Page 95 of The Sun King's Noon

‘Weltruden. Ardenia.’

Richard fought the urge to retch. This was an Ardenian stallion of Weltruden, a western borderland. By the look of it, Rot infested. How had it come to be here?—

A second scream from the cottage—Jeya, this time—“Touch the little ‘uns and I’ll shove my sword up your stinking backside!”

Forget the horse. Focus.

Richard studied the hut’s underside and spotted a trapdoor ten feet up, though there was no ladder. Hiking up the chicken legs was the obvious approach.

Sheathing the sword, Richard drew two daggers from the backs of his boots. He stabbed into the yellow hide and?—

The cottage screamed.

It was a deafening screech made of no mouth he could see, startling Richard almost as much as the twitch of the chicken leg. The whole hut lurched sideways with a crash of pots from somewhere within. Richard barely had time to gasp before the leg unfurled and three taloned digits closed about his arms and ribs.

He was lifted, kicking, into the air. Richard struggled against the grasp, trying to manoeuvre his dagger into position foranother stab, but a sudden syrupy heaviness sank into him—a cloying weight that filled his eyes and his mouth and his lungs. His head lolled. The dagger slipped from his fingers. The clearing tilted, and the last thing Richard saw before the world went dark was the trapdoor in the cottage’s belly yawning open.

* * *

Land of Dreams

Richard knew at once he was in a dream.

He was in his tent. There was his cot with its furred blankets. There was his writing desk with scattered maps and a pinned drawing from Briony of their family. From outside came the muffled sounds of a camp settling for the night—soldiers chatting, horses whickering, owls hooting.

The Sylari border campaign. He’d been twenty-four, leading a group of soldiers against an onslaught of chupacabras. The skirmish had lasted two weeks, and earned him the long scar across his right ribs.

The shield above his desk reflected his face. He looked young, devoid of the bags that now sat permanently under his eyes. As Richard stared, his black hair turned sandy, and new lines etched his face.

“How strange.”

Richard froze. His heart gave a sluggish thump.

“I confess I had not expected to find your dream self within my grasp.” Galdran chuckled. “How ever did you come to stumble upon Rot, beloved? You are usually such a careful creature.”

Richard spun, stomach rolling, trying to bash away memories of hands at his hips, of a mouth at his neck. The elf was right before him, wearing a silver robe that highlighted the sheen of his hair.

The children.

“This is ill-timed,” Richard said. “I need to wake.”

“Ill-timed.” Galdran clicked his tongue. “Come now, that is no greeting.”

His eyes drifted over Richard’s face and stopped at his hair with a frown. “You do not suit brown, Lumethain. It dulls you.”

His hand rose, fingers curled to comb?—

Richard slapped it away. “Let me wake.”

Galdran’s lower lip pushed out in a pout. He cradled his hand as though Richard had bruised him.

“How unkind,” he said. “Did we not have a lovely dance together? I have thought of little else, you know.”

Richard forced himself to breathe in and relax his shoulders. He gained nothing from snarling at a man who derived pleasure from such outbursts.

“Galdran,” he said. “I have been captured by an old lady who keeps a cottage upon chicken legs, and she has four children with her, and I should very much like to wake before she begins on them. You may either release me from this dream, or you may keep me here and let her kill me.”

Galdran’s eyes widened. “Oh, beloved.” He chuckled. “You do so get yourself into all manner of trouble. Where even are you? I do not feel you near any Rot-bound Threads I know of.”