Dragon Storm

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Just got promoted. Would you care to share your ranks with me?” Trip didn’t appear that worried, but he also didn’t look like he could walk away without being blocked. And abused.

  As far as Rysha knew, the flier units didn’t put a lot of emphasis on physical fitness and hand-to-hand combat skills, beyond ensuring their troops could do the minimums to pass the army tests. The brawny infantry boys would probably pummel Trip into the floor if the situation devolved into a fight.

  Rysha strolled toward the group, hoping she could end things simply by identifying him. Given that they only had seven or eight hours before they had to report for duty, they didn’t need any incidents involving the fort infirmary.

  “Sure he wants to know our ranks,” one of the men said. “For his spy report.”

  “Evening, Captain,” Rysha said strolling up and slipping past one man so she could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Trip. “What do you think of the capital so far?”

  Trip gave her a relieved look. “The bars aren’t as friendly as I’d been told.”

  “Just wait until your reputation spreads. I hear General Zirkander hasn’t bought his own beers for a long time.” She hadn’t heard that, but suspected it was true.

  “Who are you?” one of the men asked.

  The other one, the one she recognized from her battalion, appeared less suspicious. He probably didn’t know her name any more than she knew his, but he must have seen her around in the last few months.

  “Lieutenant Ravenwood.” She faced him, standing at her full height.

  These men had a few inches on her, but she figured her name would carry whatever weight her height didn’t. She’d never cared to rely on being from the nobility, but with one of her uncles on the King’s council, most people who were even vaguely aware of politics had heard of it.

  She wasn’t sure if her name or her rank made more of a difference, but the men did take a step back.

  One jerked a thumb at Trip. “You’re with this…”

  “Captain,” Rysha offered. “And yes.”

  “You’re sure he’s not a spy, LT?”

  “He’s a brave pilot who’s risked his life often to protect Iskandia,” she said coolly, tired of the stupidity stampeding around this bar like scared cattle trapped in a corral.

  “Oh, all right. If you know him then…” The men lifted their hands and backed into the crowd.

  “Thanks,” Trip said, though he wore an aggrieved expression as they walked to her table together. Nobody liked to have to be saved by someone else, so she understood that. She was sure it was even harder for men when women came to their rescue. “I, uh, didn’t realize you’d heard of me. Before today, I mean.”

  “I hadn’t.” Rysha slid into her seat and waved for him to take the one opposite.

  “Oh.” Disappointment flashed in his eyes, making her wish she’d lied. “That part about me protecting Iskandia made it sound like it,” he added.

  “Isn’t that what all pilots do?”

  “I suppose so. But I’ve been shot at more than most pilots who’ve been in as long as me. Or longer.” His face screwed up as he seemed to reconsider whether that was something he should brag about or not.

  She stifled a giggle since he might not appreciate it. “Because you’ve protected Iskandia more often than most or because you’re more reckless than most?”

  “Uhm, that second thing. I actually thought I was being brought in to be reprimanded when I was given orders to transfer over here and told I was being promoted.” He smiled sheepishly. “It’s my first day as captain. That’s why I keep messing up my rank.”

  “You’re young to make captain. How long have you been in?”

  “It’s been two years since I graduated from the academy. I… it surprised me, honestly. Not being transferred—everybody knows there’s been more trouble on this side of the country—but the rest. I’m not sure I’m ready to be in charge of anything. It’s not like my last CO sang my praises that often.”

  “Zirkander must have seen something in your record,” Rysha said, assuming he signed off on promotions within his battalion. “Honestly, I’m more surprised someone handed you a soulblade.”

  “A what?”

  “The sword Sardelle gave you. There’s a sentient soul inside, at least according to the legends. When sorcerers died, especially if they knew their deaths were coming and had time to prepare, they sometimes did a ceremony to infuse their essences, their souls, into magical swords. And then sorcerers who were deemed deserving would be given the sword and bond with the soul inside.”

  Trip looked a little disturbed as he digested this, making Rysha wonder why Sardelle hadn’t explained more to him. Maybe the soulblade would explain things to him.

  “If you’d brought it along, it probably could have kicked those two brutes’ asses,” Rysha said.

  Looking even more sheepish, he said, “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to walk around the city with it. Like if that’s even legal.”

  “It’s fine to carry weapons in the capital, especially if you’re a soldier. And you should be taking the sword everywhere you go to bond with it.”

  “Bond? It’s Sardelle’s to be bonded with, right? It’s just on loan to me for the mission.”

  “Even so, you should treat it with reverence and respect. It’s no small thing to be allowed to use a soulblade. There aren’t all that many left in the world.”

  “Huh, all right.”

  Rysha looked down at her map, deciding to change the subject since he appeared uncomfortable with it all. Besides, who was she to lecture him? She knew about magical swords, but thus far, all her experience was academic.

  At least he didn’t seem as alarmed by everything as Leftie had been during the meeting. Judging by Trip’s accent, he was from the eastern provinces—they both were—and superstitions ran rampant over there. A lack of education, too. Though they both would have needed university degrees to join the service as officers.

  “What did you study in school, Trip?” Rysha asked.

  “Mechanical engineering.”

  “Oh?” She looked back up at him. “You must enjoy math, then.”

  “I mostly enjoy building and fixing things. I wanted to learn enough about machines to fix my own flier if I was shot down.”

  “The odds being greater for that than for other pilots, since you find yourself getting shot at so much?”

  “Heh, I guess so.”

  She folded her hands on the wobbly table, thinking he might explain more about the degree and his interests, but he looked down at the map, like he wasn’t certain what to say next.

  “Can mechanical engineers fix tables?” Rysha asked, leaning on an elbow to produce a wobble.

  “Yes. Though I could build you a new table too. My grandfather is a woodworker, and I used to help him around the shop.”

  “I believe you would find that the Black Stag lacks tools and raw materials.”

  “Perhaps so.”

  “Also, I probably don’t need a new table for one night of studying.” She gestured to the map.

  Did he look a touch disappointed?

  “One moment.” Trip disappeared under the table.

  Rysha thought about collecting him some coasters, but her attempt to employ them as supports hadn’t amounted to much.

  After a few seconds, Trip returned to his seat and extended a hand toward the table in invitation. She leaned an elbow on one side, expecting it would continue to wobble, but it now sat firmly and evenly on the floor.

  “Huh.” She peered under it, but it was too dark to see what he’d done. “An engineering miracle.”

  “Yes, you’ve just witnessed all four years of my college education distilled into one moment of genius.”

  She giggled, then clasped a hand over her mouth. Her aunt had often told her that it wasn’t proper for noble ladies to giggle. They were supposed to titter delicately if necessary, or better yet, simply smile serenely. Rysha didn’t always follo
w her aunt’s advice on ladylike protocol, but sometimes when she laughed too hard, she snorted. She suspected neither noble ladies nor military officers were supposed to do that.

  She looked back down to study the map, but not wanting to exclude her guest, asked, “What kind of tables do you usually make?”

  “I always made furniture with useful built-in features. My grandfather told me simple and elegant was best, but I never believed him. My last table had cup holders, racks for overhead lanterns, a bookcase on one end, and a crank so you could raise and lower the whole thing.”

  “Sounds lovely. Did you know the earliest tables were believed to be made here in Iskandia? By the coastal tribes that brought us the Statues of Evermore? It was close to ten thousand years ago. Those tables, however, were little more than stone platforms used for keeping objects off the floor.”

  “No cranks or bookcases, huh?”

  “We were a simple people back then.”

  He had his elbows up on the table, chin propped on his hands, watching her study the map. “Were you able to use Sardelle’s notes to find the location of the portal?”

  “Not one location, no, but with her notes, I’ve narrowed it down to five possible spots and three likely spots. Subarctic Zharr, the southern polar cap, and the ice floes of Il-gothnor. Sardelle had more places selected, but these are areas where dragon artifacts have been found in the past by intrepid explorers on expeditions. Also, looking at known dragon sightings—and there have been a lot of them—they started in the southern hemisphere and trickled northward. Now, they’re appearing all over, but…” She tapped the polar cap with her pencil. “There are some islands sheathed in ice down here, and the ice sheets themselves are so thick in places that—”

  “That’s it,” Trip said, resting his finger next to her pencil.

  The certainty in his voice surprised her.

  “I mean, based on what you said, it makes a lot of sense,” he amended.

  She squinted at him.

  He twitched a shoulder. “And I have a hunch. When you said that stuff, it clicked inside my mind, like a puzzle piece snapping into place.”

  Even though she’d just met him, she had a feeling his hunches were usually right. She’d caught Sardelle giving him a few significant looks when she’d been talking about dragon blood and sorcerers. He might believe he was a simple, table-making pilot, but Rysha wagered there was a reason Sardelle had chosen him to carry her sword. Or the sword had chosen him.

  Rysha wasn’t sure how she felt about that. If those two men who’d randomly selected him to harass were any indication, Trip probably didn’t make friends easily, which made her want to befriend him, but she shuddered at the idea of standing next to someone who could read her mind.

  But Trip probably couldn’t do that. If he had mind powers, he could have convinced those two soldiers to wander off without bothering him. Besides, if he did have a little dragon blood, it could come in handy on the mission. Maybe his hunch would pay off.

  “I’ll tell Major Blazer that I suggest we start looking at the polar cap,” Rysha said.

  Trip nodded. “After we visit Neaminor.” His eyes gleamed.

  “Excited at the prospect?”

  “Pirates have been harassing our coastlines since—”

  A wailing started up outside, the city-wide alert siren that announced an imminent attack.

  “Invaders!” someone yelled.

  “Pinoth is under attack!”

  All the men with short hair—the soldiers in the pub—charged for the door.

  Trip’s eyes grew round. “Dragons are coming.”

  5

  Trip sprinted through the cobblestone and cement streets toward the army fort at the base of the bluff housing the flier hangars. Sirens continued to wail, and his sixth sense screamed in his ears almost as loudly as they did. Dragons. Multiple dragons.

  He couldn’t see anything in the cloudy night sky yet, but he sensed their auras. They radiated power like that of the sun, and he could almost feel it beating against his skin.

  He wasn’t the only soldier running toward the fort, and he found the gate already open, floodlights on. Good. He didn’t have to worry about showing his identification. He hadn’t received his Wolf Squadron pin yet—or his new rank tabs—and he didn’t have anything except his orders to prove he was a part of the unit, orders that were in the barracks room he’d been assigned that morning.

  As he raced onto the fort, Trip glanced around and realized he didn’t know anyone around him. He’d sprinted off without checking to see if Duck, Ravenwood, or even Leftie were with him. All he’d known was that he had to get to his flier. That was the only place he could imagine going where he could do some good.

  Some soldiers broke away, heading for the walls and the artillery weapons perched at intervals there. Others ran down the same streets as Trip, toward the tram at the back of the fort that led up to the flier hangars. He reached it as the doors were about to close. The tram car was already full. Damn it. As it was, he wouldn’t get to his flier before the dragons reached the harbor and the city.

  “Out, Cricket,” a familiar voice said from behind him. “Go in the next round.”

  “Yes, sir,” a soldier by the door blurted and stepped out.

  General Zirkander jumped into his spot. There wasn’t obvious room for another person, but Trip saw a tiny bit of floor space and decided to squeeze in. The doors started to shut before he found a spot.

  Zirkander grabbed him, and Trip thought he might push him away, but he pulled him in, turning sideways to make more space. Others squished back in deference to him.

  “Thanks, sir,” Trip said.

  “You bring Jaxi?” Zirkander asked.

  “The sword? No.”

  Zirkander swore.

  “Sorry, sir.” Trip winced, now regretting his lunge into the car, and not just because he was forced to crouch, half-wedged under Zirkander’s armpit. After what Ravenwood had said, he’d already been feeling bad about leaving the weapon behind. “I was at a pub. I didn’t realize I should take it everywhere.”

  “Jaxi is invaluable. And useful. Even in pubs.”

  The tram shuddered into motion, the cable creaking ominously under the weight of all the soldiers—pilots—piled into the car.

  “Yes, sir. I’m beginning to understand that now.”

  Zirkander didn’t respond, and Trip tried not to feel like a screw-up. Just that afternoon, he’d been thinking how much better it would be to work under him than under Colonel Anchor, but if Zirkander’s first impression of him was that he was an idiot, that might have been a premature assumption.

  “Sardelle will bring her,” Zirkander said as the car swayed and groaned its way to the top of the bluff.

  “Sir?” Trip wasn’t sure if the statement was for him.

  “She hadn’t left the fort yet to go home. She’s stopping by your room in the barracks to get Jaxi, and she’ll bring her along.”

  “Oh.” Trip wondered if they were speaking telepathically. Zirkander didn’t have dragon blood, at least Trip didn’t think so, but maybe Sardelle, and perhaps the sword, could reach out to him.

  Light flared somewhere outside, slashing through a side window. Someone gasped.

  Trip couldn’t see past people’s heads, but he didn’t need to. He could feel the proximity of the first of the three dragons. Even though he’d never seen one in person before, he had no doubt that he was right.

  “It’s descending on the city,” someone near the window blurted.

  “There’s more than one!”

  Trip set his jaw. Tonight, he would join Wolf Squadron, and he would help drive those dragons away. That would show Zirkander that he wasn’t a screw-up.

  The car bumped to a stop, and the doors in the back opened. Men leaped out and raced for one of two hangars, the one all lit up, the one where Trip had parked his flier earlier. Just that morning. What a long, life-changing day it had been.

  Zirkander took of
f at top speed, and Trip ran after him. The road to the hangar followed the side of the bluff, letting them see down into the dark waters of the harbor and also into the city curving along the coastline, the streets lit with gas lamps. And—Trip sucked in a startled breath—several buildings were ablaze with fire. Dragon fire.

  A huge gold flew over the city, gliding and banking and doing loops, much as Trip might do in his flier. It was as if the dragon was simply enjoying the feel of flying. And the feel of letting loose flames and destroying things.

  Trip grimaced, thinking he heard screams over the undulations of the sirens.

  Zirkander, less enthralled with the invading dragon, had outpaced him and was running into the hangar. Trip sprinted to catch up, determined to go up in the first wave. He just wasn’t sure what they could do. What would bullets do to a dragon? Ravenwood had called the creatures nearly impervious and implied they needed one of those special swords to harm one. Could the soulblade—Jaxi—hurt a dragon?

  Trip grimaced again, realizing he’d left Ravenwood down in the city without so much as a farewell or “good luck.” Had she run to the fort after him? He felt certain Leftie and Duck had been right behind him, perhaps having to wait to cram into the next tram car. But Ravenwood wasn’t a pilot. Where would she have gone? What if she was down there in a building now ablaze?

  Damn, he wished he’d made sure she was someplace safe before taking off, especially after she had stepped up to his side to help him out of that jam. Even though that had been embarrassing, he’d been glad to get out of a fight that wouldn’t have gone his way, and he’d had the sense that she would have fought at his side if it had devolved into that. Strangers, or near strangers, didn’t typically jump to his defense.

  “Right here,” Zirkander called from an office, waving Trip to a line that had formed.

  Trip had intended to run straight to his flier—someone had already rolled open the hangar door so the craft could take off—but Zirkander was handing objects to the pilots in line. As soon as they received one or two, they ran toward their fliers, cradling the items carefully. Trip sensed something about them, some small hint of magic.