Chapter 16
THE WORST POSSIBLE BATTLEFIELD
Arioch
Alarge leather satchel landed beside my chair with a plop, stealing my attention away from my breakfast. Beside the bag, Norval blinked into existence and swept into a bow so deep his dark hair nearly brushed the floor.
“Pardon my interruption, m’lord, but I have gathered your supplies and provisions.” He straightened, coming eye-level with the top of the bag, which he patted proudly.
“Thank you, Norval.”
“I am but your humble servant.” Another bow. “Word has spread that you are leaving immediately after breakfast. The staff is gathering in the courtyard to see you off as soon as you are ready.”
Uncertainty constricted my lungs. I questioned my unacceptably tentative plan, but my choices were limited. Despite my best efforts, I would be walking into battle unprepared, relying entirely too much on sheer luck and overwhelming might.
Am I taking the best course of action?
I was taking the only course available to me.
The artifact would not permit otherwise.
Its absence was a splinter driven into the core of my being, burrowing deeper with each hour I delayed.
I would simply assess the wolves’ defenses upon arrival and adjust my plan accordingly.
There was no room for hesitation when the alternative was madness.
A darker question lurked beneath the planning; one I dared not examine too closely. What would I have done had she not shattered the ward? I would still be trapped behind it, with a hoard screaming for its missing piece.
I severed that line of thought before it could take root. That way lay madness, and I was already closer to the edge than I cared to admit.
I could leave. I would leave.
Even if it meant abandoning my people.
They were capable. They would endure. I had to believe that because there was no alternative. Remaining while my mind slowly unraveled would serve no one.
Decision made, I focused on the sliver of excitement stirring in my gut. For the first time ever, I would fly free of this place. I would witness the world with my own two eyes, rather than rely on the stored memories of my ancestors.
The pull led north. Seattle. My mother had attended Peace Council meetings there regularly, and her final stored memory of the city depicted a place already in ruins.
Fractured by war and carved into hostile territories, its inhabitants were as dangerous as the magic that divided them.
A quarter-century had passed since that memory was recorded, making me wonder in what condition I would find it now.
Had the city healed from its wounds? Or had they festered?
Norval was watching me as if he had posed a question I had yet to answer.
As I prepared to release him rather than admit my inattention, a lavender-scaled kobold popped into existence to scowl at the brownie. “There you are, you thieving little rodent. What have you done with my herbs?”
Norval cleared his throat and gestured at me.
Made aware of my presence, Valda dropped into a curtsy. “Pardon me, m’lord. I am sorry to have interrupted your breakfast. However, this little demon,” she stabbed a finger in Norval’s direction, “has stolen my supplies.”
Liesel’s daughter had hatched into this world shortly after my mother departed it. In the years since, Valda had made a career of testing every boundary Norval erected, a pursuit she showed no intention of abandoning simply because she was now an adult.
Norval spun on her. “How could you possibly know if I had? That disaster you call a room is an eyesore. Any manner of vegetation could be growing in there without your knowledge. This manor is not your personal drying house, yet you—”
“Stay out of my room, and your poor, delicate senses won’t have to endure my messes.”
His chest expanded, and he gasped in outrage, meeting her glare for glare.
The brownies from my ancestors’ memories had been demure, simple people who worked behind the scenes, rarely allowing themselves to be seen. As my mother used to say, Norval was cut from different cloth, born in a suit and gifted with a flair for theatrics.
“As caretaker of this manor, it is my duty—no, my privilege—to clean, organize, and decontaminate all living spaces, maintaining the manor to standards worthy of our lord and his noble lineage,” he declared.
“You refuse to adhere to the standards of this estate, forcing me to clean up after you like a child.”
Valda propped her hands on her hips. “Where. Are. My herbs?”
“Somewhere safe. And I will return them the moment you learn how to clean up after yourself, as is fitting. Now, run along, cretin, and I shall deal with you later.”
Valda’s glare threatened to catch him on fire.
The entire scene was ridiculous, considering I was preparing to embark on a dangerous journey. Yet the trivial nature of their spat filled me with a much-needed sense of normalcy. My shoulders uncoiled as I made my ruling. “Return Valda’s herbs, Norval.”
“M’lord—”
Holding up a hand to silence him, I added, “I understand how traumatic an experience Valda’s room can be for you, so you have my permission to avoid it for the foreseeable future.
” It was the same permission I had granted him numerous times over the years, but it appeared the brownie could not help himself.
“Thank you, m’lord,” Valda said with another curtsey, throwing a triumphant smirk at the brownie.
I dismissed her with a nod, and she disappeared. Norval, unfortunately, remained.
“Is there something else you need?” I asked.
“Oh, no, m’lord. I am here to serve. In fact, since you will be heading out today, I want to set your brilliant, burdened mind at ease and assure you that as your steward, I will be delighted to attend to your duties while you are away.”
My jaw clenched around the laugh before it could betray me.
Norval had deliberately declined a formal title upon transferring his contract to me, a decision I now recognized as strategic.
Without an assigned role to constrain him, the brownie had spent years bestowing titles upon himself, each more ambitious than its predecessor.
Self-appointed steward or not, he was the last person I would leave in charge of my people.
That course of action would undoubtedly lead to Valda occupying a dungeon cell, upsetting her parents, who would retaliate by refusing their kitchen duties and allowing the household to starve.
Yes, dragons could survive on raw meat, but I had grown accustomed to expert food pairings, light seasonings, and a slight char. No matter how useful Norval was, he could not be allowed to upset my cooks.
The entire staff would revolt.
Needing to handle this politically, I pretended to consider his proposal. “Thank you for your generous offer; however, Catori and Frode will run the estate in my absence. It has already been arranged.”
His expression fell for a split second before he squared his shoulders and forced a smile. “Next time, then.”
“I will keep you in mind should the need arise.”
This time, his grin was genuine, displaying all his pointed teeth. Fearful that I had made an error and unwittingly granted him some boon, I played back my words in my head but could not pinpoint any mistakes.
“Safe travels, m’lord.”
“Thank you, Norval. Dismissed.”
He disappeared, and I hurriedly finished breakfast before turning my attention to the bag he had left behind.
Pushing back from the table, I lifted the satchel onto my lap and rummaged through the contents.
A burlap sack of rations smelled of salted meat.
One pocket held a spare pair of trousers, and another contained a leather pouch I had never seen before.
Curious, I sniffed it before thumbing through the mix of currencies and coins.
“Your mother never went anywhere without an excess of funds,” Catori said from the doorway.
Feeling like a child caught drawing on a valuable family heirloom, I straightened into a more dignified posture.
“Sound advice, as always, Catori,” Tyrin said, striding in from the opposite entrance.
Silver glinted in his golden braids, and he carried himself with the authority of a man who had commanded warriors long before bending his knee to a dragon hatchling.
Like me, he wore only trousers, though his were fashioned from a material engineered to stretch with his shift.
“I have packed a considerable sum as well.” His gaze found mine, and he offered a bow. “Good morning, m’lord.”
“Good morning, Catori, Tyrin.”
Tyrin’s presence confirmed he was prepared to leave, so I returned my attention to the bag.
A length of rope, a handgun, and two boxes of ammunition remained.
I had little affinity for firearms, finding them graceless compared to magic and a well-forged blade, but I was not so prideful as to reject a sound tactical advantage.
This trip would demand blood. The dragon in me welcomed the certainty of that, as well as the opportunity to finally stretch my claws.
“One box of ammunition has been coated in silver,” Tyrin said, stopping beside me. “It is marked.”
Spotting the handwritten rune for silver across one box, I nodded my acknowledgment. Closing the bag, I stood, slung its strap over my shoulder, and headed for the door with Tyrin at my side.
Rain hammered the courtyard, yet every resident of the estate had gathered before the entrance.
Norval stood at the front in his drenched suit, chin high.
Behind him, faces I had known my entire life watched me with a level of devotion and trust that tightened my throat.
They had traded their freedom for the sanctuary of my sire’s ward.
The ward now lay in ruins, yet not one of them had fled.
Their trust was a weight I would carry over the miles between here and the wolves who had shattered their protection.