Her gaze returned to his playfully. “Someone who doesn’t like witnesses,” she purred.
Before he had a chance to understand what she meant, his head flew from his neck, a bemused smile still on his face. It was still rolling across the ground when she went for the nearest man, who stared stupidly at the long, gleaming nails dripping with Lucion’s blood. She raked open his belly, shoving a hand inside to pull out organs that she bit into with delight, dark blood spurting across her face. As he collapsed beside the fire, the others fumbled for weapons and the woman spoke a strange word.
Her appearance morphed and grew as they watched in awe, golden scales reflecting the firelight as two enormous, leathery wings blotted out the dark sky. A sinuous neck lifted her giant head into the night, two baleful eyes glaring down on them with lust. Four thick legs and feet ending in talons supported a huge golden body that no normal weapon could pierce. She took her time, snapping up the next man in her fanged mouth and cracking him in half. She hadn’t tasted such warm blood in years and relished it like wine. The last man turned for the woods, but her barbed tail snaked out to impale him where he stood, holding him aloft. The dragon chewed slowly as if savoring every morsel, her forked tongue licking her lips as she gulped them down.
Her jaws weren’t the only ones agape, for out in the bushes knelt a staring Rogin, horror riveting him to the spot. As he watched, the golden dragon lifted into the night air with a powerful leap and thrusts of leathery wings, scattering embers across the clearing. Then she sucked in a great breath and blasted fire down on the evidence, setting the forest ablaze so that Rogin crept away on his hands and knees, his back awash in heat. With a snap of her wings, the dragon turned and soared away to Castle Darlonon, where she rose into the sky and then plunged down inside to disappear.
And Rogin ran. He ran as far down the road toward Olliana as his legs would carry him, finally collapsing before a startled farmer, tales of dragons, fire, and death pouring from his mouth. At first no one believed him, but soon lights appeared in the ruined castle at night and ogres trolled the woods, chased from the peaks by mercenaries at Darlonon. Just the one dragon had been seen, but the others couldn’t be far behind now that the Dragon Gate stood open. Someone had to close it, but only the long-missing champions could.
Chapter 1 – RenFest
With thundering hooves, the golden knight’s steed charged, lance aimed left toward the tilt separating him from his quarry. A dummy on a pole held forth a small metal ring for him to pluck free, and with a clink it slid down the shaft as the crowd politely cheered. He lifted the prize aloft, cantering around the stadium to a smattering of clapping. He wasn’t what they really wanted and he knew it, cheers turning to jeers in his mind. As more knights thundered in and the crowd roared for the main event, he left the small arena, unable to watch the other knights charge each other. But he heard the battle screams, the cracks of lances shattering on plate armor, the clatter of plate armor as men crashed to the ground.
Sighing, he dismounted and pulled off the blue-plumed helmet, his feathered blond hair hiding the ear buds that were wirelessly tethered to the smartphone tucked inside his armor. Any signs of modern technology were strictly forbidden at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, or “RenFest,” as the locals called it. It ruined the illusion of the time period. Like all performers, he was supposed to show bewilderment when guests pulled out a camera. It was as if the whole faire, population included, had been transplanted from Medieval times and was unaware it wasn’t somewhere in England around the 1500s.
Ryan led the white gelding to the stables, feigning smiles at young, busty women trying to get his attention, their pushed-up bosoms tempting his blue eyes. Being tall, handsome, and muscular readily attracted women, even without the costume, and pretending to be a hero got him more attention. If they knew the truth about him, they’d look the other way.
As he pulled the saddle off, a familiar figure arrived beside him. Eric Foster stood dressed for his role as a jester at RenFest, wearing a parti-colored jumpsuit of red and blue, a matching three-pronged hat, and pointed shoes, all with bells. He looked ridiculous and had to be almost as uncomfortable as Ryan in the brutal August heat.
“How’d the joust go?” Eric asked, taking off the hat to wipe sweat from soaked, black hair. “When are you gonna move on to the real thing?”
“When I’m ready.”
“Why aren’t you ready now? You’re better than the others at that ring thing you just did. I’d think that makes it easier to hit bigger targets like them.”
“Can’t argue that.”
After an awkward pause, Eric asked, “Worried about getting hurt?”
Ryan opened his mouth to say no but realized it was close enough to the truth. “Sort of. People getting hurt comes with the territory.”
Taking a sip of water, Eric observed, “You always seem to avoid contact sports. I’m still surprised you weren’t on the football team in school. It’s not that big a deal, you know. I get hit every day. You get used to it.”
“It’s not me I’m really worried about,” the big man confessed, wincing as someone un-horsed a knight in the stadium. He realized his answer wasn’t entirely true. He’d seen his brother paralyzed for
