Hans thrust the stick through the key ring again, then yanked, hard. The key flew from the lock and the ring slid along the stick.
The snarls grew closer.
He didn’t dare look. Hand over hand, he pulled the stick back through the bars of the cell. Another moment and the jailer’s keys would be within reach. The light grew brighter. Hans clasped the jailer’s keyring and glanced up.
The tharuk was stopping at each cell and lifting its torch high, sniffing the prisoners’ scents.
A tracker. Hunting someone. Who in Lush Valley would be valuable enough to track?
A chill swept through him. A former dragon master and his family.
He had to get free before the beast found him. The scrape of the key as he slid it into the lock jarred his ears.
The tharuk was only a few cells down.
He turned the key, then stuffed them in his pocket. Let the monster think the door was locked. He lifted the stick, hiding it against his leg. A weapon, but a poor one. Before Hans could retreat to the back of the cell, the tharuk lifted its snout, nostrils twitching, and sniffed the air. The beast spun, long strings of dark drool dribbling off its saliva-coated tusks.
It stared right at him, a puckered scar under one of its red eyes. The beast’s nostrils flared as it stopped at Hans’ cell. It flexed its claws. “What’s here, then? A former dragon rider, I believe?”
Bill had known and sold him out.
“You know what we do to dragon riders, don’t you?” The beast’s top lip curled.
Hans had seen tortured riders, hands missing, with strips torn off their backs and feet, left to rot in Death Valley. No way, not him. He lunged, shoving with all his weight on the cell door. It swung open, knocking the tharuk backward into Bill’s cell door. The torch rolled along the corridor.
Hans ducked around his door. The tracker leaped to its feet, blocking Hans’ escape. Hefting his stick with two hands, he drove it upward under the tharuk’s chin. Blood rained over Hans. Impaled, the beast swiped at Hans, but the stick was too long, keeping its claws out of reach.
He pushed harder. The beast clutched at the wood, its eyes rolling back in its head. Black blood pumped from its throat. Soon the monster’s head lolled to the side and its body went limp.
Hans let go, kicking the beast aside as it hit the floor.
“What was that?” a prisoner asked, face pressed against his bars.
“That was how you kill a tharuk. Aim for their throats or the weak spot under their chins.” Breathing hard, Hans dragged the keys from his pocket. “Who wants to stay here and be slaughtered?” Silence. “Then will you help me kill these over-sized rats?”
Ragged cheers went up among the prisoners.
Hans unlocked the neighboring cell. “Release the others, grab some weapons, and meet me in the square.” Most of them would flee, but some might help. Any fighters were a bonus.
Hans grabbed the torch and ran along the corridor, yelling his instructions to all the prisoners, then raced outside.
It was mayhem. People were fleeing. Beasts smashed buildings and homes. The few villagers fighting tharuks were armed with only pitchforks or spades, taking wild swings at the monsters. A pot flew out a window, hitting a tharuk on the head. Shrieks of pain filled the night.
A burly figure thundered toward him, lit up from behind by a home engulfed in flames. “Hans!” It was Klaus, his face pale and streaked with black tharuk blood. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hans. I should’ve listened. Here, your weapons.” He threw Hans his scabbard and daggers.
Hans caught them, then whirled, drawing his sword to fight off a wiry tharuk. At his side, Klaus drove back a bigger beast with a bald spot above its eye. Hans feinted high. The tharuk looked up, and he drove his sword into its throat. No sooner had the beast hit the ground, three more replaced it.
Where were the blue guards and their dragons? Had they seen the beacon? With no way of knowing, Hans kept fighting.
§
There was a crash.
Tomaaz leaped off his bedroll, snatched up his weapons and threw his bow and quiver over his back. The front door was shuddering under the impact of—
Smack! Another blow shook the door in its frame.
Around him, people were rising to their feet, befuddled with sleep.
“Get to the center of the house,” Tomaaz called. “Hide the littlings. Fighters, mark the entrances—the chimney, windows and doors.” How had he come to be in charge? That was supposed to be Ernst’s job, or Pa’s.
There was a rush of activity behind him as people scurried around in the dark. Someone lit candles from the embers in the fireplace.
When the next whack on the door came, the floorboards shook as well.
Lofty and Kieft took the spots beside him, near the door. “There are six more at our backs,” Kieft whispered. “In case any tharuks get through.”
“What’s that stench?” Murray covered his mouth with his hand.
“Stand fast,” Tomaaz commanded. “Draw your weapons.”
A sharp crack came from his parents’ room, then the tinkle of shattering glass. Roars ripped through the rear of the house. The thwack of blades made Tomaaz’s knees shudder.
“Stand fast. Someone else has it,” he called.
A yell was cut off with a wet thump.
The front door shuddered again, then splintered, as a tree trunk smashed through the wood. Outside, there were raucous bellows.
Tomaaz sheathed his sword. Whipping an arrow from his quiver, he aimed toward the trunk protruding from the door. He’d only have one chance as the log was withdrawn, but a tharuk down was one less to fight. The log withdrew and Tomaaz loosed an arrow. A roar rang out. He nocked another arrow
