Chapter Six Abel
A dragon can be killed at any daylight hour, even after the suns finish the eclipse.
It will not revert to human form again until nightfall.
We use the eclipse as our countdown simply because archive records show that a dragon is exponentially more likely to kill us if we do not slay it within the first few minutes.
—Slayers Guild handbook
Chapter Six
Abel
I hear the fire crackling before I see it.
An orange glow rises behind the canopy of brown-gold leaves, a color too high in the sky to mark the impending sunsdown. When Lucy alerts us to the smoke in the air, one word springs to mind:
“Fire!” I shout. “It could be a dragon.”
“Today?” Claire asks, bewildered. “But the Ignition was yesterday—”
“I’ll explain later. Go!” I order, bringing Lucy tight to my chest.
Claire kicks our horses into a gallop, hair streaming behind her. My knees grip the saddle hard.
My experiments on Micah proved that it’s possible for a dragon to retain its form well after Ignition Day. A few moondaggers lodged in the spinal cord will maintain the transformation. But who else aside from me would know how to do that? I never shared the results of my research with another soul.
At the same time, very few fires in Florent get this bad without a dragon involved.
In moments, we break through the trees. The view opens wide.
Ravinfort—home to the Metekus, my second family—is unrecognizable.
To the right, the Tordou River rushes with whitecapped rapids.
To the left, the stone buildings carved into the cliffside are black and crumbling.
The trim shrubbery burns orange and bright, scorching the dusk chill.
The du Fay castle towers on the clifftop, as usual, obvious from the moonmetal spear launchers mounted on the turrets.
But flames climb up the ivy on the walls like greedy fingers.
Half of the eastern turret falls in a landslide of rubble.
The exposed interior walls burn, scorched black.
Our horses tense, heads high, ears forward. Anticipating a spook, I snatch the reins, halting my mare short. Momentum unseats me. I twist my body enough to alter my trajectory and land on my feet instead of my head. It keeps Lucy safe in my arms.
“Ho!” Claire commands, sitting back. Her horse skids to a halt. The lead rope to my horse snaps taut. “Don’t do that! You could injure the horse and yourself.”
I lower Lucy to the ground and slip the pack from my shoulders, drawing a slew of moondaggers, a crossbow, and a quiver of moonmetal-tipped bolts to throw over my back.
“Wait here,” I order. “If you see a dragon, run.”
“A dragon can’t have caused this,” she insists. “Not today. Not even at this hour. The suns are setting.”
“It’s possible. I proved it firsthand.”
Worry gleams like the fire in her eyes. “Proved what, exactly?”
I clench my eyes shut. Breathe deep. Then set the dragon-skull helmet over my head. My eyes open to the view from behind Micah’s open maw.
Claire’s hands are full, so I force my pack into her lap. “Keep this safe.”
She stares at it, as if she can’t believe I’d entrust it to a thief, but secures the pack before it can slip. “You’re not going into that flaming mess alone. Especially not if you think there’s a dragon involved.”
“I won’t be alone. The du Fay family protects this city.”
She squints at the castle. Her concern bleeds into me.
On second glance, the tower looks blown out from the inside.
Did a du Fay turn? Did they take a dragon captive for experimentation?
But the du Fays are one of the oldest slayer families, and sticklers for the rules.
They’d never disobey the Slayers Guild, let alone repeat my mistake.
I shake my head. The how can come later. I’m not leaving this to chance. Lyle and his mother aren’t fighters; they’re craftsmen, which means they’re in danger. And if Ravinfort is this far damaged, the du Fays need backup.
Claire tugs my mare’s lead, regaining her attention. “Give me the crossbow. I can support you.”
“No. Take the horses and stay out of the way. I can’t save the Metekus if I’m protecting you.” I stuff the daggers into my belt and load the crossbow. “Lucy, come!”
I sprint down the road and into town, crossbow raised and ready.
Lucy bounds at my side. Flames roar and buildings crack.
Sweat builds beneath my uniform. Untethered taxi boats clatter together at the river docks, pinned against the cobblestone shoreline.
My ears strain for a dragon’s roar, wingbeats, claws on stone, something.
There’s nothing to track.
A glimpse of green fabric pulls my attention right, near the riverside docks. There’s just enough firelight to reveal a clergyman of unclear rank, facedown with his throat sliced open. Did a slayer throw a dagger at the dragon and miss?
I race farther into town. Ravinfort’s archive building waits for me in the main square.
Window glass litters the street, the building’s roof caved in.
A felled wall reveals a man in a slayer uniform lying half crushed beneath a pile of broken bricks and shattered roof tiles.
The face is too blistered to recognize. A near-perfect-circle burn mark scars the floor.
A blast radius?
Too smoky to make assumptions. The ashy remains of books and documents smolder on the floor.
This is just one archive of many, but some records may not have been copied and distributed to the other branches yet.
Gods. If I’d submitted my journal to this location just hours earlier, it might’ve been burned before duplicates were made.
I beckon for Lucy and head for the Meteku family’s shop instead.
Lyle must be alive. And his mother. Madame Afi would smack a dragon bare-handed before she’d let her son die.
Besides, slayer outfitters are trained to evacuate at a moment’s notice.
They’re too rare to risk. Of all people, they know how to keep safe.
“Lyle!” I call. “Madame Afi!”
Their shop is so damaged, I almost run past the Meteku Metalworks sign.
The door hangs off a splintered frame. Eyes stinging with smoke, I hold my breath and squint into the ember-made shadows.
The glass cases are sparse with moonmetal weapons no better than mine.
Madame Afi’s half of the shop is completely empty.
None of her famous dragon-scale uniforms are on display.
Not a single roll of hide or a sewing needle in sight.
Did they pack up merchandise before they evacuated?
They shouldn’t have. Standard safety procedure dictates they leave everything behind.
“Is anyone here?” I try again. “Answer me!”
The attic floor caves in. The remains of Lyle’s mattress and bed frame crash down.
I abandon my search and race through the square instead.
More smoke, more bodies. Some dismembered, others slashed clean through throats and stomachs.
I scan the burning trees. They release so much ash into the air, they nearly wipe out the dying sunslight.
Another turret of the du Fay castle crumbles.
No dragon. No dragon. No dragon.
Unless it killed everyone. Unless it flew away to another town to find new victims.
Seventh rule of dragon hunting: A dragon’s flight equals loss of life.
But Ravinfort is one of the best-protected cities in Florent, complete with moonmetal spear launchers and multiple resident slayers. Plus the du Fays have the highest collective slaying record. How did a hunt go this badly under their watch? It’s like they ignored the rules entirely.
A feminine figure dashes from the alley behind the Church of the War-Torn Gods.
She leaps over the twisted remains of the steeple, then expertly sidesteps a mess of blue and red stained glass.
Glancing behind her, moonmetal sword raised, the girl hides behind one of the church’s massive wooden doors.
The plain tunic and trousers don’t camouflage my ten-year rival from trainee camp.
She’s the du Fay who left me in second place in every class.
“Hanna!” I run to her assistance. “What happened? Where’s the dragon?”
She whips around at the sound of her name. Her whisper is harsh, barely audible above the fires. “Abel? Leave, now! There are silver—”
A curved blade—a sickle—bursts through her abdomen. She drops her sword. Blood bubbles from her mouth and soaks the stomach of her tunic. The sickle retreats in a metallic flash. Her fingertips graze her wound, head tilting as if confused. Then she crumples to the ground.
A fighter of a generation, felled.
A blue-cloaked figure steps over Hanna’s body—then pauses at the sight of me. I can’t see his face; his hood casts it in shadow. Blood drips from his sickle and speckles the cobblestones. Lucy flattens her ears and shrinks behind me with a whimper.
This makes more sense.
There is no dragon.
Humans are attacking a slayer outpost.
The cloaked figure steps toward me. Orange firelight reveals a silver mask inside the hood. It has arching half-moon-shaped cutouts for eyes, a crescent smile for a mouth, too curled to look natural. A madman’s laughing expression.
I should run. I hunt dragons, not humans. This is a job for the Gendarmerie. But as I hold my crossbow in the uncertain space between lowered and aimed, the red uniforms of dead gendarmes taunt the edges of my vision. This masked figure didn’t attack Ravinfort alone.
Ninth rule of dragon hunting: The best camouflage is chaos.
All the destruction can cover my escape. I’ll make Lucy eat a path to Claire through the burning bushes. The flames will rush back in and close off the path behind me. We’ll flee on horseback to the nearest town and alert the Gendarmerie.
The masked figure whistles. Three toned, like a summons.