The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(59)

“So, if you used my sympathy against me, what did I use against you?” I ask.

Golmarr sits up and wraps his arms around his knees. Grinning, he answers, “My lascivious, lustful nature, obviously.”

I gasp, and Enzio starts laughing so loudly that the horses look up from their grazing. Golmarr’s laughter joins Enzio’s, and then I can’t help but chuckle. Enzio walks to the horse lord and gives him a hand up. Stepping to me, Golmarr runs his hand through my hair until the braid has come completely undone and my hair is loose around my shoulders.

“You pulled my ribbon out the first time you tugged on my braid, didn’t you? That is the second time you’ve done that today.”

He studies me for a moment and simply says, “It is a shame to leave hair like yours bound all the time.”

“You’re not the one who has to brush it out every morning,” I say.

“I wish I was.” He runs his fingers through my hair again and takes a small step closer.

“Golmarr!” Enzio crouches low and I see the silhouette of the black knife in his hand. “Something has spooked the horses!”

Golmarr slides his sword from its sheath. I throw my hands up in the air and glare at him. “I am disarmed!” I whisper. Hiking my skirt up around my knees, I sprint toward the horses, who have wandered a little ways off.

“Sorrowlynn, wait,” Golmarr whispers, but I ignore him.

The horses have stopped grazing and are both looking in the same direction, their ears facing forward. I grab the belt from my horse’s saddle and swing it around my waist, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. Next, I slide my staff from the leather strap. When I turn back toward Golmarr, I freeze. He and Enzio are gone. It is just me and the horses standing in the tall grass…and whatever has spooked them.





I grip my staff in my clammy hands and slowly start to spin in a circle, trying to get my bearings—trying to find Golmarr and Enzio. The moon has risen, painting the landscape silver, and the only sounds are chirping crickets and the gentle swish of the wind through the waist-high grass. When I have spun all the way around, a black mass is standing in front of me. I lift my staff to attack, but hesitate. For a moment my head fills with confusion as I stare at the outline of a tall, square-shouldered man with long black hair. In the dark he looks just like Golmarr…but Golmarr’s hair is now short.

My staff swings into action and meets steel. I press forward hard, swinging so quickly, with so much adrenaline, that my opponent stumbles backward. I leap forward and thrust the end of my staff into his stomach. He doubles over, and I use that moment to swing my staff toward his head, but his free arm meets my weapon and blocks it.

An arm cinches around my neck, and I feel the prick of a knife against the side of my ribs and the body of a second man pressed firm against my back. I force myself to freeze and my hands begin to tremble on my staff. “A woman?” a deep, rough voice whispers against my hair. “Disarm her.”

The man in front of me tears the staff from my hands and then slides the knife from my belt. Quickly, with featherlight fingers, he runs his hands over my arms and legs and then backs a step away. “This is all she has,” he says, holding up the staff and knife.

The man holding me tightens his arm on my throat, and the knife that was at my ribs comes up to my neck, just below my ear. “Who are you?” he growls. When I do not answer, the blade presses harder. “I have no qualms about murdering mercenary women to protect my people,” he says. “Who are you? Tell me or die.”

“I am…,” I whisper. I remember dying, and no matter what anyone else believes, it does not hurt. “I am not afraid to die. A swift death is painless,” I snap. The knife comes away from my neck, and he shoves me so hard that I fly forward and skid to a stop on my face in the coarse grass. I push myself up to sitting, swipe my long, loose hair out of my face, and glare up at my two captors even though my insides are quivering with fear.

“Who are you, and why are you in my kingdom with two armed men?” the man who held the knife at my throat asks. My kingdom? My fear melts in half, and I slowly climb to my feet.

“Keep your guard up, Jessen. She’s a trained fighter,” the man holding my weapons says. He sounds just like Golmarr—the tone of his deep voice, the slight accent. He lifts my dagger to the moonlight and studies it.

“This is your land?” I ask, studying Jessen.

He lifts his sword between us and answers, “Aye, lass. And what black deeds do you plan for my people?”

“You are Golmarr’s brothers,” I whisper.

His face hardens with fury at mention of his brother’s name. “Who are you, and what—”

“Golmarr brought me!” I blurt, and turn from my captors to look for him.

“Our brother is dead,” Jessen growls. “He followed a pretty face into a dragon’s lair.”

“He always was a fool for a pretty face, God rest his soul,” the other brother says, shaking his head.

“We lived,” I whisper, looking from one man to the other.

The man holding my knife looks at me. In the moonlight I can see that his eyes are narrowed, his mouth frowning. He looks at the knife again. “She is carrying Father’s knife, Jessen. The one he gave to the northern princess before we lowered her down to the fire dragon’s cave.” He holds the knife out to his brother, who takes it from his hand and runs his finger over the hilt.