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“Almost everyone has been pulled back to the castle, to defend the Queen,” adds Verros.
“So the rest of the city must fend for itself?”
“I would never speak ill of the Captain or the Queen, or the generals…”
“Maybe someone should have spoken ill of them before things got to this point.” Maybe I should have. I want to scream, and sob, and beat my fists against my mother’s chest, and maybe punch Captain Ritcheld in the face, but I can’t do any of that, so I shake out my frilly skirts, tug up the low neckline of my gown, and renew my hold on the grips of the great crossbow. “I’ll need your help to reload after I fire. God, they’re getting close. Do they always fly this fast?”
“I’m not sure, Your Highn—Serylla.”
“They’re angry,” I murmur. I can almost sense the dragons’ rage in the sharp outlines of their pointed wings, the angles of their necks and tails, the streamlined intensity of their bodies as they streak toward my city like arrows of doom.
As a bank of smoky blue cloud shifts, streams of golden light shine through, illuminating the rooftops of the city’s outlying neighborhoods, the homes and businesses of those who aren’t wealthy enough to live within the walls. The light also gleams on faraway fields of grain and corn, distant pastures and belts of thick forest. It shines through the dragons’ wings, turning them fiery and translucent. A quick count tells me there are at least thirty dragons headed our way—perhaps more.
At the head of the oncoming swarm is a sleek black dragon with muscular, scaly legs, a wicked-looking muzzle, two long horns, and a spine decorated with hideous spikes, each of which is probably longer than my body, though it’s hard to tell at this distance. I’ve never seen a dragon this close—except a hatchling once, when I was seven. It was part of a circus that came to entertain us at court. The hatchling dragon had its wings and muzzle banded with iron, and I cried so hard at the sight that my mother had to send the performers away.
I’m older now, and I understand now that the most harmless, adorable-looking creatures can grow up to be winged ravagers devoid of pity—like the one headed straight for the tower on which I stand.
I’m not sure why the black dragon is aiming for this particular tower, unless my pink gown, fluttering in the brisk spring breeze, is acting like a beacon, a taunt, a cry for attention.
The dragon flings up his great long neck and bellows to the sky—a call of rage and command. Immediately the dragons behind him split off from the group, circling wide to approach the city from different directions.
But he doesn’t change course. He aims straight for me.
“Shit,” quavers Verros. “He’s going to crash right into us.”
“Not if I hit him first.” I bend my knees, angle the crossbow, and reach for the trigger. It’s so huge I’ll have to use my whole hand to pull it.
One deep, slow breath in. Another out.
Aim for a spot slightly higher than I intend, to match the dragon’s trajectory.
Something booms off to my right—a cannon fired from another tower. The bitter tang of gunpowder smoke fills the air.
My palms are sweating. Shit.
Line up the sights. Make another adjustment.
It’s now or never, Serylla. Fucking fire already.
I yank the trigger.
The iron arrow leaps from the coiled spring with a resounding twang that nearly deafens me. I’m on the ground, kicked back by the recoil, my breastbone aching. I forgot to dart aside after firing, like Captain Ritcheld showed me. My ears feel as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton. The guards’ anxious voices are distant, garbled, but there’s a loud ringing inside my skull.
“Did I hit it?” My voice sounds muffled. Shaking my head against the disorientation, I scramble to my feet and stagger to the parapet.
A huge dark body roars upward, filling my vision with glossy black belly-scales, dagger-like claws, and a steaming pair of nostrils. Above that long, narrow snout, two baleful yellow eyes blaze into mine.
The dragon’s claws curl around the edge of the tower, crumbling stone and mortar. Verros and Listor are screaming. Verros pelts the monumental beast with shots from the hand-cannon while Listor pokes the belly-scales with his sword.
The dragon’s great neck snakes down. His jaws close neatly around Listor’s head and upper body, and he flings the guard off the tower like a man plucking a spider from his shirt sleeve and tossing it away.
Listor’s dying shriek pierces the haze in my head and becomes the first thing I can hear clearly since I fired the giant crossbow.
The dragon opens his jaws again, lunges toward Verros—
“No!” I scream. “No, no!”
I grab the spear propped against the battlement and I leap forward, right between Verros and that gaping maw. I shove the spear upward, into the roof of the dragon’s mouth, as hard as I can. I don’t think it goes in very far.
