Realm Of Blood And Fire (Book 3) by Dionne Lister Page A

grumble. Drips of blood beaded on the shiny timber table, the raw limbs too big for the plates. “Mmm,” he rasped, “I love drumsticks. Look at that meaty thigh.” The four other gormons laughed, one picking up an arm from his plate, the shoulder still attached. He licked the still-warm morsel then burped.
    Eksilon closed his mouth around the thigh but stopped just as his teeth pierced the flesh. The other gormons didn’t notice anything until Eksilon started to scream. His gurgling shout drowned out the sound of the rain. While three gormons dropped their food and shot to their feet to look for the cause of his distress, the fourth one dove his mind into a corridor and raced to the Second Realm.
     
    ***
                 
    Arcon floated in the star-smattered darkness of the Second Realm, wondering what to do next. The symbol he’d attacked looked like it was about to burst. The realmist wanted to pump more energy into it, but he felt another presence—one that made the Second Realm feel like a place full of evil shadows, rather than one of infinite peace. Knowing that he couldn’t draw any more power to defend himself, he raced through the darkness, the malevolent force a heartbeat away.
    When Arcon spied the slight tonal change indicating the tunnel that led back to his body, he flew faster, First-Realm gravity aiding his escape. He opened his eyes to Avruellen, Phantom, Flux, Toran and Blayke’s worried faces. “Is there any change?”
    Avruellen’s face had lost its veneer of strength. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the white streak in her hair was wider, and the sparse wrinkles around her eyes had multiplied. She shook her head. “Arcon, she’s worse. What are we going to do?”
    He stood and enveloped his sister in a hug. “We pray.”

 
     
    Chapter 9
     
     
    Disguised in one of the palace cook’s clothing, Gabrielle, her hair gathered atop her head in a crocheted net, wandered the market at the bottom of Bayerlon. The citizens were buying as much produce that could be dried or pickled as they could afford. The streets had become so crowded with an influx of scared people that the queen often found she had to push her way through the aisles to where she wanted to go. More than once, she had grunted when an elbow had stabbed her in the stomach or a shoed foot stomped on her slipper-clad ones. She had been okay with wearing someone else’s washed clothes, but sharing shoes was just going too far, and it would have looked strange if she wore her hardier riding boots.
    She reached a fruit vendor and filled her basket with ripe, firm strawberries. “How much?” she asked.
    He weighed them. “That will be one silver piece.” The vendor held out his hand, his rough, deeply-lined palm demanding.
    “That’s criminal, man! How can you charge so much?” Gabrielle was careful to make her voice more like a worker and less like a queen.
    “It’s the laws of supply and demand. I’m sorry, but there’s a war coming. I’ve heard the ladies are making very nice strawberry jam.” He put his hand down. “If you can’t afford them, please put them back. I would hate for them to get damaged.”
    Gabrielle scowled. “This is disgusting, but I’ll pay.” She reached into her pocket and found a silver piece—she had brought four, thinking to buy enough provisions for dinner, but if strawberries cost that much, how much would the venison cost, and what about the potatoes?
    “Thank you, ma’am,” the vendor said and tipped his gray cap.
    “I’ll be complaining about this to the king. There might be a war coming, but there is still enough produce to go around.” She nodded at the several boxes of strawberries that sat on the ground near his feet.
    “Good luck with that. King Edmund has enough on his plate without worrying about some nobody cook.”
    Gabrielle opened her mouth to reply, but he had already turned away and was weighing someone else’s basket of apples. Realizing she