Dragon Bound - The Saga of Flames and Frost

Chapter 6

Illara blinked her eyes awake. She was lying before a massive fireplace, and the flickering fire within bathed her in its soothing warmth. She was nestled in a circle of the softest furs she had ever touched.

She raised her head and looked around.

She was in a large, stone-walled bedroom with a trio of windows looking out over the mountain range. Soft moonlight rippled across the cliffs' edges, bringing them into stunning relief. Deep blue curtains were tied back on each side of each window. A large, canopied bed was behind her in matching sheets and blankets.

Fury billowed within her. She did not recognize the mountain ranges before her, and that could only mean one thing. Somehow Sir Wytehall and his lackeys had found her and taken her home with them. She was undoubtedly in his keep now, "saved from the beast."

Saved?

Tears threatened to come to her eyes at the thought of her beloved village burnt to a cinder. She angrily pushed them away.

She would fix this. No matter what it took, she would find a way to undo what that shining tin can had wrought.

She had been taught tactics. Taught negotiation. Taught how to use a man's desires against him. No matter what the challenge, she would overcome it.

She was the chosen one.

She went to push herself to standing –

Her wrist exploded with an agony the likes of which she had never experienced. It was as if it were being hammered by a thousand blacksmiths on an orange-hot anvil. She nearly passed out from the intense pain, blackness thundering in on her.

The faintest flicker of a voice sounded within her head. As if a distant echo were rolling off the furthest peak. "Illara?"

She drew breath in surprise. She drove herself up to sitting, shutting out the pain with mind-wrenching effort. "Nicodemus?"

The barest of whispers responded, "Illara ..."

Silence.

Only the soft crackling of the fire echoed in the room, making her wonder if she had imagined it all.

She waited ... waited ... waited ...

Nothing.

Not even the soft heat of his presence.

It was as if he never existed.

Drawing in a breath, she took another look around the room.

On the dresser by the bed sat a cut-crystal decanter of red wine, along with a matching wine glass. The sight made her realize just how parched her throat was.

She managed to get her legs beneath her and hobbled over to the drink. A moment later and the soothing liquid was easing down her throat.

Ahhhhhh.

She looked at her wrists, blinking. While she was covered with bruises and cuts, and still wore the remnants of her silk crimson dress, the chains were no longer cuffed to her. Someone had removed them.

Her lips pressed together in anger. Sir Wytehall was undoubtedly proud of his rescue of the helpless maiden. She needed to heal up as quickly as she could to escape.

If only she could find –

Ah.

She now saw that between two of the windows sat a small table with a cushioned chair. On the table was a silver platter holding a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and a knife.

She refilled her glass of wine and then stumbled her way over to the chair. She eased herself into it and set on the food. It seemed the most delicious she had ever tasted, and in the blink of an eye it was gone. She rested back against the chair, beginning to feel more like herself.

The fire continued to flicker, its scent soothing and relaxing.

Resolve hardened within her. If that had truly been Nicodemus contacting her, then it meant that Sir Wytehall had failed in his noble quest – thank the gods. It meant it was even more critical for her to figure out where she was and how to make her way to Nicodemus's lair.

She looked down at the tattered remnants of the wisp of a dress which clung to her. At the thin soles of her decorative shoes.

If she were to be hiking through the mountains, she needed to do better.

She made her way over to the large wardrobe in the far corner. She swung open its doors. A smile eased to her lips.

There were at least ten different dresses hanging within, in a variety of colors and styles. Each seemed to be sized perfectly for her. She ran her hands down the fabrics – silk, velvet, embroidered cotton, and more. At last she chose the tapestry one as being the most robust for a cross-country journey. It was done in colors of orange and rust brown. Leather boots lay beneath.

She pulled off the ragged remnants of her crimson dress and lay them in a heap by the side of the wardrobe. Then she slipped the dress on over her head. It was like a warm embrace wrapping around her, and she sighed in relief. She drew on the boots and then took one last look around.

The knife.

She went to the table and took the knife up. It was small but serviceable enough. If Sir Wytehall tried to prevent her departure, for her own good, she would be sure to dissuade him.

Her eyes shone at the thought.

She tucked the knife within her belt, keeping it within easy reach of her good hand. Then she nodded in satisfaction.

It was time to learn more about where she had been taken.

She moved to the door, listened at it for a long moment, and heard nothing.

She pulled it open.