Dragon's Blood (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy #2)

“Like hell you shouldn’t have,” Tarius said. True, his voice sounded a bit shaky, but the conviction blazing in his eyes seemed very real. “The elves promised our prince and Dragon’s Gift protection, and this is how they repay us? For all we know, they’ve cut Prince Alistair to pieces already!”

Drystan snarled at the horrific image that statement conjured. “We cannot allow such an insult to stand,” he said. “Tarius, bring my sisters here at once.”

The steward bowed, then hurried out of the room. “What are you going to do?” Taldren demanded. “You said that you found Dragomir’s lair yesterday—are we going after the treasure?”

“No,” Drystan said in a clipped voice. “The elves have broken their word. I shall not give them what they ask for just so they can stab us in the back again.”

A few minutes later, the door burst open, and Tariana and Catriona rushed in. “What is that gods-awful smell?” Tariana exclaimed. She’d just come back that morning from the elven lands after checking in on the troops. His eldest sister’s amber eyes latched onto the open chest, and the blood drained out of her face. “Is that…”

“An arm?” Catriona finished, sounding faint. Neither of them were the kind of women who had fits, but at that moment, Drystan was certain he could have knocked either sister over with a feather.

“Not just any arm,” Taldren said grimly. “Alistair’s arm.”

Dead silence descended upon the room.

“What does this mean?” Tariana finally asked, meeting Drystan’s eyes.

“It means,” Drystan said, his voice vibrating with anger, “no more stalling. No more waiting around for help or miracles. No more negotiating. I want you two to gather the Dragon Force and make them ready to march on Elvenhame. Tonight, we get our brothers and my mate back, no matter the cost.”

“Yes, sir.”

His sisters saluted, and under different circumstances, Drystan might have been taken aback, as it was the first time they had done so. But he was almost too angry to care.

“It will not be easy to attack in dragon form,” Tariana said, “not with all that anti-dragon magic and those horrible bracelets. But you are right—the time to act like sniveling cowards has passed. We must stand and fight.”

“Exactly.” Drystan rose from his seat. “Tariana, contact your lieutenants and get this in motion immediately. Catriona, Taldren—with me.”

He stalked out of his office, the others following. Seething, Drystan stormed down to the dungeons and headed straight for the private, closely guarded cell where the warlock was being held.

“Let me through,” Drystan ordered the guards. They opened the cell, then stepped aside to let him in. Smoke puffed out of Drystan’s nostrils as he beheld the imposter, who lay on the hard bench with his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach. If not for the enchanted manacles around his wrist, the warlock might have resembled some sleeping princess waiting to be awoken by her long-lost love.

Well, Drystan would awaken him all right. Just not in the manner of his choosing.

“You miserable wretch,” he snarled, grabbing the warlock’s robe. He hefted the man, and when he merely hung limply from Drystan’s arm, Drystan slammed him into the stone wall. “I know you are faking it, old man. Wake up now, or I will burn you to ashes!”

The warlock’s head lolled forward in response, almost as if he were mocking Drystan. Smirking, Drystan pushed the man’s head back up, then leaned in and oh-so-gently blew a stream of fire directly onto his shiny, bald head.

“AAAAIIEEEEEEEEE!” the warlock screeched, his eyes flying open. He smacked at his head with his sleeves, thrashing against Drystan’s iron grip. “What in Xaldor’s name is wrong with you?”

“Ah, so you are awake.” Drystan looked over his shoulder at Catriona and Taldren. His sister’s expression was an interesting meld of amusement and shock, while Taldren merely looked relieved that the warlock was no longer unconscious. “I knew you were faking it.”

“You can hardly blame me for trying,” the warlock whined. “These manacles may prevent me from using my powers on you, but I am perfectly capable of using them on myself to affect sleep.”

“So I surmised,” Drystan spat. He threw the warlock at the bench, and the man cried out in pain as he smashed against the wall. “You are going to tell me who you really are, and what you’re doing here, or I am going to slow-roast your testicles and feed them to the dogs.”

“A-all right!” the warlock stammered, holding up his manacled hands to fend off Drystan. He trembled as Drystan opened his mouth, letting a cloud of smoke waft over the imposter. “My name is Mathias Black. I was sent here by King Wularian to spy on the dragon court!”

“To what purpose?” Catriona demanded. She and Taldren had moved in, flanking Drystan on either side. Mathias clenched his jaw, and Drystan opened his mouth wide, giving him a glimpse of the dragon fire lurking just down his throat.

“Fine, fine!” Sweat broke out across the warlock’s forehead. “To weaken the kingdom and prepare it for an eventual takeover. My king had already heard about King Dragomir—he’s been using magical mirrors to spy on the goings-on in Dragon’s Keep and saw your father showed signs of dragon sickness. We needed to speed up the progression of the illness, so he sent me in to get rid of his Dragon’s Gift and to sow doubt and mistrust in his mind.”

As the pieces of the puzzle finally clicked into place, a red haze descended over Drystan’s vision. Roaring, he grabbed the warlock by the throat and slammed him into the wall again, squeezing hard.

“You…killed…my…mother,” he ground out between clenched teeth. The fire raged in his chest, demanding retribution.

“P-please!” Mathias choked, his eyes bulging. “I-I-I…can help…you!”

“Drystan,” Taldren said gently from behind him. “We came down here because we needed information. If you kill him now, we may not find out what we need to know.”

Disgusted, Drystan released his hold and let the warlock collapse on the bench. Letting out another roar, he punched the wall just above Mathias’s head. Spiderweb cracks raced across the stone as the room trembled, and the warlock whimpered. He still wore the oracle’s guise, but he was a far cry from the smug, self-righteous arsehole he’d been portraying.

“You are going to tell me how to circumvent the anti-dragon spell that has been laid over Elvenhame,” Drystan said in a too-soft voice. “And you are going to tell me how the elves are bringing down my dragons and forcing them to change back into human form.”

“T-there is no way to circumvent the anti-dragon spell!” the warlock stammered, holding up his manacled hands to fend off Drystan. Drystan bared his teeth, puffing a cloud of smoke at the warlock that caused him to lose control of his bladder and fill the room with the stench of piss. “Not unless I crafted warlock amulets for every member in your army, and that would take months!”