Chapter 40 #2
Roderick put up a hand as a familiar sound caught in his ears. “Do you hear that?
A prickle crept up his spine as a clicking echoed in the distance. It was faint, random, but somehow orderly, and growing fast, almost like…
Hooves.
They jumped apart as an arrow zipped between them at lightning speed, lodging itself smack into the ridgepole of their tent. In an impossibly quick, fluid motion, Isen disappeared into the treeline.
Why couldn’t Yomira have chosen a more fearsome mate?
They whipped in the direction the arrow had come from, where Henrik crested the hill atop a thick-legged stallion, clad in chain mail and leather bearing the Aquillan crest, arm still positioned from the shot.
“I knew it,” he roared. “Those weren’t the fangs of a Were!”
Damn that Werewolf hearing.
Six knights flanked Henrik, sending a barrage of arrows into the clearing.
Anya and Roderick raced into the trees a moment before the arrows sliced into the canvas right where they’d stood.
Heat met Roderick’s back as Yomira sent a weak stream of flame into the clearing, holding the knights off for the precious seconds they needed to get ahead before she lofted into the sky.
There was no time to climb onto her back. They would have been sitting ducks.
“What did he say about fangs?” Anya asked, eyes flitting above and around them in a hurried strategic analysis as they weaved through the trees, zig-zagging erratically to throw off the knights’ trail.
Roderick nearly tripped as the pinnacle moment of the fight the night before slammed into the forefront of his mind—and the unmistakable sensation of his fangs locking into place as he slammed Henrik into the ground.
What…are…you?
His face paled. One misstep after two decades of hiding his fangs, and it had to be with that guy.
“Oh Divine. I messed up, I messed up, my fangs came out during the fight!”
Anya hissed, “Hide now, apologize later,” and yanked him into the hollow of a flowering yew tree. The underbrush crushed beneath the hooves of the knights’ mounts as they slowed to a cautious trot.
“W-where’d they go?” one asked. Her voice had a noticeable tremor to it, unusual of a seasoned knight. Were they truly afraid of Valerians?
“I think a better question is how’d they get here,” another said, a slight shiver to their voice. “Just think of how many could be right under our noses.”
“Quiet,” Henrik growled. “Moon above, I can’t think, let alone smell with you runnin’ your mouths. And don’t forget, these bastards bleed like the rest of us. So stop your sniveling.”
“Yes, Commander,” the knights replied in hasty unison.
Clipping hooves and audible sniffs came from right beside their hiding spot.
Roderick drew Anya tight against his chest. She breathed shallowly, so soft he would’ve thought she was holding her breath if not for the gentle push of air on his skin.
His own heart raced, beating against hers so hard he feared Henrik would hear.
He internally cursed his fangs. He couldn’t bear to imagine his Centarian blood being not only his downfall, but Anya’s as well.
So it wouldn’t be.
He plotted out the dance between himself and the enemy. Step after step, each variance of how they could be discovered. In the tree. A step outside of it. To the right. The left. Head on. Arrows. A sword. Fists.
Settling on the most likely option of head on with a sword, he tried to grasp the hilt of his own, but it was jammed between his side and the tree trunk.
If Henrik lunged, Anya would have to deal the defensive blow.
He slowly slid her fingers to the hilt of her cutlass.
She curled her fingers around the hilt in acknowledgment, looking up at him with golden eyes ready for action.
His chest swelled with pride.
What a woman.
The crush of earth sounded ahead of them. From their hiding spot, he saw Henrik pull his mount to a stop, then dismount.
“I can smell your blood,” Henrik growled, arms contorting with muscle as he stalked toward the tree. “So you might as well come out before I—WOAH!”
All he saw was a flash of white claws pluck Henrik off the ground like a daffodil.
Screams followed. Then another was plucked.
And another. And another. The riderless mounts reared up and brayed, sending the rest of the knights’ horses into a frenzy.
They ran full bore in all directions, creating a cacophony of shouts and stomps and crashing thickets.
The knights tried desperately to steady their mounts, but in Roderick’s experience, when flying beasts were involved, the prey drive simply couldn’t be trained out.
This was no exception. So they’d use it to their advantage.
He peered out of the tree, glancing up to see the source of the silent but deadly knight harvesting, finding Isen coiled high up around a thick tree trunk. When the dragon’s eyes met theirs, he leapt down from the tree, flattening the undergrowth.
“Hop on. I’ll cover us before we take off,” Isen said.
They climbed onto the dragon’s surprisingly sleek body.
His scales were incredibly smooth, like the skin of a seal.
Pearly, curved horns protruded from the back of his neck, cascading down to the base where Roderick sat.
He gave Anya a hand to grasp, then hoisted her behind him.
She immediately seized his waist with a death grip he found himself oddly fond of.
“All set,” Roderick said.
“I hope Yomira sees this,” Isen said. A low rumble vibrated in the dragon’s chest, all the way into Roderick’s bones.
Bone and scale shifted beneath them as Isen stretched out his long neck. A gentle hiss filled the forest—and a thick, white fog billowed from his jaws, shielding them from view.