Thread of Darkness

Ch. 18: fancy seeing you here

Kane gripped Hellart's reins and tried very hard not to puke up his breakfast.

Three days had passed since Arlo Agnirian's death, and the mood of the Gongo Islands had shifted from mourning to anticipation. A hot thirst for blood. For conquering. He could see people gathering on the beach, fanning themselves with green palm fronds and sipping on coconut water. The crowd was excited.

Elated for the Grand Race.

Well, for the qualifiers, at least, Kane thought; his eyes flicked around to the other contestants, hovering above the start line on their mounts. Ten of them, in total. Only five of them would make it through to the semi-finals next week.

He had to be one of them.

Kane adjusted his golden helmet. Gods, it was hot out here. He'd be lucky if he could see through the sweat. But the helmet was a necessary evil; firstly, because it would protect him if a dragon tried to melt his face off, and secondly, because the race was supposedly anonymous.

Emphasis on supposedly.

In reality, Kane recognized most of the other competitors from their mounts. Mack and Alfie Agnirian, sitting astride their silver and green bulls. Vulcan Woodstock on sharp-toothed Egan. Calder Thornroot. Kennet Bierson. There was only one rider Kane didn't recognize — a short, slim wisp of a thing — sitting on a blue-silver female.

He smirked.

Easy pickings, really.

Female dragons were kept only for breeding purposes; they didn't have the same fighting instinct that the male beasts had. Kane watched as the small rider leaned down, whispering something to his dragon. He was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

Both, maybe.

He turned his attention back to the beach. Were his parents watching? His mother would be in the healer's tent, but his father would be there. Kane wondered if he was nervous. If Dorian was thinking of the son that he had lost three years ago.

Kane certainly was.

His grip tightened on the reins. Would Rourke be proud of him? Or would his brother think that he was a fool for doing this?

Hellart made a purring noise, glancing back at him. A wordless reassurance.

We'll be okay.

Kane patted his neck. "Let's give them hell, buddy."

Up ahead, a rider raised a burning torch: the signal that the race was about to begin. Kane's stomach lurched, and too late, he wished that he hadn't eaten that last piece of sausage at breakfast.

He half-closed his eyes. Please don't vomit, please don't vomit.

The man held up three fingers.

Two.

One.

The torch went down. And all hell broke loose.

Kane shot forward. Wind whistled past his ears, sharp as an arrow. The world narrowed to the blur of the palm trees, to the blue of the sea. He pressed flat against Hellart, urging his mount on with his legs. Left. Right. Duck. Faster.

To his credit, Hellart didn't need help with the last one.

Hellart let out a low growl, his golden eyes focused on the dragon leading the pack: Vulcan's mount, Egan. And even though Kane knew what Egan had done to Hellart as hatchlings — had seen his scars a million times before — he had vastly underestimated Hellart's hatred of the other dragon.