When Guillot went outside, feeling self-conscious with every clatter of metal plate, dal Sason and Gill’s riding and baggage horses were waiting for him, but the others hadn’t arrived yet. Guillot could immediately see why Amaury wanted them to depart the city in full armour. People lined the streets as far as the eye could see, and the City Watch maintained a corridor through which the dragon hunters could pass. He was making a big show of this. Gill wondered what he hoped to gain.
“Quite a crowd,” Guillot said, finding the numbers of eyes on him far more intimidating than he had in the past, even at the Competition.
“The news has spread around the city like wildfire,” dal Sason said. “People are afraid, but they’ve been told not to worry, that a Chevalier of the Silver Circle will save them. Probably best to try looking heroic as we ride out.”
A clattering of hooves announced the arrival of Banneret-Commander Felix Leverre. He was followed by a group of similarly clad riders—three men and a woman. Guillot had to admit they looked a magnificent sight in their shining breastplates and cream robes—every bit as impressive as the Chevaliers had been in their prime.
Leverre gave Guillot a respectful nod, far more respectful than Guillot had expected.
“I suppose it’s time to go,” Guillot said.
“No point in delaying,” dal Sason agreed.
“I’m surprised the Prince Bishop isn’t here to see us off,” Guillot said. “He’s never been one to miss out on attention.”
“His Grace has many pressing matters to deal with,” Leverre said, “of which this is only one.”
Guillot shrugged, still more suspicious than curious. If the expedition failed, it would be easier for Amaury to distance himself from it if he hadn’t been seen personally endorsing it.
“Guillot,” Solène said from Bauchard’s doorway.
He walked over to her.
“Good luck,” she said. “I hope you make it back safely.”
“I hope so too,” he said.
“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”
Guillot shrugged. “You still plan on joining the Prince Bishop’s order?”
She cast a glance at Leverre and his men. “Yes. Cream has always been a good colour on me.”
Guillot laughed.
“I think it’s the best option for me,” she said. “If it doesn’t work out, I can always run again. If it does, I might have finally found somewhere I can call home.”
He nodded. “I hope it works out, but be careful around the Prince Bishop. He’s not someone you should ever place your trust in.”
“I won’t, but you’re the one who needs to be careful. Don’t try too hard to be a hero.”
Guillot laughed. “No fear of that.”
They stood in silence for a moment, Guillot’s awkwardness compounded by how ridiculous he felt in his armour. He heard Leverre clear his throat. “I best be off. Good luck, Solène.”
“You too.”
Guillot walked to his horse, which was being held by one of Bauchard’s grooms. When he mounted, the crowd erupted in cheers. He forced a smile, and in as heroic a fashion as he could muster, held up one hand and waved. The cheers grew louder, though he wanted nothing more than to find a dark corner and hide in it.
Leverre rode up beside him. “Not going to say anything, my Lord?”
“Nope,” Guillot said, casting a final look back at Solène, who gave him a sad smile. She knew as well as he did that he was most likely riding to his death. “Let’s get going.”
There was a saying among dragonkind that Alpheratz recalled first hearing when he was not much more than a hatchling. It said that if you waited until you were ready, the moment would never come. It was particularly poignant when one considered how long dragons lived. He was strong. Perhaps not as strong as he had ever been, but given that he was much older, he couldn’t expect to return to his prime. How much older remained a mystery, but in the grand scheme of the world, it no longer seemed important.
He had exhausted his patience, or perhaps he was merely being practical. It was time to start his vengeance proper, to test himself against something more substantial than peasants and farm animals. On his long flights, seeking his kin, he had spotted the ideal place: a stone fort with a dozen soldiers.
Launching himself from his perch, he swooped down toward the fort. As he drew near and the men went from being moving shapes to living things, he felt his first pang of uncertainty. The men he had killed at his mountain peak, he had taken by surprise. He had killed them in self-defence, due to fear and surprise. Killing to feed was one thing. Killing to survive another. But killing out of rage? From a desire for revenge? Was that not what he wished to punish them for?
What if these men were stronger than those he had killed at the peak? They were soldiers, after all. Soldiers had killed all of his kind, had nearly killed him. They had killed Pharadon, the greatest fighter among dragonkind. Fear twisted his stomach. He had never killed out of hate before.
He heard a shout from the battlements. They had seen him. He wondered how they would respond. Was it too late to turn back?
The first arrow bounced off his hide harmlessly. He thought of Nashira, how they had taken her scales. Slaughtered their young. His quest was just. They had to die. They had to be punished for what they had done. They had to be driven back from the sacred places in the mountains. Alpheratz took a deep breath and sprayed fire across the battlements. As he swept over, he heard screams, and felt relief. He was strong enough to do what he had set out to do.
Pharadon had often talked about the joy of battle. Alpheratz had never felt that, but there was satisfaction in carrying out righteous retribution. He could understand what Pharadon had felt, for he knew it now for himself.
He turned back toward the fort and glided down onto the battlements, gripping them with his claws. A man scurried up the steps and froze at the top, his face a picture of fear. He made a halfhearted attempt to jab his spear at Alpheratz. The dragon laughed and swiped at the man with his claw. The man let out a grunt at the impact and went tumbling over the battlements, his scream piercing enough to be heard over the sound of flames, like the lead note of a great musical composition. It was the symphony of righteous retribution.
Alpheratz looked around but saw no others. His initial sweep of flame had caught them by surprise and must have killed most of them. He felt disappointed. He had expected this to be a challenge, but it was no different than slaughtering sheep in a pen. He walked around the battlements until he was above the fort’s front gates. Two people were fleeing down the muddy track. Alpheratz spread his wings and dove from the tower.
Flying barely above the ground, he went straight past the first man, who shrieked in terror. A swipe of his tail was all it took to deal with him, although the corpse got stuck on one of Alpheratz’s barbs. The second man, he grabbed in his claws, then flapped his wings hard, soaring directly up. He shook his tail, ridding himself of the first man’s body.
The man in his claws screamed for all he was worth. How had such cowardly wretches slain Nashira? Defending their eggs, she would have been ferocious. This human was no more than a worm wriggling in a bird’s talons.
Satisfied he was high enough, Alpheratz released his grip and hovered, watching the man flail toward the ground. He saw the impact, but the sound was stolen by the breeze. He looked back at the tower, now an inferno. It was satisfying. It was joyous, but there was still a hole inside him, and he had barely even begun to fill it.