I press my lips to his cheek and we kneel in the silence, crying.
‘You ’ent going to give yourself up?’ Ruth says to me in disbelief.
I shake my head. ‘Not while we still have a chance at winning.’
‘You think we do? Have a chance?’
‘Thanks to Chumana, yes. Krasimir and Goranov are both injured. Surely the rebels have enough dragons to finish them off.’
I pull Atlas to his feet.
‘This way, then,’ Ruth says.
She turns and heads down the dark tunnel. I move to follow her, but Atlas grabs my hand. His cheeks are red from crying and his mouth is a taut, quivering line.
What is it?’ I say.
‘If we fail, I won’t let you give yourself to Goranov. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I won’t have to, Atlas,’ I lie.
He kisses me gently, tentatively and then, when I don’t pull away, his mouth turns hard and deliberate. I kiss him back, my lips scorching, my mind clouding with surprise and desire.
The edges of the wound in my arm burn. Will feeding my blood to a dragon hurt more than this?
‘For God’s sake,’ Ruth shouts. ‘Can’t you save the snogging for when you’re sure you’re actually going to survive?
We come apart, our faces tearstained, the wyvern-spun tweed at our backs. I take Atlas’s hand and we follow Ruth’s voice towards the battle.
The sky is black with dusk and dragonsmoke when we emerge from a cave in the cliff face. We’re standing on the beach where Wyvernmire’s camp was, every tent around us burned to ash with only their metal pegs remaining, glinting in the torchlight that pierces the gloom. The rebels have dragged out the torches used in Chumana’s prison tent to help them guide the Speerspitzes. I see a black hole in the sand – the detonator must have exploded. On the hills above, a fire-breathing plane lies on its side. The battle is still raging and the sand is littered with bodies. The bodies of Guardians and rebels. The bodies of dragons.
Ruth sinks down to the ground to crouch over a small figure wrapped in furs, then looks up at me with tears rolling down her face.
The bodies of children.
I let out a small, horrified cry.
Marquis, Serena and Freddie are still fighting, their faces caked in blood and soot. Beside them are Hollingsworth, Sophie, Gideon and Cormac, and a whole group of rebels andGuardians. And yet the air is still full of Bulgarian dragons.
‘Viv!’ Marquis shouts as we approach the Speerspitzes.
He jumps down and embraces me, his clothes slick with sweat. He smells of gunpowder and his eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion. He glances at Atlas, then Ruth.
‘Where have you been?’ Serena says as she loads another poisonous sphere into the barrel of a Speerspitze.
Freddie stands behind her and reaches around to adjust the positioning of the gun’s muzzle. Rebels run past as a shadow drops across the beach. Krasimir flies over us, his neck still dripping with blood. His talons reach for a human in his path, lifting them into the air before flinging them back down against the rock.
‘Incoming!’ Freddie shouts.
Krasimir turns and glides back towards us, his huge body glistening, his talons trailing innards. I see Aodahn, Cindra and Aberdine move across the sky. They strike from above, so much smaller than Krasimir but slicing wounds into his skin like hungry vultures. More wyverns attack from the ground and when Krasimir swoops down on them they disappear into the sand, tunnelling out of sight before I can blink. Freddie swings the gun in Krasimir’s direction but the Bolgorith veers sideways as Serena fires.
Another Bolgorith sends flames careening towards the wyverns and when Aberdine shoots upwards to avoid them, Krasimir catches her by the neck. She convulses for several seconds before he clamps his jaw closed, then lets her drop unceremoniously to the ground. Cindra lets out a heartbroken yowl and flies at Krasimir again just as several other rebeldragons join her. I recognise Yndrir, another Bletchley dragon, among them. As they attack, the rest of the Bulgarian dragons swarm around Krasimir. I count about over fifty, all battle-worn but still going strong.
‘Retreat!’ someone bellows.
Cormac is ordering a huge crowd of gun-toting rebels to shelter as the body of a British dragon slams on to the sand. Above, its murderer breathes a ring of fire around the remains of the tents. Rebels scream, fleeing across the beach.
My eyes meet Atlas’s wild stare. ‘No human will survive this.’
