Page 59 of Fortune's Blade

And then I noticed: he had stopped halfway across the glade, apparently seeing my struggle. He watched me fight with the fur for a moment, but neither laughed nor took advantage of the situation. Instead, he put a hand out, palm up.

And then politely waited to see what I would do.

That would have been great, only I had no idea what to do. So, I just stood there, trying not to waver noticeably on my feet, clutching my gun and wiping porridge off of my lips. It was a less than intimidating display.

He nonetheless kept his distance and then bowed, rather competently, even though dragons didn’t. At least, dragons who had never been to Earth didn’t. But he looked old enough to have made the trip, possibly at a time when that sort of courtly gesture was still the norm.

I stopped panicking quite so much and checked him out.

He was eight feet tall, or possibly slightly more, but in no way resembled a slender basketball player. He was massive in every way, with a musculature that could only be described as gargantuan, and which was emphasized by the fact that he was dressed like a medieval knight. Or so I thought.

I changed my mind as he cautiously approached, hands still out where I could see them, which less reassuring all of a sudden because that . . . wasn’t armor.

I blinked a couple times, but the view didn’t change. It still looked like he had partially transformed, morphing his body so that big, plate-like scales had thickened and expanded over the more vulnerable parts. It left him looking like he was wearing a chest plate, a set of pauldrons, and heavy greaves, and had scale armor running everywhere else, connecting them all together.

It was amazingly authentic looking, not only because of how it was put together, but because the stuff that was in common use when I was growing up wasn’t the shiny, perfect pieces on display in museums.

Most of the armor that had survived the centuries to be oohed and awed over by modern audiences was the spectacular, parade-ready variety worn by kings and noblemen. It was buffed to a high shine, or covered in elaborate etchings and inlaid with gold, because it was a status symbol, like driving a Ferrari. It was meant to impress.

But the kind of thing worn into actual battle was a little different. It looked more like this, being rough from a thousand little nicks made from arrow heads and larger ones left by spear and sword blades. It had dirt in the creases that never got washed out and a patina of age that—

That in this case, was very familiar.

“I know you,” I said suddenly, and the man smiled.

It was a small expression, but it transformed the rugged, bearded face. The beard was short, unlike the ridiculous Santa-and-then-some thing Steen had had going on, as was his hair. Both were salt and pepper with mostly salt, matching the deep laugh lines around his eyes. But he had been handsome once, and in some ways, still was. The eyes alone would stop you in your tracks, being vividly blue and piercing, as if the sky had suddenly decided to take an interest in one of the small creatures roaming around underneath it.

“You do.” He had crossed the rest of the distance between us while I stared rudely, and now bent over my hand. Which I had unwittingly extended because he was that kind of guy. He kept it briefly, looking at me again with a somber expression once more. “I am Regin-Lar, my lady, and I failed you. That will not happen again.”

I had a sudden, vivid memory of the great, mossy backed dragon who had briefly rescued me, and had only let me fall because he was attacked by a whole squadron of Steen’s people. “Are you alright?” I asked, and saw his smile grow.

“Yes, and so are you, although none of us can quite believe it.” He let my hand go and made a small gesture at the space beside me. “May I?”

I sat back down because it was either that or fall down, and patted the log. It was somewhat crumbly, having been here a while, and I wasn’t sure that it would hold what had to be six hundred pounds of muscle. But there wasn’t anything else.

He must have had the same reservation, because he settled onto the ground in front of my perch instead. I mulled over the fact that, even in human guise, he made me feel alien—a flimsy, weak, tiny creature who had no business being in this world of giants. But he did not appear to be thinking the same.

“I am the head of my lord’s guards, and am to stand in his stead today,” he informed me once we were settled. “Would you lend me your strength?”

I blinked at up him, because even sitting on the ground he was taller. “I don’t have any strength,” I said, which caused him to smile again. And then to chuckle, as if I’d said something witty instead of the stark truth.

“Your presence should be sufficient,” he declared gallantly.

“My presence for what?” I asked, as people began to appear at the edges of the clearing.

“Some of the smaller houses are considering joining with us against Lord Steen, after last night’s betrayal.”

“Betrayal?”

“There is an understanding that our people do not fight each other. When there are disagreements, they are settled by the clan council, something that has been true for generations. Why Lord Steen felt it necessary to violate this tradition is a mystery, but in doing so he killed two of our people in their own home. That is infamy, and it will be answered.”

“I thought it was answered last night,” I said, thinking that Steen must have lost people, too. A lot of them.

But Regin shook his head. “It was fought off last night. It was not answered. Allowing Lord Steen to break the authority of the council would bring anarchy back to the houses, along with constant warfare. Perhaps he needs to be reminded of how it was in the old days, before he drags us back into them.”

Well, that sounded ominous, I thought, before I thought something else.

“Two?”

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