Page 26 of FoolSilver
The ground shook. Hundreds of clawed feet pounded in near-unison. Guttural howling rose from beasts whose vocal cords had been twisted into instruments of terror.
Blades sang. Crossbows locked. A battle cry erupted from the ranks, raw, throaty, defiant.
My blood boiled with a savage anticipation.
Drakken shifted.
Where the wolf’s shift was violent, the dragon’s was cataclysmic. His human form dissolved in a blast of heat and golden light. Black scales layered into interlocking plates, obsidian edged in molten gold. Wings unfurled, blotting out the weak dawn light. His head was the size of a siege engine, jaws lined with teeth that gleamed like polished swords.
The dragon’s eyes swept over me like twin furnaces before he launched into the air with a single thrust. The downdraft knocked me back a step.
Magnificent and terrifying. The dragon was a thing of raw power that made the earth itself flinch. And both the beast and the man inside it were assholes.
“Major Frost, escort Cadet Max off the field,” Aelindor ordered.
“I can fight, sir.” The words came out before I could weigh them. “Please. You’ll need every soldier.”
I tore the armguard from my forearm.
Coldiron exploded to life. Not a whisper this time. Hundreds of Coldiron particles blazed to consciousness like stars igniting in a dark sky. The armguard glowed silver-white, and the metal screamed in savage joy.
Kill! Kill! KILL!
Frost stepped back. He couldn’t help it. The Spartans closest to me did the same—a ripple of unease as the Coldiron’s killing intent pressed against their awareness. This wasn’t a single drop of sentient metal anymore. This was hundreds of them, activated and bloodthirsty.
I commanded the metal to change. The armguard rippled, split, reformed. Iron flowed between my hands like liquid, dividing into two identical shapes that hardened in my palms.
Two chakrams, ten inches in diameter, hummed against my skin.
“Alchemist,” someone breathed.
“I don’t even need good aim, sir.” I grinned at Aelindor. “Coldiron will find the target for me, and when the chakram makes a kill, it’ll return to my hand. And I assure you, Coldiron chakrams can shatter any metal and cut through any beast’s hide.”
Aelindor studied me for half a second, weighing merit against risk.
“I’ll watch your six,” I added.
“You stay behind Caspian and me,” he said. “You do not leave our side.”
“Deal, sir.” I raised a chakram, setting my stance. At least this time I didn’t say “it’s a date.”
Let’s go kill some mutants!
I just needed to be careful. The DarkVeil Coldiron had a different temperament from their brethren from Crimson Ridge—more volatile. I’d have to keep them on a tighter leash.
Drakken’s dragon hit the horde first.
Golden fire erupted from his jaws, carving a burning trench through the heart of the charging mass. Mutants screamed, a wet, shrieking sound that wasn’t entirely animal. The dragon banked, circled, and made a second pass. Another trench. Another wave of screaming.
He was trying to thin the horde before they reached us.
As the smoke cleared, what we were fighting took shape: mutant wolves.
They were massive—the shoulder height of a war horse, sheathed in coarse fur, hides thick as boiled leather. Claws like curved blades. Fangs dripping viscous saliva. Twisted spikes jutted from their skulls and spines, designed for goring, for tearing a soldier’s guts out mid-charge.
Their red-black eyes churned with manufactured madness.
They’d been made to mock Caspian’s species. Wolves corrupted into weapons.
