Page 40 of Ignite the Infernos

Here we fucking go!

Olinta moves behind me, calling dibs on a black dragon as she lines up a shot and takes it. I don’t hear the special cartridges we’re using connect with any of the dragons behind us, but Olinta’s whoop of excitement lets me know she hit her mark.

Growls sound off behind me, and I hear Craith and Sofann firing at the dragons too.

Outraged snarls and indignant bellows drown out the steady roar of my sandcycle’s engine. Olinta gets off another two shots, and I do my best to keep things steady so she can aim true.

“Bombs away!” Enslee screams over the pandemonium, and Olinta tenses a split second before I drop us into a dive.

My ears pop painfully, and my stomach climbs my esophagus like it’s keen to spend some quality time with my throat. The data streaming across my visor changes from a happy orange to a flashing red as I go screaming, full tilt, toward the ground. I pull up at the last possible second, teeth clenched, heart joining the party in my throat, while every ounce of muscle I possess is used to haul my ass out of this death-defying plummet.

I whoop my victory, riding a wave of pure exhilaration when I finally level out and take off again. With a beaming smile, I sneak a peek at the dragon I know was chasing me, hoping they crash into the sand instead of pulling out of the dive like I just did, but no luck. Ogdan banks to follow me almost lazily, like my efforts were nothing more than melodrama.

Fucking dragons.

I’m tempted to flip Ogdan the bird, but I’m pretty sure that would give me away, and that’s the last thing I need.

I form another line with the other Syphons, and Sofann, Craith, and Olinta start dropping racket bombs into the sand below as we go streaking by. The bombs start detonating with a slight delay, and it sounds like the desert’s popping popcorn in preparation for the upcoming show.

The dragons look entirely too smug when they easily dodge the sandy explosions and start to close in. I’m sure they’re wondering what the fuck we’re doing. Our weapons aren’t dragon grade, so to them, they’re probably pointless. I’m sure we look like a bunch of amateurs shooting foul-smelling liquid at a group of terrifying dragons and trying to throw sand in their faces with our puny explosives. It says a lot about the arrogance of Aeson and his Wing that they’ve flown into unfamiliar territory and spent no time educating themselves about the other creatures that call it home.

Right on cue, the ground rumbles to life beneath our fliers. The sand vibrates with an ominous warning the dragons either ignore or are oblivious to. I force myself to keep my flier steady despite my instincts telling me to get the fuck out of there.

“Come on . . . come on!” Mayur incites, his eyes frantically searching the ground as Aeson draws even closer. Sofann looks like he can’t decide between jumping or climbing Mayur’s back to get away from the claws Aeson is stretching toward them.

“Come on,” I murmur, adding my own plea to Mayur’s.

I have no choice but to watch, dread dropping into the pit of my gut, as Aeson makes a grab for the duo and their sandcycle. Mayur dodges it, just in the nick of time, and Aeson misses. But the commander adjusts his position and goes for a second swipe. Onyx sand suddenly erupts in Aesons’s face. He reels back, completely caught off guard, and it takes him and his Wing a second to realize another player has entered the game.

Sand scarafids streak out of their burrows, ready to defend their homes from the percussive explosions that have woken them from their slumber. The car-sized beetles begin darting around in search of the enemy knocking at their gates, only to get a whiff of the scarafid sex pheromones we just splashed all over the dragons. Within seconds, the scarafids become a writhing, horny black cloud that all too quickly overtakes the dragons.

Olinta crows with glee and then expeditiously chucks the launcher still containing cartridges of pheromones when some of the big, scary beetles make a beeline for us. Aeson and his Wing roar and screech as more scarafids spring from the sand and target them in search of mates.

Cackles and hoots fill my helmet, and the Syphons instantly capitalize on the distraction and start putting much-needed miles between us and the encumbered dragons. We know the beetles won’t keep them tied up for long, and every second counts.

“Everyone good?” Craith checks in from the back of Enslee’s cycle.

Everyone answers that they are, but the victory we were just feeling is quick to die as we approach the next part of our escape plan. Data flicks across my visor almost faster than I can track when the terrain below begins to change from desert sands to rocky outcroppings that stretch into the dark expanse of The Scorch like desperate fingers in search of some kind of salvation. I allow myself one long, centering inhale, careful not to push the limits of my respirator and the tank of oxygen strapped to my back, and then I exhale everything slowly and prepare for what’s next.

My hands ache from how tightly I’m clutching my throttle in order to keep it open and my engine fed. My back is already protesting the tight tuck of my body against the sandcycle to help reduce drag and maximize my control. And I can’t even tell if my heart is still in my chest or if I dropped it somewhere back in the sand and it’s scarafid food now.

Olinta begins to unbuckle the straps keeping her tethered to my flier, which means the dragons are already out of the battle with the beetles and they’re about to be on us again.

“Let’s bloody move,” I shout into my com when I glance behind me and see Aeson, Ogdan, and Karis closer than they should be.

“Should I go now?” Olinta asks, and the worry splintering through the question spikes my own concern.

I don’t think Aeson would hurt the wyverns, but what if I’m wrong? “Not yet,” I call back, risking one more glance behind me as we draw closer to the yardangs and the mouth of the gauntlet.

Aeson opens his massive maw, and a stream of bright orange flames comes billowing out. There’s too much distance between us for the blaze to be anything more than a warning shot, but indignation spikes through me all the same. Suddenly, Aeson’s attention snaps to me. I jerk my head forward so fast that my vertebrae crack from the force and a surge of shocked panic overrides my concentration.

He didn’t see me, I tell myself. There’s no way he knows it’s me, even if he did. I’m fully covered in riding gear and wearing a helmet he can’t see into, I try again, when the first assurances don’t get the job done.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Gable screams through the com, and instantly I bank right and angle up, missing Vero’s flier by inches as he darts left and down.

A frustrated rumble fills the air behind me, and with a sharp stab of alarm, I realize that Aeson is almost on top of us. I have no fucking clue how he just teleported from where he was to where he is now, but the direness of the situation doesn’t leave room for questions, only action.

The six of us operating the fliers weave around one another in a terrifyingly dangerous knot of movement designed to keep affinities from locking on to us—and dragon hands from plucking a solitary rider from their steed. We dart and dash in a practiced throng of mayhem that requires only one wrong move to send the others crashing to the sands.