Popilia crouched amidst the rough feathers of Izimendalla’s back, legs braced against his movements, one hand buried in the feathers of Nazagin’s neck. Horror coursed through the both of them equally. In the last few moments of their painting, Nazagin had caught her first whiff of the siren fruit through Divya’s paste. Tantalising, inescapable, even Popilia had been compelled to look in its direction through senses not her own.

The smell was gone now, bar trace remnants. It had gone with a bite of Izimendalla’s great jaws and an accompaniment of blood.

In one of the palace tapestries, there was a scene of a dragon that had eaten a siren fruit, twisted mid-flight in agony with tree limbs sprouting from its hide. Legend – or at least, her tutor – said its drug-fuelled rampage before that point had seen a dozen villages destroyed. How long until that madness took hold of Izimendalla?

Stay focussed, Nazagin told her, her mind’s voice not betraying her fear. Anshar’s warm strength lay behind it. This could work in our favour, and it may not be too late for Izimendalla.

‘What can I even do?’ Popilia peered around Izimendalla’s neck at the cluster of thieves and slowly recovering guards.

Get the horn and bring it back to me. That’s it. Don’t worry about anything else.

Popilia turned at the absurdity of not worrying and met the startling brilliance of Nazagin’s eyes. Certainty radiated from her, from the remnants of Anshar’s soul within her. If she didn’t know what she was doing, she at least knew better than Popilia.

Something hard and metallic thudded into the floor near the entrance. A moment later, as Popilia turned again to begin her task, Critobulus’ voice rang out in the first strains of a chant. Nazagin’s voice immediately leapt in to challenge his behind her.

Popilia set her jaw, remembering the whirlwind and thunder of the ritual in Kimah-Kur. She ran along Izimendalla’s broad back. The base of his neck seemed miles away, and the muscles before it bunched and rippled as he stretched his malformed wings. Over his shoulder, the guards blinked back into awareness, their hands reaching for weapons that, for the most part, were no longer there. One still had his sword and drew it, glinting in the new light.

‘Janu!’ Popilia shouted, seeing him struggle to rise from the floor. ‘Look out!’

One of Inzimendalla’s back spikes tripped her and she missed the next moment, landing heavily on her hands and knees. The markings beneath her had begun to glow a sickly, pulsing green. When she looked up, Janu was frantically fending off blows from the guard with his right hand, clutching a couple of other stolen weapons in his left. Ilarion was trying to get to him, fending off three unarmed guards with efficient but exhausted swordwork.

A sharp note of alarm from Nazagin made Popilia throw herself flat. Something whizzed through the air where her head had been and smashed against the cavern wall.

Critobulus. She threw herself forwards before he could send another rock her way, gaze darting between the terrain beneath her and the battle ahead.

Izimendalla’s head swayed with the dual rhythm of the chant. Whether the conflicting tug of each stream of magic stayed his action or the effects of the siren fruit, Popilia couldn’t tell. But it gave her and the thieves time to act.

Galnai was charging spear-first towards Critobulus, hugging the wall, outside his notice. Ilarion cut through the last of the guards between him and Janu, but too late. A swift slice from the guard’s sword came under Janu’s clumsy guard and sank deep into his left arm. He yelled twice in surprise and pain, too shocked to parry the next blow. The next blow never fell – Ilarion ran the guard through – but the damage was done.

At the sight of how limply the arm hung, Popilia blanched and tore her gaze away. Movement in the corner of her eye warned her of another rock. She threw herself forwards, landing flat on her face. The rock scored a burning line over her backside and she muffled a cry into Izimendalla’s back, but kept moving, wriggling on elbows and knees. Ahead of her, perhaps another few seconds away, stood the edge of the great chain around Izimendalla’s neck. But before that was his wings and, raised a little as they were, they would offer her some protection from the rocks.

Popilia darted a glance at Critobulus and met his direct gaze. Shock jolted through her. It pushed her limbs into motion before she could even think, before she could process the whirlwind of dust and stone surrounding the coldness of his eyes. She rushed headlong for the safety of Izimendalla’s wings, stumbling as he shifting his weight, but never falling. A constant hail of rocks whizzed by in her wake, and she had to hold up her arms to protect her face when Critobulus began anticipating her movement and aiming ahead.

By the time she reached safety, a dozen cuts and bruises covered her arms and left side. Her hip pulsed with pain. One of her fingers was bent at an unnatural angle, but she couldn’t even feel that one through the adrenaline.

If my parents could see what you had done! she thought out of habit. She shook the thought free. Her breath came in gasps. Her teeth chattered at the end of every exhale.

Just a little more. The thought might have come from her, or it might have come from Nazagin. She stepped forwards without stopping to work out which. The weight of Nazagin’s ritual, the whispering knowledge and workings of magic, both tugged at the edges of Popilia’s mind like half her brain was speaking a language she couldn’t understand.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

‘Izimendalla!’ Critobulus’ voice boomed across the cavern as Popilia walked. Irritation sept from every crashing syllable. ‘Finish them!’

With a groan like grinding ice, Izimendalla reared his neck up until his head scraped rocks from the ceiling. Muscles rippled all along his back, making Popilia dance from side to side to keep her footing. She lurched forwards as she came to the base of his neck and grabbed hold of the chain with both hands.

‘Izimendalla!’ Critobulus repeated the name like a mantra.

Then, as Popilia hugged herself to the chain, madness swept over her – ancient, festering madness, incoherent, filled with rage. It flooded her limbs with an alien warmth, a violent urge to action. And in amongst it all was a stubborn denial, a need to refuse the irrefusable. Further distant, she sensed a tinge of frustration, of arrogance, and knew without needing to think about it that that was Critobulus, through her bond with Nazagin, connected to the bond between Izimendalla and the high sorcerer.

She shuddered and edged carefully around Izimendalla’s neck, holding tight to the chain. But something in Izimendalla’s psyche crumbled. His rage soared, but he could no longer refuse. He surged forwards.

Popilia cried out, losing her footing to dangle by both hands. Beneath her, the thieves and few remaining guards scattered, but Ilarion was too slow. Izimendalla’s clawed foot crashed down on top of him. Pinned to the ground, the man struggled to worm free, his face pale, his eyes wide as he stared at the dragon over his shoulder.

Heat began to prickle over Popilia’s head. She didn’t look. She just moved along the chain, hand over hand, finding footholds where she could, swinging between handholds where she couldn’t. Every moment or two, she glanced left, along the great curve of flesh, watching for the horn to come into view. The magic around her had become a riot of confusing sensation, making her dizzy if she didn’t completely focus her thoughts on the task at hand. Nazagin’s emotions trod a thin line between triumph and terror, and all trace of Anshar was gone.

Someone yelled below her, more in frustration than pain. Closer to Critobulus, there was a dull thwack followed by a heavy thud. Above her, with a throaty wheeze like bellows expanding, Izimendalla drew in a breath.

At last, Popilia caught sight of the edge of the horn. She hurried over, placed one hand around its carven surface and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. She pulled again, examining as she did how it had been attached to the chain. The magic seemed more turbulent here, like all its ripples and eddies emanated from this one place, and her half awareness of it muddled her thoughts. It took her far too long to realise the horn’s ends had been clamped in, like a gem set into a ring.

The heat above her intensified. She glanced up for just a moment, long enough to see the white-hot flame gathering at the back of Izimendalla’s throat, held back only by one last crumbling effort of will.

Grunting with effort, she hauled her legs up, bunched them, then kicked at the clamps with all her might. Her feet struck then skidded off to the side, scraping her ankle against the metal. She stifled a cry behind gritted teeth. She kicked again. The clamp moved a fraction and she almost lost her grip on the horn as it wobbled in place.

Come on. She just needed to get it out! Nazagin was doing the hard work. The thieves were dying. She just had to get a stupid horn.

She yelled and kicked again, and again. Each time the metal moved a fraction more. Pain shot through her ankle. Something wet trickled down her leg.

The intake of breath petered out into a dangerous silence. Popilia gave one last, desperate kick, and the horn fell free from that side of the clasp. She lurched down with it, scrabbled for purchase, just managed to get a grip on the chain again as it slipped from the other clasp. Magic snapped into focus around her, like a tuneless harp suddenly finding a clear note, and the tides of control shifted.

Horror. Fear. They burst from Critobulus in that moment, as his mind truly opened to Izimendalla through their bond, as he witnessed the full scope of the dragon’s maddened fury.

Izimendalla’s head snapped to the side. He bellowed out a thick stream of flame so hot it scorched Popilia’s scalp. Popilia could only stare as it flew towards Critobulus. All the man’s fear, any pain he suffered... Izimendalla could feel it too, but paid it no heed. The dragon’s rage only increased as Critobulus used his magic to shield himself from the flames. They licked around him, scorching the bare earth, but leaving the man himself unscathed.

With a guttural roar that shook rocks from the ceiling, Izimendalla leapt across the cavern in one bound and struck Critobulus down with the foot that had been pinning Ilarion. Pain shot across Popilia’s side. She gasped and almost let go of the chain.

Critobulus’ magic could do nothing for him. His staff lay shattered on the ground. His fall had knocked the wind from his chanting. Popilia stared down from her vantage into his wide eyes, heart racing with his mounting terror, feeling the muscles in Izimendalla’s neck set into motion. In that moment, Nazagin severed the ritual, but the horror didn’t fade – it just morphed into their own private emotion.

Because Nazagin could look away, but Popilia couldn’t.

Izimendalla withdrew his foot. Critobulus’ chest heaved, but he didn’t have time to move. The dragon’s head whipped down and in a snap of jaws, he was gone, leaving only a red smear and a deep gouge in the dirt. Only then did Popilia press her face into Izimendalla’s neck and screw her eyes tight shut.

Bones snapped and crunched above her. Various objects she didn’t want to think about splashed and splattered over her back. Nazagin’s sickness coiled around her, unsettling her stomach and making her wish she could ignore their bond, just this once, just for peace.

It is over, Nazagin told her. It is safe.

Over the course of several seconds, Popilia relaxed her hold on Izimendalla’s neck and looked about her, trying to avoid the sight of the dragon’s blood-flecked jaws. He was swaying in place, otherwise unmoving. On the floor, Galnai was holding a hand to her bloodied forehead, her back against the wall, Ilarion was wheezing and trying to sit up, and the new woman was tending to a motionless Janu.

She bit her lip, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. A quick glance up showed surprisingly little blood on Izimendalla’s jaw, but from this angle he was some distant, unpredictable monolith.

He’s mad, she told Nazagin. You felt it too. What if he turns on us?

Trust me. The reassurance behind her words was minimal. He is free, for the first time in a long while. He won’t turn his teeth on that freedom.

Doubtful, Popilia took a deep breath, loosened her belt enough to shove the horn through it, and began the slow climb across Izimendalla’s neck and down. The threat of those mad jaws loomed above her. With every move across his hide, she willed him not to strike. She kept her eyes fixed to the way ahead, to the motion of her hands and feet, all her nerves quivering in anticipation.

When her feet at last struck the ground, she breathed a deep sigh of relief... and turned, straight into Izimendalla’s gaze.