Dragon Legends (Return of the Darkening Book 2) Read Free Page B

wind, and I’d never fight for my country and king.
    I headed back into the shed to scrub the dragon harness and fight off my frustrations. They would do me no good. I needed my wits about me to fight this new enemy—my own family.
    *
     
     

Chapter 3:
The Troll’s Head
    Laughter. Loud talk. Then the smell of ale and unwashed bodies hit me as soon as I opened the door to the Troll’s Head. I’d sent word to Thea to meet me there, but I hadn’t seen her since we’d parted ways on the landing platform. I’d flown Kalax next to her in the enclosure, and by the time I’d walked back, Thea was gone from the equipment shed. I couldn’t find her in the keep, so I’d asked Varla to tell Thea I’d meet her at the Troll’s Head.
    I slid into a seat at a table in the back. The noise, the bustle of serving maids and the crowd of workers at the bar stirred memories of my dad. Mostly, I remembered him coming home, stinking of strong ale. If we were lucky, he was too drunk for anything more than stew out of the kettle and falling asleep in front of the hearth. If we were unlucky, he would start shouting about whatever imagined slight he’d suffered that day, working himself into a fit.
    That’s not me.
    I looked at the tankard of cheap mead that sat before me—it no longer seemed a tasty drink.
    Someone banged against the table and I looked up. A large man in a dirty, gray cloak was weaving his way through the crowd. I glimpsed a hint of a beard speckled with gray. Ripples of annoyance followed the man, and voices around the bar turned to grumbling.
    The mood in here tonight was bad, and I wondered why.
    The Troll’s Head stood at the top of Torvald, near Dragon Mountain itself, and only a short walk from the academy. Over the years, it had acquired bits and pieces from various Dragon Riders—banners, or a tooth from a famous dragon, broken harnesses and worn saddles. I had even found three items from Flamma history—Thea always hated it whenever anyone pointed them.
    Oh yeah, that was Grandfather Brutus’ armor, and Great-Great Uncle Marcosia used that saddle.
    She shrugged it off that some of the bravest and most well-known Dragon Riders in Torvald history were of her blood. I thought she was worried she wouldn’t live up to their reputations, but why did she worry so much? I shook my head. Who would have thought that the son of a smith from Mongers’ Lane and a noble with the best training money could buy would be matched by a dragon’s choice. Kalax had picked each of us.
    I sipped my mead and looked around the tavern.
    A few riders were here, both the warrior protectors and their pilot navigators, along with soldiers. Their tunics gave away their trade. So did the rough wool jerkins of the woodcutters and the dusty clothes of the stone masons. From the looks of some of the riders, they’d been doing a lot of hard flying. The faces I could see looked drawn and pale, and the riders were leaning back in their seats as if exhausted. Some still had on dusty tunics, and I pitied them if Commander Hegarty ever saw them—not that he’d ever come to the Troll’s Head that I knew of.
    One young rider raised his tankard and muttered, “To the campaign!”
    An older rider slapped him on the leg. “Get down with your nonsense and hush.”
    I frowned—what campaign was that?
    A voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Drinking alone, are we, Sebastian?” Turning, I saw Beris with his navigator, Syl, and Shakasta behind them. That lot never went anywhere without each other. And Beris drew out my name like it was an insult. He still seemed to think no one from Monger’s Lane had any right to be a rider—or maybe he just didn’t like me.
    “I’m waiting for Thea,” I said and instantly cursing myself for even responding to him.
    Beris waved at my mug. “Looks like you’ve been left to your cups. What’s wrong—everyone tired of your company?”
    Behind him, Shakasta snickered. The surrounding noise level had gone