Scirye

Angrily, Scirye chased after the brown-haired boy who had stopped in front of the shattered case with the throwing stars. “This is no place for you,” she ordered, pulling at Leech’s arm. “You’ll just get in the way.”

“Playtime’s over,” Leech snapped at her, “so take your costume and get lost. Leave this to people who know how to fight.”

The boy was holding one of the stars like a spiked baseball.

Scirye gave a snort of disgust. “You don’t even know how to use one of those,” she snapped, and plucked one from the half dozen in his other hand. “You hold it by the tip.” She held up the star between her index finger and thumb as Nishke had shown her. She had done well in practice, but she wondered how she would fare in real combat.

Leech’s face grew stormy as he snatched it back. He looked as if he were going to argue, but froze when the dragon’s laugh echoed around the dome like the rumbling of an avalanche.

The dragon’s scar twisted his smile into a menacing leer as he leaned downward. “Do you really think any of you can stop me?”

Nishke’s spear was a blur as she thrust it upward with lightning speed. If she hoped to catch him unawares, she failed. The dragon’s long neck writhed out of the way as he hissed mockingly and then dodged her back swing just as easily—until he was almost impaled by a spear thrust from Lady Sudarshane. The spear point gouged a stripe across the dragon’s scales, but the ancient wooden shaft broke before she could pierce home.

With an angry hiss, the dragon dove, feinting with his head while he struck with his claws, snapping the old wooden shaft as if it were a straw. Lady Sudarshane held the broken spear shaft like a club to defend herself.

The dragon dropped through the air again, paw upraised to smash Lady Sudarshane when Nishke darted in front of her mother and stabbed upward with her spear.

The dragon screamed in pain as he retreated upward, blood dripping from his paw; as he climbed to safety, the tip of his long tail flicked Nishke to the side.

Scirye shed her clumsy cloak. Then, with Kles still flying overhead, she ran over to her sister. Though hurting, Nishke handed Scirye the spear. “Mother needs this.”

Inside, Scirye wanted to run away, but she knew that the true answer was not escape but Tumarg: to move forward straight into the violent, bloody confusion. So, with a nod, Scirye took it and raced into the heart of the battle. Even as the dragon rose to the ceiling, the gray dragonflies—that was the only thing Scirye could call the horrors—swooped downward past him, leathery wings pulled in tight, their claws stretched out to gouge and tear.

The museum guards, including the troll, were shifting their feet as if they were having second thoughts about staying. The Pippalanta and Kushan staff, however, were standing their ground.

“Yashe! Yashe!” they shouted defiantly as they thrust. “Honor! Honor!”

Several more spear and halberd shafts broke, but others remained true and whole. The metal blades forged by Kushan weapons-makers served their descendants well.

Terrified but determined, the girl dodged about until she reached her mother. Lady Sudarshane was standing with the spear shaft raised like a club.

She threw away the broken spear as she took the one from Scirye. “Thank you,” she said with her usual manners. “Now duck, dear!”

One of the gray dragonflies dropped toward them. Deadly claws sliced toward them both. When her mother parried, sparks flew as the blades met the talons.

As Scirye crouched, she could hear the dragonfly panting, smell the hot stench of its breath, feel the wind raised by its beating wings. Though her mother was using all her strength, the spear blade was being forced slowly backward. It was an unequal contest between a single human and a beast with four sets of talons.

Frightened, Scirye forced herself to look upward, past her mother’s straining face to the hideous gray dragonfly. The eyes glowed a brilliant red like burning coals and the mouth was drawn back in a hideous leer as saliva dripped from the sharp fangs.

Suddenly golden stars twirled overhead, their points flickering with light. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! With a screech, the dragonfly flapped upward, blood streaming from wounds where the throwing stars had embedded themselves. More stars leaped from Primo’s hands. And then even more from Leech and Koko, and for a moment all four dragonflies flew higher.

But the victory was short-lived.

The ruthless dragon grasped its own injured ally in its claws and then broke its wings. As the serpent shrieked in pain, the dragon flung it downward toward the man named Primo and the two boys.

Primo had enough time to throw himself against Leech and Koko and knock them to the side before the still writhing dragonfly fell on top of him. The floor shook and then buckled under the impact. As the dust settled there was no sign of the man, only the now dead serpentine carcass.

The three surviving serpents circled cautiously now that they were aware that these were no easy prey.

“Now go,” Lady Sudarshane said to her daughter as she kept a wary eye on their enemies.

Scirye swallowed. She would have liked nothing better than to escape this deadly chaos, but she couldn’t desert her mother and sister. “No. You need every defender you can get.”

Prince Etre was bleeding from a cut on his cheek and his gray mustache was now tan with dust. “She’s safer here with us than trying to cross the room by herself now,” he said. From his belt, he pulled out a stiletto and held it out to Scirye. Jewels gleamed on the golden hilt, but the blade looked deadly enough. “I can assure you that this is more than decorative,” he said. “Guard our backs, child.”

Her mother stepped to the side. “Then inside the circle with you,” she said.

Scirye slipped into the center of the tight ring formed by the Pippalanta and other Kushana as well as the museum guards, and her mother resumed her post.

From overhead, they heard hissing, spitting, and cursing as the dragon tried to force the three surviving dragonflies to attack again. It was only when the dragon lashed out with his claws and tail that one of them dove.

Scirye’s stomach did flip-flops as she watched the serpent shriek down toward her, but she gripped the dagger tightly.

The Pippalanta shouted their war cry and the museum guards did their best to imitate them. Spear heads stabbed upward and the dragonfly hung in the air, snapping its jaws in frustration. Strings of saliva dripped from its mouth as its claws struck at the tormenting blades.

A museum guard cried out as the saliva touched his sleeve. The cloth began to smoke as he dropped to his knees.

“Its saliva is poisonous,” Lady Sudarshane warned.

Another guard darted away from the circle. As he ran, he threw his halberd away.

“Get back in formation,” Lady Sudarshane ordered him, for that had left a gap in the circle. Bravely Scirye stepped into the space.

Instantly, the dragonfly dove, talons scything the runaways down like weeds as he swept on toward Scirye. She clutched the stiletto as the dragonfly bore down on her. He was coming so fast! He seemed to be all fangs and claws.

With a scream like a griffin ten times his size, Kles darted straight at him like a furred and feathered lightning bolt. The gray dragonfly’s claws whistled toward the pest, but Kles nimbly slipped under them. The next moment he was staring right at the monster’s snarling face.

The little griffin did not hesitate but raked its enemy’s eyes. Blinded, the giant dragonfly twisted frantically in the air as it tried to hit him. Kles, though, was as agile as a mosquito, dodging the blows as he struck its head with beak and claws. And Scirye felt her heart almost burst with pride and love, for he was her griffin and he was fighting to save her.

Finally, screeching in frustration and unable to see, the dragonfly smashed into the floor, skidding over the tiles and tossing chairs to the side in its wake.

Kles might have been trained for the niceties of court etiquette, but once again his primitive ancestry drowned out all other thought. His beak opened in the age-old scream that generations of his kind had used and he shot across the room for his opponent’s exposed throat. The big vein pulsed, drawing him like a magnet. He didn’t notice the injured dragonfly’s claws waiting to strike him when he attacked.

Scirye started to run toward him. “Kles, come back! It’s a trap!”

Her mother glanced fearfully after her daughter and then too late up above her when she heard the shrieks. A third dragonfly had seized its chance and was diving toward Scirye’s unprotected back.

Stars and then spears rose into the air but the wounds only increased its rage, and the creature did not slow at all.

“Scirye!” her mother screamed.

The girl turned around in time to see the huge mouth bearing down on her, fangs ready to tear her apart.