Chapter II - The Dragon's Wrath
Tom led the way as he, Valens, and Corben left Castle Illikon. Behind them loomed the massive keep and the high stone walls protecting the castle grounds, the enormous wooden drawbridge lowered during times of peace. Sundown approached, and although the feast was still going strong, Tom was eager to escape. Naturally, his friends joined him.
Gazing long upon the castle behind them, Tom took a deep breath full of pride. Castle Illikon was one of the most striking in the Empire, built as a symbol of Imperial glory in the wild and untamed north. Its turrets reached for the stars, and from them fluttered Illikon’s deep blue banners with the golden gryphon. Seated on the brink of a high cliff coastline, several turrets jutted over the sea, as if suspended in midair above the waves. Of course, that was on the opposite side of the castle and could only be seen by ship, but Tom loved it from any view.
He also loved the city around them. The distant murmur of voices from the streets, the clopping of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, the creaking of cart wheels – these sounds were like music to his ears after standing so long in a room of tittering nobles.
Valens and Corben walked in tow behind him, though they weren’t lost in Illikon’s undying beauty like Tom. They looked at the sky in a way that told they thought only about the hour instead. A few stars already twinkled in the growing darkness.
Valens said as they walked, “Well, I should leave for Rimegard. It’ll be a long ride.”
There it was again: Rimegard, the largest city north of Illikon and the only considerable Imperial city beyond Coldstone Wall. That wall stood as the barrier between the Northwestern Kingdom of Illikon and the untamed wilderness of Northrim, where Rimegard was the lone bastion of Imperial civilization. Tom had been there before, though it was quite the long journey. He even knew the Princess of Rimegard, Adrianna Skiera. She was a friend and a good one, plus she was a niece to Queen Carlisa Illikoni.
Tom frowned. “Already? Is it really that bad up there?”
Valens shrugged and stopped walking; the others followed his example. “Not sure. It does sound like it’s gotten worse… I wish I could stay for the rest of the tournament, but orders are orders. I’ll be back in a couple weeks, I hope.”
“Don’t die up there, Valens,” said Corben. “And don’t freeze to death.”
Valens laughed, though it held little mirth. “I’m not going that far north.”
Tom pulled Valens into a hug, then drew back and clapped him on the shoulder. “If you do die, you’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll see you in a few weeks, Val. Be careful – and don’t get walked all over without me to stick up for you.”
“I’m a lot more worried about you, Tom.” He gave Corben a pleading look. “Keep him out of trouble.”
“Aye, like anybody can do that,” Corben muttered.
“I know. Farewell, both of you.”
With a brief wave, Valens strode off. Tom and Corben watched him leave. For a while, they stayed silent, only sharing a worried look.
“D’you actually believe Marks?” Corben asked at length. “About not tryin’ to hurt you in the joust?”
Tom gave a laugh and a one-sided grin. “Are you kidding me? No.”
“What, you don’t trust his word? Ain’t he a knight?”
“Doesn’t mean he has to act like one.”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth…”
Tom shrugged. “At least I’m honest.”
“Aye, chivalrous, too. Certainly are generous to the women.”
“Little below the belt, there, Cor.”
“Literally.”
“Oho, that’s really funny. Talk about your simple humor.”
Their walk took them to the northern district of Illikon called the Monument District, named such for its many statues of gods and heroes, where most of the noble families owned expensive manors. Tom always felt odd stepping into this district with the intention of going home, even after all these years.
He and his friends rarely spoke of it, but they all knew Tom’s true heritage as half Nordling, a bastard son of a noble Drake and a ‘barbarian’ woman he’d met on a campaign. What happened to his mother, Tom still had no idea, but he knew his father died shortly after Tom’s birth. Disowned by the Drakes at first, Tom grew up on the streets, stealing to survive, before Earl Warren finally took him in.
The popular assumption was that Warren adopted him so he could raise his own male heir with family blood. He only had daughters, himself. Such spelled the end for an ancient Achaean house.
Their arrival at the sprawling Drake household pulled Tom from his thoughts. Outside the gate waited Lady Severina Kallistos, clad in an elaborate green and blue gown, her long auburn hair hanging loose. To Tom, she looked particularly beautiful with the Draconius manor’s intricate High Imperial architecture in the background. Columns surrounded the house, its walls covered in designs of dragons and historic battles. Two massive dragon statues flanked the main gate, rearing on their hind legs like Tom’s sigil.
Severina smiled at him, and Tom smiled back. His expression earned him a snort from Corben.
“Seems you got company, Tom,” Corben commented in a ridiculously suggestive tone, as he readjusted the cone helmet he’d since donned.
Tom rapped his knuckles on said helmet, making Corben jerk away. He then approached Severina, calling over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow, Cor.”
“Aye,” Corben replied blandly before walking off.
Tom took Severina’s hand and gave her fingers a kiss. “No hard feelings about that joust, right?” he asked with one of his usual charming smiles.
“Not this time,” replied Severina. “Gnaeus had it coming.”
“Can’t disagree there,” Tom said, opening the gate to the manor. The two started walking.
“Hopefully you don’t have any hard feelings about what Gnaeus said,” she added. “He can be a lout sometimes. He listens to Cassian too much.”
“Yeah, I’m used to that. I got nothing against him. He apologized, and besides, a lot of people listen to Cassian. He’s probably one of the most respected knights in the city. Hell if I know why.”
Severina nodded and fell quiet. Tom frowned. She wasn’t exactly the talkative type, but the suddenness of the silence worried him.
Finally, she said, “We need to talk, Tom.”
Tom stopped, looking into her earthy brown-green eyes. He knew he was no good at reading people, as Valens so often pointed out, but something troubled her. If nothing else, he heard it in her tone.
“Sure thing,” he said. “About what?”
Severina glanced at a nearby servant on the grounds. Her eyes flicked back to him, pointedly.
And she said, “In private.”
While not the largest room, Tom’s quarters were certainly accommodating. Frescos of dragons and legendary heroes decorated the walls alongside maps of both faraway places and the Northwestern Kingdom itself, the realm of Illikon. Armor stands occupied several corners, one such stand bearing Tom’s battle armor: sleeveless muscle cuirass, horsehair helmet, boots, and bracers forged in the style of an Imperial hoplite, including a tasset belt. Unlike true hoplites, however, Tom wore trousers into battle with this armor – like a barbarian.
Weapon racks decorated the room as well. Swords and axes lined much of the space, every one kept in pristine condition. Hanging among them but bearing special importance was Tom’s war-horn, decorated in red dragons and golden gryphons. Its call was recognized across the Empire and Northrim, but Tom had never used it. Such horns only saw use in warfare, and despite his experiences in skirmishes and other fights and battles, Tom had yet to see true war.
Lastly, Tom’s bed was large, soft, and luxurious, colored entirely red and gold and nestled between a pair of windows. Rather than a romantic sunset, however, the dim light of a dreary evening filled the space. The sky had become overcast, and rain pattered on the roof. It ran down the expensive glass windows, blurring the beautiful view of Illikon and the sea.
Severina entered his room first, glancing it over. As her gaze crossed the frescos and weapons, she shook her head.
“You’ve added things since I was here last,” she remarked. “It certainly speaks to your interests.”
Tom shut the door with his foot and said coyly, “Does it?”
Severina looked at the rug under their feet, which was soft, red and gold, and from a distant far southern land. She nodded and replied, “Definitely.”
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ll bet yours doesn’t look so different.”
She chuckled. “Much to my mother’s dismay. Though thankfully it isn’t quite this exotic.”
But she kept her back to him. Tom paused a moment before moving in front of her, blocking her view of the gloom outside.
“You wanted to talk?” he prompted gently.
“I did. I want to talk about us.”
Tom waited, doubting all the while that meant anything good, but she didn’t say a word. It didn’t take long for her to avert her eyes and look frustrated. Tom put a hand on her shoulder and ran his fingers through her long, red-brown hair. It was beautiful, even luxurious, especially for a lady who’d fought so hard to become a knight… not that Tom thought of it that way. Severina had never let being a knight stop her from being a lady. No matter how often the Empire at large said women couldn’t be knights, she not only rode into battle, but she came home seamlessly beautiful and ladylike. Only her tan and scars, which she left visible in her choice of dress, told of her knighthood.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said softly.
She shrugged, still not looking at his face. “Nothing’s wrong, just…”
Her voice drifted, and he quirked a brow. “Yeah it is,” he said. “You’re worried about something. You won’t even look at me, and I know you like looking at me.” Tom paused for a reaction, but she neither laughed nor admonished him, which was unusual. “What is it?”
Hesitantly, she looked him in the eye again. She took a breath – but she only frowned.
“I don’t know,” she said abruptly. “I don’t know… how to put it.”
“Something to do with Cassian?”
“You could say that.”
“If this has to do with that whole ladies’ man thing…”
“It does and it doesn’t. Not directly. I’d always guessed that, but I know you’re a good man. I don’t care about Cassian’s rumors.”
“Okay… Then what?”
She went quiet again. Tom’s fingers wandered down her hair to her collarbone, sliding across a scar there and sneaking over her shoulder. All the while, he kept watching her and worrying. Severina put a hand on the back of his neck before he could speak again, pulling just enough to indicate she wanted him closer. He complied – and kissed Severina on the lips.
She pulled him closer still, wrapping her other arm around him. Her hips pressed into his. He slid his hands along her back, finding the fastenings of her bodice, but she leaned her head back enough to look at him. Reluctantly – very reluctantly – he stopped.
“I hate to ask it like this, but…” she started.
Tom nuzzled at her cheek and intoned, “Hm?”
“Is that a dagger in your pocket?”
“Maybe I’m just…” he began instantly, but Severina reached into said pocket and drew a sheathed dagger that had been pressed against his leg. Tom grunted pointedly.
“Stop being a smartass for one minute,” she said as she tried to slip away from him. Tom didn’t let her, but he gave an inch or two of space, resting his chin on her head.
“One whole minute,” he replied. “I promise.”
“What is this?”
Tom shrugged, still not releasing her. “You’re right. It’s a dagger. What’s it look like, a—?”
“Promise, remember?”
He cleared his throat. “Alright.”
“You carried this to the banquet?”
“So? There were plenty of knives around.”
“Dinner knives and carving knives, not weapons.”
“Anything’s a weapon if you try hard enough.”
“Stop it. Don’t tell me you were planning to stab Cassian Marks.”
“Stab? No, I was just going to cut him a little bit. It’d probably improve his face. Man looks like a muscular toddler who stuck on a fake beard – a few scars would do him good.”
Severina freed her head from under his chin and glared at him. Tom put on his best innocent smile.
“Sev, you think I’m serious?” He finally moved one hand off her back to take the dagger and toss it away. It hit the rich carpet under their feet with a muffled thud. “Look, it’s just in case. I grew up in streets and alleys, and out there you always carry a knife. I guess old habits die hard.”
“You and your fighting… But I can’t blame you. Even when I know everyone else is unarmed, or they’re supposed to be, I still feel naked without a blade.”
A smile pulled at Tom’s lips. He asked sweetly, “My minute isn’t up yet, is it?”
She gave a laugh. “No, it’s not, and thank Poseidon for that – even if you’ve broken it a few times anyway.”
Again she squirmed in his arms, and Tom let her go in spite of himself. She straightened her elaborate green and blue dress.
“I should go,” Severina said. “I need to get out of this damned dress. Even my armor is more comfortable.”
“You look great, if it’s any consolation,” Tom remarked, meandering behind her. “It’s very… elaborate. You probably had help getting it on.”
Severina threw him a look as he circled her. He grinned, his teeth glinting in the sparse light. Towering behind her, he leaned his head over one of her shoulders. His fingers slid between her exposed shoulder-blades.
Tone sultry, Tom asked, “Want some help getting it back off?”
She hummed in mock thought and faced him again, pretending to be unaffected by his heady charms. “I might… But only if you aren’t clumsy.”
Tom reached around to her back and undid her bodice with a few well-practiced tugs. Her dress flowed off her like water and onto the floor. Tom ran his hands over her firmly toned body, his nimble fingers exploring a few scars along the way.
He said, “You know I’m not.”
Severina answered by kissing him again. A needy growl sounded in his throat as she slipped her hands under his tunic, sliding a gentle touch up along his ribs to his chest. He all but ripped his tunic off, tossing it in a random direction while she deftly undid his belt. Her concentration impressed him, given he kissed her the entire time.
He pulled her close, but she escaped the kissing and pressed her face against his neck. She purred into his skin, “Neither am I.”
Castle Illikon’s highest turret overlooked the ocean cliffs on one side and the plains on the other. Tom had never set foot atop it until now. Deep blue roofs capped several turrets of the castle, forming conical points rather than platforms, but this one remained open to the wind.
Emerging from the stairwell’s total darkness, Tom stepped into bright light under a full moon. Fear bit the back of his neck. The sensation of being chased crawled over his skin like the night’s own chill. He had no time to admire the beauty of the view nor listen to the crashing waves against the shore far below – somehow, he had to find escape. But despite his uncharacteristic terror, when he looked back at the trapdoor, he saw nothing.
He spun in place, searching, knowing he’d cornered himself. He knew not what chased him, only that something did, and it terrified him. Almost nothing frightened him, but whatever pursued him put the fear of death deep in his heart like no battle or even a demon from another world ever had. Not even he could fight so irrational a fear as what overwhelmed him now.
Frigid wind blew, howling and whistling, striking him with such force he nearly staggered. It was so strong that he felt a need to reach a battlement and hold on, so he didn’t lose his footing—
It found him.
Eyes set upon him. Tom sensed it. Wheeling, he watched a nightmare emerge from the trapdoor, rising to meet him. Yet, as it did, shadows passed over the full moon and cast everything in darkness.
Animal eyes, blue as ice, watched him through the blackness. A huge shape straightened itself, unfolding from the small space of the stairwell, bound in muscle and greater in size than any man. And it was… wrong. All wrong. Its shape was not entirely human, nor was its head – a head like a beast. Like a wolf. Sparse moonlight glinted off silver-white fur, an animal hide on a nearly human body…
The wind struck again. Tom stood his ground, planting his feet against it. The beast, with arms and hands like a man’s but with long fingers ending in wicked claws, remained motionless and silhouetted against the night. Untouched by nature’s power, the wind did nothing to the wolf-man.
But Tom couldn’t stand against it. Harder it came, a gale from beyond Northrim itself. The breath of the very gods moved him in place, his boots sliding against the stone underfoot, carrying him toward the edge. Deafening, wind filled his ears. Tom brought his arms before his face, hunkering his tall form low – but it didn’t matter.
He slid until his hip struck the battlements. They broke beneath his weight like brittle sticks rather than stone. Tom grasped for a hold but found nothing. Air rushed around him, stung his eyes, filled his ears, his heart racing – and he toppled from the tower, plummeting into nothing. A fall that spelled certain death…
Tom awoke with a jolt – as if from the finality of impact.
The sensation of falling remained with him a moment longer, but his own dark bedroom greeted his open eyes. Thunder resounded off the stone walls. White lightning flashed and made him blink. Beside him, Severina scrambled awake at his disturbance.
“What?” she said breathlessly. “Tom, what’s wrong?”
Swallowing, Tom sat up and gathered his senses. Storms had rolled off the sea, only growing worse as the night wore on. Rain now dashed against the stone manor and the window-glass, the ruckus filling Tom’s ears, which felt unusually sensitive. Lightning again lit the room, reflecting in Tom’s shining armor on its stand. Maybe the storm had given him such an absurd nightmare. That made some kind of sense, didn’t it? Why would he dream about some twisted man-wolf when he’d never seen nor heard of such a thing?
Finally, Tom answered, “Just… had a bad dream. A very strange bad dream.” He forced a small laugh, realizing how childish he sounded. “It’s, ah – it’s nothing. Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine. But a lot of people would tell you that dreams are visions and you shouldn’t ignore them. Even the Nordlings believe that, I think.”
“I’ve never seen anything like what was in the dream. It’s just nonsense.”
Severina frowned, and Tom knew his voice had betrayed too much concern. “And yet it bothered you. What did you see?”
“I… I don’t know, like I said. It made no sense – it wasn’t something that’d actually happen. Besides, I don’t have ‘visions.’ I probably just drank too much at the feast.”
They spoke no more. Tom settled back down, but Severina slipped away not long after, taking with her the comforting warmth of another body against his own. She lay motionless against the bed’s head, listening to the ripping rain. Tom followed her gaze to a fresco of a great red dragon. Its features came to life with each flash of lightning. Severina watched it as if it watched her back, critically.
“Tom,” she said at length, “can I ask you something?”
His eyes never left her, for he knew from the gravity of her voice she no longer thought of his nightmare. He answered, “You know you can.”
Severina sighed and leaned toward him. Tom rested his chin on her head again. Without a word, she tucked her face against his throat for a while before finally responding.
“I’ve been… thinking about those rumors Cassian keeps spreading.”
Tom frowned. “Are his rumors really that important? Didn’t you say you didn’t care?”
“We’re knights, Tom. We shouldn’t even be together right now, nor should we ever until it’s formal. We’ve got reputations to maintain.”
“Especially you,” Tom finished for her, his voice low.
“Yes… especially me. This concept of dames, ‘lady-knights,’ we have so many names now – it leaves me scrutinized. Most of the Empire considers it foolish, barbaric, and weak. Women have no place in battle. Sometimes, I’m not sure they’re wrong, and when I think that, I compare myself to the shield-maidens of Northrim… which does make it barbaric.”
“And you’re worried about being with someone like me. Someone with a bad reputation.”
Severina didn’t answer.
“Look, some of what he’s saying is probably true. I don’t know all of it, so I can’t really deny every single accusation.”
“The fact that you’re with me right now – and that I’m with you – is a confirmation of some, at least. For us both.”
“Who gives a damn?”
“That’s another thing he says, that you talk like a commoner and that it’s demeaning to all nobility.”
“The f—”
“Like that,” she cut in.
“In my defense, I also curse in other languages, which shows how smart I am.”
“Tom.”
“Fine, I get it. So the,” he gestured vaguely with one hand, “review. I’m not dumb, Sev. You’re leading up to something – go ahead and say it.”
Severina shifted against him, but she didn’t make a sound. Blood rose in Tom’s face.
“I don’t want to say it,” she said. “I don’t want to do it, either.”
“But you’re going to. Right? You’re gonna break off this relationship before it hurts your shiny dame reputation – before it can go anywhere.” He was talking when he knew he shouldn’t. “Because when it all comes down to it, I’m still just that scruffy bastard-son half-barbarian street rat everybody wants to keep on a chain.”
She leaned away, looking him in the face. “It’s not like that, Tom,” Severina said, slowly and gravely. “I care for you. But us being together… I’m not sure it’s right.”
“Oh, to hell with ‘right,’ Severina!” Tom blurted before he could stop himself. “What do you wanna do, go marry someone like Cassian Marks? Because he’s so upstanding, right?”
She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she admitted quietly. “It’s not Cassian. But every time I get ready to do it, you pull me in again… Just like tonight.”
Tom said nothing.
At length, she offered weakly, “I’m sorry. I’m not blaming you for any of this, Tom. But… we can’t do this anymore.”
Tom only intoned a low, “Yeah.” After a moment, he added, “I’m sorry too.”
Frustration burned in his chest, but with that, Severina got out of bed. Tom didn’t look at her while she gathered her things and escaped.
When the door thudded shut, Tom slumped onto the pillows.
Thick grey clouds veiled the sun the next day. Corben McShane whistled absent-mindedly, waiting outside the Draconius manor and watching servants bustle about. He had met Severina in the streets a few hours ago. He’d assumed Tom would leave for the castle as well now that she was gone, yet Corben still saw no sight of him.
Severina had seemed troubled, but Corben doubted he read her right. Beautiful women, he thought, were hard to read and even harder to understand. Sometimes, he considered himself glad he didn’t have one. Curse Tom. How’d he ever get so lucky?
A horse’s nicker at his back interrupted his thoughts, and Tom said gruffly, “Surprised to see you here.”
Corben regarded Tom Drake, who sat atop his sheer black stallion, the horse’s white forehead star shining prominently right in Corben’s face. Ghost was not yet garbed in his tournament attire. The steed snorted, sharing his rider’s annoyance. Tom wore a stony expression, much to Corben’s surprise.
Corben raised a brow. “For a fella who just spent the night with a lovely lady, you don’t seem too happy.”
“Always direct, huh, Cor?”
“Aye. Well, shouldn’t you be chipper?”
“Not exactly.”
He set Ghost off at a walk, forcing Corben to step aside and allow the horse passage. Tom’s frustration made Corben hesitate, wondering, before he hurried alongside his friend’s stallion.
“Why not, then?” asked Corben. Arrogant smiles, cheerful comments, and dry remarks generally flew this way and that after Tom had spent a night with Severina. “Severina left you, didn’t she?”
Tom visibly clenched his jaw before answering, “Apparently being one of the only lady knights in the Northwest cost us our relationship. She didn’t want to jeopardize what little respect she gets.” Tom shook his head. “I know what she’s going through better than most, but…”
“But you wouldn’t let somethin’ like your ‘reputation’ stand in the way o’ something or someone you really care about. Batty noble women… You’re too good for ‘em, Tom.”
“I might not care much about my reputation,” Tom said, “but I care about hers. It’s very important to her. I just didn’t think I was endangering it. I wouldn’t want to. I know she works hard on her knighthood.”
“I guess she was worried people might talk about it more, with all these rumors flyin’ around… Anyway, you’ll feel better once you kick Marks’s arse, right?”
Tom’s eyes wandered. “Maybe a little.”
“You will. An’ I guess I’m your help now that Magnus left. Can’t wait to see all the looks the nobs are gonna give me.”
They approached the castle gates now, and Corben wondered what he was doing. He didn’t belong in a world of knights and nobles – he belonged among taverns, common soldiers, thieves, and sailors. Fellow watchmen, smelly drinking buddies, and long hours – it was uglier, but at least it was a trifle more honest. Tom, meanwhile, lived at once in and between both worlds, like some kind of double life. Why couldn’t Tom get another squire?
“Just give them right back,” Tom replied, sounding grim rather than cheerful. “I’ll back you up.”
Corben chuckled, feeling better. Given Tom’s low mood, however, he said no more on their way to the lists.
Crisp rain freshened the humid air, and a fine drizzle created a thin but foreboding mist. Yet no rain could dampen the colorful pavilions against the green tourney grounds, especially Tom’s bright red tent. Neither did the weather dampen the Marks family tent, which had replaced the Kallistos one from before. Yellow and blue stripes ran down the cloth, highlighted by silver bands. Flags bearing the Marks crest of blue fishes on a yellow field hung damply from their poles with hardly a breeze livening them.
Despite the rain, the spectator turnout impressed and troubled Corben. Every important face was present, joined by many lesser-known figures besides – not that Corben knew his nobility very well. The stands looked full to bursting, and several more spectators lurked along the far edges of the green, even with joust coordinators warning them back. Corben noticed Tom tighten his grip on Ghost’s reins.
“Looks like they’re itchin’ to see who’ll win this little feud,” Corben said darkly. “Even though it supposedly ain’t a feud, which I don’t think anybody believes. Else maybe they’re so paranoid o’ what’s supposedly goin’ on in Northrim that they don’t know where else to be.”
“I just hope Marks keeps his word,” Tom replied. Glancing Corben’s way, he remarked, “You’re gonna take that dorky thing off before we joust, right?”
Corben chuckled and removed his dome helmet. “Let’s get you suited up.”
Steadier rain pinged on Tom’s armor as he halted Ghost in the field. Through the steel teeth of his dragon helm, he saw Cassian Marks, clad in his own colorful scale hauberk, opposite him on the long lists. Fins adorned Marks’s helm, his yellow plume with a silver stripe in the center drooping in the rain. Every inch of Cassian’s armor carried motifs of fins, ocean waves, and fish, not unlike the dragon theme Tom wore. Alongside Cassian’s horse, his young squire passed Cassian a targe and a yellow-and-silver striped lance.
“Do us all a favor and don’t kill him, alright, Tom?” Corben said, helping Tom strap a bright red shield onto his arm.
Tom laughed and took the lance next. “What, did you promise Val you’d nag me? I took an oath, Cor, same as the oath I took to defend Illikon herself. Believe it or not, I take those very seriously.”
“Aye, I know the spill ‘bout you being a man of your word. I hope he’s feelin’ the same way.” Corben looked at Cassian, who waited in silence atop his chestnut charger wearing its colorful caparison. Cassian’s great helm entirely covered his face, with only the narrowest of slits for eye-holes, making him look far from merciful.
Tom said, “He’ll regret it if he doesn’t.”
Corben rolled his eyes. Trumpets split the air before Tom could drop another remark, and Corben moved directly into Tom’s vision yet again. The watchman’s earth-green eyes betrayed his worry.
“Don’t do somethin’ stupid,” Corben said gravely, in the same tone one might use when seeing someone stand at the edge of a cliff – which Tom had done before and been lectured less.
Denying Tom a retort, Corben dashed off, joining Cassian’s squire near the audience stands. The boy stood much shorter than Corben, but he held his nose much higher. Even from his distance, Tom heard every word when they spoke.
“How you doin’, boy?” Corben said with a friendly smile.
The boy screwed up his brow. “You’re awfully common for a squire. And old.”
“Your nanny didn’t beat you enough, did she? Watch your lip unless you want me to fix her mistake.”
The boy fell silent, and Tom stopped listening, though he hoped Cassian’s squire didn’t tell his master about Corben’s disrespect. But Tom’s attention quickly turned elsewhere. His blood was up; he could feel it. His heart thudded too hard in his chest, his lust for battle beating strong once again. Sensing it, Ghost pawed at the ground. Tom tensed, tightened his grip on his lance, and let Ghost shoot straight ahead at full gallop.
Wind and rain cut into his thin visor like a knife. Tom squinted against it, taking aim and focusing only on the blue fish in the center of Cassian’s targe…
Impact rattled him in the saddle. The lances snapped.
The knights’ weapons shattered against each other in a resounding crack and an explosion of splinters. Neither reached their targets. Tom released the broken lance as his horse kept running, stopping only when he reached the other side of the tilt.
De-horsing the other knight often didn’t happen. Tom knew that, yet he always aimed for it regardless, for his eternal aim was to give more of a spectacle, a better show of his strength and skill. Every time it didn’t happen, he only grew angrier.
Corben grabbed a new lance off a nearby rack and ambled over to meet him. Silently, Tom repositioned Ghost opposite the tilt while runners fetched the lance splinters, removing them from the field. As relatively new a sport as jousting was for the Empire, they had it down to an art already.
“How’s it goin’?” asked Corben as he fitted another lance into Tom’s waiting, gauntleted hand.
“I was hoping I’d dismount him on the first pass,” Tom answered.
“Aye, well, if wishes were horses, then maybe I’d be ridin’ one today. You’ll get him before you know it.”
Again the clarion trumpets sounded, and Corben nodded before retreating. Tom once more focused only on Cassian as everyone else cleared the field.
“Let’s finish this,” Tom muttered, aiming his lance across Ghost’s neck.
Again the steeds streaked across the grassy field, becoming little more than colorful red and gold or yellow and blue blurs in the rain – blurs carrying riders distinguished by colors and helms, Tom’s horns and Cassian’s plume. Heaviness filled the air already so overburdened with tension. Every spectator leaned forward. They neared again…
But the lances glanced off their targets.
The horses stopped on opposite sides of the field. Half the audience jeered. Tom cast a glance up at them, rainwater running down the snout of his dragon helm and dripping from its various hornlets and spikes.
“They’re as tired of this as I am,” Tom remarked.
Corben checked his lance but said, “I thought you lived for this kinda stuff, Tom. Just relax. He’ll slip sooner or later.”
“Slip?” Tom laughed. “What, you think he’s as good as I am?”
Frowning, Corben leaned closer. His tone changed when he said, “Don’t get too cocky. I mean it. Marks wasn’t playin’ around at that banquet.”
Tom just laughed again. “Don’t be so dramatic, Cor. I’ll deal with Cassian Marks, and you can take care of his squire.”
Corben’s gravity turned into confusion. “You heard what I said to the boy? From all the way over here, and in that wild helmet?”
“Technically it’s a ‘helm,’” Tom replied ribbingly.
The trumpets sounded again, louder than ever, nearly splitting Tom’s head wide open. The signal to charge had come again, yet Corben still looked concerned, as if he watched a knight plot murder.
Tom gestured him away with his shield arm, his levity spent. “Look, I told you I’m not gonna hurt him. Now get back where it’s safe – I don’t think Cassian would care if he trampled you.”
Corben finally retreated, and Tom refocused for the third time. The rain had slowed again, giving a clearer view of the field and his adversary.
The horses charged. Tom leaned low over Ghost’s neck, shield close at his side. Gracefully, he lowered his lance into position. Cassian neared, closer and closer – and again Tom took aim, bracing himself for whatever impact awaited…
The point of a lance stared right at him. Cassian’s lance was aimed high. Too high. It was aimed right at his—
Pain exploded into Tom’s head. Wood splintered everywhere, impact rattling his teeth. His ears rang. He wasn’t in the saddle anymore – he wasn’t anywhere for what felt like several seconds.
Then his back slammed hard against the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. Everything hurt, his head spun, and something hot and sticky ran down his face. Tom swore in at least four languages, though only in his mind. He lacked the breath to speak.
Cassian had aimed for his head. Worse, he’d aimed for the one weak point in his otherwise impenetrable helm, directly at his visor – at his face.
A beat passed.
Everything kept spinning. Tom’s ears rang so loudly he couldn’t hear himself think. He didn’t move, spread-eagled on the ground, unsure which way was up. A few moments later, he found his senses and stood, grabbing at the air. His hands caught the tilt, the wooden bar separating the two riders on the jousting field. Sucking air back into his chest, Tom leaned against it, freeing his hands to tug off his helm and arming cap. Blinking past blood, he dropped them both.
A long splinter protruded askew from his dragon-maw visor. Blood covered the left side of his head. Hot stickiness coated his face as well, running so profusely it dripped off his chin, the stink filling his nose. He grimaced and pressed a gauntleted hand on his wounded forehead, where still more blood partially matted the angry spikes of his hair.
Corben ran over, but Tom barely noticed. The wild pounding of his heart filled his ears, all but deafening him. A veil of hot red rage dropped over his vision. Through it, he watched Cassian Marks dismount his steed on the opposite side of the lists, his movements casual. Calm. As if everything had gone according to plan, as if satisfied with himself— a man who had given his word to Queen Illikoni and then broken it the very next day.
Tom tore his hand away from his face, his fingers trailing his own blood. He ripped the shield from his arm. Instinctively, he reached for a sword hilt above his shoulder – but they weren’t there. Only in his battle armor did he carry his swords on his back, not his tournament gear.
Urgent words reached Tom’s ears but not his mind. Corben kept saying something, but Tom didn’t listen. When he looked at Corben, all he saw was his sword-belt slung over Corben’s shoulder, ready for when the melee started.
Fury silenced Tom’s every thought. He straightened despite the blood. Corben froze. He looked frightened. Tom reached over, pulled the belt off Corben’s shoulder, and drew his twin blades before Corben registered what had happened.
“Tom, wait!”
Words still couldn’t reach Tom Drake. He wasn’t listening – he couldn’t listen. He heard only his lust for blood.
Tom moved toward his target, head held low like a stalking beast. Spectators stared in alarm. Each step he took made his wrath run hotter, like billows on an inferno, made him grip his swords tighter – and made him pick up the pace.
He cleared the distance of the tilt in seconds. Cassian whirled just before Tom descended on him. Eyes ablaze, gnashing teeth white against the red blood coating his face, Tom let loose a guttural roar that split the pinging rain.
Cassian nearly stumbled in his haste, pulling a sword off the weapon rack behind him. The moment he brought the blade around, Tom’s swords were there, slamming into it. The sheer force of Tom’s first strike nearly knocked Cassian off his feet.
Cassian’s sword-arm moved. Struck at him. Tom swatted it away like a fly.
He kept up the assault, hammering Cassian’s shield, as if he wielded a war-hammer instead of a pair of swords. Every time Cassian even twitched to retaliate, Tom deflected it. Instinct told him when Cassian moved, and his speed kept Cassian on the defensive. Tom’s blood rushed even faster and stirred a terrible hunger in his soul.
Steel against steel. Steel against wood – wood almost splintering, Cassian’s shield weakening. Part of it snapped clean off from Tom’s next sword-blow as if deflecting a bull’s head-on charge.
Tom didn’t register the destruction – didn’t register his own strength, his own instinctual precision – and didn’t register the desperation in Cassian’s every terrified movement. It was weakness, not desperation. Not something he pitied. Only weakness he could exploit.
Behind him, Corben shouted, “Tom!”
Still Tom didn’t listen. All he knew was Cassian’s blood. He wanted to spill it, to smell it so powerfully he tasted it. Cassian kept trying, but he couldn’t even get off a swing, not with Tom bearing down on him. Tom made sure of that. He sidestepped Cassian’s heaviest swing yet and used it to lunge in, raking a blade across the metal of Cassian’s great helm.
That made Cassian stagger, putting him off-balance. Tom saw his chance.
He kicked Cassian so hard in the chest the other knight went flying and slammed hard into the mud. His helm came off his head and bounced across the wet ground. Tom lunged again.
Disable him— Tom slammed a foot onto the wrist of Cassian’s sword arm. His other foot landed square on Cassian’s chest, pressing hard, crushing the wind from Cassian’s lungs and pushing him into the mud.
Hurt him— left sword raised, Tom plunged the blade into Cassian’s shoulder between his pauldrons of segmented leather. It went right through his mail like it wasn’t even there. Tom earned himself a scream from the squirming knight, a man he no longer recognized. Tom recognized only the scent of blood from Cassian’s wound. The hunger in him howled, shutting out everything else. It tightened his rage closer still, every ounce of his vicious focus set on his quarry.
“Drake – Drake, please!” begged the knight whose name didn’t matter. He shook from head to toe, and his voice shook even worse. “I yield! I yield!”
Tom didn’t hear him. He pulled his sword from his prey’s shoulder. The knight screamed again.
Kill him—
Something slammed into Tom from behind. A pair of strong arms wrapped around Tom’s shoulders from underneath to lock his arms above his head.
“Tom, stop it!” Corben yelled in his ear. “What the hell’s gotten into you!?”
The grip sent pain shooting up Tom’s arms, twisting his shoulders. Tom growled and struggled, but it didn’t work.
“Let me go, Corben!” Tom snarled. “He broke his oath to the Queen – he tried to kill me!”
“Killin’ him ain’t gonna fix that!” Corben shouted back.
Tom didn’t answer. He bunched his muscles like an animal and threw a shoulder forward so hard it twisted his arms free from Corben’s grip. It also sent his friend sprawling into the mud. Corben landed in a heap, wheezing. One hand gripped his shoulder that had nearly been dislocated.
Suddenly, Tom froze. Corben was his friend. He wouldn’t hurt Corben – why had he done that?
Sense slowly seeped back into him. Tom dropped his weapons, his twin swords, Guts and Glory, thudding to the rain-soaked earth.
His heart slowed. His head spun. Pain hit him like a catapult stone, and stars filled his vision. A thousand thoughts that couldn’t get through his rage and hunger before now flooded into his mind. With them came pain – so much pain he hadn’t felt before. Tom pressed a hand against his skull, realizing the blood on his face had gone all the way down his neck to his scale hauberk. How was he still standing?
As if on cue, his legs gave out. But before the ground met his face, Corben caught him by the arms. From the way Corben buckled and grunted, Tom knew he was incredibly heavy in his gear and not supporting his own weight. As much as he wanted to help Corben, strength had left his limbs, like his body was only just realizing it had been struck a potentially mortal blow.
The world became pulsing blackness and waves of nauseating pain. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Footsteps. Voices – but only a few came through clearly enough to understand.
“I’m sorry…” Cassian sputtered. “I – I didn’t mean…”
“Shut up,” Corben snapped hotly.
“Get Sir Tom to the healers!” the Queen ordered. “We will deal with his… outburst when he is conscious.”
Another man came forward and helped Corben carry Tom: Marshal Lucius Fletcher. Tom knew who he was before he even spoke, though he knew not how.
“Dear gods,” said Fletcher’s voice near Tom’s ear. “Let’s get him onto a horse. We should hurry. I don’t know how he didn’t die instantly.”
Everything faded rapidly after that, passing into darkness and silence, save for one last sound…
King Aetius’s deep voice boomed across the lists, “Take Sir Cassian to the dungeons!”
Tom awoke with a groan. The throbbing in his skull told him he still lived. Warm air touched his skin rather than the cool ground of the rain-soaked lists. He blinked and looked around, finding himself in a long room of stone walls. Candles in golden mounts lit much of the room, though a few small windows between the rows of beds also let in cloud-filtered sunlight. He wasn’t in the dungeon, after all. He recognized his surroundings as the house of healing attached to Illikon’s temple of Athena.
Sighing, Tom rubbed his aching head. Sticky moistness greeted his fingers, making his stomach do a flip. The blood was gone, but the stained bandages on his head almost reached his left eye. Though they did stop before marring his brow…
Tom let his hand drop, muttering, “At least he didn’t mess up my face.”
“Aye, might’ve killed you. Or, worse, ruined your looks.”
Corben’s voice made Tom start. He sat up, his blurred vision finally focusing on Corben, who sat beside his sickbed, still wearing his same watchman attire from before. Blood stained it in several places. Tom wondered if every drop of it was his own.
“You alright, Tom?” Corben asked. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”
Tom spared a glance at his hands. “Eight.”
Corben looked down at his own fingers and blinked. “Damn, you can count fast.”
“I am alright, aren’t I?” Tom said, poking at the bandage on his head again and wincing with a quiet swear.
“Aye, you’ll be fine. You’re lucky Marshal Fletcher an’ the lady-knight helped me bring you here so fast after you winked out, else you might’ve ended up worse.” Corben leaned back in his chair. “I was surprised you passed out – never seen you pass out before – but then I saw what Marks did to your head. I’m surprised he didn’t kill you with what he did. Although maybe I’m even more surprised you didn’t kill him with what you did…”
“As am I,” said Cristina Drake as she swept into the room. Cristy was the second oldest of Tom’s three adoptive sisters, technically his cousins. Tom didn’t give too much thought to his family tree; as far as he was concerned, they were his sisters. He had no other siblings besides, and blood was blood.
She arrived beside his sickbed, all business, as usual. Her long, dark hair was tied up in a bun, and she folded her arms in a way that foretold a scolding.
“Hey, Cristy,” Tom said, managing a crooked smile.
“Greetings, Tom,” Cristy replied coolly. “Still facing your problems head-on, I see.”
Tom made a show of cringing and faked a laugh. “Ahah, that’s… really funny.”
“In all seriousness, Cassian was either trying to kill you or, like Corben said, mess up your face. That lance splinter could easily have pierced your skull. You’re lucky his aim wasn’t better, and that your helm deflected as much as it did.”
Grinning, Tom elbowed Corben. “Pretty good for a lizard with horns.”
Corben just sneered.
Cristy smiled. “You have a right to be smug. I don’t think lesser men would’ve survived the blow you did receive… but I hate to see you look death so closely in the face, Tom.”
“Me too, trust me.” Tom rubbed his bandage again. “He’s ugly.”
Cristy gently took Tom’s hand and pushed it away. “Try not to touch it,” she warned. “You’ll open the wound. It’ll leave a scar either way, but you’ve bled more than enough. I’m fairly certain he did crack your skull.”
“And people always tell me I have such a thick head. Ah well, maybe it’ll let some of the demons out.”
“Oh, and… there’s somethin’ else,” said Corben, exchanging glances with Cristina. Tom suddenly felt very uncomfortable. His hand inched toward the silver dragon amulet around his neck. Apparently, whoever had taken off his armor while he was out knew better than to remove the trinket.
“What is it?” Tom asked, despite feeling he already knew.
“It’s Father,” Cristy said. “He wants to talk to you. He’s waiting just outside.”
“Yeah,” Tom said, his voice turning vaguely hoarse. “Alright. Bring him in here.”
“In private, Tom. So we’ll be leaving.” She threw Corben a pointed look, and he got to his feet, silently scuttling out. If Tom hadn’t known his father stood in the hall just beyond, he would’ve called a remark after Corben about his haste.
Tom’s fingers closed around his silver amulet. He muttered, “Thanks for the backup, pal.”
“Tom,” Cristy said with a sigh, “don’t look so scared. I know he can be hard to get along with, but he’s not that bad.”
“I don’t look scared,” Tom retorted, trying his best to sound offended, but his heart wasn’t in it. His attempts at bravado faded. Instead, he stared at the sheets pulled up to his waist and said, “Maybe he’s not that bad for you, Cristy. You’re not his only son.”
“Well, you’ll have to talk to him at some point, so you might as well get it over with. After this, you’re going home to Dragon’s Lair, until the royals contact Father with your punishment – which you are being punished. But you still heal like nothing I’ve ever seen, so you’ll be fine in a few days. Even if you think Father isn’t looking after you, clearly the gods are.”
“To Dragon’s Lair?” Tom echoed, barely hearing the rest. “Why not the manor in Illikon?”
“Tom, you’re the Prince. You must go back to your own castle sometimes. We all know you love Illikon. You don’t need to beat it into anyone else’s head by staying here and not managing your own lands.”
Tom snorted. “You say that like Father even lets me take part in the rulership instead of butting me out whenever I lift a finger. My time’s better spent in Illikon where I can make a difference.”
“Anyway,” Cristy said, “I’ll let him in. Good luck with him, Tom. I’m taking a break from this place so I can go home with you afterward.”
Tom smiled about that, at least. He always enjoyed her company. Cristy seemed satisfied that he did, smiling back – but with that, she let in Earl Warren, who was the epitome of a regal and stern Imperial father. He wore a perfectly tailored red-and-white tunic. His equally as perfect hair and close beard, both neatly trimmed and dark but dusted with silver, completed his air of nobility. Stern, severe features and lines creased into his gracefully aging face told tales of how many scoldings he’d delivered, while several scars told how many battles he’d seen.
Warren’s eyes locked with Tom’s own. Even when Cristy left, Warren didn’t spare her a look, as it would mean removing his glower from Tom. Whenever Warren did this to him, Tom felt like his father stared into his naked soul. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. The nearer Warren drew to the sickbed, the harder Tom avoided meeting his gaze. He looked instead at the small dragon amulet around Warren’s neck, which was an exact replica of Tom’s silver one but made of gold and on a golden chain.
“Thomakos,” said Warren, “I’m glad you’re alright.”
The stone-cold, stone-hard look in Warren’s dark blue eyes softened somewhat. Tom felt a twinge of guilt for occasionally thinking ill of his foster father. How was it possible that, after all these years, he still didn’t know how to feel about Warren – or how to even talk to him? He didn’t want to disrespect his father, but sometimes… He pushed the thoughts aside.
“Me too,” Tom said quietly.
“I understand your frustration with Cassian besting you at the tournament, especially considering he did so in such a brutal manner…” Warren’s voice hardened again. “But what were you planning before McShane restrained you?”
“I wasn’t going to kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Yes, you were. I saw the way you moved. I saw the look on your face, Thomakos. Even after all these years and so much disciplining, your temper remains uncontrollable. The other families will talk about your Nordling blood again after this, call you some kind of berserker…”
“While still blindly denying that almost everyone living in the Northwest has some Northrim blood in them…”
“That’s beside the point.” Warren leaned forward without sitting on the bed or even touching it, staring ever deeper into Tom’s eyes. “You must restrain yourself, before you do something my entire bloodline will regret. Remember whom you represent.”
“Our bloodline traces back to pureblooded dragons – I don’t think they would put up with this crap. But I need to learn restraint because I got angry at another knight for trying to kill me, is that it?”
“No. Because you tried to kill him, and you would have succeeded, had McShane not interfered. You should thank him generously for that. Not even the royal family could save you from your fate, had you taken Cassian’s life. Revenge is not the way of a knight, neither in the heat of battle nor long-plotted vengeance. If you could have seen yourself on the field today, you would realize the urgency for you to learn self-control.”
Feeling a surge of anger, Tom snapped before he realized it, “I’m not the one who broke an oath to the Queen.”
“Didn’t you? You swore not to harm him.”
“I swore not to harm him as long as he didn’t harm me. I didn’t break my oath. Besides,” he added under his breath, “I didn’t actually hurt the idiot anyway…”
Now it was Warren’s turn to snap. “Damn it all, Thomakos, can you be serious for even one moment?”
Tom showed his hands in surrender. “I am being serious!”
“You acted like a mad beast out there. Everyone saw it – even the royalty!”
“I’d like to see how you’d react if someone broke a lance on your face! On purpose!”
“You should have known Cassian would try something. If there is one area in which you’ve never disappointed, it’s your prowess in battle.” The scowl creasing Warren’s face deepened. “I have seen you lose jousts, but you always lost fairly and respected your better.”
“Oh, so now Marks is my better for trying to kill me?”
“No, but he did win.”
“He only won,” Tom said through his teeth, “because he cheated.”
“Even if that is true, you let your anger cloud your judgment, and that removed your guard. Giving in to your rage in the first place allowed this to happen. I want you to learn from this.”
“Are you kidding me?” Tom finally released the amulet around his neck. “There’s just no satisfying you, is there? I’ve got to be perfect.”
“Perfect? No. But you could have shown everyone you were a better knight than Cassian by simply walking off that field. Instead, you attacked him.”
“Yeah, I get it,” answered Tom, keeping his voice controlled now. “I’ve heard it all before, so spare me the rest of the lecture.”
Warren raised his head subtly. “I should spare you nothing. Continue down this path, and you will disgrace this family – and I will wonder if I should have left you on the streets. Am I making myself clear?”
Tom’s gaze dropped. “Yes, Father.”
Without another word, Warren spun on his heel to leave. But once his hand touched the doorknob, he hesitated and looked over his shoulder at Tom.
In uncharacteristic silence, Tom only stared.
“The King requested my presence when they speak with Cassian,” said Warren, “so Cristina and McShane will take you back to the manor. When I return, we will depart for Dragon’s Lair. Count your blessings that King Aetius and Queen Carlisa did not choose to have you spend tonight in the dungeon with Cassian. Whatever other punishment they choose will be forthcoming, I’m sure.” Warren opened the door before he finished quietly, “And I’m glad you’re alright, Thomakos.”
The instant those words left his mouth, he was gone.
That evening, Tom found himself in his room once more. He awaited Warren’s word that they would leave for Dragon’s Lair, castle of House Drake. The hour was late, but Tom knew Warren would likely leave anyway. That was fine by him; he always had enjoyed the night.
Tom guessed he’d never hear the extent of Cassian’s punishments, nor would he hear what was in store for him until his wound healed enough to, most likely, perform extensive menial servant labor around Castle Illikon. If he was lucky, he’d avoid a turn in the dungeons, but he wouldn’t protest if that order came. Other nobles would surely shout about favoritism, but Tom didn’t care.
Whatever punishment Cassian received, Tom knew the scar his actions had left on the Marks family name would fade with time… unlike the scar that stared at Tom in his reflection: a long, deep mark on his left forehead, slicing into his hairline. Another reminder of assorted failures.
But it didn’t hurt as badly as his father’s words. His relationship with Warren had always been unstable, but it only ever seemed to get worse.
Rain drummed again on the windows of Tom’s room. The beautiful red and gold carpet and bed, the intricate frescos, the magnificent armor on its stand… Tonight, it felt cold and unwelcoming. Tom gazed, alone, out the window past the sheets of rain. Through the glass, his view distorted by rainwater, Tom made out the moon’s baleful visage hanging over the sea, ominously looking out amidst gathering storm-clouds.
Tom removed his amulet, staring at the dragon in his palm. Lightning flashed. The silver shimmered briefly in its purple-white glow. His family’s heraldic dragon, same as the ones on his armor, looked ever proud and fearsome.
Tom opened the drawer of his nightstand and placed the amulet inside, shoving it closed again. Tonight marked the first time he had taken it off, save for bathing. The moment he shut the drawer, he felt as though a part of him was missing – but he didn’t open it again.
His eyes were drawn to the nearly-full moon. It brought back memories of another night with a moon just as bright… the night he’d earned his Demon Slayer title. Perhaps what bothered him most of the rumors Cassian spread was that many were based in truth.
The King and Queen had personally sent him after the magi Cassian had mentioned, for one of the mages had been their own blood. They had trusted Tom, whose loyalty was to Illikon before the Empire itself, to spare the boy and keep their secret, saving him from the Imperial Inquisition – an order that would either have imprisoned or executed the boy for his magic. Carrying out the mission had cost Tom much pain and even death… for it had cost him his own squire, Radek.
But in the end, he‘d slain the demon, on a night much like this one – and he had let an entire cult of mages go free. Because, when he’d found them, he pitied them. Magic was illegal in the Empire, but they had never asked for their magic. They’d simply been born with it.
One of the mage girls had given him a ring, the same one Cassian had jeered at before. Tom looked down at the band of twisted gold.
That night that felt like so long ago now.
He would never forget her smile when she’d given him the ring, so happy to be free. Tom tried not to think about freedom as he opened the drawer long enough to deposit the ring with his amulet. Bickering noble houses, surrounded by pomp and pretense, always struggling for favor and prestige, felt like a petty game that he was stuck playing against his will – yet it was worth it to be a knight. Knowing that the sight of him brought hope to the people of the Northwest…
Heroism returned his thoughts to the demon of Wrath. Mortals were never meant to fight demons at all, much less alone. But he had done it, and he’d won. Ash and smoke had turned the very air into a choking hellscape, impossibly hot, like some slice of another world. He felt it again, the heat on his skin, burning his eyes… and burning something deeper inside him. Merely being in the demon’s presence would have been enough to drive most people mad with terror.
“Let me feel your rage, mortal,” the demon had said, its voice unearthly, so hideous and unnatural his ears all but blocked it out – and so the words had twisted into his very soul instead. “Without it, you will never defeat me. Without it, you are nothing.”
Tom twitched and forced the demon’s voice from his mind again. It had told him to give in, and he had. That was how he’d become the Demon Slayer, a title almost no currently living mortal man could boast.
He watched a storm gather on the horizon, adding more instability to the already ominous black waves of the sea. Thunder growled in the distance. Wind howled over the manor. The wild sounds of nature chased away thoughts of failure, noble houses, and demons. A part of him wished he was out there in the storm, fighting for his life, doing battle with an enemy far more honest than politics.
The door to his room creaked open. In peered an elderly house servant, who said, “Prince Tom? Your father has summoned you. He says it’s time to go.”
Tom finally pried his eyes from the moon. “Thank you,” he replied, running his fingers over his neck that felt barren without his family amulet, yet he still didn’t retrieve it. “I’m ready.”
The sun was up. Lieutenant Corben McShane shouldn’t even have been working, yet he stood over a corpse.
He touched the dead man gingerly with the toe of his boot. Corben hadn’t known the dead watchman personally, but he’d seen him around. Now he barely recognized him, crumpled lifeless on a street in Illikon’s slums, drying in the sun.
Corben addressed another watchman, “You found him like this – armor stripped?”
The other watchman in question was a comrade and drinking buddy of Corben’s named Wattie. He pointed to the cellar door beside them and replied, “And stuffed up in there. The building’s abandoned. I was checking it for a runaway thief when I stumbled across this instead.”
The third man at the scene, an old watchman with a grey-brown beard and watery eyes, shook his head sadly. “I liked Pate. Here I figured he stowed away on some ship to get out of his gambling debts, but the poor sod gave his life in the line of duty.”
Corben nodded. “Almost makes you wanna think better o’ people.”
The older man took a long draw from a bottle he carried. Any other watchmen would’ve been reprimanded for drinking on the job, but not Baldric, for he was the ‘Praefectus Vigilum,’ Captain of the Watch.
Corben leaned over, inspecting the body. Old blood coated the dead man’s neck, chin, and much of his front. He’d bled freely from ugly, ragged wounds ripped across his throat. His limbs were twisted – he’d been stuffed away while still freshly dead, and only after had his body gone stiff.
“Killed a couple days ago – his throat’s torn open,” Corben noted aloud. “No other wounds, and I’ll be damned if his face doesn’t still look startled. A real pro job, quick and clean, ‘cept this doesn’t look like a blade did it. But if it wasn’t a knife, I don’t know what it was.”
Such wounds made him think of claws. Corben dared not offer such an insane theory out loud. He’d only seen claw wounds once in his life, having always lived in the city, and they’d been under unique circumstances, during the appearance of that demon…
“Any ideas?” Captain Baldric asked.
“No one from this town. I know the scum in my town, and none of ‘em are half this good. Not that’s still around, anyway.”
“Someone from the docks, come in on a ship?” ventured Wattie.
Corben ran a hand over his shaved head, spotting something nearby. “Maybe, but I keep a close eye on that lot… Hang on a minute.”
They were in a secluded area of Illikon’s slums, down a narrow old street that hardly saw use. Grasses of the Illikon Plains threatened to reclaim the stones underfoot, bursting up between the cracks. Corben walked across the road to an alley opposite the building where they found Pate’s corpse – and sprinted into the shadows after a shape there.
Corben snatched the figure by the collar. Turned out his catch was a homeless old peasant. Corben’s fellow watchmen jogged over as Corben dumped the hairy beggar onto the street in plain view.
“Why’re you trying to run, old man?” said Corben.
The beggar pulled at his thin, greying beard. “I dunno – reflex, I guess! I didn’t do nothin’ or see nothin’, I swear by all the gods!”
“I saw enough fish bones back there for several days’ worth o’ meals. You’ve been here a while, maybe even when that watchman was killed.”
The man made a pitiful attempt to shield his head with his skinny arms. “I didn’t kill nobody, sir, not in my whole life, I swear!”
“I know you didn’t kill Pate, old codger. I don’t think you could move fast enough. But maybe you saw who did.”
Corben tightened his leather brawling gloves, but Captain Baldric stepped forward and put a hand on Corben’s thick arm. Corben let his hands drop, watching Baldric kneel and pass his bottle to the old beggar. The old man didn’t hesitate to take a sip. Once he had, he cleared his throat and licked his lips, like the ale restored his power of speech.
“Thanks,” he said. “I did see something, but you boys wouldn’t believe me. You’d say I was drunk, or addled, or…”
The captain nodded patiently. “Whatever you saw, it’s more than what we have right now. Tell us.”
“Aye, sir, but you won’t like it. I saw a man, a big man, hell he was so tall I’d think he was north o’ the Nordlings – and this… girl, she seemed small, short. Just a slight little thing. She struck me as– as odd, almost… fey. Funny pair they were, one so big and one so small. Like something out of a storybook. Thought I was seein’ things. Then along comes the guard, and… and I dunno what happened exactly, sir, but they all got into a kind of scuffle. Then the big man, all I could see was black, just black, like he was a livin’ shadow—”
Corben rolled his eyes, waiting for the drama to pass and the facts to come out. So far, the old man was right about one thing: Corben figured he was completely addled.
“And… and they fought, not long mind you, it all happened so fast, and then… well…”
His voice drifted – and changed.
“That’s when it happened. The… th-the demon.”
Though Corben had chuckled at the fairy-tale about the shade and the fey girl, the word ‘demon’ gave him a chill. He crouched and rested a hand on the beggar’s bony shoulder, which felt frail under his touch. Corben looked the man right in the eyes.
“Now hang on, old timer,” he said. “You better not be pullin’ our leg with this demon business. I’ve seen a demon. Barely lived to tell it. So don’t joke about demons. I’ll know, and I won’t laugh.”
The apple in the old man’s throat bobbed. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir! I saw one too, Zeus be my witness! It… it… the man, the shade, he turned into a demon before my very eyes! He… he got mad, and out came these wings, great clawed wings, and it had a tail with a spade like all the stories say – and it killed the watchman quicker than anything! And then it… he… he looked right at me— gods, his eyes… Full o’ dark magic they were, this purple like darkness given color. Like evil itself. I felt naked – not o’ clothes, but o’ skin and flesh and bone – just a naked soul looking at the hellfire wink off the grim reaper’s scythe.”
Baldric grunted. “Poetic. Maybe he’s a writer, and that’s why he’s out here starving and alone. Does this sound like your demon, McShane?”
Corben just watched the old beggar, who’d gone pale as a sheet. He no longer looked at any of them. He gazed into thin air with his eyes focused on nothing. He’d since curled up like a frightened child, rocking himself.
“Not exactly,” Corben said at length, “and that demon is long gone, so it’s not that one, either. But… the eyes. What he said about the eyes is dead on. Pray to the gods you never look a demon in the eye, Cap’n. What he just said – I’ve seen it. Sometimes I still do. And yet… I don’t know. I almost wanna believe him, but I just can’t. No way another demon’s ended up in Illikon. That’s the stuff o’ legends – and nightmares.”
Wattie gave a nervous laugh. “Well, either way, thank the gods you’re here, McShane. At least the Watch has someone who knows how to fight them.”
“No it doesn’t, Wat. All I did was watch from a boat far away. There’s only one man in Illikon who knows how to fight a demon, and he’s got more on his mind than a dead watchman and an old man seein’ things. If this does turn out to be a demon,” Corben crossed his arms, “then I’ll bother him with it… but that demon he slew did somethin’ to Tom’s mind. He ain’t been the same since.”
Baldric blinked. “So – you’re not going to tell him?”
Corben gave him a long look. “No. Until we can prove it, this is our problem, not Tom’s or any other knight’s… and I get the feeling Tom’s got enough to worry about.”
Rage.
