“And you?” Hurl asked from behind Fletch.
Tyrus rested his sword across his knees.
“It’s suicide to stay, Captain,” Blyth pressed.
He sighed. “We all die sometime.”
His first mate frowned at him. “Spoken like a true pirate, sir. But even a pirate knows when the odds be against him, and when to tack to calmer waters.”
Tyrus glanced to his friend. He opened his mouth to object when Blyth’s eyes widened. Reflected in his mate’s panicked eyes, crimson fire glowed at him.
Tyrus leaped from his saddle at the same time as Blyth. “Down!” he screamed. He hit the stone floor and dodged underneath his own horse. Beyond its hooves, he spotted Sticks’ legs. Then suddenly the giant’s boots vanished upward, leaving behind a bellow of outrage.
Rolling from under the horse, Tyrus crouched with his sword. He spotted Sticks struggling in the air, his shoulder clutched in one of the dragon’s claws. Ragnar’k roared with glee, winging high into the air. The dragon circled with its prey.
Sticks had one of his clubs and batted at his captor, but the length of ironwood merely passed through smoke. The dragon could not be harmed.
Across the floor, archers knelt ready with arrows notched, but none dared shoot with the man in danger.
Ragnar’k carried his struggling prize over the fire pit, still bellowing. Then the claws released the giant. He was dropped toward the flames, arms wheeling, a scream on his lips.
Tyrus could only stare in horror. Then the twang of a bowstring sounded from near his ear. He glanced quickly and spotted Fletch fitting another arrow. He turned back. As usual with Fletch, a second arrow wasn’t necessary. The first had shot Sticks through the eye, killing him instantly. The giant was limp when his form struck the searing flames.
Tyrus clenched a fist, his fingers going black. “Mount up,” he ordered his men. “I want you all away. Now!”
Blyth climbed into his saddle, but he simply sat his horse. “We’re pirates, Captain. Since when were we any good at obeying orders?”
Hurl reached out and pulled Fletch into the saddle. “Truly, sir. We’d be craven pirates if we obeyed all our captain’s orders.”
Tyrus looked them over. “As you said, it’s sure death to stay.”
Blyth shrugged. “Life’s only too short if you haven’t lived.”
Shaking his head, Tyrus grabbed the pommel of his own saddle and hauled himself up. “And we have lived,” he mumbled.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Then let’s hunt us some dragon!”
Sy-wen clung to Kast, not just with her fingers but with all her being. She kept her focus on the man she loved as they flew down the glassy corridor. If her concentration wavered, sensations and lusts from Ragnar’k grew stronger.
She had experienced the dragon’s first few kills. The taste of blood had filled her mouth, savage delight had raced through her veins, and the screams of the dying had echoed through her. These thoughts and sensations still threatened to unhinge her, but Kast’s presence was an anchor amid the tumult.
Hang on, he urged her now. We have only a short way to go.
She closed her eyes, sinking into the simpler, cleaner senses of the dragon she rode. The whisper of wind, the pull of wing, the gentle ache of muscles, the steady thud of a giant heart. She sheltered there.
But like thunder over a horizon, cries and screams still reached her from the other dragon. She wanted to wrap her arms around her head, to clamp the horrors away, but she needed her grip to keep her seat atop Kast as he flashed under spans, around columns, and over gardens of statuary.
As she crouched in her seat, the screams grew louder. Only after a few moments did she realize it wasn’t the phantom sense from Ragnar’k, but something she was hearing with her own ears.
We’re nearing the central chamber, Kast said.
Sy-wen took a deep breath. You know what to do? she asked.
I’ll be ready. But what about you?
She heard the concern and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her part was no easier than Kast’s. She straightened in her seat and opened herself to Ragnar’k. Bonded, she sent to him, I’ve come to join you.
The connection between dragon and rider flared with her focus. My bonded! Ragnar’k answered her. The raw sensations of the other dragon swamped over her.
Her fingers clenched. She bit back a gasp of horror. If she hadn’t once been possessed by the simaltra, the purely vile thoughts might have overwhelmed her. But she had met such darkness before. She would not let it rule her again.
Come join in the flow of blood!
Sy-wen spotted the end of the tunnel; they were almost to the chamber. She wormed through the madness and spoke to Ragnar’k. I am already with you.
His glee filled her head, as she knew it would. Despite his corruption, Ragnar’k was still tied to her by bonds more ancient than any magick. He could not refuse to join with her.
Kast flew them into the huge room. A forest of torches spiked the floor, spreading across the vast cavern. From their height, she could spot a pattern to the torches’ positions, a swirl that centered on a giant fire pit in what must be the room’s center.
“There,” she whispered to Kast. “Aim for the central fire. That’s where I last saw Tyrus.”
And the prince still lives?
“Yes. Ragnar’k seems fixed on him. He must smell the magick on the man.”
Then we must hurry. Kast swept high over the field of torches. Where is Ragnar’k?
Sy-wen frowned, unsure. She knew he was in here, but his presence seemed to fill the cavern. It was hard to say where he was precisely, and in the gloom, the smoke of his body was impossible to discern.
As she searched, she spotted the remains of the d’warf army near the pit. Men on horseback wheeled among the d’warves—Tyrus and the others.
She did not need to point them out to Kast; he had keener eyes than hers. “Watch for Ragnar’k.”
Then it was as if a cloud passed under them, obscuring their view of the d’warves. Shouts and bellows erupted, and d’warves scattered from under the cloud.
Ragnar’k, Kast said.
“Go to him,” Sy-wen whispered. A shiver trembled through her. They risked all in this next venture.
The connection with Ragnar’k flared. A gift, he sent, bloody meat on bone!
He was attacking again, showing off his prowess. In that small way, he was the Ragnar’k she knew—prideful, boastful. But it had to stop—she didn’t know if she could survive the bloodshed when so near Ragnar’k.
Kast sensed her urgency. He tucked his wings and aimed for the misty cloud. Sy-wen leaned close to her love. His body was a steaming hearth after the long flight here.
They dove together, dropping like a boulder from the distant roof. The smoky cloud grew before them. She sensed a startled reaction from Ragnar’k. So focused on his kill, he had failed to realize they were so near.
Then they were shooting through the cloud. Sy-wen felt a scintillation over her skin. Bonded! she sent. Join us! They shot out from the smoky pall and into clear air.
D’warves fled from Kast’s passage. A handful of arrows even spat at him. But Sy-wen heard a familiar bellow.
“Archers down!” It was Wennar.
They flew past the d’warves and near the fire pit. Flames danced high above the edge. The heat drove them to bank aside. Kast tilted on a wing, arcing around.
Sy-wen spotted the misty cloud flowing in their wake. There was nothing a dragon liked better than a chase—and ill’guard or not, Ragnar’k was still a dragon. She felt glee surging in his heart.
But there was one thing a dragon liked better than a hunt.
Bonded! Ragnar’k moaned.
She read his desire. Once bonded, a dragon was never whole without its rider on its back. Prove your blood, my bonded, she sent back to him. Catch us . . . join with us. Let me ride you again!
Ragnar’k, unfettered by his dark forging, was a creat
ure enslaved to his lusts. He could not refuse a chase, nor resist joining so he could be ridden by his bonded.
Here he comes, Kast said.
“Be ready,” she answered. “Keep close to the floor.” She risked a glance behind her. A smoky reflection of a dragon followed them, like a monstrous living shadow with eyes of flame. Her blood iced at the sight.
I’m coming for you, Ragnar’k promised.
She tore her gaze around, leaning closer to Kast. “Now,” she whispered to his scales. “Let it be now.”
Kast silently acknowledged her, slowing and drifting down. He glided over the tops of the torches, blowing out their flames with the winds of his passage, leaving behind a trail of darkness.
Then the darkness caught up with them, sweeping around and into them. The three—Kast, Sy-wen, and Ragnar’k—had been a triumvirate since the beginning of the journey, tangled together by magick, love, and ancient bonds. As the shadow of Ragnar’k fell about them, they became so once again.
Sy-wen fought the intimate touch of the twisted creature. Kast fared no better. Sharing his senses, she felt Ragnar’k fill the body he once wore, blending again with Kast.
Under assault, Kast swung back toward the fires and the threatened soldiers. Through the tumult of madness, a single thought touched her heart. Now.
She dared not hesitate, lest Ragnar’k suspect their treachery. Sy-wen ripped off a glove with her teeth as Kast winged near the pit, wings scooping air, slowing, claws out to land. Men, horses, and d’warves fled from their path.
With the scrape of nail on rock, Sy-wen gripped the scales of the dragon under her. With the touch of her bare fingers, the world vanished into a whirlwind of fang, claw, scale, and wing.
Then she was rolling across the stone floor, wrapped in the arms of the man she loved. They tumbled for another breath; then she found Kast atop her, staring down at her. Both were bruised and sore, but he leaned and kissed her deeply.
Sy-wen sank into his heat and lips, relieved. The quiet in her mind after the ravings of Ragnar’k was a balm on her heart. “Kast . . . ,” she whispered between his lips. “I have you back.”
He responded to her words with passion, holding her tighter. He reached to her bare hand, entwining his fingers, squeezing harder and harder until passion turned to pain. His mouth covered her gasp. Then teeth found her lips, biting, drawing blood.
“Kast!” she cried.
He pulled back, her blood on his lips. His eyes opened, and crimson flames glowed back at her. “Bonded,” he hissed. “You are mine!”
Tyrus raced from far across the chamber, using his reins to whip his mount across the floor. It dodged right and left around the torch poles. Moments ago, he had watched the two dragons merge—flesh and smoke. Then the transformation had flared.
Tyrus had instantly understood what the mer’ai woman had attempted: to merge the spirit dragon back into its own body, then trap it with her magick inside Kast.
Sy-wen screamed, echoing across the room.
Something had clearly gone wrong.
Kast pinned the struggling woman to the stone, but she got a hand free and raked him across the face. He merely laughed.
Tyrus kicked his horse, urging it to close the hundred paces between them.
But he was not the only one in motion. From around the edge of the fire pit, Blyth thundered on his own mount. He was closer. He raced to the struggling pair, leaning out of his saddle. With one hand, Blyth snatched the warrior braid of the Bloodrider.
“Get off her, you oaf!” his first mate bellowed as he rode past.
Kast was torn from his perch and flung aside.
“No!” Sy-wen screamed, lunging to keep one hand clutched to her mate. But a dark explosion blasted outward. Sy-wen was tossed back; even Blyth was unsaddled by the eruption as man became dragon again. The black-scaled beast crouched on the stone, stark against the backdrop of towering flames. Silver claws gouged the glassy floor. It stretched its neck and roared, trumpeting its rage to the roof.
Blyth crab-crawled back to Sy-wen. Both lay in the monster’s shadow. His first mate’s mount was gone.
Ragnar’k lowered its muzzle toward them. Its eyes matched the flames behind it, bright and hungry.
Blyth yanked out his sword, gaining his feet, shoving Sy-wen behind him, ready to shield her.
Damn fool! Tyrus cursed. It was the wrong time for his first mate to develop a chivalrous streak. He whipped his horse, but he was still too far away.
Then off to the left, a flanking cadre of d’warves appeared, led by Wennar. They dropped to one knee in unison, bows in hand. Arrows flew in a deadly arc, pelting the dragon. Most bounced off the hard scales, but a handful struck deep, tailed feathers quivering.
Ragnar’k jolted up, wings sweeping out, roaring again with rage.
The d’warves held their posts, fresh arrows nocked. Wennar yelled. “Again!”
The barrage flew—but this time, the dragon was ready. A wing struck out, knocking aside the arrows. They fell with a scatter.
Ragnar’k swung his neck, bringing his muzzle back toward Blyth and Sy-wen. The dragon roared, revealing long fangs. Blyth braced himself.
Tyrus was almost to them, coming up on the dragon’s wounded left side. He yelled to draw its attention. “Yahhh!”
A wing snapped, meant to smash him from his saddle. But Tyrus was already gone. He sprang to a crouch in his saddle, then leaped away, flying through the air, over the wide wing, hands outstretched. He willed the last of his magickal reserves to his fingers. They went black instantly, fed by his panic.
A scream rose from beyond the bulk of the dragon.
Then Tyrus landed atop Ragnar’k. He drove his fingers under the thick scales to the tender flesh beneath and unleashed his magick. He felt scale harden, trapping his fingers. This proved lucky: Ragnar’k bucked as flesh turn to stone. He tried to throw Tyrus off, but the pirate prince was melded to the beast. Flung about, he fed his magick in a fierce rush, emptying his heart. Again he felt the dull disinterest in his own mortality.
Senses ebbed. He heard a roar of alarm, and distantly he felt the dragon’s fight die away, fading like himself. Granite flowed outward through wings, down a long neck, into clawed feet. Then with a final push, all was stone.
Both dragon and rider, trapped for eternity.
Tyrus was aware of his heart. Its beat faltered from a solid rhythm to a quivering bag of writhing snakes. He allowed himself to fall toward darkness. It was over.
He slipped away from cold stone to something warmer. Then a light grew around him, bathing him, wrapping him. He felt something touch his lips. It took him a moment to realize it was a kiss.
He knew who held him now. He had only tasted those lips once, but it was enough. The stone of his heart melted into joy. A name formed on his lips. Mycelle . . .
He was not answered. He was still too far off, he sensed.
Mycelle, I’m coming to you.
The warm light resisted him, holding him back. No, my love, you must stay.
His heart broke. I have no reason. You were always my light.
And I always will be . . . But now it is not your time.
I wish it, he said with as much command as he could muster.
A sternness grew. You wish to die like a pirate . . . but what I ask of you is much harder. There was a long silence. Rather than die like a pirate, you must live like a prince. You are needed. For me, live like a prince.
Tyrus sought words to argue, but deep inside him, he understood her truth. He held onto her a moment longer, wrapped in her light, taking some of it into his heart. Then he let her go.
Promise me . . . , he whispered.
You know I already have. And then nothingness. He was alone.
With the bit of warmth and light held to him, he melted the stone around his heart. The fist of muscle in his chest beat weakly . . . once, twice, and again, stronger, marking the time until they would be reunited again.
Stone melted t
o flesh. He felt himself slip from atop the granite dragon, but arms were already there, catching him. Vision swirled back, but the world had darkened since last he saw. He looked right and left. Fletch and Hurl held him upright. Beyond them, the flames were gone from the fire pit.
“The fire died along with the dragon,” Hurl explained, reading his confused expression.
He took deep breaths, working the stone from the corners of his being.
The dragon filled the world on one side, a granite sculpture of perfect form. It sat on its haunches, wings tucked, neck curled to bring its muzzle close to the floor. Tyrus was close enough to feel the heat steaming off it. It was like standing by a giant coal, fresh from the hearth.
“Blyth,” Hurl began, drawing his attention back. “He . . .” The Northman shook his head.
Tyrus then remembered: the dragon, his first mate, and Sy-wen. Fear brought his legs under him. He glanced to Fletch, but the Steppeman wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Take me to him,” he ordered.
Together, they circled a group of d’warves gaping at the stone dragon, to where Wennar knelt over Blyth. Blood pooled under them both. Sy-wen knelt at the edge, face buried in her arms, sobbing.
Tyrus hurried forward, sure Blyth was already gone. But he found the man alive. Wennar had a thick wad of cloth pressed to the first mate’s side. Only then did Tyrus notice Blyth’s left arm was gone, clear to the shoulder.
Wennar spoke as Tyrus sank to his knees. “The dragon bit the limb clean off.”
Blyth struggled to speak and ended up coughing a gout of blood instead.
Tyrus took his hand. “I should’ve been faster,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
Blyth shook his head. “Pirates live short lives. Shorter than princes.”
Tyrus frowned. “I’m no prince—”
“Don’t say that again,” Blyth blurted fiercely, ending in a racking cough. He gasped and caught his breath. “I knew you were always a prince. It’s high time you saw it.”
Tyrus did not know how to respond.
“Don’t mourn me.” His first mate’s fingers clenched on his as a spasm of pain lanced through the man. He grimaced. “I got to ride to battle with a prince . . . and call him friend.” Despite the pain, pride filled the other’s voice.