Gobi clasped his hands to his chest. “Me! And Rufus. You and Byrrus were spectacular. Congratulations, sir.”
“Thank you.” The instructor pulled at the lapels of his flying jacket and beamed.
Pursing my lips, I exhaled my frustration through my nostrils. While it was great the warriors seemed to have had fun watching the tournament, it seemed to me like a sneaky way to heat the warriors’ blood and make them eager for war.
Fyrian let out a little snort. “I hope you don’t mind, but I went to the arena last night to spy.”
“Did you find out anything interesting?”
“King Magnar knows how to put on a great show!” She nodded for effect.
I gave her a tight smile. There would be no talk in our bond against King Magnar until she’d had the antidote.
“Byrrus and I will be airborne for this lesson,” said Captain Caiman. “I want the rest of you to chase us on your mounts and steal our flag.”
We all gaped after our instructor, who mounted the oxblood dragon with inhuman speed. The Captain usually stayed on the ground or mounted with us to demonstrate a maneuver. He’d never flown his dragon in class before.
Fyrian huffed. “That’s because Caiman’s dragon is cocooning.”
“Really?” I climbed up Fyrian’s leg and pictured Ardenti, the blue dragon with the smooth scales we had questioned at the waterfall about the stolen eggs. She had been very sleepy and about to cocoon. “How long will that last?”
“Nobody knows. Females usually cocoon for decades. Males can take anywhere from a month to a century, depending on how they end up.”
I settled onto her back. “What do you mean?”
“If their cocoon expands, we know they’ll end up a sleeping dragon. But if it shrinks, they’ll become a master like Fosco and the others.”
“I see.” It hadn’t occurred to me that Master Fosco might have ever been in a cocoon.
Captain Caiman and Byrrus launched himself in the air. We all followed, keeping up in formation with Fyrian and me in front. Although reds were the fastest of all dragons, my bond with Fyrian gave us a level of speed most dragons didn’t have.
I leaned forward and grinned. “We should be able to catch them easily.”
“Actually, no,” replied Fyrian.
“Why?”
“Byrrus is special.” It sounded like a strain for her to admit this.
“How?”
“He can bond with any rider. Nobody knows why.”
Up ahead, Captain Caiman raised a flag containing the yellow, smiling sun of the Savannah Empire.
I stood. Fyrian stretched her neck and sliced her wings through the air with a swoosh. At each side, Rufus and Stafford rose in their saddles, ready to race. Gobi took up the rear.
Byrrus raised his head and shot into the air like a firework.
“What was that?”
Fyrian snarled. “He’s using Caiman’s power to get away.” A hot, angry presence pushed at our bond, “Let me go after him!”
I pulled back the thin covering of clouds over our bond. With the same mental process I used to push my power into my fists, I shoved as much of my power as I could to Fyrian.
She reared back, and a plume of flames escaped her mouth.
My heart jumped. “What’s wrong?”
“Your magic is stronger.”
“Ah… That would be Master Jesper’s elixirs… Or the poppies.”
Fyrian soared after him so fast, my stomach lurched. Wind blew my hair off my face, and I squinted into the bright sky. Byrrus flew beneath the clouds at a speed I’d never seen before in a dragon, but with each passing second, Fyrian caught up. She seemed to shift the very air with her wings in her determination to best the other dragon.
“Can you see Captain Caiman’s flag?” I asked.
“It’s in his back pocket.”
In moments, we trailed the captain by fifty feet. The male’s bald, red head glistened in the morning sun. I smirked. From sweat, most likely.
“How are you going to get his flag?” asked Fyrian.
“Fly above them.”
“Are you thinking of doing something stupid?”
At this level of speed, jumping off her back to tackle them would be suicide. But I could fly close and burn the flag with the elongated flame of my parched sword. “I won’t leave your back.”
“Good.”
Our three classmates flew behind us on red dragons at an impressive speed, but since neither of them had bonded, there was a limit to what they could achieve.
“Hold on, Alba,” said Fyrian. “I’m going to take one more burst of power.”
“Go on.” I set my jaw and pushed more of my magic into our bond, hoping I wouldn’t feel light-headed.
Fyrian drew deeply from my power, replacing it with her own. My entire body heated, and I clenched my fists, breathing hard. We had only ever shared our power during times of peril, where whatever was happening was a distraction from the intense heat that came with absorbing dragon magic.
Her ribs expanded with a deep breath, and we seemed to rise several feet without the aid of her wings. “What are you doing?”
“Filling my third and fourth lungs with buoyant air. Thanks to your power, I’m even lighter.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t even considered the internal organs of a dragon.
Each swipe of Fyrian’s wings closed the distance between us and Captain Caiman. The moment I spotted his flag, I unsheathed the parched sword.
“Get ready.” Fyrian flew a hundred feet behind them and thirty feet above.
I pushed my power into the parched sword and pointed its tip at the flag protruding from Captain Caiman’s pocket. At the rate Fyrian flew, I would burn the fabric in a few seconds.
The Captain turned his head and smirked. “Nice try, Bluford. But you will need to work harder to best His Majesty’s future Sky Commander!”
Byrrus dipped a wing and spiraled down to the ground like an out-of-control sycamore seed.
“What are they doing?” I snarled.
“Free-falling. Hold tight. I’m going after them.”
I sheathed the parched sword and settled myself into the saddle. Fyrian dipped her nose, drew back her wings and dove after them. I clutched the ridges on her spine tight, clenched my teeth and hoped Byrrus wouldn’t leave it to the last second before he dodged.
Down below, Stafford, Rufus, and Gobi chased after them on their dragons. Rufus was in the lead and best placed to steal the flag when they rose.
Fyrian snorted. “Let the others distract Caiman and Byrrus. We’ll be ready for them when they perform their next stunt.”
“Maybe we should do something tricky.”
“Like what?”
“Lie in wait for them under a grove.”
She spread her wings, slowing our descent. “There’s a grove of lemon trees over there. I could do with a snack.”
Once we landed, I remained on her back, watching Byrrus evade my classmates with showy acrobatics. Fyrian nudged a nearby tree with her horns, loosened several lemons, and scooped them up with a combination of wings and tongue.
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
“I need you ready in case they pass by.”
“Hey, Fyri?”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you like Byrrus?”
Anger lashed through our bond, and a growl reverberated over her ribs. I remained silent, waiting for her to gather her thoughts. It was hard to believe she could have enemies, as she hadn’t been a full dragon for long.
“He called me a coward.”
I raised my brows. “Why?”
“Because I said spriggans were ugly and tricky to kill.”
“Has he ever seen a spriggan?”
“He was an egg when Auntie Rilla freed the dragons, but he thinks he knows everything.”
“Didn’t Master Fosco report back on what happened at the border with the spriggans?”
“He did, at the Council of
Dragons, but Byrrus thinks things will be different for him. The idiot hasn’t even left Mount Fornax, and he’s already talking like a war hero.”
I shook my head. The world was full of braggarts with nothing to back up their loud voices and claims of heroism. It shouldn’t have been surprising that dragons had a few such idiots of their own.
“What do your friends say?” I asked.
“That’s the worst part. They think my love for Magnar should give me the fire to destroy the spriggans.”
I bit down on my lip. “It’s my fault.”
“What?”
“Those alchemists behind the homunculi created a fake plague to hide a loyalty elixir they put in the largomorphus rex.” I held my breath, hoping Fyrian wouldn’t react badly to the news. “The medicine I gave you stopped its effects.”
“So, I’m not under its influence?”
“You are, but not as much as the others.”
She snorted a cloud of smoke. “Ha! My love for Magnar is purer than theirs.”
I groaned. Of all the reactions I could have imagined, none would ever have included pride to be under the influence of a loyalty potion.
“I’ll show them all,” she snarled. “When they see that I love him of my own free will, no one will ever question my loyalty to Magnar!”
I was about to talk her out of whatever reckless plan she had formulated when Byrrus sped past. Fyrian leaped above the trees and scooped up the air with her wings. Stafford flew on his tail, and my other two classmates on his flanks.
“He’s probably tired himself out,” muttered Fyrian.
“Or they’re tricking the others into a collision,” I replied.
“Typical!” She continued muttering to herself about Byruss’ shortcomings. From what I picked up from her rants, the dragon appeared to have the worst personality traits of Gobi and King Magnar. Apparently, he had been lazy as a dragonet and thought messenger duties were beneath him.
Byrrus made a sharp, downward turn and sped away from his pursuers. Rufus and Gobi steered their dragons outwards in pursuit, but the movement left them hundreds of feet behind Byrrus and Captain Caiman. Stafford’s dragon made a clumsy attempt at the downward maneuver, leaving him hundreds of feet behind everyone else.
We flew toward Byrrus and Captain Caiman on a collision course.
“They’ll fly above us,” I said. “That’s the only way they’ll keep their flag safe.”
“I agree.” Fyrian drew on my power, filling her lungs with buoyant air for a last-minute rise.
Byrrus bared his teeth, and Fyrian let out a thunderous rumble. I released my parched sword and stood on her back. If they dodged left or right instead of up or down, I would be ready.
The pair showed no sign of swerving out of our way. My throat dried. What if Byrrus believed Fyrian too cowardly to continue the collision course?
“He knows I mean to destroy him.”
I’d forgotten dragons were probably communicating all throughout this exercise. Not that it mattered. Byrrus would never have the depth of connection with any rider that I had with Fyrian so would never have our reaction speeds.
Just when I thought Byrrus and Fyrian would crash, the other dragon raised his head and soared, exposing his black underbelly. Fyrian shot up towards the heavens with the force of a hurricane.
As we overtook him, Byrrus’ eyes widened. The arrogant, red dragon had probably thought he was the only one capable of such speed.
Fyrian leveled out, cutting off his ascent. Then she made a sharp dive. “Now!”
We dove behind Captain Caiman's back, and I aimed the parched sword at the flag. Just as I fired, the instructor snatched the flag out of the way.
“Damn it!”
“I smell burning,” cried Fyrian.
“Maybe I singed his uniform.”
“Everyone wears fireproof armor,” she said.
“Do you really think I burned the flag?” I twisted around in my saddle to catch a glimpse of the instructor.
“Well, you couldn’t have burned his hair.”
We flew back to the sandstone cliff with Stafford, Rufus and Gobi on our tail.
Captain Caiman was the last to land, and he leaped off Byrrus’ back. “Well done, boys! With that type of flying, you are ready to fight for His Majesty.”
I raised my hand. “Sir? Did I damage the flag?”
He pulled it from his pocket, revealing a singed corner. “The objective of the game was to take the flag.” Rocking back on his heels, he let out the biggest belly laugh. “Good try, though.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Fyrian. “I got to best Byrrus, and that’s all that matters. Soon, he’ll be kissing my claw.”
I snickered and patted her on the foreleg.
Rufus strolled up to me and gave me a nod of approval. “Great flying, Bluford. My brother says he wants to see you at lunch. Something to do with drogott.”
I drew in a sharp breath, trying to suppress a blush. “Right. Thanks for telling me.”
Chapter 12
Captain Caiman ran us through a few more drills, telling us that even cadets should make themselves useful to King Magnar in the upcoming war. It was hard to concentrate on anything, knowing that Niger wanted to see me at lunchtime. The dragon moths fluttering in my stomach somehow managed to extinguish my flames of hatred for King Magnar.
Would he laugh at me because I was sensitive to poppies? I hoped not. Niger seemed the type to laugh at a boy spluttering at his first taste of dragon’s tears. Maybe he wanted to fine-tune the details of how we would obtain the parchment and gold.
“Did you know Niger wouldn’t let me carry you to the infirmary?” said Fyrian. “He held you like a swooning damsel and flew you out on Flavo.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “Really? How embarrassing.”
We hung up our saddles. Stafford disappeared toward the Healer’s Academy Building, presumably to make preparations with Evolene to steal the parchment and King Magnar’s crown. I wished him a silent good luck and followed Rufus and Gobi to the mess hall. It hadn’t been this quiet since the time the all warriors had to scour Steppe and beyond for missing dragons’ eggs. I supposed all the chefs who manned the spits and griddles had set themselves up in the Drogott Arena to provide meals for the warriors at the tournament.
Eyepatch stood behind his usual station on the left behind a hotplate of sausages and onions. At the end of the table was his usual tureen. “Blood-Sea treasure?”
Rufus and Gobi grunted their approval and held out hard-crusted, round loaves with their insides scooped out. Eyepatch heaped a pile of six-inch long sausages at the bottom of the loaves and drowned them with ladlefuls of what appeared to be a tomato-based stew. Then he added a handful of fried onion as a garnish.
As my classmates took their seats, he turned to me, eye shining. “I spoke to your troll-friend who told me everything.”
I nodded. “I’m glad. Thanks for the picnic, Mr. Cobbs. It was lovely.”
He beamed. “Anytime you lot need help, call on me. I’m not just a fantastic cook.” He picked up a smaller loaf. “Blood-Sea treasure?”
“Sure. Extra onions, please.”
I brought my hollowed-out loaf to our usual table and sat next to Rufus.
“Where is Stafford?” he asked.
“He went to see Evolene,” I replied.
Gobi flashed me a triumphant smirk. “She chose the orphan instead of the Prince.”
“There is nothing wrong with being an orphan.” I gave him what I hoped would be a meaningful look. The Dowager Lady Bluebeard had a reputation for eating her human husbands while pregnant to strengthen their offspring. Since she had now died, Gobi could count himself among those he thought inferior.
He flushed and turned away.
Blood-Sea treasure turned out to be a delicious mixture of salmon, and lobster sausages served in a tangy, seafood sauce. Maybe I was still under the influence of the poppies, but I ate my entire serving including the bread loa
f. After downing a tankard of ale, I stood. “Who wants a ride to the arena?”
It seemed that every warrior, civilian, and dragon were at the Drogott Arena, as people filled the stands and made enough noise to shake the building’s foundations.
Fyrian circled the building, wings outstretched. “Where do you want to sit?”
I glanced down into the royal box. “I’d rather get lost in the crowd of people.”
“I’ll drop you off at the entrance, then.” She swooped down to the exterior of the building and landed at the huge, arched entryway.
We all climbed down and made our way into the arena. Gobi rubbed his hands. “I want a seat with a view of the royal box!”
Rufus snorted. “So does everybody.”
I clamped my lips shut and followed them inside. The front few rows contained ample seating for everybody, and we found a space somewhere near the middle and settled with Rufus sitting between Gobi and me. I’d almost forgotten about Niger’s message about meeting me when a familiar voice said, “Rufus.”
Rufus raised his head and grunted. My heart flip-flopped, and I slid my gaze to the right. Niger stood flanked by some of the drogott team members. I flicked my head in acknowledgment, and he sat next to me.
“I am glad you will not miss Albens’ victory tonight,” said Rufus.
Niger grunted his agreement. More of his friends arrived and sat on our section, pushing closer we got to sit until I was wedged between the two brothers with part of my back resting against Niger’s muscular shoulder.
Up in the royal box, Master Fosco announced in his supernaturally loud voice, “Welcome, Finalist Cis Melyn.”
My heart pounded all throughout the first finalist’s display. He was a quarter-ogre with blond hair tied into a topknot wearing the steel-colored leather of a dragon tamer.
Rufus shook his head. “A good swordsman, but he will lose against Albens.”
“Do dragon tamers have special powers like mages?” I asked.
“Some do,” replied Niger.
“He has yet to demonstrate anything of interest,” said Rufus.
Melyn’s dragon had rust-colored scales with amber on the underside, making it a yellow dragon like Niger’s. The male unsheathed two chokers—round-tipped executioner’s swords with holes for poisons gas— from his sword belt. It reminded me of the one Niger had used to gas the homunculi. The tamer raised his arms wide and held the chokers up in the air with their tips touching. His dragon let out a plume of yellow smoke.
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