by Liz Flanagan
As Iggie flew up and over the island, Milla saw the approaching storm clearly. The clouds had turned the color of a fresh bruise. There was a dirty yellow streak along the horizon where the sun should have been. Lightning flashed in the distance: shockingly white, splitting the dark clouds.
Then the rain began.
It was hard to fly in driving rain. Heavy raindrops blinded Milla and soaked her clothes. She didn’t know how long Iggie could fly in this before he got dangerously cold. Below them the sea was iron gray, and the sky was darker still. When the lightning came again, she saw a glint of bright green ahead of them.
“There!” Milla shouted, pointing. “There’s Petra.”
Iggie had to circle in carefully and keep position just below Petra. Soon their wingbeats matched, and they flew apace.
Milla craned around to see Vigo.
“What’s wrong? Is it Tarya?” he yelled across the gap between the dragons, his face twisted with worry. Petra’s green flanks were silvered with rain and her sides were heaving with effort. She clutched two goats in her claws, their fur dripping pinkly.
“Your mother broke her wrist,” Milla screamed back, clinging to Iggie’s neck, now wet and slippery. “There was a fight at the tents. Then she argued with your dad.”
“Where is she?”
“Back at the dockside tents.”
Vigo nodded, looking grim. His short black curls were flattened against his head, and his wet clothes stuck to him, dark as moss. He gestured forward, and Petra started to lose height, dropping her catch in the sea so they could fly faster.
The dragons came in over the harbor. The gray sea hurled itself against the high wall, sending salt spray into the air. Milla tasted it on her lips. Inside the curved arms of the harbor wall, the broad dockside area looked strange. Milla stared, trying to work out what she saw. She wiped the rain from her face and shook her head. There was a moving, crawling, black-and-silver mass, fanning out over the stone.
Blinking hard, she saw more clearly: the duke had already sent his soldiers to put his words into action.
“Vigo, look!”
Armed soldiers corralled a mass of scared people—new arrivals of all ages, huddled in a knot—forcing them forward, toward the boats.
“What’s going on?” Vigo roared.
“Your father! He’s had enough, he said,” Milla guessed. “He’s sending them away.” She lost sight of Vigo behind Iggie’s broad blue wing.
“In this storm?” he shouted. “Impossible!”
The soldiers were driving the people, like frightened sheep, forward onto the dock. Milla was reminded horribly of a recent nightmare. Something was different this time, though. She looked again.
There was another group, a mismatched, multicolored band of men, barring the way of the soldiers. She saw people she knew, Thom and Simeon Windlass among them. Oh, Thom, you said you were being careful!
“Look, it’s the sailors and the fishermen. All the ships’ crews,” she shouted to Vigo.
They were all massing along the harbor wall, facing the oncoming soldiers. They made a barrier. Six men deep, ten across, dressed in blues, reds, and greens, the ordinary tunics, hats, and jackets of sailors home from sea.
Soon the two groups would meet.
“Hurry!” Milla yelled. “They need us!” She squeezed Iggie tightly with her knees as he began to dive. She wouldn’t leave Thom to face this alone.
Iggie and Petra angled steeply down, aiming for the narrow stretch of harbor wall in between the two groups.
Iggie alighted. He slipped slightly on the wet stone. Milla slid off and patted him. Then she pointed to the sky: “Fly! Keep moving, Ig. Don’t get cold.”
He disobeyed. Mraa! he growled, refusing to move.
“Fly! You have to go. Keep warm.”
Iggie flicked his tail in displeasure, but he did as he was told.
She watched both dragons fly off, feeling suddenly as vulnerable as an insect, alone and unarmed, as the mass of people edged toward her from both directions. She’d be crushed if they couldn’t stop this.
Vigo took the lead. He strode forward to the nearest captain.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Vigo bellowed.
“Duke’s orders, Your Grace.” The captain stood tall, but he still had to look up at Vigo. “To clear the island of the new arrivals.” He was a broad, middle-aged man, with blue eyes and a short blond beard. Behind him stood a line of black-clad soldiers armed with sword and shield.
“Where the hell are you going to clear them to?” Milla yelled. “Nobody’s going to sea today. He can’t have meant today.”
The captain’s gaze passed over her briefly, but he didn’t answer.
“And them?” Vigo gestured over his shoulder at the motley band of boatmen. They held homemade weapons: fish knives, oars, a net to throw over the guards.
“We will block the harbor to stop them, Your Grace,” Simeon Windlass shouted.
“There’s no man here who’s fearful of foul weather,” a gray-haired sailor added next to him. “But this is no day to sail.”
Milla felt choked with pride for Thom and his father, risking arrest to protect these strangers.
“Quite right, too.” Vigo stepped closer. He towered over the captain. “Tell your men to stand down. No one is putting out to sea in this storm. Your orders are impossible.”
“But the duke’s orders—”
“I am the duke’s son, and I will answer to him!” Vigo was shouting in the man’s face. Milla noticed that he sounded just like his father, suddenly.
Vigo looked up so the rain dripped down his face. “Look at it. You can’t send them out in that.” He tried a different tack, softening. “Do you have a daughter? A son?”
The man nodded, the fight leaching out of him.
“Would you send them to drown out there?”
“No, sir.” The captain looked half-ashamed, half-terrified at the idea of disobeying a command. “But if I disobey … You know the punishment.”
“Listen to me,” ordered Vigo. “How long do you think you would last against two dragons?”
Everyone within earshot looked up. Petra and Iggie circled, like hungry seagulls, listening for the word to land. Or to flame.
Milla felt nausea rising, and she swallowed it down. Could she give that command? Take one life to save more? She clenched her fists and prayed she wouldn’t have to choose.
“Not long,” the captain said, “Your Grace.”
“Exactly.” Vigo’s face was flat and hard. Milla had never seen him like this. “So you take your unit back to the barracks. You tell the duke exactly what I said. Or else you burn where you stand.”
No one moved.
Milla tensed, ready to leap for her dragon, watching the captain’s face, trying to read the thoughts behind his eyes.
“Go!” Vigo flung his arm forward, pointing. Petra swooped down.
“Retreat!” The captain came back to life suddenly. “New orders. Back to barracks. March!”
Reluctantly at first, the soldiers relinquished the dockside, leaving dozens of frightened exiles where they stood. The troops regrouped into neat ranks and then turned, beetling away up the main road that led to the top of the island.
Behind Milla, the fishermen broke into loud cheering.
Vigo looked at the group of people left behind, sodden and shivering. “Follow me,” he called in Sartolan. “Let’s get you warm and fed.” He started leading them back toward Serina’s tents.
Milla felt cold, her wet clothes clinging to her. Wiping the rain from her face, she looked for Iggie and called him down to her.
“Oh, Ig.” She threw herself at her dragon, grateful she hadn’t had to ask him to become a weapon. Not today at least. “Let’s get home, quickly. We need to get you warm and dry.”
She flew home, realizing that the storm had most definitely broken on Arcosi.
Where is he?” Tarya asked for the tenth time. “I should go and look fo
r him.”
“Vigo will be at the camp, with his mother,” Milla whispered. “With the people he rescued from the duke’s soldiers.” It was almost midnight at the dragonhall, and neither of them could sleep. They each sat leaning on their dragons, curled back to back like two huge scaly half-moons. “As soon as it’s light, we’ll go and look.”
“What about Petra? She needs to roost, or she’ll catch cold.” Tarya ran one hand over Heral’s neck ridges, then along his flank. “It took you ages to get Iggie warm again.”
That was why they kept coming back: with its endless supply of heat, food, and spring water, the dragonhall had kept them safe so far, but maybe it was time to risk an alternative.
“They have fires down at the camp,” Milla said. “He won’t let her get cold. Come here …” She leaned over and hugged her friend, over the necks of their dragons. Then they lay back, watching the stove burn low.
Milla could feel Iggie’s heartbeat, slow and steady, as familiar as her own.
In the days that followed, Milla would be glad of those wakeful hours she’d spent with her dragon. She held the memory of their closeness like a blanket around her against what happened next.
They must have dozed, because next thing Milla knew, the darkness had turned ashy gray, and she was jerking awake to the sound of marching feet.
“Tarya,” she hissed, trying not to wake Isak. “Wake up. Something’s happening.” She held her breath, listening. Distant cries floated up from the city. Men’s voices, issuing commands.
“What is it?” Tarya woke and jumped to her feet in the next breath. She slid the doors open, letting the chill dawn air into the cozy dragonhall. “Oh no!”
Both Iggie and Heral woke at that, raising their heads and sniffing the air. Iggie growled, a deep, bass rumble: Mraaa.
That was enough. Without waiting to hear more, Milla began preparing to leave. Somewhere, deep down, she knew she’d been waiting for a day like this to arrive. Trying to ignore the tremble in her hands, she slung a water flask over one shoulder, and fumbled around for her warmest clothes.
Isak sat up, checking on Belara before he did anything. “What’s happening?”
“Smell that?” Tarya said, turning from the doorway. “The city is burning. Vigo is down there somewhere. I have to go.” She called for Heral and pulled her red jacket on.
“Almost ready,” Milla called.
“You’re going to leave me?” Isak said, blinking, bewildered. “Both of you?”
Milla’s heart sank. She watched to see how Tarya would react this time.
“Isak, you and Belara are safe behind palace walls. Vigo and Petra are down there alone—I think they need us more.”
However much it hurt Isak, she knew Tarya was right. They had to go where they were most needed. She gestured Iggie to her side.
Tarya was already pushing the doors wide and leading Heral through. “Hurry, Milla!”
Milla looked back, just once, and wished she hadn’t. The dragonhall looked strange, empty but for Isak leaning on his bunk, with Belara nesting behind its yellow curtain.
She searched for the right words. “Be careful, Isak,” she said at last. “Remember, the duke has always put himself first. Maybe you should do the same?”
He was staring at her with hurt and confusion etched on his face.
“I don’t understand why you have to leave? Why you’d put your dragon in danger?”
“I know. But I still have to,” she told him. “Goodbye.” Milla and Tarya launched their dragons immediately, springing from a standing leap. They flew over the palace gardens, full of armed soldiers in tight battle cohorts, waiting for the command to move. They flew over the palace gates. The air was gray and damp, and Milla felt the first drops of rain start to fall.
Sounds rose from the city below them: breaking glass, screams, a child wailing for its mother.
Milla urged Iggie onward, flying next to Tarya on Heral, her face set in grim determination.
As they flew lower over the streets of Arcosi, they saw total chaos. Piles of furniture were being flung out into the street and set alight. Soldiers encircled a family. Milla saw a woman sobbing and pleading with them.
“What are they doing? They’ve gone mad!” Tarya yelled across to Milla. “The duke’s soldiers, attacking the city?”
Milla guided Iggie lower. “Look! See who they target? It’s not every house.” She pointed, shouting to Tarya.
Here, in the lower streets, where the soldiers hadn’t yet reached, some houses were stamped with the duke’s black dragon stencil. Other doors were blank. As they watched, the soldiers kicked down any blank doors.
The duke’s soldiers were attacking anyone who wasn’t of Norlander descent.
“Tarya. We need Vigo! Let’s go find him. He can stop them,” Milla yelled, remembering how the soldier had listened to Vigo yesterday.
They urged their dragons on and, moments later, reached the marketplace.
“We’re too late!” Tarya screeched, circling.
The small open space in front of Serina’s tents was a riot of movement. Milla saw a sea of dark-uniformed soldiers closing in on the tents. A mass of people defended it. Sartolans, some Norlanders, and returning Arcosi exiles fought together, united against the duke’s army. They fought to save the duchess’s sanctuary.
Then Milla saw them and her heart skipped a beat: Vigo and Serina, fighting side by side. Vigo fought like a warrior, swift and lethal. She saw him slicing with his sword. Serina no longer looked like a duchess. She was indistinguishable from those she defended. Her fine robe was sodden and ripped, the soft rose silk now splattered with mud, her injured arm across her chest. She had a smear of blood down one cheek and her hair flew out in bedraggled black strands, but she was fierce and beautiful as she fought.
Milla just had time to wonder where they’d learned to fight like that, and then a hail of arrows flew toward them.
She screamed to Iggie, flattening herself against his neck, and somehow they weren’t hit.
She prepared herself to jump down. One thing was clear to her: Iggie had to stay safe. She would join him later. She brought her right leg over and slipped from Iggie’s back. She landed hard, stood, and commanded him to go. “Fly! Iggie, fly!”
He circled above her, bellowing, Mraaa! Mraaa!
But it worked: the archers lost interest in him as he flew out of reach.
“Fly! Up!” She turned away, unable to watch Iggie leave, and almost stepped on a dead soldier. A man in the duke’s black livery, on his back, staring sightlessly at the gray sky. Rain ran over his open eyes, like tears. It seemed wrong, so she bent and closed them.
Trying not to look at the man’s wounds, she bent down and removed the sword from his fingers, already cold and stiffening. “Thank you,” she whispered, then took his shield, too, harder to tug free.
She started crossing to her friends, and then she was part of it, caught up in the current of fighting and tugged along. A sword crashed down on her shield with such force that she fell, winded, then rolled to avoid the next blow.
She jumped up. Suddenly, her blood surged with the need to survive. She let it fill her and prayed she’d remember all those hours in the practice yard, fighting with Tarya and Finn.
She struck back, catching the soldier low, in his thigh. She slammed her shield in his face and he fell, lost under feet that danced and stamped and leapt to stay alive. She ran forward, shield lifted, glad of her small size. She ducked under swords, mainly dodging blows, and only hitting out at black-clad knees, feet, or bellies, whenever she found her way blocked.
Time behaved strangely. Moments expanded, flowing slowly, like a wave stretching itself out along the sand.
She seized a quick glance, daring to look across to the tent, shocked to see she was only halfway there; then time seemed to halt altogether.
There was Vigo, slumped against the wall. He was holding a mass of pink silk, stained and muddy, dotted with darker red patches.
Milla felt the wind and the impact of another dragon landing behind her.
“No!” It was Tarya’s voice, barely recognizable, stretched to breaking point.
Through a blur of rain and tears, Milla watched Vigo rocking, head thrown back, clutching his mother’s body to him.
“Mami!” His mouth was pulled wide into an anguished scream, and the rain drummed hard on his bare head and on the slender, limp figure he held.
Milla felt the blast of heat from behind as Heral stretched his head up into the air and let out a massive jet of flame, ready to attack.
Lightning flashed, and barely a heartbeat later, the thunder came again, drowning out Vigo’s sobs.
Then something jabbed her hard in the back, sending Milla toppling forward. She landed on her sword and shield. Fingers crunched. A point of metal in her stomach. She tried to roll. Someone stood on her. She was pinned, unable to move. Crushed against her weapon. She tried to raise her head. She tried to call out. Light vanished, fast as a curtain fall.
Darkness won.
When Milla woke up in a prison cell, everything hurt. She opened her eyes, but it was still dark.
“Iggie?” she moaned. “Iggie, where are you?” There was no answer, and that hurt most of all.
She rolled, gasping in pain at the movement, and slowly pushed herself to sitting.
“Ig?”
He wasn’t here. Milla reached out, trembling. One hand banged into cold metal bars, the other felt matted straw beneath her fingertips.
“Iggie!” she screamed.
She remembered fighting. Sending Iggie away. Vigo holding his mother in his arms. Serina’s body, limp and broken.
In despair, Milla curled herself in a tight ball on the dirty straw. “No, no, no,” she sobbed.
Was Iggie dead, too? Injured? When she reached out for him, she sensed only a terrible blankness. Iggie wasn’t there.
She wept on and on, crying till her bruised rib cage screamed for rest, only stopping when she was utterly empty.
