by Tessa Dawn
Flames assailed Prince Dante from the rear—sweltering, crackling, exploding in the atmosphere—but the sapphire dragon dipped and dodged, plummeted and climbed, rolled out of the way and reversed directions. And then, once again, the sapphire beast dove toward the ground, and like a fish chasing the perfect lure, the pale-green dragon followed suit. A second before Prince Dante struck the earth with a clap, the sapphire dragon spun in a summersault, landed on his back, and extended his tail like a javelin. He braced and held the spear steady as the king’s momentum drove him forward into the attack. His massive jaw open, his jowls frothing with spittle, his jagged, uneven teeth gleaming like daggers in the sunlight, the pale-green dragon lunged at the sapphire dragon’s throat and impaled himself on the tail.
The king immediately jerked backward in a feverish attempt to break free, but the sapphire dragon would not relent. Dante curled the tip of his tail inward, hooked it around the green dragon’s spine, and wrenched at the uneven backbone, snapping several vertebrae in two.
The king shrieked in fury and pain.
He thrust his lethal horns into the sapphire dragon’s chest and beat his claws against the soil, tossing up dust and causing the field beneath them to tremble.
Dante retracted the tip of his tail from the green dragon’s spine. He brandished it like a whip, encircled the beast about the swell of his belly, and flipped Demitri over with ferocious power. He pounced like a lion, mounting the writhing beast, and this time, it was Prince Dante’s dragon who had the advantage of serrating teeth. Dante tore a sizeable chunk of flesh out of the green dragon’s breast and spit it out on the ground, while the king’s serpent bucked beneath the sapphire dragon, latched onto Dante’s shoulders with his talons, and dug in for all he was worth.
King Demitri tore and wrenched and clawed, trying to gain penetration beneath the sapphire dragon’s scales, and together, the mighty beasts rolled around on the ground, stabbing with their tails, scoring with their talons, taking turns eviscerating each other’s flesh.
Outbuildings were laid to waste in an instant.
Trees as old as the Realm itself snapped like twigs or were ground to dust beneath them.
Flourishing fields, peaceful pastures, meticulously planted gardens were set ablaze and demolished. And yet, the dragons fought on. Bloodthirsty. Feral. And determined.
They fought like dark lords from the Forgotten Realm.
At last, Prince Dante felt his power ebbing.
The pain was blinding, the struggle insurmountable, the strength of the beast he had provoked, impregnable. Great Nuri, Lord of Fire, King Demitri was second only to the Lord of Agony.
He would never—ever—give up!
As a savage snarl of torment and victory charged the air all around them, Dante knew his father could sense his weakness, smell his waning confidence, and detect his ebbing strength.
Aguilon! he shouted in his mind.
Willow! he called to the witch.
Desmond, he whispered in his soul.
And then he scrambled away from the pale-green dragon, lumbered to the side of an oak, and fell to his back, exposing his belly while panting thick wisps of smoke.
As expected, the king’s beast swelled with hubris.
He reared up on his hind limbs and stalked toward the fallen dragon.
He hovered above him, roared a cry of victory, and snapped his tail high in the air before winding the snakelike vertebrae around Dante’s torso and squeezing like an anaconda. As the sapphire dragon’s breath whooshed out of him, as his internal organs began to protest, King Demitri’s dragon lowered its massive bestial head, undulated to the side in a serpentine motion, and opened its jowls, preparing to snap Dante’s dragon’s neck.
The warlock, the witch, and the ghost sent a triad of supernatural power flooding into the sapphire dragon’s skull, and Dante’s joints gave way. His maxilla separated from his mandible, allowing his jaw to open five times wider than it should, and he struck like a viper, swallowing his enemy’s cranium whole, and clamping down with his canines. He wrenched his powerful jaw to the side and severed King Demitri’s head from his body; then he grinded the bony flesh into pulp with his molars and swallowed what little remained.
The sapphire dragon rolled from beneath the beheaded beast, lumbered five steps in reverse, and tossed back his head. As he roared to the heavens—a savage cry of victory, rage, and defiance—he channeled a fire so hot, so unforgiving, that the air around him erupted into clouds of gas; the clouds formed an arch over the grounds of Castle Dragon; and the statue of a serpent with a diamond eye, erected above the highest tower, melted into liquid ore.
Prince Dante incinerated what was left of the king and collapsed.
Mina Louvet approached the monster cautiously.
Her dress was torn and tattered, her hair reeked like smoke, and her delicate hands were trembling from the fear that would not let go.
By all that was sacred, she had almost lost Prince Dante.
For a moment, she had believed she would lose her sons.
The dragons had battled like demons, possessed—they had decimated half the gardens.
“Mistress, stay back!” It was Thomas the squire, calling to Mina from behind a charred tree trunk. “Dragons are not rational; they don’t reason or think. Prince Dante is likely still feral. Allow his beast to retreat.”
Mina licked her lips nervously, stared at the giant head of the sapphire dragon, and regarded his incisors, his canines, and his snout with great caution—he was still breathing smoke, snarling beneath his breath, and his eyes were still blazing red.
Prince Dante is likely still feral…
Thomas’s words echoed again.
And then it hit her.
King Dante is likely still feral…
This dragon was no longer a prince.
She sank to her knees, oh so slowly, and crawled along the ground. He was bleeding, he was panting, and his eyes—those fiery red pupils—looked dazed, confused, and somehow lost. The king wasn’t feral; he was wasted, exhausted…spent. “My prince,” she whispered softly, using the familiar term one last time to remind him of who he was…of who she was. “My lord, my love, my king.”
The beast turned his head to the side; his ears flared back, and he angled his snout as if listening.
“It’s Mina, your Sklavos Ahavi.”
“Mother,” Prince Asher called out to her. He waved his fingers in a beckoning motion. “Mother, come back.”
She shook her head. “Your father would never hurt me. His soul hasn’t changed.” She rose onto her knees in front of the dragon’s snout and slowly reached out her hand. And then she set it gently—tentatively—on his hard, scaly nose and caressed him.
He grunted and reared back.
She tried it again.
“Dante…” she whispered softly. “It’s over. You did it. Come back. Ari, Azor, and Asher are fine—a bit tattered, but they will live. Prince Damian”—she paused, no longer needing to be quite as careful—“Matthias has already healed Azor’s arm. Your fire accelerated the process.” She glanced over her shoulder at the scattering of royals slowly approaching the dragon. “Princess Gaia, Mistress Cassidy, even Willow the witch—we’re all still here.” She frowned then. “Prince Dario was wounded as well, but Prince Drake saw to his full recovery. And as for your nephews, your loyal subjects…” She waved her hand in a wide arc, indicating the general of Warlochia, the general of Umbras, and several of Prince Drake’s sons, along with Aguilon, the high mage, Willow, the witch, and many others she had already named, as well as several she had not. “Let us see to your wounds, begin to bury the dead, and clean up these castle grounds. You still have a king across the restless sea to rescue.”
The dragon nuzzled his snout against her hand and snorted softly. Then he rocked back onto his hind legs, swept his tail along the ground, and his eyes receded to a deep, dark sapphire. His scales softened, his tail receded, and his horns began to retract. In an instant, Pr
ince Dante Dragona—or at least the prince as Mina had always known him—stood before the gawking crowd, clothed once again in his royal finery: smooth black trousers, a knee-length black tunic, calf-high boots, and a heavy sword sheathed at his belt.
And just like that very first day in Castle Dragon, it was as if someone had thrown open a window in a dark, cryptic attic and a glacial mist swept across the land. Enigmatic eyes, a tall, imposing figure, hair as dark as midnight were suddenly encased in fog, and the emblem in the upper left corner of Dante’s tunic, the bloodred sigil of a dragon, embroidered in gold, no longer had a polished diamond in the place of the dragon’s eye. Whether Aguilon had done it, whether Willow had assisted, or whether Nuri, the Lord of Fire, had interceded on the Realm’s behalf, in the center of the serpent’s eye, just below its angry brow, there was a polished, inset sapphire.
As Dante Dragona stepped out of the fog, the sigil blazed with light. His hair whipped around in a preternatural wind, and his wounds began to heal on their own. As muscles cut from granite contracted and released in predatory waves, rising like the sea at high tide, descending like the ocean’s foam—as his proud, broad shoulders drew back in relief, and power radiated all around him—he nodded and regarded the crowd. “Thank you,” he said in a chilling, dark voice, allowing the words to settle around him. “Each male and female here risked everything, and I am grateful.” His posture, his demeanor, his very essence had transformed.
It was drenched in absolute authority.
It was steeped in supernatural power.
The male, the dragon, the monarch was positively magnificent in his post-transformational grace—in his utter supremacy.
And one by one, those who loved him, revered him, or served him fell to one knee before him, with the exception of Thomas the squire, who had managed to retrieve King Demitri’s crown shortly after the dragon had shifted. Thomas came from behind the trunk of the tree, padded quietly across the now-sacred ground, and laid the ancient golden diadem at Dante’s feet.
Turning to face the throng, he bellowed: “Long live the king of Dragon’s Realm!”
And then he fell to one knee, along with the other subjects.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The border of Thieves and Southern Lycania ~ Sunset on Monday
The sapphire dragon had traversed the restless sea all through the night, flying low, just above the roiling water, to avoid being detected. He had carried a chest full of coppers in his talons, as well as the tightly sealed gourd containing Prince Damian’s soul, and dropped the latter in the heart of the ocean, someplace where there were no trade routes or explorations…where it would sink over five miles deep, never to be discovered.
Now, as his tensile spine prickled and his ears lay back against his skull, he dropped the chest behind a crag of rocks and banked behind an unassuming cluster of low-lying clouds. He was only using a fraction of his wingspan to coast, lest he block out the light of the waning sun and shroud the rising moon.
The element of surprise was everything.
Up ahead, about a mile in the distance, he could see the legions of Thieves gathered in a hundred perfect rows, an offensive formation behind Gideon, their ruler, and Craon, son of Plagues, the general of the Thievian army. King Thaon Percy was being led in chains directly behind the general, his ankles shackled together, an iron collar around his neck, and one hand tethered behind his back to prevent the king of the Lycanians from shifting.
It wasn’t that the bear could not come forth, perhaps break through the chains, but not before the two brutal guards could slay him, not without the thick, unyielding collar cutting off his windpipe.
An emissary of Lycanians waited just across the border, no more than ten or twelve of the dangerous shifters pretending to cede the battle, but well beyond what the eye could see—the eye of any but an immortal dragon—shifters were waiting everywhere: wolves disguised as ants crawling about the ground; lions and tigers disguised as birds perched on the limbs of trees; and predatory beasts of all origins, shapes, and sizes burrowed into the earth, concealed behind bushes, and tucked away in shallow ravines. The dragon’s unerring sense of smell identified the shifters’ true natures.
The sapphire serpent growled.
There would be a bloodbath on both sides of the border if he couldn’t strike the two guards swiftly, if he couldn’t get that collar off King Thaon’s neck, thus allowing the king to shift quickly and scramble to safety.
He had to take out the first five rows of the Thievian army.
Very well, he thought.
Gathering the clouds all around him like a cloak—his powers of magic were tenfold since he’d shifted once more into his dragon, since he’d slain King Demitri—Dante replaced the heavy content of moisture with flammable vapor, and swept the conflagration like a fast-moving storm over the hordes of Thieves. As he dove from the center of the tempest, he set the sky ablaze with a single broad flame.
As expected, the armies beneath him reacted instinctively: They ducked, shielded their heads, and gawked at the heavens, even as the dragon swooped down from the roiling inferno. One lightning-quick pass over the stunned, terrified army, and the dragon had the bodies of the guards in his talons. He flipped them into the air, sliced through their torsos like a knife through warm butter, and hooked the jagged tip of his tail around King Thaon’s collar. He closed the nib like pincers, crushed the iron like parchment, and whipped the king forward about twenty yards in the direction of the Lycanian border.
The king shifted in midair: his nose becoming the muzzle of a bear, his eyes taking on the cast of a jackal’s, his fur-covered body rising ten feet tall.
Arrows shot into the air, spears bounced off the dragon’s scales, and one ferocious legionnaire actually managed to lasso one of Dante’s talons with a thick length of rope. The dragon seared the twine with fire, spun about in the air, and made a second pass over the terror-stricken army, scorching the first five rows of Thieves with blistering fire.
The rest of the army retreated, but there was still a point to be made.
The sapphire dragon rose backward in the air, hovered above the army, and scanned the soldiers, man for man, searching for their ruler, Gideon, and his general, Craon.
Ah yes, they were retreating beneath a circular barrier of interlocked shields.
The dragon dove forward, flew over the barricade, and sent the shields flying with a single swipe of his tail, and then he rotated like a twister, spinning through the air, and reached for Gideon, son of War, and Craon, son of Plagues, scooping both males up in his talons. He flew across the perimeter into the territory of Lycania and swooped down about five feet beyond the bear, dropping King Thaon’s enemies at his feet.
And then Dante Dragona, the sapphire dragon, landed behind the king with a thud, causing the earth beneath all to quake. He unfurled his wings to the uttermost span, threw back his head, and shrieked, the sound retorting like rolling thunder.
King Thaon shifted back into his mortal form and stood beneath the breast of the dragon like a victorious marauder cloaked in the conquering banner. “Live or die!” he bellowed at the ruler of Thieves and his general, even as the two groveled and simpered on their knees. “The choice is yours.” The king narrowed his gaze in threat and contempt. “Look at me!”
Gideon’s lips were trembling as he raised his gaze to meet King Thaon’s. Craon looked well and truly incensed, but he bit his tongue and held the king of Lycania’s stare, unerringly.
“These lands belong to the kingdom of Lycania! They have always belonged to the kingdom of Lycania! And now, they are under the protection of Dragons Realm!” King Thaon roared.
The ruler of Thieves wet his pants, and his general scowled at him with derision, but he wasn’t a complete, unredeemable fool—Craon dropped his forehead to the ground and groveled in the dirt, alongside his ruler.
“You should both be boiled in pitch and painted over the arches of my castle as a reminder to anyone who believes othe
rwise. How dare you think to take these lands by the force of extortion.” The king took several deep breaths, then turned his attention to General Craon. “Where are the two sons of hyenas that took me from my bedchamber? The Thieves who posed as Mercian Purists in order to steal aboard a Lycanian vessel? The dogs that treated me like a common criminal? I want their heads.”
Craon, son of Plagues, licked his lips, and his forked, serpent’s tongue flicked in the air, even as he shook his scorpion’s tail out of primitive, territorial instinct. “Titan, son of Thunder, and Vrega, son of Wind, were the first two guards the dragon killed. They were sliced in two, but I suppose, if they were not incinerated, we could search for their heads.” His sarcasm was noxious and heavy.
King Thaon nodded at a nearby soldier of Lycania, a male who moments ago had been a gigantic raptor, and the shifter stepped forward, removed a dagger from his belt, and cut out General Craon’s tongue. The king turned his attention back to the ruler of Thieves. “Do we understand each other, Gideon?”
Gideon bowed his head in defeat. “We understand each other, clearly…my liege.”
Sensing that his enforcement was no longer necessary, the sapphire dragon lumbered away, shot into the air, and flew back to the rocky crags by the sea where he had hidden the chest of coppers. He retrieved it in his talons, flew back to the Lycanian border, and dropped it at King Thaon’s feet, resplendent, sun-bronzed discs spilling out everywhere, along with an official, sealed missive scribed by Thomas the squire: Accept this payment for the twenty vessels you have provided to Dragons Realm. Consider all debts for knowledge and training in Lycanian weaving, engineering, and artistry—to date—paid in full.
Princess Gaia is well.
King Demitri is dead.
Yet our alliance shall continue as agreed, so long as you uphold your end of the covenant: a thousand years of peace between our kingdoms; thirty more seaworthy vessels for the Realm’s commercial use; continued tutelage in weaving, engineering, and artistry in exchange for personal military protection—protection you have undoubtedly reaped the benefit of, this day—and liberal use of the Realm’s warlocks and witches in matters of healing and medicine. Two hundred pounds in copper coins as payment for the ships, minus the eighty pounds delivered today, measures one hundred twenty pounds more to be paid: four pounds per every ship delivered.
