof by the throat, and threw him onto the same table the warlock had just used to reanimate Damian’s soul. He snatched Kristof by both ankles and flipped him over onto his stomach. And then he tore off his trousers with his claws and folded him over the table’s edge. “I don’t care much for boys, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to ride three miles just to relieve this tension!” As he untied his trousers, he gestured toward Godfrey’s body. “Eliaz, drag that out into the yard, where I can incinerate it without burning down the tavern. Then ride to the nearest village and get me the fastest horse.” As if they were discussing the weather, and he wasn’t getting ready to brutalize another man, Prince Damian fisted his manhood in the palm of his hand and continued speaking to Eliaz. “While I can fly faster than I can travel by horse, I could use the assistance of a shade and a warlock. As soon as I am finished enjoying the mage and incinerating that body, the three of us will ride to Castle Dragon. I will let the rightful king of the Realm decide who he wants to slay first before Dante has a chance to challenge my father’s dynasty.”

  Eliaz watched in morbid fascination—and more than a little shock—as Prince Damian Dragona thrust his body deep into the warlock’s, and Kristof grasped the table and grunted, his features contorted in pain. As Eliaz scurried to retrieve Godfrey’s body, he couldn’t help but think: Unlike Prince Damian, Kristof clearly preferred young boys to women, but by the tortured look on the sorcerer’s face, he didn’t care to be one.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The same night ~ 3:00 A.M.

  King Thaon Percy was furious.

  He was terrified, disoriented, and absolutely furious!

  How had two legionnaires from Thieves managed to slip past his garrison, murder the guards outside his royal apartments, and wake him from his slumber at the point of a dagger? How had they managed to move with a speed only a shifter or a dragon should possess and shackle his ankles together, slip an iron collar around his neck, and tether one hand behind his back before he could shift into his bear?

  How had they gotten into the castle at all?

  None of it mattered now.

  He was halfway to Thieves, and he reeked of refuse and excrement, having been dragged through the castle’s moat into an underground tunnel and later tossed into a shallow boat, awaiting the legionnaires along the River Lycania.

  Now, as he stared at his hideous captors—their Mercian Purist’s hoods could not hide their ugly serpents’ heads from the king’s discerning gaze—he growled in fury and contempt. “Release me now, and you may yet live!”

  The largest of the two, and by all accounts the leader, the one called Titan, son of Thunder, raised his oar as if he meant to bash the king’s brain in with the blade. “There is only one way you will ever be released—there is only one road to freedom. Cede the western territory of Lycania to the ruler of Thieves, from the southern edge of the restless sea to the northern gorge, just west of the capital, and you may yet live to rule your province again. Play fast and loose with Gideon, son of War, and come sunset on Sunday, you will drown in your own excrement—the smell is all the same.” He curled up his nose, and it only made King Thaon see red.

  Both Titan and Vrega had briefly bathed in the river before climbing into the boat, but they had left the king—the royal sovereign of the greatest land the north had ever seen—to rot in his filth. He hoped they choked on the stench. And he hoped his guard and his mercenaries were as adept as he presumed they were because he had used the same excrement to scrawl a note along the long, winding underground tunnel: Every fifteen to twenty feet, he had swiped the filth from his tunic and drawn his finger over the tunnel wall in order to form the symbols of the Lycanian syllabary, one by one, in what he’d hoped would appear as nothing more than desperate scrawlings, without any intention or coherence: the mad gesturing of a captive king, flailing like an imbecile while trying to escape.

  T-H-I-E-V-E-S.

  The
first seven letter he had scrawled spelled Thieves.

  The next eleven had spelled Prince Dante.

  King Thaon had kept his end of the covenant for the past thirty years, providing twenty seaworthy vessels to Dragons Realm; teaching the Realm’s merchants and villagers the advanced techniques of weaving, the science of engineering, and the unparalleled artistry of sculpture, painting, and pottery. Nonetheless, he was yet to receive his first full purse from the Dragons Realm Treasury. He had agreed to wait until Prince Dante sat upon the throne of Castle Dragon, understanding instinctively that King Demitri would never agree to such a progressive alliance.

  Well, King Thaon could wait no more.

  A deal was a deal.

  While Prince Dante had reneged on Prince Damian’s initial agreement to provide assistance in capturing slaves, and while he had taken over the treaty as if Damian hardly existed, Prince Dante had agreed to the most important and singular term of the covenant: to provide King Thaon and all of Lycania with the protection of an immortal dragon, should the kingdom’s enemies attack.

  Attack they had.

  They had abducted the king!

  It was time for the sapphire dragon to arise as the fully formed, primordial beast he was capable of becoming and to keep his word to his ally. It was time for the sapphire dragon to show gratitude for Thaon’s gift to Prince Dario—Thaon’s only daughter, Princess Gaia, given as no more than a glorified whore for the prince’s private use and entertainment. It was time for the sapphire dragon to make his allegiance clear: Give us your southern lands or we’ll murder your monarch? Ha! Return King Thaon to his throne, unharmed, or I will scorch your kingdom to dust!