Syla peered at the one- and two-story shops lining the wide street, horses hitched at mounting posts outside. “Sergeant, areyou growling because your calf is knotted or because you spotted trouble?”
She felt diminutive standing next to her bodyguard. At five-and-a-half feet in height, she wasn’tshortfor a Kingdom woman, but her head only came to the top of his shoulder. Even if she’d worn her shoulder-length auburn hair in the currently trendy beehive style, instead of clipped back over her ears, Fel could have seen over her head.
“My calf is knotted, my arches ache, my heel feels like it’s being stabbed,andmy knee is throbbing, but it’s thedragonthat just flew overhead that’s making me growl.” Fel pointed toward the cloudy gray sky.
Syla didn’t see anything but the promise of evening rain, but she didn’t doubt the sergeant. His body might hurt from a lifetime of hard work, training, and wounds received in battle, but he’d never indicated any failings with his eyes.
“Just one soaring above the shield, right?”
“It looked lower than that.” Fel held up a finger. “Stay here.”
Syla blinked.Lowerthan the sky shield? That wasn’t possible. Dragons couldn’t passthroughthe magical barrier. None of the storm god’s creations could.
“Dragons?” The clerk tucked more fragile antiques out of the way, as if damage to a few gewgaws would be the main concern if deadly predators made it through the shield.
Syla, neither a warrior nor even well-endowed with athleticism, obeyed Fel’s command to stay inside, but curiosity prompted her to lean through the doorway for a better look.
Once out in the cobblestone street, clear of the shop’s awning, Fel surveyed the sky, then turned toward the castle on the bluff that overlooked the harbor and capital city. Whatever he saw up there made him widen his eyes and curse.
At first, he reached for his crossbow. Then he looked at Syla and swore again. When he rushed toward her, screams came withhim. Two horses pulling carts raced down the street, wheels rattling as the drivers cracked their whips and shouted for greater speed.
“The castle is under attack.” Fel gripped Syla’s arm. “Dragons. A whole wing of them. We have to get you to a bunker.”
Though stunned, Syla let him drag her into the street. Sticking to the side, they ran under awnings and overhangs whenever possible. She glanced back toward the castle, half-believing he had to be mistaken. The sky shield had successfully protected the islands forcenturies.
But dozens of green, gray, and blue dragons circled the castle, spewing fire at the towers and battlements. The only defense came from archers, crossbowmen, and Royal Protectors manning cannons. Smoke roiled from the courtyard and the high windows of the keep, promising great damage had already been done. Horrified, Syla stumbled, almost falling to the cobblestones.
Her entire family was in the castle; they’d been partaking in the very dinner she’d been on her way to attend. But nobody would be dining now. They had to be rushing to the underground tunnels for protection. No, wait. Was that her mother and older sister, Nyvia? Out on the ramparts with their weapons, helping the defenders?
Fel tightened his grip, keeping Syla on her feet and running.
“This way,” he urged. “One of the ancient bunkers is off Three Fountains Street. The Royal Protectors will fight off the dragons.”
“I should go to the temple. There’ll be wounded.”
“Later. Once the attack is over. You have to survive first to heal people.”
Someone in the street ahead screamed, startling Syla into tripping again.
Dozens of people were out now. Maybe hundreds. They were running away from the dragons—or so they thought.
A great blue-scaled beast swooped toward the street. Its wingstucked in close as it dove, and its maw opened, its fangs dripping saliva. An icy-faced rider with a gargoyle-bone bow rode on the dragon’s back, no saddle or harness keeping him in place. Dagger tattoos on his hollow cheeks gave him a fearsome visage.
The man glanced at her but focused on a horse-drawn cart full of wooden kegs, its driver the only person headingtothe castle instead of away. The rider nocked an arrow, but it was his powerful mount that represented the greater danger. Smoke wafted from the dragon’s nostrils an instant before fire roiled out of its maw.
Fel still had a grip on Syla’s wrist, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and hefted her from her feet as he sprang into a doorway. More curves than leanness, she wasn’t light, but he carried her over his broad shoulder without slowing.
Scant feet away, in the center of the street, the fire struck. It enveloped the cart and rider, the man screaming. An instant later, the cart—no, thekegs—exploded.
Black powder, an analytical part of Syla’s mind processed, even as utter terror gripped her and Fel carried her deeper into a carpenter’s shop. The shockwave from the explosion struck the buildings on either side of the street, blowing out glass and knocking down walls. Roofs caught fire, more people screamed, and the dragon… Syla couldn’t see what happened to the dragon, but she imagined it flapping casually away while its rider grinned with pleasure at the kill.
Cries of pain grew audible once the explosion faded. For the first time, Syla squirmed, trying to escape Fel’s grasp.
“I need to help,” she said.
Overhead, a beam snapped. Not five feet away, a flaming section of the ceiling fell to the floor, hurling sparks over furniture and workbenches.
Swearing, Fel spun to put his back to the fire to protect her. “I’m getting you to the bunker.”
