Page 130 of The Dragon Warlord
“Something that can use sophisticated magic. We seem to have walked over a magical tripwire. We’re in a snare of magic that won’t allow dragon magic.” He wipes water out of his eyes.
I slick my hair back. This is getting tied up and I don’t care what River says. “Then you still have access to yours?”
“For now. I’ll see what I can do to remove the snare. I don’t like this though. Let’s head back and regroup,” he suggests.
“I want that, but I’ve been thoroughly lectured. I’m not to return without sarsen stone.”
The dragon lord’s husbands only contradict him when he’s a brat. Otherwise, they respect his authority, claiming he’s wise and knows what he’s doing. Because he turns out to be right most of the time, it only supports his declaration that he knows everything and inflates his ego to epic proportions.
Phari thinks about it. “Then it must be for something important, and he must think we can handle the trouble we encounter.”
“I suspected you’d say that. I have a bad feeling.” Another belt of thunder sounds off as if to punctuate my point and lightning cracks across the sky.
“Unfortunately, so do I.”
“Advice, Wizard Phari?”A good Warlord always seeks counsel before making difficult decisions.
“I’ll try to work this out so that we have dragon magic back. Your plan to find cover is sound,” he shouts over the rain.
“All right. I’ll also set my own trap along the perimeter and keep my feelers out.”
* * *
With everyone at the edge of their endurance, we’re forced to stop for the night. At least the rain has ceased so I can use my Elven gift to harden enough ground for us to construct a couple of large tents that won’t collapse overnight. That is, so long as the torrential downpour remains at bay.
We have a quick dinner of reheated dragon stew and then the bedrolls are laid out so that we can begin sleeping in shifts. “Shall we take our night watch together, honeycake?” I whisper in River’s ear.
My usually sunshiny omega doesn’t have much left in him. I hate seeing him like this, so I dig deep and pull the last of my reserves to be strong for him. He’s one of the most powerful and proficient dragons I know, but I’m still his alpha and it’s still my job to protect him. He sinks into me.
“I’d love that, Alpha.”
I shouldn’t, but fuck it, I trickle a little Elven fortitude into him. It happens to be the same spell, Uncle Taj, Bayaden’s uncle, used all those years ago to give strength to our horses so we could outrun Elemental Death Wolves. His blue eyes widen, and I wait for the mild scolding. “Warlord, don’t waste what little energy you have on me.”
“Interesting. Since when does my omega tell me what to do?”
“You told me to tell you when I thought you were being foolish.” He smirks and wraps his arms around me. “You shouldn’t have, but I appreciate it all the same.”
Inhaling him, I hope to get a little of his delicious scent, but all I get is mud and muck. “Ugh, know what we smell like?”
“Wasteland beast,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I’m glad you killed them all, Warlord. Those things were awful.”
“But their scent lives on to haunt us.”
River’s eyes are fluttering between open and closed. His limbs are sagging. I scoop him into my arms. “Okay, you. Time for bed.”
“Mhm,” he says.
I take him to the bedroll that’s already spread out for us under the large communal tent and remove our jackets and boots so that we can climb inside. We’ll take the first sleep shift. I’d rather be up during the wee hours of the night so I can sense the things they won’t without the help of magic. Tired as he is, he’s cognizant enough to tug gently at the leather throng holding my hair back, demanding that I remove it.
“Riv,” I whine. Yeah, whine because I said I wasn’t going to give a fuck how much River complained. My hair is soggy and disgusting. The ponytail stays.
“This only has one ending, Warlord.” His eyes are closed, but his voice has the confidence of a man who knows he’s already won the battle.
And he has. I give him everything he wants, and he’s come to know it. An annoyed huff leaves my lips as I tug the throng out and let my hair fly free. Some of it has dried to dampness, but none of it’s dry. River buries his face in it anyway.
“I’m gross.”
He doesn’t answer already captured by what Papa used to call the sleep fairies. I pass out next to River into a dead sleep, which is the kind of sleep that isn’t usual for us.
