The front doors of the Striped Monkey slammed open, admitting a gust of rain and cold wind scented of the sea. The torches guttered in their tarnished brass sconces. A woman near the door squealed in mock dismay. A silvered, honeyed male voice entered the door ahead of its owner. “It was a glorious battle! There we were, hovering above the forest, the tops of the vallenwoods tickling my dragon’s belly …”
Laronnar froze. The red-haired barmaid started, rose when his grip around her waist loosened. His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her forearm as he yanked her back to his lap, cursing softly.
The voice of Dralan, Laronnar’s commander, continued, “We were waiting for the elves when they burst from cover of the forest. They were so intent on ambush…”
The words, spoken in a tone both deep and masterful, made Laronnar feel as if he’d bitten down on slivered glass. “Bastard,” he murmured under his breath. “My plan!” Trying to ignore Dralan’s voice, Laronnar caught the barmaid’s ruffled collar and tugged her closer.
Across the table, the woman on Haylis’s lap was cooling like a dove in mating season. Evading Haylis’s kiss, she slipped her arm from around his neck, dislodging his grip. “Is that the Commander?” she breathed. “He’s handsome. And so elegant!”
In response to her words, Dralan tossed his cape back over his shoulders, revealing the shining steel-gray dragonscale armor that molded his muscular form and the medallion, supposedly a gift of Takhisis-Queen of the Dark Gods-which glittered gold and emerald on his broad chest.
“Oh …” the woman sighed.
As Laronnar glared across the table, the barmaid on his lap regarded him speculatively. “He is very handsome,” she agreed.
Her soft, appreciative voice made Laronnar want to slide his fingers around her slender neck and squeeze until a less irksome sound was forced out.
Dralan, of royal blood and majestic bearing, was everything Laronnar would never be. Tall, broad-shouldered, imposing. Black-haired and handsome. His blue eyes and rich voice had the ability to attract any woman he chose, and his demeanor gained him the respect and trust of every man he met. Dralan was a gentleman, well-bred, stylish, educated, a favorite of the Dragonlady who led their army.
The Dragonlady did not even know Laronnar was alive. Had she met him on the street, she would not have glanced at him twice for all that he was as tall as Dralan and as strong.
Dralan’s piercing, sky-blue gaze noted the interest of the two women. He bowed first to Laronnar, his first captain, managing to make a simple gesture of greeting both elegant and scornful, and bestowed a smile on the red-haired female perched on his lap.
“Kaelay!”
So that was her name.
Dralan held out his hand. Without a word, the red-haired beauty slid off Laronnar’s knee.
Laronnar caught the tail of her apron and tried to yank her back.
This time, she refused to be detained. Slapping playfully at his hands, she sashayed away. She glanced back over her shoulder, laughter sparkling in her green eyes. “After all, it was the commander’s strategy that won the day. I want to hear the rest of his story.”
Laronnar scowled and started to rise. “That was my plan!” he hissed under his breath.
“Captain!” Haylis cried, jumping to his feet before Laronnar could stand. “I’ll get us another drink!” He snatched up the pitcher and poured what was left into Laronnar’s mug. Then he loudly demanded more ale.
For a moment, Laronnar hesitated, half out of his seat, his gaze locked with Dralan’s. The commander’s eyes were open wide, curious, ready to allow Laronnar to back down, ready to meet any challenge. The retinue of human and draconians surrounding Dralan regarded Laronnar with obvious hostility.
A feverish thrill rushed up his back, made the hair on the back of his neck stand erect.
“Let it go, Captain,” Haylis whispered, his back to the crowd at the door. “Do you want to be skinned alive? Or worse? You know the Blue Dragonlady favors him.”
The words penetrated, but not for the reason Haylis mentioned. Laronnar, with his straight brown hair and eyes his own mother called ‘mean brown,’ did have one talent the commander would never match. No one was more brilliant, more devious, in planning a battle. Dralan had so far claimed Laronnar’s success for his own. It was the reason Dralan tolerated him.