Читать книгу Minstrel's Serenade - Aubrie Dionne - Страница 6

Wyvern’s Breath

Bron guarded Danika’s retreat to her cottage, her skirts kissing the blades of grass with each delicate step. Her elegance in awkward situations always impressed him, and she’d handled herself like a queen in the negotiations. Her father would have been proud, and Bron was proud as well. She’d grown into a regal woman with a flair for battle and a spitfire tongue. If only his feelings ended with thoughts of protection and pride.

Danika paused on the gabled porch and turned toward him, as if she heard his secrets on the wind. Her meadow-green gaze brought goosebumps to his skin. A sheer vulnerability weakened him until his legs felt like porridge. He was a veteran warrior, for Horred’s sake. He’d scaled the Fortress of Angst singlehandedly and defeated the dead army of Sill. Now a woman’s gaze threatened to bring him to his knees?

He didn’t think she’d look back. She shouldn’t.

Bron couldn’t break her gaze. He had to make sure Danika entered the cottage safely. Besides, looking away would reveal too much. He nodded slightly, as if he’d meant for her to catch him staring. Danika tore her gaze away and disappeared inside.

He exhaled slowly, calming his nerves. The minstrels’ music taunted him, reminding him of the circus he’d visited with his brother, Hule, on Festival Day. The jesters had leered at him, the bells on their three-pointed hats tinkling as they danced and pounded on drums. They made everything in life a mockery, and their disrespect churned his stomach. The Man of Muscles had earned his admiration. He’d lifted a wheel barrel holding two goats over his head. Bron had wanted to be that man, and here he stood now, guarding a princess as the Chief of Arms.

If only he hadn’t failed her. The memory of the battlefield left a scar on his heart far greater than the one on his right cheek. The deep tones of a bass lute mirrored his regret. Bron pushed the uncomfortable memories from his thoughts, refusing to play into the song’s desperate notes. Music played slippery tricks on his mind, whereas steel made an honest and clean cut. No, this time he wouldn’t fail, even if it meant protecting her from himself. Bron smoothed his fingers over the pummel of his claymore, the golden etching hard underneath his callouses like a forgotten language. He skimmed the night and slipped into the cottage without a sound.

Nip sat upright in bed, straight as a broomstick. He hadn’t even unlaced his boots.

“Cannot sleep?”

“I want to see it.” Nip locked on his eyes, his small mouth set tight.

Bron still reeled from the encounter outside. He collapsed on the cot and pulled off a boot, massaging the sole of his foot. “See what?”

“The wyvern snout. The one you killed.”

The warrior paused and rubbed a hand over his shaved head. Tiny prickles of hair dusted the skin, and he needed time with his dagger and a bowl of water. But the lad seemed determined.

“Won’t it give you nightmares?”

“I already have ’em.” Nip stood and smoothed over his soot-stained tunic. “It’ll make ’em go away.”

“It’s not a pretty thing, child.”

Nip’s voice rose and he stomped his foot. “I’m not a child. Not anymore.”

Bron raised an eyebrow. Surviving the scene that morning would make a man out of a duckling. The boy had a point. But to lay eyes on the dead beast’s head so soon after the attack?

“It’s late. How about we take a look in the morning?”

Nip swallowed. “I have to see with my own eyes what killed my parents.” His chin trembled.

Bron scanned him from the ratty hair on his head to his scuffed boots. Did a hint of warrior shine in those sky blue eyes?

“Troubadir was right about one thing. You are brave.” Bron pulled his boot back on. “Come. Let’s meet this beast eye to eye.”

They skirted the House of Song, careful not to make a sound. Clinking chimes covered their footsteps. The minstrels’ music had taken an introspective turn, and a sprinkle of minimalistic notes drifted over droning chords. The denizens had snuffed out most of their golden lights, and the moon lighted the path.

The carriage lay where he’d left it, parked next to the gates of the village. Bron reached down and fingered the tarp covering his latest conquest. The fabric still emanated heat, warming his fingertips in the cool mist. Bron shot a glance at the boy. Nip nodded in determination. The warrior tugged and the tarp slipped off.

A snout three times bigger than a dog’s and littered with ivory white teeth snarled out from the carriage’s backside. Onyx eyes glared in the moonlight, defying death. Two horns spiraled backward from a ridge of fin-like protrusions.

Nip froze as sulfurous steam from the beast’s mouth pooled around his boots. It would take days for the head to cool and the smoke to dissipate.

The stark fear in his expression reminded Bron of himself as a boy. His brother had paid a shiny copper for each of them to look upon a caged harpy. Walking to the curtained bars, he could still remember the musky scent and hear the squeaking of its claws on the planks. At ten, he’d needed Hule’s cajoling to get him to open his eyes. When he did, the black-feathered beast seemed more prey than predator. Ever since that day, he knew fear lay in anticipation.

Bron nudged the boy forward gently as a clammy tang, like old seaweed drying in the sun for too long, wafted up. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Burrow’s Bucket! It stinks.” Nip covered his mouth with his sleeve.

Bron shook his head. “Remember that smell. Get used to it. ’Tis the reek of death.”

Blue-black blood trickled from thorny whiskers, sizzling a hole in the grass. Nip reached out, his fingers brushing over the oily scales. He shuddered, managing to uphold his stance. A scale the size of his hand stuck out from the weave and the boy yanked it off. Bron caught him as he fell backward.

Nip jumped from his arms and stood on his own. He ran his fingertips over the smooth seashell-like surface of the scale as if touching the feather of a god. Stepping back into the shadows, Bron allowed him time to think, to mourn.

“I promise, Ma and Pa, to right this wrong.” The boy’s eyes watered, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. His face grew fierce as he held the scale above his head, challenging the night. “Vengeance is mine.”