“What else could I do? You are a vision and the future of Artria. I heard rumors that you seek to finish what your grandfather started. You want to destroy the elves,” he said.
Aristea looked around them out of the corner of her eye. If anyone were eavesdropping, they gave no indication of it. How he’d learned of their elvish problem, she could only guess. Either way, she had to tread carefully with him. Heinrich had been collaborating with the elves who’d supplied him with stardust. And she feared more co-conspirators remained lurking in the shadows.
“Perhaps,” she said, trying to remain coy.
“It is a problem both our nations share, and when I have the army of Sundland behind me, I could make your dreams come true.”
Her attention snapped to Duke Mattison. “Is that so?” She had to admit it was a tempting proposition. Rather than try to win over Heinrich’s fickle lackeys, she could marry Mattison and use his army to force anyone who might stand against her to their knees. But it also meant giving up power to another man who reminded her too much of Heinrich.
“The elves have grown restless and bloodthirsty. We captured one who spoke of a great calamity, one that might destroy all of humanity.”
Her chest tightened. “That is worrying.”
“I think we can find a solution together.” He reached out to cup her cheek, and she had to fight the wave of revulsion that threatened to overcome her.
She gently stepped away. “I’ll consider your offer.”
“Don’t think too long. The elves won’t wait.”
Her heart thumped in her chest. He was right, of course. But would she have to give up her own happiness a second time for her country? How much more would she have to sacrifice to get what she was owed?
9
Erich’s prison stank of urine and fear. They’d locked him in overnight, or at least he assumed a night had passed. There were no windows in his cell, and this far underground, no light came through the doors. Guards had changed and three meals had been brought at regular intervals. Each meal was a thick gruel, with a side of salted meat. His guards never opened the door but watched him from a distance as if he were a mad creature willing to pounce at the slightest provocation. And they were right to do so. Once the rune ropes had been removed, he’d felt the dragon just beneath the surface of his consciousness, testing its barriers, trying to break free like a caged animal. When the guards had come to deliver a ration for dinner or breakfast, it’d lunged within him, and it’d taken all of his concentration to prevent himself from transforming. He was accustomed to feeling as if he were split in two, man and monster. Most of the month, the man was in control, and the beast within gave its input, which he ignored. When its obsession took hold, however, it was as if it were gnawing on the back of his skull, like a rat biting a hole in a grain cellar door. The longer he spent in the cell, the more of his willpower it’d taken, until eventually the dragon was an ever-present monster, lurking in the shadows of his mind, poised for attack.
Though Erich couldn’t see much beyond the bars of his cell, he heard plenty. Creatures growled. A dying man moaned in agony. Another pleaded in a high-pitched, whining voice, promising to pay back his debts for hours at a time before, presumably, exhaustion overtook him, and he’d sleep only to wake and resume his pleading. Erich couldn’t sleep, though common sense said it would be wise. He feared that the moment he lost consciousness, the dragon would take hold, as it had the last time he’d given in to the dragon’s obsession. He’d fallen asleep without proper control of the dragon and woken in a murder scene, a dead man in front of him, and himself covered in blood. He’d run away from Sundland the same day. His shame was too great to bear. How could a monster like him become a king? His search for a cure for this dragon curse had led him to Liane, and now here.
His arm rested on his bent knee, and he curled his hand into a fist. Erich had been in dire situations before. Though he was hard-pressed to think of much worse. This gamble he was taking with the hunters, it all hinged on them keeping their word. He hadn’t tangled face-to-face with many hunters, but they had every reason to betray him. But if Erich played their game, and if he survived, he might have his best chance of reaching Liane. This might be the route that Fritz’s visions couldn’t see. He wouldn’t linger too long on the thought of what he might face in the ring later. It could be a chimera, or worse, something with a human face. Whatever it was, he’d cut them down with his bare hands if he had to. Whatever it took to get to Liane. The thought seemed to settle the dragon, and it eased back a bit, though it remained dangerously close to the surface.
Erich tilted his head back and looked at the black, grimy ceiling. Had Liane come to meet him after he was captured, or her maid with a message? It was a setback he couldn’t afford. There was still so much unsaid between them. She must think he was a liar and a con artist. If Duke Mattison had been spreading rumors to ruin his reputation and paint him as a fraud, then he already had two strikes against him. If he got out of here and fumbled their meeting, would that be his last chance? Erich shook off the thought—better to focus on what lay ahead of him.
Another guard change happened, and they took away the moaner and then the pleader. In the absence of the cries of his dungeon mates, he could hear the roaring of creatures clearly; they were somewhere deeper in the dungeon. Men shouted as the guards presumably transported them to the arena, and Erich retreated deeper into his mind, a sort of self-preservation tactic his uncle had taught him that was meant to keep the dragon under control but, in this instance, helped calm his mind from racing at the thought of what he’d face in that ring.
Then they came for him—two hulking hunters with a dozen hash marks between them. His muscles tensed on impulse as the door swung open, and the dragon hissed in his ear, ready to slash at them with claws he didn’t have. Erich stood with his hands clenched as they tied them back with the same rune rope they’d used when they’d captured him, and he allowed himself to be led through the dingy halls of the dungeon. The ropes had long leads, and one guard stood in front and the other behind. Each carried a long spear, which they’d probe him with if he slowed his pace even a little. They treated him more like a beast than a man, and maybe that was what he was to them.
At the end of the hall, glowing yellow light came from holes in scarred wooden double doors. A buzzing sound increased in intensity as they approached, and it wasn’t until they were nearly upon it that he realized the sound wasn’t a buzz but a roaring crowd. They removed his ropes and pushed him through the double doors and then barricaded them behind him. The space was small, perhaps ten square feet, and on the opposite end were bars, which could be raised by a pulley system. Someone in the arena released a bloodcurdling scream that was followed by a collective gasp and cheer from the crowd. An announcer was saying something, but their voice was too muffled for him to make out. He smelled blood and terror, and it made his stomach roil. The dragon was thrashing at its bindings now. Its sense of self-preservation fighting against Erich’s need to hold back his transformation. He wouldn’t fight and die like a monster.
The gate rattled open to reveal a sandy arena, and the crowd roared with approval. The holes in the door were for the guards to push their spears through and force him out if he resisted, but Erich strolled out into the arena, blinded by the bright spotlights pointed down at him. Guards were dragging out the body of his predecessor, leaving a bloody smear in the sand. The chimera Erich was meant to fight paced along the perimeter of the pit, preoccupied for the moment by the keepers who were luring it toward the wall to the delight and terror of the crowd. Though it was an impressively sized creature, it couldn’t have scaled the walls if it tried. The walls were old—cracked and patched a hundred times over—and three times Erich’s height. The chimera was a concern, but the attendance was more alarming. This wasn’t a secret underground fighting ring; it was a citywide spectacle. He looked at the crowd above him, and their faces were indistinguishable from one another. But he heard the bloodlust in their voices as they chanted for his death.
When he’d agreed to this battle, he’d assumed it would be in some small warehouse out of the way, an underground pit fight. This was something from the history books. Organized and professional. This coliseum had to be hundreds of years old, built before the Corruption. Blood sports had been banned by the Church of Sol a century ago, or so he’d thought. This shouldn’t be happening. The dragon roiled around in his mind, fighting against the chains that bound it, eager to break free. His heart was hammering in his chest as his opponent turned to face him. It’d caught his scent, and the keepers were no longer of interest to it.
It watched him with narrow red eyes. It had rows of sharp teeth in a skeletal, lizard-like head with deer antlers, dripping with blood, and the long, spindly legs were those of a deer but split open with spines protruding from them. The chimera looked more like a monster wearing a deer skin than any deer he’d seen. Black crystal formations were clustered at its joints. It was an old chimera, held together by the corruption magic that’d created it, rot held off by perhaps some magic to keep it fighting in the arena.
They’d taken Erich’s dagger and other weapons. But before he could properly assess his next move, the creature came barreling toward him. Erich dodged by rolling out of the way. And as he did, he spotted a half-broken spear between him and the beast. The chimera turned, pawing at the ground, and lowered its antlers before racing toward him. Erich lunged for the spear, grabbed it, and blocked the antlers inches from impaling him. They wrestled for a moment, the lizard’s snout snapping and biting at him. Erich twisted and shoved the chimera back, and it pivoted to kick him hard in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. It stalked closer, and the dragon, sensing he was in dire straits, pushed even closer to the forefront.
It had claws that could tear and jaws that could rend the chimera’s flesh. Erich ignored the temptation and rolled over, grasping a handful of sand, which he threw in the monster’s eyes, giving him enough time to scramble toward a glint of metal he saw a few yards away. He grabbed hold of a hilt and pulled out the rusted end of a sword. He circled behind the chimera, but the beast merely spun and charged again. He dodged and managed a deep cut into one of its hindquarters. It stumbled for a moment but kept moving even as the leg dragged behind it. With preternatural speed, it was on top of him, its antlers piercing his shoulder and shoving him up against the wall.
Erich grabbed onto its ankles, trying to shove it off, and felt the delicate bones beneath his hands. He couldn’t win without a weapon, and the broken blade lay several feet away. With the dragon’s strength, he could snap its legs and then its neck. The dragon roared with delight, and he gave in to the power, but without the moon, he only half transformed. His arms were covered in scales; his hands were clawed and reptilian. He squeezed, snapping the leg of the deer. It reeled back with a guttural cry. And he grasped hold of its neck to snap it and end the fight, but as he did, the chimera bit into his shoulder, drawing blood.
Erich roared, his voice raw and animalistic. His blood pounded, and he felt his back ache as if wings would burst from his skin. But he held back, not wanting to give in fully to the dragon. Instead, he channeled his rage into wringing the neck of the monster, ending their fight, as they held onto one another like a lover’s embrace.
He felt its grip weaken as it died before it slumped into his arms. Erich’s knees gave out beneath him, and he sank down into the sand. The crowd came back to him in a rush as if his ears had been muffled before.
The announcer was shouting, “The dragonborn wins!”
Erich looked down at his scaled hands, equally horrified and amazed at his partial transformation. He’d never willfully done it before. Then he looked at the crowd, taking them in for the first time now that his life wasn’t in danger. The man who’d put him there was sitting in a box in the stands, a smirk upon his face. Erich bowed his head to him—their deal struck. He’d won his fight. Would he let him go as promised?
The gate rattled open, and Erich stood up on shaking legs and headed out. This time, he wasn’t slapped in chains the moment he passed through the door. In fact, he was greeted with a towel, and a glass of wine was thrust into his hands. He chugged it down, feeling impossibly thirsty and not caring if it was sour and bad. He was escorted to another room, where he was offered food and a bath. On top of his thirst, he was ravenous, and he gorged himself on cheese, meat pies, and bread until his stomach felt as if it might burst. It was awkward eating with clawed hands, but he learned to manage without accidentally scratching his face. Then, when his stomach was full, he soaked in a hot bath and washed off the ichor and blood from his skin. As he sank into the hot water, his muscles relaxing, the scales began to fade, and his skin returned, pink and new like a scar.
