Dragon Storm

by Lindsay Buroker

  “This night is getting better and better,” Deimakker growled.

  Send forth your leader now to surrender your land to me, Gharettomenko the Bold, and perhaps we will not destroy your entire city.

  The gold dragon circled the castle, apparently knowing exactly where the “leader” lived.

  Rysha stepped back onto the platform and aimed at the dragon again. Until someone told her they were surrendering, she would keep shooting. Dragons weren’t immortal, just very hard to kill. If they kept hammering away at that gold’s shields, just maybe it would get tired. Maybe those shields would falter.

  The gold dove down toward the castle, flames roiling from its maw.

  • • • • •

  Trip sailed into the split formation Zirkander ordered, his finger on the trigger for his machine guns. The cool night air whipped through his hair and battered his face—he hadn’t taken the time to put on any of his gear except his goggles—but he barely noticed. He was focused on the dragon, though the sheer power roiling off her made him want to fly down and find a rock to cower behind. Instead, he did his best to wall off his emotions, to resist its power. A few seconds, and they would be within firing range.

  “Sir,” came Tranq’s voice over the crystal, “we haven’t been able to stop either of them yet, and the gold is attacking the castle.”

  “Do your best,” Zirkander said. “We’re about to engage the second gold. Trust that King Angulus is somewhere safe.”

  “Wish I was,” someone muttered.

  “Stow that,” Tranq barked.

  “Just keep them as busy as possible,” Zirkander said. “Sardelle has gotten in touch with Tolemek and the rest of Wolf Squadron. They just finished a battle of their own, and they’re flying up from the south with the dragon-slaying blade. Just over a hundred miles away now and coming fast.”

  Trip grimaced. A hundred miles in a flier was still almost a two-hour trip, and they would be flying against the prevailing winds.

  The squadron split to sail around the dragon, shooting forward and toward it. Machine gun fire blasted over the roar of the ocean and the now-distant sirens from the city. Every fourth bullet was an incendiary and lit the sky orange as it streaked toward its target. Because of that, Trip could see the bullets bouncing uselessly off the dragon’s invisible shield.

  Laughter sounded in their minds, rolling over them with power that could have brought men to their knees, had any of them been standing. As it was, several fliers wobbled, and guns stopped firing.

  Trip gritted his teeth, took a couple of last shots at its tail, then prepared to circle back to chase it down the coast and fire again. He touched the two grenades he had wedged between his thighs. Not the best place for them, but he needed them to stay put when he flew upside down.

  A wave of power rolled off the dragon as the fliers tried to close again.

  “Brace yourselves,” Trip blurted, not sure if the others would sense it coming.

  It slammed into their fliers like a tidal wave. There was no chance to ride it out. Before Trip knew what was happening, his flier’s tail flipped over its nose, the craft tumbling through the air like a hapless leaf on the wind. The hurricane wind.

  A myriad of curses burst from the communication crystal. Trip hadn’t been the only one hurtled away.

  Something snapped ominously in the rear of his flier. The frame?

  He forced himself to relax—but tightened his grip on those grenades—knowing he wouldn’t be able to gain control of the flier again until the wave washed past them.

  “I’m damaged,” someone said. “Losing altitude.”

  “Take her down, back to the base if you can,” Zirkander said.

  “My brain is damaged,” someone else growled. “Feels like that dragon is stabbing mental daggers in it.”

  “You stay with us. And learn to like that feeling.”

  “Planning on it, sir.”

  “My squad—I’m calling you Dragon Squadron for now—I’ll try to draw her ire,” Zirkander said, his voice remarkably calm given all that was going on. “Jaxi can protect my flier somewhat. While the dragon is focused on me at her head, I want you strafing her belly. If her defenses falter at any point, Jaxi will tell me, and I’ll let you know. Don’t waste your grenades until then.”

  Draw her ire? That didn’t sound healthy.

  Zirkander zipped ahead, flying faster than his craft should have been able to go. Was the soulblade giving him more speed? If anyone in the newly formed squadron wondered who or what Jaxi was, they didn’t ask.

  Trip followed the others, trying to come in from the side and under the dragon, even as they kept following it southward, back toward the city. But as he flew, he groped for ideas. Shooting wasn’t doing anything. They had to get her shields down.

  Zirkander banked and flew straight toward the dragon’s face. That seemed suicidal, especially since she could breathe fire, but maybe he hoped to be enough of a distraction that their winged enemy would lose focus and drop her barrier for a few seconds.

  Trip pictured the dragon’s head in his mind as he flew under her, angling fire up toward her scaled belly. Jaxi had claimed that he shouted when responding to her telepathically. Did that mean he was… transmitting words? Or whatever the term was?

  Dragon, he cried in his mind, trying to cry into her mind, do you fly in to help the other gold dragon? He has said he will rule this land by himself. He’d heard the announcement the male gold had made earlier. Presumably, the female dragon, and everyone in the city, had heard it, too, but one never knew. He must only be using you for your brawn.

  Zirkander fired his machine guns at the dragon’s nose, and Trip suspected his words had gone nowhere. What did he know about telepathy?

  Another wave of power sprang from the dragon, this time toward the air in front of it. Toward Zirkander. His flier was hurtled to the side like a hookball in one of Leftie’s matches, and fear and fury formed a hard knot in Trip’s throat. The force of the blow seemed like it would tear Zirkander’s flier into pieces, and maybe it already had. He’d gone out toward the sea, the sky dark out there, and Trip couldn’t make him out.

  You think Gharettomenko is using me? The words thundered into Trip’s mind, banging around in his skull. Pain came with them, and he almost groaned aloud, his wings wobbling as his hand shook on the flight stick. Gharettomenko is my mate. All that he does is to please me.

  The words caused more pain as they pounded inside Trip’s head, and he roared in frustration, bringing his flier about. Forgetting about the neat formations they’d been flying in to attack, he angled directly at the dragon’s head, firing relentlessly. All he wanted to do was make the pain stop.

  “Trip, what are you doing?” Leftie demanded. “You break ranks here, and you’ll get caught in someone’s crossfire.”

  My mate and I will destroy your puny city, the female roared. Was everyone hearing the words? Or just Trip? Each one struck like a dagger this time, as if she knew she could use more force to speak and hurt him more.

  “Stop it!” he yelled, unintentionally speaking aloud.

  The side of the dragon’s gold-scaled head filled his vision. He fired, bullets bouncing off, doing nothing. Again.

  She laughed, the sound bringing as much pain as her words.

  “Stop it!” Trip cried again, and imagined hurling his pain and anger and frustration into the dragon’s mind as he flew past, strafing the top of her head with his ineffective ammunition.

  “Her barrier’s down,” Zirkander barked. “Grenades, now!”

  What the hells?

  Almost past her, there was no time to ask for clarification. He grabbed the grenades, yanked the pins, and twisted in his seat to throw them between his flier’s wings and over the tail.

  Booms erupted as other grenades struck the dragon and exploded. They didn’t simply hit a barrier and bounce off. They actually struck her scales.

  Trip turned his flier, hoping to come in and fire again. Also hopin
g to see if the grenades were proving effective. Even with her magical defenses down, those scales were like steel armor, if not tougher.

  He didn’t see anything as promising as scales blown away and flesh laid bare underneath, but a brown goo clung to them after the grenades blew. It took a few seconds, but then pain radiated from the dragon, all of her previous amusement gone.

  Trip would have whooped with triumph, except that fresh pain slammed into him. An attack? Or was he sensing her pain? He had no idea if anybody else felt it as keenly, but it was all he could do not to cry out as it pierced his soul.

  You! the female roared into his mind.

  Before he could think of a response, mental or physical, a wall of power slammed into his flier. It slammed him against his seat back, and pain blasted from his neck.

  Behind him, wood snapped and crunched. One of his wings tore away from the frame as his craft was thrown end-over-end again.

  This time, he couldn’t pull out of it. He moved the flight stick, but a creak and groan came from the frame, followed by a soft snap. The steering mechanism. It broke completely. He had no way to turn, no way to fly up or down. Lastly, the power crystal went dark. Even though the hood hid it from sight, he sensed the light disappearing. The magic was no more.

  His forward momentum faded, and gravity caught up with him. His flier dropped like a rock.

  “I’m going down,” he blurted, his voice sounding loud, afraid, and panicky in his ears.

  He’d always imagined himself facing death valiantly. Bravely. Not wetting himself and weeping. But as his flier plummeted away from the battle still raging overhead, all he knew was sheer terror. His life had barely begun, and this was the end.

  Trying to harness rational thought, he peered over the side. If he was over the water instead of land, maybe there was a chance.

  It was hard to tell, as he was north of the city still, the coast all dark down there, but he thought he saw whitecaps breaking. If he landed, it would be behind them. In deep water. Might he survive?

  With shaking hands, he unfastened his harness. Those whitecaps were close. Very close.

  At the last second, he jumped from his seat, up and away from his flier, hoping in vain that he wouldn’t hit the water as hard that way.

  But the cold ocean slammed into him like a pile driver. His neck, back, and head struck down with an explosion of pain, and he blacked out.

  7

  Rysha swore as another of her shells blew up right on its target, right where she’d been aiming, only to do nothing. She seethed with frustration.

  From her spot on the wall, she’d witnessed three fliers go down, two crashing into the city and one into the harbor. She was certain the pilots couldn’t have survived. The dragons hadn’t even struck them physically. They seemed to hurl mental attacks that rammed into the fliers like battering rams. Giant battering rams.

  The gold dragon perched on the castle wall, raining fire down into the courtyard. Plumes of smoke came from the burning structures inside.

  “You’re doing better than any of us did,” Deimakker said, his voice dull with defeat and weariness.

  “I just wish it mattered.”

  “The rest of Wolf Squadron is coming up from the south,” someone cried from within the fort. “Keep those dragons busy. They’re bringing a weapon to get through their armor, a magical sword.”

  “What’s a sword going to do against them?” Deimakker growled. “And how could they even reach a dragon to use it?”

  “I’ve read the reports of the one dragon our people have managed to kill,” Rysha said, allowing a tendril of hope to curl into her heart. She didn’t mention that the battle had taken place three years earlier, and nobody had succeeded recently in slaying a dragon. “The sword can pierce their magical barriers, allowing other weapons to get through.”

  Rysha fired another shell at the gold dragon, only to have it ignored, blowing up several meters from its head. Maybe it would be better to wait until the sword arrived? To save ammunition?

  Abruptly, the gold dragon’s head lifted on its long serpentine neck. It rotated to peer toward the north, where Rysha had occasionally seen explosions, presumably from another dragon battle.

  For several seconds, the dragon stood in tableau, its wings at its side, its head turned north. Then it sprang into the air, wings flapping. For the first time that night, it headed away from the city.

  You have three days, puny humans, the dragon’s words filled Rysha’s head. Three days to consider your fate. Die as we destroy your city, or surrender and give in to your fate as lesser creatures. Agree to serve us.

  The bronze dragon, which had been taking delight in tearing down one of the hangars on the bluff, also flapped into the air. It took off after its golden comrade.

  Rysha could hardly believe their luck. What had happened?

  She was positive they hadn’t injured either of those two dragons. Had they realized that sword was coming? And did they fear it?

  That was hard to believe. From what she’d read, the blades had been made by human sorcerers working with dragons and were particularly effective against magic, but they weren’t super weapons. They were simply tools that could be useful in a battle against dragons. Tools that had been stashed away or lost over the millennia that dragons had been gone from the world. Clearly, not going looking for them before now had been a mistake. Rysha wished she’d thought to go to her commanders with her research as soon as the dragon attacks had first begun.

  “Well,” Deimakker said, stepping up onto the parapet to look out over the burning city. “It’s good that they’re gone for now, but I have no idea what we’re going to do in three days.”

  • • • • •

  When Trip woke up, such pain stabbed at the inside of his head that he promptly wished he could drop into unconsciousness again. Someone touched his shoulder.

  “This one’s awake, Mrs. Sardelle.”

  “Just Sardelle,” came a tired voice from a few feet away.

  Clothing rustled, and Trip sensed her sitting in a chair next to his bed. Someone he wasn’t familiar with moved away. He forced his eyes open against the pain. In addition to his head hurting, it felt like someone had grabbed both ends of his spine and twisted it like a wet towel to be wrung out.

  Sardelle rested a hand on his forehead. The pain diminished so swiftly that he almost groaned with relief and said something stupid, like he understood now why General Zirkander had fallen in love with her.

  But he kept that thought to himself. Especially since he didn’t know if Zirkander had made it. The last time Trip had seen him, he’d been blown off to the side so far and fast, Trip had been sure his flier would be ripped apart.

  Ragged cheers went up in the room around him, and a few people clapped.

  Though curious, Trip didn’t want to turn his head to look, lest he disturb Sardelle’s hand and whatever she was doing to his poor, bruised body. He did sense a lot of other people around him. They were in an open rectangular building with beds lining the long walls. Surprisingly, daylight came through a nearby window. How long had he been out? And how had he gotten here? Was it a hospital in the city or an infirmary in the army fort?

  As if they would let all these scruffy, bedraggled soldiers into a civilian hospital, Jaxi spoke into his mind.

  He had the sense that she wasn’t far away. Before he could ask, General Zirkander walked into view, his flight jacket open, his uniform rumpled, and his hair tousled. He appeared wearier than any man should be able to feel without collapsing into a bunk. Or onto the ground. He carried the soulblade in his hand, looking like he wanted to use it as a walking cane.

  That is absolutely undignified and not permissible, Jaxi said.

  Are you reading all my thoughts? Trip asked as Zirkander stopped at the foot of the bed across the aisle to murmur something to an injured woman in uniform.

  Just the interesting ones. And only when I’m bored.

  “Good work, sir,” the
man in the bunk next to Trip’s told Zirkander.

  The general acknowledged the praise with a tired wave, then grabbed a stool and pulled it up next to the one Sardelle sat on. She was still leaning over Trip, her hand on his forehead, her eyes closed, but she reached back and patted his thigh briefly.

  “What happened, sir?” Trip asked, his throat raw and raspy.

  He wondered if he’d swallowed much sea water. How was it possible he hadn’t drowned?

  You’re welcome, Jaxi said.

  You helped me?

  After we killed the dragon, I led Ridge down to find you. It was amazing that you hadn’t drowned yet. But we hauled you up and into his flier and got you back to base.

  Trip couldn’t imagine that had been easy, given that Zirkander had been flying a one-seater. Embarrassment crept into his mind at the thought of himself draped across a general’s lap, drooling all over the cockpit.

  Better to be embarrassed and alive. I do regret that I was too busy protecting Ridge to be able to soften your landing. It was our only chance, you see. To attack the dragon.

  I understand. It’s all right.

  It wasn’t as if he’d ever expected to have a sentient sword protecting him when he flew into battle.

  “You alive in there, Trip?” Zirkander asked, peering into his eyes.

  Trip blinked, realizing he’d been staring off, glassy-eyed as Jaxi spoke to him.

  “Yes, sir. I, uhm, thank you.”

  “I understand we have you to thank,” Zirkander said quietly, eyeing him curiously.

  “Sir?”

  “Jaxi says you were the one to do something to the dragon to cause her to drop her barrier for long enough for us to attack. Once we got some of Tolemek’s acid goo onto her scales, she was in too much pain to get her defenses back up again. We hammered her from all sides, and I managed to lob one of those grenades in her mouth. She went down after that.” He drew a finger across his throat. “That’s only the third dragon we’ve managed to kill here in Iskandia. The first without Kasandral.”