Page 117 of Devil's Doom

A fire blazes across the sky in the south. Woland’s lieutenants direct the warriors to form half circles around the diggers, some more heavily protected, some less.

“Take positions,” Woland tells the healers. When I try to move, his hold on my shoulder tightens. “Not you. I’ll let you go in a moment, but for this part, you’ll stay close.”

I don’t know what “this part” means, and nobody else does, either. Woland’s people follow his orders with reckless devotion, which allows him to keep them in the dark. From the stories I’ve heard about past attacks, I know he always uses some kind of strategy that doesn’t allow the dragons to simply burn us to a crisp from the sky.

But which strategy he’ll use is always a secret. It makes sense if Woland thinks there are spies in rebel ranks.

“The three from the east will get here first,” Lech says, standing too close to me, his blue eyes glowing faintly in the light of the half-moon shining cold and bright in the sky.

“They want to see what I’ll do,” Woland says, sounding almost bored. “Sacrificial lambs. Biedas! Target the dragons coming from the east.”

To my left, a small group of biedas, Lutowa among them, climbs higher up the grassy hill. They look strange, eight skeletally thin women with long hair and pale skin, malnourished and shaking in their tattered clothes. But their faces are tight with determination. I know from Lutowa’s boasting their magic has an impressive reach and can desiccate a dragon in the time it takes for one to fall.

Wisps of pale, foggy spells shoot into the sky. The dragons roll and evade, clearly prepared, and I glance south, not yet seeing the group of twelve Woland called in. In the north, above the lights of Slawa blinking just beyond the curve of the forest, something glitters in the sky. Scales.

“Again,” Woland says calmly. “Now.”

Suddenly, a wall of black smoke erupts in front of the three dragons, barring their way. They scatter, two flying left, one right. The biedas cry out, more magic shooting into the sky. Two dragons are hit, roaring in pain as their wings flap faster, their movements growing chaotic. The dragon that escaped roars, too, diving for the biedas. They are utterly exposed, seemingly defenseless, and so frail.

He opens his maw, and I fancy I see a spark brightening the back of his throat.

Woland snaps his hand, as if swatting away a fly. The dragon yelps and turns. One of his wings slides off his body with the movement, cleanly cut away, and the beast plummets.

“Sixteen more from the south.”

Lech repeats Woland’s words. The rebels stopped spreading, and everyone has their spot now. Diggers are hard at work, shoveling more earth than should be possible with the ground frozen, but their shovels gleam with heat, strzygas walking tensely down the front line and muttering spells to make them more efficient.

I count quickly. With the first three dragons defeated, there will be thirty-seven to fight. I know all rebel attacks go roughly the same way: Woland somehow gets the dragons to fight on the ground, and a true battle begins. But if he fails, we’ll be cooked. Literally. Dragon fire is hotter than the magical kind Wera blasted me with.

Dragons can only spit lethal fire in their fully transformed forms. If they are forced to fight on the ground, they will shift partly into their half-human shapes, because fighting on the ground requires more speed and agility, especially in tight quarters.

The rebel attack is set up to give the rebels as big a fighting chance as possible.

There is a cry among the biedas on the hill, and three of them race down the other side, disappearing from sight. Woland’s shadows wrap around a chochol standing nearby, raising him high enough to see. When Woland brings him back down, the chochol reports.

“The dragon without a wing transformed. They got him.”

I glance into the darkness where the other two dragons the biedas attacked landed. Nothing moves there. I suspect they are dead.

“The nine from the city will be here soon,” Lech says, pointing to a few shadows moving across the starry sky above the forest.

Woland grins. “I’m in the mood for some fun tonight.”

“What does it mean?” I ask, breathless from excitement.

“You’ll see.”

I know this is only the beginning, but the ease with which the biedas dispatched the first three dragons makes this battle look like child’s play. Maybe the victory will be fast and easy. Maybe none of my friends will be hurt.

Just as I think that, a blinding stream of white fire blazes down from the sky. It doesn’t reach people, but the fire impossibly catches the frozen ground just beyond the hill where the biedas stand, eying the incoming cloud of dragons. A wall of flames rages, cutting us off from the city.

“Naughty,” is all Woland says.

He raises one arm high above his head. Lech’s breath is fast and excited next to me, and I stare, too, mesmerized. Ropes of glittering darkness shoot out of Woland’s palm, racing into the sky. They go even higher than the biedas’ spells, reaching across a distance that should make controlling his aim impossible, and yet, Woland does it with barely a frown. He’s focused, his muscular arm taut from effort.

The ropes hit, splashes of brightness painting the sky above the forest. Scales glitter. The dragons roar, and there seems to be a moment of scuffle and uncertainty, before fire erupts in the sky.

Except, none of it is aimed at us. I squint, trying to understand what’s happening, when an enormous, flaming shape falls, hitting the ground so hard, it vibrates under my feet.

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