The Last Dragon Rider - Chapter #3 - Free To Read

Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Sairalindë had watched Cëladyn leave the shrine, and she continued to watch the doorway for several long heartbeats. Quiet rage seethed, and she balled her fists and ground her teeth, holding back the lightning that threatened to spark from her fingertips. The raw power vibrating through to her very core, crackling across her skin. Magic fizzed and hissed around her, and the fine hair on her arms rose with static energy.

Taking a few deep breaths and reclaiming her calm, she stepped from the altar and into her office. She slipped off the druid robes and reached for a swathe of green fabric. Her gaze alighted on her father’s research scattered across her desk as she began wrapping the cloth tightly about her, binding her breasts firmly, criss-crossing the gauzy fabric around her torso and across her stomach, tying it off at her hip. She shimmied into a pair of leather leggings and reached for her foot wraps. To other races—like the dwarves and humans—the elves lack of footwear was strange. The elven people had strong ties to the lands, their magic and mystique were inexplicably linked. Even those who did not practice magic felt the connection to nature, and the elven people had maintained the practice throughout their long history.

After binding her feet and leaving only her toes exposed, she tossed an olive green tunic over her head before quickly weaving her tresses into a thick braid.

Sivath was waiting, and Flintathriël was late. Again.

She was reaching for her leather jerkin when he finally appeared in her doorway.

Arms akimbo, he slouched against the frame, all lean muscle and sharp angles beneath his leathers. Silver-white hair fell across his forehead, hiding the dark arches of his brows as he gazed at her with silvery blue eyes. The mop of hair barely touching his shoulders. His coloring typical of the royal family.

Her gaze traced his tattoos. Sweeping vines encompassed runic symbols, curling downward from his bottom lip, winding and weaving their way down his chin and neck. She knew every line that twisted and spread across his shoulders, and across his back. Etchings that disappeared beneath his tunic and reappeared along his arms. She still remembered the day he received the markings, branding him Nuvian. The day she first gave herself to him, the day she truly became his.

They had been betrothed since the year of her birth, and the dragon wars had already been raging for many, many years. Sairalindë had grown up alongside the royal children, against the backdrop of war, growing close to Flintathriël’s twin sister, Faëlwyn. Neither he nor herself had wanted the match. In fact both had spent many summers chafing against the binds of duty thrust upon them.

Throughout their adolescents, she found him arrogant and cocky. The typical characteristics of one raised to incredible privilege. Someone who owned the world purely by the virtue of being born.

By the time she reached her eighteenth year, her feelings began to change, though his did not. His constant parade of conquests through the halls where she studied magic was like a dagger through her heart. She threw her innocence away, running to the stable hand that had been sweet on her and let him tumble her in the hayloft in an effort to rid Flintathriël from her thoughts. When she emerged tussled and smelling of sweat and sex, he had been there. She had called his name, and the look of complete devastation that briefly flashed in his eyes before his arrogant smirk took its place, shattered her.

They spent the next three years hurting each other, ever knowing one day the bonding rites could be delayed no longer. Until the day he had proven himself one of the Nuvian. One of the elite. An ancient warrior class which bound their souls to animal spirits. Runic tattoos aiding them in battle, channeling the spirit magic and giving the Nuvian added strength, speed, and agility.

Flintathriël had chosen the wolf. The wolf was fearless, strong, and filled with power, and his body and soul endured much.

He was the eternal hunter.

She had been so proud the day he received his tattoos, having earned them a year early, and so tired of the games they had spent years playing that she went to his room, threw him down, and rode him until his knees buckled, and he finally claimed what had always been his.

Now her thoughts centered on the warrior approaching, and she brought her gaze back to his face, where mischief danced in those silver-blue eyes, a twisted smirk upon his lips, and a dark brow raised in question.

Pressing her lips into a hard line, Sairalindë turned from him and slipped on her jerkin, all the while hastily pushing her father’s papers into the desk draw, out of sight.

She reached for her stave, remembering her annoyance.

“I am out of time, Flint. Sivath is waiting. We will have to discuss the bonding rites another time.” She made to brush past him, but his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest, his sudden hardness pressed against her backside.

“You spend more time with that beast than with me, Saira. I am beginning to feel neglected of late.” His breath was hot in her ear, while his hands slid up her sides creeping beneath her tunic. His thumbs tracing circles across her breasts, causing her nipples to harden beneath her bindings.

“Sivath says the same of you.” She laughed, escaping his grasp and turning to face him.

“I wish you would not discuss me with the beast, na’vahleth

A warmth ran through her, she would never grow tired of the endearment, even if it was laced with frustration. My heart he called her.

“Jealous?” Sairalindë smirked, arching her brow.

“Of a dragon? Are you joking?” Flintathriël chuckled, a deep rumbling in his chest.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders and turned, reaching for her stave once more.

“Between my druid duties, this never ending war, Sivath’s training, your uncle breathing down my neck, and our bonding ceremony, I am stretched thin as it is. Not to mention I am already behind with Caewen’s lessons. He is a truly gifted boy, and his studies should not suffer on my account.”

Her decision to take on an apprentice, especially one who was already sixteen, had been impulsive. Most mages began honing their skills when their magic first manifested around the age of five or six. But Caewen had shown such extraordinary promise and natural talent. To let such a rare and gifted boy go untrained would have been a great disservice.

Flintathriël crossed the space between them, cupping her face between his hands.

“Sairalindë, Ir vahla ena na’vahleth, let me help.” Flintathriël whispered as he placed a soft kiss to her lips. Her heart fluttered when he slipped into their native language. His words—I love you my heart—were a silken caress across her skin. A whisper of a promise.

“Why has my uncle been bothering you?”

“You know he wanted my father’s position. He wants it still.”

“Cëladyn is harmless—do not let him rattle you.” He laughed, pulling her into his arms.

“Necromancy is not harmless, Flint. If you had bothered to hone your magical skills you would know this. You know all elves have the innate ability, you could have—”

“Not this again, Saira. You know magic never held my interest.”

She sighed, shaking herself from his grasp and turning to face him.

“I know, but we could have been great together.”

His lips were on hers then, kissing the very breath from her, his hand deftly pushing the jerkin from her shoulders as his hard body pressed against hers. His lips moved to the curve of her throat, leaving a trail of scorching kisses. His tongue ran along the tapering tip of her ear, grazing the sensitive point with his teeth. She felt him smile against her ear at the shudder that rippled through her body, and she melted against him, desire pooling in the pit of her belly.

“We are great together,” he whispered, claiming her mouth again. A mewling moan escaped from her lips. His hands were in her hair, weaving around her braid holding her in place as he backed her against the desk, potion vials spilling as her hands gripped the hard wood. His tongue trailed along the curve of her neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh.

“Flint, stop.” Sairalindë pushed gently at him as he nuzzled at the hollow of her throat. His body pressed hard and tight against her. Oh how she wished to let him take her, her body screamed out for his touch. To have Flintathriël’s hands and lips and tongue laying worship to her body. To bring her to life the way only he could, to make love to her—responsibilities be damned.

“You cannot come in here and distract me with your kisses—” Her words were lost when his lips descended upon hers once more, her hands sliding up the back of his neck and into the softness of his hair.

“I think I am doing a good job of exactly that.”

“Flint, please…” Sairalindë knew not whether she was begging him to stop or continue, but he kissed her again then stepped away. “As you wish.”

She took a moment to catch her breath and straighten her now mussed clothing and caught a glimpse of him watching her. His tangled hair had fallen completely across his face. His gaze was hidden beneath a curtain of silvery-white hair, and he was pouting at her. The urge to reach out and trace his tattoos with her tongue was strong.

“Do not look at me like that, Flint.” Her words came out sharper than intended. He moved the hair obscuring his view and simply smiled. The action softened the sharp angles of his face, and Sairalindë had to force herself to look away. Sivath was waiting, and she had wasted enough time already, no matter how she ached to be in Flintathriël’s arms right now.

“Come now Saira—”

“You were late. I told you before, I am out of time.” Picking up her stave once more, Flintathriël’s frown followed her as she moved passed him through the door.

The echo of his touch lingered long after she left the room.

****

Flintathriël stepped into the crowded tavern and was immediately met by the heavenly aroma of lunch. Freshly baked pastries sprinkled with cinnamon sugar sat on the little window ledge by the kitchen. Tannalyn, the proprietor’s young daughter walked past him with a platter of roasted meats. The girl shot him a dark look when he plucked a tender piece of venison from the passing plate. The sweet tang of juniper berries mingled with the succulent roast was delicious.

Licking the meaty juices from his fingers he glanced about. The establishment was a long favored haunt of his. He and Sairalindë had spent many an evening here, sharing a meal after their respective work days had ended.

Flintathriël raised his hand in greeting as a dark-skinned elf busily served drinks, jotting down meal orders with a broad toothy smile. Aten, the proprietor, was a longtime friend of his father and retired commander of the dragon riders. He now owned the establishment, his tavern having the widest and most varied assortment of boutique and imported ales and wines from across the realms. Which meant that he also had the busiest bar in the city.

He strode across the bustling room. The voices of pleased patrons rose. The alehouse was a buzzing hive of activity. It was quickly approaching mid-morning, and the tavern was already full with those seeking a midday meal. Gaining Aten’s attention, he simply nodded in greeting and stepped behind the bar, helping himself to a bottle of Aten’s finest, dropping three silvers in its place.

Leaning against the bar, he popped the cork, and took a mouthful of the chilled brew, savoring the malted taste as it burst over his tongue. He scanned the crowd, his gaze flicking across the tables and finding the person he sought.

Roggar Stonefist sat with an assortment of papers strewn across the space before him, as he busily devoured a hearty fare of roasted meats, honey glazed vegetables, and crusty bread fresh baked by Aten’s wife. Flintathriël made his way to Roggar. He placed his bottle down on the table as he dropped into the seat across from his friend. Roggar finally glanced up from his meal only when Flintathriël plucked a piece of buttered bread from his plate and stuffed it into his mouth. He grinned at the glaring dwarf through a mouthful of food.

“That right there, Whitey, is a sure way to lose a limb.” Roggar groused, pulling his plate closer and shoveling a forkful of potato into his mouth. “Get your own.”

Flintathriël swallowed the stolen bread and laughed. “Come now, Roggar, na’fen. Did your mother never teach you it is polite to share?”

“Did the queen never teach you it is rude to steal?” Roggar countered, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Flintathriël raised his hands in surrender. He leaned back over the table and scanned Roggar’s assortment of blueprints. The man really was an engineering genius he mused as he scanned the sketches of contraptions and weapons.

“Did you bring the samples you promised?”

Roggar nodded and pushed his plate away, and then he slapped Flintathriël’s hand when he reached for the food. “Do you really want to have to explain to your druidess why you are suddenly missing a hand?”

Not waiting for a reply, Roggar bent down and retrieved a thick leather roll from beneath the table. Flintathriël watched as he loosened the ties and unfurled the wrap to reveal a dozen different dagger designs.

Flintathriël hissed in pain as his hand closed around the hilt of one of the weapons, the metal searing his flesh.

“Why would you bring iron here?” He snapped, glaring at the red welts appearing across his fingers. “You did that on purpose.”

Roggar shrugged, not denying his accusation. “Why do you habitually have to touch everything?”

Flintathriël shook his hand out in front of himself and knocked a stack of papers to the floor as he brought his burning fingers to his lips. He snatched up the papers, one design standing out against the other. It was a blueprint of what appeared to be a merchant vessel, only with multiple levels beneath layered with barrels of black powder and iron shards.

“What is this?”

“I had been working on something for your father, but he rejected the design. The iron was part of the presentation.” Roggar took back the paper and tucked it beneath the pile.

This is the one I wanted to show you.” Carefully Roggar unsheathed a dagger from the wrap and handed it to Flintathriël. The hilt was of dark polished wood, the cross guard and pommel filed into a sharp point on either end. The blade itself was made of obsidian, gleaming like polished glass, and tipped with silver. There was nothing sharper than an obsidian blade. Flintathriël had never seen a finer weapon. If Sairalindë could enchant it, it would be a perfect blade for her. He would enjoy teaching her to wield it immensely.

“Could you forge a matching sword?”

“Can I—who do you think you are talking to? Of course I can forge a damn sword. I am insulted you have to ask.”

He moved the dagger between his palms, the burns from the iron blade forgotten as he made a few quick jabs in the air.

“Imagining the necromancer’s throat there Whitey?”

He smirked at his friend. “No, your potatoes.”

****

Flintathriël finished off the remnants of his meal, having ordered his own plate after Roggar left. He glanced up, his hands resting on his now full stomach to see the Commander of the Nuvian enter. Flintathriël waved him over.

“How fares Thalion? I hope he is not giving you too much trouble, Theron.”

“Your brother is no trouble at all. No more than you and Faë were when you first joined the Nuvian at least. Have you forgotten what is was like to be fifteen, Flint?”

Flintathriël smirked. Him? At fifteen? He had been a mischievous child, though his mother preferred the term troublemaker.

He watched Theron slide into the chair opposite him, the red-haired elf’s hand moving to check his pocket at the mention of Faëlwyn. Theron had asked the kings permission months ago to wed the princess. Yet, he still carried the ring in his pocket even after receiving the king’s blessing. Theron had been reluctant to court Faëlwyn in the beginning, having not wanted to jeopardize his new command. He had been a newly minted Commander and Flintathriël and Faëlwyn had been among Theron’s first group of recruits. Flintathriël would have felt sorry for Theron had it not amused him to no end to watch Faëlwyn make him blush at every turn.

“Ask her, Theron. I assure you Faë will say yes.”

“And what is it I am agreeing to brother?” Faëlwyn appeared in the doorway of the tavern and sauntered toward them. Theron dropped his hand back to the table. She came around behind the Commander, leaning into his back as she looped her arms around his neck. Faëlwyn dropped a kiss against Theron’s cheek before resting her chin on his shoulder, their cheeks pressed together.

“Theron was thinking it might be time for you to lead your first mission. There has been word of skirmishes at The Reach. I merely suggested he ask you himself if he thought you were ready.”

Theron shot him a withering look that at one time would have left his knees quaking with fear. Faëlwyn’s eyes flared wide with excitement before she stepped around and dropped herself into the Commanders lap. Flintathriël simply leaned back in his chair, regarded the two and grinned.

“Theron, I am ready. But why the change of heart? You keep telling me I have not enough experience to lead my own patrol.”

“Faë, I—”

Flintathriël burst out laughing as Theron tripped and faltered over his words.

“What are you laughing about? You make me nervous when you grin like that, Flint.”

“Me too,” Theron said, still watching him with a wary eye as though expecting Flintathriël would at any moment blurt out his secret.

“I am laughing at the two of you. To think, Theron, you used to have that absurd rule about getting involved with your recruits.

It was true, Faëlwyn had taken a liking to Theron the moment she had laid eyes on him. Though it had taken, despite her efforts, until the final year of Nuvian training for Theron to succumb completely. Considering Nuvians trained rigorously for close to a decade in order to master the runes, Flintathriël had admired the man’s restraint and dedication.

“Yes, well, we all make mistakes, do we not?”

Flintathriël smiled. “That we do.”

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