Igor Ironbeast's Arc

Chapter 2 of 9

Igor stepped through the oak doors into the keep's great hall. Torches burned along stone walls hung with red banners. A long table ran the length of the room, lined with the warlord's court. Every face turned to him. No one spoke. He walked to the center of the flagstones and set the butt of his axe on the floor. A steward in a black robe rose to speak. Before he could, a shriek cut down from the rafters. The small black dragon from the yard dropped through the smoke of the torches. Its scales showed cracks of orange fire. It landed on the flagstones ten paces from Igor, wings half-spread, teeth bared. Grog's beast. It had followed him inside to finish what its master could not. The court pulled back from the table. Someone drew a knife. Igor lifted the axe and set his feet. The dragon rushed him. Igor swung. The blade cut air. The dragon skidded past his boots, turned, and coiled to leap again. It stopped. It looked at the axe. It looked at the blood still drying on the edge. Its master's blood. Then it looked up at Igor's face. Igor waited for the next strike. It did not come. The dragon lowered its head. It walked forward, slow, and pressed its snout against the iron plate on his shin. A low sound came from its throat, not a hiss. Heat rose off its scales and warmed the metal against his leg. Igor did not move. He understood then. The little beast knew only one law. The stronger hand held the leash. He had taken the master. He was the master now. A voice slid down from the gallery above. "How touching." Igor looked up. A small figure sat astride an enormous pale wolf on the upper walkway. The wolf's fur glowed faint blue in the torchlight, and its paws made no sound on the boards. The rider wore a hood and a smooth white mask with two black slits for eyes. A crossbow rested across the rider's thigh, not raised, not lowered. "The court sent me to watch you bleed on the stones," the rider said. The voice gave away neither man nor woman. "Instead you've adopted a stray. The warlord will want to hear that." Igor set his hand on the dragon's neck. The scales were hot. The beast leaned into his palm. "Tell him," Igor said. The wolf turned on the walkway and padded into the dark. The rider did not look back. The steward found his voice. He named a chamber where the challenger would sleep. He named the hour of the first champion's fight. His hands shook as he spoke. Igor walked out of the hall with the dragon at his heel. He had come to the keep alone. He would not leave the hall alone again. And somewhere above, behind a white mask, the court had already begun to plan how he would die.