The beach turned to chaos, both sides trying to escape the hydra and running into the crossfire from the bunkers. Shotfire balls pelted Hera and she reared, roaring, then she opened all three mouths and sprayed boiling, steaming water over the battlefield.
Soldiers shrieked, their skin flayed from their bones.
Valenna looked away, sick.
If someone didn’t stop her, Hera would level the whole Sennalaithic infantry.
Chapter fifty-five
Evander
Trailing in a V like geese, the Ashkendoric fighter dragons soared toward Dread Five. The pilots held the dragons’ reins, their razers kneeling behind them with mounted weapons at the ready.
From the tripod, Giles sprayed the oncoming fighters with pellets. Two plummeted into the trees, their pilot and razer’s gliders bubbling open in the air.
Evander’s mind raced. If they turned, the fighters would mow them down as they banked. If they dropped low, they’d strike the trees. They were alone, Dread Seven having peeled off with their own fighters to contend with. There was no escape, no reinforcements.
Evander pressed down his fear, his dread, his despair. He would survive this day, and so would Dread Five.
And then he felt a pulling sensation behind his breastbone, and he had an idea. A reckless, wild idea.
“Go straight and do not fire!” he shouted over the beating wings and the whistling wind.
“WHAT?” Samara screamed. “If we don’t fire, they’ll shoot us down!”
“Trust me! Trust me!”
Samara shook her head and let the reins slip in her fingers so the dragon would fly level, its long body stretched behind it. Scattershot ripped into them, and the crew ducked as the ballsrattled along the dragon’s scales. Pellets bounced off Samara’s chest and arms, and Evander thanked the Only he’d given her the shirt back.
The fighters were so close now that Evander could make out the individual scales on the dragon’s sides. He reached out with his magic—a hand groping in the dark—and something inside him seemed to latch onto a vague consciousness.
With a twist deep in his stomach, Evander’s suspicions were confirmed. He had trained many of these fighter dragons himself. He could command them.
Pushing aside the crowding guilt, Evander ordered the first dragon to dive into the forest. It obeyed, cracking into the dry branches, its wings tearing. He shuddered, but more shotfire balls tore into them, and he bent his attention on the others.
He commanded the second fighter to pass, but when its rider nearly overcame it, Evander steeled himself and made it crash. He quickly did the same to the third and fourth, and the enemy dragons fell around them, their riders struggling and screaming. Only five remained, trying to fly beneath them and escape.
“Fire now!” Evander shouted.
The dreadnought opened its mouth and a billow of flame curled out, then down, curving below them in a stream of orange, scarlet, and black. The heat was oppressive.
The fighter dragons lost formation—one burnt, one spiraling into the trees in a panic, three giving up on Dread Five and making for Dread Seven.
The crew cheered, but Evander did not join them. He had never done anything so dark and so desperate. He looked around at the young faces, alight with victory. He had done it for them. It was worth it for them. Still, the sting of shame did not fade.
A flash caught his attention. Behind them, Dread Seven went down, followed by two small Ashkendoric fighters. The tripodrazer, the blond boy, was still standing at his shotfire, even as flames licked around him. His crew bailed as he remained, spraying the fighters as they dove after him. He shot them down before he and his dragon collided with a bunker, smashing it to pieces.
Evander glimpsed the aft-razer glide to the ground and run madly toward the rubble where their dead dragon and the tri-razer crashed. Ryland Everette followed, limping, shouting. Evander could not make out what the captain was saying, but he was certain he was screaming his brother’s name.
“Toward the manor!” Evander told Samara. “Let’s finish this mission!”
Their dragon banked.
“Bombardiers, get ready! Giles, get to your wing!”
Giles grabbed Evander’s arm, and Evander swung him away from the tripod, back toward his station. The boy clipped to his tether and crouched, waiting. Elspeth crawled to the other wing, her shoulder bleeding, her face pale. Ignatius knelt at the tail.
The air was thick with smoke. It stung Evander’s eyes. He glanced at his hourglass. They could fire again, but there were no enemies to their front. The fighters were clever, and they knew to attack at the rear.
