Page 93 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Like a loosed hound, I was on Sellar. My skirts whipped as I dragged his cudgel behind his back, ripping it from his fingers. The cudgel came free, and I swung. His shin crunched and buckled, but I had already discarded that feeble weapon, wheeling gleefully to the real fight—
Darcy towered in my path, blocking me. He grabbed for my arms. Endlessdefensive drills reacted quicker than thought. I caught his weaker, left hand in both of mine and twisted. His elbow jammed into his side. Bone grated as the joint locked.
I had not cranked hard enough to break anything, but pitiless instructors had demonstrated this hold on me, and ithurt. Darcy, though, barely grunted. His other hand grabbed my upper arm and, with typical stubbornness, held like a vice when I tried to yank away.
Mr. MacLeod, the villagers, and the other toughs had descended into furious battle. That was what I wanted. Not this delicate dance.
“Let me fight,” I snapped.
Darcy was struggling to free himself. Warily, I shifted stance as he thrashed. He was stronger and twice my weight, but this was not fencing, and he did not know how to break the hold. He reared up, trying to use his height, a bad choice. That wrenched his arm, and he cried out. An answering cry spilled from my lungs, and I let go. Then I stared stupidly at my empty palms—why let go?—before he lunged and wrapped me in his arms, lifting me up on my toes, trapping my hands at my sides.
“Do not fight,” he shouted. “Do not give in!”
I feigned falling to one side, stretched the other way when he shifted his balance, and drew the dagger.
“Let me fight,” I whispered and pricked the tip into his thigh.
“Fighting achieves nothing. When we pay for the sheep—”
I laughed. “You think the sheepmatter?” I leaned back as if to see him. He lowered his head, and I drove my forehead into his jaw. He staggered, and I was free.
The mad voice came again—Fènnù crooning,My wyfe of war…
The gloomy gray clouds swirled and tore asunder, replaced by sky-spanning black wings. My emotions tore with them and fell away, reduced to exaltation.
I threw my arms high and screamed a joyous cry of welcome. Wind blasted, snapping my hair back, flattening grass and kicking grit from the stone walls, drowning the terrified cries.
Fènnù’s huge feet landed on the thick walls of the castle keep, her claws piercing rock, her weight smashing the stone down inch-by-inch. Rocks rained, thudding into the dirt. The keep swayed under her weight, dust streaming from crushed mortar and spinning in wild swirls as her wings worked, seeking balance on the shifting footing.
Frustrated and bellowing, she took to the air again, circling Helmsdale hill,faceted eyes fixed on me, then she twisted imperiously in the sky, wings taut. A rumble built, climbed to the shriek of an infernal demon, then her jaws opened and the world turned to ear-splitting thunder. Blackness darker than midnight streaked over our heads and pounded into the keep. Thick walls blew apart. The foundation tore away. The castle walls were dragged into the rush like mud in a torrent, stone blocks that weighed hundreds of pounds rolling and disintegrating to gravel. The black breath blew through them and down to the valley below.
After an eternity, or seconds, it ended. My exposed skin, my lips, hands, eyes, all stung from the unnatural radiant cold, like a frozen sun had risen to destroy warmth.
“Control her!” Darcy screamed at me. Somehow, he had kept his footing in the maelstrom, but he sounded muffled and distant; I was half deafened. “You have the dagger! Use it!”
I looked at the dagger in my hand, an artifact built to summon the black dragon, to tempt her with humble offerings for her wrath. Through my eyes, Fènnù studied it also. Her amused mind twined around mine, drawing me deeper into her clutch.
“Nobody controls the black dragon,” I said.
His hands grasped my shoulders, shaking me. “No wyfe of war has been as strong as you. Use the dagger!”
I ducked away and ran across the frosted stones and dirt. Mistress MacLeod was shouting at her husband while she dragged Sellar, gibbering with terror, off the frozen, poisoned earth. I passed her and the rubble where the castle’s outer wall had stood.
Helmsdale came into view. Fènnù’s breath had missed the village, but the bay was a slurry of blocky ice and choppy seawater.
Gusts slammed as Fènnù returned, landing in the cleared ground that had held half the castle. Even then she had to jockey for position, careful not to crush me with her wings. She was a skilled predator. She understood the fragility of flesh.
I walked toward her, but Darcy caught up and grabbed my hand. “Elizabeth! Resist her!”
“Why?” I asked as Fènnù watched us, curious and waiting. “I am her.” I turned to her, riotous joy straining my lips. I reveled in her judgment, her fatal condemnation of upstart, unworthy humanity—
Then my joy faltered, interruptedby… music.
It was a few notes, not even heard—my ears rang too loudly to register such delicacy—but the draca senses, the old senses, responded. The certainty of purpose that had consumed my mind faded. Doubt slipped in.
The tune swelled, unthinkably beautiful, powerful and exquisitely performed. A woman’s voice, singing.
Fènnù’s head lifted to the south. Listening.
