Page 7 of House of Ashes
The barkeep remained behind the bar, staring at the fight with resignation, already gripping the bell-pull that would ring out the warning to all patrons to get out of the Wyvern’s Whore before it all went to the Hells again.
The barmaid was staring at the fight, her eyes wide, and as I stumbled towards her she curled her lip, pushing me away.
But at least she pushed me towards the door.
“Don’t let me see that ugly face of yours in here again,” she snapped, but I didn’t care. Freedom was before me.
I glanced back just long enough to see the stranger tear a dragon’s arm from its socket in a spray of blood.
The dragon roared, losing control over his shifting from the shock and pain; his body erupted through his clothes, becoming massive and scaled, shrank again, arms and legs shifting from human ones to muscular dragon limbs.
Wings flapped outwards, sweeping both tables and spectating Bloodless aside, only to vanish just as quickly. And then he loosed a massive gout of pale blue flame that crawled over the walls like mist, eating away at curtains and wood with shocking swiftness.
The barkeep sighed and rang the bell.
I ran for all I was worth, pulling my second cloak up to cover my hair. Over my pained, gasping breaths I heard wood shattering behind me as more dragons shifted, tearing the Wyvern’s Whore apart around them.
The screams of the Bloodless who hadn’t gotten away quickly enough filled the air. Fools, the lot of them. It was pure suicide to stand around when dragons shifted for a fight.
Bloodless and dragonbloods alike came spilling out of their houses, all of them shouting and heading for the wells and the bucket brigades at the docks. A dragon fight could easily burn a town like Farpost to cinders within an hour.
None of them looked at me as I ran past.
I glanced back again, watching as dragons flew upwards from the flaming ruins of the Wyvern’s Whore, teeth flashing and glittering flame filling the sky in billowing clouds. Those who could not breathe fire tore at the others, sending a rain of blood over the town.
Kalros was easily recognizable, a huge beast of crimson with a mangled-looking forearm. His eyes blazed amber fire as he chased an enormous black monster of a dragon, who breathed obsidian flames that twisted like smoke around his pursuers.
I stopped watching after that, focusing only on running. Farpost was an open town; when I passed the last shanties, I stumbled abruptly onto a wide, rocky moor.
If I could just get to my cave, all would be well. I could move tonight, head for the mountainous northern region of the Isle and start over on my plan to escape.
I was much slower than usual. My side ached with every step, but I forced myself to keep going.
And I called myself every name in the book while I did it.
It had been stupid to want to celebrate, no matter how long I’d been waiting for this day. I could’ve just bought a jar of shine and brought it back to my cave.
I could almost hear my mother laughing in my head, letting me know in her dulcet tones that I was an imbecile of the highest degree.
An hour later, when I’d put a sufficient distance between myself and Farpost, I glanced over my shoulder.
The mist of the moors was already moving in. On any other night, Farpost would be nothing but a dim and distant mirage of blurry lights; tonight it was a bonfire, even through the mist.
The silhouettes of dragons circled the burning town, swooping over the flames.
But they were no longer fighting.
No…they were searching.
My heart jumped into my throat and I picked up the pace again, mindful of the ache in my ribs and the ever-shifting stones underfoot. I’d managed to keep one of the loaves of bread from the docks, even though I’d lost the other while crawling out of the brawl; but a single loaf was still better than none.
They had probably torn the stranger apart. A small sliver of me wished I could thank him for giving me the opportunity to run, but doubtless he was another Kalros; it was fairly bold of him to claim that I was his princess, after all.
But dragons died every day on Mistward Isle. Whether through territorial disputes or simple drunken rage, life out here was cheap.
The mist grew thicker with every step, and I gladly plunged into it. The dampness would hide my scent as the reek of unwashed clothes bloomed, and dragons relied on eyesight as much as smell.
Which was why it took me by complete and total surprise when I felt the displacement of air, the surge of something leviathan dropping out of the sky on silent wings. The mist blasted away, swirling around me like a roiling, mother-of-pearl wall.