It was as if they stood on the bow of a ship in a raucous storm. Such was the way the world seemed to tilt over before rearing back and finding its balance.
Wesley was left with an odd taste in his mouth when his feet steadied. Metallic and smoky and smelling of burned flesh.
He looked, blurry eyed at the still forms of the Minister and his Captain. Stumbling toward them, he fell to his knees beside his superior. His hand felt for the man's chest, seeking a heartbeat. There was nothing. He crawled to the Minister. No heartbeat either.
What the hell was happening?
A sudden burst of lights beyond the tower drew his attention. Distant arcs of flame were spilling out above London. Great shadows moving in the pale light.
“What the…”
A roar ripped the air apart and Wesley snapped his hands to his ears. It was as though something had crawled inside his eardrums and was gnawing towards his brain. But not violently, just ebbing, lapping even, like a wave on a wave, echoing in the deeper parts of hindbrain. He had heard of power like that before.
Dragons…his terrified mind told him. Disbelief hit him like an ice pick.
There had not been dragons in England since King Arthur. The wizards had forced them north and east. Into the high mountains where they could nest peacefully.
Wesley blinked, his mind coming back from the shock. He pointed his wand at the two prone men and muttered, “Silentium.”
A stasis charm. If there was anything like a breath of life left in them, this would hopefully keep the fire kindled.
Then he walked cautiously onto the balcony. His hands felt sweaty, one gripping his wand and the other the hilt of his sword.
“Salus,” he said, hoping for a little protection.
The world he saw seemed like something from a fever dream. A dark red sky, bulbous and roving clouds, lighting falling like rain.
The dragons were laying waste to the city, their columns of flame torturing the old buildings. Acrid smoke rose and it was not long before sirens came. Then gunfire.
About damn time, he told himself.
Soon the dragons were moving away from the gunfire, their great wings carrying them in each direction.
Other shapes moved among the buildings. What looked like a great three headed dog sniffing a turned dumpster. A herd of horses…no…centaurs, running across the London Bridge. A big thing, possibly an ogre, pulling a tree from the ground in a nearby park and chucking it through a storefront. He saw what must’ve been a manticore, great leathery wings and a lion’s head. It had just snatched a policeman from his vehicle and was making quick work of his gurgling cries.
Bile rose in Wesley’s throat.
It was all happening so quickly. What had that bastard done? Opened some kind of portal?
It was almost as if all the magic had been turned up.
A gust of wind caught Wesley hard and he stumbled back. It saved his life. A dragon the size of two double decker buses zipped past the balcony, coming from below. A flash of silver caught him across the cheek, breaking his shield charm.
Someone let out a triumphant yell.
Wesley threw his head back, his hand going to his cheek. He felt warm blood. A small cut. It wasn’t what frightened him. As his mind traced the long outline of the dragon, he saw a figure on its back, arms waving in the air.
Impossible! No rider had been seen in a thousand years.
This was quickly becoming a night of impossibilities. The world shuddered once more and the dragon had completed its turn. The big creature was coming at him, its wings like velvet blankets in the city’s firelight. Eyes, green as an emerald, and intelligent and blood thirsty were stuck on him. It belched fire at him, making him dive back toward the room, which he decided quickly might get his colleagues deep friend so he changed course and chose the little table.
His mouth was already shouting a spell. “Frigus.”
The wood table became a chunk of ice just as the torrent of fire hit it. The edges of Wesley’s robes burned, the parts that didn’t make it under the table. As for the table itself, it held up quite nicely. For a second or two. Then he got soaked by the melted ice. But the pressing heat was gone. He rolled out from beneath the table.
“Clever, little man!” shouted the rider, tugging on the reins some two hundred meters away. “You are almost worthy, friend!”
Wesley blinked, aimed his wand and fired off several spells. They lit the sky like rainbow sparks.
The first was a stunner, which missed completely. The second a sludge spell, like the one the Nocturne had used on him. It bounced off the dragon’s wing uselessly. The third was an orb light spell. Wesley felt his arm jerk a little, as if the spell had recoil. Odd, was all he had time to think.
It arced on target and exploded right in front of the dragon, bursting into a ball of super bright light.
The great beast roared, spinning off wildly away from the light.
One thing he had remembered about dragons besides their magical scales: they hated bright lights. There was a reason they stuck to caves. He’d bought himself a few seconds to think.
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Magic was all about creativity. Sure, your blood mattered. Your ancestors mattered. But when it came down to it, those things wouldn’t save you. Your mind would.
Wesley had never been very creative.
In fact, it had been one of the things he’d been working on. And in these moments of stress, that training escaped him.
He needed off the tower. The way he’d come up was risky. A magical entry. It could have been damaged. If it was and he was caught in there, he’d be cremated on the spot.
The roar of the dragon crushed his mind into a frenzy. A billowing wall of flame was coming at him, promising to incinerate him.
So, he jumped off the balcony.
It was a mad rush, nothing but open air beneath him. He hung for a moment, suspended, as if gravity had not decided whether it would take him or not. Whether it even wanted him.
It did.
He plummeted off the tower. The thought only struck him now that it was possible his broomstick would not come to him. That something had happened to it. Damaged or broken it might be.
But when he summoned it he felt the familiar tug on the other end of the spell. It came in a blurr, only a shadow of a shadow in the night's reigning darkness. It jerked him sideways when he caught it. The thing was moving about twice as fast as it normally did. Now there was a small pain in his shoulder and a lightly stinging cut on his cheek.
Alive, was what really mattered.
“He doesn’t need wings to fly!” shouted the rider, above him somewhere.
What was this bloke’s deal?
He’d hoped when he’d jumped that he’d choose another target. Luck had other ideas.
Wesley sped off between the buildings, trying to come up with a plan.
The city was in chaos below. People drove like maniacs through the busy streets, trying to get away from the fires and rampaging creatures.
The Department of Non-Magic Affairs was going to have a ball with this madhouse.
A sudden wall of flame erupted to his right, blocking the turn he was going to make and forcing him straight on where he was going to slam into an office building. He pulled the broomstick up and the tips of his boots scraped glass.
Another torrent of flame came at him trailing him by a couple meters. He felt the heat on the back of his neck.
Wesley fired a couple stunning spells over his shoulder, hoping to get lucky. He wasn’t.
He’d never been the best flier either. He honestly preferred cars. Not very wizardly of him but he’d always found the mechanics fascinating.
The dragon could fly very well, and despite its size, it moved gracefully around the buildings. With each thrust of its massive wings it crept closer.
His broomstick was ancient and it might just get him killed.
When he crested the top of the building, he decided to keep going. He’d take his chances in the clouds. Wes lowered himself against the broomstick, clutching it for dear life as he shot towards the clouds.
“I’m coming, broomstick man!” the rider shouted, his voice a high pitched scream against the rising winds.
The galestrom threatened to throw him from his broom. From the corner of his eyes he saw the great snarling beast snapping its jaws, fire bubbling in its throat. He didn’t dare cast any spells. The wind could do all sorts of funny things. He might end up choking down his own spell.
Fire burned the bristles.
So close…
He cleared the clouds a second later, cool moistures slicking his face. But as he swerved right at random, something hard slammed into him. It felt like a wing flap. And he knew it was a moment later when one of the end spikes caught him in the shoulder, gouging his robes and sending a jolt of pain up his arm.
Wesley was flung off his broomstick, or more dragged. The spike had snagged under his coat and pulled him down.
As he sailed by between the wings, his instinct told him to fight. So he shot a snare hex at the rider. The silver spell missed by millimeters, illuminating the rider’s face a moment.
The man was young, barely out of his teens. But his face was scarred gruesomely on one cheek and his eyes were black pits. Long lochs of red hair fell around his face, sweat slicked and wild. His smile was wicked as he did something Wes had never seen.
He caught the passing spell in his hand.
It moved like a viper, snagging the silver and cupping it in a gentle hand. Then he did something else that made Wesley pale. He took the spell and swallowed it.
“Delicious!” he shouted as Wes plummeted, bouncing off the dragon’s tail. “Your magic is strong, little man!”
As Wesley freefalled through the sky, he thrust out his wand and called for his broom.
It did not zoom to meet him. In fact, nothing happened.
Shit.
London crept ever closer, the many spires looking like horrid landing spots as Wesley tried desperately to think of the best spell to slow his momentum but his mind was drawing a blank. Death loomed like a piss stained block of concrete.
“Need a lift?” came a familiar voice.
Wes’ head jerked sideways. Maronie was flying beside, almost vertically downwards. Her dark hair whipped behind her, her face red from the cold.
He stuck out his arm and she grabbed him, pulling him onto the back of her broom. They lurched forward almost sending them both tumbling over.
She pulled out of the dive, sending them almost into a patch of trees, which she narrowly avoided.
“You’re heavy,” she breathed, her voice raspy.
“Extra sugar in my tea–”
The tree they were flying over exploded into flame. Maronie swerved and Wesley gripped her tighter around the waist. The dragon roared behind them.
The thing was getting pesky.
“Do something,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Wesley almost laughed but he thought it would be unprofessional. He was supposed to be her superior after all.
He peered around, the cold air whipping his face. Searching for something, anything that would distract this dragon long enough for them to escape. There was nothing, except…
“Fly over the fountain!” he shouted at her.
She didn’t argue and redirected them toward the towering Huntress Statue. They soared over Hyde Park, a sight no doubt, not that anyone was watching. Chaos still reigned in the streets.
“What are you going to do?” Maronie yelled.
He didn’t answer, all his concentration was set on his spell. Wand held out, he pointed it at the pond and said, “Sursum.” Huge gobs of water rose into the air, hanging like a glimmering sheet. Then, as the dragon passed through it, he said, “Frigus.”
Light blue stream of magic hit the water and froze it solid, with dragons, its great wings outspread, among the sheet of ice. It plummeted like a silvery white glacier to the stone below. Most of the iceworks shattered but enough stayed to keep the thing trapped.
A huge grin spread over Wesley’s face.
But before he could enjoy the moment he was falling when he shouldn't have been.
Maronie screamed, the sound distant to him. He didn’t have time to react. His world was a spiral of flame and bright light.
They crashed and it was soft. Comparatively. Like how a fire is to lava. They had landed on a grassy knoll some hundred meters from the fountain.
Bleary and pumped with adrenaline, Wesley rose. He only got to one knee before he noticed a figure sitting lazily on a big rock just a few meters in front of him.
“You better get up, Wesley,” the Nocturne said. “Or the dragon is going to eat you.”
Somewhere behind them the dragon let out a roar that shook the ground.