Judging by their expressions, some of Aeslinn’s soldiers still didn’t know about the boss’s super special abilities. Maybe they weren’t great for staying under the radar and thus weren’t brought out much. Or maybe Aeslinn thought his people might think the worse of him, if they knew he had polluted his pure blood with tainted abilities.

But whatever the reason, his fey clearly didn’t know. Because they were yelling at each other after a stunned few seconds of looking upward, and then at passing fey. Some nocked arrows and others looked guiltily around, as if wondering if anybody would notice if they snuck off for a while.

But most started firing, and they weren’t pulling any punches. Boxes of what I guessed was magical ammo were run out of tents by unusually clumsy soldiers. Some contained what looked like potion grenades, judging by what spilled out of one box when a fey tripped over a rock and hit down hard. Others were packed with small, cylinder type things that were quickly strapped to arrow shafts and shot upward.

Where they exploded like firecrackers, only with devastating force. I could feel it when they hit, and I guessed the dragon could, too. Because it screeched again, like an ice pick to the brain, as the combined spells of at least a dozen fey hit it squarely in the chest.

It didn’t look like their magic got through the tough old hide, but they must have thought it could, because they weren’t running. Which made me wonder what Aeslinn thought he was doing. Hadn’t he realized how his fey were likely to react, when a massive dragon suddenly appeared overhead? Seriously, what did Pritkin have that Aeslinn wanted badly enough to risk death?

I didn’t know, but I needed to find him before the king got it.

But that was easier said than done.

Aeslinn wasn’t fighting back yet, but it was honestly hard to tell. The air stirred up by the great, beating wings felt like a hurricane, explaining some of the feys’ unusual clumsiness and sending me staggering into a tree as soon as I left the side of the wagon. Fortunately, the tree was one of Guinn’s posse, which had caught up again and huddled close, and was actually useful as a wind break.

And I could use one. A storm of leaves, a wooden bucket, some firewood that was somehow still burning, and a few pieces of laundry went hurtling by, only to get blasted by a mighty gust of air coming from the other direction that sent them back again. A shiny pot filled with someone’s dinner also tumbled past, slammed into one of the trees, and spilled a bright red stew down the side, while a stand with a bunch of dead rabbits tied to it managed to stay upright, although the rabbits themselves went flapping out like hairy flags.