his desire to grab the hellyll back. “I am Lugh of the Long Hand, bearer of Areadhbar, hellyll of the lost Hinter Hills, and defender of Arendig Fawr. Richard McAllister speaks true. The destruction of Tal Ebolyon is at hand. To have ignored the letter from the Queen was to ignore your own safety.”
“In no way will my kind take suggestions or accept criticisms from a spear wielder,” Latobius spat the last as a curse, shaking his head.
“I—” Lugh began.
“Saethmoor,” Latobius commanded, waving them away.
Before the charcoal dragon could guide them away, Lugh slammed the butt of his spear against the grassy carpet. The golden point of Areadbhar glowed pristine white even under the sunshine, drawing all attention to him.
The dragons sitting upon the stone blocks growled low.
Tension filled the air.
“We mean you no disrespect or harm, Lord Latobius,” Richard said, glaring at Lugh to stay his hand. “The Morrigan has need of your might in this trying time.”
“Such spears have killed many of my kin,” Latobius said, ignoring Richard.
“But not by my hand,” Lugh argued.
“By steady hands possessed of ill wills,” the dragonsire hissed. “Murderers. Perjurers. We dragons have long memories…long memories.”
“How did your son come to this, Lord Latobius?” Richard questioned, changing the course of the conversation in hope of having any chance of success.
“Something flying, some evil from the lowlands,” Latobius replied, still massaging the head of the enormous beast. “Tearing claws, a swarm of some bird unknown. His brothers found him struggling to regain the heights of Tal Ebolyon days hence. The Fynach work hard…”
“I know how this happened,” Richard said. “But more importantly who did this.”
For the first time, Latobius looked up. Eyes as black as coal fixed on the knight and the anger mirrored there simmered in depths grown deep from centuries of life and sorrow survived. It was all Richard could do to not look away.
“Who?”
“Philip Plantagent of Caer Llion.”
Latobius nodded almost imperceptibly.
“How?”
“Caer Llion has bred halfbreeds of terror in a war he plans against the whole of Annwn. By the multitudes, half-eagle and fey-cat beasts are rampaging across the countryside and skies, killing livestock, Tuatha—whatever they can. It is clear Philip plans to weaken your allies while strengthening his campaign. He will stop at nothing until the breadth of Annwn is under his total control, including the Snowdon and Tal Ebolyon. The Morrigan gathers the remaining lords of the Seelie Court one last time to defend your right to exist. It is for this reason I have traveled to these high reaches, to ask your help in the conflict to come.”
“The letter again, is it not?”
“The letter.”
“My answer is the same. Maethyn, who oversees the laws we live by, and Nael, who guards those laws, both agree. The dragons of Tal Ebolyon cannot invest in a war that will undoubtedly kill more of my children.”
“The letter arrived before this tragedy, my Lord,” Richard pointed out. “I do not wish to see any more of your precious kin ravaged in this way. But Caer Llion comes and will not stop until all is under his rule and dominion, including Tal Ebolyon. Is it not better to fight alongside the many rather than alone with few?”
“Dragonsire,” Maethyn whispered. “It is a difficult decision.”
“Perhaps we ought to revisit our earlier decision,” Saethmoor added. “This is not as clear as it once was. Not after the halfbreed attack.”
“First Son, do not ask this of me,” Latobius said, his mien tortured. “To lose any of ye would kill me as any spear.”
“What happened to the son in your arms will happen to you,” Richard said pointedly.
“He speaks a certain truth, Dragonsire,” Saethmoor said.
“Enough!” Latobius thundered. “I will not tolerate it!”
“Retribution for this grievous assault must be considered,” Richard pressed.
“Do ye not think I want vengeance?” Latobius said, gesturing to the damage done by the griffins. “For this? I want it more than anything. Anything!”
“Then bring your might, rejoin the Seelie Court.”
“I will not. Cannot! The risk is far too great, I say!”
“My lord, you must,” Richard insisted.
Anger flooding his eyes, Latobius gently put the head of his son down on the soft grass. Standing, his thin form immediately shimmered. The body of the lord expanded and elongated as it gained height, his skin developing scales, limbs growing longer and ending in razor-like claws. Clothes became leather wings, scarred with ancient healed rents. In a matter of moments, the fey lord had transformed into a dragon as formidable as any Richard could imagine.
The eyes of Latobius burned into