Page 134 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

The old Caersan heaved a sigh, patted his cheek, then picked up her bag and started for the dining room with its massive doors leading to the garden. She’d remain there until Lhuka arrived to take her to their encampment.

As Margot disappeared, Madan went in the opposite direction—as far from her as he could, given the layout of the manor—to the front doors. He sucked in long, deep breaths as he walked, slowing his thundering heart. It’d been so long since he’d fought against vampires; their speed and unyielding energy made such battles difficult, particularly when trained as those outside were bound to be. Loren wasn’t foolish enough to station any green soldiers as his wardens.

But the Caersan roaming the grounds didn’t have dragons, nor did they know of Brutis or any of the others. They’d never left survivors on the raids in which dragons were involved. Trying to control their fire was next to impossible, no matter the intention. Once let loose, the flames only extinguished when there was nothing left to burn and killed without prejudice. Anyone in its path, vampire or dhemon, would perish.

Involving the dragons meant the very manor he stood in risked crumbling to ash. The millennia of history within the walls could be destroyed—and maybe it needed to be. Maybe what Valenul needed was to be razed in order to create something new. Such ideals meant stoking the war without a true army to back it up.

Dragons, after all, could be killed like any other living being. Their armor-like scales only withstood so much, and Madan had seen the weapons in the Valenul army’s arsenal. Trebuchets and ballistas alike could devastate a dragon in mid-flight.

By the time he stood in the foyer, he’d ceased considering the possibilities outside his control. Such thoughts weren’t helpful when he needed to focus on what lay before him.

Madan opened the front door. The air was cooler than it’d been the past few nights and brought his attention to every place his armor didn’t protect him. Moonlight flooded the front drive—more than enough illumination to brighten the entire yard like midday—where no less than two dozen soldiers stood in formation, watching as Colonel Vedrick Thorne climbed the front steps.

Madan froze. Each of them shifted uncomfortably, expressions grave. Did they know his plans?

“Lord Governor Caldwell,” the Colonel said without offering so much as an inclination of his head, let alone a full bow. “Come with me.”

Madan stared. “Excuse me?”

This didn’t add up. They never stood in formation. They wandered the grounds in pairs, expected to remain in their designated areas. Either they sussed out his plans…or something else was amiss.

“Brutis…” His heart picked up its pace. The task he’d been given was to draw as many soldiers to the front of the manor as possible by wreaking havoc, clearing a path for Margot to escape safely. “Something’s wrong.”

Brutis took flight, the rush sweeping through Madan like a breeze only he could feel. They’d be with him in mere minutes. He only hoped there’d still be someone for them to rescue. His fingers twitched toward the sword at his hip.

Two pairs of hands grabbed his upper arms tight, pinning them to his sides before forcing him down the steps. As they moved, Vedrick said, “By order of King Loren Gard, you are hereby sentenced to death for treason and fraternizing with the enemy.”

King Loren Gard? Treason? Death?

“We’re coming, Little One.” Brutis’s ire rose through the vinculum tying them together. A phantom heat built in Madan’s chest as the dragon seethed, fire stoked.

Madan writhed in the grips, doing everything in his power to free himself from their hold. Another soldier pulled his sword from its sheath as one holding him kicked the back of his knees, forcing his legs to buckle. He landed hard on his knees in the gravel drive.

“What evidence?” Madan demanded. If he could keep them talking…

The Colonel shook his head. “You know as well as I, your cousin’s very existence is enough.”

Again, Madan surged against the restraint on him. He twisted his only hand to grapple for anything he could get a grip on. The Caersan soldiers’ hold only tightened on the armor, the only thing keeping him from bruising or possibly even breaking.

“He isn’t even my cousin,” Madan snapped, scrambling to get his feet under him.

The Colonel drew a massive broadsword—the type used for one purpose: beheading. “Hold him steady.”

Another soldier hurried forward and dug his fingers into Madan’s hair. Madan tried to yank his head back to no avail and was instead forced to look at the gravel. To watch Vedrick’s boots as he approached and positioned himself to the side.

Blood thundered in Madan’s ears. Vedrick said something. A proclamation, perhaps. The final words often said before executions. The same words that Loren would’ve said before all of Laeton if Azriel hadn’t been sent to Algorath.

Now they were said to him. About him. As the final thing he’d ever hear in this life.

A scream built up in his head. He was going to die, and Whelan would be alone. He’d seen what happened to dhemons with broken bonds. He’d seen what became of those who were once nothing more than soft-hearted victims.

Whelan was neither soft-hearted nor a victim. He was a blade in the night. A storm poised to rip through any who stood in his way. With Madan dead, he’d lose himself entirely.

Madan braced himself for the blow. He had no other choice but to wait for the inevitable with his neck stretched out before the broadsword’s edge. The sword lifted, its silhouette shifting across the gravel. Madan shut his eyes and sucked in a breath.

Hot liquid sprayed across his face. The pain didn’t register. Had Vedrick missed his mark?

Then, the fingers in his hair released. Someone shoved him to the ground. Chaos erupted in the song of blades sliding free, screams of defiance, and a thunderous roar from a dhemon Madan need not see to know.

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