The Dragon-Child Read Online Free

for the first time, the men’s response was one of startlement. His exposed chest was as hairless, smooth and pale as his face. This no doubt seemed perfectly natural to Therian, but gained him many new, furtive glances from the bemused crew. Indeed, his flesh was a great deal more pale than their own ruddy, craggy, randomly-haired heads. The King’s jet black hair flowed over skin that was a very pale blue intermixed with very light pink. No beads of sweat stood upon his forehead.
    “Do you not sweat at all, milord?” asked Gruum after watching his master for a full day in the sun.
    “I’m not sure my body is capable of producing such a vile substance.”
    “Are we only so many red, dripping beasts to you?”
     Therian’s answer smile was slight, thin-lipped and wintry. “Only in odor. I will take my meals from now on at the stern deck while you man the helm.”
    The cabin boy was one of the few crew members that didn’t seem to dislike them. He often brought salted meats, fresh fish and warm-clime fruits without being asked. Gruum found the fruits, when sliced and peeled, to be quite palatable. They had a vague sweetness, a rubbery texture, and a slightly unpleasant aftertaste that grew upon the tongue over a period of time. An acquired taste, he supposed, which he was surprised to realize he was acquiring.
    Gruum knew there was another, much more important reason why they took their meals upon the stern deck. With each day that passed Therian weakened. Simply remaining upright would become difficult for him, in time.
    Inevitably, as each day faded into night, Therian’s false strength ebbed away. Gruum often found his master eyeing the crew in a predatory manner. Would they make it to their next port before the Dragons must be fed again?
    Upon the sixth night, in the dark, Gruum found his lord half-slumped over the rail, one hand clutching the pommel of Succor.
    “Are you well, milord?” asked Gruum quietly.
    “You know I’m not. This blade—and its twin—they beg me to wield them.”
    “Are they ensorcelled?”
    “Nay. They speak only in my mind. They speak because I give them leave to. In truth, it is not the swords that speak, but my hunger for new strength. Perhaps it is the voices of the Dragons I hear. They beg me every night to allow my swords to drink the blood of just one more foul soul. But I will not release the blades. I have done so too often. The crew is close to mutiny.”
    “I suspect you are right about that, sire.”
    “I must hold on until we reach the farthest southern ports. There they can put me off and there I can sate myself upon some deserving ogre of a man. One more day. The seventh day. We shall reach the last port soon.”
    Gruum nodded, but he suspected Therian had even darker reasons for holding back. He suspected that once released in his famished state, Therian may well massacre the entire crew. He eyed his master and chewed his lips until they oozed blood. Only he had any real inkling of the battle that his master must win each night to keep them all alive.
    Gruum looked up at the sails then, which still snapped in the unnaturally strong winds. If one watched closely, the glimmer of a wind spirit could be seen. The spirits would blink down at the crewmen when stared at. They could only be seen at night, and for the most part the only thing a man could see was their eyes, which were long slits of glimmering magenta.

-4-

    Two hours after midnight, long before the dawn of the seventh day, Gruum’s eyes snapped open. At first, he was not sure what had awakened him. Then he heard it again. A creaking, scraping sound. The sound of a boot being dragged slowly over the splintered deck boards.
    His hand slid immediately to the pommel of his knife. Hard fingers closed in a claw-like grip over his wrist.
    “Milord!” he managed to get out, but then they fell upon him, and he could not make a further utterance. He suspected his throat was about to be slit. He struggled with an