Dragon Sacrifice (The First Realm Book 3) (8 page)

“Aren’t you supposed to wear gloves when you do that?” he asked.

“Only if you don’t want to get cut.” The blade had bitten deeply into my left hand. But not too deeply that it couldn’t heal.

Zornhao gave a low laugh. “Well done. Now you’re fighting like a true swordsman.”

Chapter 7

“I don’t believe it,” Cruix said. “And yet, I saw it with my own eyes.”

Cruix has only one style of conversation. He uses sarcasm a lot, and he can’t seem to stop from putting people down. But we live together, and we’ve fought together, so I guess we’re friends. Angrod trusts him, and do I.

“Thanks for coming over,” I said.

“It’s not like I had anything better to do,” Cruix said. “The others are busy with the capran ambassador. So I thought, why not watch Heronimo make a fool of himself?”

“Are you disappointed that it didn’t actually happen?”

“Nah. Got to see you fall on your arse.”

We walked down Restaurant Row. I had my training sword on my back, in a travelling scabbard, while my regular sword hung at my waist for easy access. They were identical, both gifts from Mina. Their dwarven alloys mimicked my own fast healing, which meant I could’ve practised with the sword I always wore. Still, it’s always a good idea to avoid damaging the weapon you carry. Why shorten its service life needlessly?

A watchman stepped forward with a lantern and a truncheon. “Got a license for that long knife, buddy?”

I showed him my bodyguard license, which entitled me to carry live steel. You could still bring weapons into the city without a license, but they’d have to be peace-bonded or otherwise hard to draw.

“Everything seems to be in order,” the watchman said. He was just a little guy.

“I’m glad,” I said. “What would you have done if it were not in order?”

The half-elf laughed. “I have strong lungs and fast legs. I’d call half the city down on us before you caught me.”

I saluted him and we walked on. I said to Cruix, “See, there are perks to being on a lord’s retinue.”

“Easy for you to say, you like your official position.”

“Angrod’s my friend. I’d fight for him even if I wasn’t his bodyguard. There’s nothing wrong with being the jester, Cruix.”

“Do I look like a clown? Don’t answer that.”

Cruix, as usual, was dressed all in white. There’d been arguments early on about the importance of clothes. The dragon didn’t see any point to wearing them. As a Northlander I didn’t, either. As long as it’s not too cold, why bother? It’s a point of pride for us to go shirtless in winter. Some tribes even scorn all manner of armour, fighting without any clothes at all.

But this is Brandish, not the Northlands, and when one is in a foreign land one must accommodate local customs. I said as much to Cruix. Mina told him it would weaken us politically. Angrod pointed out that Cruix’s elf body was a copy of Angrod’s, and he really didn’t care for all that advertising.

“I’m a grower, not a shower,” Angrod had said. Whatever that meant.

So Cruix compromised by owning just one suit of clothes. It’s a little formal for most occasions, but I’ve gotten used to it.

“Being the jester gives you license to speak your mind,” I said. “You know how you like to speak your mind.”

He nodded. “You may have a point there. But you’ll never find me wearing a cap of bells.”

Drystone was beautiful at night. The wide avenues were filled with rich young elves. Well, they all looked young. They seemed to be competing to wear the frilliest, silliest, most impractical outfit that money could buy. Their sleeves were too long, to show that they never worked with their hands. This also made it difficult to draw their jewelled blades, which hung too high anyway. The fingers had long nails and heavy rings, the ears and noses had elaborate piercings, and the hair was extravagantly styled. All of these things would be bad in a fight. Some of them couldn’t even move properly, they were so tightly corseted.

And that was just the men.

We Northlanders love our jewelry and our tattoos. They’re almost as good as scars. But we’d never wear anything that compromised our fighting ability.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked Cruix. “I’m glad for the company, but you usually disappear until morning.”

He shrugged—he’d picked up that gesture from me. “Dragons are social creatures, believe it or not. Occasionally I find myself craving the fellowship of another thinking being, such as it is.”

I rolled my eyes. I don’t always understand how he’s making fun of me, but I recognize the tone.

“Does this mean you’re going to start training with me?” I asked.

He laughed. “Heavens, no. Why get all sweaty?”

“How about for massive gains?” I curled my right arm to show him what I meant. I was born with full, peaked biceps that responded well to training. No one could deny that I’d put in the work, however. Heads turned to look, so I flexed my other arm.

“You got all that from swinging a sword?” Cruix asked.

“There’s conditioning too,” I said. I put my arms down, pressed my fists into my waist, and spread wide my upper back muscles. Several elf-women licked their lips. Their escorts weren’t too happy.

I was about to turn to give everyone a view of my back when Cruix caught my arm. “Let’s get inside before you start a riot,” he said.

Elrond’s is not your usual Brandish pub. Most of the places on Restaurant Row are meant for elves, half-elves, and people who can pass as elves. That rules out dwarves and most humans. But Elrond doesn’t care about those things. He doesn’t even care if you don’t like wine, so long as you don’t say bad things about it.

Walking through the door, I wasn’t greeted by glares or silence. They glanced at Cruix and me, then returned to their drinks. We made our way to the bar.

Elrond was the second elf I’d seen today who was noticeably old. He had to be in his tenth century at least. His grey hair was receding, giving him a pointed hairline. His moustache and beard weren’t trimmed so much as neatly sculpted. He was polishing a glass.

“Your usual, Heronimo?” he asked.

“Please,” I said. “And an extra glass.”

“You have a usual?” Cruix asked.

“This is Angrod’s favourite pub. You’d know your way around too, if you weren’t always disappearing.”

He looked away. “For a long time I wasn’t comfortable in the company of… non-dragons.”

“Well, you’re here now!” I clapped him on the back. “Let’s go find a table.”

“Oi, Heronimo!”

We made our way to Sandahl’s table. My fellow Northlander sat with a three familiar dwarves.

“What’s up, big man?” Kodo asked. Or maybe it was Lodo.

“Yeah, what’s up, big man?” Lodo asked.

“Fellows, I’d like you to meet my friend,” I said. “Sandahl, Jodo, Kodo, and Lodo, this is the dragon Cruix. Cruix, these are my drinking buddies.”

Cruix shook their hands, even Sandahl’s. Her dress showed off her shoulders and back, which rippled and swelled with muscle. Cruix’s eyes popped.

“Sandahl teaches wrestling,” I said.

“You look pretty strong,” Sandahl told Cruix. “What do you do?”

“Mostly stretching,” he said. “I do a lot of flying. It’s good for my wings.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That’s when I’m a dragon,” he said. “I’ve actually never exercised in this form. Never needed to. This is an exact copy of Angrod’s body as it was sixteen years ago.”

“It never loses muscle tone?” Sandahl asked. “Wait, an
exact
copy?”

“He’s a grower, not a shower,” I blurted. “... what does that mean?”

Everyone bent over laughing.

My usual order arrived, a pitcher of beer and a platter of smoked oysters. It was served by

Elrond’s nephew, I don’t know his name.

“Thanks,” I said, and started pouring for me and Cruix.

“So your elf form doesn’t age?” Jodo asked. “You just put it on, like a jacket?”

“Essentially,” Cruix said. “The pattern is complex and cannot be modified.”

“How long can you be an elf?” Lodo asked. “Is there like a time limit? Do you risk getting stuck?”

Cruix shook his head. “I can maintain this form for as long as I’m awake. To become an elf permanently, I’d have to give up my dragon body, and I’d never do that.”

“I have heard of shapechanging in my country,” Sandahl said. “The witches, they do this. It is said to be dangerous and painful.”

“Shapeshifting is basically replacing your morphic field with another, then forcing your body to conform to it.” Cruix said. “It is painful.”

“You’re growing an entire new asshole,” Kodo said. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“I’ve… never thought of it that way,” Cruix said.

Kodo and Lodo high-fived. “New perspectives, yeah!”

Someone was making his way to our table. He was about fifteen, and from those ears, a half-elf.

Sandahl looked up. “Oh, hey kid. Have a seat!”

He sat down and nodded.

“It’s his birthday,” she said. “I promised him a pint.”

“Your son?” Cruix asked.

“My girlfriend’s,” she said, tousling his hair. “Greg here is an apprentice mason. He’s already helping his mother with the household expenses.”