Heart Of The Dragon. Gena Showalter
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win. “Eight gold drachmas on Brand,” Grayley proclaimed.
“Ten on Tagart,” Brittan shouted.
“Twenty if they both kill each other,” Zaeven called excitedly.
“Enough,” Darius said, his tone even, controlled.
The two combatants jumped apart as if he’d screamed the command, both panting and facing each other like penned animals, ready to attack again at any moment.
“Sit,” Darius said in that same easy tone.
Rather than obey this time, they growled gut-turally at each other. Not so the rest. They sat. While they might wish to continue cheering and taking bets, Darius was their leader, their king, and they knew better than to defy him.
“I did not exclude you from the command,” he said to Tagart and Brand, adding only slightly to his volume. “You will calm yourselves and sit.”
Both men leveled narrowed gazes on him. He arched a harsh brow and motioned with his fingers a gesture that clearly said, “Come and get me. Just don’t expect to live afterward.”
Minutes passed in suspended silence until finally, the panting warriors assumed human form. Their wings recoiled, tucking tightly into the slits on their backs; their scales faded, leaving naked skin. Because Darius kept spare clothing in each room of the palace, they were able to grab a pair of pants from the wall hooks. Partially dressed now, they righted their chairs and eased down.
“I will not have discord in my palace,” Darius told them.
Brand wiped the blood from his cheek and flicked Tagart a narrowed glare. In return, Tagart bared his sharp teeth and released a cutting growl.
They were already on the verge of morphing again, Darius realized.
He worked a finger over his stubbled chin. Never had he been more thankful that he was a man of great patience, yet never had he been more displeased with the system he had fashioned. His dragons were divided into four units. One unit patrolled the Outer City, while another patrolled the Inner. The third was allowed to roam free, pleasuring women, losing themselves in wine or whatever other vice they desired. The last had to stay here, training. Every four weeks, the units rotated.
These men had been here two days—a mere two days—and already they were restless. If he did not think of something to distract them, they might very well kill each other before their required time elapsed.
“What think you of a tournament of sword skill?” he asked determinedly.
Indifferent, some men shrugged. A few moaned, “Not again.”
“No,” Renard said with a shake of his dark head, “you always win. And besides that, there is no prize.”
“What would you like to do, then?”
“Women,” one of the men shouted. “Bring us some women.”
Darius frowned. “You know I do not allow females inside the palace. They pose too much of a distraction, causing too many hostilities between you. And not the easy hostilities of a few moments ago.”
Regretful groans greeted his words.
“I have an idea.” Brand faced him, a slow smile curling his lips, eclipsing all other emotions. “Allow me to propose a new contest. Not of physical strength, but one of cunning and wits.”
Instantly every head perked up. Even Tagart lost his wrathful glare as interest lit his eyes.
A contest of wits sounded innocent enough. Darius nodded and waved his hand for Brand to continue.
Brand’s smile grew wider. “The contest is simple. The first man to make Darius lose his temper, wins.”
“I do not—” Darius began, but Madox spoke over him, his rough voice laden with excitement.
“And just what does the winner gain?”
“The satisfaction of besting us all,” Brand replied. “And a beating from Darius, I’m sure.” He offered them a languid shrug and leaned back in the velvet cushions of his chair. He propped his ankles on the tabletop. “But I swear by the gods every bruise will be worth it.”
Eight sets of eyes swung in Darius’s direction and locked on him with unnerving interest. Weighing options. Speculating. “I do not—” he began again, but just like before he was silenced.
“I like the sound of this,” Tagart interjected. “Count me in.”
“Me, too.”
“And me, as well.”
Before another man could so easily ignore him, Darius uttered one word. Simple, but effective. “No.” He swallowed a tasteless bite of fowl, then continued with the rest of his meal. “Now, tell me more of the vampires’ doings.”
“What about making him smile?” Facing Brand, Madox shoved eagerly to his feet and leaned over the table. “Does that count? It’s a show of emotion and as rare as his temper.”
“Absolutely.” Brand nodded. “But there must be a witness to the deed, or no winner can be declared.”
One by one, each man uttered, “Agreed.”
“I will hear no more talk of this.” When had he lost control of this conversation? Of his men? “I—” Darius snapped his mouth closed. His blood was quickening with darkness and danger, and the hairs at the base of his neck were rising.
The mist prepared for a traveler.
Resignation rushed through him and on the heels of that was cold determination. He eased up, his chair skidding slightly behind him.
Every voice tapered to silence. Every expression became curious.
“I must go,” he said, the words flat, hollow. “We will discuss a tournament of sword skill when I return.”
He attempted to stride from the room, but Tagart leapt up and over the table and swiveled in front of him. “Does the mist call you?” the warrior asked, casually leaning one arm against the door frame and blocking the only exit.
Darius gave him no outward reaction. But then, when did he ever? “Step out of my way.”
Tagart arched an insolent brow. “Make me.”
Someone snickered behind him.
With or without his approval, it seemed the game had already begun. This wasn’t like his men. They must be more bored than he’d thought.
Darius easily lifted Tagart by his shoulders and tossed the stunned man aside, slamming him into the far wall. He thudded to the floor in a gasping heap. Without facing the others, Darius asked, “Anyone else?”
“Me,” came an unhesitant and unrepentant reply. A blur of black leather and silver knives, Madox rushed to stand at his side, watching him intently, gauging his reaction. “I want to stop you. Does that make you angry? Make you want to scream and rail at me?”
An unholy light entered Tagart’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet. He curled his fingers around the hilt of a nearby sword and stalked to Darius, his motions slow and deliberate. Never once pausing to consider the stupidity of his actions, he pointed the razor-sharp tip of the blade at Darius’s neck.
“Would you show fear if I vowed to kill you?” the infuriated man spat.
“That’s taking things too far,” Brand growled, joining the growing group around him.
A drop of blood slithered down Darius’s throat. The nick should have stung, but he felt nothing, not a single sensation. Only that ever-present detachment.
No one realized his intentions. One moment Darius stood still, seemingly accepting of Tagart’s assault, but the next he had his own sword unsheathed and directed at Tagart’s neck. The man’s eyes widened.
“Put