Page 236 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad was here.

“These fucking mountains,” Mehmet swore. “And their fucking wildlife.”

Timothée, though, knew it was no ordinary wolf, as another howl, a different one, shivered through the night air from the other side of camp. “Your Majesty–” he started, setting his cup down.

The low din of normal camp sounds erupted all at once into chaos. Shouts, screams, the thunder of hooves.

A janissary burst into the tent, more rattled than Val had ever seen one of the elite soldiers. “Your Majesty! We must get you to safety!”

“What’s happening?” Mehmet demanded, already reaching for the sword he’d discarded earlier.

For the moment, no one gave notice of Val, and he took advantage of it. The tent, ill-staked amid the exhaustion and hurry of the march, showed a loose bit of canvas along the ground. Val slipped out of his chair, rolled beneath it, and stood up amidst a camp that had fallen to madness.

There were horses everywhere, running, and shying, and trampling tents and campfires. Riderless horses – the picket lines had been cut. Loose horses would have been chaos enough, but all of them were terrified, because half the camp appeared to be ablaze. Val saw bright orange flames licking up from collapsing tents, a dozen different sources of fire, its light catching on horseshoes as horses reared, glinting off the animals’ rolling eyes; illuminating the thick clouds of smoke that billowed up from the burning canvas.

Val heard a shout, and ducked aside just as a rider galloped past. He twisted in time to catch sight of an armored man in the saddle, mouth open in something like a smile. The soldier carried a lit torch that he tossed onto the royal tent, and then spurred his mount on into the melee of human and horseflesh.

Another howl, right in the middle of camp this time, followed by screams – of men and horses.

The oil from the torch paved the way for the flames, and the roof of the royal tent caught fire with a softwhumpsound. Mehmet, and Timothée, and a host of shouting guards stumbled out of it.

Val ran.

He turned toward the sound of the wolf, and took off as quickly as he could, shoving between panicked bodies, stepping out of the way of a bolting horse.

Ahead lay a tent that had become a bonfire, gouts of flame leaping straight up, and its glow hell-red. A wolf stood there, lifting its head from the throat of a fallen man, jaws dripping blood. A great, red wolf. And behind it, horse held firmly in check, a rider. Erect and slender, hair in a crown of braids, face painted with blue stripes.

“Fen!” Val cried. “Mother!”

Above the tumult, he heard Eira shout, “Val!” But then she wheeled her horse, and raised her blade to meet the soldier rushing at her with a lance.

Something heavy and warm collided with Val’s shoulder, and he staggered forward, barely managing not to go face-first into the fire. With a snarl, Fen lunged between him, and whatever had hit him. He turned to see a figure standing with hands raised; a figure on fire.

No. It was Timothée, and heheldfire, a bright crackling ball in each palm.

“Fen, no!” Val shouted.

The wolf was already in motion, springing off from the ground, snarling, jaws open.

Timothée reached as if to meet him, and the fire shot forward, a blinding draft of it, straight at Fenrir’s face.

Val didn’t decide to move; suddenly he was leaping, growling, full of hate. He heard Fen yelp, but he caught the mage around the waist, and tackled him to the ground. A quick burst of heat and pain, burning through his clothes, but then the fire went out, and Val cocked back a fist, and punched the stunned mage right in the eye.

He put all his strength behind it, and Timothée managed only a weakoofbefore his head fell back, and he lost consciousness.

Val stood, panting, and turned to search for Fen.

The wolf was rubbing a paw across his singed snout, but he snorted, and blinked up at Val, unharmed.

“You’re alright?”

He sneezed in the affirmative. Then turned to seek out his mistress – currently surrounded on all sides by soldiers. Val smelled horse blood, and saw shining wounds on her mount’s flanks. His heart leapt. If they couldn’t topple her from the saddle, they’d cut the horse out from under her, and then have her at their mercy. She was a valiant fighter – even now she spun her horse in tight pirouettes, forcing her attackers to dodge and weave, and she slashed down with her blade, drawing shouts of pain from her opponents – but the soldiers had lances, and she couldn’t charge through, not without killing her horse, and then she’d be on foot.

Fen ran to her, snapping, frightening the men. He gave her an opening, just enough, and then she heeled her mount through the line – and straight into an oncoming knot of janissaries. Armored, armed, and, in the midst of all the panic, calm and ready for battle.

A sword lay beside the body of the soldier Fen had killed, gleaming in the firelight. Val snatched it up, and went to defend his mother.

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