Minstrel's Serenade. Aubrie Dionne

didn’t think she’d look back. She shouldn’t.

      Bron couldn’t break her gaze. He had to make sure Danika entered the cottage safely. Besides, looking away would reveal too much. He nodded slightly, as if he’d meant for her to catch him staring. Danika tore her gaze away and disappeared inside.

      He exhaled slowly, calming his nerves. The minstrels’ music taunted him, reminding him of the circus he’d visited with his brother, Hule, on Festival Day. The jesters had leered at him, the bells on their three-pointed hats tinkling as they danced and pounded on drums. They made everything in life a mockery, and their disrespect churned his stomach. The Man of Muscles had earned his admiration. He’d lifted a wheel barrel holding two goats over his head. Bron had wanted to be that man, and here he stood now, guarding a princess as the Chief of Arms.

      If only he hadn’t failed her. The memory of the battlefield left a scar on his heart far greater than the one on his right cheek. The deep tones of a bass lute mirrored his regret. Bron pushed the uncomfortable memories from his thoughts, refusing to play into the song’s desperate notes. Music played slippery tricks on his mind, whereas steel made an honest and clean cut. No, this time he wouldn’t fail, even if it meant protecting her from himself. Bron smoothed his fingers over the pummel of his claymore, the golden etching hard underneath his callouses like a forgotten language. He skimmed the night and slipped into the cottage without a sound.

      Nip sat upright in bed, straight as a broomstick. He hadn’t even unlaced his boots.

      “Cannot sleep?”

      “I want to see it.” Nip locked on his eyes, his small mouth set tight.

      Bron still reeled from the encounter outside. He collapsed on the cot and pulled off a boot, massaging the sole of his foot. “See what?”

      “The wyvern snout. The one you killed.”

      The warrior paused and rubbed a hand over his shaved head. Tiny prickles of hair dusted the skin, and he needed time with his dagger and a bowl of water. But the lad seemed determined.

      “Won’t it give you nightmares?”

      “I already have ’em.” Nip stood and smoothed over his soot-stained tunic. “It’ll make ’em go away.”

      “It’s not a pretty thing, child.”

      Nip’s voice rose and he stomped his foot. “I’m not a child. Not anymore.”

      Bron raised an eyebrow. Surviving the scene that morning would make a man out of a duckling. The boy had a point. But to lay eyes on the dead beast’s head so soon after the attack?

      “It’s late. How about we take a look in the morning?”

      Nip swallowed. “I have to see with my own eyes what killed my parents.” His chin trembled.

      Bron scanned him from the ratty hair on his head to his scuffed boots. Did a hint of warrior shine in those sky blue eyes?

      “Troubadir was right about one thing. You are brave.” Bron pulled his boot back on. “Come. Let’s meet this beast eye to eye.”

      They skirted the House of Song, careful not to make a sound. Clinking chimes covered their footsteps. The minstrels’ music had taken an introspective turn, and a sprinkle of minimalistic notes drifted over droning chords. The denizens had snuffed out most of their golden lights, and the moon lighted the path.

      The carriage lay where he’d left it, parked next to the gates of the village. Bron reached down and fingered the tarp covering his latest conquest. The fabric still emanated heat, warming his fingertips in the cool mist. Bron shot a glance at the boy. Nip nodded in determination. The warrior tugged and the tarp slipped off.

      A snout three times bigger than a dog’s and littered with ivory white teeth snarled out from the carriage’s backside. Onyx eyes glared in the moonlight, defying death. Two horns spiraled backward from a ridge of fin-like protrusions.

      Nip froze as sulfurous steam from the beast’s mouth pooled around his boots. It would take days for the head to cool and the smoke to dissipate.

      The stark fear in his expression reminded Bron of himself as a boy. His brother had paid a shiny copper for each of them to look upon a caged harpy. Walking to the curtained bars, he could still remember the musky scent and hear the squeaking of its claws on the planks. At ten, he’d needed Hule’s cajoling to get him to open his eyes. When he did, the black-feathered beast seemed more prey than predator. Ever since that day, he knew fear lay in anticipation.

      Bron nudged the boy forward gently as a clammy tang, like old seaweed drying in the sun for too long, wafted up. “Don’t be afraid.”

      “Burrow’s Bucket! It stinks.” Nip covered his mouth with his sleeve.

      Bron shook his head. “Remember that smell. Get used to it. ’Tis the reek of death.”

      Blue-black blood trickled from thorny whiskers, sizzling a hole in the grass. Nip reached out, his fingers brushing over the oily scales. He shuddered, managing to uphold his stance. A scale the size of his hand stuck out from the weave and the boy yanked it off. Bron caught him as he fell backward.

      Nip jumped from his arms and stood on his own. He ran his fingertips over the smooth seashell-like surface of the scale as if touching the feather of a god. Stepping back into the shadows, Bron allowed him time to think, to mourn.

      “I promise, Ma and Pa, to right this wrong.” The boy’s eyes watered, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. His face grew fierce as he held the scale above his head, challenging the night. “Vengeance is mine.”

      Chapter 4

      Break of Dawn

      Golden sunlight direct from the heavens refracted within a chain of silver armor. Each soldier gleamed like a Knights and Wizards game-piece polished to perfection. Danika observed the processional from her balcony, waving her mother’s satin scarf in the breeze in tribute. Her father wouldn’t approve of her using anything from her mother’s untouched room, never mind the fine scarf he’d given the former queen as a token of his undying love. But, it seemed wasteful to let such finery collect dust. Besides, it was all she had of her mother. The former queen had left her with little else. Now, she might lose her father, too. Watery melancholy and deep angst bled together in her heart, creating a whirlpool of anxiety. Why couldn’t he stay on his throne?

      She knew him too well to plead. If the dead army of Sill breached their northern expanses, only fields separated the insidious evil from blighting their lands. This mission ranked too high to trust with his generals, and he never watched the action from afar.

      King Artemus led the army on his ebony war stallion, flanked by flag holders on either side. Behind him, Bron rode a dove-white charger. A gilded helmet covered his bald head, but Danika recognized the width of his shoulders and the swell of the armor fitted to his muscles. At least Bron would keep him safe.

      A nagging concern pressed on her chest, squeezing out her breath. Her fingertips loosened and the scarf fluttered away in the wind. Hadn’t this scene happened before? A memory of her father’s bluewood coffin draped in Ebonvale’s violet-and-green pennants drifted through her mind.

      “No.”

      Her attendants shrieked as she pushed herself through the back row and plunged down the stairs in the tower. Her heel caught on the rug and she kicked off her beaded sandal, sprinting three steps at a time.

      “My lady, wait! Come back!” Muriel, her lady-in-waiting, screamed just as Danika flung open the door and met the crowd.

      A pang of guilt rolled through her. Muriel was like a sister and to leave her worrying was cruel. Yet, she had to stop her father before he made the mistake that would cost him his life.

      People crowded around her, tugging on her lacy clothes.

      She pushed through the throng of onlookers. “Let me through!”