Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,117

planted his feet.

This time, the dragon’s breath didn’t hit as hard nor last as long. When it stopped, Khirro rushed forward, closing distance before his foe recovered. His mind swirled, part of it taking control, part of it wondering what he was doing. If he stayed at a distance, the dragon would wear him down and he wouldn’t be able to counter. At close range, dragon fire was useless. He’d have to contend with tooth and claw, but he could attack.

He caught the dragon by surprise, getting within arm’s length before it reacted. The Mourning Sword struck it in the lower chest, shearing through ruby scales. The dragon jumped back screeching. Khirro glimpsed the opening hidden beneath it—decrepit wooden stairs disappeared into impenetrable darkness and the Gods only knew what lay beyond.

The dragon lunged forward, jaws snapping. Khirro dodged, its warm breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. The Mourning Sword flashed, seeming to act of its own accord, and pierced the dragon’s neck, spilling gray ash from the wound. The beast roared in pain as Khirro swung for its leg but it danced aside, impossibly quick for a creature of its size, and the sword cut empty air.

A huge paw crashed into Khirro’s back, razor sharp talons slashed his flesh and sent him flailing to the ground. The Mourning Sword slipped from his grasp and the old part of him—the coward farmer—flashed panic through his limbs. He fought it, clamored to reach the blade lying in the mud out of his reach. He rolled to his back, teeth grinding against the pain, and pulled his dagger—a needle compared to the dragon. The beast reared, air whistling into its lungs, and Khirro’s dream jumped to mind.

How did it end?

He saw the spark flicker at the back of the dragon’s throat and remembered the fire engulfing him in the dream, but did he survive? He struggled to position the blackened shield over himself so he wouldn’t find out how it turned out.

The ground shook under Khirro’s back but he resisted the urge to look around, see what caused the tremor. The dragon closed its jaws, cocked its head. Another quake, this time accompanied by the sound of stone crashing against stone. The dragon screamed and spit a pillar of fire over Khirro setting the trees behind him ablaze. The noise sounded again; the dragon coiled on its haunches and leaped into the sky, translucent wings spread wide. Talons dragged across Khirro’s chest as it took to the air; its tail lashed, narrowly missed his face.

And it was gone.

Khirro lay on his back, dagger extended, wondering what happened. Elyea appeared at his side, hugging him, the reflection of the fire in the nearby trees shone in the tears streaking her cheeks. She said something, smiled a strained smile, but Khirro didn’t hear, his mind was still occupied with the dragon and the noises emanating from the far side of the keep.

The dragon cried in anger, its howl mixed with another, more guttural noise. Wincing at the pain permeating his whole being, Khirro pushed himself to his feet, leaned on Elyea for balance. He stumbled away from the charred earth and the opening in the ground, unsteady legs carrying him toward the keep. Elyea grasped his hand but he pulled away.

“Khirro.” Shyn rushed to his side. “We have to get into the keep before the dragon returns.”

He shook his head. “You go. I have to see what’s happening.”

The skin on his face felt tight and hot. He could imagine how it must look, hoped he wasn’t burned like Athryn. He retrieved the Mourning Sword and shuffled around the tower. A hand caught him under the arm, steadying him—Shyn at his side.

“Ghaul will get the others down the stairs. I’ll ensure you get there, too.”

Khirro looked at him, too tired to smile, and nodded, then returned his thoughts to keeping his balance. They crept around the keep, the dragon’s shrieks prompting them on. More than one voice snarled and bellowed in answer.

The giants have caught up.

They rounded the curve of the keep and saw boulders strewn near the foot of the wall, rubble chipped from the tower scattered amongst them. Three giants—two males wearing bearskin loincloths and the female they’d encountered before—hurled stones at the dragon held aloft above them, the mighty sweep of its wings stirring the trees like a tornado’s wind. The dragon’s head cocked back and the tiny spark lit the depths of its throat. The giants shouted