#TeaserTuesday 3/12/19

Dacian Warrior with Falx: Artist Link

Sometimes, in the course of writing a book, a character surprises us. Sometimes those secondary characters, the stalwart support systems for our mains, have a way of stealing moments in the spotlight, and endearing themselves to us in ways we hadn't expected. That's definitely been the case with Cicero. 

(For the record, I love when this happens.)  

I was excited, in Dragon Slayer, to show a true bond between a Familiar and a vampire. We meet a host of wolves bound to Vlad and Val's parents, and we get to spend a good bit of time with Vlad's Familiar in particular, Cicero. He's nicknamed, by Vlad's father, in reference to the Roman orator Marcus Tullius Cicero, a voice of caution whose wisdom was sought, but almost always ignored by Caesar, his conspirators, and then Augustus. I liked the Roman echo of Cicero being the angel on Vlad's shoulder...up to a point. 

They have a special bond, and Cicero, a Dacian warrior alive for centuries, carries a traditional Dacian weapon: a falx. When I make mention of it in the novel, it looks like the blades in the paintings above and below. (And that first image: wow. With the wolf pelt. Perfection. I've linked to the artist's page in the caption below the image.)

***

Cicero shrugged. He sat at the foot of the bed, sharpening his falx with a whetstone. The weapon gleamed as if new, though its shape suggested a primitive sort of wickedness. One of those little reminders of just how very old Cicero was.

Like the moments when the sun had caught Father’s profile just so, when his hair was swept back from his face, and Vlad had seen the Palatine Hill around him, the modest wooden villages and stone walls that had been Rome at its birth; the Tiber, gleaming like a serpent, and a basket of babies washed up amid the reeds.

“You and the sultan are enemies, I’d say. This was never a long-term plan.”

“No,” Vlad agreed, propping an elbow on the back of the chair. “I supposed I’ll have to flee again. I can be the Prince Who Ran Away. Retreating can be my legacy.”

“Vlad,” Cicero chided gently. “You’re young yet. That won’t be your legacy.”

One-handed Dacian Falx 

Vlad felt alert, anxious, but it was nothing compared to the energy rolling off his Familiar as he tugged on breeches and opened up the chest at the foot of the bed. Cicero vibrated; palpable emotion that warred between nervous and excited and furious, none of it comparing to the choking sense of responsibility. Vlad felt his presence, a weight at the back of his mind, the assurance of protection, and devotion, and unconditional, animal love.

With quick, though reverent movements, Cicero drew his pelt from the chest and unfurled it. Slung it over his shoulders and did the clasp; pulled the hood up over his head.

It was an old, old tradition, wolves wearing their pelts to battle. He’d asked Cicero about it when he was only four or five, curious. Wolves could shift and fight without it; they didn’t need it. It was, in essence, just a bit of old dead skin and hair. It was to honor the wolf that birthed them into immortality, Cicero had explained.

It also looked damned unnerving.