Talwyn leaned over and whispered to Kachka, “Probably sleeping upside down from the rafters like a bloody bat.”
“Something to say to me, demon child?” Brigida the Foul asked . . . from behind Talwyn. Her voice had been coming from the cavern in front of Talwyn seconds ago. Gods! She hated when the witch did that. And hated even more that she wouldn’t show her how to do it.
“Well,” Talwyn began, “since you asked . . .”
“We don’t have time for this!” Talan cut in. “You have to help the king, Brigida.”
The She-dragon in her human form raised a brow. “Help? An Iron? Why would I do that, boy?”
“He’s an ally to my mother.”
Beneath her black cloak, Brigida’s shoulders sort of twitched. “And?”
“Just. Fucking. Fix. Him.”
Brigida the Foul debated removing the skin from the insolent boy, but he had a higher purpose in this world than ending up on the wrong side of her anger.
She studied the torc around the Iron’s neck. She entertained the idea of leaving it there. Letting him die. He was only a few breaths from death as it was.
She had no good memories of the Irons. She’d been around when that lot had separated themselves from the Fire dragons of the Southlands. Always thought they were so above it all. Calling on the gods to make them all that iron color, twisting their horns around so they looped toward their jaws instead of sitting high on their heads like any proper dragon. Why? Because they truly thought they were better than the rest.
The whole thing had pissed her off so much that Brigida had actually involved herself in that war. Had been knees deep in blood and death and the cries of the innocent, as she often liked to be, but instead of just drinking all that in and taking what she needed from the slain and dying for her spells, she’d actually fought beside the Dragon Queen of the time. Together, they’d pushed the Irons back into the west, past the Western Mountains. Brigida had thought that would be the last they heard of them, assuming they’d die out.
That hadn’t happened. Instead, they’d grown stronger, working with the humans of the west until they were strong enough to make those humans friend or slave. Once they’d established the Quintilian Provinces, they’d spread out, keeping the Western Mountains at their back while they took over the towns and cities that surrounded them.
Now, they were the Quintilian Sovereigns Empire.
An empire once ruled by another tyrant, Overlord Thracius. But he’d been taken down by one of the new Dragon Queen’s prince-lings. The youngest. A Blue, just like his grandfather. And since then, the Provinces had been taken over by some nephew of Thracius’s. A young buck not even three hundred, and his twin sister.
It was rumored, and Brigida knew it to be true, that the mother of the twins had been so concerned about them surviving past their first century with that family of theirs that she’d called powerful witches—dragon and human—from all over the west to bless her offspring.
The fact that they still breathed proved the magick must have had some effect.
And this boy was one of those twins. She recognized that face. Not because she knew him, but because she’d known his great-grandfather and, as human, he looked just like him.
“Are you going to save him, old woman, or just stare at him?”
Slowly, Brigida looked up at the Rider standing across from her. She remembered her, too. One of Glebovicha Shestakova’s offspring. The one who hadn’t had her eye torn from her head by her own mother.
She didn’t flinch when Brigida stared at her. Surprising when even the Kolesova female turned from Brigida. Most did, if they had any sense.
The Rider pointed at the Iron. “Save him.”
“Or what?”
“Or you will have Annwyl the Bloody to deal with. I waste time with dragon only for her.”
Brigida knew this human wasn’t telling the complete truth, but she didn’t care. This dragon would serve his purpose, like everyone else.
Tucking her walking stick against her shoulder and leaning against it, Brigida raised both her hands and centered them over the torc. She was not fool enough to touch the thing, but she had no need to.
She closed her eyes and chanted words filled with ancient magicks while her fingers drew powerful runes in the air. After a few moments, the torc shook until it broke into three pieces and fell away from the Iron’s neck.
“He does not breathe,” another Rider accused.
“He will.” Brigida pulled her hands back and grabbed hold of her walking stick. She was exhausted now, so she used it to keep her upright.
“If I were you,” she warned the Riders, “I’d move back a step . . . or eighty.”
The small group took a step back just as the Iron’s eyes popped open. He took in a large, shuddering breath, and Brigida watched as color flooded his human cheeks and his human body began to grow stronger before their eyes.
After a few seconds, he rolled to the side and off the table, stumbling across the floor.
The boy started after him. Weak like his mother, that one. Always trying to help. Some things you just couldn’t help.
Brigida used her staff to block the boy from moving and watched as the Iron made his way to the middle of the room.
With his arms around his waist and his body bent over, he suddenly roared. Flames burst to life around him and he went from frail human to powerful dragon in seconds.
Powerful, hungry dragon.
His lone eye searched around the chamber, finally locking on the barbarians.
Brigida lifted her staff and slammed it to the ground once, the sound echoing for miles, the floor shuddering beneath. It was enough to get the Iron’s attention.
“Outside,” Brigida ordered. “There’s a whole herd of—”
The Iron turned, unleashed his wings, and, in seconds, was gone.
Silence followed the Iron’s exit until the Kolesova woman suddenly asked, “Herd of what . . . exactly? For we are hungry too.”
Chapter Five
Gaius decimated most of the herd of elk and devoured them in less time than he was comfortable with. But his need could not be contained.
Even though he’d been fed by his captors, it had been as if the food did not nourish him in any way. So he’d starved while eating. A nightmare if there ever was one.
That torc had not been designed merely to keep a dragon captive in his human form. It had been designed to torture. But why? He was clearly worth more alive than dead. It wasn’t arrogance that brought him to that belief either. It was politics.
And yet the longer they’d taken to travel to wherever his captives had been leading him, the more he’d known he was moments from dying. He was sure of it.
Gaius realized he must have finally sated his hunger if he was sitting around, analyzing his current situation. He could only manage that when he was fed and happy or paranoid and desperate.
Now that he could think clearly again, he finally did what he’d been unable to do since this had all started.
Gaius called out to his sister.
A long, painful moment of silence greeted him and then . . . nothing but yelling.
He winced as his sister called him every derogatory name she could think of—and there were many; she had a mouth just like their plebian mother—while at the same time sobbing with relief.