“You want me to prove I’m the Devil?” Sonara asked the others. “First, I suggest you all duck your heads.”
They only had time to scream as a massive set of razor-sharp claws pierced through the roof of the wagon, just over their heads. A mighty roar followed, and the roof of the wagon was ripped away.
Fear.
It was all around her, so thick Sonara couldn’t force the aura back.
But her troupe hadcome.They’d come for her, just as she’d hoped they would.
The twin suns were like daggers in her eyes, the sudden absence of shadows utterly jarring. Sonara blinked, a triumphant cry building in her.
For there overhead, soaring across the endless desert sky, was Razor, Markam’s mighty wyvern as black as the night. The roof of the wagon still clutched in her jagged talons. She released it, sent it tumbling down from the skies.
The escorts, galloping across the sand, had drawn their swords and shields. But they would be useless against Razor.
Sonara had never been so happy to see the hideous beast. For there on her back was Jaxon and Markam, alive and well. Together, the brothers and the beast were a force of fire and flight, working in synchronized glory as they fought to free the prisoners below.
Sonara could sense the wyvern’s fire before she released it:a spark, building to a flame, the thickness of smoke spilling from mighty lungsbefore Razor opened her massive jaws and sent a pillar of green flame down towards the wagon at the front of the caravan.
The wagon exploded. The steeds’ harness melted at its touch, and they tore off across the desert, free at last, the very ground shaking under their feet.
Sonara cheered, her heart racing in her chest, blood roaring in her ears as the rest of the caravan finally came to a rolling stop.The chains around her wrists bit at her skin as she tried in vain to free herself. She wanted out. She wanted tofight.
Razor banked again, screeching so loud Sonara felt it in her bones. The wyvern stretched out her talons, tucked her wings in tight, and dove straight for the escorts, who hefted their swords and readied for a fight they could not win.
One lifted a crossbow and shot.
The arrow spiraled towards Razor, who dipped sideways with ease, then continued her chase.
The steeds below skittered sideways, bleating in fear. Two of the guards were thrown overboard, their steeds abandoning them to tear off into the desert.
Razor roared again, jaws wide and smoke pluming from her nostrils. She landed effortlessly upon the sand and spread her wings high above her, barbed tail spraying the grains like droplets of a crashing wave.
There atop her sat Jaxon, with his wide-brimmed leather hat pulled low over his eyes. Markam was just behind him, a shade taller, both wearing brown leather dusters that settled behind them like capes. They dismounted, boots softly scraping up the sand as they approached the guards.
Razor growled, but Markam held up a gloved hand. She fell silent, smoke pluming from her nostrils. If she released too much of her fire too soon, she’d burn out like a candle, and be useless when they needed her most.
The guards dismounted and formed a circle around the brothers as they stopped fifty paces away.
Back to back, they stood. Two sentries ready to strike fear in the hearts of those who dared cross them.
“Stand down!”
The largest guard, a man with a red braid hanging down his back, hefted a sword that was made of black Deadlands iron. Supple material, though not as strong as Soreian steel.
It was so quiet, Sonara had forgotten she sat in a wagon full of other prisoners, who watched with breaths held; a wagon full of murderers and thieves and madmen, too fearful to utter a single noise as they watched.
“Stand down?” Jaxon’s chuckle danced across the desert sand, carried towards Sonara on a gust of dry wind. She breathed in his aura, thefearlessness, strong as a freshly brewed cup of hauva in the morning.“You have something of ours. And we never leave without getting what we want.”
“These prisoners are the property of the King of the Deadlands,” the guard growled.
Markam smiled, a cruel thing that had Sonara’s insides twisting. “Brainless beasts, the king’s guards,” he said in his casual drawl. “This fight is dull, Jaxon. Show him the way the bones call to your blood.”
Jaxon lifted his hands, then. And all around him, the desert began to quake.
The sands shifted softly as his curse called upon the bones of the dead, begging them to uncover themselves; to shake off the dust, and answer the silent cry.
The bones of an ancient, long-dead fowl appeared, hobbling towards him as it emerged from the sand, wings bent and broken. A desert rat crawled forth from its unmarked grave. The body of a snake, no longer held together by muscle or skin, shaped together and slithered towards him, alive beneath the power coursing in Jaxon’s blood.
