conflagration. Kylara yanked him beneath her shield, deflecting a large piece of metal away from his head.
“You’re moons-mad. Are you a berserker?”
Ardan showed his teeth in a smile that was more a grimace. “I don’t like Sylakians, my lady. You can thank me later. We need to move.” His finger jabbed upward. “Catapults.”
The Dragonship hovering at the northern end of the village was readying her catapults with a load of what looked to be naphtha, Ardan realised. A Sylakian trumpet sounded the retreat. The Hammers withdrew steadily, covering their backs with archers.
“Two left,” said Kylara, thrusting a quarrel into his hand. “Think you can repeat that throw, slave? We’ll cut you a path.”
A dense wedge of Kylara’s Leopards trotted out of cover, coming under a withering hail of crossbow quarrels and arrows. Most were caught on shields, but three warriors fell as they closed with the Sylakian Hammers. Ardan calculated the distance with his eyes. Two more paces … he bounced lightly on his toes and broke into a sprint, raising the quarrel behind his head. Ardan poured all of his fury and pain into the throw. The burning quarrel reached for the noon skies before whistling down and plugging diagonally atop the cabin of the Dragonship, right beneath the hydrogen sack. Flames licked up the shaft.
Ardan cursed. But the Sylakians up there were scrambling up the netting encasing their hydrogen sack, desperate to reach the quarrel before the fire leaped the small gap between the blazing feathers and the bottom of the hydrogen sack. It licked. It lapped. It caught …
KAABOOM!
The blast pounded Ardan to his knees. Heat rolled over his back. Kylara and her troops slammed into the Sylakians at a full run, with their Warlord right at the spearhead of that tight, well-organised wedge of warriors. Scimitars flicked hungrily, like the many claws of a ravening metal monster. They sliced through the Sylakian line. Ardan sprinted to catch up. Almost as an afterthought, he snatched up a war hammer to brain a couple of Sylakian troops on the way past.
Now, this was the type of work he enjoyed.
Chapter 4: Dragon Fear
A ranya’s thunderous roar reverberated over the tan hills of Yar’ola Island. Below her, all activity in the Sylakian outpost ceased. She could almost smell the Dragon fear drifting up on the breeze. King Beran’s Dragonships, which had approached the Island low over the sickly yellow Cloudlands, now raced their engines to a full-throated growl as they rose rapidly above the fortress walls. One Dragonship peeled off to the south, aiming to intercept any message hawks that might be despatched in a twenty-eighth hour attempt to warn the Islands further south.
“Stop where you are!” shouted Yolathion, waving his large bow aloft. “Ground the Dragonships!”
When there was no immediate response, Aranya boomed, “Surrender or die!”
Her Rider rubbed his ears. “Islands’ sakes, girl, it sounded as though I was sitting on top of a thunderclap, there.”
“It’s storm power, so the thunder’s real enough,” she said over her shoulder. Down on the ground, the Sylakian troops fell to their faces in abject surrender. “I’d thought of getting Zip ear-plugs. What do you think?”
“Can’t hear you.”
Yolathion smiled at his joke, but Aranya wondered if she could genuinely hurt her Rider with power of that magnitude. Dragon ears adjusted automatically, unlike Human ears.
Dragon and Rider had prepared for battle by shooting arrows and fireballs at passing clouds as they crossed between the Islands, making two or three flights each day, so that Yolathion could familiarise himself with buckling the Dragon Rider saddle in place, mounting or dismounting rapidly, and the mechanics of fighting Dragonback. The Jeradian warrior was a fair archer, but not as skilful as Zip. Aranya had not realised how close she and the Remoyan Princess had come in understanding one another until she tried
“You’re moons-mad. Are you a berserker?”
Ardan showed his teeth in a smile that was more a grimace. “I don’t like Sylakians, my lady. You can thank me later. We need to move.” His finger jabbed upward. “Catapults.”
The Dragonship hovering at the northern end of the village was readying her catapults with a load of what looked to be naphtha, Ardan realised. A Sylakian trumpet sounded the retreat. The Hammers withdrew steadily, covering their backs with archers.
“Two left,” said Kylara, thrusting a quarrel into his hand. “Think you can repeat that throw, slave? We’ll cut you a path.”
A dense wedge of Kylara’s Leopards trotted out of cover, coming under a withering hail of crossbow quarrels and arrows. Most were caught on shields, but three warriors fell as they closed with the Sylakian Hammers. Ardan calculated the distance with his eyes. Two more paces … he bounced lightly on his toes and broke into a sprint, raising the quarrel behind his head. Ardan poured all of his fury and pain into the throw. The burning quarrel reached for the noon skies before whistling down and plugging diagonally atop the cabin of the Dragonship, right beneath the hydrogen sack. Flames licked up the shaft.
Ardan cursed. But the Sylakians up there were scrambling up the netting encasing their hydrogen sack, desperate to reach the quarrel before the fire leaped the small gap between the blazing feathers and the bottom of the hydrogen sack. It licked. It lapped. It caught …
KAABOOM!
The blast pounded Ardan to his knees. Heat rolled over his back. Kylara and her troops slammed into the Sylakians at a full run, with their Warlord right at the spearhead of that tight, well-organised wedge of warriors. Scimitars flicked hungrily, like the many claws of a ravening metal monster. They sliced through the Sylakian line. Ardan sprinted to catch up. Almost as an afterthought, he snatched up a war hammer to brain a couple of Sylakian troops on the way past.
Now, this was the type of work he enjoyed.
Chapter 4: Dragon Fear
A ranya’s thunderous roar reverberated over the tan hills of Yar’ola Island. Below her, all activity in the Sylakian outpost ceased. She could almost smell the Dragon fear drifting up on the breeze. King Beran’s Dragonships, which had approached the Island low over the sickly yellow Cloudlands, now raced their engines to a full-throated growl as they rose rapidly above the fortress walls. One Dragonship peeled off to the south, aiming to intercept any message hawks that might be despatched in a twenty-eighth hour attempt to warn the Islands further south.
“Stop where you are!” shouted Yolathion, waving his large bow aloft. “Ground the Dragonships!”
When there was no immediate response, Aranya boomed, “Surrender or die!”
Her Rider rubbed his ears. “Islands’ sakes, girl, it sounded as though I was sitting on top of a thunderclap, there.”
“It’s storm power, so the thunder’s real enough,” she said over her shoulder. Down on the ground, the Sylakian troops fell to their faces in abject surrender. “I’d thought of getting Zip ear-plugs. What do you think?”
“Can’t hear you.”
Yolathion smiled at his joke, but Aranya wondered if she could genuinely hurt her Rider with power of that magnitude. Dragon ears adjusted automatically, unlike Human ears.
Dragon and Rider had prepared for battle by shooting arrows and fireballs at passing clouds as they crossed between the Islands, making two or three flights each day, so that Yolathion could familiarise himself with buckling the Dragon Rider saddle in place, mounting or dismounting rapidly, and the mechanics of fighting Dragonback. The Jeradian warrior was a fair archer, but not as skilful as Zip. Aranya had not realised how close she and the Remoyan Princess had come in understanding one another until she tried
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