“Shall I get the cloak?” Serak asked, glancing at the Raven.
“No,” he said.
Clearly surprised by the answer, Serak raised an eyebrow. “Master?”
“You said there were two candidates for the position,” Draeken said. “Let us insert an element of indecision into the oracle’s visions.”
“A clever ploy,” Serak said with a nod of approval.
“Take her to your mount,” he said. “It’s time we depart.”
Serak bowed again and then lifted the Raven on a pedestal of stone. The woman bared her teeth but did not move, the stone shackles on her legs preventing escape. A red dragon dropped through the smoke and landed in the gardens, its claws tearing furrows in the earth. More shouts came from the streets and Draeken smiled. The music of fear.
Bendelinish, the red dragon, dipped its head and opened its jaws, eager to join the conflict. But the battle had ended quickly, and Draeken patted the red dragon on the flank. It was middle aged, large, but not giant, lean and powerful. A worthy mount for Serak, even if Draeken could hear the sullen tinge to the beast’s thoughts.
Serak placed the Raven on the dragon’s neck and mounted. Nodding to Draeken, he directed the dragon skyward. The red dragon disappeared into the haze as Gendor exited the burning structure and advanced to Draeken, who noted the blood on his scythe. Bartoth too, returned, albeit through the outer wall.
He burst through the stone, his deep laughter scattering the few soldiers still in the street, and then advanced to join Gendor. Draeken smiled at his two generals, so powerful, at his command.
“Shall we return to Blackwell Keep through the Gate?” Gendor asked.
Although the assassin tried to keep his voice even, there was a trace of hope. He did not want to continue killing, not for Draeken. The man’s reluctance and defiance brought a measure of pleasure to Draeken, for now. Draeken valued Bartoth for his brutality and power, but Gendor provided much more amusement.
“You said there was no intruder at Blackwell Keep,” he said.
“There was not,” Gendor said. “A golem’s magic had failed and it had begun to wander about. I dealt with him and returned.”
Draeken wondered if the man was lying. He was certainly crafty enough to evade giving the truth, even if Draeken pressed him on it. But this time, Draeken found he did not care. He had more pressing concerns.
“If Elenyr failed to come here, that means she might know of Lachonus. Find him. Kill him.”
“Serak said he needed to remain alive,” Bartoth said.
“He’s not the master anymore,” Draeken said. “Make sure he’s dead.”
“As you order,” Gendor said, and turned away.
Bartoth sheathed his sword and motioned to Draeken. “What about you?”
“Serak has a mount. It’s only fair I have my own.”
“You want your own dragon?” he snorted in amusement.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Draeken replied with a laugh.
“There are always outcast dragons on the outskirts of the Dragon’s Teeth,” he said. “I would enjoy the hunt.”
“No,” he said. “I want you to go with Gendor. Make sure Lachonus dies. The oracle’s vision proves he is a threat.”
Draeken wished Serak had killed Lachonus before. The man was obviously a threat, and Serak had possessed the power to end his life. But the vision Serak had taken from Senia had been clear, if Lachonus died early, another would rise in his stead. Still, Draeken decided to cast the vision aside. His future was his own, and it was time for Lachonus to die.
“You’re going dragon hunting alone?” Bartoth asked.
“Not hunting,” he said, and reached into his cloak for the small pocket Gate that had brought him to Keese. “I know the location of my prey.”
Bartoth shrugged, clearly confused, and then turned and followed Gendor into the darkness. Draeken opened the pocket Gate and activated it by touching a small rune. Silver liquid poured from the small mirror and expanded, rising to become an oval touching the earth. Draeken swept the burning estate with a satisfied gaze and then stepped through, his body transporting into the depths of the towering mountain range south of Talinor, the Dragon’s Teeth.
The terminus lay in a small room of stone, the air also tinged with smoke, albeit the smoke of dragon’s flame. Draeken returned the pocket Gate to its pouch and ascended the steps through the underground outpost.
Once a krey structure, it had been abandoned when the treaty had been signed with the dragons, and the dragons had taken the outpost as their throne. He threaded his way upward and entered a vast chamber, the hollow interior between three giant peaks.
An enormous roof bridged the trio of summits, the floor stretching to the great doorways where the dragons entered the royal roost. Scored by thousands of dragon claws, the floor had blackened from dragon fire, and reeked of soot and smoke. An enormous home for the greatest living creatures on Lumineia.
The King of Dragons.
Thistikor, the giant gold dragon, lounged on his royal perch, the stone melted and shaped by ages of past dragon kings. Two other dragons were also present, a red dragon that was even larger than Thistikor, and a blue dragon, a female, by the markings on her neck. She was smaller than either of the males, but lighting crackled in her throat as she opened her maw.
“Thistikor,” Draeken said, coming to a halt.
Draeken, the great dragon dropped from its perch, sending a shudder into the mountain. Your presence is unwelcome.
Draeken eyed the trio of dragons, a slow smile spreading on his face. Their posture indicated they were second and third in command, likely generals, or possibly a prince and a princess. Which mount did he prefer? A giant gold dragon? An even larger red? Or the smaller blue?
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said.
The last time you were here, you killed several of my kindred, the red snarled, flames spilling from his jaws.
“You shall do nicely,” he said to the red.
