The dragon's bloodlust was in full force as the Old One fought to pursue Mitro and end him. Fire spewed from his throat, roaring up the mountain, licking at the black dragon's tail.
Mitro leapt into the sky just as the volcano split open. The side of the mountain burst open, throwing boulders and trees through the air like a child's toys. Burning clouds of ash and superheated gas roared down the mountainside at phenomenal speed.
As diversions went, it was a superb one. To go after Mitro now would mean certain death for the humans. With only a split second to decide, Dax made his choice.
We must save them, Old One. The woman, especially.
He didn't try to force the dragon to his will, instead he merged his will with the dragon's, weaving their most instinctive drives together. With a scream, the Old One wheeled around and launched into the air, diving at a steep incline toward the fleeing humans below. As they neared the small group, dragon's wings spread wide, forming a protective shield over their bodies. Ash and burning rock pelted the dragon's hide. He locked his claws deep in the earth and swept his wings tight around the small party, ignoring their shouts of fear and surprise as he caged the humans in a protective dome formed by his curled body and overlapping wings. The dragon tucked his head beneath his wings as the pyroclastic cloud slammed into him.
His good eye was pressed against his tail. His left eye was temporarily blinded by the wound Mitro had dealt him, so he couldn't make out the faces of the people trapped beneath his wings. There was so much dust and ash from his landing that he doubted any of the people could see anything. They'd probably have a hard time breathing soon, too. But they would survive, and that was the important thing.
Dax tried to calm the Old One, to silence the instinctive growls rumbling in the dragon's chest. He didn't want to frighten the humans more.
Then, to his utter shock, a hand slipped out and touched the wound next to his eye. The touch was such a small, tiny thing, but so unexpected-so fearless and unafraid-that both Dax and the dragon froze in stunned paralysis.
Long, long ago, before even Dax had been born, the world told tales of dragons and maidens. Some said, a maiden's call was impossible for a dragon to resist. But now, as the woman laid that small, soft, gentle hand upon him, Dax knew it wasn't her call-it was her touch. A caress that gentled the savage heart of the beast. It was such a paradox-frailty that conquered strength.
Finally, the volcanic blast subsided, and for another, long moment, no one moved. Dax wasn't sure what to do. Everything in him-every thought, every one of his senses, every nerve in the dragon's body-was focused on that small, slender hand laid alongside the dragon's wounded eye.
Abruptly, foul, crowing laughter rang out in his mind, snapping him out of his strange daze.
Once again you have failed, Danutdaxton. Just as you will always fail. Mitro's sneering voice choked Dax's enhanced senses with rotting filth. Because I am the superior being, and you will always be weak!
The Old One unfurled his wings and flung himself back on his haunches. Despite his wounds, the dragon roared a defiant challenge with enough force to be heard for miles, then spouted a jet of intense flame high into the sky, a beacon in the dark of night. It cut through the ash and clouds, lighting the area in a fiery glow. But Mitro was already gone.
Sapped of strength, the Old One turned slowly back to the humans, who had covered their ears against his shattering roar and curled up in tight balls to protect themselves from the intense heat of his flame. They were huddled in the only small spot of greenery left on this part of the mountain. As the echoes of his scream died away, they lifted their heads and slowly got to their feet.
Dax's heart skipped a beat as he caught his first good look at the woman-at the extraordinarily beautiful face that was as familiar to him as his own. The lush, womanly curves, the soft, fathomless dark eyes, the long, iridescent black hair and skin as pale as milk beneath the layer of volcanic ash that covered her from head to toe.
Arabejila? Hiszak han olen te? He whispered the question in astonishment on the private path they had forged between themselves centuries ago. Was it truly her? She had been an ally in his pursuit to bring Mitro to justice, but he'd felt her die centuries ago. Hadn't he? It seemed impossible that she could have survived all these years ... and yet, there she stood.
She turned as if she might be seeking the protection of the three men with her, but the Old One surprised him by curling his tail more tightly, trapping her and forcing her a step closer. Her scent dizzied him as they breathed her in.
Her heart thundered in his ears. Clearly, the red dragon frightened her. Perhaps she could sense, as Mitro had not, that the Old One was a true dragon, not simply a shape assumed by the Carpathian hunter she had once known.
Dax radiated his will through every cell of the dragon's body and their mutual, merged consciousness. The Old One was too weary from battle to fight for control, and the great, fiery red scales and immense mass of the dragon folded in upon itself. Shrinking down and metamorphosing back into the tall, muscled density of Dax's natural form.
"Arabejila. Hiszakund olenaszund elavanej." He truly had thought she was dead.
She stumbled back, raising her hands as if to ward him off, clearly shocked that the massive bulk of the dragon would disappear to leave a human form standing before her. Two of the men in her company sprang into action, pulling weapons of some kind and rushing toward him, lethal intent plain in the cold glitter of their eyes.
Had he misread the situation? Were these men holding her prisoner?
Dax reacted instinctively, moving with preternatural speed. "Arabejila, run!" he shouted in Carpathian. "Run, my sister! If they are Mitro's slaves, he will soon return."
He disarmed Jubal, breaking his arm with a clear, audible snap. The man fell to his knees, clutching his arm to his chest.
"Sisar?" the man repeated in Carpathian almost under his breath. Then in an odd dialect Dax was unfamiliar with, "Gary, wait, he thinks she's his sister. He's trying to protect her."
Dax caught Jubal by the strange clothing covering his chest. The hunter pulled his hand back, fingers curved into diamond-tipped claws, ready to rip out the human's throat, when Arabejila cried out in the same, odd dialect as the first man.
"No! Stop! Don't hurt him! Please!"
Dax froze. Not because he understood her command-though the plea in her voice was unmistakable-but because at the first sound of her voice, an enormous wave of emotion crashed over him. Not the fiery, rage-fueled emotion of the dragon, but something deeper, fuller, more visceral. It shook him to his core. And the black-and-white world of his Carpathian vision deepened as well, becoming richer, more varied.