The wind whistled through Turim’s visor and tears like slivers of diamond tickled the corners of his eyes. He strained—even with his half-elven eyesight—to see six Chromaback dragons. The sun glinted off their scales like emeralds, though a few reflected as dark onyx. Riders sat astride them, perched between their outstretched wings.
For the last several hours, even before he’d distinguished them, he suspected their enemy. Now that he’d confirmed the dragonriders weren’t birds or griffons, or some other creature, he tightened the grip on his reins. The Dragon Army’s soldiers had never come so close to home. It was too bold. And one Wing? What were they doing this far into Genova?
The Plains of Sirik streaked along below and wind whipped shreds of cloud past Turim’s face. His proud moustache fluttered, and cloak rippled, while about him, his Wing spread in a loose Heron formation. Their Shiningscale dragons’ metallic-hues glinted in contrast to the colored Chromabacks’ of the Dragon Army, another reminder of the two ancient tribes’ many differences.
Sand Rocketblade, his Lieutenant, reacted aloud first. “We have to move on them now, Commander!” His hand whipped forward.
Turim sighed at Sand’s impatience. “Hold yourself!” He’d barely heard the words, but read his gesture.
“Dark Knights, Commander—we’re going to lose them!”
“This isn’t time for rash thought, Lieutenant!”
Sand waved past the approaching forest, swirling his arm to signify the sea. “But the coast-”
Turim cut him off. “Past the Modukaz, I know, Sand!”
He’d heard enough words to catch the warning in Sand’s voice. Dark Knights—that’s what they called the Dragon Army’s soldiers. It didn’t matter. Not now. He wasn’t going to make a maneuver that allowed escape if it failed—not after spending the entire morning in pursuit. They had to catch them. “Soon, Sand. Soon,” he muttered.
Barely a moment passed, then Sand struck the edge of his riding shield with his gauntlet, the faint clank of metal on metal. He’d boiled over already. Turim gave his friend credit for lasting this long.
Sparse trees took shape below, growing closer each moment—the edge of the Modukaz Forest. Turim’s mind shuffled through countless writings on aerial strategies and flight patterns, the stuff they’d spent their time reading during their squiring years ago. Drive them low and strike, he told himself, remembering a maneuver he’d used several times since he’d taken leadership of the Wing. All this time chasing the Chromabacks was about to pay off—he hoped. And if it didn’t? He suspected the Dragon Army had seen Grendelock Keep. If they’d spied out its defenses, the ability to protect his homeland would be ruefully weakened, if not shattered.
Again, he flashed a set of signals to Sand. “The Modukaz! That’s all we were waiting for. You’re right. It’s time. Signal for Breed and Bartlet to ascend and then drive the enemy toward the surface!”
Sand returned a nod of affirmation as though he’d rehearsed it the whole morning. Then he began his own arm motions. A grin returned to his face.
Turim shook his head. With a twist in his saddlemount, he faced another pair of his dragonriders on the right flank. Arm raised, he signaled like a great leviathan diving into the darkness of the ocean. “Artho! Warran!” His two right-position riders fixed their eyes on him. “Dive to the wood below. Prepare to intercept! Lieutenant Rocketblade and I are on your tails!”
Hands rose in acknowledgement and Artho and Warran spurred their Shiningscale dragons onward, speeding through the morning mist toward the Modukaz Forest below. The enemy responded, and fled. In a moment, all six Chomabacks skimmed the treetops, while Artho and Warran trailed a safe distance behind.
Turim took one last breath to steel his nerves—then dove after.
As Sand and his copper dragon drew alongside him, Turim’s narrowed eyes flicked upward. “Here they come.”
High above, he caught sight of Sleekscale and Morning—Breed and Bartlett’s silver dragons—like prairie larks from that distance, far off and removed. They broke from the sky like a storm on summer’s eve. The clouds crackled with a charge. A loud clap of thunder split the air, and the dragons’ exhaled lightning arced toward the enemy Wing.
Tiny shivers sped up Turim’s back. The majesty of the bolts never ceased to amaze him. No flash struck a target, but the Dark Knights spread outward, driven and separated, just as he’d hoped.
He gave Sand the nod of approval.
The lieutenant leaned forward, pulling his copper’s reins. “Let’s go, Lasertooth!”
Turim had no doubt clever Lasertooth understood the urgency of their business. The reptile’s muscles bulged with tension, then he folded his wings back and dove toward the trees.
Another bolt flashed past one of the enemy black dragons.
Turim had confidence it would be the last. It was dry. One spark from Sleekscale or Morning would ignite the forest below. He’d warned the men about it plenty of times. If they destroyed the lands they fought for, the Dragon Army would have victory—just as they’d conquered Daropel across the seas.
Suspicions answered, Breed and Bartlett’s silver dragons fell into pursuit above, ending their lightning barrage. Now their only job was to keep the Chromabacks from rising above the tree line—well, most of the them.
“Keep at their backs, Thunderclap!” Though the rest of the Wing was made up of Shiningscales, Turim’s blue was a Chromaback—the only rogue he’d ever met, or heard of. Turim’s riding shield had proper Knights of the Hawk markings, so it wasn’t too tricky to spot the big blue dragon. But the Wing was extra cautious, just in case. Turim tapped Thunderclap’s neck with his lance. “Don’t let them out of your sight!”
Even as he spoke, ahead of him, one of the green dragons turned through a pair of trees. It clipped its wing on a branch crossing its path, roared, and spun out of control, careening sidelong into another trunk. There was a loud crack. The wood shifted slightly with the weight of the beast, and in a wild scattering of loam and earth, the green and it’s Dark Knight took a mortal tumble across the forest floor.
Warran called out from the front. “One down, Commander. Five left—they won’t last long!” He waved his fist in triumph. Though scarcely heard above the rushing of wind, his signals were clear.
Turim and Sand looked at one another and Sand gave a faint smile. “Keep on them, Warran!” he returned with a wave.
And focus, thought Turim. Don’t loose focus.
Lunging forward, Warran and his Wingmate, Artho, got behind one of the larger black dragons. Guileeye, Artho’s bronze mount, tore through the black’s right hindquarters as they grappled. The black fell, and an ear-splitting roar made Turim cringe. Flying out of control as Artho pulled away, the wounded black dragon dropped like a stone, slammed into a monolith of a rock veiled within the trees, then slid sickly to the ground.
Turim and Thunderclap weaved in closer, but were forced to instantly change tactics again. Without warning, a green dragon in front of him craned its neck around and spurt out a cloud of poison fumes. Its aim was poor, but unnecessary. The wind yanked the vapors from the air and covered Turim’s Wing in writhing strands.
Turim pulled off from the pursuit. “Poison!” He raised his lance arm to signal while ducking aside, hoping the others had heard.
“Solitaire!” Warran shouted the maneuver to his dragon.
But the young knight’s words were too late to change altitude—too late to avoid the toxic cloud. The deep brume swallowed Warran and his steel dragon.
They were lost for several seconds. Turim looked back, heart pounding. His eyes froze, body numb. With an effort, he shook away the shock just as Solitaire burst forth from the rankness as a spring from the earth.
Warran gave a cry of agony.
Turim watched his Wingmate plummet into the woods below. With a crash, Warren landed near a stream in an explosion of mud and stone, and all Turim could do was grit his teeth and return his attention to the Chromabacks ahead of him.
The poison of the green dragon’s gas entered the bloodstream, burning like wicked devils. In moments, Warran and his mount would start vomiting. Even if they drank from the stream, it would only slow it down. Warran’s skin would turn a tinge of green, then purple, and the oxygen would cease its flow to his mind, seizing his life. Death would take his dragon shortly after. Turim and Sand exchanged glances, well aware that their companion and his dragon were as good as dead.
There are other men to worry about, Turim told himself. Grieve Warran later.
After a few deep breaths, he gripped his lance in his steel gloves, his knuckles marble beneath them. He pulled the reins, but his blue dragon was already responding as if he’d read his mind.
Thunderclap, with fury in his actions and a roar in his throat, gave an incomparable beat of his wings and dove low, inches above the ground. Turim could smell the loam beneath them. Bits of brush struck his helmet and riding shield. Regardless, it was a perfect maneuver.
Rushing upward, Turim’s lance drove deep into the underbelly of the murderous dragon. Thunderclap powered past the green and pushed it aside, going nearly vertical into the sky as Turim let go of the well-lodged lance. He wouldn’t be drug from the saddlemount by it. That was a mistake inexperienced riders made.
They rose above the trees for a few seconds, which gave Turim a moment to assess their distance to shore. But he didn’t relax long.
The wind stung his face, again putting tears in the corners of his eyes. He looked out over Thunderclap’s head to see the end of the canopy of the Modukaz Forest. Several hazy leagues farther, he made out the jagged shore of the dwarven country of Pebak’ Din.They’d already passed beyond their own country into that land, and they were running out of time. Only a few more minutes and they’d have to call off the pursuit or risk drowning their exhausted dragons somewhere over the ocean—and who knew what reinforcements awaited beyond.
Surveying his Wing, Turim found he was at the same altitude as Breed and Bartlett, who flew far behind the battle, still vigilant.
Artho was now a ways off to the right of the enemy. Having not made any move towards them, Turim assumed Artho’s grief had put him out for the moment.
But Sand, quick witted as always, approached the rear of the three remaining black dragons. With each wing beat, Lasertooth made up the distance.
“Lord Gliderlance!” Thunderclap lowered his head as they arced through the treetops to rejoin the fray. “Signal Lieutenant Rocketblade to advance! We can descend before the enemy to slow their pace, but he’ll have to approach them fast!”
Turim understood the idea that had welled up in the blue dragon’s mind as Thunderclap began his dive toward the front of the remaining Dark Knights. The position would make them susceptible to the black dragon’s acid breath, but it was a worthy risk. Thunderclap seemed sure of the plan. That’s well enough for me, thought Turim.
He began to signal Sand, as Thunderclap roared like his namesake, rushing past several birds that flew up and out of the trees, apparently hoping to avoid any unpleasantness that might accompany trespassers in their forest.
Sand gave an affirmative to Turim. “Pull them in, arrow forward!” he urged his copper.
Lasertooth was at the tails of the remaining black dragons just as Thunderclap dropped before them. Furling out his wings to full span, the blue dragon slowed like a parasol caught in the wind of a blustery day, and let out a screeching roar. Turim looked back.
Uncertain of their actions, the Dark Knights were forced to slow their dragons as Thunderclap blocked their flight path. Angry eyes burned in the darkness of their horned helms. The first part of the plan had worked.
“It is all up to you now, Sand,” mumbled Turim to himself. He took a deep breath and watched as Lasertooth carried Sand away with three black dragons on his tail. “After them, Thunderclap!”
They fell far enough behind that it was hard to see the action ahead.
Belching up their acid breath and firing it out in waves, the black dragons wasted no time in their attack on Sand and Lasertooth. Turim heard the hiss as the stray, dark liquid burned into the woods around them, instantly eating through tree and stone.
Sand and his copper swooped back and forth, rolling and diving between the massive trunks of trees. Acid splashes misted around Lasertooth’s tail, but they kept moving.
They came to an open area, as trees seemed to bend away on either side. The time was right. Sand would make his move now.
Lasertooth curled his neck around, spurting out a poisonous cloud of smoke similar to what Warran had inhaled. An orange waft of it swelled out behind him, billowing like a cloud.
Turim kept Thunderclap low, but he smelled it, even from this trailing distance—like fetid fruit. The Dark Knights plunged into the gas while Turim wove far around. He watched as the trio’s dragon mounts began helplessly plunging toward the tall, dry shrubbery at the edge of the forest.
The Dark Knights and their mounts lay writhing far below as Turim blew past overhead, Breed and Bartlett a few hundred feet behind him. Sand had succeeded. The scent of copper dragon’s gas still lingered on the breeze, and he coughed with its taste.
“So many lives,” he murmured to himself as he saw the Dark Knights. The Dragon Army soldiers would die, but Turim felt both thankfulness and sorrow. Had they been drafted? Or had they wanted to follow the Gewurmarchs in their conquest? Looking back to his first years with the Knights of the Hawk, fighting giants and orcs had been far simpler.
#
Turim caught up with Sand and Lasertooth, descending to rest near the shores of Pebak’ Din. On three sides, sparse trees and bracken surrounded the Wing. Spreading out before them though were jagged stones that covered the shore in wet, shining grey solidity. Far out, the tide lapped atop itself, endless like the war.
Turim set Thunderclap down on the stony shore next to Guileeye and Lasertooth, and was followed by Sleekscale and Morning. The dragons’ sides heaved like great bellows. He unbuckled himself from his riding harness and, holding the edge of his shielding, he stepped onto Thunderclap’s shoulder plate, then leapt from his mount and landed with an armored clank of his blue, steel-shod boots.
He tore his father’s helmet from his head and let it fall to the ground.
Sand looked over at him, pushing aside a damp lock of his blue hair. He didn’t say a word.
The others dismounted, each removing their helmets as they collapsed and sat scattered along the shore. Now that the pursuit had passed and the tingle of battle faded, the men’s faces looked somber.
Turim stalked towards the shoreline, passing his men. “What in the God’s name was that Wing doing here?”
“If only we’d been closer,” Breed whispered.
Bartlett looked at him. “Or if only the shout had come quicker.”
Turim said nothing. He stepped over a few large stones and slammed himself down along the beach line as the sea air kissed his face.
Sitting still, his immediate frustrations subsided, but his mind remained fraught with Warran’s fall.
He took a deep breath, gazing out to the waves that crashed against the rocky beach. Hundreds of miles away lay the continent of Daropel. It had once belonged to the dwarves and gnomes. But four summers ago, the Gewurmarchs had found a way to gain control of the Chromabacks and used the dragons to take it over. It had only taken weeks, and it was still a mystery how they’d done it. But after they had, the remaining free folk started calling them the Dragon Army. The simple name stuck. They’d even adopted it themselves.
It was only a minute or two before Sand joined him, sitting on a rock beside his. “You okay?”
Turim looked sideling, barely moving his head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a seriously awful liar.” Sand chuckled. “Guess you still need some work.”
Turim successfully kept himself from smiling.
“Have it your way.” Sand shook his head.
Turim let out a long breath and nodded. “Thanks. We can’t rest long. I need to get back to Grandmaster Strongthorn to report. Maybe he can make sense of all this.”
“Maybe.” Sand nodded. “All I know is, they were way too close.”
Turim stood and turned, solemn faced, to address the others. “Another quarter mile and we would’ve lost them over the Gerathian.” Sea air filled his lungs. “I’m proud of you all. Our friend Warran has returned to The God. We’ll miss him, but in his death, there was honor. May his body lay in rest until taken by the earth and made a part of this great, green world.”
The Wingmates were wordless; a drapery of visible sadness still covered them.
Turim walked over and picked up his helmet. “Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir?” Sand slipped back into formality.
“Let’s get back. There might be Knights of the Hammer around. I don’t feel like answering any of the dwarves’ prying questions just now. Pebak’ Din is their land. They have their own problems to concern themselves with; we don’t need to bring them ours.”
“Men, mount up quick. It’ll be supper before we get back. We ride for Grendelock Keep.”