A few halfhearted crossbow bolts went whizzing up into the sky, nowhere near the dragon, which was half a league away, gleefully setting fire to the town encircling the base of the hill where the castle sat. Only when every one of the thatch-roofed buildings was surging with flames did the great beast, its scales gleaming a burnished bronze in the sun, turn back toward the tournament grounds.

The guards holding Gwen burst back into action, instinctively holding her as they ran away toward safety, dragging her toward the castle. She fought them, trying in vain to break free. “I can help!” she cried, digging in her heels, carving twin grooves in the mud. “Let me go, I can fight!”

Then one of them, too terrified to obey his compunctions about hitting girls, drove his fist with expert accuracy into her bad shoulder. Gwen felt her muscles go limp, her vision spinning as pain flooded her senses. The last thing she saw, as dizziness swept through her and robbed her of the last of her sight, was a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl standing absolutely still, clutching the railing and staring after her.

Chapter Forty-Three
Someone get this hysterical girl out of here!

An eerie chill had taken over Isobelle’s body. She wanted to scream, and cry, and fight off Olivia’s iron grip to go running after Gwen, but the part of her that had taken control knew she didn’t have a moment to waste—that to scream would be an indulgence she couldn’t afford.

The huge beast took a long, leisurely pass down the length of the jousting field, sending the crowd below darting this way and that like a frightened school of fish. It was playing with them.

“Fight it,” Isobelle shouted to Lord Whimsitt, who was like a statue, staring up at the great beast. “Why are you just standing there?”

He whirled around to gape at her, eyes bulging. “It’s a dragon, you stupid girl!”

“And this place is full of knights!” she shot back. “This is the Tournament of Dragonslayers! What were they competing for, if not the chance to do this?”

He stared at her, and she stared back, steel in her gaze. They both knew the answer: the knights had never volunteered for something so dangerous. All the dragons had been presumed dead long before these knights were born—not one of them had signed up to face one down.

“This is the Tournament of Dragonslayers.” It was Sir Ralph, standing in the adjoining box among the other nobles scrambling for cover. “And our prize is named for what the dragon really wants—what the dragon used to be given, in times gone by.” He found his feet and raised one hand to point directly at Isobelle. “The dragon sacrifice.”

“I’m sorry, WHAT?” Isobelle shrieked, giving up on all her resolutions about not screaming. “Are you out of your mind?”