Gavin was not a fighter – not really – but this…this was exhilarating.
In the shadow of a Dragon of Death, he flew. The air buffeted through his dark feathers, his dark mane, sweat glistening over a pelt like molten iron. There were no other wings beating that sky, save those who served the King. The birds had taken to their roosts early. The forest beneath them was still and quiet, waiting. Expectant. Surely it had come to the same conclusion all of them had, though perhaps its loyalty had been tested – there was no King but Mordred, son of Mallos, the best and brightest of the demigods.
Gavin was proud to be among Mordred’s brothers, even if his familiar’s shadow was the closest thing to kinship he’d enjoy.
In his peripheral vision, the fairy-turned-pegasus could see the front line through the trees, moving in a silent, tidal-blue wave. An alarm had not yet been sounded (foolish children, thinking they could play outlaw without consequence, thinking they were any match for trained forces and blood-deep, bone-deep devotion), and tendrils of campfire smoke were still drifting on the breeze. It was a pity that many would die, but children or no, these traitors had chosen sides. If they were smart, they’d surrender and leave Tristan to a long overdue fate.
But he did not think they were smart.
At last, a horn was sounded – a cry went up. Gavin could see flames beginning to lick along the little canvas tents, so far down they looked like toys. He banked, hooves kicking thin air, and circled down toward the chaos. His purpose there was simple: to bludgeon, to incapacitate, to take prisoners if it was convenient…just in case. It seemed terribly unlikely that the traitorous prince would escape this time, but if he did, collateral was needed.
Gavin chose his moment, swept in, and let sheer mass and momentum do the work.
The girl crumpled beneath him. Not dead, he didn’t think, but no doubt concussed, and those ribs would need work when she got to walking around again. If she made it. The Kingsguard were making short work of the rebels, caught unawares as they were. Some were making a stand, but others were already fleeing into the trees. He’d chase those down, later. With a hard wingbeat, he climbed into the air once more.
If anything, the challenge was choosing a target. If he was to take a prisoner, it would be well to choose a likely friend of the prince. Someone around the same age, but weaker, wide-eyed. Someone green. “Tristan!”
The pegasus’ dark head jerked, ears straining. There. Gods, but he was textbook, as unsure on his feet as a much younger boy. And calling for the prince by name…Gavin abruptly changed course, angling himself to come up from the Rebel’s flank, where that untested sword would not be pointed.
He collided with Grayson with the force of a train. The boy went down hard.
“Little fool,” he said, almost sympathetic, but it came out as a squeal. The boy was prone, sluggish; his comrades were too busy fighting to come to his defense. Gavin leaned down to sniff across his back.
Then he grabbed him firmly by the belt, and dragged him out into the woods.
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