Chapter 6 #3
But Jhiton’s dragons, wings beating hard, were almost there.
Wreylith flew overhead, not slowing down but streaking out to meet them.
That would help, but there were too many enemies for her to deal with alone.
And her allies—were those Freeborn Faction dragons?
—hesitated to fly straight toward the oncoming forces. They knew they were outnumbered.
Hoping to hearten them, Syla willed all of her projectiles toward Jhiton’s dragons.
The silver balls streaked much farther than cannons could have reached, and one sped toward the great black dragon carrying the general.
Syla clenched her jaw, willing it to take the creature in the chest—and bring its rider down with it.
Lightning flashed in the sky, branches streaking down from the black clouds.
At first, Syla thought the gods would help her, that one might knock the general from his dragon.
But a branch streaked into her projectile, brilliant white light meeting the glowing silver sphere with a blinding flash that stunned her.
She blinked furiously, trying to recover her vision as the light faded, her projectile gone from the sky. Had it exploded?
Before she could see if it had affected Jhiton and his dragon—probably not, as the lightning had caught the projectile before it got close—a clash of metal on the deck between the railing and the weapons platform pulled her attention downward.
Though she was still blinking to clear her vision, she made out someone leaping down from the railing and into the Royal Protectors and several soldiers running toward him. No, toward her.
Dripping water from her black riding leathers, Captain Lesva wielded a dagger and a sword, her gargoyle-bone weapons almost glowing white as they deflected attacks from numerous angles.
Though many men sprang for her and archers aimed, trying to get a shot over the heads of their allies, Lesva didn’t appear daunted in the least. She wasn’t even focused on her attackers, somehow dodging and parrying while glowering at Syla.
The memory of her last encounter with the captain flashed in Syla’s mind, and, for the first time during the battle, she longed to flee, to run belowdecks and barricade herself behind a door.
As if that would be enough to deter the magically enhanced rider captain.
One of Lesva’s blades darted through the defenses of a Royal Protector and sliced into his jugular.
He stumbled back, dropping his weapons as blood spattered the deck.
An archer fired through the opening his absence created, but with uncanny speed and accuracy, Lesva batted the arrow away.
It deflected into the shoulder of one of the men at the cannons.
Even as she battled the Kingdom men, Lesva took step after step toward Syla.
Hands still on the posts, Syla thought about trying to strike her with one of the projectiles, but, even if it landed accurately, it would crash through Lesva and into the deck and hull of the ship. She might sink her own vessel and lose the weapons platform to the bottom of the sea.
“Get more men over here!” Fel barked, though he couldn’t reach Lesva through the troops trying to surround her. The captain should have been overwhelmed, but she moved so quickly, even anticipating attacks from behind.
Wreylith? Syla glanced toward the sky as lightning flashed again.
This time, it didn’t strike anything, but it highlighted the enemy forces, including a red dragon battling a black dragon. Wreylith and Ozlemar.
The Freeborn Faction dragons were flying to help Wreylith, but they were still outnumbered.
Though Lesva would inevitably reach Syla and kill her if she didn’t run, Syla willed two more projectiles toward the stormer dragons, afraid for Wreylith.
She also worried she wouldn’t have many more opportunities to attack their enemies.
Once the forces mingled, Syla wouldn’t be able to tell friendly dragons from enemy dragons, not from such a great distance.
Defeat the human foe! Wreylith ordered.
If only Syla could. Lesva was far from human, and now she was only a few steps from the weapons platform.
“Get that storm-cursed mutant of a woman!” someone yelled.
“Excellent idea.” Again, Syla contemplated sending a projectile toward Lesva, the risk to the ship be damned.
As if she sensed the threat, Lesva spun, slashing rapidly, driving men back, and then she took two running steps and leaped in Syla’s direction, somersaulting over the heads of the defenders.
Syla scrambled back, intending to jump off the other side of the weapons platform, but she’d used too much of her energy firing the weapons.
Utterly drained, her knees buckled, her legs giving out.
An instant before Lesva would have landed atop Syla, something crashed into the woman from above. Vorik.
Surprise flashed across Lesva’s face before she disappeared from Syla’s view, flattened to the deck.
The arrival of Vorik startled the men who’d been trying to get to Lesva’s back.
If they’d been quicker to react, they might have driven weapons into her, but, even startled, Lesva recovered with eerie rapidity.
She sprang to her feet with her weapons still in her hands.
But Vorik now stood between her and the weapons platform. He glanced back at Syla but only for an instant before Lesva, not hesitating in the least, leaped at him.
Their weapons came together in blurs, clangs sounding more like the meeting of metal than of bone, and sparks flew from those magical blades.
Two remaining Royal Protectors and a handful of crewmen not busy loading cannons and loosing arrows at dragons backed away from the fight.
Blood ran from many of their faces, mingling with sweat and rain, and they glanced at Syla.
An archer raised his bow with uncertainty, the two riders both enemies as far as he was concerned.
“Don’t fire!” Syla yelled. “Stay back!”
Vorik had defeated Lesva before, and Syla believed he could do so again—as long as none of her people shot him. Recognition sparked in the archer’s eyes—he’d figured out who Vorik was and knew he was an enemy. But Lesva was even more of an enemy.
Syla tried to stand as the archer drew back his bowstring, aiming at Vorik. “No!”
Her legs couldn’t hold her. She crawled across the weapons platform, but she couldn’t reach the archer in time.
Embroiled in their own battle, Vorik and Lesva didn’t glance at the man. Did they even know he was there? They were such dangerous opponents that neither dared glance away from the other.
A second before the man would have fired, Fel stepped up to the archer and pushed the bow aside. He pointed toward the sky at a dragon heading their way.
“Your Majesty.” A soldier jogged up to the weapons platform from the other side. “We need to get you to safety.”
“We need her to shoot down more dragons!” That was the fleet commander.
Syla pulled her arm away from the soldier reaching for her. Though she struggled to find strength, she agreed that her place was at the weapons platform, firing at their enemies.
Screeches and roars sounded over the thunder and the booms of cannons.
The aerial battle had grown closer, the Freeborn Faction dragons combatting the stormer dragons, wheeling and diving in the dark sky.
A gray dragon had joined the black in battling Wreylith.
She was magnificent, biting and slashing and keeping them from flanking her, but there were too many foes, even for her.
Syla gripped one of the posts and used it to pull herself up. Leaning heavily on it, she managed to plant her hand on the mark.
Ozlemar was no longer fighting Wreylith—where had Jhiton and his mount gone?—but two green dragons had joined the gray to gang up on her. Indignant and afraid for her ally, Syla managed to summon another projectile, sending it toward the fray.
The silvery sphere blazed across the sky and struck one of the green dragons attacking Wreylith, knocking it away from her. Blackness edged Syla’s vision after the effort. Bloody daggers, would she pass out if she tried to call upon more projectiles?
Lesva cried out, stumbling back. Blood flowed from a fresh gash in the side of her neck. Determined, Vorik strode after her. For the first time, uncertainty crept into Lesva’s eyes.
“Vorik, you’re betraying your people,” she yelled, glancing past him toward Syla.
“You’re not killing her.” Vorik sprang after Lesva.
She scrambled back to the railing and glanced overboard. He raised his sword, slashing so that she wouldn’t have the time to turn and jump over, if that was what she intended.
“Traitor!” she screamed at him as his blade knocked hers aside and dove for her neck.
Lightning flashed, and the shadow of a dragon grew visible on the deck an instant before taloned feet lowered. They snatched up Lesva before Vorik could land a killing blow.
Syla peered out from under the canopy of the weapons platform, hoping that was an ally dragon and that it would slay her enemy.
But it was the black dragon, with General Jhiton on his back, his short hair plastered to his skull, his face as hard as stone as they flew away.
Captain Lesva dangled from the black dragon’s grip as they flew over the ship and toward the far side of Harvest Island.
Vorik lowered his sword, his mouth drooping. He looked as surprised as Syla by his brother’s intervention.
A pained screech came from the aerial battle. Wreylith?
Frustrated, Syla risked falling unconscious and used the last vestiges of her strength to fire two more projectiles into the air.
They sped away from the platform, striking one of Wreylith’s enemies as she clamped onto the neck of another.
It was too far away for Syla to hear bone crunch, but as she sank to her knees, she saw Wreylith’s foe go rigid, and then very limp.
Wreylith released her enemy and flew about, searching for more threats, but the remaining stormer dragons were flying away, heading in the same direction as the general.
On the deck of the warship, several archers who’d paused while Vorik and Lesva battled, stepped forward now with their bows raised and determination in their eyes. Vorik stood alone, a single stormer surrounded by enemies.
Undeterred, he raised his sword, as if to say he would parry a dozen arrows flying at his chest if he needed to. Syla didn’t think that even he could manage such a feat.
She struggled to find the strength to call out an order, but the blackness threatened all of her vision now, not only the edges.
Fel opened his mouth, as if he might try to call off the archers, but he looked toward her. Undecided? A part of him had to wonder if it would be better to let Vorik be killed.
But he’d saved Syla’s life. She couldn’t allow that.
“Prisoner, Fel,” Syla rasped. “To question,” she managed to add, hoping the logic would sway Fel and the soldiers.
Vorik didn’t look like he would allow himself to be taken prisoner. He glanced toward the railing. Thinking of jumping over?
Before he could, Wreylith landed on that railing, her huge body denying him an escape route. Her golden eyes pinned him, and her maw opened.
Prisoner! Syla blurted telepathically to the dragon. Take him prisoner.
The effort was the last she could manage, and she lost consciousness before she saw what happened next.