The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(77)
“Thank you, sir.”
I stand in the field and watch Golmarr help carry mercenary bodies to the edge of the fire. When it is blazing, the dead are thrown onto it. The smoke blackens and makes a dark, inky trail against the turquoise sky. I watch it rise, and when my head is tilted back and my gaze is straight up, I see it: a tiny, dark speck. My knees knock together and tears fill my eyes as all of the energy of victory is stripped from me. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them, the dark speck will be gone. But it is not. “Dragon!” I try to shout the word, but it comes out as a choked whisper.
I reach out and grab the nearest person and point straight up. Enzio shades his eyes and looks to where I am pointing. “What is that?”
“The dragon has come for me,” I whisper.
“The glass dragon!” Enzio bellows. “Get your cloaks and move out!” Horns bellow and everyone runs. I do not run. I stand still and wait because I already know that no matter where I go, there the dragon will be.
In three heartbeats the field is clear of every living person but me, Enzio, and Golmarr. Golmarr’s sword is out, gleaming in the sunlight, and he is sprinting toward me. “Do you have it?” he asks Enzio.
“Yes.” Enzio presses on his chest and I hear paper crinkle.
“Then clear out with the rest so you don’t die!” Golmarr orders.
A horse and rider come galloping up to Golmarr and me, and from the saddle, Jessen hands us each a cloak. “Are you sure you don’t want us to fight with you, brother?” he asks Golmarr.
“Your weapons will make no difference, and you know it. You will die if you try to fight it. But…” He grabs Jessen’s arm. “If I die, take up my sword and protect her.”
“You know I will,” Jessen says, his eyes smoldering as he glances at me. Looking back to his brother, he gives the hand signal for honored warrior.
I put a deep blue cloak on, clasp it at my neck, and pull the hood up over my head. Golmarr swings a bright saffron cloak over his shoulders but does not put the hood up. We stand side by side in the battle-flattened, blood-splattered grass and stare up at the sky, at the circling black speck that is slowly getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger. When it is so close that I can see its deep green scales, a shower of arrows streaks across the sky. They hit the great beast and bounce off her gleaming scales, raining down on Golmarr and me. One hits my arm and slices my skin just below the elbow before bouncing on the grass at my feet.
“Hold your fire,” Golmarr bellows. Turning to me, he says, “You remember our plan?”
“Of course I do. I am ready to distract the beast,” I say, when in reality, I am ready to do no such thing. I grip my staff as tightly as I can. “Just don’t kill her.”
Golmarr’s nostrils flare and his jaw muscles tighten. “I will do my best to protect you, Sorrowlynn. This I swear.”
The beast completes one last, lazy circle through the air and then dives at us, her massive black claws tearing through the ground and digging deep fissures in the dirt and grass. Before she settles to a stop, Golmarr lifts his sword and starts sprinting toward her. As the dragon opens her massive jaws to catch the horse lord up in her yellow teeth, Golmarr dives under the great beast’s chin, stopping between her feet. He swings his blade with the skill and perfection of a practiced dragon slayer. The reforged blade carves through the scales on the back of the dragon’s ankle. The beast shrieks as great drops of blood splatter the ground beneath her foot. I blink and stare at the limping beast. Golmarr has severed her hamstring, making it impossible for the creature to run. And then I realize something I should have known the first time I watched him fight. Because of Golmarr’s birth prediction, that he would be the first dragon slayer in his family, he has been training for and thinking about killing dragons his entire life. He has been practicing for this moment since the day he was born. I am witnessing his destiny.
Golmarr leaps to his feet and grabs a dragon scale, pulling himself up onto the creature’s wounded leg. Grabbing another scale higher up the beast’s side, he swings onto her wide back. He falls to his knees and stabs his sword into the base of one of the leathery black wings just as the dragon lifts her spiked tail and swings. Golmarr tries to duck, but the blunt side of the tail hits his shoulder, flinging him through the air. He thumps onto the ground and rolls to a stop. Slowly, he climbs to his hands and knees and shakes his head.
“Golmarr?” I call. He doesn’t move.
The dragon looks at the horse lord and takes a step toward him. Fear turns my stomach and fills me with adrenaline. If I don’t do something, the beast will eat Golmarr. “Your quarrel is with me, Corritha! If you don’t kill me now, I will shout your secret for all to hear,” I shriek, and for the first time I look at the gently sloping hill behind me. It is dark with spectators; the horse clan warriors are silently watching.
The dragon steps away from Golmarr, opens her good wing, and tries to fly, but the injured wing whips around erratically, splattering the ground with blood, and the creature flails and wobbles. Pulling back her head, she opens her mouth and hisses pale, misty breath at me. I fall to the ground and pull my cloak tight over my body as her breath presses against the blue wool. Frigid air seeps through the fabric, but it doesn’t stiffen into a sheet of ice like it did in the forest. When the chill has passed, I sit up. A thin layer of white frost has dusted my cloak; nothing more. “The mist,” I whisper, thinking of the dense fog that hides the forest floor. It is dragon-made. Without it, the dragon has freezing breath only—not the ability to encase things in ice. And that is when I see the first tendrils of white seep between the grass and curl around my knees. I stand and back away from it, but it is growing, rising up from the ground and swirling around my legs.