With that reminder, he recalled a moment he’d repressed at the end, when the dragon had flown away from his mother’s hut: It had looked down at him with its one citrine eye, the same color as his, and the look had been sheer grief. It had roared as it flew away, and the sound had been pure heart break.
Even in his dreams, though he’d come so far to hunt down the creature he’d always thought evil, always despised, who represented all of the bloodthirsty dragons that terrorized villages and killed countless innocents, it had never looked at him like a predator with prey. Its citrine eye had always been intelligent.
Sad.
Resigned.
Unaware of what he did, Wolfe lowered his weapons, his arms falling to his sides.
Rui’s gasp pulled his attention to her.
“His wing,” she whispered. “It’s been sawed off.”
Wolfe looked closer, waiting for the mist to clear.
Sure enough, the side that was facing them showed a jagged stump. The wound looked both old and new. Still gaping with white bone and barely congealed blood. But the blood was dark, not fresh, and the ripped flesh, skin and scales looked weathered by time.
It must hurt like hell.
Again, Wolfe’s heart squeezed. A shot of acidic empathy filled his chest.
He sheathed his sword and Sorin’s dagger, and closed the distance between himself and the dragon, the others doing the same.
When he was within a few feet, the water at his waist now, he saw through the fog glimpses of the dragon’s legs, tucked protectively beneath its body. The claws looked like the feet of a gigantic eagle, and around the ribbed tarsus were thick iron shackles, so tight, the skin around them was completely torn, raw and bleeding. The shackles were connected by heavy chains; the chains disappeared beneath the water, barely visible in the mist.
How long had the dragon been imprisoned here? Wolfe wondered. How did it live? How did it eat?
Involuntarily, he reached out a hand to touch a faded, chipped scale close to the creature’s cheek.
“Ah, I see you’ve found my pitiful pet.”
Wolfe, Rui and Sorin whirled upon the voice behind them with weapons instantly drawn.
There, at the mouth of the tunnel they’d come through, stood Queen Guinevere.
She was dressed as lavishly as always, in a slinky silver dress that looked like it was made of fish scales, catching the eerie glow within the cavern.
But no, the glow came fromher. It was the same bluish-white light that tinged the fog back at Castle Caerleon.
Flanking her on the left was a fully armored Lancelot, handsome and golden as if he’d just strode out of a little girl’s fairytale. But his eyes were black and blank, like a bottomless void. To her right was Gawain and Modred, armored and armed as well, ready for battle.
There were two people behind her, however, that gave Wolfe pause.
Arthur was outfitted the same as Guinevere’s other soldiers. His haggard face was blank of expression, as were his black, soulless eyes.
He was holding a dagger against the throat of a hostage who was pulled slightly in front of him—
Tristan.
“My thanks for saving me the spectacle of the morrow, dragon-slayer,” Guinevere said mildly, as if they were conversing over supper at the great hall.
“I see I was wise to bring friends given that you brought your own.”
“What do you want?” Wolfe growled, keeping a close eye on Tristan.
The boy seemed unharmed, if a bit roughed up.
Tristan looked back at him with apology in his eyes, defiance on his face. He was sorry to have been captured, his eyes communicated, and he was furious at being used against Wolfe.