Free The Dragon Lord by Peter Morwood

coincided with a rub at the sore spot on his neck—a rub which dislodged the tiny dart imbedded there.
    He could see no trace of the man: too wise to linger in this incinerator, most likely. Aldric knew he would be wise to follow suit, for worms of smoke were already writhing from the wooden walls as they heated towards flashpoint, and the doorposts were already on fire. At each end of the building. The only other occasion where he had seen anything burn like this, it had been net ablaze deliberately.
    His thought led nowhere; with this much straw about, no wonder the fire had spread so fast. But even so, the tavern wasn’t full of straw.
    That too meant nothing; it drifted across the surface of his mind even as he tucked his head down and sprinted for the nearest doorway. His legs were unsteady beneath him and once-solid objects were shimmering in the haze of hot light and smoke. Then all concerns and idle notions were swallowed in the vast rending as the stable caved in on itself. And on him!
    The surge of heat made his senses swim as it consumed what little air remained, and a searing gale tugged at his hair as it funnelled through the blazing doorway; a doorway that receded down an endless corridor of fire even as he ran vainly towards it. He was conscious of the rush of movement at his back as something came scything down like a headsman’s sword—
    —heard the impact as it smashed between his shoulders like a giant’s fist—
    —saw the sparks exploding like a halo around his head—
    Too late! You left it too
...
    And that was all.
    “How did you find him in Tuenafen?” The man in scarlet-lacquered armor planted both his hands palm-downwards on the desk and leaned forward, his spade beard jutting pugnaciously. “How did you know?”
    “I told you.” Pinched between finger and thumb of a black-gloved hand, the scrap of parchment looked utterly insignificant and the writing on it was minute. But it afforded a certain degree of pleasure to the man who held it, for all that his glistening metallic mask concealed whatever smile might have curved his lips. Yet the smile was there, and plainly audible in the smug coloration of his laconic words: “I told you long ago—”
    “Three weeks—”
    “And now I too have been told.”
    “I didn’t somehow think it was coincidence.”
    “I abhor coincidence.” The masked man might have shuddered theatrically at the very thought, had he been prone to such gestures; but the armored man could see no tremor in the misshapen bearded face that reflected back at him.
    “Of course.” There was the merest touch of acid in his voice. “Except when you create it. I know.” He straightened, pressed hands palm to palm and touched their steepled fingertips thoughtfully to the end of his hawk nose as he pondered a moment. “Now, Tuenafen.” The hands clapped decisively. “The quickest route is by sea. I’ll put a battleram at the disposal of your squad.”
    He stalked to the window and looked out, then turned back to the masked man who had not stirred from the highbacked chair in which he lounged with such elegantly irritating indolence. And the armored man smiled thinly. “
Teynaur
is moored in the estuary,” he said. “Use her.”
    His smile widened as the masked man sat bolt upright, his lazy assurance gone in an instant. “
Teynaur
... ? But she’s an—an augmented ship.”
    “Of course. Why not?” There was a long beat of silence. “Of course, if you don’t like the idea, then let Voord go alone. Such things don’t worry him—rather the reverse.”
    “To an unhealthy degree!”
    “No matter. He is efficient—you employed that very word when he was sent to Seghar. Why—have you changed your views?”
    “No.” The reply was sullen. “He is still most capable, regardless.”
    “Good. Then it’s agreed.” The armored man gathered up his rank-marked helmet and settled it comfortably in the crook of one arm, obviously preparing to leave. Then he