CHAPTER 1
“Up the stakes!” Tauran dug into his pocket and tossed three gold coins onto the beer-stained table, making them roll and bounce to the edges.
Ylion caught the third coin with a slap of his hand before it rolled off. “You’ll end up losing an eye, Darrica,” he grumbled, but threw more coins on the table. The two men sitting beside him laughed.
“You don’t know what I’m capable of. You don’t even know who I am!” Tauran’s voice was faintly slurred. He pulled the knife from where it stood upright, embedded in the tabletop. “You’re about to be impressed!” Tauran stepped back, spread his legs and squared his shoulders. The edges of his vision were fuzzy, but as long as he could focus, he could win the game. It was routine. Muscle memory. He leaned his head back, held the blade between two fingers and tossed it straight over his head.
The knife went up. Hung in the air. Came back down. Tauran watched it turn, once, twice, three times, and caught it again by the flat of the blade, inches from the bridge of his nose. Barking out a humorless laugh, he snapped his head down and shot Ylion a challenging glare. Amateurs.
“Twice more,” Ylion reminded him, wiggling two fingers.
Tauran huffed and waved him to silence. “Patience.” He resumed his stance, head leaned back and hand directly above his face as he tossed.
The knife went up, spun-
A shock of weakness shot through Tauran’s left leg and it buckled. He hissed and reached for the knife, squeezing his eyes closed to protect them from the blade. His palm closed around it instead and he hissed from pain a second time. He released it. It bounced to the floor with a damning clang, followed by a dissatisfying holler from Ylion and his drunken friends.
“Shit,” Tauran murmured, inspecting the cut in his palm. It wasn’t deep. He wiped away the blood before it could soak into his sleeve. Tomorrow’s lunch, lost. “I wasn’t ready. One more try.”
“No, no, no.” Ylion placed a finger against two of Tauran’s gold coins. He pushed them to the others around the table and pocketed the third. “No do-overs. That’s the rule. Told ya you would lose an eye.”
“But I didn’t,” Tauran said and took a seat. His leg protested the movement, knee clicking at the bend. He pushed his knuckles against his thigh to stop the pain before it could spread. Even when drunk, he couldn’t catch a break. “One more round.”
“How much have you got?”
Tauran rummaged through his pockets, producing a handful of copper coins and a small flat stone. “Uh, twenty small scales,” he said, counting the coins.
Ylion huffed. “I’m not risking my eyesight for twenty small.” He finished his beer and stood. “Good game.”
“Good game,” Tauran murmured and watched them go. He pushed the coins around in his palm. Twenty small scales could get him one meal and another night upstairs. He’d been stupid losing so much money all at once. But he’d been so sure he would win. He could have done it sober. But he’d also been stupid with his drinks. If only his leg hadn’t been such a damn bother. He would just have to hold off and win it back tomorrow. He could probably take ten large scales off the inn patrons before Anton would start complaining that Tauran was stealing his profits.
The inn door swinging open wouldn’t have registered to Tauran over the music if it hadn’t been for the stares and murmurs that followed. He turned. A figure stood straight-backed just inside the doors, scanning the crowd. The man’s striking uniform was unmistakable, for Tauran had spent four years of his life wearing it. His gaze slipped upward to far too familiar eyes scanning the inn patrons. Tauran’s stomach turned, protesting the beer he’d filled it with. No, no way. He had to get out of here. He had to—
“Mister Darrica.” The man’s eyes fell on Tauran and he came toward him, parting chairs and patrons like water through a rock bed. “I had hoped to find you here. You’re a hard man to track.”
Shit with shit on top. Tauran felt cold, then hot all over. His left foot tingled and he couldn’t feel his toes. “General Falka. I’m surprised you did.” Tauran’s voice was steady. He was being ridiculous, he knew. General Falka was a good man. He’d always been good to Tauran, maybe even better than he had deserved. Tauran took a deep breath and steadied his heart. The black and silver uniform was just clothes. Just fabric.
“Can I buy you a drink?” General Falka smiled at Tauran. In the four years since they’d last seen each other, Falka’s well-combed hair had grayed and fine wrinkles framed his eyes. They’d been tough years for everybody. A wave of longing rolled through Tauran.
“Sure,” Tauran said, silently scolding himself for the moment’s weakness.
Falka went to the bar, and Tauran followed. “Roric is commander, now. Can you believe it?”
Tauran hummed. Falka spoke about it so easily, as if they had only been apart a few months and not years. Meanwhile, Tauran was reeling. He leaned his elbows on the bar, trying to keep the unease from his voice. “That’s impressive. I’m happy for him. He’s always had potential.” The words felt strange and sticky in his mouth. He blew out a breath.
“Are you all right, Tauran?” Falka asked, passing a few scales to the barkeeper for two full beer mugs. Falka slid one toward Tauran. “Things didn’t end so well.”
Tauran wrapped both hands around it. “I just... haven’t talked about all that in a long time, ‘s all,” he said, head bowed and voice so soft he was surprised Falka heard him.
“I understand. It was bad.” Falka took a drink, resting his elbow on the bar beside Tauran. “Roric misses you a lot. It was hard for him for a long time. I wasn’t sure if he’d come out on top, but you two have always been hard as nails.”
Tauran stayed quiet. He took a sip, but it burned in his throat. He forced himself to swallow, regretting making Falka pay for a whole mug he couldn’t drink. “Why are you here?”
“Tauran...”
“If this is what I think it is—”
“Will you just hear me out?”
Tauran gave Falka a hard stare.
Falka’s expression was calm. “If you owe me anything at all, it’s five minutes of your time.”
Tauran ran a hand along his stubbled jaw. Falka had paid for his treatment, his leave, his medication, his apartment. “All right.”
Falka patted his shoulder and picked up his mug, leading Tauran to a quieter table in the corner.
Tauran took a seat.
“There’s war on the horizon, Tauran. And we’re desperately outnumbered.”
“You have dragons,” Tauran said, relieved he’d regained some control and composure. “No one else does.”
“What I’ve got is two good riders and seven recruits who’ve never even saddled a dragon before, training hatchlings.”
“Catria?”
Falka nodded. “She and Roric are holding this entire thing together.”
“You’ve got the Ground Guard,” Tauran said. “Five-thousand men and two dragons can’t win a war?”
“That’s not all.”
“What, then?”