“Get us out of here!” Fletcher yelled, sheathing Blaze and tugging Gale from his holster.
The world tilted as Ignatius angled his wings upward, beating the air to drive them higher into the sky. He was aiming for a bank of clouds above them, an insubstantial haze that might hide them from their pursuers. Far below, the rolling jungles seemed to shrink and merge into a smear of green, ringed by the red band of the deadlands beyond.
But they were slow. Fletcher could sense Ignatius’s exhaustion from the transformation, and the confusion at the changes that the volcano had wrought on his body. He was uncoordinated, unused to navigating the eddies of the wind that buffeted them.
The Wyverns were gaining, slowly but surely. Each was twice as large as Ignatius, with serrated claws and mouths full of fearsome teeth. There were eleven of them, but just one could easily tear them to shreds. Worse still, Fletcher could tell Ignatius was drained of mana—it had all been used up in his transformation. There was no more than a trickle left, barely enough for a weak shield from Fletcher or a single gout of Ignatius’s flame.
Even as that realization hit him, the first fireballs buzzed past, streaking the air with smoking trails. He turned as a javelin whistled above his head, disappearing into the cloud bank. The shamans were crouching on the backs of their Wyverns, balancing precariously while they hurled their spells and projectiles.
He pointed Gale at the nearest pursuer, but his aim was spoiled by the frantic beat of Ignatius’s wings. Then, before he could fire, they were in the mist, surrounded by a fog of white. Fletcher tentatively grasped his connection with Ignatius. It felt stronger than before. He used it to change Ignatius’s trajectory, to better lose their pursuers in the fog. Soon they were gliding through the white cloud, listening to the whistle of the breeze, the guttural barks of the shamans and the low roars of their Wyverns as they hunted through the mist.
The wind tore at Fletcher’s hair and coated his body with dew, drawing the heat away and leaving his exposed skin prickled with gooseflesh. He pressed himself against Ignatius, whose body was still piping hot from the pool of lava. The closeness helped steady Fletcher’s frazzled nerves, for his heart was hammering within his chest.
It was different from Lysander; Fletcher felt secure in the natural hollow of Ignatius’s back, the cloth of his breeches finding easy purchase against the burgundy skin beneath. He gripped the demon’s neck, reveling in the powerful muscles that flexed beneath. This had to be the Drake demon that Khan had spoken of.
Ignatius stretched his neck, and Fletcher could feel his exhilaration as Ignatius tested the limits of his new body. The demon lashed his tail, cutting a score through the cloud banks. His confusion was fading fast. Now … determination. Purpose.
A shadow loomed beneath them. The rasp of orcish speech, louder this time. More dark forms, above and on either side; murky, but growing larger. The shamans knew they were close. In seconds the Wyverns would be upon them.
So they would do the unthinkable. Fletcher sent his orders, wrapping one arm around Ignatius’s neck and gripping the double-barreled pistol with his free hand. It was time to fight back.
Now.
Ignatius folded his wings, and Fletcher’s stomach somersaulted as they hurtled downward, then there was a bone-juddering thud as Ignatius crashed into the Wyvern beneath. The world spun in a kaleidoscope of whites and greens as the two demons grappled in the air, plummeting out of the clouds. A leathery wing slammed against Fletcher’s face, but Ignatius had caught the Wyvern from behind and the demon could not turn to slash with its claws. Blood sprayed from Ignatius’s beak as he snapped at the exposed neck, lacerating the scaly hide to expose the raw flesh beneath. The Wyvern’s roars of pain and fury were so loud that Fletcher’s eardrums throbbed, then popped as their altitude dropped at stomach-churning speeds.
A viselike grip took hold of Fletcher’s ankle, dragging him down. He fired blindly over his shoulder, felt the kick nearly pluck the gun from his hand, heard the grunt of pain before it was snatched away by the wind. The world flipped again, and the body of the shaman tumbled past, a blur of gray tinged with red and yellow war paint.
Green jungle came into focus beyond, rushing up to meet them.
“Break!” Fletcher screamed, and Ignatius released the Wyvern with a reluctant roar. His wings unfurled, and Fletcher was thrown forward with impetus, his head thudding into the burgundy back, half knocking him unconscious. A gut-churning swoop—so desperate and low that there was the crackle of the canopy as Ignatius’s claws tore through it—followed by the sickening thud of the Wyvern smashing into the earth below.
The nosedive had given them a boost of speed so that they streaked over the treetops, but Fletcher knew from his studies that they would actually cover far less ground at such a low altitude. He shook his head to gather his scrambled thoughts, cursing. There hadn’t been time to plan this far ahead.
He looked up and his breath caught in his throat. The other Wyverns were already diving toward them, claws outstretched and mouths yawning, revealing the pink maws within. They had one choice.
Fletcher closed his eyes, holstered his pistol and gripped Ignatius’s neck with both arms. He could feel Ignatius’s fear as the Drake sensed his intentions, but there was no other way. Fletcher lowered his head and gave the order.
His stomach flipped once more, and then leaves were slapping at his face. Gnarled trunks flashed by as Ignatius jinked left and right, flinging Fletcher about like a rag doll. Above, the Wyverns roared in frustration, their greater size preventing them from penetrating the maze of trees. Ignatius slowed, gliding through the jungle as Fletcher listened to the bellows above. The Wyverns were tracking him, soaring above their position and waiting for an opening.
A voice echoed down, tight with fury.
“This only ends one way, Fletcher Raleigh,” Khan bellowed.
So, the albino orc had caught up—there was still a chance to kill him. Fletcher almost wished that Ignatius had attacked instead of fleeing from the scene—but they would have had only seconds before the Wyverns were upon them.
Still, the orc was right. The tangle of branches and trees were all that protected him from the Wyverns above—a break in the canopy would permit the monsters to get at them.
“Why don’t you come down and face me with it, then?” Fletcher yelled, goading the wounded orc. “Your Ahool against my Drake.”
Silence. Then:
“When you’re dead, I will make him my own,” the orc barked. “My Ahool can smell your fear from here. She will track you to the ends of the ether.”