Wings of Fire: Dragonbite

Trade

Some decisions, Boto thought, are impossible. Some are difficult, and some are simply hard. Then there are decisions where – though the choice should be easy – it is one of the hardest things to decide. He shook the musings from his head and tried to ignore the cruel grin of Doom-Darkstalker.

With only one option, Boto opened up the mahogany box and slowly, gently, pulled the single earring out. Some decisions are difficult . . .

This is not one of those.

"Fine Darkstalker . . . you win." He spat the words out like carrion, clenching his jaw as he prepared to tell a secret he'd kept for two long years. "In a far corner of the Kingdom of Sand, near the talon peninsula-"

Darkstalker twisted his – her? – face into a grimace, the small muscles near hr ears twitching involuntarily as if it hurt to hear. "You do realize I'm a mindreader?" She rose her brows, "There's no need for you to speak when I can hear it all in here." One cool black talon scraped gently against the side of his skull. "All you need to do is think it, and I can see it all . . ."

The dragon stepped backwards, giving Boto room to breathe, and gave a small, achingly familiar smile that he knew was a lie. That was not Doom . . . not now at any rate. With a sigh he tried to hide, Boto began to remember.

Scalding sand and glorious wind whirled beneath him, his wings carrying him high over the isolated dust storm as his talons checked that the blazing hot metal of his knives were still in place. Shiny black venom dripped off the edge of one of them, melting leather where it touched its sheath but doing nothing to his scales. Dragonbite's poison was his own, and had no power to kill him. His targets, on the other claw, were an entirely different matter.

Almost without noticing he tied strips of snakeskin to the knife hilts, his eyes scanning the sand for later recall as his wingbeats softened and his mind raced over the latest job. It was something that Boto would never do . . . but Boto was weak. Dragonbite, however, was used to it.

The target was in sight.

Dragonbite banked sharply to the left, scales changing to match the sky as he silently dove into the midst of a Mudwing battalion, knife at the ready. The captain – a minor figure, really – was easy enough to locate, his scales adorned with medalions and shiny badges of office. Might as well paint a target on your back, Dragonbite thought, but it certainly makes my job easier.

The air was thick with the stench of mud and sweat as he homed in on the Target, flying above and slightly behind the captain. A deep breath, and then he appeared.

The knife flew from his claws, a clear cut to his target's heart, and pandemonium erupted as the Mudwings registered that a strange Sandwing was in their midst, their leader dead. A few seconds later and they finally noticed two things:

Their attacker's diamond pattern ended halfway down his spine.

And the fatal wound was caused by a dagger wrapped in snakeskin.

It took them another minute to realize what that meant. Dragonbite. Three more dragons were dead before they started to attack, and in that time the assassin had vanished.

Or so he thought.

Wings tucked, scales camouflaged, Dragonbite dove between the two attacking soldiers, tail implant slashing their bellies as he darted away. One of them lost altitude, gasping with pain, but the other barely got hit.