by Lisa Daniels
Crash. “They're breaking into your workshop,” Servalan said, voice low. “About... six men. You must have really pissed them off, girl.” Her staff shimmered brighter.
You can't be more than five years older than me, Helga thought with a sniff. Additional crashes from above almost made Helga drop her weapon. The dragon concealed in her bodice seemed to sense something was wrong, and had buried deeper, not wanting to peer out at the commotion.
“They never stop, do they? They'll never steaming stop til they have me.” Helga choked back a frustrated sob, before holding her arm as steady as possible.
“Congratulations,” Servalan snarled. “You're more valuable than a magician.”
Ice frosted over the walls, and Helga's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
Iceblood.
Ice bolts punched through the window, and Servalan only just managed to dodge, her light flickering on the staff. “Shit,” she yelped, now stepping backwards as ice permeated the window, forming a crackling noise as the structural integrity weakened. “Gorchev's brought his little pets to the show!”
“Pets?” A high, cold laugh came from outside. “We're only here to reclaim what's ours.”
Helga's finger twitched, and the quarrel sped off through the window. It bounced uselessly off the iceblood's hardened skin. Footsteps pounded from upstairs. Relentless and hunting. More men emerged, wielding guns, and there was another iceblood, holding a diamond-tipped staff.
“Oh, really?” he said, picking his huge nose. “This ain't fun at all. Two little girls.”
Six men outside. Three men from the stairs, including one of the cronies Helga hadn't shot, staring at her with utter loathing. Two icebloods.
The odds didn't look good. The baby dragon let out a squeak from inside her clothing.
“You should have really, really accepted your husband's offer,” the man said, now charging up his sapphire staff. “He's most upset you rejected him and stole his goods.”
“I worked for years to make them,” Helga snapped. “He stole my designs.” With a scream, she aimed her crossgun at the people outside, though she didn't expect to hit anyone. The bolt flew. The man lazily deflected it before it even reached the window, and Servalan pounced. She slammed the staff down on the ground, and parts of the stone floor glimmered orange like slag rivers, before erupting underneath the man. Quite suddenly, he found himself impaled on the edge of a pointed stone formation that had sprouted from the ground.
“Nice job,” Servalan said, before letting out a derisive snigger. “He was too slow to react.”
The man made a horrible gurgling noise and slumped, dead. Helga gaped. This was a stoneblood's power? Now she didn't know who scared her more—Mia, or Servalan.
The stoneblood let out a scream like a boiling kettle, raising the floor again, just in time to deflect icy bolts from above. Helga cowered next to Servalan's erected wall, again aiming outside. She let fly, and the quarrel landed in someone's shoulder. He yelped, and by the time he had begun to fall, Helga already sent another bolt their way. The wall crumbled around Helga as Servalan prepared her next attack, muscles straining in her neck.
“I'll kill you all,” she snarled, expression deranged. The sound of footsteps retreating back upstairs accompanied her words, but she wasn't yet done. “You can't hide from me if there's stone around...” Servalan's skin shimmered with cracks of orange. She pushed her free hand against the wall—and melted into the surface.
Helga's mouth dropped as Servalan simply merged into the wall, as if being sucked up by quicksand, leaving a glowing orange snail trail to indicate the direction of her path. Upwards.
“By the steaming heavens,” Helga whispered. No wonder she could find gems so fast. Being able to move through rock definitely helped with that.
Shouts outside drew Helga's attention again, and she spat out as many bolts as she could towards the thieves. One more hit home, the others fell short. Three quarrels left. Helga dashed out into the darkness, finding the cart they were hastily loading her goods onto. One of the remaining four men screeched and aimed a pistol at her. Easy enough to dodge, using the wall as cover. One more point blank bolt—she hit the driver, a sitting target. Stupid. Should have moved. She clicked the next bolt into place as more gunshots pierced the night. Adrenaline racing through her veins, her hand trembled as she waited for the sound of reloading. Could she even hear it from here? She peeked in time to see one of them frantically stuffing more powder down their flintlock pistol. Another sitting target. Her second-to-last bolt hit him.
Honestly, if they'd just tackled her, she wouldn't have been able to do this. She felt glad they didn't—the baby dragon tucked in her clothing might suffocate from the slightest pressure.
Deciding to risk a bluff, she faced the remaining two men with her last bolt. “Run away now, or you'll get killed, too!”
“What in rusts is that thing?” a bald-headed man screeched, eyeballing her weapon. “How are you able to shoot so fast?”
She didn't respond, and they took the opportunity to run away, abandoning the poor horse attached to the cart, which pawed the cobbles nervously, tossing its head from side to side. Helga blew out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. One bolt left. And despite her terrible aim, she could at least hit things at close range. Long as she kept her arm straight. Horrendous crashing noises drew her back to the house—she watched as a body appeared to catapult itself from the mansion roof as if released from a tight wire, limbs flailing in a doll-like manner. Not Servalan. Gunshots sounded from within, and Helga decided to wait outside for anyone who might escape, rather than risk moving into a house that threatened to collapse around her.
Her mother would have told her that people had gone stupid ever since they started making pistols and muskets. People forgot about the glory of close combat or the speed and cheapness of arrows. People saw guns as magic sticks to point and bang at someone, and forgot the other ways of defending themselves.
No one else left the property. Silence fell. Eventually, Helga tentatively made her way inside, still pointing her crossgun, finger itching for the trigger.
Servalan stood by the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, the other reaching to her shoulder, where tributaries of red streamed from her back and covered her white shirt. “Got them. But one of the bastards popped me a shot and punch.” Helga noticed the injury on Servalan's thigh as well, and how she gingerly put weight upon it.
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
“Nah,” Servalan said, her eyes pinching. “Get the police. They'll help clear this up. Get Officer Gunte, he's in thick with Zaine.”
“You don't want the hospital?”
The stoneblood grimaced at the word hospital. “I'll be fine. 'Tis a flesh wound, like they're fond of saying.”
Didn't really look like a flesh wound, but something in Servalan's stony manner encouraged Helga not to ask any more questions. She helped position Servalan on the couch, sealed up the shoulder injury as much as possible, then went outside, shaking, to summon the police. Quentin would pop a vein if he found out what had happened. He'd blame himself. But Helga suspected that something else was to blame here.
Someone who knew about their plans. Someone who had rattled them off to the enemy, since they knew exactly when to strike.
Without Servalan here, Helga thought, it would have gone a lot worse.
Now, hopefully the stoneblood wasn't lying out of her teeth with the extent of her injuries.
Chapter Nine – Quentin
Quentin clawed through the air, his wings snapping on each side, a comforting blanket in the skies. Out of all the things he found intriguing with human cities, he missed the skies the most. The night hid him as he shot towards the rendezvous point. Outside the Iron City, north of the Western Reaches. As close to the center between the hybrids, trads and humans as they could ever get.
He didn't feel comfortable leaving Helga with Servalan, and had assigned police officers to p
atrol the streets near Zaine's abode to make sure no additional disturbance was caused. All of Zaine's magicians, meanwhile, had been sucked to the meeting point. Crime in the Iron City likely dominated on this particular night. Nothing to be helped.
They needed to secure a deal. Maybe then, they'd finally fix most of the mess his family had made in their march for profit and destruction. Helga's parents at least were sequestered safely, out of that death trap of a home. Reluctant to move, of course, but nothing a small act of arson couldn't fix.
Spying the meeting point below, Quentin swerved his sinuous body towards the mountain plateau. Mountains towered in the near distance. A snow-coated forest covered the north, and the plateaus and ridges descended down towards the Iron City, connected to the Western Reaches. He resisted the impulse to breathe fire and paint a beacon of his coming above, and instead settled for a screaming dive, which served to make his head fuzzy with pressure.
Landing on the bare, plant-scarce plateau, a gathering awaited. Zaine, along with his other prince brother, Mauro, waited with their vassals, servants, and magicians. Mia stuck close to Zaine, never resting for a moment. Icebloods were the most common magician, though still scarce compared to the population of an entire continent.
Zaine stood proud in his human form, while his brother remained in dragon. “About time,” Zaine said, one eyebrow raised at Quentin, who decided to stay in his dragon.
I had to attend to certain matters before leaving, my prince. He looked away from Zaine to study the three human councilmen with their guards and finery, and the three green trads—the elders of the biggest tribe. And the most inclined to strike a deal.
As if reading Quentin's mind, Zaine said, “I hope to the fiery pyres of our ancestors that we're not attacked. If any of these trads die, we may as well start preparing for war.
An ominous portent, my prince. But we have patrols in the skies. Quentin had flown past Zaine's royal dragon guard to reach here, though he got the distinct impression they'd have been delighted to tear his wings off.
“I'm worried they won't come from the skies.”
But we also have trads guarding the known passes.
“Where there's a will, there's a way.” Zaine folded his arms, stepping forward to begin translation.
Twenty-six in the clearing. Zaine's five icebloods—two more new finds he'd plucked from the outskirts of the Hinterlands.
At first, Quentin thought, the speech seemed to go well.
Tell the humans that our main concern is that they do more to stamp out the trafficking of our children and of our body parts. If these factors are dealt with, it will be easier for us to gain favor among the youth.
With Zaine's translation, the main council human leader, a man called Ivan, gave a courtly bow to the trads. “Of course. This is what we're trying our utmost to prevent. We have some greedy, rich people in our city that don't make it any easier for us, but I assure you, it's in our plans. Unless the rescue from Gorchev's factories does not prove to you our commitment.”
Mia let out a soft snort. Quentin thought he knew why. It'd been her, with a small team of icebloods, along with him and Petyr, that had lifted the eggs off to safety. The humans didn't want anything to do with it and preferred to get a nice old age standing order from Zaine before agreeing.
As for the question of trade, the lead trad said, what is it that you think you can offer us?
“Steel weapons. Food crops. Animals such as cows and sheep. Human education. Technological knowledge.”
The trads discussed with one another. We will offer our strength in clearing land for arable farmland. We will offer the many gems that sparkle in our mountains. We will offer some of our children to grow up amongst you to learn your ways, like the hybrids have done. And we will offer you some of the parts of us that come freely, without pain or death.
When Zaine translated this, Ivan smiled. Quentin felt rather smug inside, too. Going well.
Maybe they'd find an end to the tensions.
Still would take time and effort to work out. But for the first time in years, Quentin felt hopeful that his family's mess could actually be fixed. That the tensions between trads, hybrids and humans would finally reach a satisfactory ending.
At least, he thought that, until a burst of blue lit the night sky, and a rumble came from one of the guarded passages.
“What was that?” Ivan said, eyes wide, shrinking into himself.
Mia tensed, ready for combat, and Zaine's eyes scoured the air above. “I don't know.”
The small delegation waited anxiously, whilst the green dragons twisted around to examine the threat, bombarding Zaine with questions.
“I don't know what it is either!”
Footsteps. Another flash of blue.
“Here they come,” Mia said, her staff shining, showing the distorted snarl upon her lips. “I knew, I knew this was a stupid place to meet...”
Quentin's heart quailed when he saw, marching along the pass, his own flesh and blood. Brood siblings. His enemy.
Did you call these travesties? Mauro barked the question to Quentin, before Zaine interrupted.
“No. He may be of their kin, but he has revoked them. Surely the years of service have shown you this?”
Mauro continued to wear that suspicion, even as the trads bellowed: Treason! Treason from the hybrids and the humans!
No, Mauro shot to them, rearing onto his hind legs. These are not ours. They are known saboteurs, seeking to displace our efforts!
The trads didn't bother responding. They lifted off into the air, not bothering to stick around—attempting to fly themselves to safety. The hybrids on the ground shifted to their dragon forms to attack, and their hired icebloods and human gunners fanned out, ready to assassinate everyone. Quentin reared onto his hind legs, spotting his brood-sibling, Varus, and a deep growl entered his throat.
Hatred and shame burned inside; shame for being related to them, hatred that they wanted to sabotage all the efforts of peace. And for what? What did they possibly hope to gain?
A blinding flash of white-blue light pierced the dark fog above. The three trads, flying in a triangle formation, received the full blast of the magic.
A gasp of horror from Mia. The three green dragons crumpled lifelessly to earth, the fall buffeting their wings like a torn airship canvas.
NO! Mauro screamed, hot with murder. Mia darted in front of Zaine, her staff glowing, just in time to deflect a double bolt attack from the ground troops.
“They...” Zaine took one step backwards, giving himself room to transform. “Whoever's up there, they have the Star Rose.”
“We can't fight this!” Mia screamed to the humans, who scrambled towards Zaine, Mauro and Quentin in horror. “Get on the dragons' backs! We'll flee!” In that moment, Zaine morphed into his red form, spreading out his wings like a tent, to give the humans something to climb onto.
Like a bolt of judgment from the sky, a figure dropped down with the shimmer of ice around them. If they intended a dramatic effect, they pulled it off well.
Rusts... the figure landed and stood up straight. They had no staff, but giant, seven-foot wings made of wood and metal snapped behind their back. The huge wings connected to the Star Rose, attached in a frame in front of the figure's chest. Mia lowered her staff for a brief, stunned second.
Quentin didn't know how much stronger that contraption was compared to Mia. But he didn't want to find out.
“I took care of your patrols,” the woman said, patting the Star Rose that glimmered on her chest. Her harsh, moon-pale face grinned confidently. “This little gem's quite the powerhouse.”
Mia's staff dipped lower and lower. Pain and shock emerged on her face, as if she'd seen a ghost. “No...”
The hybrids behind the Star Rose iceblood user launched themselves forward, and Quentin surged to clash with Varus in a scrabble of flame, teeth and claws. Varus might have been stronger, but Quentin had true rage on his side, bolstering strength, seeping red
mist into his mind. The brood-siblings clashed, rolling in a wretched way across the ground.
We meet again, brother. Traitor. The voice came low and mocking, as if Quentin was nothing more than a bug to squash.
The only traitors here are you! Quentin snapped, desperately trying to gouge out Varus's eyes. Squabbling, aching limbs and claws mixed with their sobbing, guttural roars. No grace or skill here. Quentin caught flashes of other action—Mia killing one of the hybrids. The impossible glow of deadly magic from afar. Mauro shot at by humans, attacked by the other four dragons.
Fly, Zaine! Fly!
Zaine hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave Mia.
Varus's teeth snapped inches away from Quentin's neck, and in a fresh onslaught of strength, he twisted and used his back legs to claw the scales off his sibling's belly. Varus snarled incomprehensibly, until, with a drunken lurch, he detached himself from Quentin and flapped awkwardly back to behind the human gun line.
“Fly!” Mia screamed at Zaine, flinging her hands apart. A huge bolt of energy spewed from the Star Rose, engulfing their side. Mia let out a strange, gibbering scream as the energy hit her erected barrier, and she collapsed to one knee. “Fly... please, Zaine! Please!”
“Don't let them get away!” the woman snapped, charging her power, flanked by the other icebloods who formed a protective square. Zaine, agonized, turned around and launched himself into the air, with his remaining icebloods stationed on his back, deflecting any bolts flying their way.
The woman made to launch herself towards them, but abruptly bounced off an invisible wall.
“Oh no, you don't,” Mia spat, though her breaths came in distorted pants. Four more bolts of ice flew towards her and Mauro, and she expended energy to protect the other prince, dodging the other blows. Mauro, with a brutal shriek, chomped down into one of the hybrid's necks, and with a crack, ended the attacker's life. The remaining three pinned the prince down from three sides, damaging his wings, his flanks—and with a yell, one wing completely snapped.
Quentin lurched towards Mia, doggedly intending to protect her, though what could he do? His front leg hurt. Maybe—maybe she'd get on his back. The single line of human gunmen—all Gorchev's, of course, fired their shots. Mia, who had just unleashed three carefully aimed shards towards the hybrids, groaned softly as two of the shots sank into her chest and side. She staggered backwards, head flopping as if the strings had been cut above her. She collapsed onto her hands and knees, taking deep, gulping breaths.
