AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A spark of blue flashed suddenly across her field of vision. She froze, and gasped against his mouth, as Alfie’s warning flared in her mind.
She heard a drake cry: first Percy, and then Alfie, and then Valgrind’s youthful scream. A trumpeting that heralded danger.
And then the call of horns, ringing out across the clearing.
Tessa scrambled up from Rune’s lap, heart already racing. “There’s someone here – something’s coming – we have to–”
“Tessa, wait!”
She turned – she was halfway to the tent flap already, without weapon, or cloak, holding her cup as if that would do some good – and saw Rune snatching his sword in its scabbard up from the floor and buckling it on with fast, jerky movements. Outside their tent, the tramp of running feet, men’s shouts, and the horns, blasting again and again. The drakes had gone aloft: Alfie shared an image of limbs snapping as her wings unfurled and propelled her upward, through the canopy and into the open air for a better vantage point.
Rune slung his quiver onto his back, secured it in place, and hooked his bow over his arm.
Tessa went for her own sword, the slender, lightweight blade specially made for her to wear on dragonback. Her hands were slick with sweat, and she buckled its belt so clumsily that Rune came to help with a quiethere, let me.
When it was secure, he glanced up, and caught her gaze, his own gone hard, and ready, his fear nearly hidden, and shored up with a healthy dose of natural bravery. He hooked his fingers in her sword belt, and held them there.
She could read in his expression that he wanted to tell her to stay here, but he said, “Ready?”
She pushed the disorder around them from her mind – the shouts, the yells, the thunder of footfalls, the crashing of armored men running into the forest; the calls of the drakes overhead – and focused on him. On his familiar and beloved face. This was different than the day she’d snatched up a sword in the palace. That had been a heat-of-the-moment snap decision, reason lost to the terror and necessity of the moment. But now she knew what it felt like to fight; knew the scent of spilled blood, and the sight of death.
She took a deep breath, and nodded.
Their tent flap lifted, and Estrid poked her head inside. “Are you two coming or what? We’ve not got time to stand around gazing soppily at each other!”
Rune sighed. “You had to bring her.”
Tessa smiled. “She wouldn’t be left behind.”
“She’s standing right here, you fools,come on!”
~*~
He hadn’t paused to don his amor, but Erik had plopped Oliver’s helmet down onto his head before they raced out of the tent, swords drawn, and Oliver was grateful for its protection as twigs and bits of splintered wood rained down on them. Erik shielded his face with a gloved hand, and peered upward into the tree canopy with a quiet curse. Oliver tilted his head back, and through the tunnel of steel that was the brow of his helm, saw a flash of firelight on bright scales – bright purple scales.
A beast like a ribbon twisted between tree trunks, fangs flashing white, its wings long and narrow, supporting a slight body with a whipcord tail. He’d not seen one himself, yet, but he knew from Amelia’s description that these were the small, nasty little drakes that had come through the portal that day on the road.
“Look out!” someone shouted.
An arrow flew through the dark, and sank, quivering, in a tree trunk, wide of the mark. The drake twined through the air, turned toward them, and hissed. Its wings spread, preparing to dive, and Oliver brought his sword across his chest, ready to meet it.
But then a sleek white head dove down between the branches from above, and Percy’s jaws closed over the creature’s neck. The small drake squealed, and was dragged up through the canopy and out of sight. Oliver heard the crack of its spine snapping.
And then, suddenly, the forest was boiling with the things. They streamed out of the trees, small and quick enough to slither in midair between branches, their narrow wings made for tight quarters.
Above, the cold-drakes screamed in rage, and their wings beat the tree tops back and forth as though the Inglewood were in the grips of a hurricane.
“Oliver!” Erik shouted, but Oliver ducked the slash of a sharp tail, brought his sword along a gleaming purple flank, and was struck in the back of the head by something.
“Fuck,” he muttered, staggered to his knees, and had to scramble forward to avoid being trampled by a loose horse.
The air rang with the chime of steel, the clink of armor, the hoarse bellows of the men; the screech of the small drakes, and Percy’s roars from above. Branches snapped and flew, a splinter lodged in the back of his hand, the pain sharp like a bee sting. Oliver pulled it with his teeth, lurched back to his feet, and brought his sword up to block the gnashing teeth of a drake who’d wound up on the ground somehow. In the firelight, he saw the black-oil slick of drake blood across the dirt, and spotted a ruined wing. Fangs clamped down on the blade of his sword, immobilizing it.
Oliver ripped the dagger from his belt and slammed it through a yellow eye. The drake went limp with a gurgled cry, and he pulled dagger and sword both loose, and kept moving.
It was the sort of tightly-packed chaos that got men killed in stupid ways. Trampled in the crush of bodies; tripping over a root and bashing one’s head open on a tree trunk; falling on someone else’s dropped weapon; ending up with a friend’s arrow stuck in your back thanks to hasty firing. Erik was shouting orders, trying to get everyone into some kind of order – and doubtless that would work. Eventually. Oliver could already hear men echoing the orders, sending them down the line. But he could also hear that, somehow, Erik was very far away. He’d wound up clear on the other side of the clearing, and the little purple drakes were diving at every angle, too many for Percy and Alfie and Valgrind to pick off from above.
Something slammed into Oliver’s shoulder, and he flew sideways to crash into a tree. The impact knocked all the breath from his lungs, and the dark forest swayed around him.
