In this third compilation of fairytales, see what happens when people and places are more than they seem…
Rasnake tells the tale of a man returning home after years away, only to find his home in shambles, his Princess missing, and his brother a stranger. It will take the help of his sworn brother, a battle bonded elf, to regain his blood brother and restore the fractured kingdom… Pretty tells the tale of a young man faced with a marriage he cannot bear to go through with, who runs away from home and finds himself stranded in a forest… He Shall Go to the Ball is the tale of a young man whose best chance at escaping his despicable stepfather is by making the most of the fact he teased relentlessly for his feminine beauty… Greenwood tells the story of a man who lost everything defending the man he loved, and who now spends his days as a mysterious figured in a dark hood, leading a band of thieves… and Moth to the Flame is the tale of a man sent on assignment to a castle where he meets and falls in love with a beautiful prince. But the prince later has no memory of their night together, and the young man determines to deduce the mystery and gain back his prince at any cost.
Fairytales Slashed, Volume Three
By Megan Derr, Mara Ismine, A.R. Jarvis, & Remington Ward
Published by Less Than Three Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Michelle McDonough & Samantha M. Derr
Cover designed by Lainey Durand
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition June 2011
Rasnake Copyright © 2011 by Megan Derr
Pretty Copyright © 2011 by Mara Ismine
He Shall Go to the Ball Copyright © 2011 by Mara Ismine
Greenwood Copyright © 2011 by Remington Ward
Moth to the Flame Copyright © 2011 A.R. Jarvis
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-936202-53-9
Table of Contents
Rasnake
Tallant laughed and shook
his head. "You really are excited to be going home. I don't
understand it."
Milton grinned. "That's because your
family is nothing like mine. If my family was as backwards and
zealous as yours—"
"You'd be dead
because you suck at keeping your foot out of your mouth,"
Tallant cut in.
"Probably,"
Milton agreed easily. "But only because you elves are so fussy
about that sort of thing."
Tallant rolled his
eyes.
Milton snickered. "My
little brother will positively die when he sees you, unless his
obsession has faded."
"You've mentioned before he
had an interest in the markings," Tallant replied, amused as
ever by the obsession with his tattoos. Everyone outside his homeland
tended to gawk, like they didn't have tattoos of their own. He did
concede, though, that no one had them even half as extensively as the
elves of his homeland did.
He was literally
covered in them—what was called a rune crown across his forehead,
the master mark right between his eyes. There were more along his
cheeks, called guard marks. A choker wrapped around his throat, four
master marks at four points starting what were called master
trails—one that went straight down his chest, another down his
spine, and the remaining two went down the sides of his throat, along
his shoulders, then down his arms. From these master trails, other
runes spilled out, covering the greater portion of his body in
patterns that made sense only to other elves and the few others who
could read them.
The master trails on
his arms stopped just past his elbows. His right forearm was covered
in an intricate pattern of rune-work that identified him as
battle-bonded. A matching tattoo covered Milton's right forearm. They
had met ten years ago, and had been battle-bonded, sworn brothers,
for nine years.
His left forearm was
bare; it would remain so until he was life-bonded to someone.
If his family saw
him, they would wail and shriek like the world was ending. They were
part of a group of zealots back home, who favored pacifism above all
else. They would despair to see the eldest son of the clan chief
covered head to foot in the black, blue, red, and green markings of a
full-fledged battle mage.
"I don't know
how he might feel now, but yeah. We met one of you freaks when he was
eight. He went home and stole ink and pen from the royal scribe and
tried to duplicate the marks." Milton sniggered. "On his
left arm."
Tallant grinned. "So
what you're saying is, your brother will like me lots. How pretty did
you say your brother was, by the way?"
Milton punched his
arm. "You are not allowed to have sex with my brother. You're
not even allowed to flirt with him."
Snorting in
amusement, Tallant said, "I hate to be the one to break this to
you, but it's been ten years. Someone else has handled your brother's
education in certain matters."
"Can't hear
you," Milton said, clapping hands over his ears and glaring
murder.
Tallant snickered.
"Baby."
"Ass."
"Human."
"Elf."
"Bitch."
"I'm
the bitch? Who here is the pretty elf who gets propositioned more
often than whores?"
Tallant kicked a leg
out, tripping Milton up, nearly sending him crashing to the dirt path
they walked along. "Shut up."
"Heh."
Milton smirked at him.
"I really can't
wait until we're finally at your precious home, so you'll be
inundated in people happy to see you and you will stop harassing me.
Or noticing me at all." He tensed, prepared to run. "Or
noticing when I take your brother to the stable for a 'riding'
lesson."
He bolted as Milton
roared in protest, laughing and running at the same time, something
that proved to be a bad idea as it slowed him down just enough for
Milton to catch up to him and grab—
—and causing them
both to trip, fall, and go tumbling ass over kettle down the hill on
one side of the old path. Tallant only just barely kept them from
ending up in the creek. "Ass."
"Bitch."
Tallant shifted on the ground and shoved lightly at Milton. "I'm not convinced—"
He forgot what he was going to say as a look of horror and fear filled Milton's face.
"Up," Milton said hoarsely, even as he scrambled to his feet and yanked Tallant with him.
It was only then that Tallant heard it, and in the very next breath he smelled it. Like copper and hot meat.
Dragon.
Tallant didn't know for certain, but he was pretty damn sure that they were inside the Royal Wards. Dragons shouldn't be on this side of it.
It was on the other side of the creek, growling, grunting, six dark eyes swirling at them in ominous contemplation. To judge by its size—somewhere between massive and oh shit—and it's dark coloring, it was a mature male.
To judge by the scratches along its hide, something only another dragon could manage, it had mated recently. Very recently. Always a brutal, life-risking endeavor for the males, they were never in good moods when they managed to escape being killed by the female.
Then there was no more time for thinking, as the dragon moved faster than it should have been able to for its size, splashing through the creek like grass, coming at them with deadly intent.
Its breath was hot as Tallant just barely avoided its jaws, and he fled for dear life across the creek, trying to force his brain to work, cobbling together a stun spell and throwing it at the damned thing—
Only for the dragon to break the spell so quickly it hardly seemed the damned thing had worked at all. Shit shit shit. Scrambling up the bank, he struggled to his feet and looked around for Milton. After a moment, he saw Milton struggling up the bank several feet away.
"Hold it still, damn it, whatever it fucking takes," Milton gasped out, obviously having managed to take in water as he struggled through the creek. "If we can thrust through one of its eyes deep enough, that'll kill it."
Nodding, Tallant watched as the dragon swung back around and considered them. He obviously was weighing the merits of the back and forth creek game—that was the biggest problem with the dragons. They were too damned smart.
Bracing himself, Tallant drew all his magical energy together, tattoos hot on his skin. Then he drew still more power through the battle bond, weaving it all together into a stun spell that would hopefully hold longer than a second.
As ready as he'd ever be, seeing the dragon was about to spring, he threw the spell at it with all his might.
Even as he did that, Milton was charging, prepared to get eaten by dragon if Tallant if screwed up—trusting that Tallant would not—and as the spell landed, and the dragon was stunned, he threw himself at the dragon, climbed up its thick, sharp hide, and drove daggers into two of its six swirling eyes.
The pain drove the dragon to break the spell, and it tossed its head, sending Milton flying into the creek, buried momentarily beneath the knee-deep water.
Tallant swore and charged down the bank, shaping his magic into a spell of blinding light, throwing it to briefly shock and slow the dragon, stooping and pulling up a choking, sputtering Milton. They ran, fleeing further down the creek, running as fast as they could in the ankle-deep portions of it. Tallant swore as he hit a spot that proved deeper, and went down with a cry, pain radiating from his ankle—
As he regained his footing, they heard the ominous sounds of a pissed off dragon far too close. Desperate, scared to death, Tallant turned around and threw all of the remaining magic he could spare without passing out at, willing the stun spell to better hold this time, watching in fear as Milton charged the dragon one last time—
And drove his sword into one of its remaining eyes, barely managing it before he was once again thrown—this time into a copse of thorn bushes.
The dragon screamed, thrashed around wildly, but Tallant knew wild death throes when he saw them. He waited, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe, as the dragon thrashed about and finally collapsed, twitching for several more agonizing minutes it at last held still.
When it was clear that it would stay still, and never move again, he climbed shakily to his feet, then hobbled up the embankment into the copse of trees and bushes. "Milton?"
A pained grunt, followed by a groan, answered his call, and then Milton half-stumbled, half-limped into view. "So, that was fun."
Tallant punched him.
Milton hit him back, and they glared at each other for a moment.
Finally Tallant left off, too tired, and sat down hard on the ground, scowling at the gigantic corpse between them and the creek now. The sun was setting, and while that had been nice before, now that they were soaked to the bone it was just one more unpleasant aspect to the whole disaster. "I don't get it," he said. "I was sure we were within the Royal Wards. Why did we just barely kill a dragon? Never mind a fully grown male who just got laid."
Milton shook his head. Like Tallant, he was soaked through, covered in grass and mud—but also in petals and leaves from the bushes he'd just climbed out of, bloody here and there were the thorns had gotten him. "I don't know. We are within the Ward. There should not be any dragons here. Some is very wrong." He tensed suddenly, then started to stand. "The palace, Irene and Cecil—"
Tallant grabbed him, yanked him back down. "Milton, it's going to be dark soon. That's dangerous enough. There are apparently dragons roaming about, which isn't dangerous but flat out stupid. On top of that, we just got our asses kicked. I've got a bad ankle and no magic, and you just lost a fight with a thorn bush, after being thrown around twice. We're not going anywhere tonight. Our best bet is to camp here for the night. So close to that corpse, nothing else with bother us, and I can suitably heal us after I rest. Not to mention it will give our clothes time to dry."
Melton said nothing, but Tallant could tell by the slight relaxing of his shoulders that he'd conceded the point. Trusting he wouldn't bolt, Tallant stood up gingerly and went to go dig the blades out of the dead dragon's eyes. He groaned and immediately sat back down, ankle and lack of energy conspiring to make him dizzy and wobbly.
"Baby," Milton said with a smirk.
"Girl."
"Ass."
"Bitch."
Smirking briefly, Milton said, "I'll get the blades. You get a fire going, because need to get dry. I'm not sleeping in wet clothes." Grimacing in agreement, preferring not to think about what had happened the one and only time they'd been stupid enough to do that, Tallant got to work on a campfire.
Half an hour later, he and Milton were dressed in spare clothes and wrapped in their cloaks, while their wet clothes dried on branches. Ankle bandaged, all cuts and bruises treated with ointment, they settled close to the fire and ate their less than thrilling camp food, too tired to put effort into cooking.
"A fucking dragon," Milton muttered. "I don't believe it."
"Me neither," Tallant said. "I really can't believe it almost killed us. After that thing with the thieves—" He scowled.
Milton matched the expression. "Stupid fucking dragon."
"Agreed."
*~*~*
Something was wrong. Tallant could see that easily enough, even without the deep, troubled frown marring Milton's face. For one, there was a distinct lack of soldiers. Anywhere. The gates were open and the drawbridge down, but not so much as a single foot soldier was anywhere in sight.
"No guards, no banners—nothing," Milton muttered. "That's not right. I don't see any people but the place is wide open and there are dragons around."
Tallant looked over the castle and surrounding fields. He could see the chimney smoke of a few house, but from all the stories Milton had told him over the years, he thought he should be able to see more than a few.
"It's spring," Milton said. "I don't understand—the castle should be spilling over with people and activity."
"I guess we're about to find out," Tallant said as they approached the lowered drawbridge. They were barely halfway across when two men, almost completely identical in appearance, slunk from the shadows and stood in their path. "Well, now," said the one on Tallant's right. "You're a pretty elf, and no mistake. Not one to be trifled with though, a regular marke by the look of you."
Tallant frowned. He was far from fluent, but he knew enough to know thieves' cant when he heard it. Marke meant 'blood elf', a derogatory term for a battle mage.
"Watch it," Milton said, and Tallant knew he didn't recognize the word, merely the tone. "You've no place here, so get lost or I'll get rid of you myself."
The men, obviously twins, burst into laughter. The one on the left grinned. "Sorry, flik, but we were put on gate duty by Rasnake himself. We're supposed to be here."
"The what?" Milton said.
"Rasnake," Tallant said, before the twins could. "It means 'dragon killer,' I think."
The right most twin looked at Tallant, impressed and amused. "You speak the cant, marke?"
"Only a bit," Tallant said, voice cool. "Who is this Rasnake and why are you taking orders from him?"
The left most twin leveled a pensive gaze on Milton. "The King is gone mad these past ten years, and the Crown Princess joined the missing several days ago, and until this morning Rasnake was the only real leader left. As to who, well, you should know him, flik. You've got his eyes and his crooked nose, and his temper I'd bet."
"What—Cecil—" Milton burst out. "My brother—"
The right most brother stopped him with a hand on his chest, as Milton tried to finish crossing the drawbridge and enter the castle proper. "Steady, flik."
"I am not a flik," Milton said, glaring at him in a way that should have the guy worried, but Tallant wasn't going to tell him that. He also did not bother to point out to Milton that he was, in fact, flik—thieves cant for 'fire'.
"I want to see my brother," Milton said coldly, knocking away the hand on his chest.
The brothers shrugged. "No one can see him. He was arrested a couple days ago for the murder of one of the missing girls, and once he tells them where he stashed the others, they're going to hang him."
"What—" Milton roared, and tried again to cross the drawbridge. When they tried to stop him, and were actually stupid enough to grab him to do it, Tallant ducked discreetly out of the way and fed Milton energy through the bond.
They were good, very good in fact, he would give them that. But Milton pissed off and worried about someone—they didn't stand a chance. He knocked the one off his feet with a punch the guy never saw coming, then drew his sword and rounded on the other, knocking the twin's sword away and hitting him hard with the flat of the blade. When the other brother regained his feet and came at him again, Milton grabbed the first, threw him into the second, then ran at both of them—
—and sent them over the side of the bridge, staring until they hit the moat with a resounding splash.
Tallant rolled his eyes. "Peace, Milton. You'll get answers out of no one if you toss them all into the moat." He peered over the edge, watching idly as the brothers surfaced and began to climb out of the moat, hurtling epithets and obscenities up at them. "Not much on gate duty, are they?" he commented idly.
Milton snorted, and strode on.
The courtyard was almost entirely deserted; only a couple of servants, some chickens, and a tired old dog filled the space. That was strange enough for any castle—but for the royal castle? The wrongness grew deeper and stranger with every step.
He turned sharply, hand going to his sword, at the sound of movement, but relaxed as he saw it was an old, haggard looking man who could probably barely manage to lift a spoon. The man's eyes widened as they landed on Milton. "Bless me! Master Milton, is that you!"
"Henry," Milton said, sounding relieved. "A familiar face. Thank god. Where are Cecil and Irene? What the hell is going on here?"
Looking suddenly twice his age, Henry said, "A lot, Mater Milton, and none of it good. But it's good to see you." He flicked a curious glance at Tallant.
Milton motioned impatiently. "Where is my brother? Where is Irene? What is going on and what is all this bloody nonsense about Cecil in jail for murder—and what's with the dragons?"
Henry looked too weary to continue standing. "It is true, I'm afraid. If you'll come inside—"
"I don't want—"
Tallant knocked him upside the head, and met Milton's subsequent glare unflinchingly. "Shut up and calm down. Listen to what he has to say, then we'll know how to save your brother, flik."
"Shut up," Milton retorted sourly, but motioned for Henry to lead the way. He led them into the castle, through to a private solar behind the great hall. "This place…" Milton looked horrified, weary. "It's all wrong. Why?" He sat down heavily in a chair that had seen better days, looking around the room, looked devastated.
Tallant leaned against a table in equally sorry condition, accepting the goblet of raw, dark wine Henry gave him with quiet thanks.
Henry drank his own wine, and sat down, saying, "A year or so after you left, Master Milton, the King went completely mad. He got so bad that the Crown Princess conspired with the council to lock him up in his tower. He remains there now. The Princess took over the throne, but not another year had gone by when the Royal Wards broke near here: a two mile stretch of land where the Wards were suddenly gone. We have tried to repair it over the years, but we simply have never been able to do it. Every time we try, the work unweaves itself again. The dragons came through…" He drifted off, clearly fighting tears.
He didn't need to explain for them to understand what must have happened. No one in this country had needed to fight dragons for nearly a hundred years. Hell, even back home, dragons were no longer a threat. He and Milton had avoided death the other night mostly because of dumb luck, and partly because they had a wide enough range of experience and knowledge lent them by their travels—experience and knowledge that soldiers of a safe, cozy kingdom in a quiet village would not possess.
"We lost more than I can bear to count," Henry finally said. "The Princess sent many out to defend the nearby villages, but too many have fallen to those damned dragons. It was not until Rasnake and his friends—"
Milton frowned. "Why do you call Cecil that?"
"No one has called your brother Cecil in ten years, Master Milton. It was him and his thief friends what turned the tide, and managed to hold the line all these years. Even now, they continue to protect us while Rasnake is locked up because of those imbeciles."
Tallant poured them all more wine, then gently prodded, "What happened?"
"Fifteen," Henry said sadly. "One at first, then two more, then three, on and on it went—and now the Crown Princess herself. Fifteen young women just stolen from their beds without a trace. No one could find them, and we have scoured these woods from beginning to end. Not even a damned clue. Two days ago, some men were out hunting for food and found of them. The youngest girl, the first to go missing—dead. She was wearing a ball gown and dancing slippers." Tears fell down his cheeks, and he pulled out a dirty kerchief to blow his nose. "She was only twelve. Her shoes were so torn up and bloodied, it looked like she had worn them out dancing, but she must have been running for her life."
Milton shook his head. "I don't see why Cecil—"
"Because she was holding a trinket he had made for her," Henry said. "No one else can make those clever little toys. She was gripping it as though her life depended upon it, and those fools took it as evidence that he is the murderer."
Tallant made a face. "That proves absolutely nothing; how can they get away with it?"
Henry's face twisted with bitterness. "They are desperate for blood, for explanation, for resolution. They want someone to blame for something, and they were never happy that she married him."
Milton frowned. "Huh? Who married who, and who is they?"
Henry eyed him cautiously, then said gently, "They as in the council, or what's left of it. When the dragons attacked and everything started to go so wrong, the Princess feared for her Kingdom should she suffer the same madness as her father, or die in the midst of all this trouble. She did not want foreigners coming and taking the kingdom, nor did she want a civil war tearing it apart from the inside. She married Rasnake so that there would be someone she trusted on the throne, should the worst come to pass."
Tallant winced. The only two things Milton talked about constantly—incessantly—were his little brother and Princess Irene. Milton had only left twelve years ago because the King had caught him and Irene together in a very compromising situation. He had told Milton to leave, or be hanged. Milton had left, but he wore the pendant the princess had given him as devoutly as Tallant wore his fate token.
"Married—" Milton's face went oddly blank. "My brother married Irene?"
"She felt it was her only option," Henry said gently, eyeing him warily. "They are friends, the very best of; you would have to talk to them to better understand. Unfortunately, that is not possible right now."
Tallant stirred. "I know he is in jail, but I am afraid that we really must see him. Surely leniency can be granted for a brother returned after twelve years, and greeted with such devastating news."
Henry turned to him. "Begging your pardon, but who the hell are you?"
"My name is Tallant Delarma. I'm a battle mage and Milton's battle bonded. He was gracious enough to invite me to his home, on his long-awaited return. I am sorry that we arrive to find the situation so dire. I promise we will do all that we can to assist in these troubles. But first, I feel we must speak with Cecil."
"Battle bonded, huh?" I guess you're the polite half," Henry said with a trace of humor. "Milton and Cecil both are too…"
"Flik?" Tallant offered dryly.
"Yes," Henry said, smiling again briefly. "Far too flik for manners." He turned to Milton, brief levity fading. "I'm glad you're back, Master Milton. Maybe you can fix everything that has gone so wrong with Rasnake, with her Highness—with everything."
Milton stirred at that, frowning. "Why is he called that? My brother reads books and carves toys for children. He was a scholar, and could not hold a sword properly to save his life."
"Strife changed him," Henry said quietly. "He can hold far more than a sword, and has saved all of our lives innumerable times. I warn you now that the man you are about to see has nothing in common with the boy you left behind twelve years ago."
"Take me to him," Milton said, and rose.
Henry nodded. "This way." He led the way out of the castle and across the back fields, to where the jail was located in one of the south guard towers. "Master Milton, please keep in mind that much has happened. The little boy you knew is gone—"
"Open the damn door," Milton snapped.
Sighing, Henry unlocked the heavy door. Tallant stepped forward to pull it open, for which Henry looked immensely grateful. Henry entered first, followed by Milton, and Tallant trailed along behind them.
The back half of the tower had been turned into three cells, all heavily barred and even more heavily locked. Two were empty, the furthest containing a single man. There were only two windows, one in each of the outermost cells, and so Tallant could not see anything very clearly.
He stared curiously at Cecil—Rasnake?—but he simply could not see much in the limited light. Not a small figure, he could determine that much. Not as tall as himself, Tallant would hazard, but it was impossible to say as Cecil was sitting on the floor. Still, like Milton, he seemed to be broad-shouldered and made of tight, lean muscle. He also seemed to be wearing nothing more than leggings and an under tunic. He did not even seem to have shoes. Had they dragged him out of bed?
"Ho, Henry," Cecil said, his voice a bit deeper than Milton's, a bit rougher. "You brought me visitors?"
"I brought your brother," Henry said quietly, and slipped away out of the tower.
Silence fell in his wake, and then Cecil slowly stood up. Tallant had been wrong—Cecil matched his height, might even be a shade taller. His hair fell in thick, dirty clumps around his face, as he approached the bars. His hands were dirty, calloused, covered in scrapes old and new, burn marks—the hands of a fighter, a warrior. But Milton had said a thousand times his brother was a scribe, an artist. In Tallant's experience, such significant change seldom happened in a person, and never for good reason.
"Well, well," Cecil said. "The mighty Milton returns at last. After twelve years, I'm surprised you could still find the place, or even bothered."
Milton frowned, and reached out—but let his hand fall when Cecil jerked away. "Cecil—I had no idea—"
Cecil laughed, sharp and bitter. "What do you want, Milton?"
"I wanted to see you, to see Irene—to be home!"
"Welcome home," Cecil said. He turned away and returned to the floor where he had been sitting before.
Milton shook his head. "What the fuck happened, Cecil?"
"What do you care?" Cecil asked. "You left. It's been twelve years. That tattoo means you're battle bonded to that elf skulking behind you. Obviously you found better things to do. So did I. We don't need you."
Tallant could all but see the anger flare to life in Milton. "Is that why you're locked up, Cecil? Because you can handle yourself? Is that why Irene is missing? It looks to me that your handling of the situation is a monumental disaster."
Cecil snarled and stood again, coming at them with such fury that Tallant would not have been surprised at all if he broke down the cell. "Don't you pretend you understand a goddamn thing, Milton, just don't. You know nothing. I'm in here because that fucking council thinks my wife is dead and I'm all that stands between them and the throne. When another girl turns up dead, which she probably will unfortunately, and I've been in here the entire time—they will have no choice but to free me."
He laughed in a way far too old and bitter for someone so young. "All this assuming, of course, that they aren't forced to pull me out anyway to deal with a dragon."
"Rasnake," Tallant said, stepping forward slightly. "They keep calling you that. You must be damned good at killing dragons."
Cecil shrugged.
"I don't—Cecil what happened to you?"
"Twelve years happened to me," Cecil said coldly. "What, did you think that everything would be the same when you returned, Milly? That I'd be carving and drawing for you, and Irene would be sitting in a morning gown pretty as you please, both of us waiting patiently for the noble hero to return at last?"
"No—" Milton said hotly, though Tallant knew he'd had something very much like that in mind. "I just—I've missed you. I thought you'd be happy to see me." He sounded hurt, confused. "I've thought about you every single day—"
"Then you should have written!" Cecil suddenly bellowed, slamming his hands against the bars of the cell. "You should not have waited twelve fucking years to bother returning. You're too fucking late! We don't need you and we sure as fuck don't want you."
"What happened to you, Cecil?" Milton asked, actually sounding as close to tears as Tallant had ever heard him.
Cecil gave that bitter laugh again. "If you think I'm bad, wait until you see Irene."
The sound of boots drew Tallant's attention, and he turned sharply, hand going to his sword—but relaxed when he saw it was one of the twins, in dry clothes now but with hair still damp. "Rasnake," the twin greeted, and then spoke to him in rapid-fire thieves' cant. Tallant could understand no more than one word in twenty, and that handful of words was not enough to get even the gist of the message.
"How the fuck do you know cant so well, and why are you hanging around with a bunch of criminals?" Milton demanded.
"There are precious few soldiers left, and when I needed help, they were there," Cecil said. "You weren't."
Milton fell silent, his mouth a tight line, shoulders tense.
Tallant frowned at Cecil. "I really don't think—"
"I don't care what you think," Cecil said, cutting him off. He turned back to the twin, and said something, to which the twin laughed in reply and then departed.
"What did he say?" Milton asked, sounding as though he did not expect an answer.
Cecil looked suddenly weary, leaning his head against the bars, curling his hands tightly around them. "They found another girl dead. They're bringing in the body now. It should be here in half an hour or so. It's Mary."
"Mary…not little Mary, who was three years old when I left," Milton said.
"The very same," Cecil replied, and pushed away from the bars, returning to slump in his dark corner.
Silence fell. Tallant had never seen Milton so unhappy. He didn't know Cecil at all, but even he could see there was a world of hurt there, too. Before he could figure out what to say, Henry returned. "You're free to go, Rasnake," Henry said. "It happened exactly as you said—another girl is dead, and obviously you could not have done it. No offense, but I had hoped we would have to find another way to get you out of here."
"Me too," Cecil said, and stood as Henry unlocked the cell door and pulled it o pen. Without so much as a word or even a glance at Milton, he strode from the tower.
Henry eyed Milton sympathetically. "I tried to warn you, son. That boy is badly broken; he's nothing like he used to be. I think your presence will make a world of difference, however, once he gets past his hurt and pride. You'll see."
Tallant moved closer when Milton said nothing. "We'll fix this, Milton. I promise."
Milton shrugged, turned, and left the tower. Sighing, Tallant followed after him, and they made their way to where a small crowd of men had gathered in the back courtyard. Five of them, Tallant saw, and all thieves. He noted the twins, two men who looked about his age, another man a few years younger, and the last was at least a decade older.
They all had the trademark look of thieves, which was really just a catch-all phrase for all sorts of criminals. Most distinct perhaps was the hair; everyone one of them had their hair in a mass of braids or dreadlocks, decorated with tokens, beads, other decorative items. They wore light, sturdy leather armor rather than heavier metal—and all had the same small tattoo somewhere on their person, of a stylized dragon with a sword through it, within a circle that was thicker on one end, thinner on the other—almost like a crescent moon but a complete circle.
That meant followers, and the dragon with a sword…followers of Rasnake. These men considered Cecil their leader. Definitely interesting, that. They were all talking in thieves' cant, idly motioning and speaking to someone Tallant could not see. But then they shifted, and he could see all too well—and gods have mercy, but Milton would kill him if he knew the thoughts filling Tallant's head at that moment.
Cecil was washing at the well, currently covered in soap and water—and absolutely nothing else. If it bothered him to have an audience while he bathed, he gave no sigh of it. He simply conversed with them, all the while soaping, scrubbing, and rinsing.
He definitely had the same tight, lean, muscular build as his brother, but Tallant thought Cecil might be more muscled than his brother. They were neither of them the sort of oversized muscle-heads that Milton like to get into fights with when he was drunk, but there was definitely good reason they always beat said muscle-heads.
More striking than that, however, were the scars—they were dozens of them. Burns, cuts, scrapes, puncture wounds, slash wounds. Cecil looked as though he had lived through a war or two. On his chest, right over his heart, was the sword and dragon tattoo, with a star above it that symbolized his leadership status.
He saw another tattoo as Cecil lifted his arms to wash out his hair. A tree covered the entirety of the inside of his right forearm, a beautiful apple tree done in black, green, and red ink. Tallant wondered what the significance of that was, and if he'd had elf traditions in mind when he'd put it in the place where a battle bond should go.
The tattoo was covered up, drawing him from his musings, and he could not help but watch as the rest of Cecil's impressive form was covered up. Tallant realized abruptly that Cecil was now wearing shooting gloves and bracers, in addition to his regular leather armor. He'd also fixed his hair, rebraiding it with the ease of familiarity, weaving in tokens and beads. He looked like a prince of thieves.
Tallant and Milton were hardened soldiers; they had been through shit that still gave Tallant the occasional nightmare. A battle mage did not gain the number of tattoos he bore by leading an easy life. But he felt like a retiring miss next to the hard look on Cecil's otherwise handsome face. He didn't know what to say, or even think, as the others handed over weapons for Cecil to strap into place—a quiver of arrows, at least four daggers, and a heavy sword belt that held not one, but two swords.
"I thought you said your brother was a scholar," Tallant said.
Milton shook his head, looking sad and lost. "When I left, my brother could not even hold a sword properly, and he could not bear to watch as the hunters brought in the day's kills because the sight of dead animals made him cry." He shoulders hunched. "I did not think my brother would have become this much of a stranger. I—he hates me, Tallant."
Tallant glanced again at Cecil, turning over the words and actions of the past half hour. "I don't think he hates you. I think this situation is complicated."
"Yeah," Milton said, not sounding convinced. He reached up unconsciously to grasp the pendant hanging around his throat, an oval locket bearing the Holy Star, and Tallant knew a locket of Irene's hair was inside. "If that's how my brother greets me, I don't think I want to see Irene after we rescue her." His mouth twisted, and Tallant had never seen Milton look so damned sad. "Not that it really matters what my brother's wife thinks of me."
"It will be all right," Tallant said, slipping into his native language. Milton didn't have much patience for learning other languages; it was why he did not know thieves' cant at all, when Tallant had managed to pick up scraps of it. But over the years, he had managed to teach Milton his native language.
"I hope you're right," Milton said, "Because I don't know where I'd go if I'm not allowed to finally come home." He turned and walked away. Tallant did not follow, knowing Milton wanted some time alone. Instead, he turned his attention back to the Cecil and the other men—and drew up short, startled, as he met pale, sharp green eyes. Everything seemed to go still, quiet, and he did not realize until he gasped for breath that at some point in that frozen moment, he'd stopped breathing.
Then the moment broke, as Cecil looked away.
Tallant shook himself, startled—shaken even. He'd never seen such sad eyes. Just how badly broken was Cecil? He reached up to feel his own pendant, then, the fate token that was the only personal possession he'd taken with him when he'd left his family and country forever.
Fate was a strong belief amongst his people, and it was a belief that Tallant still fervently held. A person's fate took real shape as he came of age, and it was on his Age Day that a young man or woman's fate was read, and written out forever on a small piece of stone.
On the day his fate was read to him, the Fate Reader had said simply your destiny lies with wild dogs. He and his family had been more than a little confused, as had the Reader, because dogs weren't native to his homeland. The only dogs had been brought in by traders, by foreigners who had moved there permanently, and none of them was wild.
It was not until he had left home, and shortly after he'd met Milton, that he finally encountered a 'wild dog' and understood better what the Fate Reader had not been able to say. Your destiny lies with wolves.
Milton had laughed and laughed that Tallant didn't know what wolves were. Tallant had finally thrown him in the river. He'd been secretly happy, though, to learn that his fate was bound to wolves—it meant he was meant never to return home, to always be somewhere else.
Several years later, however, he still had not found the wolves that were his destiny. He had nearly resigned himself to its meaning only that he was meant to live forever with Milton, in this country. That his fate was with foreigners, and nothing more. He glanced down at his bare left forearm, and stifled an old sigh.
He shoved the selfish thoughts away. Right now, his sworn brother needed him and Tallant would be there for him. Turning his attention back to Cecil, he strode closer and said, "A word with you, Highness."
Cecil whipped around, and Tallant was again struck hard by the sadness deep in his pale green eyes. He obviously hurt as deeply as Milton, but Tallant was not yet certain how to bridge the gap between them. "I do not go by 'Highness'," Cecil said curtly. "Who are you, other than Milton's battle bonded?"
Tallant quirked a brow at the unmistakable hint of jealousy in Cecil's voice as he mentioned the battle bond. Was he jealous that Milton returned home with a sworn brother? But, Tallant conceded, he supposed that would not help matters. There was nothing to be done about it, though. "Rasnake, then. My apologies. My name is Tallant Delarma. As you say, we are battle bonded. He is my best friend; we've been through much together."
He presented his right arm as a courtesy, displaying the tattoo, even though Cecil would not understand what any of the marks meant. But then Cecil surprised him, by lightly grasping his arm in one hand, and tracing the inked runes with his fingers. "You became friends in battle. Your first kills together were thieves and some sort of animal. You share physical and magical strength."
"Wolves," Tallant replied, stunned. "How do you know all that?"
To his continued astonishment, Cecil flushed and dropped Tallant's arm as though burned, then backed hastily away. Tallant fought a sudden strange urge to reach out and yank him back. "Why the hell are you two even here?" Cecil demanded.
"Because he was finally allowed to come home," Tallant said, reminded suddenly of the tower, the way Cecil had said Milton should have written letters, the oddness of that. "Because he could not wait to see again the two people he loves most in the world."
Cecil sneered. "Allowed to return?"
Tallant frowned, his confusion growing. "Yes. He showed me the papers a couple of times. He was banished from the kingdom for twelve years, forbidden any and all contact, on pain of your death."
"What—" Cecil bit the words off, and his expression shuttered, but not before Tallant had seen that moment of honest, open, nasty shock.
Cecil hadn't known.
Milton, that fucking idiot, hadn't told anyone the details of his leaving.
"He bought gifts, you know," Tallant added. "For your birthday, whenever we went somewhere new. Little things easy to carry, but there must be dozens of them. More still for the Princess. He carries them in a satchel—"
"I don't give a damn," Cecil said. "It's none of your fucking business."
Tallant grew angry at that. "Like hell it's not. We might not be blood related, but Milton and I are brothers. He's hurt, and the reason for that hurt is you, and I'm not going to sit idly by and continue to watch you hurt him."
Cecil turned away.
"Don't you dare—" Tallant snarled, and reached out, grasping Cecil's wrist and yanking him back—
—And causing Cecil to trip, brining him crashing hard into Tallant, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Tallant balanced them, one arm around Cecil's waist, the other around his shoulders. "Sorry."
"Let me go," Cecil hissed.
Tallant immediately obeyed, but he hadn't missed the way Cecil tensed, the way he flushed, the wide eyes—all the little details that proved Milton had not been lying. Cecil might be trying to hate his brother, and Tallant by extension—but he liked Tallant's tattoos.
Not that it mattered, Tallant would never use Milton's little brother that way. But, if his presence flustered Cecil enough his guard drop--that he would use, if it helped to bridge the gap between the brothers. He'd have to work out the best way to use it.
At the moment,
however, his attention was capture by a ruckus at the gate, as men
arrived bearing a cart that contained what was obviously a body.
Cecil led the way as everyone moved to gather solemnly around the
cart.
"Sir," one
of the cart-bearers said, bowing to Cecil. "This was found
secreted in her bodice. It fell out when we moved her."
Cecil took the
object, then sneered and rounded on a group of old, sour looking men
who had just arrived. The council, Tallant hazarded. Cecil flourished
the object, which proved to be an official-looking medallion of some
sort. "If one girl died with one of my trinkets in her hand, and
that makes me the culprit—what does it mean, Lord Weatherby, that
this dead girl died with your official seal stuffed down her bodice?"
A ringing silence
fell, until Cecil motioned to the twins and ordered, "Lock him
up." Lord Weatherby was immediately hauled up, his loud protests
summarily ignored while a weary looking Henry trailed after with his
keys. "See that preparations are begun for a proper burial,"
Cecil ordered the men still standing by the cart. "I am going to
speak to—"
His words were
drowned out by the sudden blowing of a hunting horn, which called out
a series of notes that meant nothing to Tallant but obviously meant
nothing good to everyone else. The already somber mood turned
grim. "I really wish mating season would end," the eldest
of the thieves said. "We'll take the west, Rasnake."
Cecil nodded. "I'll
go east, then. I should be fine with just Bite and Raze."
Bite and Raze? Who
was that, Tallant wondered.
"Where is my
bow?" Cecil asked, but before one of the thieves could reply, a
young boy came running up with it. Tallant was impressed, looking at
it. By the size, it had to have a damned good draw behind it.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he asked Cecil, "What's the
draw?"
"Two hundred,"
Cecil replied shortly. He nodded to the others, then abruptly spun
around and jogged off through the castle gate. Turning as movement
caught his eye, Tallant nodded at Milton as he reached him.
"What's going on?" Milton asked. "I heard a horn, but
that's a new one on me."
The young boy who had
brought the bow looked at them both like they were halfwits. "Didn't
you hear the horn? Two dragons are coming this way, from the east and
the west."
"Shit,"
Milton said. "Where's Cecil?"
Tallant pointed. "He
headed east."
Milton darted off.
Tallant sighed, then followed, because really he'd wanted to see how
a rasnake fought a dragon anyway. He and Milton had nearly
lost their fight, despite being seasoned warriors. He wanted to know
how a scholar four years their junior turned into a rasnake
that seasoned criminals swore to follow for life.
"Cecil!"
Milton called out as they spotted him.
"What?"
Cecil snapped, clearly impatient and annoyed.
"Let us come
with you," Milton said. "We can—"
"Help?"
Cecil cut in. "Don't make me laugh. How many dragons have you
killed?"
"One,"
Tallant said before Milton could put his foot in his mouth. "It
almost killed us. We have no idea how to fight dragons, but we
obviously need to learn fast. We'll stay out of the way, just let us
come along."
Cecil stared at them hard, and Tallant
really could not help but note his beauty—it was hard, cold, and
Cecil was obviously trying to bury whatever he had once been, but it
was all still there. Tallant wondered how Cecil would look if he
smiled, if those eyes were not so overburdened with shadows.
"Fine,"
Cecil finally bit out. "But if you get in my way, or disobey me,
I will let Bite and Raze tear your throats out."
"Who are—"
Before Milton could
get the question out, the brush rustled, and Tallant stared wide-eyed
as two wolves came bursting through it. They walked up to Cecil,
sniffing, snuffling, rubbing, and growling with obvious affection.
When they were appeased with the state of their master, they rounded
on Tallant and Milton and growled in warning and curiosity.
Cecil spoke to them
in thieves cant, and the wolves calmed. One was gray and white, the
other a dark, rusty red mixed with gold and brown. Cecil scratched
their ears, and indicated first the gray one, then the red one, and
said, "Meet Frostbite and Raze. Boys, these are Milton and
Tallant. Don't eat them unless I say so. Now, let's go hunt dragon."
Turning, he jogged
off into the forest, the wolves taking off ahead of him. Milton
started to follow, but stopped when he realized Tallant hadn't moved.
"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning.
"Wolves,"
Tallant said, unable to believe it, scared and elated and guilty and
thrilled beyond belief. It was Milton's brother but the wolves.
He could scarcely believe it but fate tokens didn't lie. Your
destiny lies with wolves. Cecil was his destiny. That was why
Tallant was so captivated. On some level, he'd recognized what he'd
spent his whole life trying to find.
"What--"
Milton's eyes widened, then narrowed. "My little brother—"
He closed his mouth, but was obviously less than pleased.
Tallant's heart sank,
but it was stupid to think Milton would be happy for him right then.
Cecil was barely acknowledging Milton's existence. The very last
thing he wanted was to hear about Tallant's beliefs in fate, and that
those beliefs were supposedly binding his sworn brother to his blood
brother.
"Let's go,"
Tallant said hastily, wishing he'd thought to keep his mouth shut. "I
want to learn the proper way to kill a dragon." He dashed off,
ignoring it when Milton called his name. It was stupid to be
disappointed, he told himself. Beyond stupid. He did not even know
that he was correct. The wolves might be the key to his destiny, but
that did not mean Cecil was his fate.
Really, even if Cecil
were his fate—that didn't mean he'd finally have marks for his left
arm. That his fate was with wolves could mean literally anything.
Even if Cecil was his destiny, right now it didn't matter. What
mattered at the moment was that Milton was crushed and forlorn over
his disastrous homecoming. Doing what he could to fix the brothers'
relationship was all that concerned him at present.
Hell, he
realized suddenly. Maybe that was his purpose. That made a lot
more sense.
But it was hard to
forget that moment, that burst of joy, the realization of this is
the one.
Fate tokens were
never wrong; they never lied. Accurately reading them, however, was a
son of a bitch. Tallant reached up to curl his fingers around the
smooth, warm, gray-blue stone into which his fate had been carved
when he'd turned fifteen. That had been fifteen years ago.
Holding it tightly,
he prayed silently, but fervently, for the answer to come to him.
They caught up to
Cecil a few minutes later. Milton came up beside him. "Tallant—"
"Shut up,"
Cecil said, and for once Tallant was grateful for the rudeness. He
didn't want to hear what Milton would say, because he couldn't see
how it would be anything good. "Don't speak, don't move,
don't even breathe, until I tell you. One wrong movement could get us
all killed."
Milton and Tallant
shut up and held still.
Cecil spoke to his wolves, who then ran off. Shooting Milton and Tallant a last warning look, he moved to the far end of the clearing.
Only then did Tallant notice what a disaster the clearing was—broken trees, gouges in the earth, and stains from what could only be dragon blood. Milton's sword still smelled like the damned stuff. Tallant also realized that some of the trees had been scorched. Before he could actually form the question to which he fervently hoped the answer was no, he heard the tell tale sounds of crashing, heavy breathing, barking, growling wolves, and a pissed off dragon.
Tallant turned to Cecil, but stopped, remembering they were under orders not to breathe if they could help it. Regarding Cecil, Tallant decided he was nothing short of insane. Seemingly unconcerned about the dragon being led straight toward him by the wolves, Cecil drew an arrow and nocked it.
He whistled, quick and sharp. The wolves moved, lunged straight at the dragon, startling it, causing it to rear its ugly head up—and Cecil fired, sending one, two, three arrows flying toward it. More specifically, toward the heavy, bulbous sack in the curve of its throat, a little below the jaw. Tallant only really knew about dragons from stories, books, but anyone who knew even the slightest bit about dragons knew what that sack meant: fire.
They had been the most feared dragons on the continent, even in a time when just saying the word dragon was enough to make a person shudder. All dragons were bad, but the fire-breathers were a thousand times worse.
People had once worked extremely hard to rid the world of the fire-breathers, and for a time it had almost seemed to be working. Fewer and fewer of them had appeared, and then the Wards had gone up, and that should have been the end of it.
But it would seem the time behind the Wards had given dragons plenty of time to regroup, because that was a mature male, and to judge by his scars, he'd survived several matings—including a recent one. At least it was a male; the gods alone would be able to save them if they came across a fire-breathing female in mating season.
Two of the three arrows found their mark. The dragon screamed in pain and fury as his fire-sack burst, the dark, viscous liquid inside spilling down his neck, his chest.
If he tried to breathe fire now, and if it worked at all, he would only wind up hurting himself.
Cecil threw his bow aside and drew his twin blades, then ran toward the dragon. Tallant could only stare, rapt, as Cecil fought. He worked in perfect time with the wolves; while they taunted and harassed the dragon, drawing its attention, Cecil slunk in close to slice open small vulnerable points, dancing away as the dragon rounded on him, waiting until the wolves once more attracted its attention, then going for another spot.
Blood polled everywhere across the forest floor where they fought, so copious in some place that it splashed up whenever Cecil or the wolves ran through it. Slowly, bit by bit, loss of blood and constant movement and fighting wore the dragon down. Seeming almost though it was going to sleep, the dragon stilled and bowed its head—
Cecil sprang, crying out as he drew a long dagger and thrust it through the dragon's bottommost right eye. He jerked back, whistling to the wolves, withdrawing to a safe distance as the dragon thrashed about in its death throes.
When the dragon finally lay still, and remained so, he turned toward Tallant and Milton. "You actually stayed out of my way and held still." He was sweaty, soaked in dragon blood, even some of his own blood, but he looked in much better shape than Tallant and Milton had after their one fight.
"You and those wolves may as well be battle bonded," Milton said, smiling. "That was incredible, Cecil." He held a hesitant hand out to the wolves, smile brightening when Bite sniffed it, then gave a brief lick.
Cecil scowled.
Tallant smothered a laugh. "Do you get a lot of fire breathers?"
"That's all we get," Cecil replied. "We think that after the Wards went up, they had time to rebuild the numbers lost back in the day when people tried to eradicate them. It wouldn't have taken them long; one healthy female can get as many as three mates, and produce up to twenty eggs. Most of those will die, and the new females always eat a few of her brothers, but that still leaves roughly half the nest still alive. We figure five out of a nest of twenty will survive into full maturity, and that's five too many."
He thrust his swords into the ground, then pulled out a strip of cloth. Retrieving one of the swords, he wiped it meticulously clean and sheathed it, then repeated the process with the second.
"So you don't know why the wards fell?" Tallant asked. "Not at all?"
Cecil shook his head. "No. Only a portion fell, thankfully, but the hole has been slowly widening. We're afraid the whole fucking thing will come down in one go, at some point."
Tallant frowned. "Could I see the place where it collapsed?"
"Later," Cecil said tersely. "It will be dark soon, and no one is allowed outside the castle after dark. Once we raise the drawbridge, that's it 'til morning. We need to use what daylight remains to be certain the dragons are gone, and to see if we can puzzle out anything about the missing girls.
Milton nodded. "Tell us more about that."
"It will have to wait 'til dinner," Cecil replied. "If you really must insert yourself, you can hear the whole damned tale then."
Turning sharply around, he drew a long dagger from his boot. It wasn't made of steel, Tallant saw. It was made of…bone, he realized. "Dragon bone. How the hell did you get dragon bone?"
"Luck," Cecil said over his shoulder. Moving to the beasts guts, he thrust the dagger through the dragon's hide and cut a long slash down it, then moved down a couple of steps and repeated the process—then cut a long strip to connect the two gashes, and stepped out of the way as blood and innards came pouring out of the flap he'd just created. He whistled, and the wolves came running up to bury their snouts in the mess, feasting with relish.