“I have a better idea,” started the knight, rescuing her. “I’ll just use the Trinity Ring.”
With mixed emotions, Anna watched as the wound disappeared even as another opened in her heart. She’d seen it twice now. The proof could not be denied. Her upset eyes met Rognir’s disappointed gaze, which stung.
Perndara the dragon beamed with pleasure. She’d resumed nightly flights after learning the Ellorian Champions were coming, since pretending she wasn’t here made little sense now. The exercise kept her from feeling imprisoned yet again, this time in the ruin. She had to settle for sticking her head in a waterfall instead of a dip in an ocean or lake like on that other world. Of course she could have gone back through the gate for a while, but…
Never again! she thought.
Standing by the Dragon Gate, she snarled at it before overhearing the sounds of steel on steel. The Ellorians were here! Afire with excitement, she impatiently waited for them to get past those amateurish cult members. Her preparations were in order – both her own and those directed by Nir’lion. She bellowed a small spout of flames to get warmed up but didn’t waste it. The bile that fueled their fire breathing only lasted so long. Days would pass before a full supply built up again.
Soon quiet descended and she waited expectantly for the door to open, but the minutes ticked by. Finally a familiar knocking preceded a cult member timidly entering. Behind him, two others dragged a man with fresh blood staining his leather tunic. They dropped him to his knees and walked out, shutting the door. It seemed that her legion of admirers – or at least, that’s how she chose to think of them – had captured someone, but not a champion, just a mercenary.
The man gazed at her with suitable horror, the ghastly wound in his belly more than just oozing blood. She asked a few questions he seemed too terrified to answer, which was just as well, for she wasn’t much in the mood for conversation herself. She was quite hungry and topped off her recent snack of mountain goat. Her fanged mouth engulfed him and his screams.
There had clearly been a battle, and recently. A rivulet of deep red blood still flowed across the floor from the nearest slain man, whose sightless eyes stared at them as they listened at an archway. Ryan stared just as unseeing, reminded of the lives at stake but surprised to feel little pity. Maybe he was getting used to death, however horrible that seemed, but his distaste for cults likely contributed. He only felt pity on realizing that some of these zealots might not be the ones who coerced others to their vision, but the ones who’d been coerced.
“What do you think happened?” he whispered, putting a comforting hand on Matt, who looked like he was going to throw up.
Rognir’s eyes moved over the bodies. “We’re not the only ones in the castle uninvited,” he observed. The bodies were all human, but two looked like cult members from their matching attire while the rest were mercenaries, each dressed in his own unique fashion.
Lorian retrieved an arrow, noting its craftsmanship. “The fletching style is of Ormund. Cirion is here.”
“How?” Anna asked. “We were supposed to get here first.”
“When we find them,” started Eric, frowning, “we can ask.” Any chance at surprising the cult or dragon had vanished and there was no telling where Cirion’s mercenaries were now.
“Good plan,” Rognir gruffly approved, “except we’d better forget them and head for the dragon immediately.”
“Wait,” said Ryan, “one of them moved.” He indicated which one and Lorian crept forward. The wounded cult member stirred when Lorian touched him but lay unconscious until Rognir healed the man enough to come out of it. Anna pursed her lips.
“What happened here?” Lorian sternly demanded.
His tunic torn and bloody, the young cult member glared back, no love lost for those whose allegiance didn’t lie with dragons. “Why would I tell you that?”
“Because your future is in our hands,” started the elf, “and we’ll be more forgiving of what you’ve done here if you cooperate.”
Sneering, the cult member muttered, “Unlikely. I would show you no mercy.”
“Then how about because I’ll bash your head in if you don’t,” barked Rognir, scowling and raising up his well-used axe.
The man blanched. “We fought intruders, some captured, some killed.”
“Where were the captured taken?” Rognir demanded. “To the dragon?”
“No. Only one. The others went to the dungeon.”
“And which way is that?”
Gesturing with his head, the cult member said, “Back that way.”
“It had better be.” Without warning, the dwarf slammed the butt of his axe into the man’s forehead, knocking him out.
As they were shoved along a crumbling corridor, Cirion failed to hide a look of concern that convinced Nola how grave their situation was this time. They’d been captured on other exploits and gotten out of it, but not with a dragon involved. Taking one on wasn’t why they were here. He suspected the most gravely wounded of their group had been taken to it moments ago and met a gruesome end. The rest were likely headed to a cell, at least for now.
Guards forced him, Nola, Raith, and another survivor down several flights of stairs through increasingly damp areas, the signs of disrepair mounting. Cirion hoped the dungeon locks were poorly kept and easily picked, or the bars were coming loose from the crumbling walls. He’d used that to his advantage before. Few torches lit the way and he suspected they’d be the dungeons’ first inhabitants in a long time, his hopes rising. Unprepared jailors were the easiest to escape from.
Their weapons had been confiscated, but they might have less need of them if just fleeing. Too few of them had survived to reach
