Born of Dragons. Морган Райс

and saw three robed figures far above. It seemed that Void, Wrath, and Verdant had worked out what he’d done, which meant he needed to run.

      He ran, plunging toward the fields, and around him, the landscape seemed to explode with danger. A tree twisted its branches toward him, and Renard barely stepped out of the way in time. A rock became razor-sharp fragments, forcing him to throw himself flat. He got up and kept running.

      He leapt over a low stone wall and ran through the fields, darting this way and that, keeping low and hoping that the dark secrets that infused the Hidden only had a limited range. Looking back, he thought that the crops had obscured their view of him, but Renard knew better than to stop. He had enough experience of running away in his life to know that didn’t mean anything.

      He kept going, and now he found a stream that was wide, and muddy, and probably waist deep. Beyond it, there was open ground with only a scattering of cover, trees and bushes. A man like Renard might be able to hide there, but for how long? There had to be a better way. Looking at the river, Renard thought that he could see one, but what if—

      “We’ll find you!” Wrath roared somewhere behind him. “And then I’ll melt the eyes from your skull!”

      His mind made up, Renard took a breath, plunged into the murky waters, and crouched at the bottom.

      Instantly, the silty waters hid the world above from view except as faint shadows. The water was cold, rushing around him at speed, but Renard stayed where he was, not daring to move as three figures appeared on the banks above. Echoes of their voices filtered down to him.

      “…way he went?” Wrath demanded, his angry red mask visible for all to see.

      “We will find him,” Verdant said in that melodic voice she had. She called out. “Come out, Renard, dear. Come and play!”

      There was something about the tone of that voice that made Renard’s limbs want to react on their own. He had to fight to keep them in place, and he had to fight more than that, too. His lungs were starting to tell him that it was time to come up for air, but if he did that, he would pop up right in front of the Hidden. The terror of what might happen then kept his head below the water.

      How much longer he could do it without drowning, though… Renard’s lungs were starting to burn, while above him, Void was looking around, more frightening with his blank mask than the others put together.

      “Keep going,” he said. “Find him. Find the artifact.”

      Above Renard, Verdant stepped up to the bank. Branches and vines stretched out over the water, forming a living bridge that creaked and twisted as the three of them stepped across, continuing their chase.

      Even when they passed out of sight, Renard left it as long as he could before he came up for air. He left it until blackness pressed in on the edges of his sight, because every second he waited was another that his pursuers were moving away from him.

      Finally, he could take it no more, and broke the surface, gasping.

      “Damn it,” he said to himself. “Damn them all!”

      He held up the amulet, its octagonal form containing a dragon scale, surrounded by runes and gems of different colors. It was what they wanted, but Renard knew that he couldn’t give something so powerful to people like that. Nor could he just hold onto it, not when he could feel it leeching at his life, bit by tiny bit.

      What he really needed was a sorcerer of some kind to tell him what to do with it, but Renard didn’t know any of those. He had no experience with magical amulets, no experience with dragons or words that could twist the world, or any of this strangeness. Thankfully though, he did have plenty of experience with stolen goods.

      He knew exactly where to get rid of those.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      By the time Vars stalked into the great hall, it was already full to its stone-lined walls with people. There were so many there that the large squares of carpet that normally divided them up by rank had given way to only a general approximation. The nobles were there, and the leaders of the Houses of Merchants, Weapons, Scholars, and even Sighs. The doors at the far end were open, letting even more listen in, and setting the banners around the walls to flapping.

      Almost as much as their mouths. Vars had never liked the hubbub of the court, and now, with so many voices talking at once it was all the more irritating for it.

      “We must maintain a watch on the Slate,” a minor noble said.

      “Why?” a knight shot back. “In case Ravin manages to build more bridges while we aren’t looking?”

      “Exactly,” the first man said, apparently oblivious to his own stupidity.

      “What we need is coordination between ourselves and your personal forces,” Commander Harr said. The commander of the Knights of the Spur stood there in full armor, gray beard halfway down his breastplate so that Vars found himself wondering if the man even slept in it. “We must leave no gaps in our defenses.”

      “Meaning that we must shoulder the cost of this?” the leader of the House of Merchants asked, standing there in so many gold chains that just one of them could probably have funded the war.

      “We must study what is happening,” the leader of the scholars said, severe in his dark robes and shaven head.

      “We must up production,” the representative of the House of Weapons added.

      At least the woman from the House of Sighs was quiet, seeming content to watch what was happening. Vars had no use for the opinion of a mere courtesan.

      Vars stood in the shadow of the throne, listening to them go on, waiting for one of them to notice his presence. Seconds ticked by as they continued to bicker among one another, some saying that they should hold in place, others that they should advance. Beyond that, there seemed to be no agreement, with every faction having its own would-be strategists, its own ideas of what troops should go where, and how, and who should pay.

      He could feel his anger building inside him, washing over even the fear of so many people standing in front of him. He stepped around to the throne, setting himself before it very deliberately.

      “Silence!” he yelled. Even then, only some of them fell quiet. “If there is not silence here, I will see this hall cleared by the guards!”

      Now there was quiet. In it, all of them stared at him. The anxiety that brought to Vars only made him feel worse. All those eyes staring at him only made him feel small, vulnerable, and Vars hated that.

      “I am king now!” he bellowed, in defiance of those stares. “You’re all talking as if you’re deciding what to do about the invasion, but I will decide!”

      “Your highness,” a count said, stepping forward. “With respect, this is a decision that affects the entire kingdom, and your father still lives. It is important that all of those affected should have a say.”

      Vars glared at the man. “Really? And would you ask the peasants who work your land what they think?”

      That seemed to take the man aback. “Your highness, we nobles are not peasants. Our position compared to yours is not as theirs is to us.”

      “A king is addressed as your majesty,” Vars snapped back at him.

      “But you are the king’s regent, your highness,” said another noble, whom Vars recognized as the Marquis of the Underlands. “While we must respect any decision made in this regard, it is also true that you have the position only as next in line to the throne. No final decision has been made.”

      “No final decision about what?” Vars demanded. He could feel control of this slipping away from him.

      “About whether you will be king,” the marquis replied.

      Vars wanted to have the man beheaded for that, wanted to walk down there and strangle the man with his bare hands. Except… the marquis was a big man, and Vars could feel the fear rising in him, holding him in place, refusing to let him do any of the things that he so