They were camped at the base of the mountain, white tents neatly arranged, small fires shining like stars on the dark grass. They’d met Cadmus’s army here a few hours earlier. Exhausted, the crew slept on their bedrolls on the ground, except Samara, who had recently returned from the physician’s tent with fresh stitches in her side. She knelt across from Evander, chewing her meat ration.
Evander poured dark tea into a tin cup and listened to the dragons’ grunts carrying on the damp breeze from the makeshift paddock where they curled, sleeping. Hera was restless. Her distant grumbles irritated him, made him restless too.
More than anything, Evander wanted to take Valenna by the hand, mount Hera, and ride away into the night. He wanted to leave this war behind. But Haldir was dead. They were flying in at the front.
Ryland Everette and his Dread Seven crew approached. Ryland was so grave, he made Evander look like a court jester. His brother, the tripod razer, was laughing about some inside joke with theaft razer. There were only five of them—one man short of a typical crew. It was their trademark; one bombadier for all four wings. The bombadier was a huge, barrel-chested man with spiky red hair and a scar dimpling his chin.
They stopped and held their hands over the fire.
“I hear you’re leading us into the battle tomorrow,” the tri-razer said with a grin. He was a lithe, scrappy young man with tousled blond hair.
“It hasn’t been confirmed,” Evander replied vaguely.
“I’m just glad it isn’t us.”
Ryland bent his cold eyes on Evander. “Your crew is inexperienced. You’ll kill us all, unless your pilot knows what she’s doing. And she doesn’t.”
Samara scowled. “I can pilot that dragon just as well as …”
“As me?” the Dread Seven pilot, a tall woman with a halo of thick black curls, asked. “No one can pilot a dragon as well as me.”
“We’re not trying to start a fight!” the tripod razer said with a nervous laugh.
“Speak for yourself, Raleigh,” the aft-razer mumbled. She was a slight girl with long brown hair, dyed purple at the ends.
“Dread Five will do fine tomorrow,” Evander said, without bothering to look at the other crew. “I have every confidence in them.”
The captain crossed his arms. “You’re a poor liar, Trevelyan.”
“You talk too much, Everette,” was the curt reply.
“Can’t your people make magical shirts that can withstand knives and shotfire balls?” the aft-razer asked.
Samara shook her head sadly. “It takes decades to weave just one of those. Captain Trevelyan’s is the only one I’ve ever seen.”
A twinge of guilt irritated Evander. Samara must have read it in his face because she exclaimed, “You keep that shirt on! I won’t have you killed by some rogue scattershot during the battle. If you die, so do all of us. So you keep it.”
He still felt guilty, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the Cobblepinions, asleep on their bedrolls. They were all so young. Not that Evander was old, but twenty-five seems like a long life when you’re teaching a sixteen-year-old how to survive.
Ryland slapped Evander’s shoulder, and a jolt of pain ran through him. It wasn’t healed yet.“Good luck tomorrow. Don’t lose your head.”
“And hopefully,” the aft-razer said, tossing a glance at Raleigh, “our tri-razer won’t do something idiotic and get us all killed.”
“I’ll have you know,” Raleigh said loudly, holding up his hand, “that I make the risky, calculated decisions in battle that make this crew great.”
“You couldn’t do a calculation if your life depended on it,” the aft-razer scoffed.
Ryland and his crew stalked off toward the tents, the two razers bickering.
“What did Dread Seven do to get stuck with us in the front?” Samara asked.
Evander poured himself more tea. “They’re Ashkendoric defectors.”
A brief fear that he might dislocate his shoulder again in battle pricked in the back of Evander’s mind. An injury like that could spell death for his whole crew. He made a mental note to wrap it well in the morning and remember not to mention it to Valenna. She didn’t need to worry anymore over him; she had her own battle to fight.
Cadmus’s white dragon landed behind the tents, and the king walked toward them, his golden hair shining in the firelight.
“Trevelyan!” Cadmus cried, spreading his hands in greeting. “I am overjoyed! Your mission was a success! Come to the war council, and we will discuss our plans for tomorrow.”
