Janel stood. “You can’t leave. The storm outside—”
“I’ll risk it.” He decided not to wait for Star as he dodged around chairs on his way to the exit. The Joratese horseman was exactly where Kihrin had promised to take him: Jorat. He didn’t assume Star’s loyalty ran any deeper than that.
Kihrin retraced his steps through the tunnel. Lanterns hung from the passage rafters, lighting his way back to the stables and the entrance—where a heavy wooden crossbeam stretched across the latched door. It rattled as though a giant stood on the other side, shaking it for entry. When he moved to shift the bar, Scandal whinnied at him. Kihrin didn’t speak fireblood, but the tone suggested something like “You’re not going out in this weather, are you?”
“Sorry, Scandal, but you’re back in Jorat just like I promised. Star can take it from here.” He’d made a mistake coming here. Kihrin should have stayed with Teraeth. He’d then have been blissfully ignorant of the body count attached to his deeds. He’d triggered Hellmarches …
So many people had died. All because he’d figured out a clever way to circumvent the Stone of Shackles’ power in order to kill Gadrith. How could he have known the damn artifact was responsible for binding demons? He’d had no idea.
“Hail to thee, Lawbreaker. Hail to thee, Prince of Swords.” He whispered Xaltorath’s mocking words to himself. He’d done just what Xaltorath had wanted: freed the demons. He’d also slain the emperor. Then he’d reclaimed the sword Urthaenriel, the Ruin of Kings. And according to the Devoran Prophecies, what was in store for the person who accomplished those things? That lucky bastard would go on to destroy the Quuros Empire—and quite possibly the world.
Did it make a difference if Kihrin didn’t want to?9
How many people did he know who’d tried to escape the game of prophecies played by demons, dragons, and gods? Didn’t matter. They ended up involved, anyway. The Eight Immortals had personally dropped Kihrin into this mess in the hope of subverting the prophecies. Yet he wondered if they had really known what they were doing. The demons seemed to be winning.
Hail to thee, Thief of Souls.
He set down his pack and put a shoulder to the crossbeam over the door. The heavy wood groaned before it finally pulled free, and he dropped it to one side.
The moment he opened the latch, the outer door crashed open. The wind howled like a dragon’s roar. Kihrin could only make out silhouettes of the town’s nearby buildings as the storm turned the afternoon into night. But Kihrin didn’t care if the weather was unsafe for man or beast.
He started to step outside.
Started to. Then he heard a ferocious whistling. A massive white blur flew overhead; the shape flipped around and landed with a thunderous boom. Wood from nearby—houses, tents, buildings—cracked and splintered. Stone crushed and scattered.
Lightning outlined the draconic shape before him. It wasn’t Sharanakal, the volcanic dragon who had sought to keep him prisoner. This was a different dragon, white and gray and silver, blue eyes sparkling gemlike.
Staring at him.
Time froze, stretched. He thought, Her eyes are the same color as mine.10 Only afterward would he realize he’d assumed the dragon’s gender. Time snapped forward. The dragon spread her wings wide and pulled her head back. She whipped her head forward as razor-sharp ice shards rushed from her huge mouth in a hurricane-force blast.
He scrambled to shut the opening, but it was a two-person job.
Then Janel stood next to him, grabbing at the door’s edge. She lifted the bar and slammed it down into position as the ice shards hit. The barrier shuddered while Janel leaned against it.
“Your sword!” she shouted. “Pierce your sword through the wood! Nothing can withstand Urthaenriel!”
He unsheathed the dagger at his side, which transformed into a slender white-silver sword.
Urthaenriel screamed in his ears—oh, a siren roar to compete with any storm-tossed tirade. She screamed at him to destroy the woman. Screamed at him to destroy something behind him back in the tavern. Screamed for him to destroy the dragon. Anything magic. Anyone who knew magic. Urthaenriel sang a song of chaos and hated all other voices but her own.
He ignored her.
“Duck!” he shouted at Janel. She did.
He rammed the blade through to the hilt. The wood gave, more like paper than fire-hardened oak. Then something massive slammed against the door. The building shook, and a bellow filled the air.
He pulled Urthaenriel out. Blue-violet blood coated the blade. Ice crystals formed as the liquid dripped to the ground.
“What are we—” Kihrin turned to Janel.
“The dragon’s not done!” Janel grabbed his misha and heaved him away from the door. Janel smashed herself against it, rooting her feet against the paving stones. A howling, hissing noise filled the room. Thick ice layers formed around the portal. The foundation rock cracked and groaned.
Finally, the sound of the wind outside faded.
Janel sank to the wet ground, her breath frosting the air. Kihrin sat down before her, Urthaenriel dangling from one hand. Water dripped nearby. The horses made soothing noises to each other as the firebloods edged forward to investigate.
After a long, weighty silence, Kihrin said, “You could’ve mentioned the dragon was coming to us.”
“Yes…” She exhaled, rubbing a hand against the side of her head. “I would have, except for one small problem.”
“What?”
“That’s the wrong dragon.”
1: THE OUTLAWS OF BARSINE
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since Kihrin D’Mon was sacrificed to Xaltorath
When Kihrin walked back into the tavern, a swell of questions greeted him—or greeted her. The guests wanted answers. What was that noise? Had it scared the horses? Were the horses all right? Had the weather worsened? Did anyone check the horses? Did the firebloods want to join them at the bar?1
That last offer had sounded serious.
“The storm is still too severe to travel,” Janel projected in a loud voice. “Don’t try to leave.”
Kihrin raised an eyebrow but didn’t contradict her. An ice sheet several feet thick now trapped everyone inside. With an angry dragon waiting for them on the other side.
Just your typical night out at a tavern.
There seemed little point in panicking the crowd over something they couldn’t fix. Kihrin doubted he could help either, even with Urthaenriel, but he knew one thing: any dragon-slaying debate had become significantly less debatable.
But if the one outside was the wrong dragon, who was the right dragon?
After everyone returned to their drinks and chatter, Janel wandered back to the Vishai priest. She dumped Kihrin’s bag onto a chair.
“Aeyan’arric’s outside,” she whispered to Brother Qown, “and she’s iced over the tavern’s front door.”
Kihrin sat and stared at his bowl. He wondered how many provisions the tavern had stocked, how long the supplies would last. How would the locals accept rationing, or worse, the food running out?
No. Kihrin had no intention of letting a dragon trap him. And Urthaenriel’s hateful melodies had revealed the presence of powerful magic. Kihrin couldn’t be sure if Urthaenriel was reacting to wizards or to the presence of one or more Cornerstones, but the sword gave him enough of a vague sense of direction to make an educated guess. Urthaenriel wanted Qown dead as much as she wanted to kill the dragon, Janel, or the old woman who kept the horses.