Page 129 of Ash

It was Bess who answered as the last Dragon passed through between her and Cara. “He’s not fighting us.”

“It’s too easy,” Cara agreed.

Tyrez’s heart turned to ice.

From the open gate, came the first Dragon scream.

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The prisoner hung from chains that bound him to the cold stone. Too weak to stand, he barely felt the freezing spray from the ocean’s waves.

He didn’t even know his own name. He was grateful that the monster firing energy into his brain had eventually left him alone. What had he done to deserve such treatment?

Time had no meaning. How long had he hung there? For a while, he simply stared at the crashing waves before him. Then images started invading his thoughts.

From the past? Were they memories? No.Timelines.

He was aDragon. The concept popped into his head. But he couldn’t fly? That made little sense.

Captive. The collar. That was why he couldn’t fly.

From where he hung, he saw not only the crashing ocean waves but also jagged cliffs overhead and to each side. He was located in a shallow bay. A flash of bright light came from high up on the rocks to his right—he squinted toward it.

Just as the first Dragons came through.

Beautiful.They were beautiful. In intense blues, purples, and greens that caught the sunlight, they appeared from out of nowhere.

Not out of nowhere. From agate, the past told him.

Could they see him way down here? He got his feet beneath him and stood up, pushing against the chains. His instincts were screaming, but he didn’t know why. Something was going to happen. Something terrible...

The Dragons wheeled into formation as they spun back around and reoriented on the cliffs.

Rindek.The name popped into his head—they were after Rindek, the Archmage. The creature who owned him. Father to the one that had fried his brain.

Now full-sized and impressive in their might, the Dragons dove in perfect formation for the rocks below.

The man chained to the cold stone opened his mouth and screamed a warning, but it came far too late.

Projectiles fired from openings in the cliff face. They slammed into the thick hides, the crystal points penetrating their scales. The Dragons swiped at the clinging darts, knocking them free or pulling them out. They seemed hardly more than an annoyance.

But the chained one knew they’d already served their purpose. The past told him what they were and what they could do.

The darts didn’t curtail the Dragon’s progress. They dove at the cliff face. Some clung to the rock, tearing at it with powerful talons. One found success, digging out a squirming form—a Dire, attacking with tooth and claw before the Dragon sliced it in two with its tail spike.

But those firing the darts were well protected in the rock, and more of the wicked things found their mark as the Dragons climbed, resumed their Legion flying formations, and dove on them again. This time the front ranks opened their jaws and roasted the rock with fire.

Then a Dragon screamed.

The chained man searched the swirling forms and saw one hovering at the fringes, its body curled in on itself as it clutched at its belly. Its head flung back, and it screamed again, a horrible, trailing cry of agony.

Its wings lost rhythm, and it dropped like a stone to the ocean, disappearing beneath the waves. Another cry erupted from deep within the mass of flapping wings. And then another.

The disciplined formation began to break apart. One Dragon, a huge, vivid-blue specimen, wheeled high, calling to the others to assemble around him. And many did. But some were consumed by agony, dropping lower and lower, until they too were swallowed by the ocean.

The man hung his head. They were dying. His people were dying—and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

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