Rhiana. Michele Hauf

so ferocious now, is she?”

      “Look here at the tail,” Gerard Coupe-Gorge said. “I could make myself an ax with this odd dagged scale. That would bash nicely through enemy skull.”

      Why the man remained in St. Rénan, when he lusted so mightily for blood, was beyond Narcisse’s reckoning. But he would endeavor to keep Gerard in his lists, and not make an enemy of him.

      Tracing his spread fingers over the belly, Narcisse turned his back to keep his motions covert. He drew away his hand and studied it beneath a hunched tent of his duster. Upon his palm glittered a thick coating of the finest substance. Dragon dust. A rare treasure in this village that thrived so magnificently. None were aware of its value.

      Smearing his palm over cheek and nose, Narcisse inhaled deeply of the God-forsaken dust. He could not determine potency, did not feel anything. It had no taste whatsoever. He tested now. No, just a bit of saltiness he evidenced from his own flesh.

      “A great loss.” He knelt back on his haunches and scanned the beast’s body. If it sat at the bottom of the steps for more than a day it would begin to rot and stink. The flesh could be eaten. The scales could be used in some manner. The tusks and talons could be fashioned into cups and dagger sheaths and be drenched in gold.

      “Was it the wench who thinks herself a slayer?” Thinks—hell, she had slain. Narcisse knew of no knight in the garrison so bold. Save, Gerard.

      “Indeed, my lord,” Champrey answered. “The demoiselle Tassot. Two dragons attacked the city this afternoon while you feasted. They swooped from the sky and right into the courtyard. The first dragon snapped one of our court musicians up. This one…well, you see.”

      “I do see.” Narcisse tapped the belly, wincing at the loss this would cause him. His quest had been detoured. He muttered lowly, “And the wench took it down.”

      “Many witnesses recall, with great theatrics, watching her run up the beast’s skull to plunge her sword into its brain as if St. George himself.”

      Witnesses declaring her triumph? Narcisse smirked. So she had developed a following. “Impressive. The people revere her now?”

      “In a manner. They are not sure what to think of a woman so bold. But we have always known she is different.”

      “Yes, different.”

      “And powerful.”

      “Powerful?” Narcisse must suppose she was strong to have accomplished something like this. He had watched her grow from a dirty-faced child ever in trouble and being teased, to an independent young woman who would rather go off on her own then do as normal females did. She was…untamed.

      A bit like Anne. Beguiling.

      And she had slain two dragons in a single day. The woman must think herself quite the swagger.

      “But there are more?” Narcisse stood and thinking to wipe off the dust, could only hold his hand by the wrist. The precious commodity must be preserved.

      “The Tassot woman insisted she had slain one earlier by the sea, but my scouts report no evidence. The runner tells there is but the one that got away with the musician, my lord.”

      Champrey would never speak the runner’s name, they both knew he was able, swift, and devoted to Narcisse. If gold could not buy one’s allies then promises to portions of land could.

      “Just the one then?”

      “He claims it. It is quite extraordinary, for that means—” Champrey tallied on his fingers “—there were three.”

      “Many more than we’ve seen at one time.” If he had known sooner the riches that nested so close, Narcisse would have sent out half the garrison to the caves. As it was, he could still take advantage of the situation.

      One remaining? That was all he needed.

      “We cannot allow this woman to persist with her delusions,” Narcisse stated firmly. He must be careful with a situation such as this. Champrey, while his right-hand man, did not always agree with his politics. “She could…harm herself.”

      “She is quite skilled, as proof is evident, my lord.”

      Narcisse coached the tic tugging at the corner of his mouth to remain still. If there was another dragon, it could be his only chance for a continued supply. Small hope. But one, it seemed, he would be forced to cling to.

      “Oh!”

      All eyes looked up to the castle door. Looking frail in winter-white damask, Anne stood, her dark hair spilling down to her waist. The rain did not reach her beneath the arch of the doorway. Hands pressed to her mouth, wide eyes screamed what her voice could not manage.

      “Bring her inside!” Narcisse ordered.

      One of his knights responded, rushing up the steps, clinking mail and sword sheath punctuating his urgency.

      “It is dead!” Anne shouted. “But you cannot— Oh!”

      Her body wilted to a faint. The knight landed the top stair. He lunged to capture her about the waist before her head hit stone. “I have her, my lord!”

      “Careful, Gerard. Watch her head. Bring her to the solar.”

      Regret twanged at Narcisse profoundly.

      He knew Anne’s affinity for the dragons. She, well…she related to them in a manner he could not fathom. Every evening at matins she said prayers for them, and then received a blessing of holy water. Without her blessing she could not sleep, and would roam beside the bed—for the chain kept her close—until the morning hours found her literally slumped on the cold stone floor. She pined to go to the caves. Always she spoke of the nest below her bed—for the caves wended about beneath St. Rénan. But there were no nests below. Narcisse knew not even a small dragon could permeate the narrow caves, but Anne refused to believe.

      She should not have witnessed this spectacle. It was all the Tassot wench’s fault.

      Bending and pressing both hands to the dragon’s tumescent belly, Narcisse gave orders. “Drag it to the kitchen entrance. We shall feast heartily for days. Preserve the skull, the talons and the scales.”

      “Very good, my lord.” Champrey signaled to his men to man the ropes tied about the dragon’s legs and head. “As for the slayer? Do you wish to have a word with her?”

      Straightening, and for the first time noticing his hair was wet for the fallen hood, Narcisse sneezed. Wretched rain. “Can she be brought to me posthaste?”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      Rhiana ran home and quickly changed to braies and a plain woolen tunic and boots. She strapped her talon dagger at her hip and then returned to the armory to don the scaled armor.

      The sky darkened early this eve, for she tasted rain in the air. She left St. Rénan through the door guarded by Rudolph while the knights inside the castle ate the evening meal and, at the same time, groped a voluptuous wench.

      It took but half an hour, her strides sure and swift, to broach the top of the mountain that capped the caves. Four megaliths marked the grounds as if a king’s crown. Keeping to the purlieu of the forest, she marked a spot beneath a massive twisting beech tree. Sending her companion to flight with a nod, she watched as the pisky flitted toward the cave opening. Sitting, she then propped her crossbow over her wrist, she closed her eyes to listen. For a heartbeat.

      For challenge.

      There, within the depths, beneath the earth and stone and centuries of vegetation fluttered the heartbeat. Heartbeats. Focusing, she picked out more than one, for each one was unique as a name or color.

      Seven. That is how many heartbeats she counted. But she could not be sure, for some dragons might have burrowed deep into the labyrinth of caves below her resting place.

      Mon