Slayer (8 page)

Brea turned away from the intensity of his gaze. Her breath came hard and fast as she tried to decide where to begin. “First of all, dragons have very small brains. They’re governed by their instincts, which are essentially food and destruction.” She paced the room, stopping every few moments to glare at the prince. “How many horses did you lose?”

“About fifty.”

“And how many men?”

Cahill was slow to reply. “Not quite so many, but close.”

“Tell me, did the dragons eat the horses or the men?”

Brea watched as Cahill considered her question. Then his eyes widened as realization struck. “They ate a few men, but…mostly horses.”

“And, how many dragons did you slay?”

Quietly, Cahill said, “One.”

Brea clenched her fists and groaned. “One? One!” She shook her head and cursed as she paced some more. “I’m not a mathematician, Your Highness, but I think the odds are heavily in the dragons’ favor.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Cahill shouted. “Do you think I don’t know that I led my men into a slaughter?” He stormed up to Brea and grabbed the front of her tunic to pull her face closer to his. “I watched them die, Brea. I was there.” Brea had seen Cahill upset. She’d seen him angry. Brea had never seen Cahill like this before. He looked like he wanted to tear out her throat with his teeth and, in his current state, Brea had no doubt he was completely capable of such a feat. In fact, Brea was pretty sure that was exactly what the prince intended to do as he twisted the knot of her hair in his fist, yanked her head back and exposed her throat. But instead of her throat he devoured her mouth, in a terrible, frantic, crushing kiss.

To her surprise, Brea kissed him back. She met his ferocity with a fierceness of her own. When he plunged his tongue into her mouth, she sucked on him, nipped him and then sucked some more. It was she, not Cahill, who pulled and tugged at Cahill’s clothing, trying unsuccessfully to rip the chainmail from his chest, needing to touch him, to hold him and feel his skin next to hers. Having no luck with his chest, Brea instinctively moved lower, finding the knot at his waist and frenetically working it with one hand.

At first when Cahill covered her hand with his, Brea thought it was to help her undo the tie. But then he held her hand still against the conspicuous ridge beneath his trousers, not allowing her to move. He tore his lips away from hers, panting heavily as he rested his chin atop her head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice heavy with torment as he pulled away. “I gave you my word. I’m sorry, Brea.”

Brea licked her swollen lips and gulped air in order to get her own breathing under control. “It’s not your fault,” she said in a breathy voice. “It’s the battle. I’ve seen it before, how battle makes men…” Brea didn’t finish. She stepped forward to lay her hand on Cahill’s arm, but the prince backed away.

“Don’t come too close, Princess. I’m not sure I have myself completely under control.”

Stopped in her tracks, Brea wondered if she should admit to him that she didn’t want him under control. That after all her protests, the very thing she wanted at this time was to give in to Cahill’s angry passion. To soothe him with her body, to ease the guilt she recognized in him because she’d lived with it herself for five years.

But Cahill would never forgive himself for using her, whether she allowed him to or not. Brea was beginning to suspect he was a better man than she’d ever imagined. So Brea turned and sat on a stool, using the table between them as a shield. “Let me distract you, then,” she said. “Let me tell you the secret to killing dragons.”

Chapter Seven

Before the break of dawn, Cahill gathered his officers for a debriefing and to plan their new strategy of attack. Cahill had stayed up with Brea and gone over the maps, the princess pointing out ideal spots to ambush the beasts. But Cahill was no more than a few sentences into his explanation of the new form of attack when Pritchard stood.

“Your Highness,” Pritchard interrupted with his booming baritone voice. “With all due respect, this manner of attack you propose will prove futile.”

“Futile?” Cahill challenged. “Yesterday was futile. Today we try something different.”

Pritchard pointed to the markings on the map. “You’ve got the men all separated. They’ll make easy pickings for dragons.” Pritchard turned to look at each of the officers, asking for support. By the number of nods, he had it. “We all know the best way to down a dragon is with numbers. Ten men take out their wings. Five to chop the beast’s head off once it’s on the ground.” He waved at the map with contempt. “Two men here, three men there?” He shook his head. “We’ll be annihilated.”

The murmurs of agreement set Cahill’s teeth on edge. “I am your prince,” Cahill asserted. “I have—”

“And I,” Pritchard interrupted using his size to his advantage, “am your champion and an expert in slaying dragons.” Pritchard turned to the men who all nodded at him with a clear look of relief in their eyes. “Now,” Pritchard said, “here’s what we’re going to do.”

Cahill looked away. Pritchard was right. He had authority because Cahill was only a prince. If Cahill were king, things would be much different.

Frustrated and angry, Cahill returned to the tent to don his armor, only to find Brea gone. He couldn’t really blame her for leaving and he held little hope that she would return. Thus it was with a heavy heart that Cahill rode out with the troops. He glanced up at the cloudy sky. At least the day was cooler. The beasts would be sluggish without the sun to warm their cold blood. But they were still outnumbered. Horribly outnumbered. Cahill took one last look back, hoping to catch sight of Brea, but there was no sign of her, and Cahill tried not to think about the fact that he never had a chance to say goodbye.

Perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was the hardened determination in the soldiers that made the battle more successful that day. Their casualties were still too high for Cahill’s liking, but much less significant than the day before. In addition, they’d managed to kill two dragons. This was due, in part, to the fact that fewer dragons had flown out to meet them that day. That knowledge did not necessarily bode well with Cahill. If the other dragons were not engaging in battle, where were they? How much destruction had they wrought?

To his great surprise and pleasure, Brea was inside the tent when Cahill returned, shoveling food into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in a week. The sight brought a faint smile to his face, and then Cahill frowned. “Ewph! It even smells like dragon in here.”

“Oh!” Brea turned and waved from her place at the table. “Sorry,” she said after swallowing a huge mouthful. “That’s probably me.” She sniffed at her clothes. “Dragon is so hard to get out of wool.” From the sleeve of her tunic she withdrew three glimmering scales and tossed them onto the table.

Cahill dropped his sword and gingerly nudged the scales apart. Dragon scales were as individual as the beasts themselves. It was not hard to tell these scales came from three separate dragons—one ruby red, the other opalesque and the third glittered like a sapphire. As Cahill well knew, the window for dislodging a scale from a dragon was small indeed; for dragon scales only loosened in death and must be pulled before the monster burst into flames. Cahill looked at Brea with a new and sudden respect. She’d told him she was the best slayer, but he’d never fully believed her. Until now.

He collapsed onto the stool beside her. “Three?” Cahill said with false nonchalance. “Only three?” He chuckled, “Princess, you’re slipping.”

Brea smiled in pleasure and then pointed at her injured leg propped on some cushions under the table. “I know. I’m not quite up to standard. But if you could spare someone, I could use some help tomorrow.”

“I know just the man.”

Cahill hung from the tree, like Brea had taught him, trying to regulate his breathing, but finding it difficult with a glob of dragon shit sliding down his left cheek. This was soon forgotten, however, when the thundering hooves of an approaching horse alerted him to action. It was Brea riding Elrond hard, heading straight for him with a fire-breather right on her tail.

“Attack from above,”
Brea had said.
“Dragons never look up
.
”

Brea flew by, then Cahill let go of the branch, landing squarely straddling the beast’s neck. With one swift movement, he pulled his sword, lifted it high and drove it to the hilt through the black slit in the dragon’s yellow eye.

“Think of it as a bulls-eye,”
Brea had instructed.

Sure enough, death came instantly. The dragon’s wings stretched taut in its final convulsion and the stinking body glided gently to the ground where Cahill was able to easily slide off. He jogged to join Brea and Elrond a safe distance away before the body went up in flames. “I can’t believe it!” he crowed. “It’s so easy.”

Brea narrowed her eyes and scoffed, “Easy?”

“I mean efficient,” Cahill said and grinned. “There’s no hacking at a writhing neck covered in almost impenetrable scales. No fire, no mess.” He raised his hand to Brea to pull her down from the horse and she accepted the help without hesitation. “We make quite a team.”

She nodded, but her face was turned to the surrounding countryside where only blackened patches on the ground indicated the number of dragons that died that day. “That’s it,” Brea sighed. “We did it. We killed them all.”

In a voice filled with wonder and dread, Cahill said, “Maybe not all. What the hell is that?”

Brea followed his outstretched arm and finger and then muttered, “Fuck a duck.”

Cahill swung his head to look at her in surprise, then turned his attention back to the monster that glided overhead.

“That, my prince, is the beast that gave me this.” Cahill glanced back at Brea and to where she was pointing down at her leggings which were stained where her old wound had reopened and oozed blood.

“You fought that thing?” he said with admiration.

Brea nodded grimly. “As you can see, it won.”

Slowly Cahill shook his head back and forth. “You’re still here,” he said. “I call that a draw.”

The enormous dragon circled high overhead, squawking shrilly so that both Cahill and Brea had to cover their ears. Then it swooped, flying low over the land, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something, or someone. Finally the dragon rose and flew off, out of sight.

“We’ll save that one for another day,” Cahill said as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

Brea settled back against the copper tub, her knees drawn to her chest, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water. She’d washed first in a nearby stream, but only lye soap would get the dragon smell out of her hair. As for her clothes, the cook had confiscated them in order to boil them in vinegar in hopes of removing the stink. After another dunk of her head beneath the water, Brea rose, dripping, and used a blanket to dry herself. Cahill had given her one of his spare shirts to wear and Brea laughed at herself as she cinched the garment around her waist with a strip of leather. It was long enough to be a dress. Not a proper dress, but a nightdress at least, and that’s all she needed it for. Her clothes would be dry enough by morning when the company rode out.

Peeking out through the tent flap, Brea called to Cahill’s valet to remove the washtub and bring in some food. She tucked a fur around her shoulders for decency’s sake, then Brea sat at the table and waited for the food and Cahill to arrive. He came in moments later, smelling clean and masculine. Brea kept her lashes lowered as a sudden shyness descended over her.

They ate in relative silence, making mundane remarks about the flavor of this dish and that. Finally Cahill cleared his throat and said, “I cannot go on like this. I must make my intentions known.”

Slowly Brea looked up from her food. The firelight flickered in Cahill’s dark eyes, making him appear more sinister than regal.

“Breanna, I beg you. No, I beseech you to consent to be my wife.”

Though Brea knew it was coming, had known his intentions all along, her answer became lodged in her throat. She licked her suddenly dry lips and said, “I’m sorry, Cahill. I can’t.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Finally he spoke. “Why?”

All her old resentments, her old prejudices about marriage reared their ugly heads in her mind. “I know how these things work. The minute I marry you, I belong to you. I give up everything.”

“What do you give up?” Cahill argued. “Marry me and you gain a title and a kingdom.”

“Both of which I already have,” Brea countered.

“Bah!” Cahill fumed. “You have nothing.”

“Nothing?” Brea rose in anger. “I have everything I need, Prince.” She limped purposefully around to the other side of the table, using the fact that he was still seated to her advantage. “I don’t need your land, I don’t need your title.” With each item she listed, she poked him in the shoulder. “I don’t need a stinking husband to make demands of me once he thinks he owns me.”

“What do you mean, make demands?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not one of your sheltered young princesses who has no idea of the filthy rutting tendencies of men. I know what goes on behind closed doors.”

Cahill’s expression changed. First understanding, then shock, and then anger. “You’re not a virgin,” he said in a low voice. “Someone abused you.”

Brea laughed. “No, I’m a virgin.” She pulled her dagger out from her leather belt and twisted it between her hands. “I wouldn’t let a stinking, breeding male near enough to abuse me.”

Cahill frowned. “Then what do you know of things that take place ‘behind closed doors’?”

“You may find this shocking, Your Highness, but commoners rut regardless of whether doors are open or closed. In fact doors have very little to do with it. Stables, tavern floors, up against walls.” Brea shivered with revulsion. “Beastly copulations. No thank you.”

“Ah,” Cahill said. “A tavern education.” He stood, and Brea found herself no longer at an advantage. “I’m afraid, Princess, your education may be lacking. What you have witnessed is only a very limited version of the act in question.”