Chapter 14
A battle raged on the deck of the whaling ship. Syla and Teyla had retreated into the wheelhouse, though they doubted that would provide safety for long.
Eyes wide, Teyla crouched with her sword in hand, ready to attack anyone who got past Sergeant Fel.
He stood in front of the door, firing his crossbow at men in black who’d leaped over the railing.
They fought the crew of the whaling ship, but, with archers and cannons from their ship assisting, they steadily encroached upon the wheelhouse.
Syla gripped the reflex hammer from her medical kit in one hand and the red dragon figurine in the other.
Warm against her palm, the latter was more likely to be of help, but when she attempted to call out telepathically with an urgent, Wreylith?
she didn’t get an answer. Was it because Wreylith wanted Syla to prove herself?
“As if battle is how I would ever do that,” she whispered.
Teyla glanced at her. “Do you want to get behind me?”
“I’m already behind Fel.”
“Yeah, but he’s being set upon.” Teyla pointed her sword toward Fel, his crossbow firing with one final twang before he was forced to switch to his mace for close-quarters fighting.
“We’re all being set upon.” Syla hated hunkering inside the wheelhouse while others were wounded—or worse—but she feared Fel would soon be overwhelmed and the battle would come to them.
Two men in black and wearing masks attempted to flank Fel so they could attack him from both sides. The wheelhouse and doorway guarded his back, but he had to sweep his mace back and forth rapidly to keep them at bay.
When a second telepathic call didn’t bring a response, Syla pocketed the krendala. She wished she had a crossbow instead of the small hammer. Then she might have fired around Fel. Even more black-clad men were trying to get at him. No, they were trying to get past him and to her.
One of the masked men pointed a hand-cannon at Fel’s head.
“Look out,” Fel called over his shoulder as he ducked.
Syla had been about to yell the same to him but realized that when he lowered himself, the weapon pointed through the doorway at her. She leaped to the side an instant before it fired. The projectile slammed into the wooden wheel behind her, knocking off one of the handles.
Snarling, Fel deflected a sword slash, then sprang for the man with the firearm.
Though he tried not to let anyone past him, one of the black-clad figures slipped through the doorway, blue eyes bright and eager behind his mask. After glancing dismissively at Teyla, he charged at Syla with a spiked mace in his hand.
Teyla stabbed him in the shoulder on his way past. Startled, he howled in pain and spun on her, raising his mace.
Syla jumped forward and struck him on the back of the head.
Unfortunately, the small hammer didn’t deliver a crippling blow.
He stumbled but didn’t drop his weapon. Syla lifted the hammer to strike again, but a second man slipped into the wheelhouse.
“Need help guarding the princess!” Fel yelled amid clangs and thuds.
He was doing his best to block the way, and had downed one of the would-be assassins, but others were keeping him too busy to stop more.
Clangs sounded as the mace-wielder attacked Teyla, now determined to get her out of the way. The second masked assassin leaped for Syla with a dagger in his hand.
Though terrified, she swung the hammer at his arm, hoping to knock the blade away.
With fast, easy speed, he dodged her swipe and leaped toward her, catching her wrist to halt further attacks.
She jerked back, trying to escape his grasp, but he was too strong.
Without effort, he pushed her against a wooden wall, knocking the breath out of her.
Fear surged through Syla’s veins, and she kicked out, but her foot glanced off his leg and did nothing to stop him.
“Sorry, princess.” The man sounded sincere, but that didn’t keep him from raising his dagger. “Orders.”
Terrified for her life, Syla reacted on instinct, summoning her power faster than she ever had before.
The back of her hand flared silver, bright enough that the man paused, glancing at it.
Through his grip, she hurled tendrils of magic from her body and into his.
One tendril shot toward his heart and another toward his brain, and she directed great pressure into crucial blood vessels.
Instead of healing them, as she’d done a thousand times, she willed them to burst, to hurt him enough to drop him to the ground, anything to keep that dagger from slitting her throat.
“Fire!” someone outside cried.
“Dragons!” another man yelled.
A roar and a splitting of wood came from above, but Syla’s attacker didn’t glance up. He swept his dagger with unerring accuracy toward her throat.
But he didn’t finish the stroke. Abruptly, fear widened his eyes, the only part of his face visible behind the mask.
Fear and confusion. His focus turned inward, the dagger hanging in the air between them.
Then his grip softened, and he released Syla.
He staggered back, dropped his dagger, and reached for his head.
With an inarticulate noise, his face twisting in a rictus, he pitched to the deck.
Syla slumped back against the wall, drained by using so much power so rapidly, but she also stared at the man, scarcely able to believe she’d stopped him so quickly. No, she’d done more than stop him. His eyes were frozen open. Dear moon god, had she… killed him? With her magic?
All she’d wanted was to stop him, to do something dramatic to keep him from finishing that blade stroke.
Teyla grunted in pain, and Syla jerked her gaze up, reminding herself that the battle wasn’t over. The other assassin had driven Teyla back to the opposite wall and disarmed her, her sword clattering to the deck.
Syla tried to step forward, but her legs nearly gave out, her muscles rubbery and weak. She’d used so much power in that handful of seconds that she almost pitched to the deck beside the assassin’s body.
But Teyla needed help. Gritting her teeth, Syla supported herself on a console beside the wheel and willed energy into her leg muscles, hoping to spring on the man’s back to stop him.
Before she could, someone leaped down from the roof—through a newly formed hole in the roof—and twisted in the air to land behind the attacker. The man wore dark riding leathers, with windswept black hair framing his familiar face, and a travel pack and sword strapped to his back.
“Vorik!” Syla glimpsed green scales through the hole in the roof.
Agrevlari breathed fire at the nearby military ship that had sent the boarding party.
After making sure Syla wasn’t in immediate danger, Vorik gripped Teyla’s attacker from behind and hurled the man through the doorway with far more power than most people possessed.
The assassin shouted in alarm as he flew into another black-clad man who’d been about to rush inside.
They tumbled over two assassins unconscious or dead on the deck.
Beyond them, Fel was climbing to his feet, recovering from a blow—or had he been shot?
Pain contorted his face, but he’d kept his weapons and stepped over one of the downed men to club those discombobulated by tripping over their comrades.
Vorik rushed to Syla’s side, his sword in hand, though he hadn’t yet bloodied it on an enemy. He must have flown straight to the wheelhouse. As he looked her up and down, checking for wounds, fire blasted across the huge windows behind the wheel.
Another military ship had been approaching, but the navigator must have spotted the dragon, because it was already turning. Or were there two dragons? Syla glimpsed a gray-scaled tail as another flew past outside.
Relieved for the help, Syla gripped Vorik with both hands.
She might have hugged him, but the chaos continued outside the wheelhouse.
Further, Teyla remained inside, a witness alternately gaping at Vorik and through the rooftop at Agrevlari’s belly.
The dragon roared and breathed more fire, targeting another military vessel within range.
“Good morning, Syla,” Vorik said calmly, though he eyed the dead man on the floor. Wondering what had felled him when there was no blood?
Even though the assassin had been trying to kill her, Syla couldn’t feel triumph over the way she’d stopped him.
No, she felt horror. She was a healer, and she’d used her power to kill.
She hadn’t meant to, though in hindsight she realized she’d chosen vital targets and couldn’t be surprised by the outcome.
At the time, with that dagger swinging toward her throat, she’d been too scared to opt for subtlety.
Though he kept his sword pointed toward the doorway, Vorik wrapped his free arm around her. “I’ve been pining for you and thought I would come for a visit.”
“I’m glad you did,” she whispered, tearing her gaze from the fallen man and leaning against Vorik’s side, glad for the support. She looked at Teyla to make sure she was all right.
Her sleeve was ripped and blood dampened her tunic, but she picked up her sword and nodded that she could handle more if needed. Her wound must not have been too grievous.
“They’re pulling away!” someone outside yelled.
“Do we shoot the dragons?”
“No.” That was Captain Radmarik. “Continue to Harvest Island.”
“There’s a dragon on the wheelhouse, sir!”
“He can come too.”
Fel staggered into the doorway, a bloody gash on his sweaty face but his mace in his hand. He spotted Vorik promptly, and anger rather than relief boiled in his eyes.
“You!” He pointed the mace at Vorik, then curled his lip at Vorik’s arm around Syla and her leaning on him.
“He came to our assistance.” Syla thought about pulling away from Vorik, lest they look like lovers, but her legs were still weak. Besides, she didn’t want to pull away. Still stunned and distressed by having killed the man at her feet, she needed support.