Tortured: An Epic Dragons and Immortals Romantic Fantasy (Fallen Emrys Chronicles Book 3)

Chapter 13

After a week at sea, sailing southeast, we turn along the coastline and sail east before rounding the continent and turning north again. We stay close to the coast. Land is always in sight, but that first week gives us nothing but a view of the Wilderness.

We stop at no ports, because no settlements have been built along the desert coast. Once we bump around the tip of the continent, the land suddenly becomes green, and stops at ports become frequent.

After another week of commerce, in which I grow used to life at the docks and the chaos in the port taverns every night, the ship sails between a narrow strait. The captain tells me this passage leads to a massive bay. I cannot see the far coast, the expanse of water is so vast.

We dock at a port in the southlands called Cadomedd. I spend the remainder of the day helping the crew unload their goods. I just settle another crate onto the dock when a voice calls out above the bustle of the crowd.

“Dragon!”

If that hadn’t caught my attention, the sudden scramble away from our pile of goods does. The captain grabs my sleeve and pulls me back toward the ship. “Get back!”

I hurry with him up the gangplank just as a shadow crosses above, blocking out the early afternoon sun. I squint up at the massive winged beast as he settles onto the dock in front of the cargo.

The creature is gray and scaled, with spikes sticking out in odd places at its elbows and knees and along its shoulders. He has no saddle, as I was so used to seeing on Seren’s back. Does he not have a rider? Given that this is just another dragon among the small handful that I’ve seen while in Gorlassar, I wonder if not all dragons have riders.

Then I wonder that I’m even seeing a dragon at all outside of the immortal dragon realm. Seren was a rarity. The only dragon I’ve ever known to come into Bryn.

The captain did warn me Morvith was different. That Morvith has dragons. And half-emrys. And an empress that is to be avoided at all costs.

The dragon noses around, sniffing the crates.

“What’s he doing?” I ask the captain. We crouch on the main deck, below the side of the ship, peeking just above the railing.

“Docking tax,” the captain mutters.

“Docking tax?”

“Aye.”

The dragon stops at a particular crate and inhales deeply. “Ah, simbra tea. This will do nicely.” He picks up the crate with his front claws and shifts back. “I thank you, gentlemen.” His deep voice astounds me.

Then his jaw drops open and fire flares over the remaining goods.

I jump to my feet, but the captain pulls me down. “No. Just wait. He marks the packages.” He nods back to the dragon, who’s stopped flaming.

All the crates are blackened, and as I squint closer, I see a distinctive pattern to the wave of the scorch.

“It’s so another dragon knows the tax has already been collected,” the captain says. “He’ll take the crate back to Caer to add to the empress’s stores.”

The dragon launches into the sky and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

Blinking back awe, I stand with the captain. “What about the cargo? Did he ruin it?”

“No. Targeted dragon fire. It’s magic that only burns what’s intended.”

Seren never explained this to me, but then again, we never had a chance to discuss dragon fire while I was running from assassins.

The captain and I return to the crates. The rest of the dock resumes busyness. I have a sense that this is perfectly normal. Dragons claiming and branding goods.

The captain nods as he assesses everything. Then he turns to me. “Are you sure you’re ready to go ashore? From the look on your face after seeing that dragon, I’m certain that I haven’t told you enough about Morvith.”

“I’ve only ever seen one dragon up close, and I was lucky enough to ride on her, but this . . . I have no words.” I shake my head as I run my hand over a scorch mark. It’s still warm.

“Ride on one, eh? Back in your homeland?”

“Aye.”

“One word of advice, son, before you go.” The captain claps me on the shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You see another dragon, especially one with a rider, you stay well enough away. The dragon riders do nothing but serve the empress, and it never ends well for mortals who get in their way.”

“Will do.”

“And keep your swords where others can see them so thieves won’t know you’re an easy target.”

I laugh. “Do I look an easy target?”

“After these past weeks, you look a seafarer. And that’s pickings for landsmen.”

After thanking the captain, I return to the ship to grab my gear.

I snort as I strap on my swords and then my pack. “Easy pickings,” I mumble to myself. “Little do they know. I’d like to see a thief get the upper hand with me.” I tried not to show my superior strength while I was on the ship. But the time constantly adjusting the rigging and performing ship maintenance added to my muscles that were already well toned from the light.

The captain must have been ribbing me.

I nod at the crewman as I pass and wish them well. After three weeks at sea, it’s time to say goodbye to my newly acquired sea legs. I’m tired of skipping from port to port, and I never want to do another long stretch at sea. No more pubs full of drunken sailors and busty women.

It’s time to start life anew.

I have no idea where to begin, but it wouldn’t be along the docks.

I hear shouts and laughter from the closest pub. It’s already filling up with thirsty sailors. I grin to myself as I stride onto a busy street beyond the docks. I want to work my way inland as much as possible. Learn a bit about the country and maybe find a homestead to purchase. Niawen might be gone from my dreams of the future, but I can still fulfill the part about having a place to call my own. Maybe on a windy bluff somewhere.

Will I ever find a place to remind me of my highland countryside?

The air is muggy between the houses that line the streets. They aren’t too busy for the afternoon either. Perhaps the heat keeps people in the shadow of indoors. Occasionally, I catch children playing. Laundry stretches from house to house, like banners waving overhead as I move underneath.

I reach the market and ask for a quiet tavern with good food. A young woman directs me down a side street. I’m relieved to stop in front of a building that has relatively new paint and a bright sign that says Ridder’s Ale House.

No one is inside when I push the door inward. I step back and look at the sign to be sure they are open. Certain that they are, I shrug my shoulders and go inside.

The interior is cool. The tables are highly polished. All the chairs are down, so they must be expecting patrons.

A waft of something savory hits my nose, so I take a few steps toward a booth on the wall.

“Take a seat wherever you wish,” a woman says.

I jump and whirl around.

A young woman stands at the bar, with a dish towel in her hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was in the back. Wasn’t expecting no one since the lunch rush.”

Her hair is darker than night. Her skin a rich brown I’ve grown used to seeing since hitting the ports. She has a shy air about her, but when she smiles, I know she isn’t really shy at all. She brushes her hair back as she gestures toward a booth.

“Are your afternoons usually quiet?” I slide onto the padded bench, realizing with relief it’s not rocking from ocean waves. I almost sigh as I lean back, but when my blades bite into my shoulders, I straighten.

“You’re a seafarer.” The young woman sits in the booth across from me. “I can tell from your sun-bleached hair and bronzed skin.”

“Is that so?” I grin at her. She’s quite young. Maybe seventeen. Her brown eyes gleam at me as she takes me in.

She nods as she reaches across the table. Her fingers slip along the nape of my neck and thread through my hair. As she tugs, I catch a hint of peppermint on her breath.

“I’d say, from how shaggy your hair is, that you’ve been at sea for three weeks.” She blushes as she removes her hands and drops them to the tabletop.

“And I’d say you’re right.”

“I can help you with that. I’m good with the shears.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

She places her hand over mine. “Let’s get you something to eat first. And then you need a bath.” She stands, and I laugh.

“Are you offering to bathe me?”

“You smell like salt and sweat. And you have soot on your cheek.”

I brush my palm over my right cheek.

“The other one.” She disappears into the back.

I close my eyes, enjoying the sound of silence. Not a single gull calling. Not the constant lap of water against the ship.

Silence.

The young woman returns and sets food and drink in front of me. “Shayla. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t introduce myself before.”

I eye the stew with excitement and then look into her eyes. “Kenrik.”

“Go on. Eat.” She slides into the booth once more. “Tell me where you’re from.”

I dip a roll into the stew and bite into it. I shake the roll. “Mmm. This is good.”

She smiles. “I made it.” She pushes my mug forward.

I pick it up and drink deeply. More than satisfied with my banquet, I push a coin at her in payment for the meal. It’s more than enough for several meals. “Go get something and eat with me.”

She eyes the coin but doesn’t take it. “Oh no. I don’t eat with customers. My father owns the place. I eat in the back.”

“Suit yourself.” I continue eating while she studies me. It probably isn’t proper for her to sit with a customer either, but the place is empty, and she does seem awfully curious.

“I take it, if you’re this far into the city and”—she nods at my pack—“you brought all your stuff with you, you must not be headed back out to sea.”

“You’re right again. The sea life is not for me. I spent the first few days so sick I couldn’t move.” I shovel more stew into my mouth. I haven’t eaten like this in weeks. The food at the port pubs was either too bland or too salty.

“We get a few travelers that come from foreign lands. From the west, I’m guessing you’re from.”

We spend the next half hour talking about our homelands. She lets me grill her on Cadomedd. Unfortunately, I realize I should have jumped ship a few docks farther north in the midlands. The southlands are flat and boring, Shayla says, not much to my liking if I’m a highland boy. From her longing expression, I take it she would love to have her own traveling adventures.

Not that I would exactly call evading assassins traveling adventures. But since I’ve been traveling for this long, will it really matter if I’m on the road for a few more months?

If I did become immortal, what does it matter if I’m on the road for a few years? I might have forever. Why settle down?

How long will it take to figure out if I stopped aging? Will I know in ten years?

Niawen, I wish you were here with me to help me through all this.

Pretty barmaid,Caedryn says. I wonder what Niawen thinks of her.

Does distance do nothing to weaken our bond?I hiss.

I’m afraid not. Cadomedd is nice. But I prefer Creiddylad, in the far northeast.

Is that your homeland?

Once. So long ago.Caedryn sounds nostalgic.

I’m not going to pity him.

Shayla and I talk a bit more, and I’m able to coax some laughs from her.

The bell above the door jingles as four men enter.

They are not small men.

And they are dressed as conscripted soldiers, with swords and knives. One man has twin blades like mine.

Shayla falls silent. Her face becomes sullen.

Two of the men glance her way, with an ominous look in their eyes. That’s when I notice the dragon stones around their necks, hanging just below their throats against their skin.

Dragon riders.

The captain’s warning to stay away from them swirls in my ears. I take a steady draw on my ale while they make their way to the bar. From Shayla’s reaction, the captain was right to warn me.

These men are dangerous.

A man emerges from the back. When Shayla glances at him with wide eyes, I take him to be her father.

“Calrisin,” the front dragon rider says. “You know why we’re here.”

“Of course.” Calrisin lifts his chin toward his daughter. “Shayla, darling.”

I pinch my brows together with question.

“Help yourself to refills behind the bar,” she says softly to me. “Perhaps when I return in a few hours, you can tell me more about your homeland. I would love to hear more.” She grabs my mug, tips it back, and drains it. After slamming it down, she stands, with her hand lingering on the table to steady herself.

I press my hand over hers. “You don’t mean . . .” I whisper.

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

No other words are needed.

I straighten in my seat and raise my voice. “Gentlemen”—Shayla turns toward me with shock—“I think there must be a misunderstanding. Shayla has agreed to be my guide in the city this evening.” I pick up the forgotten coin on the table and press it into her palm. “I’m new in town and hired her to show me around.”

Shayla clenches the coin. “You don’t understand,” she hisses.

I rise. “I understand enough.”

Calrisin stiffens when the front dragon rider steps toward us. Shayla whirls on me and whispers to me quickly as he approaches. “This is what we give by way of payment. This tavern is all we have, and we keep it without coin.”

I deflate inside. This is not some random occurrence. They expect this. Welcome it even.

The rider grabs Shayla’s wrist and wrenches her palm open. “I’m afraid coin is not what we prefer.” He chucks the coin at my chest.

I let it fall to the floor.

The coin bounces and rolls to a stop near the bar.

No one else makes a move.

I narrow my eyes on the man.

The bell above the door rings as another man—a warrior—strides in.

The dragon riders at the bar instantly straighten.

The one holding Shayla nods at the newcomer.

He is darkness, practically everything about him. From his brown leather armor to his olive-toned skin. His brows are two menacing lines above piercing blue eyes—the only things ethereal about him. That and his midnight blue dragon stone.

I do not miss the hulking sword strapped to his back.

“What do we have here?” the newcomer asks.

“My lord,” the man holding Shayla says, “we were collecting payment. But this seafarer thought to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“My lord” scrutinizes me. From my face down to my feet and back up. He lands on the twin blades peaking over my shoulders.

“How good are you with those blades?” he asks.

What? He has to be kidding. I could have breezed over and sliced his head off before he could blink.

“Good enough that I haven’t lost a fight yet,” I say.

He snorts, and then he turns to one of the men unstrapping his twin swords at the bar. “My lord” lays his sheathed blade calmly on a table. “Dagbond, lend me your blades.”

Dagbond unsheathes his twin blades and passes them to “my lord,” who gestures with a chin lift to me. “Outside. Leave your gear. Bring your blades. Let’s see if you’re as good as you say.”

I stare at Shayla with round eyes. How can I leave her?

“Go, Kenrik.” She turns to the dragon rider and presses her hand over his chest. “I have accounts to settle.”

He grunts his approval.

My stomach turns.