Page 33 of Fortune's Blade

“We go back down to dinner and wait for father’s announcement. He’s going to ask for volunteers, and he’ll get them. He wouldn’t risk it otherwise—”

“He’s already talked to them then.”

She nodded. “Probably. Or he knows them well enough that he doesn’t have to. And this way, no one can say anything, since dragons do what they want. He isn’t forcing anybody to take part; he’s merely asking for help for his daughter.”

I frowned. “But how does that help him, if he’s trying to use our presence here to drum up support for the war?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I’m not a three thousand years old master manipulator, either. Father has been handling the clans for most of his life, as he inherited the position young. And Eddred wasn’t the leading clan then; we weren’t even in the top five. But he made it happen, and he’s held onto it, mostly because of the respect the other clans have for his judgment. So, I trust him . . .” she grimaced. “Mostly.”

And that was as good as we were going to get, I thought.

“Well, I am still hungry,” I said, after a moment.

“For rodents?” she asked dryly.

“No, but I’ll take some of that salad, if you have any that hasn’t been—”

I stopped talking, because Claire was no longer listening. She was on her feet, in another of those too-fast-to-track movements, staring out into the gathering twilight. I didn’t notice anything when I rose back to my feet, but the same was obviously not true for her. She was stiff as a board, all except for her right hand, which was crumbling the molten rock as if it was used charcoal.

“Claire?” I said, my eyes scanning the huge space, but still seeing nothing. “What is it?”

“Vitharr, coming in force. And coming fast.”

Chapter Eleven

The steep stone staircase was even more crazy when we reentered it, with a blaring siren and an orange tint flashing on the walls, although I saw no source for it. Some kind of ward, I assumed, but couldn’t ask as I couldn’t hear myself think over the alarm, the cries of panic from running servants, and the screaming invective being thrown at a massive dragon that had parked its blue-gray behind in the middle of the stairs. And had completely blocked the way down in the process.

I didn’t think that was deliberate; the poor thing seemed terrified, with its huge, clawed hands clamped over its head, and only the great snout sticking out. It was also trembling, sending massive, blue-tinged wings sliding along the walls, cutting gouges in the stone and bringing little tricklings of rock down on our heads. And howling, although I couldn’t hear it over all the rest.

But I could see its distress ruffling the skin around the great mouth, and flooding the one huge, yellow eye that was visible between all the scales with panic. Invective or no, the creature wasn’t likely to budge, or to stop blocking our way. We could be here forever, I thought, having no idea how to budge a dragon.

Luckily, somebody else did. A second later, an equally large dragon, pewter and lavender and very familiar, took up most of the remaining space on the stairs and roared at him. Or, no, that wasn’t correct; Claire didn’t just roar. She roared, shaking the building and stunning into silence the surrounding servants, including a few harpies who had been screeching in the air overhead, their usual grandma personas having given way to gaunt, ashen-colored hags with long, tangled hair and glowing orange eyes.

But even they shut up when Claire slapped the hell out of the cowering dragon with a huge, clawed hand.

He went silent, too, and dropped his paws to stare at her. And then dropped his alter ego when she roared again, melting into a small, balding man in a scrap of fabric that strained to contain a prominent beer gut. He looked like a chef, although I had yet to see much that was cooked at this feast.

And probably wouldn’t now, as Claire batted him into the wall, hard enough that he was still sliding down it when she transformed on the run and headed back down the stairs. I followed and burst into her brother’s banqueting chamber only to barrel right into her, since she’d stopped just inside. And was staring around at a frozen tableau.

Tanet was on his feet and while he hadn’t yet transformed, it was obviously coming. He’d dropped the robe and his hand was on the laces of the black silk tunic he wore underneath, which I hadn’t noticed earlier as it was open to the waist. It showed a chest covered with the same moving, mottled appearance that Claire’s cheeks previously had, with vague patches of scales blooming and shifting across the skin.

Other people were standing, too, with their hands also on their lacings. It reminded me of a bunch of gunslingers fingering their Colt .45s but not yet drawing them. But expecting to do so, just any time now.

Moving forward, I caught sight of the problem, which seemed to be the group of tall, broad-shouldered men and women who had just entered the bloodstained floor of the dining hall below. They hadn’t transformed, either, although there was no doubt as to what they were. The huge torches by the door guttered as they finished filing past, as if massive, invisible wings had brushed them.

I also thought I saw strange shadows painting the floor around them, with two dimensional depictions of clawed feet, whipping tails and those same, oversized wings. But I couldn’t be sure since the gnawed ribcages and scattered bones underfoot were casting weird shapes in the flickering firelight. Like the columns of bumpy-skinned, humanoid guards who ran in a moment later, surrounding the newcomers with spears out, and were either completely ignored or favored with a few contemptuous snarls.

Tanet was doing the same to the uninvited guests, his mountain of red hair crackling like dancing flames and his muscles bulging and retreating in his back and arms in ways that a human’s simply couldn’t. He looked like a man who really wanted to tear someone’s throat out, and then possibly eat him. He looked full-on savage.

Which made it even more surprising when his father stood up, walked to the front of his dining chamber, and smiled.

In human form, Lord Rathen was a seven-foot-tall, muscular man with strong, handsome features, blue eyes and burnished red hair a shade darker than his son’s. He kept it cut short in a human style that matched the careless scruff on his face, and in the right clothes he could have walked the streets of New York and never turned a head except in admiration. And from what I’d heard of him, he’d probably done so.

He looked to be a very well kept fifty or a rough and tumble forty. But either way, most women wouldn’t have kicked him out of bed. Or most men, either, probably, as that smile was a charmer. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his face with every appearance of pleasure. He looked like a man greeting friends or long-lost relatives that he hadn’t seen in a while. As did his body language, when he threw out his arms, a goblet in one hand and a huge ruby ring flashing on the other, the latter matching the wine-deep color of his robes.

“Steen-Ryn of the honorable Clan Vitharr,” he boomed, his voice echoing around the room’s excellent acoustics. “Your presence is as unexpected as it is welcome. Join us in the feast to celebrate the arrival of my daughter and our off-world guests to my home!”

An older man stepped forward from among the new arrivals, with sapphire robes over a pure silver sheath, and like Lord Rathen, he was smiling. I couldn’t tell if it reached his eyes because of the distance, and because of the huge beard he wore, which cascaded almost to the floor. It distracted me from everything else, since beards on Earth simply never grew that long or that full. Or that silver, with the color mixing with that of his equally long hair and the sheath he wore to the point that I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

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