Dragon's Blood (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy #2)

He’d snatched an hour or two of free time here and there to practice flying, and to his relief, he had acclimated to his wings far faster than anticipated. Despite the dire circumstances spurring his flight, Drystan found his fears and worries dropping away as he soared higher—the feel of the wind on his face, the sight of the clouds around him and the ground so far below, all of it filled him with an exhilaration that could not be matched by any experience, not even riding a horse at full speed. He suddenly understood why his father had always been in a good mood after returning from a hunt. How could anyone not be after this?

He only hoped his father would be in a more agreeable mood if and when he ran into him in the forest. It was likely he was getting in quite a bit of flying now that he was on his own and forced to hunt on a regular basis. With any luck, he was hunting animals, not Dragon Force soldiers. Drystan felt bad enough about sending those soldiers into danger on a regular basis—he would feel terrible if his father had killed them.

Even though Drystan was in his own territory, he made sure to stay above the clouds to draw as little attention as possible. Even so, about halfway to his destination, he spotted a caravan of traders being accosted by what looked like bandits. Part of him was tempted to keep flying—after all, from this distance they seemed like nothing more than insignificant ants—but the ruler in him could not abide the idea of bandits roaming free on his lands.

Angling his body toward the ground, he swooped down, then blasted a few of the bandits with fire, careful not to get too close to the caravan. Screams and the smell of roasting flesh filled the air, simultaneously exciting and horrific—his human and dragon halves were not reconciled on the issues. Three of the bandits were killed instantly, thrown by their horses and landing on their heads, and two more were merely singed badly. The rest took one look at him and bolted, running or riding as fast as they could manage. Drystan felt a bit sorry for the animals, which did not deserve to be scorched or frightened. But then again, the caravan did not deserve to be robbed.

The caravan’s horses were spooked, so he took off with another flap of his wings. Bloody bandits, he grumbled to himself. The fact they roamed freely was only more evidence that Dragonfell was slipping—he must do something about these outlaws as soon as he had a spare moment.

As the Black Mountains loomed closer, Drystan banked left, heading where the scouts had reported sighting a large dragon several times. He spotted several scouts with his keen eyes as he passed, and wished that he could communicate with them—hopefully the sight of him would warn them to stay back. The last thing he wanted was any of them getting in the way in a confrontation with his father.

He landed on the side of one of the mountaintops to give his wings a rest. As he sat there, breathing in the fresh, chilly air, the wind shifted, and he caught the metallic tang of a familiar scent.

Gold.

Excitement rushed through Drystan’s veins, and he craned his neck, nostrils flaring wide. The scent seemed to be coming from the east, so he took off again, gliding on the currents as he followed it. The scent grew stronger with each mountain peak he passed, and just when he felt like he was right on top of it, he spied a cave several hundred feet below.

Tucking his wings into his sides, Drystan dove, his snout pointed straight toward the valley below. The wind whistled shrilly in his ears as he plummeted, his heart galloping, and a few seconds later, he snapped his wings out. Muscles and tendons burned with strain as they caught the updraft, and he coasted toward the ledge just outside the cave. From this distance, he could smell his father quite clearly, though he wasn’t certain if he was in the cave or had left recently.

Drystan landed on the ledge as softly as he could manage. Nevertheless, his claws dislodged some of the rocks, and he stiffened as they went clattering down the mountainside. Tense, he approached the mouth of the cave, his senses on high alert. But Dragomir did not seem to be about—if he was, he would have attacked already.

By the gods, Drystan thought as he crept farther into the cave. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dimmer light, allowing him to see the mountains of gold and jewels piled inside, arranged around a small clearing scattered with animal bones where Dragomir likely slept. Chests and trunks peeked out between the piles, no doubt filled with valuables, and Drystan wondered if he could manage to smuggle one or two out. It wouldn’t be enough to pay off the elves, but perhaps he could offer them to the council to mollify them. Maybe if they had something shiny to fill their coffers, they would be less miffed about the tax break he’d given to the soldiers and more inclined to back his next proposal.

Drystan was just deciding which trunk to pick when the whoosh of flapping wings gripped him in fear. He whirled about as his father approached, a dead sheep clutched in his claws. He grabbed one of the trunks and rushed for the entrance, hoping to clear it before Dragomir landed, but his father roared, filling the entire cavern with flames. Drystan’s hide was fireproof, but the blast stunned and blinded him before he could make the jump. The ground thudded as Dragomir landed, and he roared again, the sound filled with rage. Drystan’s heart sank as their eyes met—there was absolutely no recognition in them, no hint of the man who had raised him.

Father? he tried, pushing the thought toward him. He’d learned from a young age that dragons could speak to each other telepathically when in dragon form if they were in close proximity—Tariana and his sisters did so often, and the skill was invaluable during battle. Father, please! It’s Drystan.

Dragomir merely thrashed his tail, a warning for Drystan to drop the trunk. Drystan only clutched it tighter—he refused to leave empty-handed. He gathered his legs beneath him, preparing to jump over his father’s left shoulder and make a break for the exit, but Dragomir tossed the sheep aside and sprang at him, his maw wide open. Drystan dodged to the side, but his father’s claws raked his underbelly, sending fiery trails of pain through him. Blood spewed through the air as Drystan twisted away, but maneuverability was hard in the small space that was barely large enough to hold one dragon, let alone two.

The sight and smell of blood only seemed to egg Dragomir on—he roared again as he tackled Drystan, and this time he clamped his jaw around Drystan’s throat. Drystan roared in agony as Dragomir’s fangs dug deep—this part of his hide was well protected, but if he let his father hold on any longer, he would puncture a hole in Drystan’s throat. Desperate, Drystan kicked forward with both hind legs, planting them in Dragomir’s mid-section. It wasn’t enough to propel the larger dragon back, but it did get him to open his mouth, and Drystan quickly took advantage of the moment and shoved the trunk down his throat.