Evander wiped his hands down his face. “Samara …”
“No. If you want to know, then you need to be polite. It’s about time you learned.”
Evander rubbed his temples. “Would you please explain?”
“That shirt you’re wearing belonged to my grandfather,” she said, smiling. “It is magical and impenetrable. Shoot it, stab it, feed it to a dragon, not a single thread will snag.”
Evander stopped walking, his jaw slack.
“What?” Samara laughed, turning. “All my nonna’s clothes are magic. She’s magic. You’re lucky. That thing’s one of a kind.”
“But … but you should have it,” Evander said. “If it belonged to your grandfather …”
Shaking her head, Samara hurried after her friends. “I’m not the one who needs it!”
Chapter forty-one
Evander
The conscripts were churlish, mumbling and glaring as Evander climbed over the fence and strode toward the dreadnought dragon crouched in the center of the paddock.
The creature was as long as the mess hall, and nearly as tall; Evander’s head just reached its knobby elbow. Two sets of wings lay tucked along its sides as it munched on a bale of hay.
Evander felt strange in his Sennalaithic uniform. It was simple: cream pants, black leather boots, a short light blue jacket with brass buttons, and a white shirt.His magic shirt, which he wore underneath, had shrunk obligingly, the collar disappearing and the sleeves shortening, until it fit like a second skin without adding bulk to his other clothes.
The conscripts wore identical outfits, except their jackets were gray.
Despite the heat, he’d also been issued a shearling leather coat, similar to what he’d worn in Silvanlight.
Evander reached into his satchel and produced a severed hoof. It smelled rank, and a string of sinew hung off the bone.
The dreadnought snapped up the hoof, and it slid down her throat in an unsettling lump. She had a long body, and a trailing tail that doubled her length. She was broad enough for three people to sit cross-legged on her back. She was a docile creature, sky-blue with a white belly, and obedient as a dog. Evanderremembered her because he’d trained her, his first year in Silvanlight, but she had no name. They did not name the battle dragons.
“Good morning, Dread Five crew,” Evander said, turning.He ran over their names in his mind: Samara—the leader; Ignatius—the big one; Elspeth—the quiet one; Rosemary—the sarcastic one, and Giles—the little one.
The crew scowled back at him, tight-lipped.
Evander groaned. Here he was again, stuck with these same petulant children. He wanted to find Valenna and escape to Silvanlight, or Torsten’s hut, or anywhere but here.
He pressed on. “There are twenty dreadnought crews in the Sennalaith army. We are the fifth, hence Dread Five. We discussed this in Silvanlight, so I hope you were listening, but since we both know you weren’t, I’ll go over it again. This dragon carries six riders. She has four wings, as you can see.”
The dreadnought wore a complicated leather harness. It looped under her front and rear legs and then over her back. Affixed to the harness was a long cable extending from her shoulders to her tail.
Evander tickled the dragon’s belly, and she extended her wings, then folded them against her body again. Two canisters the size of ale barrels hung under her wings, held in place by thick ropes.
“Each wing carries two scattershot canisters. Two bombardiers will be stationed, one for each side, to release the canisters on my command. Dropping the canisters is our primary goal in battle. Wait until the downbeat and then pull the release. If you time it wrong, then the wing could come up and strike you, breaking your neck.”
“I hope I don’t end up doing that,” Giles said under his breath.
“Then, we have the tripod razer and the aft razer who man the shotfires at the front and rear.”
“Oh, I hope I don’t end up there, actually,” Giles mumbled.
Evander climbed a rope ladder hanging from the dragon’s side. She didn’t pay him any heed—she was expertly trained.
“Here’s your aft shotfire.” Evander indicated a long wyvern bone weapon overlooking the creature’s tail. “The operators are called ‘razers.’ The aft razer will lie on his or her stomach and fire at fighter dragons attacking at the rear. Up here”—he walked to the second shotfire, this one mounted between the dragon’s shoulders on a tall stand—“is the tripod razer.”
This weapon was made from a hollow dreadnought femuras thick around as Evander’s arm. It stood on a tall tripod, and the pellets fed into its side were fastened to a long, snaking sash.
