The high commander of the Red Flange waited for the Source and his conspirators to leave before he turned back to his men.
“Handeil,” he barked at the soldier closest to him. “Find some water and set up a scrying pool. I need you to contact Armauld or one of the other skurmages and inform them to ready the troops. While we’re slaying this dragon, I want them on the move in case something goes awry. Tell them I want the city surrounded no later than dawn. Make your way back to the caverns when the message has been sent.”
The man nodded sharply and slipped out of the room. Boriahs barked out a few more orders in the language of Ghorium and as one, the remaining soldiers wrapped themselves once again in their cloaks, completely disguising their identity. They left that room two at a time, Boriahs lingering a few more minutes to give his men time to sneak away.
So long as that upstart pup followed his directions exactly as he had given them, all would go as planned. He would have the girl, and that filthy Tanaan dragon would finally be out of the picture. Boriahs knew his Master would be displeased that his servant disposed of the dragon Raejaaxorix, but the commander was hoping the delivery of the girl, alive and well, would make up for it. Only time would tell, and his Master’s irritation at missing out on the joy of breaking the fire-breather would be greatly outweighed by his delight at finally having the one thing that could bring about his ruination.
As Boriahs snuffed out the lantern and shut the door gently behind him, a small limbit clung desperately to the frozen ledge outside, his heart pounding, his eyes wide and his ears scarcely believing what they had just heard.
Keiron was angry. No, he was furious. For weeks, he had fought his short temper, fawned over that weak human girl so she might believe he actually cared for her. It had been so very difficult not to snap and shout at her, or club her over the head with the pommel of his sword and deliver her to the commander of the Red Flange. But no. He had to make her believe, make everyone believe, that he would be the last person in Cahrdyarein to lift a finger against her. Even then, even when he knew she was falling for his fabricated charms, that thrice-accursed dragon had suspected him.
The regent’s son growled and kicked at a pile of old snow, cursing when his toe met solid ice instead of the frosty powder he expected.
“Please, my lord, we do not want to draw attention to ourselves,” Ilian murmured as they hurried along, darting from one shadow to the next.
Keiron gritted his teeth as the heat of his temper passed. He so badly wanted to beat the men again. How had ten of Pendric’s best soldiers let a mere slip of a girl get the better of them?
“Shut your worthless mouth, Ilian,” Keiron snapped.
“But my lord,” another intervened, Orran this time, “if anyone sees you, our ruse will be over. We must do as the scarred one demanded, or he will turn us over to the Tyrant.”
Keiron paused in his forward motion. Taking the rebuke from Boriahs had grated against his pride, but it had been necessary. Besides, when all this was over, he would have the high commander assassinated. The mishap with Jahrra’s attempted kidnapping was a simple mistake, one he wouldn’t make again, and one that in no way should act as a slight against his intelligence. When all this was over, and those resisting the Crimson King fell, his loyalty and his part in delivering Jahrra would earn him the sovereignty of Felldreim and perhaps Oescienne as well. His father was weak, a mere regent. Keiron would be a king. A king as cruel, conniving and powerful as Cierryon. They would rule the world together, one in the east and the other in the west. Keiron just had to practice a little more patience and avoid making any more mistakes.
“You’ll not speak of King Cierryon in such disrespectful terms,” he gritted out between his clenched teeth. “We are allies now, and when this impending war is over, he will reward those most loyal to him. When I am king of the western provinces, I shall raise you all to be lords of your own vast lands. If you anger me, you will suffer instead.”
Orran was wise enough to keep his next thoughts to himself, and they continued on through the night, heading toward the southeastern edge of the city.
Dispatching the guards was easy enough. Keiron simply limped up to those standing on either side of the staircase leading to the top, babbling about having just escaped his captors. The two Resai guards’ eyes were still wide with surprise at seeing him when they fell to the ground, their throats slit and their blood staining the old snow scarlet. It was the same when he reached the top of the wall. Five more soldiers fell to the ground as Keiron and his mercenaries headed toward the mechanism that would open the grate over the creek below.
They watched as Boriahs and his men slipped through, like ghosts manufactured of shadow disappearing into the night. As Keiron’s five companions spread out to take up the posts of the dead guards, he trained his eyes on the spot where the Crimson King’s men had just disappeared.
You may think you’re in control of the situation, Boriahs, slave, he mused to himself. But unlike you, I am not a servant owned by his Supreme Majesty. I am not blood-bound to our Master, and it is I who will win his favor in the end.
Dervit had never run so fast in his life, nor had he ever been so terrified. His heart slammed against his ribs as the memories of what he’d just witnessed flashed through his mind.
Keiron! Traitor! Army! Attack! Death!
He flew through the abandoned city streets, always keeping to the shadows and staying as close to the buildings as possible. His news was urgent, but it would help no one if those evil men caught him. An image of Keiron’s face, smiling in open admiration at Jahrra, popped into his head, and he gritted his teeth. Fresh anger and melancholy washed over him. How dare he befriend her only to turn her over to the very monster that wished her dead?
The limbit shook his head. No, Keiron hadn’t turned her over, after all. He had failed, and he would fail again. Dervit would make sure of it.
Dervit raced around a final corner and spotted Jahrra’s cabin up ahead, the dark, serpentine shape of Jaax curled up around it like a snake coiled around its nest. Approaching the sleeping dragon was a bad idea, so Dervit checked the street for spies hidden in the darkness one more time before bolting toward Ellyesce’s quarters. He came to a skidding halt in front of the door, and as he sucked in huge gulps of air, he pounded his fists against the wood as loudly as he dared.
A few moments passed before Dervit’s sharp ears picked up the sound of movement inside. Ellyesce yanked the door open just enough to reach out and grab the limbit by his vest collar and yank him inside. Dervit yelped in surprise.
“What are you doing causing such a racket in the middle of the night?! Do you wish to wake Jaax and entice him into breathing fire before you have a chance to identify yourself?”
Dervit gasped and pushed against Ellyesce. Surprised, the elf let go and arched a dark eyebrow at his small friend. The coals in the fireplace were just bright enough to make out the silhouette of his face.
“Keiron!” he wheezed. “Keiron is in league with the high commander of the Red Flange. They are planning to attack tonight. We must tell Jaax!”
Suddenly, Ellyesce was alert and moving across the interior of his cabin. He didn’t even bother to question Dervit’s claims before he scooped up his bow and arrows.
“Come with me,” he hissed, his tone and continence instantly severe.
Dervit nodded and trailed behind him, his legs suddenly weak from the rush of adrenaline.
Ellyesce moved stealthily across the road, keeping his distance as he approached Jaax from the side.