The Deer Prince's Murder: Book Two of 'Fantasy & Forensics' (Fantasy & Forensics 2) by Michael Angel
Authors: Michael Angel
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“How do you know of this dragon? Galen looked into the royal archives, there’s no record of him.”
“Scholars put too much faith in the musty scent of libraries. Not every scrap of knowledge is captured in the old books! The dragon tamers of old know their own lore, and it is passed down through story and song, the way of the first Barrow-Men.”
“I know I’m going to regret this, but what did the lore say of this Sirrahon?”
Vazura looked pained as he recited, “Sirrahon is one of the eldest of dragonkind. The stories tell that his egg hatched more than three thousand years ago. And he is as aggressive as he is difficult to harm. Sirrahon is called a stone dragon because his scales are like slabs of granite. And legend has it that because of his prowess, he was the equivalent of a rising captain in their last Great War.”
“But…we have dragons too. In the royal stables.”
Vazura waved the thought away as if it disgusted him. “Our dragons are scarce two, three decades along in their growth. You and the wizard defeated a pair of them. If Sirrahon appeared, and we could instill a suicidal sense of duty in our creatures, they wouldn’t last ten minutes. There are those who say that Sirrahon may be insane. He has been held apart from others of his kind…because he relishes killing and eating them.”
“Sirrahon kills and eats other dragons,” I muttered. “Oh, this just keeps getting better. Well, I don’t think ‘getting out of the way’ is an option anymore. We’re counting on you to figure out how to fight him.”
Vazura set his jaw. “You ask for the impossible…but I will figure out something. Because I will prove to you that I am worthy of your service, Dayna. Every dragon has a weakness, either physical, magical, or otherwise. We can find it, and we can beat him.”
“Now that’s what I want to hear,” I said approvingly. I began to ask another question, when a flicker of movement caught my eye. Up on the western battlement, something was silhouetted against the brightness of the sun. I raised a hand to block out the worst of the glare.
A dark shape stood on the battlement. It had the figure of a man, but it was vague, indistinct. It wasn’t exactly like a shadow, for within it swirled a roil of brown, black, and red. As if it were a human-shaped container of ink, dirt, and blood that had been given a healthy stir.
It raised an arm. It held something – a tube? – up at the end of its outstretched extremity, where a hand should have been.
“Look out!” I cried. “On the battlement!”
A percussive thwip as something tore through the air near me. A thock! of impact nearby, like someone throwing darts at a cork board.
“Guards! To me!” Fitzwilliam roared, as he moved towards the battlement stairs. More thwips filled the air. The king took about three running steps before the two guards in our party tackled him, holding their shields up in a desperate attempt to block the assassin.
Galen galloped forward, shouting magical incantations. Shaw dropped the leg bone he’d been gnawing on and took off like he’d been shot out of a cannon.
A soft, wet sound from behind me. I turned. Stared in horror.
Captain Vazura had fallen to his knees. His face swelled and turned red as if charged with blood. His lips turned the purple of a fresh bruise. Eyes bulged, whites hemorrhaging scarlet as I moved to help him. He began to fall backwards. Lady Behnaz clutched at the Captain’s arm while I tried to grab hold of his shoulder.
Vazura jerked out of both of our grasps as he began to convulse. He fell to the ground on his back, knees bent painfully underneath his prone form. Wet, choking sounds burbled from his mouth. The Captain’s head drummed twice, three times against the lush turf.
And then he went still and silent.
Chapter Twelve
Shaw let out a lion’s roar as his vast wings beat the air. In a flash, he reached the upper rampart of the palace. Claws
“How do you know of this dragon? Galen looked into the royal archives, there’s no record of him.”
“Scholars put too much faith in the musty scent of libraries. Not every scrap of knowledge is captured in the old books! The dragon tamers of old know their own lore, and it is passed down through story and song, the way of the first Barrow-Men.”
“I know I’m going to regret this, but what did the lore say of this Sirrahon?”
Vazura looked pained as he recited, “Sirrahon is one of the eldest of dragonkind. The stories tell that his egg hatched more than three thousand years ago. And he is as aggressive as he is difficult to harm. Sirrahon is called a stone dragon because his scales are like slabs of granite. And legend has it that because of his prowess, he was the equivalent of a rising captain in their last Great War.”
“But…we have dragons too. In the royal stables.”
Vazura waved the thought away as if it disgusted him. “Our dragons are scarce two, three decades along in their growth. You and the wizard defeated a pair of them. If Sirrahon appeared, and we could instill a suicidal sense of duty in our creatures, they wouldn’t last ten minutes. There are those who say that Sirrahon may be insane. He has been held apart from others of his kind…because he relishes killing and eating them.”
“Sirrahon kills and eats other dragons,” I muttered. “Oh, this just keeps getting better. Well, I don’t think ‘getting out of the way’ is an option anymore. We’re counting on you to figure out how to fight him.”
Vazura set his jaw. “You ask for the impossible…but I will figure out something. Because I will prove to you that I am worthy of your service, Dayna. Every dragon has a weakness, either physical, magical, or otherwise. We can find it, and we can beat him.”
“Now that’s what I want to hear,” I said approvingly. I began to ask another question, when a flicker of movement caught my eye. Up on the western battlement, something was silhouetted against the brightness of the sun. I raised a hand to block out the worst of the glare.
A dark shape stood on the battlement. It had the figure of a man, but it was vague, indistinct. It wasn’t exactly like a shadow, for within it swirled a roil of brown, black, and red. As if it were a human-shaped container of ink, dirt, and blood that had been given a healthy stir.
It raised an arm. It held something – a tube? – up at the end of its outstretched extremity, where a hand should have been.
“Look out!” I cried. “On the battlement!”
A percussive thwip as something tore through the air near me. A thock! of impact nearby, like someone throwing darts at a cork board.
“Guards! To me!” Fitzwilliam roared, as he moved towards the battlement stairs. More thwips filled the air. The king took about three running steps before the two guards in our party tackled him, holding their shields up in a desperate attempt to block the assassin.
Galen galloped forward, shouting magical incantations. Shaw dropped the leg bone he’d been gnawing on and took off like he’d been shot out of a cannon.
A soft, wet sound from behind me. I turned. Stared in horror.
Captain Vazura had fallen to his knees. His face swelled and turned red as if charged with blood. His lips turned the purple of a fresh bruise. Eyes bulged, whites hemorrhaging scarlet as I moved to help him. He began to fall backwards. Lady Behnaz clutched at the Captain’s arm while I tried to grab hold of his shoulder.
Vazura jerked out of both of our grasps as he began to convulse. He fell to the ground on his back, knees bent painfully underneath his prone form. Wet, choking sounds burbled from his mouth. The Captain’s head drummed twice, three times against the lush turf.
And then he went still and silent.
Chapter Twelve
Shaw let out a lion’s roar as his vast wings beat the air. In a flash, he reached the upper rampart of the palace. Claws
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