CHAPTER 67
"Ah! Lyra! Come in, Come in!" Malthor invites as he notices the red-headed rider of the queen standing in the doorway to his office.
"Sorry, Skyhalla and I took a little longer than I realized," Lyra apologizes.
Malthor waves off Lyra's apology and shakes his head. "Don't even think anything of it, Lyra," Malthor begins. "You both have a lot on your minds, I'm sure." He motions for Lyra to have a seat as he busies himself at the stove putting the kettle on for tea. "I know how frustrated you both must feel, Lyra. Not being able to fight alongside with Highland's forces and your mate, of course."
Lyra goes to pull the chair out and notices the chunk missing from the backrest. "What happened here?" she inquires, running her finger over the indentations in the wood. She looks up from the chair in time to see Malthor's guilty expression instantly dissolve into an embarrassed grin.
"Ah, that," Malthor begins with his explanation. He turns away from Lyra and continues with his preparations for the tea. He brings down two mugs from the cupboard and places them on the counter. "I guess I was a little upset after Richard let me have it back at the dining hall earlier." Malthor continues working on the tea, now grabbing a pinch of tea leaves from a canister on the counter. He distributes them evenly between the two mugs.
Remembering the Dragonman from the south's earlier outburst regarding Malthor's decision to allow her and Skyhalla to leave the safety of Highland Den, Lyra once again examines the damage done to the solid wood chair and comments, "Wow! He must've really gotten under your skin, huh?"
Malthor glances over his shoulder at Lyra and replies, "It was nothing I hadn't already beaten myself up over about a hundred times, you know." He laughs and then says, "Leave it to Richard to rub salt in the wound, eh?" Malthor grabs a jar of honey and applies a dollop to each of the mugs. He looks back at Lyra who is still examining the injured seat. Nervously, Malthor removes a small vial from his coat pocket and fumbles with the twist off cap. He taps two shakes of a white powdery substance from the vial into one of the mugs, then replaces the cap of the vial and returns it to his coat pocket.
Steam begins to billow from the tea kettle and the accompanied whistling soon follows. Malthor removes the kettle from the stovetop and pours the scalding water into each of the cups. He places the kettle on the counter and then grabs the handles of each mug, making sure to keep in mind which is which. He turns to face Lyra and smiles warmly. "Here you go, my dear," Malthor offers.
Lyra smiles in return and accepts the steaming mug with both hands. "Thank you Malthor," she replies. She sets it down on the table before her and seats herself in the chair.
Malthor sets his mug down on the table in the setting opposite Lyra. He pulls the other chair out and sits. He stirs his tea and then taps the spoon against the rim of the mug – placing it on a napkin on the table.
Steam rises steadily from both mugs and both Lyra and Malthor clasp their hands around the curving ceramic surfaces for warmth.
Malthor sips from his mug first and then inquires expectantly, "Your tea okay, Lyra?" His expression is one of eager anticipation.
A voice rings out in Lyra's mind.
Lyra! You are in grave danger!
A shocked expression shows on Lyra's face as she receives the telepathic message from her dragon. She looks at Malthor in alarm.
Skyhalla, what are you talking about? It is just Malthor and I up here.
The tea! Don't drink the tea!
Lyra gasps and looks down at her steaming mug. Then she glances up at Malthor in astonishment.
"Is something the matter, my dear?" inquires Malthor with an expression of concern. But there was something else lurking beneath the superficial look he was giving Lyra – a nervous quirk causes a tick in his jaw and a bead of perspiration forms on the senior councilman's brow.
Suddenly Lyra's world comes crashing down as she realizes what she is seeing. Malthor is nervous and he is hiding something. "You!" Lyra exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at the senior councilman. "You are the spy!" Lyra hisses.
"My dear Lyra! I know you are under much duress what with Valkyr and Bjorgon responding to a distress call in Port of Frios – but really, Lyra, I'm afraid you are becoming delusional!" replies Malthor. But now the tick in his jaw is accompanied by a nervous twitch near his eye. His face is a bright red and sweat is pouring freely from his forehead and temples.
"My God! How could you betray us like this, Malthor? You are our leader for Pyronius's sake!" Rage starts to appear on the face of the rider of the queen.
"Lyra! Lyra! You must get a hold of yourself! Your imagination is getting the best of you!" Malthor stammers – now with fear in his eyes.
"My imagination! Oh really? If that's so, then you drink from my mug!" Lyra yells. Her fiery curls bounce about her shoulders as her body begins to tremble. She shoves the steaming mug toward the senior councilman and then commands, "Drink it!"
Malthor places his shaking hands on the hot mug. He looks from Lyra to the tea. He licks his dry lips. He starts to bring the mug back towards him and lifts it up off the table towards his face.
Lyra glares intently and folds her arms over her chest. Her eyes narrow as the rim of the cup hovers within inches of Malthor's mouth.
Then the senior councilman's face contorts in an ugly display of fury and he douses the queen dragon lady with the hot substance. Simultaneously, Malthor pushes his chair back and pulls a dagger from his belt.
From the window behind him, the snow continues to flurry and the wind howls against the glass.
Lyra is momentarily blinded by the scalding liquid and her hands instinctively cover her face as she tips her chair over in her panic and falls to the floor.
Malthor hops up on the table with dagger at the ready. "You just couldn't cooperate, could you?" seethes the transformed villain. "Spoiled little princess that you are, you should've died in that crow attack! But nooooo – you got away. Well now I have to correct the mistake!"
Lyra is tangled in the tipped over chair and she blinks furiously to try and regain her blurred vision. She hears what the deranged man is ranting and pleads, "Why, Malthor? Why are you trying to kill me?"
"Why? Why?" Malthor spits with vehemence. "You don't know what it is like to lose your dragon. You don't know what real loss is! None of you do! I have been living with the loss of my Garth since you and Skyhalla were born!
"Do you know what that is like? To be constantly reminded what you had and lost? To be surrounded by happy Dragonmen and women who have that fulfillment – that bond with their life partners?
"I grew to hate you! All of you! I was miserable and you had it all!
"Then, when I was on business in Port of Frios, I was approached by the ancient vampire, Vlad. He could've destroyed me right then. But he made me an offer and a promise...
"To take away my pain and to unleash my hatred of you all – for what you have and I lost. To become powerful and to help end this meaningless war once and for all."
"Lyra gasps at Malthor's onslaught and cries, "You're mad!"
Malthor cackles a hideous laugh and nods. "Yes, I am a madman..." and then his face twists in rage again as he grips the dagger tighter. "...and you, you are dead!"
He crouches to spring at Lyra with deadly intent.
But before he could launch at the Dragonwoman sprawled on the floor, a loud crash sounds from behind him as the glass of the window shatters and a massive white dragon head with swirling blue eyes erupts into the room.
Malthor's eyes widen in fear as he turns to witness Skyhalla's wedge-shaped head upon him with enormous jaw wide and glistening teeth sharp and deadly.
"Ahhhhh, no!" screams Malthor as the queen dragon herself snaps her lethal mandibles along the length of his body. Blood sprays from the senior councilman's mouth as the power of Skyhalla's bite breaks the majority of the man's bones and ruptures his organs.
She releases her death grip on the not-so-distinguished-looking and not-so-gentle-of-a-man. As his still form slumps to the table and rolls to the floor with a thud of finality, Lyra rushes forward and hugs the very same head that just took the life of the traitor.
Lyra! Are you all right?
Lyra is crying as she clings to her life partner's muzzle. She nods weakly and then buries her face into the creamy white hide.