Dragonborn (The Jade Lee Romantic Fantasies, Book 1) (37 page)

"I've gotten you the fastest mount I could find. And money as well." She paused, frowning as he slipped a sword underneath his coat. "Are you sure I can't come along? You might need someone at your back."

He smiled gently at her offer, knowing that despite her fears, it was an honest one. "I need a trained soldier, or at least a man—someone who could pass for a trained soldier. You, my dear, aren't either of those things." Then, before she could offer one of her servants, he raised his hand. "This is what I do, Sabina. You cannot help me in this arena."

She sighed. "I know. But I still worry."

"That I will be caught, or that I will change my mind?"

She waited until he turned around and she could see directly into his eyes. "Have you?"

"I have not changed my mind, nor will I," he stated, pushing all his conviction into his voice. Apparently it was enough, because she nodded then held up a satchel lined with wax and a glass vial.

"Take this. If you break the egg in the process, get as much of the contents as possible."

"The contents will be a baby dragon."

"You can kill that. What we need is the liquid it rests in. As much as you can get."

He nodded, his expression flat despite the nausea roiling in his stomach. "I know what to do." Then he left, before she could ask any more questions.

He moved with a calm determination that would reassure her, climbing onto his mount and kicking it into a gallop because he knew she was watching. He wouldn't put it beyond her to follow him, but they both knew she couldn't keep up. Even if road was a young, undisciplined beast.

"D'greth!" He cursed again as the mount fought his control. Why couldn't anything be easy? It was a stupid wish for a useless soul, but he wished it anyway, with all his heart. Because, despite his words to Sabina, he wasn't sure of himself. He knew what he had to do. Knew he would find the opportunity some way, somehow to stand beside Natiya with a sword in his hand. He knew he must kill her—quickly, cleanly—for everyone's good. After all, she was already dead; she hadn't a prayer in a fight against Dag Racho.

And yet...

Why had he slept with her? Why had he listened to her words, heard her declare her love for him? Why did he admire her strength of character to defy Dag Racho, and her intelligence to actually do so? Why couldn't he think that this strong, capable, intelligent, admirable woman could succeed where all others had failed?

Because she couldn't. The odds were stacked too greatly against her. And so, despite what his heart said, he would have to kill her and take her egg. So that he could make a poison. So that he could rid the land of dragons forever. But first he had to get to her.

Getting inside the castle was a vain hope; even in uniform, he would never get in. But he knew she would be hatching soon, and the only safe place to do that was inside Dag Racho's mountain. It had the same mineral that hid the clutching caves, was protected by an entire garrison of troops, and he was pretty sure there was a large chamber inside—perfect for a hatchling to spread its wings and still remain safe. All he had to do was get inside and then wait. He was bound to get his opportunity then.

But getting inside the mountain was a problem, too. He had one hope. The Father had blessed him with excellent hearing; better yet, he had spent years in court perfecting the skill, overhearing whispers that most could not. It had even been extremely useful in battle, allowing him to fight blind if necessary. But in prison, it had turned out even more so.

There had been sound behind his lonely cell at the back of the block: drips of sound, the slosh of water, but mostly the silence of stone. Except for once. He had heard a word. A command, actually, spoken with power. Magic. And then there had been a great deal more sound: of a door moving or water running or something.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was all he had. Combining that with a thorough inspection of the mountain's exterior—done over the years whenever he could—Kiril had an idea of where to go and how to get there. He would just have to pray that the overheard command word worked.

It was late afternoon by the time he arrived. His uniform and the fact that he had been officially released from prison got him through all the checkpoints. Showing up near the garrison, he knew, was just begging to be re-incarcerated, but hopefully he wouldn't be around long.

Sabina's satchel and glass vial lay heavy on his leg when he finally tethered his mount in a tiny grove of trees. The mouth of a creek was a few wispans away. Not far, but there would be no cover while he traversed it. And he stood out like a firebolt in his red uniform. There was no hope for it, however, and so he went, moving as quickly as possible.

He made it to his objective in a few beats, but as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he acknowledged that prison life had taken a severe toll. At his peak, he could have made it to this strange little tunnel in half the time.

He ducked down under a kind of muddy overhang into an even muddier channel. At some times of year this tunnel was the beginning of a stream of water. It dried up at irregular intervals. He guessed that water had something to do with the big chamber behind his cell. Ergo, this little tunnel had to lead inside the mountain. Which meant he had to crawl up inside, and that his uniform would never be the same.

The opening underneath the overhang was large enough for a man bent double. It rapidly narrowed deeper in. A combination of mud and slick rock created the side walls, and Kiril cursed as he took a whiff. Rotted vegetation was the most pleasant of the many odors filling the tunnel, and he quickly guessed he was in a sewage outlet.

Yippee.

But this was his only shot, and so he would have to take it. Except, he had one last thing to do before he began. He still needed his weapons—most specifically his sword. Sabina's cheap sword would likely break or melt from dragon fire at the first engagement. If Kiril's own weapons were close at hand, he would take the time to get them back.

Thankfully, locating them would be possible; all he had to do was focus through Jaseen's armband. Dragon blood not only attuned him and his weapons to other dragons, but it linked him with his sword. All he had to do was quiet his mind—not an easy task, given the urgency he felt to get back into action—and he would feel a tug.

Just breathe in and out
, he ordered himself; then he silenced his thoughts. Or maybe he should picture his sword. Sometimes that helped.

No, just quiet your thoughts
, he told himself. Jaseen's armband would automatically boost the connection. Where exactly would Natiya be at this moment? Could she already be inside?

Just silence your damn thoughts!
But... what if this passageway led to something else entirely? There were plenty of waste rooms throughout the mountain. What if he climbed through here just to end up face to ass with some soldier taking a dump?

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Kiril sighed, taking the time to calm his heart, his breath, his thoughts. He had done a great deal of this in prison—what else had there been to do?—and so he was more practiced than it seemed. He knew from his meditations in his cell that his sword and gauntlets were in the mountain, behind his cell somewhere. He just wanted to orient to them now. From this location. He just had to quiet down.

He counted out breaths—five, four, three, two, one, zero. Where was it? Where was his sword?

There! Above him. And at a bit of an angle. About where this channel originated. Which meant it was in the chamber he guessed was above this drainage ditch. And so it was time to climb in a smelly, disgusting tunnel.

He slipped and slid on his knees as he imitated a snake or small rodentlike animal, of which there were none, thank the Father. But foul chunks of matted something were prevalent, and he truly had no wish to discover what they were because he could hardly fail to get them in his clothing, his hair, his eyes and yes, even his mouth. Until, miracle of miracles, he finally arrived at an iron hole sealed shut. It was large—big enough that he'd be able to climb through it with relative ease. But it was also shut fast, so here was where he must test the strength of his hearing.

Would the command word he'd heard in his cell work?

Taking a deep breath—or as deep as he could take in the foul air—Kiril spoke.

"Corinta sapa!"

Nothing. Perhaps he had misheard the word. There had been a thick wall of stone between the speaker and his wall; the commands had been muffled and distorted. He knew the number of syllables and was sure of the first one, but beyond that, he would have to try different pronunciations.

"Corinta sapo!"

"Corinda sapa!"

"Corina sato!"

"Corinda sapa!"

"Corinda sapat!"

Another five beats of experimentation and still nothing. He was beginning to suspect he had heard it all wrong. Or if he heard correctly, then the command went to a different door, different function, different anything. And now he was doomed.

"Corinda stapat!"

Whoosh!

There was no warning; one moment he was cursing, playing with consonants and vowels, and the next moment he was flooded in water pouring out of an opening not present a moment before. The water pressure was incredible, the deluge cold and filthy and overpowering as he lost his footing. He would have landed on his behind in the mud, but there was nothing to land on but roaring water. He couldn't even scream, as his mouth had been open, about to speak another set of words, making him choke on he-didn't-want-to-know-what.

He had no choice but to ride out the flood, his eyes blinded by the brown water, his body slammed and bounced against the walls he had just painstakingly climbed. And then, with a kind of sudden explosion, the pressure was gone and he was rolling across greenery on the side of the mountain, still pursued by the rushing water.

He coughed and gasped, but mostly he scrambled for purchase and breath and sight all at once until he finally tumbled to a stop against a bush. In time he was able to inhale without gagging, but then revulsion hit and he was vomiting up things that should not have been swallowed in the first place.

Thankfully, even as the spasms wracked his body, his legs continued to grip the bush. Its branches—hard and pointy though they were—still managed to cradle him. And when he was done, lying exhausted and wretched in the bush's not-so-tender embrace, the water still continued to pour past. Enough water to fill a lake. And all he could do was simply stare, occasionally wiping his eyes.

At least it was cleaner now. The brown filth that had initially swept him down the mountain was now flowing rapidly clearer, brighter, even pinker as whatever was above them continued to drain.

And still it continued. For another twenty beats at least. Long enough for him to struggle to a braced stand. Long enough for him to shrug out of his soggy, disgusting uniform. Long enough for him to stand shivering and naked in the afternoon sun, appreciating its warmth while the water continued to flow. At least Sabina's satchel had come through unscathed. It was designed to hold liquid, so all he had to do was upend it, wash it out, and double check that the bottles he'd brought along were also safe.

They were. And so was his sword and belt. Not so lucky was his firestick, but hopefully there'd be light inside the mountain. All of this meant his mission could continue as planned, assuming he could find a way to swim up the deluge, so to speak. And if he ignored the being-naked aspect. He sighed, deciding to deal with that later. Right then, he needed to slowly, carefully slog his way back up to the mouth of the channel. He felt ridiculously exposed—in more ways than one—but there was no help for it. He would die of a chill if he stayed in that wet uniform, not to mention choke on the smell. If anyone questioned his naked presence, he would just say he had been out climbing—a common form of exercise for many soldiers—when the deluge caught him by surprise.

Fortunately, no one seemed around right then. In fact, he thought with a frown, things seemed especially deserted for such a sunny afternoon. But without more information, he decided to simply thank his luck while he decided what to do next.

He didn't have to ponder long, as the deluge of water began to slow and abruptly dropped to a trickle. Whatever he'd opened was now empty, which meant he could climb up and in, hopefully before the aperture closed.

He ducked in, unsure if the smell of wet, slick mud was better than the earlier rotting vegetation smell. Actually, it was better, he finally decided, which only marginally made up for the extremely slick and messy work of climbing back up to the opening. Still, he made good time, and had the added bonus of covering himself in muddy camouflage.

The aperture remained open, a steady trickle of water still draining through. It was easy work to pull himself up and inside, and—thanks to a recent diet of prison food—he had enough room to maneuver.

It was hard to hear from inside the tube beyond; his breath echoed as a low hiss that competed with his heartbeat to drown out everything. Or perhaps that was his imagination working overtime. As far as he could tell, there was nothing to hear above him, which meant Natiya hadn't arrived yet. From what his parents had said, Jaseen's hatching had been a loud, brutal affair.

He was nearing the top; he could tell because of the echo of his breath. Slowing, he judged the distance above by the sound. If he had to guess, he would say the room above him was huge. Perhaps expansively large, like a cavern. It was also blacker than pitch, which meant he would have to navigate by sound and feel alone.