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⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “My new favorite fantasy world.”

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R.M. Schultz Fantasy Author

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📕 Cyran cranked the windlass on the mounted crossbow atop the watchtower, bracing himself and heaving against its tension until the rope clicked into place. The intermittent whoosh of dragon wings beating the air sounded close by as he loaded a dragonbolt into the crossbow. But before he could return to the trigger, a dragon rose over the merlons, and its talons thumped on stone as it landed in front of him. Cyran lurched, and his hands shook as he lunged for the trigger handle. But this dragon’s scales were deep green.

“Squire,” Sir Ilion—the guard riding the dragon—said as he studied the dead bodies of the archers. “Are you adept at the turret bow?”

Cyran glanced at the turret beneath the dragon, which hung to the dragon’s knees and was not in danger of being crushed during a typical landing. A man hung limp there, held in place by the harness at his waist and straps around his boots. A dragonbolt must have torn completely through his abdomen, given the gaping hole there.

“It is a terrible loss, but thank the Paladin the bolt did not hit its intended target—our dragon,” Ilion said. “We still have a chance to defend the outpost. Move quickly, squire. Nevergrace is under attack!”

Cyran sprinted for the turret. “I am adept at the hand crossbow, but I have yet to fly.”

Ilion groaned and glanced around while the archer on the quarterdeck shouted, “We do not have time to be choosy. And we need another archer. I cannot hope to shoot down all these dragons myself.” The mage behind Ilion whispered something as well.

“Mount up, quickly,” Ilion said, and Cyran climbed into the turret. He worked at the buckles and straps binding the dead man’s boots as his hands shook. “Hurry, squire. There are five dragons attacking our outpost. We must shoot them down, or Nevergrace will fall.”

Cyran jerked at a strap, and the harness around the dead archer’s waist came free. The body toppled over, striking one of the three poles making up the frame and suspended basket of the turret before bouncing off and falling toward the watchtower. Cyran caught the dead archer by his tunic and eased him over the edge, setting him gently down on the stones. Then he worked to pull the harness off the body.

“At a minimum, you should also take his chainmail,” Ilion shouted from above.

Cyran eyed the links of armor and the gaping hole in it. Little good it did him against a dragonbolt. He knelt and worked at the straps on the man’s back.

Dragon shrieks rang in the distance.

“This is taking too long,” the archer on the quarterdeck said.�“Just strap yourself in, squire,” Ilion said, and the forest dragon’s wings beat the air.

Cyran snatched the harness and leapt into the turret, working his boots into the straps of the rotating platform. A dragon shrieked, and beating wings sounded. The forest dragon lifted from the watchtower and dipped its wings, swinging out to the west. Cyran stumbled but held himself in place by gripping the handle of the crossbow, only one of his feet strapped in. Once they leveled out, he worked at the straps for his other foot. But they dipped and rose on air currents, the force of the movements pulling Cyran off balance and throwing him out flat along the lip of the platform. His head and back slipped over the edge. He hung there for a moment with one leg extended and wrenched beyond its normal range of motion, only that foot bound to the turret. He stared down at the torches burning in the bailey far, far below. Time stood still.

The rope and arms of the crossbow up on the quarterdeck snapped and thrummed, and a bolt screamed away.

“Where’s your bolt, squire?” Ilion asked.

Cyran grabbed the knee of his strapped-in leg, prayed the straps would hold for what he had to do, and jerked his torso back over the edge of the turret. He grabbed the crossbow with one hand to steady himself as everything around him wheeled and turned.

“Our only hope is to shoot down all of the north’s dragons,” Ilion said loud enough so Cyran could hear over the beating of wings. “Or we will all die.” Cyran buckled a strap over the top of his loose foot and another behind his heel. “But we have to avoid a direct confrontation with that shadow dragon at all costs.” Cyran wrapped the loops of the harness around his upper thighs and waist. He cinched them down. “Even if that means we have to enter the forest. That colossal beast won’t be able to follow us into the woods.”

Cyran snapped the harness to a line wrapped around the crossbow’s frame, completely anchoring himself in. He exhaled a stale breath. Dragons dropped and climbed in the fire- and moonlit skies around them. The white ice dragons stood out against the night more than any others, and they passed around the castle.

“We must concentrate on shooting them down,” Ilion said. The dragonmage’s response was muffled by the shrieks and beating of wings around them. “No. We will not engage in any attempt at jousting. Not even if coming directly at the shadow dragon protects us from all her archers. We will fly after each dragon and try to take them by surprise. With our bolts.”

“But you watch out for those lances coming at us,” the archer on the quarterdeck said. “If they take you out, we won’t be alive for long.”

“I will do my part as best I can,” Ilion replied. “I’ll protect you and spear a dragon’s eye or heart if it comes too close. But you two need to shoot down five dragons.”�

They swooped around the watchtower in a tight arc, and Cyran’s stomach slid up into his throat. Then they launched out into the night at the attacking dragons, one of which highlighted itself with firelight. Other icy and fiery breaths continued to bombard the castle.

Wind battered Cyran’s cheeks and grasped at his hair with chill fingers as Nevergrace swirled and blurred beneath him. He was flying… on a dragon. His stomach settled, and his heart pounded with a renewed force.

He swiveled his crossbow around and tilted it upward, but the highlighted fire dragon moved too quickly. It created beautiful soaring patterns that filled Cyran with dread, and it never repeated its pattern or made its lines of flight predictable. The ice dragons darted and weaved about, often disappearing behind the watchtowers and keep. The mist dragon appeared only as a pale body, its wings blending with the night as it spewed fog around the periphery of the outpost. A vision of what this creature would look like in the daylight and against the sky sea and clouds suddenly struck Cyran. It would appear as only two black wings descending from above. Cyran shuddered as he continued searching for a target. A massive black beast glided overhead in the distance, visible only because of its size, its silhouette blotting out the light of the moons that was splattered across the sky sea.

Their forest dragon’s wings dropped and obscured Cyran’s view of everything to either side of them. He would have to be careful not to fire when the wings were descending, something he’d barely thought of before. He glanced to the dragon’s legs. Those enormous limbs were tucked close to its body and should not come into his line of fire, not unless the dragon was tearing at soldiers or knights on the ground. And their dragon would find no such adversaries in this battle. Then there was also their dragon’s tail. It moved more erratically than the wings but was comparatively small and thin.

The forest dragon rolled hard to the left and grazed the top of the battlements, chasing after an ice dragon that had just made its pass and was climbing away.

“Get ready to bring her down,” Sir Ilion yelled. “Roll east in ten flaps.”

The forest dragon ascended, and Cyran pivoted around, trying to find a line of sight. But the ice dragon was not only out in front but also above them. Taking a shot would risk hitting his own dragon’s underbelly.

The mist dragon shrieked, curtailing its fog making, and it dived into a legion of crossbow-wielding soldiers and knights, raking through their lines with its feet and talons. The beast ripped some of the men and a horse up from the earth and crushed them before flinging their bodies into others. Some in Nevergrace’s army screamed, and their ranks fell apart as many raced back toward the outer curtain.

Shock and anger bit into Cyran. He dipped his crossbow as he attempted to track the mist dragon, but it rolled back and forth over the fields below. Cyran squeezed the trigger handle, and the rope shot forward, the metal arms reverberating.

R.M. Schultz Fantasy Author

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