Dragon Slayer by Lauren Gilley

Author:Lauren Gilley [Gilley, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HP Press
Published: 2019-04-29T18:30:00+00:00

~*~

Returning to Edirne didn’t feel like a homecoming – his heart didn’t fill with gladness, because this was the place where he lived, but not his home – but Val relaxed when he was within the familiar palace walls again. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed again, and not to march constantly, forever saddle-sore and covered in road dust.

It was morning, bitterly cold, steam rising off the thick crust of frost that coated the grass. Val wore his hair loose to cover his ears, a thick, dark brown fur made of bear pelt wrapped around his shoulders and neck. He felt well-rested and energized today; Mehmet had been paying visits to his wives since their return, taking them gifts, fulfilling his husbandly duties toward producing an heir. It had given Val time to himself, dinners eaten alone, long, uninterrupted baths; a bit of reading by candlelight before bed. Sleeping, blessed, all by his lonesome, stretching out his arms and legs to the far reaches of the mattress.

Today, he was to supervise a new batch of young janissaries, singling out the ones best suited for Mehmet’s personal corps of guards. Mehmet would of course have the final say-so, but Val felt something like pride to have been given this responsibility.

He felt pride where he could.

“Gentlemen,” he called as he paced along behind the tidy row of potential recruits. “Today you will demonstrate your proficiency with the bow, with the spear, and with the sword. You will–”

“A moment, your grace!” Grand Vizier Halil Pasha’s wheedling voice called across the practice grounds, and Val bit back an unhappy sound.

He turned to meet the man’s approach, already frowning, and froze.

Wolf.

He smelled a wolf.

The Grand Vizier walked toward him with his usual short strides, his gait impeded by the length, thickness, and weight of embroidery on his kaftan and overcoat. Behind him marched a line of able-bodied young janissary recruits.

Once, they’d belonged to the far reaches of the world. Val spotted black skin, and brown. The almond eyes of the Orient, and round blue eyes. Hair a finer gold than his own.

One of them was a wolf.

He took a deep breath, to be sure, and, yes, he was positive. There was no concealing the distinctive musk of a werewolf, even when he walked on two legs instead of four. He picked him out of the line: a clean-shaven boy with pale skin and dark hair, slighter of build than some of the others, but that would make no difference on the battlefield. Wolves were ungodly strong.

Halil Pasha finally drew to a halt in front of Val, puffing and red-faced from his walk through the cold. “These recruits are to be considered for the sultan’s private guard,” he said, motioning toward them with a limp hand. He pressed the fingers to the base of his throat afterward, over his visibly fluttering pulse. “Test them with the others.”

Val’s fangs elongated a fraction in his mouth. With Halil Pasha, the honorific “your grace” was used sparingly, only when absolutely necessary.

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