The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) by Miles Cameron Page A

of a ship, and even as the shaman slumped, the captain—subsumed him. The great creature began to unmake from the head down, his very essence leached and his corporeal form un-knitting even as the storm of his own power made his skin boil and explode outward in superheated destruction.
    Nell retched.
    The nearby oak tree, already damaged by the sorcerous overspill, gave a desperate crack.
    The tree fell.
    Toby watched the last daemon warrior run. He’d seen enough fights to know a healthy fear—
what if he has friends?
    He reined in. “Hold hard,” he called.
    Adrian was still trying to draw his sword, which, in the hurry of combat, had rotated too far on his hips and was now almost lost behind him.
    “Marcus is dead,” he said. “Father Arnaud’s still down on the road. Lord Wimarc’s standing over him.”
    Toby got his horse around and reached behind his friend and drew his sword. He put it in Goldsmith’s hand. The artist was shaking like a beech tree in a wind.
    “You got it, Adrian,” Toby said. “That was a preux stroke.”
    Adrian gave him an uneven smile. “It was, wasn’t it? Christ—all the saints. Thanks.”
    There was a flash of light so bright that both squires were stunned for a moment.
    “Captain’s doing something,” Toby said, turning his horse to face the empty woods.
    Adrian was looking at the ground. “Daemons, Toby.”
    “I know!” The older boy looked around, completely at a loss. To the east, the captain was in some sort of sorcerous duel—there were pulses of power so rapid he couldn’t follow them.
    To the north there was a flash of red, and then another.
    “More daemons?” Adrian said. His voice was high and wild, but his sword was steady enough.
    “Back to the road,” Toby decided.
    “What about Marcus?” Adrian asked.
    “He’s dead and we aren’t,” Toby said. “We’ll come back for him.”
    He backed his horse to get clear of the brush and turned. Adrian followed him.
    There was an explosion to the north, not far away. It was so great that both men and their horses were covered in gravel and sticks and a hurricane of leaf mould. The horses bolted.
    Neither man was thrown. The company stressed riding skills for its squires, and they’d spent almost a year training with the steppe nomads of the Vardariotes.
    Toby’s masterless horse burst onto the road a few horse-lengths from Nell, mounted on Ataelus. She was paper white. The horse half-reared then neighed at the familiar horses, who both slowed to see their herd leader so calm.
    Something horrible was a tangled mass of blood and broken teeth between the huge war horse’s feet.
    “There he is,” Toby said. Lord Wimarc was ten horse-lengths away, standing with a spear over the prone form of Father Arnaud. There wasblood dripping from his spear. He was watching the ground south of the road. Francis Atcourt was just dismounting by his side and Phillipe de Beause was still mounted, watching the sky. Two hundred paces to the west, the sun was setting in splendour and a knot of archers could be seen, all drawing and loosing as fast as if repelling the charge of a thousand Morean knights. They had Ser Danved and Ser Bertran covering them. Both had swords well-bloodied.
    Something passed overhead and darkened the sun. The shadow went on forever, and Toby raised his head in despair—
    The great oak tree fell. Gravity was faster than the captain’s best reactions and stronger than all the daemons in the Wild and the oak tree’s top smashed him to the ground and he thought—
    Cuddy drew and loosed, grunting as his shaft leapt into the air, and without pausing or following its flight he bent, took his next shaft, sliding the bow down over it and lifting it already nocked.
    Needlepoint bodkin.
    Needlepoint bodkin.
    Broadhead.
    Broadhead.
    Beside him, Flarch’s elbow shot up in his exaggerated draw posture—he was a thin man and he pulled a heavy bow and his body contorted with every full draw, his back curved like