Chapter 16
They passed the stables and a barn filled with hay before approaching what Syla thought of more as a machine shop than a barn.
Since she’d visited the farm before, she knew that a variety of magic-powered farming equipment was stored and worked on inside the building, so she had an inkling of what they would find.
“How do we get rid of him?” Fel whispered as they walked toward the closed double-doors of the structure.
Two huge tractors had not only been parked outside but idled, a hint of magic emanating from under the hoods. Perhaps because of Fel’s earlier words, Syla had the notion of guard dogs rather than corn harvesters.
“For now, I think we shouldn’t try,” she whispered back.
Vorik was strolling behind them, surveying the farm and the sky—did he expect his dragon to return soon?
—and appeared to be giving them the privacy to speak, but she wondered.
If he’d heard the whispered conversation they’d had in the kitchen, with the exterior door closed and the windows shuttered, he had keen ears.
“If he helped you, it was because he needs you for some reason.” Fel had listened as she’d given a brief accounting of the battle at the lighthouse and how Vorik had saved her life—again—but it hadn’t swayed him from believing Vorik was an enemy.
“If I’m a target for stormer assassins right now… we may need him for a reason.”
“I won’t let myself be parted from you again.”
“I…” Syla groped for a tactful way to say that two dragons and riders would have been more than a match for Fel.
But a window in the loft slid open, saving her from needing to explain that diplomatically.
Vorik surged forward, startling Syla as he leaped in front of her, his sword in hand. The barrel of a hand-cannon thrust through the open window, and she understood what had prompted him.
“Trespassers will be shot!” a woman yelled through the window, peering out enough to reveal red-gray hair drawn back from her face and thick spectacles reflecting the landscape. “Especially overly belligerent trespassers who belittle a woman by not believing her capable of taking care of herself.”
Vorik raised his eyebrows, as if wondering if the words were meant for him.
But Fel sighed as he massaged what was probably a sore hip. “We had a previous conversation.”
Increased rumbles came from the idling tractors, and Syla sensed magic flowing down from the loft and into them.
“I take it that your conversation didn’t go well.” Syla, realizing her aunt wouldn’t be able to see her well through Vorik, stepped up beside him.
He lifted a hand to stop her, but she swatted it away. His eyebrows arched, but he didn’t grab her or push her back.
“Aunt Tibby? It’s Syla. We… need to talk.”
“Syla! You’re a prisoner!”
“No, but I—”
The tractors surged from the door, much like the guard dogs Syla had imagined. Each on four huge wheels, one roared toward Fel and one toward Vorik.
“Aunt Tibby!” Syla called. “Stop your machines, please.”
“I’m saving you!” Tibby called. “Run toward the door.”
Fel trotted to the side of the road, probably thinking the machine would have more trouble navigating through the grass after him. Syla doubted it. Vorik ran straight toward the other tractor, his sword still in hand.
As if that would stop the thing. It had to weigh tons.
Someone inside pushed open one of the large shop doors.
“This way, Your Highness.” A boy of fourteen or fifteen leaned out and waved at her.
Syla hesitated, not wanting to abandon the men. Either of them.
As the tractors pulled away from the building, they increased in speed.
The one after Fel charged off the road without trouble, tearing into the grass and angling straight for him with the unerring aim of a hawk.
Vorik crouched, prepared to spring atop the other machine, but a shadow swept over the road. The dragon.
Agrevlari swooped down with his talons extended. As big as the dragon was, the core of his body not much larger than the tractor, Syla didn’t expect what came next.
With a great flexing of the muscles in his back and legs, Agrevlari plucked up the machine before it reached Vorik. Wings flapping so hard that the nearby grass flattened to the ground, the dragon rose into the air with the tractor.
A boom came from the loft window, Tibby firing the hand-cannon.
“Look out!” Syla yelled to Vorik.
But her aunt had aimed at the dragon. Propelled by black powder, the ball slammed into Agrevlari’s flank.
Unlike the red dragon, who’d seemed impervious to all attacks, he screeched in pain or fury—or both—and dropped the tractor.
He’d carried it high enough that when it crashed down next to an irrigation canal, it landed on its side with a thunderous crunch.
After that, it didn’t move, other than the wheels spinning uselessly in the air.
Flames shot from Agrevlari’s maw, though it seemed a reflexive part of his rage, for he didn’t have a target. Not until he banked and started back toward them.
“Hurry, Syla!” Tibby yelled. “Get inside.”
As if a wooden building would stop dragon fire.
But Syla obeyed, partially out of fear of Agrevlari but mostly because she wanted to convince her aunt to stop attacking the men.
As she darted toward the door, she spotted Fel dealing with the other machine.
He’d managed to clamber onto it and into the driver’s seat.
After having no success using the steering mechanism, he started pounding on the control panel with his mace.
The tractor continued to run, circling the shop as it weaved and sped up and slowed down, as if some intelligence guided it.
Syla reached the open door, and the kid guided her into the dim interior, few windows brightening the way. Even with her spectacles, her vision wasn’t as good as other people’s, and with the light change, Syla almost crashed into another giant machine scant feet inside.
“Is that… a catapult?” Syla peered around it, seeking a ladder to the loft.
“Yes, we drove off another dragon with the magical exploding ammunition that your aunt made. Lady Tibaytha, do you want me to roll out the catapult to use on this dragon?”
“Yes!” Tibby yelled. “Hurry, Terrik.”
“No.” Syla gripped the boy’s arm to keep him from throwing the doors open wide to do exactly that. “That dragon is…” She groped for a way to explain Agrevlari and Vorik, who would probably charge into the shop any moment.
“Spitting up bones!” Tibby cried from the loft.
Syla looked back outside. She’d expected Agrevlari to light the area on fire, but he’d landed on the road near Vorik, who held his sword at his side as he watched Fel riding around on the tractor while ripping pieces from it.
Hacking noises came from the dragon. Muscles in his neck undulated, and, like an owl regurgitating the bones of its prey, Agrevlari threw up in the grass.
Abruptly, the rumble of the remaining tractor engine stopped.
In the silence, Vorik’s voice was audible as he mildly said, “I told you not to eat the second sheep.”
“My sheep!” Tibby said. “That dragon is eating my sheep? I’ll shoot it again. And— you. You pompous bastard, what did you do to my tractor?”
It took Syla a moment to realize she was yelling at Fel now instead of the dragon.
“Aunt Tibby, please come down. We need to talk. These men are… uhm…” Syla almost said allies, which Fel certainly was, but what exactly Vorik was, she hadn’t decided.
“I’m here to protect Princess Syla,” Vorik stated, striding through the doorway.
Eyes round, the kid—Terrik—skittered back.
Vorik still carried his gargoyle-bone sword, though he kept it at his side as he strode in. That didn’t mean he didn’t look intimidating. This time, he wasn’t proffering strawberries.
Aunt Tibby peered down from the top of a ladder. “You’re a dragon rider.”
“I am, yes.” Vorik bowed to her. “Thank you for noticing. I strive to maintain my physique in a manner appropriate for the elite Sixteen Talons warriors. Might I suggest that it’s neither wise nor health-inducing to attack dragons?
If Agrevlari hadn’t had a… digestive incident, he would have torched your barn. ”
“You’re an impertinent dragon rider.” Unlike the kid, Tibby glowered fearlessly down at Vorik. Possibly because she’d reloaded her hand-cannon.
“Yes, ma’am.” Vorik gave her a dazzling smile.
She pointed the hand-cannon at him.
“Aunt Tibby.” Lifting a hand, Syla ran toward the ladder.
Vorik crouched in case he needed to spring for cover, but he didn’t appear alarmed by having a firearm pointed at him.
A wrenching came from behind as fangs wrapped around one of the doors and ripped it free.
Light flooded into the shop as Agrevlari hurled it into the field.
The door sailed over the head of Fel, who was limping toward the barn, having finally defeated the aggressive tractor.
The sunlight was soon blotted out as Agrevlari thrust his head through the doorway, his snout coming in beside Vorik as he glowered up at Tibby, his jaws parted to reveal his fangs.
After a moment of consideration, Tibby lowered the hand-cannon.
Giving the dragon a wide berth, Fel stopped in the road to look in and meet Syla’s eyes. Pain hooded his own, but he saluted her, as if to say he was ready to fight again, if necessary.
Syla’s heart went out to her bodyguard. If not for all the family she’d lost, she would think Fel was having a much rougher time than she.
The sobering thought brought her back to Tibby.
Her aunt probably hadn’t heard the details yet about the deaths.
Even if Syla’s father—Tibby’s tie to the royal family—had passed years earlier, her aunt would be devastated by the loss of her nieces and nephews.
Syla’s stomach knotted at the idea of having to tell her about the losses.
“You say we need to talk?” Tibby adjusted her spectacles and looked down at Syla.
“About much, yes.” Tears pricked at Syla’s eyes, and she removed her own spectacles and used her frayed dress to clean the lenses.
Tibby eyed the dragon. “It feels wrong to give up the high ground.”
“Do you want us to come up there?”
Tibby pointed at Syla. “I want you to come up here. They can wait outside.” She lowered her voice to a mutter. “Or in an active volcano.”
Syla looked at Vorik and Fel.
Fel sat down in the grass and stretched his leg out so he could rub his hip. He appeared relieved not to have to deal with Tibby.
At first, Vorik didn’t move, his eyes slitted thoughtfully as he considered Tibby. But when Syla made a shooing motion toward the door, he bowed toward her and walked out, waving for his dragon to withdraw his head.
“You have wool in your teeth,” he told Agrevlari as they departed.
My meal was interrupted when I had to come save your life, the dragon replied, surprisingly sharing the words with Syla as well. Or was he including everyone?
“My life wasn’t in danger from a ponderous mechanical construct. Even the wounded bodyguard was able to defeat that foe.”
Your gratitude over the ever-heroic feats I engage in to assist you is noted.
“I don’t know how you’re going to explain all that,” Tibby said from the loft, “but I am most curious to hear you try.”