The four of them saddled up and rode to Glenburry, a village only five miles away. The man who had hired them was called Darion, and he was the town magistrate. It was a little out of the way, and not at all what Drystan had been planning to do with his time, but he couldn’t very well sit back and do nothing while bandits terrorized his people. If the citizens of Dragonfell could not count on his help as their liege, he didn’t deserve to be their king. And since he could not command his soldiers to go in his stead while away from the Keep, he would take care of the problem himself.
They reached the town in good time and stabled their horses outside the local inn. Tension hung in the air—absolutely no one was out on the street, and the windows and curtains in the buildings and homes were drawn and shuttered. Music and laughter drifted down from a large home on a hill in the center of the town, lights blazing from the windows. Darion gritted his teeth.
“They’ve trussed up the mayor and put him in the wine cellar while they enjoy his food and drink,” he growled, clenching the hilt of his sword. “And they’ve rounded up the fairest of our womenfolk and forced them to wear gaudy clothes and serve these pigs.”
Rage washed over Drystan. “Let’s call these cowards out,” he said, stalking toward the noise. “They’ll see what happens when they mess with one of mine.”
The other men exchanged bewildered glances as they hurried after Drystan. Fire built in his chest as he heard the screams and sobs of the women, who were undoubtedly being raped and molested. If not for the innocents inside, he would have torched the house right then and there and killed everyone within.
Two of the bandits—thugs dressed in dirty leather—stood guard outside the house. They uncrossed their arms and stepped forward, ugly smiles on their faces. “I thought I told you not to come back here,” the one on the left growled, baring rotting teeth. “I guess you must want a sword in your belly pretty badly, huh?”
“I just want you to leave our town,” Darion said tersely, “and return what you’ve stolen. Surrender peacefully, and no one needs to get hurt.”
The bandits laughed. “Surrender to you and your three-man army?” the other one chortled. “Why would we do that?”
The bandit reached for his sword, but before he could pull it from its scabbard, Drystan drew his and decapitated him in one swift motion. Blood arced through the air as his head flew, and the other bandit cried out in fear and outrage. He charged at Drystan, but one of the other mercenaries drove a sword through his belly before he took more than two steps.
“Nice swordsmanship,” the mercenary said admiringly, yanking his blade from the bandit’s belly.
“Here comes the cavalry,” Darion muttered as more bandits ran out of the house, yelling. Drystan counted six total, though he didn’t think any of them was the leader. Over their yells, he could still hear the women sobbing from inside the house, which only fueled his rage.
“Stand back,” he ordered the men right before he shifted. The others yelled in fear and amazement as his form expanded, and the bandits skidded to a halt, their faces transforming into looks of such extreme horror it was almost comical. Snarling, Drystan lowered his head and spewed them with fire, careful not to hit the house itself. Their screams were music to his ears, and the scent of roasting man flesh filled the air as they died in agony.
There were several beats of stunned silence as the men beheld Drystan in all his terrifying glory, before Darion finally sprang into action. “Lothar!” he cried triumphantly, brandishing his sword toward the house. “Surrender yourself now, or you and the rest of your men will be incinerated!”
The house was utterly silent now. Even the women had stopped sobbing, though Drystan didn’t know if that was because they were relieved, or if they were just too frightened to make even the smallest sounds. A few minutes later, three more men slowly stepped outside. Their hands were up, save the one in the center, who held a woman against his body. A knife was pressed against the slim column of her throat, and blood was trickling down the front of her skimpy dress.
“You’ll allow us to leave unharmed,” the bandit said in a clear, steady voice, “or I will slit her throat.”
Drystan merely met the bandit’s gaze. The man began to shake under the weight of the dragon’s stare, his legs wobbling, but he did not remove the knife. “Back off!” he cried in a high voice.
Drystan thought about it for a moment, then snatched up the bandit on the left and tossed him into his mouth. The man screamed as he bit down, bones crunching beneath his teeth, and the other two bandits sank to their knees, the smell of urine lacing the air. The woman sprinted into Darion’s arms, sobbing loudly as Drystan chewed and swallowed his impromptu meal.
He’d thought he’d find the taste of human repulsive, but in truth, it was rather pleasant. He supposed he’d feel differently if he were in human form.
Speaking of humans…the others warily came out of their homes. They wore varying expressions on their faces ranging from shock to fear to pure delight, and though all looked upon him with some measure of fear, they did not back away. Drystan inclined his head to them as they dropped to their knees, bowing before their dragon king.
“Thank you, my prince,” a man said, and Drystan turned to see the mayor—or so he presumed—stumble out of the house. He had rope burns on his wrists and bruises on his face, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He stood before the remaining bandits, who were being restrained by the mercenaries. “We are honored by your presence, and unspeakably grateful for what you have done.”
Drystan changed back into human form. “You are welcome,” he said gravely, ignoring the way the people averted their eyes from his naked form. He wasn’t the type who liked to walk amongst others nude, but he refused to show fear or discomfort by shrinking away.
The woman who Drystan saved earlier came forward, a cloak in her hands. “Thank you for not giving in to him,” she said fiercely as she wrapped the cloak around him. “I value my life, of course, but I did not want to see that man get away, not after all he’d done.” She turned and spat on the leader’s face, and he bared his teeth at her. As she did, her hair slipped to one side, and Drystan caught a glimpse of a tattoo.
“Hang on,” he said, taking the woman by the shoulder. She froze as Drystan brushed her hair aside properly to reveal a dragon emblazoned on her flesh. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Get what?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused.
Drystan sighed in frustration. “There is a dragon mark on the back of your neck,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Rofana,” the woman said, clasping at her neck worriedly. “I…I had no idea there was any such mark. No one has ever said anything about it before.”
“A dragon mark?” one of the townsfolk, a matron with steel gray hair, asked. Her dark eyes narrowed as she approached. “More evidence of your witchcraft then, Rofana?”
“Witchcraft?” Drystan echoed.