Page 118 of Edge of the Wild

A heart that would beat no more. She touched the sliced leather of his jerkin, felt that the blood that had spilled out from it was already cooling. She reached beneath the short curtain of his hair and felt his cheek: slack, lifeless.

Mal.

How could he be…

Hecouldn’tbe…

She tried to draw a breath, and couldn’t.

A hand touched her shoulder, where she knelt in the dirt before her dead lover. Connor’s voice was gentle when he said, “Amelia, we have to go.”

It hurt to swallow, to speak. “I can’t leave him.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to.”

There was so much noise all around them, shouts, and screams, and the bellows-rush of dragon lungs filling; the rushing crackle of fire jetting. But her whole world had narrowed down to the still figure before her. The thought of leaving him here…of not at least taking him back to be buried…

Her eyes stung.

And a great red-gold eye appeared over Mal’s still shoulder. The dragon – it was the first one she’d seen, the one who’d greeted her, she could tell – materialized from the shadows, its long body hunkered low and curled around the stake that held Malcolm. It tipped its face in close to hers, close enough for its warm breath to stir her hair, and brush her face. Its frill was pinned back, its gaze warm, its bearing concerned. It nosed at her shoulder.

“Gods,” Connor whispered behind her, voice shaking, but he didn’t retreat; his hand stayed on her other shoulder. “The legends are true, then. The Drakes do have a way with them.”

The dragon nudged her again, and made a low, purring sound in its throat that sounded like an inquiry. It tipped its head to regard Malcolm, and then nosed her again. It felt like it – like he, it was a male, she sensed – was apologizing to her. Sympathizing with her, as crazy as that sounded.

But she just…knew.

Then the dragon’s head snapped up and around, stretched tall on its long neck. Its frill flared out.

Connor’s hand snatched away and he swore. “Amelia, now!”

The clank of armor and the stamp of many feet reached her, and she realized, too late, that a fresh contingent of Sels was about to engage them.

She scrambled to her feet and whirled around, brandishing the long knife she’d stolen. Firelight glinted off gold metal. Sels, at least three deep, were closing in from both sides.

Behind her, she heard a great drawing-in of breath. To the Strangers and Drakewell men clustered in front of her, she yelled, “Duck!”

They did, and a gout of orange and red flame shot over their heads, bowling the first wave of soldiers over like pins. Some screamed. Some merely fell. The flames seemed to cling to them, liquid and burning.

A flash to her right; she ducked just as a sword whistled over her head; she felt the breeze of its passing as she landed hard on her backside, and looked up to see the Sel above her lifting his sword for a second swing.

One he didn’t get to deliver. Her dragon’s jaws snapped around the man’s waist. Even as he screamed, he was lifted and flung aside like a toy.

But another Sel closed in on her other side, this one weaponless, but reaching for her with golden gauntlets. They wanted her alive, after all: someone had to call off the drakes.

She scrambled back away from him on her hands, kicked ineffectually at his gold-plated ankle – and then he jerked. Stilled. There was an arrow sprouting from his eye, suddenly, a perfect shot through the visor of his helmet.

She rolled as he fell, managed not to be crushed, and leaped to her feet to the thunder of hooves.

Riders.

She looked wildly around, and in the glow of bonfire and dragon fire saw men on horseback streaming into the clearing – men who were not Sels, but Aquitainians, with light helms, and wearing the sky blue and cream of the house of L’Espoir.

Men shouted, and horses reared and squealed at sight of the fire, but they were reined-in. Sels fell to arrows, and to the strike of swords from above; she saw the flash of steel as riders cut them down.

A rider reined up before her, the white horse dancing and fish-tailing, snorting, its eyes rolling. “Amelia!” its rider shouted, and the light gleamed off golden hair.

Lord Reginald.

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