To Dream With the Dragons by B. V. Larson

Author:B. V. Larson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: B. V. Larson
Published: 2015-03-25T00:00:00+00:00

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How did one dress for dinner with a dragon? Gruum asked himself. He pondered salting and buttering his tough flesh, then thought the better of it and donned a leather cuirass studded with burnished iron rivets. He added tough boots of sharkskin and a simple cap of steel. He considered a chain shirt, but decided it was best to make as little noise and be as fleet of foot as possible when bearding dragons in their personal lairs. For weapons, he wore a brace of throwing knives, each light and carefully balanced. Strapped over his back in the manner of his people was his heavy saber of hammered steel. On his belt was his broad-bladed dagger forged and drawn into the shape of an elongated leaf.

Arriving at the King’s chambers, he was vaguely surprised to find Therian wearing a light chainmail shirt, a silvered helm and bearing Seeker and Succor. Today the King seemed to have strength in his limbs, perhaps greater than the natural strength of a young man. There was color in his face, and his movements were sure and quick.

Gruum could not help but look past the King into his private chambers as they exited. Eyeing the basalt altar before the servants could push shut the great doors, Gruum thought to see the pathetic, furry hulk of an eviscerated beast sprawled upon it.

Gruum suppressed a shudder, and averted his eyes from the corpse. What was it? An ape, perhaps? It was difficult to say. Gruum decided it was best not to ask. At least, he told himself, it was not a man.

Gruum discovered Therian studying him. Gruum returned the gaze evenly.

After a moment, Therian nodded. “You are prepared?”

“As best I can be.”

“Come.”

Therian led him to the foot of the highest of Corium’s silver towers. Gruum bit back his questions. The sorcerer would only snarl or laugh at him, and he cared for neither.

A hundred sets of stairs, totaling a thousand curved, steep, stone steps, left Gruum in a lathered sweat. His sides heaved like an abused beast of burden. Therian, however, seemed tireless. Ever did his master’s long legs flee away from him with rapid, steady strides.

All through the climb, he and Therian said nothing. Gruum was determined to ask no questions. He would not speak first, not even if his Lord marched to the top of this accursed tower and threw himself from the cupola. Not a word would he speak. He let himself become stubbornly focused on this vague, half-imagined contest of wills, and it became something that kept him going.

When at long last they reached the highest watch chamber, directly beneath the conical, silvered roof itself, Gruum staggered and doubled over, hugging the tower walls. Therian paced the tower unconcernedly. His sides did not heave. His breath didn’t blow out in great white puffs. There was good color in his cheeks, but they weren’t flushed and glistening. The strength of the sacrificed creature upon the altar far below still flowed through his body. Gruum

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