I pull hard at my foot, dizzy with fear. My boot lace is hopelessly knotted, the boot solidly frozen to the ground. The dragon’s warmth courses over me in a wave and melts the ice near my toes, but it’s not enough to free me.
Clutching her chest and propped up on her side, Fallon breathlessly grinds out a spell and points her wand at the dragon with a shaking hand, just as the creature begins to snarl and right itself. A line of ice knifes out from the tip of Fallon’s wand and into the dragon.
The dragon freezes then wobbles, Fallon’s spear of ice stabbed right between its eyes. The beast falls to the ground with a dull thump.
It’s impossible not to be wildly impressed—she just killed a dragon with a huge knife sticking out of her side.
I duck as a glowing red orb whirs by overhead, along with stray wand fire, the orb exploding behind me into a circle of red flame that briefly turns everything in the world crimson.
Fallon lets out a harsh growl as she throws out a series of ice spears that collide with the assassins in a harmless spray of snow.
“They’re shielded,” she says more to herself than to me, her eyes latched on to the assassins as her guard relentlessly attacks them now with swords. One assassin fights with two guards at once.
Fallon cries out and rolls onto her back as she sends forth a ceiling of ice over the fighting men. She flicks her wand repeatedly, and ice spears rain down from the ice ceiling and impale the assassins’ skulls.
The assassins slump to the ground.
The runes on her clothing still glowing a bright white, Fallon sets her fierce eyes on me, then promptly passes out.
It’s at that moment when my boot finally cracks free of the ice, my ankle twisted and throbbing.
Wincing from the pain, I crawl on my knees toward Fallon. The hilt of the knife juts out mercilessly from her side.
I have no great love for Fallon Bane, but I certainly never wished for her to be this grievously harmed.
Lurching toward her, I grab hold of her arm with a shaking hand. “Fallon, can you hear me?”
Sweet Ancient One, she can’t be dead.
“Get back,” one of her guards orders harshly.
I get up on unsteady legs and stumble backward as he drops to his knees in front of Fallon, soon joined by the other two surviving members of her guard.
I stagger to the ground and reach down to absently massage my pulsing ankle, stunned and shaken.
More soldiers are running up the field, shouting. They’re mostly Gardnerian, but some are clad in the light gray of the Verpacian Guard, one of them Elfhollen. Three Vu Trin, including Kam Vin and Ni Vin, bring up the rear. Ni Vin’s eyes meet mine, her black scarf wrapped tight around the burned half of her head, sword drawn.
I turn and look over my shoulder.
There are dead men and dragons strewn across the field. I turn back toward where Fallon lies, incredibly still. A numbed horror washes over me.
Everyone’s talking at once. Men yell out orders as a large contingent of Gardnerian soldiers arrives on horseback. They’re accompanied by a Gardnerian physician and his apprentice, the physician yelling out for supplies.
All the noise is a disconnected mayhem in the face of my overwhelmed shock.
“Give me room!” the physician orders as he rushes to Fallon and drops to his knees.
She’s momentarily blocked from my sight, healers and soldiers surrounding her, one soldier holding a torch, the outer ring of soldiers facing out, their weapons drawn, faces severe.
A young soldier comes down on one knee beside me. “Mage Gardner, are you all right?”
I flinch back from him, shaking with terror, his words barely able to pierce the storm of my emotions.
Someone wraps a blanket around my shoulders.
When the crowd around Fallon disperses, the physician is holding the large knife. Fallon’s tunic is off, her chest covered with tight bandages, her rune-marked uniform and cloak in a tight, glowing ball that’s quickly handed off and taken away.
She’s not dead.
Her eyes are half lidded, but open and staring right at me with a hatred so intense, it jars me to the core.
“The North Tower,” she rasps out. Her eyes loll backward, and she falls unconscious.
Breathless and heart thudding, I watch as two of Fallon’s guards lift her stretcher and carry her away. A small army of Gardnerian soldiers draws protectively in around her, cutting her off from view.
* * *
“Who are they?” I ask a surviving member of Fallon’s guard, motioning toward the dead assassins.
The young man’s brow knits tight. We both take in the sight of the assassins as their bodies are thrown over the back of a horse. The men’s dead eyes are rimmed with kohl. Intricate runes mark their faces, and their lips are painted black.
Chilled to the bone, I hug the blanket tight around myself.
“They’re Ishkart mercenaries,” the guard tells me with grim certainty. “Assassins from the Eastern Realm.” He flicks his finger toward the dead dragons that are being loaded by more soldiers onto a cart. “And their pit dragons.” He looks to the icy North Tower then back to me. “You should return to your lodging, Mage Gardner.”
“But...what if there are more of them?” I worry, looking sidelong toward the dark wilds, the trees like hulking presences.
“They’re not after you,” he says. He nods in the direction they took Fallon in. “They’re only after her. Our next Black Witch.”
“Her clothes,” I say, the glowing symbols bright in my mind. “What were those strange symbols?”
“They rune-marked her clothing with search runes,” he tells me. “Tracked her here.” He gestures toward the tower with his chin. “Unless you have another Black Witch up in that tower, no one will be bothering you there, Mage Gardner.”
A soldier near the North Tower’s door aims his wand and sends out a line of fire around the door’s frame, melting Fallon’s ice. He wrenches it open and slips inside.
My stomach gives a hard lurch. Soldiers dot the entire field, quickly dispersing as they widen their search into the surrounding wilds. Panicked, I look up and catch a fleeting glimpse of an Icaral’s silhouette in the upstairs window.
I get up and rush, stumbling, to the tower, just as the soldier reemerges. He stands aside, his face impassive, as I stride past him, taking the spiraling stairs two at a time, not caring about the flash of pain every stomp of my left foot brings.
Panting hard, I find Wynter waiting for me on the other side of the hallway, the door to our room open beside her.
Marina. Marina. Marina.
I run to the door and my feet skid to a halt just outside it.
Ariel peers back at me from where she lies on her bed, something rustling under the blankets at her feet.
The rustling thing shrugs the blankets off her head, and Marina peeks out at me with her ocean eyes.
“Ariel hid her?” I rasp out to Wynter, amazed and stunned, doubling over to catch my breath.
Wynter gives me a small nod.
“But...” I say, high-pitched with confusion, “Ariel hates her.”
“She does,” Wynter affirms with another nod then gestures outdoors, toward the soldiers. Her pale face darkens. “But she hates them more.”
I look back to Ariel, and she glares at me with a hatred as hot as Fallon’s.
“They came for Fallon Bane,” I tell Wynter, my throat dry and tight. I’m overwhelmingly grateful that my grandmother’s power has completely passed me by. “Ishkart assassins. They’re trying to kill the next Black Witch.”
“But they failed,” Wynter says, more a grave statement than a question.
I let out a long breath and nod. I’m tense and still lit up with alarm, my ankle throbbing painfully.
“Why was Fallon Bane here?” Wynter’s eyes are full of solemn concern, her voice a constricted whisper. “Does she know of our Selkie?”
I shake my head. “No. But she knows something isn’t right.” I tense my brow at Wynter. “We’ve got to free that dragon. No more waiting. We’re going to need a way to fly a Selkie and more than a few Fae out of here. Before Fallon is healed.”
* * *
The next day rumors abound that Fallon was brought back to Gardneria under heavy guard, some say to a military base surrounded by dragons.
Vogel uses the incident as an excuse to lock down the borders. Urisk seamstresses are interrogated, and all those who might have worked on Fallon’s rune-marked uniform are shipped off to the Pyrran Isles. Random iron tests begin at all the border crossings.
The need for escape is getting more dire by the minute.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Breaking Cages
The Lupines, my brothers, Cael, Rhys, Wynter, Andras, Tierney, Yvan and I all peer through the dense brush and down onto the expansive military base that lies before us.
The Gardnerian Fourth Division base is like a small city unto itself—multiple Spine-stone buildings carved into cliff faces, a sea of waxed-canvas tents and dragon cages interspersed throughout. On the western end of the base stands a series of wooden barracks, only one lit from within by lantern glow, its chimney spitting smoke into the chilly air. Soldiers appear small as ants from our high vantage point.
I sense movement to my left and turn to see Jarod, then Diana, crouched low and rushing over to us.
“It’s just as we thought,” Jarod tells us. “They’re operating with a skeleton crew.”
“Everyone’s gone to Valgard for Marcus Vogel’s appointment of the new base commander,” Rafe says with a smile.
“Who’s the new commander?” I ask.
Rafe turns to me, his smile widening. “Mage Damion Bane.”
I spit out a laugh. “We’re going to get him in a whole lot of trouble, aren’t we?” I crow.
Rafe nods. “Hopefully so much that Vogel will rescind Damion’s power over the dragons and feed him to them instead.”
I briefly meet Yvan’s green eyes, and we share a brief glimmer of satisfaction.
Rhys turns to Rafe. “It appears they haven’t bothered to post sentries.” The young Elf points a slender finger toward the rows of dragon cages that border the entire base, edging the wilds. The cages appear isolated and unguarded, no movement around them. No torchlight.
Cael glances at Rhys, the older Elf’s face taut, fully understanding the risk we’re all taking, but desperate to have options for his sister to escape into the Eastern Realm. He moves protectively closer to Wynter.
“Damion Bane’s not the only upper-level soldier in Valgard right now,” Jarod goes on. “Vogel’s reorganizing the whole Guard—there’s a number of promotions being announced. All of Damion’s lieutenants are in Valgard with him.”
“Very good,” Andras affirms with a nod, his fist tight around his labrys.
“It gets better,” Jarod puts in, the late-afternoon light casting him in a bluish glow. “The soldiers who stayed behind? They’re all fresh out of apprenticeships.”
“Ah, wonderful,” Rafe says with a smile. “Green as spring foliage. And while the cat’s away...”
“Are the mice playing?” Trystan inquires wryly.
“With a large volume of illegal Keltic spirits,” Jarod responds with a sly smile.
“And more than a few Urisk tavern girls,” Diana spits out.
“Typical,” Tierney snipes.
“Oh, this is almost too easy,” Trystan gloats with a small smirk, the white wand hanging from the belt beneath his cloak.
* * *
We’re quickly sobered when we find Naga in even worse condition than before.
She lies unconscious, both legs and both wings broken now, one ear cut clear off, her cage’s floor smeared with fresh and dried blood, her forked tongue hanging limply out of her mouth. Shocked, Yvan kneels down by Wynter and puts his hand next to hers on the dragon’s neck.
Tierney gapes at the dragon, her thin hand coming up to cover her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
She’s with us now, Tierney, and eager to help create any chink in the Gardnerians’ military might that she can—and to help us secure dragonflight escape for the Icarals and the Fae.
Our band of rebels is growing. All of us are here, save Aislinn, who’s once again caring for Marina.
And Ariel.
After our last visit to the base, Diana and Jarod scouted out a hidden, expansive cave deep in the forest. Ariel is there, preparing the medicines and splints we’ll need to heal our dragon.
“She’s alive,” Yvan breathes out.
“Gods...who did this?” Tierney murmurs.
“Dragon Master Damion Bane,” Trystan succinctly tells Tierney as he pulls out the white wand and focuses it on a few different spots on the cage, his expression gone steely. “And I think it’s high time we put an end to it.”
Andras readies his ax.
We all step back as Trystan murmurs the freezing spell.
A thin burst of blue light surges from the wand’s tip and collides with the bars of the cage, spiraling around them and turning the Elfin steel white-blue, a thick layer of icy frost growing beneath the spell’s light. Trystan keeps at it for several minutes before murmuring the spell again, the light doubling in intensity.
As the spell fades, Trystan steps back and glances at the wand in frustration. “It’s not working. They need to get so cold they turn white. The bars—they might be too thick.”
“Try again,” I prod. “You strengthened the spell the second time. Maybe you just need to work up to it.”
Trystan takes a deep breath, nods then repositions himself and speaks the words of the spell once more. Again, the frost grows, and the steel glows blue. Every muscle in Trystan’s body goes tense as he pushes at the spell. His body begins to tremble, and the wand starts to buck in his hand.
I reach out to steady him.
As soon as my hand makes contact with Trystan’s back, a buzzing heat courses through me. Trystan’s spell explodes in strength. The small spiral of blue bursts into a giant ellipse of sapphire light encircling the cage. And then the entire steel framework turns translucent as glass.
I recoil sharply as there’s another burst of light, a deafening crack and the ellipse of light surges backward. I’m hit by a painful wave of frigid air that almost knocks me off my feet.
I pull my frozen eyelashes apart just in time to see the bars of the cage go white as snow then crumble to pieces, the shards of frozen metal smashing against each other, the sound like a million chandelier crystals falling on stone.
Before we have a chance to speak, the crashing sound echoes out from the forest over and over, near and far.
“What was that?” Tierney asks in a small, worried voice.
“It sounded like cages shattering,” Trystan guardedly replies. “But...it couldn’t be...”
“How many dragons are on this base?” Cael inquires, dead-serious urgency in his eyes.
Trystan swallows hard before answering. “A hundred and twenty-three.”
Rafe turns to Cael. “Any thoughts on what they might do?”
“They’re trained to kill intruders,” Cael answers grimly. “And to go to their Dragon Master.”
Yvan rushes at the tallest tree in the vicinity, a great, towering pine. He scrambles up it with breathtaking speed, deft as a river monkey. I blink up at his form as he hangs one-armed from the treetop, not quite believing my eyes. I rack my brain and try to remember what type of Fae can climb like that.
Something snarls in the distance. One man shouts then more. A serie
s of vicious growls rise that set the hairs on the back of my neck on edge. And then a base alarm sounds—a high-pitched, spiraling whistle as dragons begin to shriek.
“They’re everywhere,” Yvan calls down. “They’re all loose...”
Yvan leaps from the top of the tree and lands in front of me with a heavy thwump. He’s crouched low, a look of fierce resolve burning in his emerald eyes.
I’ve no time to marvel over his effortless leap from such a great height. He grabs my arm and practically throws me out of the clearing into the shelter of the trees.
I scrape my arm, and a branch slashes at my face as I hit the ground.
Three dragons shoot into view, soaring over, just above the treetops, beating foul wind down onto us with powerful wings, their undersides covered in hard, ebony scales. One of them lets out a rasping shriek. I become acutely aware of the softness of my skin—how easily it would yield to teeth and claws.
Easy prey.
Cael and Rhys have taken to the trees, arrows nocked in ivory bows as Tierney shrinks down by a large oak. The base below us has become a cacophony of shrieking and growling. Men shouting. Women screaming. Horses panicking.
“Wyn’terlyn,” Cael calls out to his sister in Elvish, his eyes seared on to her. He points to Naga and barks out an order in their tongue. Wynter quickly slides under Naga’s broken wing, disappearing from sight.
“I can hear dragons,” Diana says, cocking her head. “A number of them. Coming this way.”
“How many?” Andras asks, his jaw going rigid as he brandishes his ax and flexes muscular arms.
Diana levels her eyes at him. “Too many to count.”
Rafe readies his bow as Diana and Jarod crouch low. Yvan’s hand finds my arm, every part of me on high alert, heart racing. I remember the broken dragons’ horrible teeth, their soulless eyes...
“Stand ready!” Diana commands as she morphs her hands into clawed weapons, one arm arced above her head, a low growl emanating from her throat.
A dragon bursts into our clearing, wings beating. I gasp and reflexively shrink back behind Yvan as arrows shoot down and bounce off the beast’s neck. The creature immediately zeroes in on Diana, tilts its horrible head and hisses, showing off murderous, spiked teeth.
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