Hex’s walk slowed. Hunter could feel his eyes boring into him.
The smell of old blood was in the air—Delicious.
“Hunter?”
“What?”
“I was saying that the interrogators were close.”
“Not close enough.”
Hex took a hesitant step back.
He knows I’m liable to blow up at him. He can read the frustration on my face. Good; I want him to fear me. I want them all to fear me.
“If the Gnome is not talking of the Rogue Dragons, then the interrogators are not doing their jobs properly. Do they know they are such a disgrace to their queen? Odarth will feast on them.”
“If she ever rises again,” Hex said quietly, but not quietly enough.
“What did you say?” Hunter demanded. He wanted to give Hex the benefit of the doubt before he killed him where he stood. He expected Hex to babble some false nonsense, rather than own up to what he said.
Surprisingly, that wasn’t the case.
Hex repeated, “If she ever does rise again, my lord. The Gnome seems to be a dead end. He is an obvious drunkard; he’s only been without the syrup for less than two nights, but you can already see it in his face. He is pale, his eyes are ringed black and blue as if he’s been punched repeatedly, and his mouth is so dry he can barely pronounce the words he speaks. I mean no disrespect to Odarth or to you, my lord, but what if the Gnome does not know the secrets to raising the Rogue Dragons from the dead? What if it can’t be done?”
Hunter disregarded most of what Hex said, except for one thing.
He brought a hand up to his face and cupped his chin, deep in thought. “Drunkard, you say? Perhaps we can use this to our advantage.”
“Gnomes are secretive bastards. Julian saw this one in Ves Ielan three days past; he’d had enough ale and wine to knock a full-grown Centaur unconscious, yet he spilled no secrets of merit—only things that everyone either already knew or had assumed…things that were not secret at all.” Hex went on, “I say we dispose of the Gnome. What good does wasting the interrogators’ time do us?”
Upon learning this new information about the Gnome, Hunter’s plan formed fully. He knew what his next step was, and it was a good feeling. He hadn’t had such a one since before the first fever dream of Odarth. Ever since then, it had seemed like the dead dragon was the puppetmaster, controlling his—the puppet’s—strings. Now that feeling was gone, thank the Flames!
He reached out and gripped Hex roughly around the shoulders. The young Dragon Tongue’s flesh paled beneath the intricate tattoos on his face. His eyes opened wider, and he gritted his teeth, no doubt expecting death.
But Hunter did not mean to deal death to his second-in-command. Not yet, at least.
“Speaking of the interrogators, Hex… I want you to dispose of them.” Hunter spoke the evil words as casually as someone asking about the weather.
Hex gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “ ‘Dispose of them’, my lord?”
“Yes, they have done us no good; they are practically traitors to the Dragon Tongue. We would be better served shedding them like a dragon sheds the dead skin from its tail. They have had their time, and now we must try something else.”
Hex stared blankly at Hunter. Hunter had never before ordered the killing of one of their own. Both of the cloaked men knew it.
But was it so odd?
No, it wasn’t. Evil was their business, and what was more evil than killing your own soldiers?
“Can you do that for me, Hex? Or will I have to promote someone else in your stead?”
He jerked and jittered, knowing full well what being ‘demoted’ meant.
“No, my lord, of course not. I will…dispose of them. Have no fear. You can count on me. May I ask what your plans are from here?”
“Yes, it’s only right that I tell you, I suppose. No secrets in the Dragon Tongue, is there, Hex?”
Hex shook his head, but his eyes told the truth. That much Hunter could see for himself, budding migraine or otherwise.
“I plan on raiding Ashbourne’s wine cellar and offering a glass to the Gnome in exchange for information. If he is as much a drunkard as you say he is, he will be unable to resist.”
“It’s only been two, going on three, days, my lord. We will have to sweat him out longer than that, don’t you suppose?”
Hunter gripped Hex again, this time a lot less gently than before.
“We don’t have any longer than that—the forces that oppose us have already come. They may be just three or five or however many, but that is just the beginning. Once word reaches the other kingdoms about what we aim to do and how close we are to doing it, an entire army, perhaps more than one, will come knocking at our gates, ready to blast us all to the world in between.”
Hex blanched. “The world in between. I don’t want to go there, my lord. Please—”
Hunter gave him a slight shake. “Then we must hurry, my friend! We must get the information we need before it is too late.”
Hex nodded.
“No worries, Hex,” Hunter said. “The Gnome knows what we need to do. Whatever it is, we will do it, and Odarth shall take to the skies again, her white wings blotting out Oriceran’s twin moons.”
“I hope so. But what if he doesn’t talk?”
Hunter let go of Hex’s shoulders and spun around. A smile was planted firmly on his face. “Oh, he will talk, my friend. He will talk indeed. An addict can never resist his temptation.”
Hunter knew that all too well. For he had devoted his life to the ancient Rogue Dragons of legend; he had become an addict, and now, with the resurrection of Odarth close
